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May – Freshman Year
Zay stomps down the street, struggling with his umbrella.
Stupid rain. Stupid, cliché, gross, heavy rain, splashing against dirty New York pavement, scaring pigeons into inconvenient places of shelter. It’s late May and shouldn’t even be here. What if Zay had plans, for what he wanted to do, and then the rain came in and completely ruined whatever plans he had for the future–
Okay, it’s not really about the rain.
There’s an old bench just around the corner from Adams that the city hasn’t discovered and unceremoniously removed yet, or put rails or spikes on it or something so that homeless people have one less place to sleep. When one of Zay’s parents is a little late picking him up, this is where he goes to wait.
This is also where Brooklyn dumped him last week.
The pit in his stomach rocks and roils. He very dramatically burned Brooklyn’s sweatshirt the other night, at Yindra’s insistence, but he’s still in love. He’s angry and sad and fucking unfortunately he’s still in love. He feels hung out to dry, like an old sock, but it’s not dry, because it’s fucking raining.
There it is. The contamination site. Patient zero. An empty frame of cold, wrought-iron.
Actually– not empty. There’s a guy on the bench, umbrella awkwardly tucked under his arm as he struggles to read one-handed, a tableau of stressful but impressive balance. Zay can only see a slightly overgrown mop of hair, a suspiciously clear forehead, and large, boyish hands, one of which is fumbling to turn the page.
Zay sits down beside him, a little awkwardly. A moment passes, Zay’s eyes flicking around for somewhere to look, before he sees the school patch on the guy’s bag.
“You go to Triple A?” Zay asks.
The guy nods, startled, clearly not expecting Zay to start a conversation. “Oh, uh, yeah. I’m in the freshman B class.”
Ah. That explains things. Zay is pretty sure he’s never actually spoken to anyone from B class the entire year. He’d almost started to believe Dylan Orlando’s insistence that they actually didn’t exist, and were just an urban legend made up by the faculty.
“Freshman A class,” he replies. “You also waiting for your parents?”
“Yeah, my dad,” the guy says. “Usually my mom, but she got held up at a charity function and— sorry, I don’t know why I’m saying all this.” He sounds sheepish.
“Don’t apologize,” Zay waves a hand. “I need the distraction.” It comes out before he can stop it. “I got dumped here last week.”
“Oh,” the guy says, “I’m— I’m really sorry. Like, dumped at school?”
“No,” Zay sighs. “Dumped on this bench.”
“Oh.” The guy says again. “Wow. Um. Wow.”
Why is Zay telling random strangers who go to his school this? Does he have no dignity?
The guy closes his book.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and now Zay can see a bit more of his face.
Zay sighs. “I mean, no. I mostly feel stupid. For all the times my friends told me it was a bad idea to date my Senior Sib.”
“Oh,” the guy repeats, this time with sudden clarity.
Zay nods. “Yep. See? Same reaction. But he’s just– he was just so.. So cool. So sure of himself. And then he picked me.”
The guy waits for Zay to continue.
“I feel like I dropped everything for him, because of that,” Zay says. “Especially my friends. My best friends. I totally abandoned them, and now I feel terrible, and everything is just fucking out of step and.. Ugh. I burned his sweatshirt with them, and all I could think was that I had turned into something they didn’t even recognize, and that I missed him. I fucked up and I got fucked up and now I’m just so… isolated from them. And it’s my fault.”
There’s a pause.
“I get why the relationship was appealing,” the guy says thoughtfully. “And when it feels like something is just so important and consuming…” he coughs. “Um, it can feel hard to concentrate on anything else.”
Yes. Exactly.
“I’m really sorry that happened, but I don’t think you’re alone,” the guy says. Zay still can’t really see him that well, the shadows of the umbrella and the guy’s hair falling in his face only giving a sixty-five percent impression. “You said it yourself, right? You have friends– that clearly care about you. Even if you were right there, they probably missed you just as much as you realize you miss them. And no matter how much you feel like you maybe abandoned them, making sure you’re alright is more of a priority to them than being mad, so it’s not like you lost them.”
“And–” the guy continues, “And they probably missed you, because they care. They wanted you back. You can apologize. And you can be back now. And in the future, you can just… try not to be gone again.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. Does that make sense?”
“Yes,” Zay says, blinking at him. Yes, it makes so much sense.
In this flood of rain, this guy has just given him an anchor.
“Thank you,” Zay tells him sincerely.
He sees the guy smile. “It’s no problem at all. Really.”
Zay opens his mouth to ask the guy’s name, when Omar Babineaux’s car pulls up with a screech.
“Shit, that’s me,” he says, jumping to his feet. “Thanks again, man. Seriously.”
The guy smiles at him again, looking slightly bashful.
As Zay gets in the car, he feels better than he has all week. He pulls out his phone to text Nigel and Yindra.
hangout this weekend?
The responses are nearly instant.
Yes :)
oh there u are bitch. yes
For the first time in a week, Zay smiles.
April – Sophomore Year
Charlie’s palms are sweating, and he’s wondering if he’s going to die.
The mass of twisting teenage bodies surrounds him, all moving to a Carly Rae song whose bass notes pound heavily and inescapably through Charlie’s body.
It was Clarissa’s idea to even come here– she heard about it through a girl with the same cello teacher, or something, and Charlie had been– well, Charlie had been thinking lately, and…
And now he’s in Queens, standing in the middle of a house party for the queer teens of New York, and he wants to throw up.
He’d lost Haley and Clarissa in the crowd about ten minutes ago, but he’s fairly certain they were together, and they’re all sober, which is another reason why he should not be here right now.
Two guys in bright eyeshadow dance by him. Charlie really might puke right now, he might. He feels so churned up and upset and jealous and… and he has church in the morning.
He needs a moment.
Rushing for the stairs, Charlie flattens himself against the wall to be seen as little as possible, and sidesteps his way past two girls kissing and someone else clutching their stomach and a guy pulling his t-shirt sleeve back over the shoulder of a recently-adjusted binder, all the way up to the second floor. The lineup for the bathroom is at least a mile long, so he blindly pushes open a door at the end of the hall, hoping for solitude, a portal to a silent beach, a sensory deprivation tank, something—
An empty bedroom. Alone at last. Charlie slumps into a seat on the shaggy carpeted floor, leaning back against the side of the bed. The music is still audible, too audible, but it’s muffled enough and there is space and silence and Charlie can focus on evening out his breathing and not throwing up on the zebra-striped blanket throw.
The door cracks open and a head pokes in through the doorframe. Charlie freezes.
“Oh, sorry, man,” the head says, and part of that head may be the most beautiful face Charlie has ever seen, dark skin and dark eyes, sharp cheekbones visible even in the low lamplight of the room.
“No, no, it’s okay,” Charlie rushes out before his mind has a chance to catch up with his mouth. “Come on in.”
What?
The guy crosses the room and qsits down next to him, which Charlie hadn’t expected. Up close, in the dim light, he can see the shadows of his long eyelashes, his face a piece of chiaroscuro-ed art that makes Charlie buzz and itch under his white sweatshirt, under his skin.
“I guess you also need a break from the noise,” the guy says, letting his head roll back against the side of the bed, already relaxed and familiar, like he’s known Charlie for years, like it’s just no big deal to share this space with him.
He actually does look familiar. In that frustrating, can’t-place-it way, like a missing puzzle piece in an almost-complete jigsaw. It’s a pretty unbelievable feeling– Charlie is pretty sure he wouldn’t forget a face like this guy’s. Or. Ahem. Whatever.
He realizes he’s supposed to respond. “Oh– yeah,” he rushes out. “I lost track of my friends, and they’re the reason I came, and it’s just…”
It’s just so much. I can’t think about it.
The guy doesn’t pry, just stretches one arm attractively above his head.“My friends are on the dance floor, where I should be absolutely killing it, but instead I’m here, understanding that there is something crazy wrong with me.”
Me too, Charlie thinks.
“I’m Zay,” the guy says, turning his head so they’re face to face. Because Charlie hasn’t been able to stop looking. “Normally I’m a lot more fun than this.”
Charlie smiles, despite himself. “I’m Charlie,” he replies. “This is about as fun as I get.”
“Mmm,” Zay hums, looking at him in a way that makes Charlie feel light and heavy at the same time. “I doubt that.”
Charlie blushes. “So,” he says, feeling suddenly emboldened. “Why are you, uh, less fun than usual?”
“I’m on academic probation,” Zay explains, somberly.
His gaze shifts to the floor. “I think my friend brought me here to make me feel better, but…” he pauses. “I’m just stressed. My tutor kind of sucks, and I need to get my grades up. I can’t lose my spot.”
Charlie nods. The guy must go to private school as well. “I’m sorry,” he says, sincerely. “I know what it’s like for everything to feel so… so fragile.”
Zay looks at him again. “Now that, I believe,” he says quietly.
Silence again, long and heavy, until Zay breaks it.
“Ugh, this song sucks,” he groans. Charlie hadn’t even noticed the changing music, but he hears it now. It’s one of those generic pop ballads plaguing the radio right now. Charlie wouldn’t mind it so much, but he hears it basically every time he’s in the car with Rosie, who is going through a following-the-charts phase and put the song on their (mother approved) family Spotify playlist, which their mother is liable to put on during family hangout evenings. The worst part is, it’s so generic,he can’t even remember what it’s called.
“Definitely sucks,” Charlie agrees. “My sister loves it, though.”
“You’ve got a sister?” Zay asks curiously. His eyes are an unbelievably rich brown.
Charlie nods, the back of head hitting the mattress awkwardly and leading him to immediately stop in embarrassment. “Four.” It is still four, really, it is.
Zay nods too, pensively. “Mmm. Yeah, that makes sense.”
“It does?”
Zay laughs. “It’s a good thing. I’ve just got the one sister. She never forgets to remind me that I’m a pain in her ass.” He softens. “But she loves me. I know what sisters are like and I have clocked you, Charlie No-Last-Name. You definitely have sisters.”
“You didn’t give me your last name either,” Charlie points out.
Zay shrugs. “True. Do you want me to?” he asks, pointedly.
Charlie bites his cheek. “I— It’s okay.”
Zay nods, looking thoughtful, but saying nothing. Then he springs gracefully to his feet. Charlie stares up at him, feeling vaguely awed.
“Want to dance?” Zay asks. “Or is that too cliché?”
He holds out a hand, inviting. Charlie stares at it for a minute, and then up at Zay. He takes Zay’s hand and pulls himself up.
He’s not sure what he expected, but neither of them go to move too much, leaving them in an awkward slow dance that settles its way into becoming smooth. Zay leads, and clearly also knows how to dance. The way he moves, his confidence, both tell Charlie that Zay is not just a dancer– he’s a good dancer.
Charlie burns warmer at this. His one hand is in Zay’s, the lighter palm callused, nails neatly filed, holding Charlie’s firmly, steadying– although Charlie has no reason to feel off-balance. His other hand, Charlie sees, has placed itself on Zay’s waist. All the points in his body feel hot where they meet Zay.
He looks up, and stops moving. They’re face to face, breath mixing together in the shared space between them. Zay is right there, and he’s staring at Charlie, and he’s beautiful, and Charlie feels brave.
He awkwardly grabs two fistfuls of Zay’s shirt, leans in, and kisses him.
Zay doesn’t hesitate to kiss back, hands moving to grip Charlie’s waist as Charlie’s hands begin roaming, touching Zay’s shoulders, back, neck, chest. Because he can. Charlie feels electrified, more alive than he’s ever been, petrified and daring and sick and ecstatic all at once. It’s so overwhelming. He feels like he’s looking at a work of art, feels like he’s been punched in the stomach.
When he pulls back, breathing hard, Zay is staring at him.
“What?” Charlie asks.
Zay grins. “You are full of surprises.”
Charlie smiles back, breathless and elated.
As if divinely ordered, in Zay’s pocket, his phone chimes with the Kim Possible beeper sound. The noise jars Charlie out of… well, just out of it. Suddenly, he’s back in his own head, in the upstairs bedroom of a party, back to his boring, cowardly self, and back to feeling vaguely nauseous.
“Oh, shit,” Zay is saying, tapping out a text to someone on his phone, “I’m really sorry, man, I don’t want to, but I have to go meet my friends.”
“Oh,” Charlie says. “Um, yeah. I should– I should probably find mine too.” He’s not sure how long he’s been in this room, this liminal space where all rules for his own life go out the window, but it’s been long enough that Haley and Clarissa are definitely looking for him by now. They’re probably worried.
“Hey,” Zay begins, “Can I maybe get your number?” He smiles at Charlie.
Charlie opens his mouth. “I…” He stops. He wants to. God, he wants to. Zay is so, so, so… Charlie can’t even put it into words. And that’s the whole thing, isn’t it? Because Charles John Paul Gardner, prodigal son, just kissed a boy at a party. And Charlie thinks about sitting in his room, in his house full of his parents and crosses on the walls, or in a scratchy suit on his church’s front lawn, listening to his mother discussing how the function turned out, and his phone sitting in his pocket, Zay’s name an anchor weighing him down around them. Illicitly texting him with his family a few feet away, two halves of him split and fighting to coexist when he wishes one side would just stop and disappear.
“No worries, man,” Zay says, scratching the back of his neck. “I get it.”
Charlie closes his eyes in frustration. “I just…” he lunges forward, pressing his lips to Zay’s one last time, trying to convey how much he, in theory, in a world where he isn’t himself, would like to see Zay again. He pulls back, “Thanks.”
Zay’s mouth tugs itself back into a smile. “See you around, Charlie,” he murmurs, before disappearing out the door.
February — Senior year
Zay is in a booth at Chubbie’s, trying not to think about Turner and utterly failing to do his English homework when he just happens to glance up and see a face he hasn’t seen since one very fateful night.
“Charlie,” Zay says in surprise. Charlie turns to face him, startled.
“Zay,” Charlie says instantly– clearly, he also remembers. Charlie is taller than he was at the party, broader– Zay remembers the slope of his shoulders, and the frame is definitely wider now.
Of course Zay remembers. He’s just glad Charlie does too.
“Do you want to sit?” he asks, a bit cautiously. He remembers Charlie’s when he asked for his number, and he doesn’t know Charlie well enough to know if this is an emotional landmine.
Charlie just blinks, then says, “Yeah! Yeah, sure.”
He slides into the booth across from Zay. Zay hisses in pain when their knees accidentally touch.
“Oh, shoot, sorry, your leg,” Charlie says. “Is that why you’ve got those?” He points to the godforsaken metal crutches that Zay has spitefully shoved into the booth next to him.
“Yeah, I tore my ACL,” Zay says.
Charlie softens. “That sucks. Especially for a dancer.”
Zay blinks. “How do you know I dance?”
“Oh,” Charlie looks bashful. “Because I do too. And that night when we…” he trails off for a moment, before continuing. “When we danced. I could just tell.”
Zay is stunned. That he just knew that about him, that in those minutes in that dark room Charlie knew dance was such an intrinsic piece of his identity just by the way he moved. He’s a little ashamed to admit to himself that he had no goddamn idea Charlie was a dancer— he was too distracted by everything else about him.
“Dancer makes sense– I heard you went to Triple A,” Zay says. “But I haven’t seen you in the halls or anything.”
“You were asking about me?” Charlie asks, looking almost smug.
Zay raises an eyebrow at him. “No comment,” he answers, although he’s pretty sure Charlie can see right through his poker face. Just sitting in front of him makes Zay feel like Charlie is looking into him, a strange reversal from that night at the party all those months ago.
It’s… not unwelcome. Yindra knows how to cut through his bullshit, but they have a tendency to get frustrated with each other in the process. He barely knows Charlie, but there’s this strange, magnetic force that he can feel between them. Like Charlie just looked at him and understood him.
“But no,” Charlie continues, almost startling Zay. “I transferred for senior year. To Haverford.”
Zay gapes at him. “You’re a Havie? Why?”
“It’s a long story,” Charlie waves the question away.
Zay cannot believe it, but doesn’t press a topic that Charlie’s dismissed. “Does it suck as much as I’ve imagined it does?”
“More,” Charlie admits. “But it was the right thing. It’s good.”
Zay cannot put together Charlie’s bizarre logic, but perhaps he wasn’t meant to. So he changes the subject. “And has all that homoerotic brotherhood nonsense helped you come to terms with anything?” he asks. Definitely not the most sensitive or subtle way to bring up anything, but Zay prides himself on being as subtle as a bull in a china shop. Cutting right to the chase, that’s him.
“I like to think coming to terms with it happened despite Haverford,” Charlie replies wryly.
Zay almost laughs in surprise at Charlie’s bluntness– it’s a far cry from the Charlie he met by the side of the bed. “You’re out?”
“I’m, um, I’m not really out, but I. I am. I’m gay.” He shrugs. “I’m cool about it now. I know who I am and… I’m happy about it.”
Zay sits with that. “That’s amazing, man. I’m jealous. I mean… I don’t really like who I am right now, so…”
“Because of your leg?”
Zay sighs. “Because of everything that led up to my leg. I’ve been a real asshole this year. Grade A, gaping. And I thought that’s what was right, that’s what was necessary to get what I want. And in the end, I might have lost my future and I might have lost my friends.”
“Your future?” Charlie inquires.
Zay nods. “Turner Academy. Even if my knee heals in time for auditions, I’m going to be completely out of practice. I’ve got no options.”
“I’m really sorry, Zay,” Charlie says, sincere and empathetic. He pauses. “But I don’t think you’re out of options,” he says thoughtfully. “And I definitely don’t think you’re out of friends. Just… you need to let Turner know that you want this more than anything. That you’re worth it. Show them in a way that you can– that if you could– you’d be blowing them out of the water.” He pauses again. “I doubt that you have any trouble holding people’s attention. You just have to make them see that you’ll be worth investing time in. And even if it doesn’t work– you’re not out of options. You just need to… close that door and find a window.”
Zay stares at him. He barely knows Charlie, really, and Charlie barely knows him, but it’s exactly what he needed to hear. Make them see that, despite everything, you are worth their time.
It might be like climbing a mountain, but if someone told Zay Babineaux he couldn’t climb a mountain, he’d tell them to fuck off, bitch. His whole life is trying to climb a mountain faster and better than everyone around him. He just needs to adjust his harness.
“And as for your friends,” Charlie continues, “An apology and some space goes a long way. Trust me, I know.”
“You,” Zay says, dumbfounded, “are brilliant.”
Charlie goes bright red just when, in a strange mirror of that night, Charlie’s phone goes off. He grabs it to read the text.
“Oh, darn,” Charlie curses, and Zay holds in a laugh at the non-cuss. “Shoot, Zay, I have to go. Friend emergency.”
Full circle. Curse you, universe.
“Here,” Zay offers him a fry. “Fuel for the road.”
Charlie smiles. “Thanks.”
“No, the thanks go to you,” Zay says, with emphasis and only mildly nonsensically. “You just cleared it all up for me.”
Charlie’s smile widens. “I hope I see you again, ” he says softly, almost confessional.
After he’s rushed out the door, Zay stares after him.
“Me too,” he says to no one.
June — Age 20
“I’m so glad we came,” Riley is saying as they settle into their seats, cutting it a little close– Riley had gotten stuck in New York traffic on her way to pick Charlie up and they’d made it in just before the doors closed.
“So am I,” Charlie says. They’re at an off-Broadway production of West Side Story, which Riley got cheap tickets to because she knows the set designer, or something. Riley kind of knows everyone. Charlie has long stopped being shocked by her insane talent to pick up friends the way his sister collects beetles in their yard.
It’s when the opening number begins – when the lights come up on that iconic snapping, that Charlie sees a familiar face. He gasps out loud, unable to help himself. The woman next to him shushes him.
Bright red, Charlie fumbles for the playbill.
There it is. Riff: Isaiah “Zay” Babineaux. He has a couple of credits to his name already— a summer touring production, another off-Broadway show.
After that, Charlie can only stare. He listens to maybe half of the dialogue, and every single actor’s face is a blur.
Except for Zay. Zay is incredible. The way he moves– it’s stunning. Breathtaking. Charlie wants to look at him forever.
When the lights go up on curtain call, his mind is on one track.
“I, um,” Charlie says. “Riley, I’m sorry, but– could you go back without me?”
Riley blinks in surprise. “Everything okay?” she asks, concerned.
“Everything is great,” Charlie breathes, honest and overwhelmed and sincere. “There’s just someone I want to catch up with.”
Riley’s face splits into a knowing smile. “Charlie Gardner!” she exclaims. “I see how it is.”
Charlie tries not to return the smile, but it pulls at his mouth without his assent. “It’s a long story, Riles. Please?”
“Of course,” she replies, poking his arm softly. “Lucas is coming over tonight anyway. But I demand the long story the next time I come over to your guys’ place.”
With Riley half living at their place, thanks to her boyfriend being Charlie’s roommate, that’ll probably be in about 24 hours. But.. he kind of wants to tell her about Zay– it’s not that Zay is a secret, or even a thing, but he is… he is something. The way that they keep coming face to face is something.
“I promise,” he vows, hugging her goodbye before she heads out to her car.
All he can really do is go around to the stage door and wait.
He doesn’t have to wait that long, pausing awkwardly a couple times as cast members leave intermittently, meeting with friends or loved ones, but not much time passes before he’s alone.
And it’s not long after that before the door opens and Zay steps out.
When Zay sees him, he stops, just momentarily, and then makes his way down the stairs and over to Charlie. His bag is slung casually over one shoulder. There’s still a smudge of stage makeup under his left eye.
“Charlie,” Zay says in surprise, before his face breaks into a smile. “Fate draws us together again– what is it?” He tilts his head, noticing the expression on Charlie’s face.
“You were amazing,” Charlie says breathlessly.
Zay stares at him. He stares at Zay.
And then they’re kissing,
Zay’s bag drops from his shoulders, hitting the ground with a smack that doesn’t even register to either of them. Zay is well-muscled, adult, strong, just as beautiful as the first and last time Charlie kissed him.
It’s heaven.
They just keep kissing and kissing and kissing. Charlie could die right then and he’d be completely, totally, utterly happy.
“Go Babineaux!” Someone cheers from behind them, and they break apart, suddenly, reluctantly. One of Zay’s co-stars heads past, whooping, clearly already a little buzzed for the post-show party. Zay flips them off, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Charlie.
“Zay Babineaux,” Charlie says, testing how the name feels in his mouth. It enters the space between them, feeling weighty, important…
Zay’s eyes burn into his. “Charlie..”
“Gardner.”
“Charlie Gardner,” Zay announces. “It feels about time we know.”
They kiss again, slower, deeper this time, but it gradually speeds up again, until Zay is backed against the wall of the alley and Charlie has become all too aware of how bad the combination of sweat and the sticky June air of the city is.
“Listen,” he mumbles into Zay’s mouth. “My roommate isn’t home tonight–”
“Sold,” Zay says, and pulls away to call the Uber.
They don’t even turn on the living room lights, Zay tripping over Lucas’ spare pair of boots and cursing as they kiss their way into Charlie’s bedroom.
When Charlie reaches out to turn on the lamp, the sudden light casts itself over the planes of Zay’s face, and suddenly Charlie has dizzying deja vu.
He’s come so far, he really has. And it feels so right that he’s with Zay, in this moment– once again in a dark bedroom, lit only by a lamp. The boy– the man– who always has a special place in Charlie’s head, even though they’re only brought together in sporadic moments.
Still kissing, they fall onto the mattress together.
Afterwards, naked and exhausted, they lie side by side on top of Charlie’s covers– it’s already too hot for a duvet.
“So,” Charlie says.
“So,” Zay replies. “What now?”
“Zay,” Charlie starts, “I don’t know much about you, but I really like what I do know.”
“The feeling’s mutual,” Zay responds.
“But,” Charlie continues, feeling only a bit of dread, “I’m… I’m actually heading to Italy for the rest of the summer, and then for a semester abroad. I’m going to be gone for a long time.”
“No, actually– that might be for the best,” Zay admits. “I, um, I just got out of a relationship.” He takes a breath. “The breakup wasn’t too bad, but the relationship itself was kind of a fucking mess. Neither of us approached it in the best way, and– anyway. Point is, what all my friends are telling me is that I should probably take some space. But if you were here– I don’t know if I could, man.”
Charlie feels so warm at that. “I probably couldn’t,” he murmurs.
There’s a long silence, before Zay breaks it.
“I’ll tell you what,” Zay says. “You go to Italy, and I’ll stay in New York, and we’ll just live our lives.”
Charlie tilts his head. “And then what?”
Zay looks at him, reaching out to take his hand. “Then… if we run into each other again… we get to know each other?”
Charlie laughs at the utter ridiculousness of the statement. He knows Zay’s body now, basically worshipped at his altar, “I mean,” he says, shrugging in assent, “Someone up there does seem to have plans for us.”
Zay grins, head falling back on the pillow. “Charlie Gardner,” he repeats, seemingly just because he can. “I hate to say it, but I might be starting to agree with you there.”
September — Age 22
They meet again on a warm afternoon in the Manhattan streets. It’s so simple, really. A glance up at the same time, their eyes meeting. Almost about to pass each other on the sidewalk. Almost about to miss meeting again.
“Zay!” Charlie says, face breaking into that great smile, the one Zay remembers from that night in Charlie’s apartment.
“Charlie,” Zay responds, unable to look away. He looks tan, healthy, glowing, hair longer than Zay remembered. Gorgeous and happy in the afternoon sun.
They don’t hug, or even shake hands. They just stand in front of each other. Charlie’s hands twitch, seemingly also feeling that strange unnameable energy between them, the one that is currently making Zay feel strange, and relieved, and giddy.
“You’re back in the city, then?” Zay asks.
“Yeah,” Charlie nods. “My semester abroad turned into spending the full year abroad. Summer to summer.”
“Fall in love?” Zay questions, only somewhat hoping that the answer is no.
Charlie shrugs. “With the country, yes. With a gorgeous Italian man named Francesco? Almost, but not quite.” He smiles slyly.
Zay whistles. “Look at you, Charlie Gardner!”
Charlie looks at him softly, turning the conversational tone with a glance. “You remembered.”
“As if I could forget,” Zay says honestly. He raises an eyebrow. “Why, did you?”
“Zay Babineaux,” Charlie recites automatically, like it’s been sitting on the tip of his tongue for two years.
“Don’t wear it out,” Zay jokes.
Charlie smiles ruefully. “I don’t think I ever could.”
There it is. That undeniable spark that flares every time they meet. And no matter how long they’re apart, it never truly stamps itself out.
“So,” Zay begins, feeling hopeful. “How long are you back for?”
“Back for good,” Charlie announces proudly. “I’ve been back for a year, actually. I would’ve, I don’t know, Insta-stalked you—”
Zay snorts. This man.
“But I remembered what you said.”
Zay remembers all too well. If we run into each other again…
Jesus. It took the universe long enough.
“So.” Charlie says bracingly. “Going anywhere anytime soon?”
Zay shakes his head, a feeling of triumph slowly spreading
A passerby with a briefcase, clearly late, sprints past them, bumping into Charlie and throwing a “sorry!” over their shoulder as Charlie trips and falls–
Right into Zay’s arms. He lets out a snort of laughter as he helps Charlie straighten up. “Very unsubtle of the universe, if you ask me.”
Charlie shrugs. “I’m Catholic, so maybe it’s more like… divine intervention?”
At that Zay laughs, really laughs. Standing there, in the middle of the New York sidewalk, it feels like it’s finally… finally. He reaches down to take Charlie’s hands in his own. Charlie looks pleased at this, exposing a very nice dimple at the right side of his mouth.
“Saint Charlie Gardner,” Zay says with a grin. “I would really like to get to know you. Would you like to get coffee this weekend?”
Charlie grins back, pulling Zay closer. “Well,” he teases, “It does seem like fate.”