Chapter Text

summer 10

When Dallas first met Jonathan Sinclair Dennis, his eyes had yet to become somber. He was an antonym of his own teenage personality: cheerful, vibrant, and lively.

Everyone on Martha’s Vineyard knew the Sinclair family. Of course they did. Most of the island’s revenue came in from tourists who thought they’d be able to get a glance of them and their private island.

Dallas Ruiz spent his summers at the Vineyard, where his dad owned a chocolate shop. Ruiz's Chocolatey Surprises was a Vineyard must-do—every afternoon, when the shop opened, crowds flooded in, sweeping through the assemblages of chocolate. They sold a variety of types, ranging from basic milk chocolate to butterscotch. Upon entering, guests are greeted with shelves stacked with the tasty treats. Each shelf is divided by type and size, ranging from bite-sized pieces to giant candy bars. On the left side of the shop, there’s a display counter with chocolate sweet treats. They were located right by the terminal, making the shop feel like a warm welcome to the tourists.

At least, that was what Dallas's dad, Quincy, would say. Dallas knew better. He knew the reason everyone actually came was because of their famous chocolate fountain in the center of the room.

It was a Vineyard Haven staple. Everyone on the island knew that. 

Every day was a family affair. The Ruiz family would gather in the kitchen most mornings and assemble the day's displays. At night, they would store certain chocolates in a freezer so the candies wouldn’t melt from the island’s humidity. Those were some of Dallas's most core memories, despite how sticky the chocolate could be and how annoying it was when it got stuck behind his fingernails. There were times Quincy would send him home before the shop even opened because he and his sister had gotten into a food fight and reeked of the sweets. Dallas, personally, loved it when he smelled like chocolate. It was comforting and a reminder of his favorite place. 

Until one awful afternoon. 

Dallas had been sitting in the corner of the shop, absorbed in a comic. The sweet aroma of the cocoa chocolate shelf next to him eased the anxiety that was forming as he read about the superhero Nightwing battling Deathstroke. 

The shop's bell chimed through the air. Loud footsteps echoed. Dallas peeked up from his comic and immediately regretted it. He didn't know what alternative universe he had ended up in. Or maybe he traveled back in time to when they filmed the movie Multiplicity. These people had never been in the shop before. Dallas’s step-mom said it was because they were probably considered “beneath them.”

The entire Sinclair family was in Ruiz's Chocolatey Surprises. 

He wondered how so many people could be so... blonde. 

Old money was a term journalists frequently used when describing the Sinclair family. Everything they were wearing was designer. From the hat on the older womens heads down to the socks on the childrens’ feet. The Sinclair heiresses were wearing matching silk sundresses that had probably been woven specifically for them. The three children were all in linen button-ups. Dallas clutched his jacket around himself, suddenly insecure about the Red Hood tee his mom had thrifted for him. 

It could've been from the AC, but Dallas had goosebumps that his jacket wasn't doing a good job at thwarting. The other customers stopped and stared as the family stole the spotlight from the chocolate. Dallas's dad looked startled from behind the counter. His step-mom's mouth was agape. Too bad Brooklyn, his sister, wasn't there. He doubted she would believe that the Sinclair family had visited their shop. 

The family began browsing, either oblivious to the stares or blissfully pretending not to notice them. Dallas couldn't stop staring. He had settled on the fact that he would never see the Sinclairs up close. 

There they were with their perfect hair and perfect skin. A type of flawless half of the United States wished they could replicate. 

Dallas still wondered about the blonde. Surely one of the heiresses had to be a natural brunette. The blonde genes couldn’t be that strong. 

"Let us know if you need any help!" Dallas's step-mom called out. She must’ve remembered she was supposed to be working. 

"We're good, thank you!" One of the older women replied. Dallas was pretty sure it had been Caroline. 

One of the kids locked eyes with Dallas. It was Jonathan Sinclair. He stood a few inches taller than his cousins with gelled hair and a sort of confidence radiating off of him. He looked like the heroes from the comic books Dallas loved. 

His shoes were untied. The untied shoelaces humanized Johnathan more to Dallas. He wondered what type of chocolate the boy liked. 

Dallas had spent many nights on his tablet reading about the younger heirs. They were all born around the same time, which caused speculation about whether they had all been planned or not. Dallas had read a good deal about Cadence and Mirren, but Jonathan was his favorite. He knew all there was to publicly know about the boy. One time, Brooklyn stole his tablet and looked through his search history. She accused him of having a celebrity crush on the Sinclair heir. Dallas didn’t even know what a celebrity crush was. 

Besides, Dallas wasn't gay. He was barely of the age to know the meaning of that word. He just thought a rich boy his age who also liked tennis was cool, that's all. 

Jonathan gave Dallas a toothy grin and began to walk towards him—or, no, he was walking towards the chocolate fountain. Dallas’s cheeks flushed. He snapped his head back towards his comic, pretending to read it. 

"Johnny, don't touch it!" One of the other kids shouted. Dallas couldn't take it anymore and snuck in another glance at the family. 

"You're going to get your gross germs all in it!" Mirren Sinclair chastised, eyes narrowed like her glare might stop Johnny. 

"We have the same germs." Johnny reached out and poked his finger into the chocolate fountain. He scooped a portion onto the end of his finger and sucked it right off. "Hmm. Tasty." 

"You're disgusting." 

"Are not!" 

"Are too!" 

Johnny started chasing her around the shop. 

A different boy approached Dallas. He had been speaking to Cadence when the Sinclairs entered the store. He had brown skin and black hair. Dallas didn’t recognize him from any photos. "Is that Nightwing Eighteen?" 

Dallas's expression brightened at the opportunity to talk about his comic. In the following years, Dallas would kick himself for getting distracted. If he kept his eye on Johnny and Mirren, perhaps he could've stopped what would happen next. He replayed the day in his head the way people replay games, looking for clues on the walls or bits of foreshadowing in the dialogue, wondering how they could unlock a different ending. "Yeah! Are you a Nightwing fan?"

The boy nodded his head enthusiastically, his body relaxing. Had he been nervous to talk to Dallas? If anything, Dallas should've been nervous to talk to him. "I just bought all of the Silver Age Teen Titans comics." 

"Kids, stop running," one of the moms said from the other side of the store. Dallas was barely paying them attention anymore. Funny how he was allured by the wealth and status of the Sinclair family just minutes before. Dallas couldn't seem to care much about them when someone was willing to talk to him about comics. "Have you read any of the other Silver Age comics? I find them to be a bit—"

"Whoa!" Behind the boy Dallas was talking to, Johnny tumbled over his untied shoelaces. It was like the rest of the fall happened in slow motion. Johnny flailed his arms as his upper body went straight for the fountain. 

"No!" Dallas screamed as Johnny fell into the table, knocking the chocolate fountain to the ground. On its way down, it exploded, staining the silk outfits the Sinclair heiresses were wearing. 

Penelope said a bad word that Dallas wasn't allowed to repeat. Caroline reprimanded her son. Elizabeth wailed in rage. "Do you know how much this outfit cost?!"

Dallas's dad materialized at the woman's side. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Sinclair. We'll pay for everything—"

Elizabeth pointed at him. Dallas had never seen a woman look so angry, which was saying a lot because his mom was always mad about something. Her upper lip curled inward. “Don’t bother. This outfit costs more than you make in a year.”

Elizabeth Sinclair stormed out of the shop, her sisters and their children swiftly following her. The boy Dallas had been speaking to waved mournfully at him before leaving, too. 

That was the first time Dallas had seen his father cry. He hoped it would be the last. 

A few weeks later, the shop received a Notice of Default. 

A month later, the shop went bankrupt. Dallas’s favorite place was gone forever. It took days for the tear stains on his cheeks to disappear. 

A few months after that, a fudge shop opened exactly where Ruiz's Chocolatey Surprises had been. It only took the Vineyard a few years to fully forget the shop with the chocolate fountain. People’s memories melted the same way the fountain had on the white tile of the shop’s floor. 

Just another place the Sinclair family left disintegrated in their wake. 

From that day onward, Dallas swore he would never like the Sinclairs. When he was old enough for social media, he filled his accounts with reposts from other people who hated the family. He never looked up Jonathan's name again. 

Five years later, Dallas would reunite with Johnny Sinclair across a tennis court. Johnny's eyes would be filled with somberness, hardened from the challenges of life. 

Dallas's would be filled with fire, waiting to unleash Hell.

Chapter Text

"I just want to play some good tennis this summer, Mom." Johnny's voice travels throughout the walls of Clairmont house into Harris Sinclair's study. The voice of his grandson distracts Harris from the magazine Tipper had lent to him.  

Footsteps pass by the door. Shadows peek through the door's sweep. "What's wrong with playing with your cousins and Gat?" Carrie asks. 

"They aren't up to my standard at all." Johnny's voice fades away as the mother and son duo walk further away from the study. 

Harris's lips curl in amusement. His grandson had become very high-handed in his teenage years, much like Harris himself at that age. It’s no surprise that Jonathan is slowly becoming a young version of Harris. He had been made in his image, after all. His golden boy. His perfect Sinclair heir. In the last year, Johnny had lived up to all his expectations. He performed well in school, never did anything that resulted in headlines (much to Harris's surprise), and went on to become a tennis champion.

If his grandson wants to play some good tennis with people who were up to his standards, Harris will make it happen. 

He takes one last look at the news story and makes a phone call.

summer 15

"I can't believe he bought us," Dallas remarks as he and Brooklyn wander through South Station. His rolling duffle bag, which stored all his tennis equipment, attempts to roll behind him. One of the wheels is broken, and Dallas didn't have time to fix it before it was loaded into his dad's car. The wheel makes a loud squeaking noise. Irritation flares inside of him with every squeak. It sucks when he’s already irritated as is. 

Luckily, he’s in Boston, where no one is paying attention to him or his squeaky bag. 

"He didn't buy us. He just... paid for us to go play tennis on their island,” Brooklyn comments, looking down at her phone. "Our gate should be up here." 

Dallas notices her change in subject, but he isn’t about to let it go. When his dad told him Harris Sinclair wanted him and Brooklyn on Beechwood Island, Dallas almost felt ready to destroy his tennis racket to get out of it. They caused his dad to go into bankruptcy, yet wanted Dallas's company? The absolute gall of those people. He'd rather spend the afternoon doing his least favorite chores than spend it with the Sinclairs. "He's paying for our time. What if I already had plans?" 

Brooklyn rolls her eyes. "As if you have a life outside of tennis. Come on!" She nudges him playfully. "This'll be great for our brands! Can you imagine the followers I would get if one of the Sinclairs shouted me out? Like, I wouldn't even need to be a famous tennis player. I could get a ton of followers by association alone. And if they do post me on their stories, I could get so many brand deals and maybe even some celebrity followers—"

Dallas tries to interrupt her. "You've earned a ton of followers just by—"

Brooklyn continues to talk over him. He shouldn't have even attempted to speak. When Brooklyn gets like this, it’s hard to rein her back in. "Oh my god," she stops in her tracks, throwing her arm out to stop Dallas, too. Dallas almost trips. Brooklyn spins on him, jaw dropped from whatever thought she just had. "What if Sabrina Carpenter follows me? She follows Cadence, you know." 

"That would be awesome," Dallas says. He believes Sabrina would be more likely to follow Brooklyn based on her tennis talent and not by hanging out with Cadence Sinclair Eastman, but Dallas isn’t going to tell Brooklyn that. He grew up around plenty of women to know when and how to speak. For Brooklyn, it’s best to indulge her. 

"I know, right?" To Dallas's relief, Brooklyn starts walking again. When they reach their gate, Brooklyn is still going on about her social media. Dallas nodded along every few sentences, but he had stopped paying attention after she mentioned getting sponsored by Nike. 

Dallas wishes he could have Brooklyn's carefree attitude and excitement. She never cared as much about the chocolate shop closing as he did. The shop had meant everything to Dallas and only something to Brooklyn. She explained that she could still eat their dad's chocolate whenever she wanted. It didn't matter if he made money off of it or not. 

It wasn't the chocolate that made it so important to Dallas, nor why he was angry. 

He’s about to have to go spend the day with the family that stripped it away from him. More importantly, the boy who caused the downfall. 

Jonathan Sinclair Dennis, who started going by Johnny a few years ago. Just thinking his name causes a bitter taste in Dallas's mouth. The reckless Sinclair heir. Where he goes, destruction is never far behind.

Everything about Johnny infuriates Dallas. His confident stride, his designer shoes, the fact that he has a large platform but barely uses it for anything good. 

On top of it all, perhaps it's the thing that infuriates Dallas the most: Johnny is an excellent tennis player. At age 15, he's already ranked in the World Top 1000 in singles. When that ranking was announced a few months ago, people outside of the tennis community immediately concluded that his grandfather must've paid for his place. 

Dallas knows better. He'll watch any tournament of Johnny’s he can get his hands on. His phone screen is covered in fingerprints from how often he rewinds. Dallas will watch his serves, analyzing how fast the ball flies. He watches Johnny’s backhands, his volleys, and his serves, looking for signs of error. There rarely ever is. He plays every game like it's life or death, with perfect precision that not even some pro players have achieved. 

Johnny deserves his ranking.

If Dallas has to go to Beechwood Island and play against Johnny, then he is going to give their game everything he has. He's determined to beat him. 

The tennis tabloids love to group them together in articles. Journalists find them comparable with their shared age and similar NTRP scores. Dallas doesn't think they're comparable at all. Their playing styles are completely different. Where Johnny likes to go offensive, Dallas goes defensive. Dallas likes to do slice serves while Johnny usually sticks to flat serves. 

If Dallas hadn’t already disliked Johnny, the constant media comparisons would’ve done him in. He doesn’t like how he’s compared to someone who didn’t have to work as hard as he did. 

Based on the matches of Johnny’s that Dallas had watched, he has a basic idea of how Johnny will play today. He spent last night studying Johnny’s movements, memorizing the way he moves when the ball is on his side of the court. Dallas thought about his usual points of attack and how Johnny might counterattack. If he can manage to catch the other boy off guard, then he will win. 

Dallas lets out a long, irritated sigh when the bus calls for boarding. “Kill me. Kill me, please.”

Brooklyn slings her bag over her shoulder. “We haven’t even gotten there yet.”

“Exactly. Put me out of my misery early.”

People congregate into a disorganized line in front of the green bus. A party of six stands in front of Dallas, clustered together and blocking his view of the bus’s door. “Don’t be such a downer. Seriously, you’re always so cynical. They could actually be really cool,” Brooklyn comments while opening their tickets on her phone, courtesy of Harris Sinclair. 

“They’re not.” He remembers how entranced he had been the first time he met the family. But he’s matured since then. Dallas doesn’t think anyone is cool just because they inherited generational wealth. 

“Mirren is cool,” Brooklyn argues. "She does a lot of art commentary on her Instagram." 

Dallas's wrist starts to tingle. It still remembers the lingering pain from drawing too much. Dallas misses drawing. He had to give it up so he wouldn't overuse his wrist outside of tennis. He committed to tennis full-time when he realized he was more talented at hitting a ball than drawing comic book characters. "What type of commentary does she do?" 

"Mostly a lot of interpretive commentary. Trying to figure out what the artist was saying with their piece. If there was a certain theme or emotion behind it. It's really interesting." 

Dallas raises an eyebrow at his sister. "You never cared about my art pieces." 

"Mirren is different. She could say blue cheese is the best snack to grace this planet, and I would agree with her." Brooklyn grabs Dallas's shoulder with a sense of urgency. "Quick! I need you to tell me everything there is to know about art."

Dallas chuckles softly. He can't even make fun of Brooklyn for being helpless when it comes to girls she finds attractive. Whenever Dallas likes people, he falls too deep, too fast. He gives out pieces of his heart that he always has to glue back together. There are only so many times he can glue himself back together before the glue starts to melt. Still, Brooklyn having a crush on Mirren makes their forced situation just a little bit funny. 

"I don't think I can sum it all up in three hours. I don't even know everything myself." If it goes outside the bounds of comic and manga style rules, Dallas doesn't know them. He's someone who's scared of going outside of his comfort zone. His comfort zone is a safe, non-threatening environment. Leaving it only ever causes him pain. 

"Please?" Brooklyn pouts, eyes pleading. 

Dallas stares blankly at her for a few seconds. He will not give in to his sister this time. All of his sisters were masters at persuasion. They know Dallas would do anything for them, and they take advantage of that. 

Dallas is not going to talk about art for three hours. Brooklyn most likely will speak over him the whole time anyway. 

Brooklyn's eyes still pleaded. Her lips form into a small frown. "Please, Dallas."

Dallas's shoulders sag in defeat. The puppy-dog look always gets him. "Ugh, fine."

"Thank you!" Dallas boards the bus before Brooklyn can hug him. 

Martha's Vineyard hasn't changed much in five years. Upon leaving the ferry, Dallas is met with the buzz of tourists. People smile as they breathe in the scent of the ocean. Their faces light up from the coastal atmosphere. A woman cruises by Dallas on a bicycle. A family passes by, their kids running with excitement. Dallas used to have the same excitement when he would step off the ferry. 

Instead, he feels nothing. It’s a type of numbness he’s become very familiar with—where he feels everything and nothing all at once. He had expected to feel a sense of nostalgia at the place he used to spend his summers. The sight of the ocean did not bring him the same joy. The brightly colored buildings that mesmerized him as a kid barely caught his attention. He has no urgency to make a quick stop at any of the shops he used to love. 

He wonders if it was the closing of the chocolate shop that made him like this, or if it’s something deeper hiding inside of him. Something he’s suppressing without realizing. 

Dallas's eyes naturally find the stark white building that used to house assortments of chocolate. He supposes it still does, but they aren't his. In the distance, people go in and out of the door. The customers leaving hold bags that send Dallas back in time. He can still remember the feeling of joy anytime there was a transaction behind the counter; the customers liked hearing Dallas's opinion on the inventory. 

The chocolate shop hadn't just felt like a home to Dallas, it had been a community. It was a community he misses dearly. 

He grips the handle of his rolling bag, his palm digging into the hard plastic. His face hardens, and his teeth begin to grind together. He needs to get away from the Vineyard. This was why he hadn't ever wanted to come back. Not even the cool breeze that flies through is enough to comfort him. 

Brooklyn drags Dallas away from his thoughts. He's grateful. If he stares at the building he used to call home for another second, he might explode. "We need to find someone named... Eb-on? Eb-in?" Brooklyn struggles. 

Dallas's spirits suddenly brighten at the name. Ebon and Tonia, who always bought packs of white chocolate. "Let me see," he says, taking the phone from Brooklyn. Sure enough, the email says to meet Ebon Lathan near the terminal. 

"No way," Dallas mumbles to himself. His head darts around the dock, searching for his old friend. He spots him along a smaller dock that’s connected to the one they're standing on. His hair's longer, reaching his shoulders instead of sagging behind his ears like Dallas remembers. He's wearing a light blue shirt that would've made him blend in with the crowd if it wasn't for the sign he's holding. 

"Oh my god." Brooklyn's voice is full of glee. "I've always wanted this to happen." She skips over to Ebon, her long hair swinging behind her with each movement. 

"Always wanted what to happen?" Dallas questions as he matches her speed. He has the advantage of being taller, so he can walk as fast as she can skip. 

"A chauffeur who stands there mysteriously with a sign that says Ruiz." 

The sign Ebon is holding has their last name penned. The edges of the paper sway lightly in the wind. 

Dallas holds up his hand when he reaches Ebon, a giant smile on his face. This is the best thing to happen to him today. It would probably remain that way. "Hey, man." 

Ebon's face lights up at the sight of Dallas. The bored expression he had while waiting for them transforms. "No way!" They clasp hands, pulling themselves into a hug. Dallas pats Ebon on the back. "I knew the Dallas Ruiz I'm picking up was the same Dallas Ruiz from the shop!" 

"How have you been, man?" Dallas asks. 

They pull away from their hug. Dallas smooths out the wrinkles that had formed on his pants. Ebon shoves his hair out of his face. "Could be worse, could be better." 

"Sorry," Brooklyn interrupts, gesturing between all of them. "I'm usually the one who knows everyone. This is kinda weird." 

"You would know him if you had gone to work with Dad," Dallas comments. 

Brooklyn scrunches her nose, her freckles clustering together. She rids her face of the expression when she turns to Ebon. "I'm Brooklyn." 

"Ebon. I'm the taxi driver for the Sinclairs." He points to the boat behind him. "You two ready?"

The three board the speedboat, setting course for Beechwood. Martha’s Vineyard blurs into dark green behind them.

Dallas spends the boat ride to Beechwood Island fixing the broken wheel of his duffle bag. Despite never having met Ebon, Brooklyn had no issue forming a bond with him. The two have been locked in a conversation the entire ride. The wind is loud in Dallas’s ears.

Brooklyn stands up front next to Ebon, who's looking straight ahead. Beechwood slowly approaches in the distance. 

"Can you teach me how to drive the boat?" 

"I don't want to get fired, so no.” 

"Aw."

Dallas sets his bag down, almost falling over from the impact and the movements of the boat. His hair keeps smacking him in the eyes. Maybe he should've asked Brooklyn for a hair tie. He unzips the front pocket and pulls out a pair of sunglasses. They had been cheap. One wrong move and they would break. He puts them on, hiding his brown eyes behind the lenses. 

Brooklyn, whose vibrance still shines through the shades, raises an eyebrow at him. 

“I’m about to meet my self-proclaimed rival. I need to look cooler than him," Dallas states. 

Brooklyn's lips quirk. "They literally don't make you look cool, like at all." 

"Are you talking about Johnny?" Ebon asks, still looking ahead. 

"Yup." The boredom in Dallas's tone manages to make Ebon look back at him for a second. 

Something pings at the back of Dallas’s throat. He gulps, deciding to ask something that’s been gnawing at the back of his head. “Has he…. Said anything about me?”

“Oh, yeah,” Ebon yells. “He’s been talking about you ever since you won that championship.”

Good. Dallas wants him talking. Johnny needs to know Dallas is a worthy opponent.

“Dallas talks about Johnny all the time. It’s kinda getting annoying,” Brooklyn says. Dallas rolls his eyes.

Ebon snickers. “When I was driving them around this morning, he was saying how beating a USTA gold ball winner would boost his ego.”

Dallas scoffs. “He hasn’t beaten me yet.” He goes silent for a moment before adding, “Do you think he remembers me from the shop?”

Ebon doesn’t answer immediately. “I don’t think so.”

“Good,” Dallas mumbles to himself. “I want to keep it that way.” He looks away, watching the water ripple white behind the boat. The wind is getting louder. It seems angry, even, like it doesn't want trespassers around. It's screaming at the boat, begging to be heard. Perhaps it's a warning for daring to think outsiders can step onto the Sinclairs' sacred grounds and believe they will be welcomed. 

Good thing Dallas doesn't think he'll be welcomed. He's just a tennis player, nothing more. That's all he'll ever be. 

"Holy crap!" Brooklyn shouts over the wind. 

The boat closes in against the outskirts of Beechwood Island. The island is a tiny piece of land, spanning a small portion of the Atlantic. Four houses peek out among the trees that cover most of the island.

Dallas thought it would be bigger. It's about the size of Edgartown on the Vineyard. Still large for the number of residents on it, though. The amount of money spent on it must've been huge. It would've been a life-changing number for charities if they had wanted to help people in need rather than themselves. Maybe then they wouldn't need to pay people to play tennis with them. People would've played with them willingly.

"No wonder they employed you," Dallas comments to Ebon. 

"The Sinclairs never do anything half-assed." Ebon steers the boat around, passing the big dock. 

"Where are we going?" Brooklyn asks, leaning against the boat to get a closer look at the island. 

"Service docks. They're closer to the courts." 

"Courts?" Dallas repeats, affronted. "As in plural?" 

Ebon laughs. "They have three. One might be for pickleball, actually." 

Dallas just shakes his head, truly at a loss for words. How many kids did they think they would have?

Brooklyn pushes her hair from her face, just for the wind to blow it back where it was. "Have you ever played with them?" 

"Ha! No. I'm just the boat boy to them." 

"They probably don't think you have feelings," Dallas adds. 

"They mostly just pretend I'm not there." Ebon slows the boat down, guiding it along the edge of the dock. "I can't," he jumps up on the dock with a white rope in hand, "play tennis anyway."  He ties the rope around the cleat with ease. This boating job must be to Ebon what tennis is to Dallas. Something they can do so instinctively it's practically second nature. 

When the boat is secure, Brooklyn and Dallas hop up onto the dock. Ebon gets back in the boat. "I'll be around if I'm needed." 

Dallas looks between the boat and the walkway at the end of the dock. There's a wooden trail to follow. Dallas doesn't think he wants to follow it. 

Laughter erupts in the distance. Dallas presses his lips together. He doesn't want to see the people those laughs belong to. 

Brooklyn takes off, practically racing down the dock. Dallas follows slowly. The wheel of his duffle bag catches in a ridge of the dock, undoing all the work Dallas had just done to it. He groans. "I just fixed it," he mumbles to himself, fighting with the handle. 

Brooklyn marches back to him. "Just carry it." 

"I should've just stayed on the boat with Ebon." Dallas pushes down the handle and swings the bag over his shoulders. The wheels press into his back. 

Annoyance flickers across Brooklyn's face. Uh oh. "Dallas. I've been holding back on saying something this whole trip because I knew you would have a hard time being back at the Vineyard, especially since your sister just left—"

Why did Brooklyn have to bring her up? Dallas has been trying to pretend his entire summer like that hadn't happened. His older sister is like an annoying fly, always buzzing around when he's at his worst. Or, always hiding, hiding so well that Dallas forgets it's there until it flies by his ear. He will continue to pretend it hadn't happened.  "I am not having a hard time because of Mar—"

Brooklyn gives him a look, like she can see right through his bullshit. "But," she continues. "Dad really needs the money they're giving us to do this. So, can you get over yourself for a few hours and slap a smile onto your face like you just found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?" 

Dallas hadn't known about his dad. His dad's finances had never quite recovered from the loss of Ruiz's Chocolatey Surprises. If Brooklyn is telling him to suck it up for their dad, then he will become an Oscar-worthy actor. "Okay, yeah. I'm sorry. I can do that.” 

"Thank you."

The two of them walk to the end of the dock, stepping onto the wooden walkway. Dallas looks around aimlessly until his eyes land on four figures sitting to his left. 

Dallas pushes up his sunglasses. 

Cadence notices them first, face brightening in greeting. "Hey guys!" 

Mirren gasps. "The tennis players!" 

"Finally! I was starting to get bored." Dallas's breath catches in his throat as Jonathan jumps up, strolling over to them. 

Dallas has seen how Johnny’s grown from his tennis matches and occasional photos he stumbles upon, but they're nothing compared to seeing him in person again. He's taller, beating Dallas by a few inches. His hair is no longer gelled, letting his unruly curls be unkept. The blonde has darkened from light to sandy. The pink shirt he wears complements the undertones of his tanned skin. He still walks with a confident stride, but Dallas catches the slight challenge glowing in Jonathan’s eyes. 

Johnny looks like the kind of guy Dallas would ruin himself for. Dallas also notices that his lips have reddened from the sun.

He mentally smacks himself. Stop looking at his lips, you fool. He's not that attractive. This is what he gets for making fun of Brooklyn at the station. 

Nonetheless, he needs to be careful. Remember why you hate him, Dallas reminds himself. 

Johnny stops in front of Dallas, eyes trailing up and down, as if he's sizing him up. A playful smirk crosses his face, but Dallas knows better. He knows what he's doing. He's trying to get a sense for his opponent by observing everything about Dallas's exterior appearance. 

Dallas crosses his arms, guarding himself from Johnny’s ruthless gaze. He keeps a bored expression on his face. He isn't going to give anything away. He won't give Johnny anything to work with.

Johnny extends his hand. Dallas gives it a questioning look before taking it. Callouses brush against Dallas's palm as their hands slide together. Johnny’s handshake is firm. Well-rehearsed. “So, you’re the guy they keep comparing me to.”

Dallas tries to let go of Johnny’s hand. Johnny grips it harder, not allowing Dallas to let go. Dallas wonders what game they're playing. Whatever it is, he knows he's losing. His brain begins to scream: danger, danger, danger. 

Dallas musters up a fake smile. He’s glad his sunglasses mask his eyes. “I hope I live up to your expectations.”

Johnny’s smirk grows wider. “I’m sure you will.”

He finally releases Dallas's hand. His touch lingers before the breeze cools the warmth that Johnny’s hand left. 

Johnny claps his hands together. His smirk changes into a grin. His cousins appear behind him, along with their friend. “So! Who’s ready for some tennis?”

Chapter Text

Massachusetts's humidity sticks to Dallas's skin more with each step. A breeze carries through the air, giving Dallas some relief from the torturous heat. Leaves from Beechwood's trees rustle, and waves crash against the shore in the distance. 

Dallas understands why the Sinclairs like to spend their summers on the island. It's peaceful, aside from Johnny's continuous yapping. He just won’t stop. 

The liars (which was something they had immediately explained upon introduction) walk around Dallas and Brooklyn, leading them along the wooden walkway to where the tennis courts are. Johnny and Mirren lead the group. Johnny is describing the dance party they had on the courts the other night. Mirren chimes in with details Johnny doesn't include, like how he pulled his thigh attempting a line dance. 

Dallas can't tell if he's trying to make himself look better or if he genuinely can't remember. He almost laughed at the image of Johnny trying to line dance to Nickelback. Almost. 

Brooklyn is being uncharacteristically quiet. She'd spoken with Cadence and Gat, the fourth member of their group, whose name Dallas is happy to finally know, but hadn't said much to the other two. It’s not like Dallas himself is being very engaging, but Brooklyn is the extroverted one. 

It’s hard to converse with people you have nothing in common with. Even tennis is a tricky subject. While they all play the same sport, their experience with it is different. Dallas doubts the Sinclairs ever had to stress over quitting the sport because they couldn’t afford it anymore. 

He could talk about the Vineyard if he really wanted to. He could see if they relate to how much he loved visiting as a kid. 

He’s unsure if any of them have recognized him yet. He hopes not. He wants to keep the chocolate shop a secret, if he can. Mostly, he doesn’t want their sympathy. It wouldn’t feel genuine. He would only be given it because their mistake is staring them in the face, not because they feel remorse. 

"I wonder if the glitter is off the courts. We probably should've checked that, right?" Mirren is saying as Dallas turns his attention to Brooklyn. 

He pokes her cheek. "Hello? Have you been possessed?” 

"If I am possessed, I hope I get a better nose out of it." Brooklyn smacks his finger away. Good. She still is herself, then. 

"Ow." Dallas swats away his pain. Although, he isn't in pain. He's just being dramatic. "If you aren't, why are you being so quiet?" 

Brooklyn's gaze lingers on Mirren's back. Oh, Dallas understands. She's nervous because of Mirren, who turns back and looks at them. "Hey, you guys won that championship the other day, right?" 

"Yeah, we both did." Dallas nudges Brooklyn. Funny how she had been the one to tell him he needed to be nice when she's barely spoken since they arrived. "Didn't we, Brooklyn?" 

Brooklyn snaps out of whatever daze she was in. She blinks rapidly, licking her lips before smiling. "Oh my god, yeah. Sorry, I've been so rude. You see, I get nervous when I'm surrounded by pretty people." 

Mirren's cheeks heat. Her hair falls across her face as she looks away from Brooklyn. Cadence laughs. Her laugh is a soft sound, like a relaxing melody played by a pianist. "Aw, that's sweet." 

"I like this girl," Johnny declares. "She has good taste." 

"They say being arrogant is a bad thing," Gat retorts. 

Brooklyn points at him. "You were included in that statement, too, Gat." 

"Oh." Gat looks almost as flustered as Mirren. "I, uh–" 

Brooklyn remains oblivious to the effects she's had on the liars. Dallas watches Mirren, who hadn't been participating in the conversation. Dallas figures the only reason Brooklyn made the pretty people comment was because of Mirren. Perhaps Dallas can help.

He may not like the family, but he will always be Brooklyn’s wingman.

Not that Dallas will be much help if Mirren is straight, but the worst thing that could happen is Brooklyn making a friend. Dallas imagines being best friends with the Sinclairs is probably the worst, though. He wonders how Gat does it. "She also gets nervous around talented artists." 

Brooklyn nods rapidly. "Sure do. I love art." 

Dallas's face winces from how forced her sentence sounded. He hopes for Brooklyn's sake that everything he told her on the bus stuck. 

Mirren's face burns even brighter. "Johnny and Cady can't draw to save their lives." 

"Hey!" Johnny looks hurt. Dallas thinks he’s faking it. "I take full offense to that. We can’t all be artistes.” 

"Yeah," Cadence agrees. "I'm not that bad." 

"I was referring to Mirren," Dallas clarifies, defusing the potential cousin argument. "Brooklyn was talking you up on the way here." 

Wow. The sunglasses make him feel like he's a completely different person. Or maybe he just loves teasing his sister. Brooklyn glares at him, her gaze piercing his skin. Brooklyn can hide behind her irritation like it's armor and a sword. Her glares cut like daggers. Her words can tear inside of you. But, as quickly as she can give you wounds, she can stitch you back up. Give her five minutes, and she would be over this. 

"Oh, shit." Mirren's smile is painted, practiced, and dazzling at the same time. Is this how all the heirs had to go through life? Putting on a part each day like they're the lead in a play? Sympathy surges through Dallas. He has to act when he speaks to the media, and it's one of the hardest things he does. He can't imagine how it must feel doing it every day. "Me?"

"Yes, you. I listened to that watercolor podcast you recommended on Instagram on the way here." Brooklyn takes a hesitant step forward, like she might scare Mirren away. Mirren had quit walking. She stands still, waiting for Brooklyn to catch up to her. Dallas wanders on, leaving the two of them. 

No one else lingers. Brooklyn and Mirren's conversation muffles behind them. Their laughter carries through the air with the haste of a water current. 

Johnny slows his pace. He walks in sync with Dallas. Dallas raises an eyebrow that Johnny can't see. After their reunion, Johnny had adamantly been avoiding Dallas. They were avoiding each other, really. "Something tells me your sister doesn't like art." 

Dallas shrugs a little. "She doesn't... not like art, but she can barely draw a stick figure." 

Johnny nods along, like he expected this. "We can't be prodigies at everything." He says the word prodigies like it's a curse word. Dallas knows what his issue is, but what the hell is Johnny's? Dallas wasn’t the one who caused disaster to Johnny’s family business, leading to years of financial hardships.

They veer off the wooden walkway. Birds chirp. An owl hoots.

Sweat builds at the bridge of Dallas's nose, just under the nose pads of his sunglasses. "Oh for fucks sake," he mutters under his breath and pulls off the sunglasses. The sunlight assaults his eyes almost immediately. He squints them shut, rubs them, and then lets them adjust. 

Dallas looks back at Johnny. Johnny just stares at him, his blue eyes widening. Dallas sees something in there, in his eyes. He can't tell what it is, but it seems to rock Johnny to his core. His eyes are lit with fire, as if something had kindled in them. Dallas usually likes people who have fire in their eyes. It makes up for the lack of fire in his own. His are cold, so cold that any inkling of heat is put out immediately. The only time the cold goes away is when Dallas gets angry enough for the fire to take over.

This fire of Johnny’s makes him uncomfortable. He thinks might get burned alive at the mere sight of it. 

Johnny's mouth parts. Before Dallas can question his reaction, Johnny snaps his head in the opposite direction. Strange, Dallas concludes. He marvels at what that had been all about. 

"How long have you been playing tennis, Dallas?" Cadence asks, reminding him that it isn't only him and Johnny here. 

Dallas mentally counts in his head. The years are so twisted and faded in his mind that he can't even remember the first time he picked up a tennis racket. That should be a core memory, right? Brooklyn talks about her first time playing a lot. "Since I was seven, I think." 

"Impressive. I believe that's when I started playing, and I'm nowhere near as good." 

Johnny shakes his entire body. Is he trying to whack off a swarm of bugs? "Pfft. That's just everyone who lives on the East Coast. It's not that impressive." 

"Johnny!" Cadence snaps at him. "Be nice!" 

“Yeah, man,” Gat agrees. “He’s literally here for you.” 

Dallas suddenly has the urge to smack him. "Do you have something you want to say to me, Jonathan?" 

Johnny spins around, marching towards Dallas. "You know what? I do. I don't like your vibe." 

Dallas is taken aback. His... vibe? Dallas had been trying, trying so hard not to be as negative as he wanted to be. When his dad had told him that Harris is paying for him and Brooklyn to go to Beechwood, Dallas declared in his head that he would be as passive-aggressive as he could be. He doesn't owe the Sinclairs any kindness. Kindness would've been Elizabeth Sinclair not throwing a fit over her outfit being ruined, and causing a small business to implode. Kindness would've been basic indoor etiquette, not running around and knocking over a chocolate fountain. 

When Brooklyn said that their dad needed the money, Dallas changed his mind. He's trying to be as nice as he can be; he really is. 

But it seems nothing can get past Johnny. Dallas wishes he knew what went on in Johnny's head when he took his sunglasses off. That seems to be what the tipping point was. It was as if Dallas removing his sunglasses set off a ticking time bomb. Johnny's mood had completely shifted afterwards. Should Dallas put them back on? Would that make Johnny chipper?

"Hey!" Brooklyn yells from behind them. She jogs to his side. "Dallas, stop it." 

“I’m not being an instigator.” He catches Brooklyn’s disbelief. “… This time.” 

"Are you sure about that?" Johnny challenges. "Because you look like Willy Wonka personally denied your ticket to his chocolate factory.” 

“What a strange joke,” Gat says, his words getting lost in the wind. 

Dallas's skin starts to sear from the inside. 

Oh. Oh shit.

Johnny remembers him. 

Forget the smacking, Dallas wants to throttle him. 

Johnny ruined the lives of Dallas’s family when he sent that chocolate fountain tumbling to the ground. On top of that, he looks pleased with the way he stunned Dallas into silence.

Oh well. Two people can play that game. 

Three tennis courts occupy Beechwood. Two courts built for doubles, and a solo one for singles. Each tennis court features seating along the fence, accompanied by its own personal bar. The asphalt courts are stained from saltwater residue. The emerald trees shade the courts from the sun. 

Dallas loves playing in the shade. Sometimes, the sun is so bright he can't even see the ball. Of course the Sinclairs would have that in common with him. Not that he would admit it to anyone, but the Sinclairs' tennis courts are his ideal playing conditions. 

Johnny leads them into one of the courts. Dallas's shoes crunch softly against the stray sand and glitter on the court floor. He sets his bag on a chair. His arm sags at his side, relieved to finally be released from the bag's weight. He does a few arm circles. He can't have his arm stiffening up before they even start playing. 

Brooklyn throws her duffel down next to his. Her racket clangs against the ground.

"No, way!" Brooklyn squeals and runs off. "You guys have a bar?" 

Dallas takes a look at this supposed "bar." It isn't an actual bar, just a stand with two large pitchers resting and cups on top. Just another way to show off their status. 

They're a lot nicer than the coolers at Dallas's home courts in Ware and Rochester. Both places provide their practicing athletes with coolers, but the coolers are in poorer conditions. The sun has caused them to become discolored, melted, and stained. It's a miracle the water can even stay cool most of the time. The pitchers the Sinclairs have seem to be in pristine condition, as is everything they own. 

Mirren grins and moves behind the stand. "Pick your poison. We have," she squints at the pitchers, "lemonade and water."  

Brooklyn tilts her head. "Let me ponder." She taps just below her mouth, mimicking being deep in thought. "This is a tough decision, but I think I want water." 

"One water coming right up." 

Dallas unzips his bag and grabs his racket. Every time he feels the heaviness of his racket, it’s like he’s being greeted by an old friend. Usually, his racket brings him an trace of comfort, but Dallas just wants to play and get out. He hopes they'll let him leave right after. He isn't being paid to be a house guest. Just a tennis player. A shadow meant to add more contrast to Johnny’s limelight. 

Water splashes as Mirren pours it into a cup. “One water for you.” She slides it across the stand. Brooklyn grabs the cup, brushing her fingers against Mirren’s. 

Dallas snaps his head away. He would prefer not to watch his sister flirting with someone. 

“They’re making that water look so sensual,” Cadence whispers to Dallas. 

“Brooklyn is one of those lesbians who thinks making heart eyes at a girl is enough to confess her feelings,” Dallas explains. "Does Mirren like girls?” He just hopes Brooklyn isn’t getting her hopes up. 

“I don’t know, actually.”

Loud rolling interrupts their theorizing as Johnny and Gat push the equipment onto the court. Johnny parks a ball cart in front of the benches. It’s stocked from top to bottom. Gat’s rolling in the tennis rack, holding the Sinclairs' tennis rackets. 

Johnny rubs his hands together. “I’m ready to defeat all of you,” he announces. Dallas narrows his eyes. He won’t give Johnny the chance. 

“Actually.” Mirren’s eyes flick between Johnny and Brooklyn. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Do you want to see some of my art?” She asks Brooklyn. 

Brooklyn chokes on her water. She descends into a fit of coughs. “Like–” she tries to say. 

Dallas moves to her, but Mirren beats him there. She moves to Brooklyn’s side, grabbing her shoulder. “Here, have some more.” She grabs Brooklyn’s hand, which still holds the cup of water. Mirren lifts it to her lips. 

“Please don’t choke before we can play,” Johnny comments from behind Dallas. He hears a loud smack on the shoulder. “Ow! Why did you do that?” 

Dallas thinks it’s deserved.

Brooklyn gulps more water down. She rubs her chest. Eventually, her throat clears. She wipes the fallen water off her lips. Her cheeks are bright red. “Like, in person?”

“Yeah. It’s all in my grandma’s study at Clairmont.” 

“Is that the grand house we saw coming in?” 

“That would be the one.” 

Brooklyn makes eye contact with Dallas, like she’s asking for his permission. Don’t leave me alone with these people, he selfishly thinks. Brooklyn can do whatever she wants, though. He waves her off.  

Brooklyn’s glowing when she looks back at Mirren. “Yes! I mean, yeah. That would be cool.” 

The two say their goodbyes to the group. “You two have fun!” Cadence shouts as the girls walk off the court, shoulders brushing with each step. They can’t seem to physically move away from each other, even if they try. 

Johnny cups his mouth. “Don’t do anything I would do!” His teasing voice echoes. Mirren whips her head around and snarls at him. 

The girls disappear into the trees. “Do I want to know what that entails?” Dallas asks Johnny. He’d like to know what Johnny just implied to his sister.

Johnny’s jaw tightens. “No. You don’t want to know what it entails.” He says the last word with some cheekiness. Dallas thinks he’s being mocked. 

His bad for speaking. 

Dallas needs a minute to himself. To calm down before he causes a chocolate fountain-like disaster of his own. 

“I’m going to go warm up,” he forces out and storms off to one of the singles courts.

When Dallas returns, the three liars are locked in a heated discussion. 

“I don’t want to partner with him,” Johnny is saying. “I want to play against him.” 

Dallas stops next to Cadence. “Are you guys talking about me?” 

“No,” Gat says just as Johnny answers, “Yes.” 

“I’m flattered.” He’s not. “I want to partner with whoever is going to help me win.” 

“I mean,” Johnny starts, pushing his tongue against his teeth. “That usually would be me, but I want a challenge.” 

“I agree.” Recently, Dallas’s main opponent has been Brooklyn. She’s good, better than him, but he’s played against her so many times it feels more like he’s playing Just Dance than tennis. 

“That’s if,” Johnny continues as if Dallas hadn’t spoken, “you’re worth the challenge.” 

Dallas doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m on the same level as you, according to the media.” 

“We’ll see about that.” Johnny jumps up. “Come on, Gat.” 

That settles it, then. Dallas walks to court, his racket firmly in his hand. Johnny’s slips out of his hand, hitting the ground with a loud clank. He quickly picks it up, flipping his hair back as he does. “No one saw that.” 

“I did.” 

Johnny flips him off.

“Very classy, Jonathan.” 

“Oh fuck right off, Ruiz.” 

Dallas’s mouth tastes bitter at the sound of Johnny saying his last name. 

Johnny moves to the baseline. He's diagonally across from Dallas, preparing for his opening serve. Even from a distance, Dallas can make out the stark contrast between the Johnny he had first met and the Johnny he knows now. One thing Dallas had remembered from the chocolate shop accident was Johnny's eyes, which had been filled with cheerfulness and the blissful ignorance that you can only have as a child. Now, his eyes have hardened from the horrors of the world.  

Dallas's eyes burn from an uncommon fire slowly developing within. He’s ready to use the tennis court like his own personal can of gasoline.

Johnny tosses the ball in the air. He arcs his hand back, jumps, and slams his tennis racket into the ball. The serve is completed with an ounce of Sinclair perfectionism. Nothing less than what Dallas expects. Maybe the hours spent studying Johnny’s playing style are going to pay off. The bright, neon ball glides over the net, bouncing into the service box. Dallas zones in on the ball, calculating where it might go. 

It starts to head in the opposite direction from Dallas. He runs. Heaviness fills his veins as the ball collides with his racket. He releases the tension in a grunt. He forehands, sending the rubber ball back to Johnny.

Cadence stays crowding the net. When the ball lands back on Johnny and Gat’s side, Johnny hits a lob shot. The ball flies overhead, going so high that for a second, Dallas can’t even see the ball. It blends with the darkness of the trees. 

Dallas shakes his head slightly in disbelief at the sheer audacity of Johnny attempting a lob this early into the game. It’s incredibly sly, something only the most cunning of players attempt. Of course it’s something Johnny Sinclair would do. 

He bites down a smile. It’s been so long since Dallas played with someone who has no fear when they play, who likes to bend the rules. Most people Dallas plays singles with are beginner tennis players who haven’t found their rhythm yet. When he does play against professionals, they can be fun and competitive, but they never surprise Dallas. Never challenge him. 

He’s getting exactly what he wants. 

No amount of studying could’ve prepared Dallas for playing with Johnny in person. Maybe this game will actually be fun. 

Cadence finds the ball before Dallas does. She volleys, not letting Johnny get the satisfaction from his lob. 

“Yes, Cadence!” Dallas cheers. 

The ball bounces in front of Gat, who forehands. Dallas notices Gat isn’t confident in his ground strokes. He hit the ball with uncertainty, like he wasn’t sure his hit would be enough. Dallas makes a mental note of that. Maybe it’ll be useful for him later. 

The ball breezes past Cadence, who just stands there staring at it. Dallas assumes she’s going to hit it. When she doesn’t, he almost misses. Dallas dashes towards the ball, sliding across the court with a loud squeak, followed by a sharp pop as he smacks the ball. 

Dallas’s achilles starts to sting. Fuck. He overdid it with that slide. Now it’ll be tender for the rest of the game. Sweat beads down Dallas’s face, making his hair stick to his forehead. The collar of his shirt is scratching his neck. He doesn’t have time to fix either before the ball is on his side of the court again. 

Cadence isn’t a terrible doubles partner. She’s good, but Gat and Johnny have the advantage of knowing each other for years. They can easily move in tandem without having to communicate. Dallas, on the other hand, just met Cadence. He doesn’t know how she plays or communicates on the court. 

The ball touches down closer to her. “Cadence!” Dallas shouts. He won’t have time to make it before the ball bounces down again. 

She forehands the ball with a loud cry. Her ponytail flips fiercely from side to side as she plays. 

Gat and Johnny lift their rackets at the same time. They collide. For a second, Dallas thinks they’re going to miss the ball. Unfortunately, one can only hope. Johnny manages to smack it over the net. 

Dallas forehands it again. Johnny backhands with force, speeding up the ball, but Dallas is ready. He meets Johnny with even more force. 

They rally back and forth. It may be a doubles match, but it's playing like a single between Johnny and Dallas. Gat and Cadence aren’t trying to come between them. An unbreakable spell has been cast. It feels intimate in a way tennis matches usually don’t. As the ball passes between them, just them, it speaks a language only Johnny and Dallas understand. 

Dallas is breathless, and it’s not because of the match. The media might’ve had a point in making them rivals. Johnny is forcing Dallas to play better than he ever has, and he’s loving it. 

He’s loving the way Johnny plays. 

Gat intersects the ball again, breaking Johnny and Dallas out of their hypnosis. The ball ricochets over the net with unexpected speed. 

It lands closer to Cadence. She runs for it, but doesn’t make it in time. Shit, they’re both stuck in the back. When on earth had that happened? Dallas sprints for the ball, backhanding it hard. 

It was a little too hard and too much to the right, because the ball lands out of bounds. Johnny and Gat just scored the first fifteen of the game. 

Johnny whoops, high-fiving Gat. Dallas swings his racket downward in frustration. “Damnit,” he mutters, pissed at himself. He should’ve never hit the ball. Johnny and Gat would’ve still scored, but it wouldn’t have been because of his hit. 

Cadence puts a hand on Dallas’s shoulder, patting it sympathetically. Dallas flinches, a natural reflex he’s had since his adolescence. “It’s okay,” she reassures. “We still have the rest of the match.”

Dallas wonders if Cadence realizes why they just lost. Johnny and Gat had done their hits strategically, forcing Dallas and Cadence further from the net. Then, they rallied softer strokes, making the ball land closer to the net and further from them. 

Dallas hates himself for thinking it, but if he had been playing with Brooklyn, that wouldn’t have happened. Brooklyn never allows herself to get cornered. 

His achilles hurts. He had been too eager and hadn’t warmed up properly. On top of that, he had just spent the morning traveling. Now, for the rest of the day, his ankle would be biting at him. A small, linger of pain every time he stands. At least it won’t be anything other than an annoyance. Dallas thinks it’ll probably be on par with whatever words come out of Johnny’s mouth. 

“Who’s going to keep score?” Johnny asks. Speak of the devil. 

“I can,” Dallas offers. He already has the score in his head, anyway. 

Johnny ignores him. He can’t even bother to spare a glance at Dallas. “Gat, can you keep score?” 

Gat looks briefly at Dallas before looking back at Johnny just as quickly. “Yeah. I got it.” 

Dallas rolls his eyes. Johnny must not respect him enough as a tennis player to have integrity. That’s fine. Dallas couldn't care less about Johnny’s opinion of him. 

They fall back into formation. The next round plays out similarly. The ball mostly stays with Johnny and Dallas. Johnny attempts another lob. Why Johnny tries again, Dallas doesn’t know. Johnny must not have gotten a grasp on Dallas’s playing style. If Dallas’s opponent meets him with aggression, he gives them back twice the amount.

It doesn’t reach as much height as it needs to land. It’s Dallas’s time to shine.

The air temperature intensifies. The ball soars to Dallas like a shooting star heading to earth. Hastily, Dallas starts running towards the baseline, keeping his eyes on the ball. The ball breaks into his orbit. He does a backhand smash, sending the ball flying back to Johnny and Gat. 

He scores the point. 

“Fifteen to fifteen,” Gat announces. 

Johnny stands in front of the net. He beckons Dallas over. Oh god, what does he want? When Dallas reaches him, Johnny’s arms are crossed over his chest. If he’s trying to look more intimidating, it’s not working. “For a second there, I thought you guys were about to fall for the same trick twice.” 

Dallas chuckles. “I’m surprised you weren’t prepared for me to smash.” His achilles is screaming at him, now. He really wants to sit down. “Is it your first time playing tennis?” 

Johnny’s face hardens. His nostrils flare, eyes lit ablaze with a reckless fire. Maybe Dallas shouldn’t have said that. If it were any other person standing before him, he might’ve felt remorseful. But Johnny? Dallas’s been waiting years to piss him off.

Johnny takes a step forward, reaching for Dallas across the net. “You—”

Gat pulls Johnny away. “Water break!” He announces. 

Dallas smirks to himself. Even if he loses the set, it’ll be okay, because Dallas just got what he’s been wanting for a long time. 

To get under Johnny’s skin. 

Chapter Text

Dallas nearly loses it in the shower. The shower tends to be the spot where he has most of his breakdowns. It's perfect because it washes away any evidence that he had been sad at all. The tears welling in his eyes blend with the water hitting his face. 

He doesn't even know why he's upset. He finds himself in this state a lot—not realizing something is wrong until his chest feels constricted or his throat starts burning. It's probably been building up all day, that unknown coldness he feels. It moves in slowly, biting gently at his skin, like it's trying to warn him it's coming. When he's marked by the bites, the frost sweeps in, completely swallowing him. The wind in his brain howls loudly to the point where he can't hear anything else. If Dallas couldn't feel the water hitting him, he would've forgotten he's in the shower altogether. 

He’s used to having to hide it all. Dallas learned at a young age that aggression was the only acceptable reaction for a man, and while punching the Sinclairs’ marble tile would bring him a lot of joy, it wouldn’t help him calm down.  

Dallas sits, breath heavy. The water swirls down the drain. He rests his head against the shower wall. The tile is cold, but Dallas is already cold, despite the scalding hot water drenching him. He replays the day in his mind. What could have set him off? Had it been Johnny and his jabs? It's not like he cares what Johnny Sinclair thinks about him. When Dallas mentioned he wanted to shower, Johnny had rummaged through his closet, handing him an unopened shampoo bottle. The products in the shower looked like they cost five times the amount of the one he was given. 

It had been a while since someone reminded Dallas of his place. Maybe that was it. Maybe it was Martha's Vineyard. There had been a nagging feeling in his mind since he saw the building Ruiz's Chocolatey Surprises used to be in. 

Or perhaps there is no reasonable explanation. 

He collects himself after a while. When he gets out of the shower, he double-checks his appearance in the mirror. His eyes are rimmed with red that could easily be due to the hot water. Dallas fixes his dark brown hair as water drips off the ends. 

He has to give Johnny credit. Even with Johnny’s “cheap” shampoo, his hair looks the cleanest it ever has.

Dallas goes downstairs. Johnny had made it very clear that they would be spending the night at his house, Red Gate. All of the liars have their own houses. Dallas thinks that’s silly. Clairmont looks big enough for everyone. 

He supposes he doesn't have much room to judge. If he had his own private island, he'd build whatever the fuck he wanted. An arcade, a spa, hell, even a resort. He'd even take a page out of the Sinclairs' book and build a condo for each one of his siblings. He really should stop being a grouch, but it was so easy to take his anger out on rich people. 

Johnny, Mirren, and Brooklyn had gone down to one of Beechwood's many beaches, leaving him alone with Gat and Cadence. Dallas is relieved when he sees the two of them by themselves. They had been calm, cool, and collected during the tennis game. Dallas usually likes chaos to balance out his calm, but sometimes he does really need a break. 

Dallas also remembers both of them from the time the Sinclairs came into the chocolate shop. Cadence had lingered at the front of the store, like she had been prepared to escape from the mayhem. Gat had walked over to Dallas and talked to him about comics. His and Gat's conversation had been the one shining light during the worst week of his life. 

Well, what felt like the worst week at the time. 

Gat and Cadence are seated on the wooden floor. Sunlight beams through the blinds, brightening both of them. For a second, Dallas thinks they look like angels who have descended from Heaven. Dallas stops in his tracks, towel still in hand, and just stares. 

He should've prepared himself better for the Sinclairs' beauty. 

It's one thing to see them in photos and a completely different thing to see them in person. When Dallas had met the Sinclairs at age ten, he had been so absorbed in Johnny and Gat that he hadn't taken the time to look at Cadence. There she sits in the living room of Red Gate, glowing like a planet. Gat sits across from her, like a moon that orbits around Cadence. 

Dallas still isn't sure what Gat's relation to the Sinclairs is, but if he has to guess, it must be something with Cadence. He stares at her like she's his whole world. She keeps peeking up at him when he isn't looking. 

Dallas suddenly feels like he's intruding. He had been feeling that way since stepping foot on Beechwood, but this is different. He might as well be an asteroid, heading for a collision on Cadence's planet. A planet that he had never orbited to begin with. This is Gat and Cadence's time, and there Dallas is, standing there gawking at them. 

He prepares to retreat. His foot creaks against a floorboard. 

Cadence looks up from their game. "Dallas!" She jumps up onto the couch, resting her arms against the edge. "Do you like Scrabble?" 

"Er, I don't dislike it." In truth, Dallas is awful at Scrabble. Every time he plays, he suddenly forgets every word in the English language.

"Awesome. Want to play with us?" 

Dallas might as well. He doesn't have a good excuse not to play, and he doesn't want to awkwardly sit around in silence. Even though he would love some silence. "Sure. Just so you're warned, I'm kinda awful." 

Cadence jumps back down onto the floor. "You can't be worse than Johnny, don't worry." 

"Oh, yeah. He mixed up ironic and iconic," Gat sets down a tile into a square on the gameboard, spelling out the word 'hawks.'

For some reason, the knowledge that Johnny isn't great at Scrabble makes Dallas feel victorious, as if he doesn't also suck. "Now that you say that, I have to play." 

He sits in front of the gameboard. Cadence and Gat lock back into the game. "Hawks isn't a word," Cadence challenges. 

"They're a basketball team," Gat responds. 

"From where?" 

"Atlanta." 

Cadence stares him down for a few seconds. She sighs in defeat. "Fine. I'll give it to you." 

Gat does a small cheer. Cadence hands Dallas seven tiles. "We're writing a story using the words from this game," she explains. "Don't know how we'll be using hawks, though." 

Gat scratches the back of his neck. "I didn't think that one through." 

The TV in the living room hums quietly. There's a movie playing, rolling through different scenes. Dallas tries to figure out which one. 

He notices it's his turn. He looks at his resources: his letters and the words spelled on the gameboard. He thinks hard about a word to add. He knows Cadence and Gat aren't scrutinizing him, but it's in Dallas's competitive nature to take their energetic gazes negatively. Eventually, he manages to put down a word.

Cadence goes next, not taking nearly as much time as Dallas had. "I'm sorry for Johnny's behavior, by the way. He's not usually like this." 

Dallas shrugs. He doesn't care about Johnny's behavior. He doesn't care at all what Jonathan thinks of him, actually. Not one bit. "You don't have to apologize for him." 

Gat, in tandem with his turn, also speaks. "Someone should. Johnny won't do it because of his pride." 

"It's been weird," Cadence says. "Johnny doesn't usually care what people think of him. I don't get what his issue is." 

"I must be special. Should I be honored or horrified?" Dallas says it like he's joking, but he means it. Dallas could feel Johnny's emotions in the way he played. He was angry, confused, and excited. If anyone should've been angry, it was Dallas. Johnny played disorganized, too. Not at all how he usually plays. It only left Dallas with questions. But if his cousins don't know what's wrong with Johnny, Dallas isn't figuring it out either. 

"Probably both," Gat declares. 

The three of them are all on their last tiles when the front door flies open. Gat jumps, snapping his head in the direction of the door. Johnny topples in, heading directly upstairs without greeting anyone else. 

Mirren and Brooklyn walk in next, noticeably slower than Johnny had been. 

Cadence must've also noticed. "Did something happen?" 

Mirren deadpans. “No. He just went rolling around in the sand. Like a dog.” She throws their beach towels on the floor. Dallas's dad would kill him if he did that. He would kill him, somehow resurrect him, make him clean up the sand, and kill him again. He watches Brooklyn for her reaction. She also makes a face, probably thinking the same thing as him, but doesn't say anything otherwise. "I'm also going to go shower. I feel like ants are crawling on me." 

Mirren jumps up the stairs, moving so fast that Dallas just knows her legs will hurt by the time she reaches the top. Brooklyn remains by the door, looking lost. "Do you guys happen to know where the showers are?" 

"I'll walk you to one." Gat gets up. "It's in a weird spot." They disappear down a hallway, leaving Dallas alone with Cadence. 

Dallas looks down at their Scrabble board. "Good luck with your story. I can't wait to see how you incorporate..." his eyes scan the rows. "Pineapple and Nike." 

"I'll find some way to send it to you." 

Dallas moves from the floor to the couch. His body is instantly relieved. His soreness from the tennis game is beginning to appear, slightly poking against the edges of his skin. Thank god he warmed up, or else it would be worse tomorrow. He slumps onto a couch cushion. His back falls into it, the rest of the cushion curling around him like a pillow. For a few moments, Dallas forgets he hates the rich people who bought it. The couch is so comfortable that being negative would be a disservice. 

He closes his eyes. The couch is comforting him, making him feel like he can be vulnerable. He drifts. He's surprisingly exhausted. Although lately, he's been more exhausted than usual. Before he can fall into a peaceful, deep sleep, loud stomping wakes him up. 

Someone jumps onto the couch next to him. If it's Johnny, Dallas is gonna shove him off. His eyes reluctantly squint open. Mirren had taken his spot on the floor. Cadence leans against the leg of the couch. Gat is also back and throwing the Scrabble pieces back into its box. Brooklyn is falling into the couch next to Dallas. 

"We need to talk about something fun," Mirren is saying, "like our dating lives."

Dallas tenses. Ugh. That.

Brooklyn sits up. She must've been awaiting a conversation like this. She's nosy like that, always keeping track of everyone's relationship rosters, both platonic and romantic. It's helpful in a way. One time, she was able to find out if a guy Dallas was into was single or not. 

Dallas, however, wants to avoid the topic of his dating life altogether. 

"I've been talking with this girl from my tennis court for a few weeks. Her name’s Olivia. She's a redhead with a killer serve and also skateboards,” Brooklyn states, somewhat whimsically. Her eyes flicker to Mirren.

Dallas is brought back to the dates he had been on at the beginning of the summer. A crowded ice cream shop. Dogs barking from a dog park next to a trail. Skateboards rolling. 

It hurts him to be the one to break the news to Brooklyn. The joy is going to leave her face. Maybe he should stay silent. Brooklyn should be happy at all times, but she wouldn't be happy not knowing about this. Dallas sighs, "Brooklyn....." There's a warning in his tone. 

Brooklyn seems to know exactly what his tone means. She winces. "Don't say it. Don't say it, Dallas," she whines, closing her eyes. 

"She was the girl I was going out with at the beginning of summer," Dallas reveals. He had also met her at their tennis court. Olivia definitely knows Brooklyn is his sister. If Brooklyn weren't right next to him, he’d laugh at the mess. 

"Nooooooo," Brooklyn moans, dramatically throwing herself on the floor behind Gat. "Why must men ruin everything?" she cries out. The hardwood floor muffles her wails. 

"Sorry," Dallas apologizes, genuinely meaning it, but he couldn't let Brooklyn go on without knowing crucial information. "If it makes you feel better, it didn't work out. She isn't my type." 

"But she's mine!" Brooklyn is still unmoving on the floor. There's no indication she's even crying or anything. Give her two more minutes, and she'll be over it. Especially with Mirren here.

"What is your type, then, Dallas?" Mirren asks. No wonder Brooklyn likes her; she's just as nosy as she is. 

Dallas has to think about it. He's never considered what his type is. He thinks back to every person he's ever liked, what they looked like, what their hobbies were. None of them ever looked alike, and he somehow manages to have a different type between genders. "Uhh," Dallas blanks. Maybe he should just describe his ex? No, he’s awful. Or maybe Olivia? "Someone tall." He looks out the window, watching the tree branches sway in the wind. "Sarcastic, good music taste, nice smile, observant, athletic," Dallas smiles to himself. "A yearner, someone impulsive, because I am not, and I need that balance." 

"Kinda sounds like Johnny," Mirren observes. "Aside from the good music taste." 

"What sounds like me?" Johnny asks, appearing behind the couch. Dallas jumps. Where did he come from? Can he teleport now? Dallas wonders.

Brooklyn perks up. Mischief gleams in her eyes. Dallas knows that if he doesn’t shut the conversation down right now, Brooklyn would bring up his weird celebrity crush on Johnny. She’s never let him live it down.

It embarrasses him to think about. The history on his tablet used to be filled with Johnny’s name, trying to discover everything he could about the boy. Dallas wants to give himself some grace; he was ten years old and discovering his queerness, but seriously, ten-year-old Dallas couldn’t have chosen literally anyone else? 

He’s never discovered the root of his anger towards Johnny. But, if Dallas guesses, that crush had something to do with it. 

Looking at fifteen-year-old Johnny now, blonde hair dark and messy, freckles more prominent from the sun, blue eyes shining like a sapphire stone. Damn, Johnny is still his type. Dallas knows he has masochistic tendencies, but even this is a new low for him. 

"Nothing!" Dallas says loudly, hopefully cutting off anyone who would say otherwise. He glares at Brooklyn, warning her that if she says something, he will find Ebon and send her back home.

Johnny narrows his eyes. Yikes. Is Dallas acting so out of character that even Johnny, who "just met" him, can notice? "Right." 

“Usually, people just say a hair color or something. Like, brunettes are my type,” Cadence states, not unkindly.

Johnny grins. “Oh, shit. Am I your type, Ruiz?” 

“You wish you were.” 

Johnny’s face hardens. He turns to everyone else, his expression brightening so fast there's no trace of his suspicion. "Who wants to watch a movie?" 

"I'm down," Mirren jumps up. "As long as you don't choose." 

"I have great movie taste." 

Cadence groans. "You rotate between the same three movies, Johnny. I can't watch The Sixth Sense again." 

Bewilderment crosses Johnny's face. "That is one of the best movies of all time.” 

"Let's draw from a hat!" Gat jumps up, too. "That way, everyone is included." 

One of Mirren’s picks won. Flipping through rows of DVDs, Gat locates the disc that houses 10 Things I Hate About You. 

In the kitchen, Johnny is attempting to carry four bowls of popcorn at once. 

Cadence stares at him, dumbfounded. She crosses her arms over her chest, as if shielding herself in case there's an avalanche of popcorn. "You're going to drop one." 

Mirren has the complete opposite reaction. She's grinning wickedly, like she wants the chaos to unfold. "Do five!" 

"I don't think he can," Dallas comments. The bowls of popcorn aren't huge—Two are tucked around Johnny’s left arm and the others around his right. While his arms are long, neither are long enough to add a fifth into the mix. Determination glimmers in Johnny's face. He flashes Dallas a cocky smile and grabs the fifth bowl with his fingers. 

Dallas shakes his head, looking back over at the TV. He shouldn't have challenged Johnny. Now the chances of a popcorn incident are exceedingly higher. 

“I used to watch this movie all the time,” Mirren explains as Gat continues to set up the movie. She had made herself comfortable on the floor with Brooklyn. 

Dallas’s older sister Marci is obsessed with this movie. For the longest time, the movie was always on a loop. Sometimes it was for rewatches, other times it was for background noise. Marci constantly danced around their tiny apartment, belting ‘Bad Reputation.’ Dallas thinks fondly of those memories, but rewatching the movie is going to be difficult for him. 

To Dallas's utter shock, Johnny makes it back to the living room. There's a trail of popcorn on the floor behind him, revealing to everyone the path he took, but, and this has to be a miracle, most of the popcorn is still in the five bowls. 

Mirren claps. "Hell, yeah!" She slides out of Johnny's way, her back crashing into Brooklyn’s leg. Brooklyn doesn’t seem to mind at all. Her face turns red when Mirren turns. Their shoulders brush. Brooklyn’s face burns even brighter. 

She’s hopeless.

Johnny wobbles over to the couch. Dallas can sense what's about to happen before it actually does. Johnny's hands shake. The bowl of popcorn he's holding slips from his fingertips, falling right towards Dallas. The bowl lands on his stomach. The wind is knocked out of him. He wheezes out a breath as the pain lingers. The popcorn spills everywhere—on the floor, in the crevices of the couch, all over Dallas's clothes. 

Salt clings to his black shirt. Butter slowly stains, leaving a clear residue on his jeans. Dallas tries, and he tries really fucking hard, not to lose his cool. He looks like an uncleaned turntable that popcorn had fallen onto when it popped. He bites the inside of his lip to refrain from speaking. His words won't be pretty if he does. 

Dallas hopes the clothes he's wearing are stain-resistant. The shirt he's wearing is from a My Chemical Romance tour. It's irreplaceable, unless he wants to buy a rip-off version. He doesn't. The concert had been the one event his Dad had ever taken him to that didn't include Dallas's step-mom or Brooklyn and their younger sister. Just the two of them. He wears the shirt constantly. It was bound to get ruined eventually. 

If it is ruined, it'll be the second time Jonathan Sinclair Dennis has ruined something of Dallas's. 

He looks up at Johnny, trying to mask the fury on his face. He forces his hands not to move. When he's mad, he always messes with his hands—something his sisters have pointed out to him loads of times. He will not give Johnny the satisfaction of his anger. He has to be on his best behavior. What if the Sinclairs send his Dad into bankruptcy again because their guests didn't behave adequately? It sounds outlandish when Dallas considers it, but everything about the family is already absurd. 

Johnny is looking down at the empty popcorn bowl. His eyes seem locked onto it. They slowly move to Dallas's face. Johnny's gaze feels like it's examining him, like he's trying to get past Dallas's walls and find a reaction. "Oops. Sorry," he says eventually. 

He doesn't seem sorry at all. 

Had he done that on purpose? He must've. He didn't lose his grip when he was moving, but somehow had once he stopped, conveniently in front of Dallas?

Dallas never felt more homesick than he does in this moment.  

A small smirk forms in the corner of Johnny's mouth. It's so tiny that Dallas wouldn't have noticed it if their silent rivalry wasn't passing between the two of them. 

The rest of the group finally breaks into their orbit. Mirren and Cadence grab the other bowls from Johnny, looking sympathetic at the mess on Dallas as they pass. Dallas starts to clean himself up. Brooklyn moves past Johnny, who is just standing there, watching his chaos unfold. 

"Johnny, sit down," Gat demands. 

Working together, Brooklyn and Dallas manage to get the popcorn off his clothes. Dallas finally moves without fearing that the popcorn would fall into the couch. 

"Don't lose your cool," Brooklyn whispers.

Dallas matches her tone. "I'm trying." 

"Try harder. Your head looks like it's about to pop off your shoulders." 

"Because he did it on purpose!" Dallas accuses. The popcorn kernels keep breaking, causing smaller pieces to get stuck between Dallas's fingers. They overload his senses, making him even angrier. 

He should've argued with his Dad when he told them they were going to Beechwood. Why did either of them think this could be a good idea? Dallas is exhausted, both mentally and physically. 

"He'll get his karma," Brooklyn reassures. "He's probably just mad you beat him earlier. But, please, please remember what I told you." 

"I am remembering. I'm trying, Brooke." 

Johnny slams a cabinet closed. "Look what I found," He singsongs, holding a bottle over his head in victory. 

Mirren clutches her chest, gasping. "Not Aunt Carrie’s good wine!" 

Johnny is grinning like he's drunk off the mischief. "Yes, my mom’s good wine! It goes great with popcorn." 

Dallas doubts it, but honestly, wine is exactly what he needs. He's growing tired of having to put on a show with each word spoken, every action completed, and every quick interaction. The wine will hopefully ease his anxiety. He thinks he deserves a little treat.

He holds out his hand. "Give me a glass of that." 

Brooklyn knits her eyebrows together, looking at him like he had just said the clouds are made of cotton candy. When Johnny walks over to him, wine, cups, and the last popcorn bowl in his arms, Brooklyn speaks loudly. “Are you sure you should be having that?” 

Dallas snatches the bottle and a cup from Johnny before he can react to Brooklyn's statement. “It’s fine.” He pours himself a glass. He watches as the wine crashes into the cup, creating miniature waves that block Brooklyn's appalled face from Dallas's view. “Want some?” 

“Dallas…” Brooklyn warns. She attempts to snatch the glass from him. He dodges.

"Yikes," Johnny declares. He annoyingly takes the seat right next to Dallas. He chews loudly on his popcorn. “Sibling war.”  

Dallas passes the wine over to Mirren. “I know my own limits, Brooke,” he says quietly. 

“You shouldn’t,” Brooklyn argues but doesn’t push it. 

Dallas disregards his bowl filled with spilled popcorn. He isn't sure what to do with it, so he just sets it on the floor. Gat inserts the movie disc into the DVD player. The TV screen comes to life, lighting up everyone's faces. 

Brooklyn moves back to Mirren's side. "Do you guys bring all of those movies every summer?" She nods at the cabinet full of DVDs. 

Cadence looks at her funny, as if the answer should've been obvious. "No?" 

Brooklyn blinks. "Right. Dumb question." 

The acknowledgment of wealth causes Dallas to drink all of his wine in one gulp. It burns the back of his throat.

The movie begins to play. The instrumentals of ‘Bad Reputation’ start, sending Dallas back to his childhood with Marci. Kat rolls her bright red car into view.

Dallas falls back further into the couch, or maybe it's the wine making him feel like he's falling. His body relaxes. The tension leaves him, loosening his shoulders. The colors on the screen start blending together. Red with yellow, green with blue, creating weird blobs in Dallas's eyes. He squints them shut.  

It doesn't take long for the alcohol's negative effects to start. As the movie progresses, memories consume him, flashing through his brain like his own personal movie. With each new scene in 10 Things I Hate About You, there seems to be a memory of his older sister. Kat's outfit in the party scene is enough to make him almost spiral. Marci had wanted the leather trench coat so badly. She scoured Reddit threads for days before dragging Dallas and their mom from store to store until they found a good enough replica. She'd wear the thing daily, even during the summer, when Dallas knew better than to wear leather. 

Julia Stiles jumps up on the table, dancing to ‘Hypnotize.’ Brooklyn, who's sitting at Dallas's feet, starts swaying side to side. 

"I love this scene!" Mirren exclaims. 

"Me too," says Brooklyn. 

Marci also loves this scene. Every time they watched it, Marci watched the screen with an enchanted twinkle in her eye. That's why when she came out as bisexual, Dallas hadn't been surprised. He could sense her crush on Julia Stiles from a mile away. Admittedly, Dallas also found both her and Heath Ledger very pretty in this movie. Dallas's throat tightens as he thinks about how much they bonded over it. Is Marci even aware of that? She left long before Dallas could ask. 

He can't handle another second. He jumps up from the couch without a word, leaving the room as quickly as he can. He almost trips over his own feet as the alcohol's effects spread further. 

After bruising his skin from bumping into things (because, for reasons unknown to Dallas, Johnny's family owns a shit ton of furniture for a house they barely live in), Dallas finds an empty balcony. Maybe not the best place for him to be. With how clumsy he is when he drinks, he might end up sprawled out in the grass. 

Dallas bets it could bring the Sinclairs a scandal. He can imagine the headlines: Child Tennis Star Dallas Ruiz, injured on Beechwood Island after taking a tumble off their balcony. Where were the adults? He chuckles to himself. Maybe he should fling himself over. 

Nah. The medical bills his mom would have to pay would be insane. At least he got a good laugh out of the idea. 

Dallas leans against the railing, careful not to fall. He stares at the ocean, which is quiet. Quiet like everything else on the island. Small waves create a soothing sound. The type of sound one might listen to while trying to sleep. Crickets sing. There's a slight breeze, making strands of Dallas's hair lightly hit his forehead. The moon is full, reflecting on the water. 

There are stars. Dallas hasn't seen stars in ages. The sky is too polluted in the city. They shimmer and dance up above. Dallas wonders if he might be able to spot any constellations. His dad, when he still lived along the coast, would take Dallas and Brooklyn out on the late-night beach and teach them the constellations. As Dallas grew older and his relationship with his dad started to mess up, he realized his dad had only done that because Brooklyn had gone through an astronomy phase. Dallas would tag along, but he could tell, even when he was younger, that he was unwanted. 

Whatever. The wine is just bringing up things Dallas already knows. His dad might love him, but he doesn't like Dallas very much. He accepted that long ago. It’s fine. The feeling is mutual.

He pulls out his phone and taps on his camera roll. He knows he shouldn't look, but it's like the drinking. He knows he shouldn't do it, but does it anyway. He scrolls back a few months, tapping on the last photo he took with Marci. Just days before she left. 

He knows now she was already planning to leave when this photo was taken. He had spent many nights wondering until he eventually decided to bite the bullet and ask. 

Dallas exits out of the photo and starts looking at older ones, watching the two of them getting younger and younger. Somehow, he still ends up back on the most recent one. 

He's barely spoken to Marci since she left, only a few short text exchanges. It hurts Dallas so much. They used to tell each other everything, but now they barely know what's happening in each other's lives. 

The balcony door slides open. The air shifts. Someone is out here with him. They creep, as if they are walking on eggshells. Maybe they can sense the breakdown rising in Dallas. He could snap at any moment. 

Johnny rests against the balcony. Well, Dallas's five seconds of peace had been nice. Johnny pulls out a joint, holding it out to Dallas. If this is his idea of a peace offering, Dallas might laugh in his face. Instead, he shakes his head. 

Johnny shrugs and lights it. Dallas watches the smoke. The small clouds are noticeable for a few seconds before disappearing into the air. He feels like that, sometimes. For a few moments, people see Dallas for who he is before he starts to blend in with everyone else, and he is only remembered when others need something. 

"Bored?" Dallas asks, just to fill the silence. He's also confused why Johnny is out here with him, and the only reasonable answer must be boredom. 

Johnny breathes out another puff of smoke before answering. “That movie was making me feel the same way I felt when Har– my grandpa was teaching me golf.” 

"Uninterested? Annoyed?" Dallas questions. Golf seems like a sport that's too slow for someone like Johnny. 

Johnny nods. “My youth was withering away.”

Dallas laughs a little. Wow. The alcohol is really getting to him. “Oh, cmon. 10 Things I Hate About You isn’t that bad.”

“It isn’t, but I have this manly image I need to uphold. I can’t have guests seeing me crying over the poem scene."

“There is no way you guys are far enough in for that to have happened yet.” Suddenly, Dallas perks up. "Jonathan Sinclair Dennis, are you a 10 Things I Hate About You fan?"

From close up, Dallas notices something about Johnny. He looks like Heath Ledger. At least, that’s what his alcohol buzzed brain tells him. Like Johnny’s freckles and his jawline, his really nice jawline…

What is wrong with him?  

Johnny scoffs, tensing up like he's trying to make himself smaller. "Me? No way." He takes another drag. 

Dallas shakes his head, ridding himself of the Johnny-Heath thoughts. “You have it on DVD, man. I’m not fooled easily.”

Johnny coughs. “It’s Mirren’s," he attempts to say. He covers his mouth as the coughing intensifies. 

"Shit, do you need some water?" Dallas asks. He doesn't know what else to do, but he has the overwhelming urge to help Johnny. He's been there himself. The coughing fits from smoke are no joke. 

Johnny shakes his head. Eventually, his coughing subsides. He diffuses the joint and throws it over the balcony. 

Dallas can't say he's surprised about the littering. The silence is loud again. The teasing is over. Dallas goes back to looking at his photo with Marci. 

Loud breathing reverberates in his ear. Does Johnny always breathe this loudly? Dallas flinches and moves away from him. "Dude!" 

Dallas expects Johnny to laugh or take a jab at him. He expects everything except the question Johnny asks. "Is she your girlfriend or something?"

Dallas nearly drops his phone over the balcony. He quickly shuts his phone off. Just the implication of the question is enough to make him snap. "Jesus! None of your business!" Johnny's crazy, Dallas concludes. The alcohol and weed are making him lose it.

Johnny, unaffected by Dallas's outburst, continues. "I mean, you're in my house, so..." He slurs.

"And that makes my dating life your business?" Why does Johnny want to know? Dallas had already talked about dating today. He really doesn't want to talk about it again. Besides, giving fuel to his rival seems like a horrible idea. What if Johnny finds a way to use it against him on the court? 

"I'm just nosy. This seems like a sensitive topic for you, and you're like, super hot, so I'm just assuming—" Dallas's heartbeat blares in his ear as his brain sticks to one sentence. You're like, super hot. 

Oh my god. Dallas grips the balcony for support. His legs might give out. Jonathan Sinclair Dennis, Dallas's rival and top contender for people he should stay away from, thinks he's hot. 

The alcohol and weed are definitely making Johnny lose it.

His rival is still speaking, but Dallas is no longer listening. “You think I'm hot?” he asks before he can stop himself. 

Johnny freezes like he’s been shot. “No, I’m… just joking. Like objectively you are, but I’m not…” He trails off. 

His reaction puts Dallas's brain on alert. Alarm bells ring. "Right. I was just messing with you," Dallas lies. 

Johnny sways side to side, his face flushed a deep red. “I’m serious. I’m not… like that." 

Dallas's face hardens. Did he accidentally come to an island of homophobes? Johnny didn't seem to have a problem with Brooklyn earlier. So he either has selective homophobia, or... "Like what? Gay?" 

“Yeah. I’m not.”

Dallas fiddles with the collar of his shirt. The smell of weed is slowly becoming stronger. Johnny is staring at him intently. Maybe he wants Dallas to confirm that he knows Johnny isn't gay. "I'm not either," he lies. Technically, he's bisexual, but he's feeling too awkward to mention it. They both seem uncomfortable, so Dallas decides to divert the conversation. "She's my sister," he holds his phone up. "She just moved to New York." And he misses her so much.

Johnny relaxes before the red in his face deepens. "Oh. Oops. Let me just toss myself over this balcony real quick."

"It's fine." Dallas is still messing with his collar. "No need to do that. I would probably be the one to get in trouble."

"You wouldn't get in trouble." Johnny leans against the wall, descending into the house's shadows. He pushes himself back and forth, probably in need of motion.

“Are you sure? It might seem like I pushed you." 

"This conversation took a dark turn, but that's a valid assumption, considering you don't seem to like me very much.” His words slur again. Johnny’s face winces. He stares off into the distance.

Dallas rolls his eyes. "What gave you that idea?" Dallas tried being civil, but if Johnny wants to talk about it, he won't deny it. 

Johnny jerks his head back to Dallas. “You've been an asshole all day," he says simply. "I don't like it when people are assholes to me. Especially when I brought you into my home, when I could've just called our Tennis Pro." 

Immediately, Dallas wants to snap back. He wants to yell at Johnny not to act like he did this for Dallas's benefit. Maybe he should. Nothing is stopping him. Brooklyn is downstairs. His dad is in Boston. They had already been paid half the money, which itself had been a lot. “But it’s okay if you’re an asshole? You haven't been very welcoming." Especially when Johnny is the one who should be making a good impression on Dallas. 

Johnny steps away from the wall, moving closer to Dallas. “I’m a delight. Everyone loves me.”

Dallas crosses his arms. "That's so not true. I don't." 

"As if I think highly of your opinion!" Johnny blurts. He's seething. 

"You should! The first time we met, you literally broke my dad's chocolate fountain!” 

They both pause. Dallas finally acknowledged it, the thing that started their tension in the first place. From the look on Johnny's face, Dallas knows his assumption was right. Johnny does remember.

"You're still on that? It was an accident from when we were, like, eight." 

"Yes!" Dallas cries, throwing his hands up in the air. "Do you not understand how much damage you caused?" He doubts Johnny knows. Why would he? Rich people take and rarely give.

Johnny starts shaking his head, laughing to himself. It's not a laugh like he's amused, though, more like he's laughing at Dallas. “You know, I came over here to apologize to you because Cady got on my ass about it, but now I don’t want to.”

Dallas doesn't want Johnny's fake apology, anyway. “If Cadence told you to do it, it wouldn’t have been sincere.”

Johnny runs his hands through his hair. “I don’t know what you want me to say. That I’m sorry? Because that doesn’t seem like it would be enough for you.” 

Dallas stares pointedly at Johnny. “You don’t even know me.”

“Maybe not, but I know your type.” For a second, Johnny seems like he might elaborate on what he means. Dallas wants him to. He wants to know what Johnny Sinclair thinks he knows. Instead, Johnny heads for the balcony door. “I don’t even know why I bothered," he mutters. He slides the door shut, leaving Dallas with nothing but old photos and the pale moonlight.