Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bradley pulled into an empty unpaved parking lot in front of a large grey slab building, eyes darting down to the address bolded and highlighted on the court order letter laying open in his lap.

God, this had better not be the place.

He pursed his lips, squinting under the front seat visor searching for a sign before he spotted a single giant red placard. The raised lettering was caked with mud and partially obscured by the surrounding shrubbery but he could make it out: West Spoonerville Community Centre.  

He sat back and sighed. So this is what the next twelve weeks looked like. 

In spite of the Uppercrust reputation and years of considerable and strategically timed donations to Chesterton College, Bradley, third of his name, didn’t manage to evade all consequences for his impressive spree of criminal activity during the X Games. He was perfectly aware he’d foolishly risked a few lives, committed a healthy amount of property damage, and exhibited some truly piss poor sportsmanship, and he could admit it looked bad when it was spelled out like that. 

However.

His lawyer had listened to his long list of mitigating circumstances (whining) and the full context of his actions (excuses) but had dismissed all of it in favour of arguing the merits of restorative measures and how promising a candidate Bradley made “for a therapeutic and community oriented approach to meaningfully demonstrate his remorse and changed behaviour”. It was nothing short of humiliating and came only second to the absolute tongue lashing his father had given him. 

When all was said and done, all damages to the university campus had been covered by the Uppercrust estate, the Goofs had declined to press charges, his father arranged his case to be heard by a notably lenient judge, and here he was with court ordered community service.

He did his best not to think about the Goofs. He occasionally felt a pang of something (not quite guilt but something) when he considered how he’d manipulated Goof Sr. He wondered if he’d still feel this way if the Gammas had won— the Goofs wouldn’t have been the first casualties sacrificed at the altar of legacy and reputation. There was just something about how easy it had felt. 

His feelings toward Max were less complicated. He wished he could cannon launch him into the sun. It was difficult to see past his pride and he suspected there was little else to it. 

Of course, there was still Tank.

Bradley slid his phone out of his pocket. No messages. Well, it was Tank. He’d come around eventually. Punching Bradley’s fucking lights out and the silent treatment felt like overkill if you asked him. He would give Tank some more time to cool off and then it would all be settled. He took a breath to steady himself and ignore the churning in his stomach. 

From the corner of his eye, he noticed another car at the far end of the gravel parking lot. An ugly red rust bucket and it was empty. Time to clock in then. He quickly checked his teeth in the mirror, smoothed his brow, fixed his collar and tried to school his face. He was still an Uppercrust and this charade was a formality.

He wandered the length of the building before finding an open backdoor by a few dumpsters and ventured down a long unlit corridor. Was everything here grey? He seemed to go in circles for a couple of minutes but eventually came across a tiny room with a small poker table and several folding chairs squished together at the centre with a fridge and sink in the corner. He was so busy taking in the bleak setting, he didn’t notice anyone standing in the doorway.

“You’re late.”

He startled and whipped around to look at a young woman eyeing his polo and khakis warily. She looked unimpressed. 

“No, I’m not,” he said quickly. He didn’t dare look down at his watch and briefly wished he’d spent a little less time in his car feeling sorry for himself.

She said nothing and only tilted her head slightly before marching out. Bradley quickly followed and found his long strides just barely matched her speed walking. 

She didn’t look at him as she spoke and her tone was bored and steady as though she wasn’t practically sprinting. “The centre opens at 9. I need you here by 7:30 every morning or we’ll be behind schedule. But it’s whatever, we have Dennis around since it’s your first day.”

Bradley nodded. “And what, you work with Wren?”

She spared a puzzled look before stopping at a storage closet and reaching into one of her impossibly deep cargo pant pockets to pull out a lanyard with roughly a thousand keys attached. “I am Wren.”

“Right, right.” He’d imagined the Wren MacPherson, Operations and Programs Manager, West Spoonerville Community Centre he’d received a carefully detailed email from regarding his supervision, description of duties, and mandatory code of conduct had been an older woman. Overwhelmed, secretarial, maybe a bit dowdy. Someone he could coax into granting him leniency with his particular brand of blue blooded false charm. This woman was maybe twenty, unsmiling, and she had yet to make eye contact. He also suspected her lack of dress sense and unkempt hair were intentional.

“Here, these are yours.” She handed him a green notebook and a manila folder. “The notebook is your daily reflection. I sign it at the end of every day. The rest is basically what I emailed you last week but I figured a printed copy would be a valuable reference.”

She finally looked up at him. The black liner she had thickly applied made her wide unblinking gaze more pronounced; Bradley felt unsettled and took half a step back. “It wasn’t exactly in the news but I have some idea why you’re here. Do what you’re told, no more, no less. Dennis is waiting for you by the lobby.”

Dennis may not have been as openly hostile as Wren but Bradley couldn’t be sure he made better company. He was uninterested in exchanging introductions nor pleasantries. He immediately lumbered outside toward the expanse of greenery, gesturing widely, “This is what we’re up to today, boy.”

Bradley bristled at the epithet before registering what he'd said. “We’re mowing all this? Today?”

Dennis grinned, his wizened face had the quality of burlap. “Mowing, whacking, weeding, trimming. Come on, let’s get on with it before the sun gets high.”

A few hours later, Bradley felt disgusting. His shirt was clinging to his back, his khakis felt oppressive, and his hair had matted to his forehead. It must have been nearly noon; he’d always hated hats but maybe this could’ve been averted if he’d thought to wear one. 

He continued using the weed whacker he was assigned to line up the perimeter of the community soccer field. It was so heavy, he was just barely managing not to drag it along the ground at this point. He reminded himself, not for the dozenth time, that he had managed to neither cry nor vomit. Thank goodness for small miracles.

He heard a distant call and saw Dennis gesturing toward the building from the riding lawn mower on which he was comfortably perched. The old bastard. Bradley scowled but gave him a wave anyway. It was lunch time. It couldn’t possibly get worse than this.

The centre was in full session. There were kids everywhere. Groups of younger children being lined up by a harried looking woman, each with armfuls of paint supplies, teenagers somewhat recklessly moving AV equipment on ungreased wheeled carts, a group of rowdy middle schoolers recovering from a game of basketball, and throughout, the unmistakable stench of heat and sweat and grass that each of these runts had dragged in with them. Bradley realized he probably smelled just as bad, if not worse. He wanted to die. 

In the middle of it all stood Wren, who distractedly waved him away as she scribbled on a clipboard. He started to wander back to the tiny room with the fridge and the poker table and realized he was looking at a break room. Were they usually this depressing? He was unsure. He quickly grabbed one of the water bottles in the fridge, darting out before he bumped into any other staff, and headed back to the parking lot. He threw himself into his car and immediately cranked the air conditioning while drinking deeply from the bottle. It was disgusting. Mountain Spring, the label read. 

He idly checked his phone and still no messages. Not from Tank. Not from any Gamma. 

It was going to be a long day. 

Dennis had taken his old bones home after a morning spent leisurely joy riding on a lawn mower while Bradley toiled so he was forced to seek out Wren for his next task. He was promptly sent to clean the boys’ toilets and kiddie cubby area at the far end of the building by the gymnasium. 

It was while he was scrubbing a particularly stubborn stain on the wall by the cubbies that he heard shuffling footsteps by the gym doors leading outside. He didn’t bother to look up, expecting it was some kid trailing in late for some activity or another but the person had stopped and was hovering by the entrance. 

Squatting as to reach more of the area he was cleaning, coated in a layer of sweat and grime he would need to spend the evening scrubbing off of himself and in clothes he’d inevitably burn, Bradley miserably looked up to see Max Goof, of all people. 

Max fucking Goof. 

He stood up so abruptly, he felt it in his knees, and his face felt hot. “What the fuck.” 

To his credit, Max also looked taken aback. His mouth was hanging open and he just stood there for a moment before nodding and walking back out the door. 

Bradley gave up on the stain and spent ten minutes rooted to the floor, seething. He wanted to break something but figured he could do without the additional property damage. Instead, he stuck his head into one of the cubby holes and screamed. 

Seeing either Goof was a nightmare but Max— the guy who had rejected his Gamma offer, gotten under his skin, pushed him to his limits. The reason Bradley was currently standing there raging and caked in filth. God, there was twelve more weeks of this. Would jail be that much worse? What was Max even doing here?

He circled that drain for a bit longer before gathering all of his supplies, carefully returning them to their respective closets, and finally sitting down with his daily reflection. It was nearly 3:30 pm. He just needed to eke something out and then he could think about dying. 

Wren looked up from his notebook, a red pen in her hand poised to sign it. “Seriously?”

Bradley lifted his chin. “It’s honest and it was a long day.”

“‘I have developed a healthy appreciation for the staff at the Uppercrust estate ’?”

“It’s true,” he replied indignantly. “I’ve gained some perspective.” 

Her face was the picture of disdain but a corner of Wren’s mouth twitched as she stared at him. She signed the notebook. 

Bradley held back a sigh and was about to express some perfunctory gratitude when Wren’s face inexplicably lit up. 

“Max? You came a day early!”

Kill me, he thought. 

For his part, Max, who seemed to be carrying a plastic basket of helmets and making his way in the other direction, only nodded at him before sheepishly returning Wren’s hug. He had to nearly bend at the waist to accommodate her. Bradley narrowed his eyes at the display. 

Max’s hair looked longer, hanging in his eyes a bit; the curls around his ears and at the nape of his neck stuck out more. The brown of his forehead and the skin along his jawline looked deeper. He still had in all of his grotesque piercings— Bradley didn’t know the name for the ones by his bottom lip or the ones that made his earlobes look bigger and he didn’t care. They looked stupid. 

Wren and Max launched into some inane, excited small talk and it was just as well, really. He grabbed his notebook and called it a day. A really shitty day.

As soon as Bradley got home, he threw his car keys against the wall, immediately began to undress in the foyer, and all but crawled to the shower. He was so tired. He was used to spending hours on end training for skateboarding and rollerblading competitions but the combination of his early morning and hours spent under the sun stripped him of all of his physical and emotional reserves. And that didn’t account for how it all had been compounded by the humiliation of being seen by Max Goof.

He stood under the cool spray and thought back to Max’s startled expression. Something about the interaction felt off, as though Max had been a bit surprised but not shocked to see Bradley Uppercrust III practically on his hands and knees cleaning up some stain–undoubtedly some bodily fluid–off a wall in an empty area at the back of some underfunded community centre in shit hole West Spoonerville. 

The only reason Bradley was staying within fifteen minutes of the area was because he was on thin ice and banned from his father’s various summer homes for the duration of his community service. He was, however, allowed to stay in one of the dozen cheap rental properties his father had purchased some time in the 70s, before he’d moved his operations to the city. He figured the accommodations sort of rounded out his punishment. 

He wasn’t even sure why he hadn’t imagined that Max would be from somewhere like this. He was rough around the edges but unassuming. Of course, he hung around and served his community. Bradley scoffed in distaste and remembered how tiny, hard nosed Wren had brightened and flushed at the sight of Max. It really was all some grand joke. 

It was a good thing I don’t need to rely on people liking me then, he reminded himself resolutely, as he stepped out of the shower. He resisted checking his phone for the rest of the evening.

Bradley stumbled into the centre the following day with three minutes to spare, hair slightly unkempt and looking somewhat less polished. He had spent his night fitfully sleeping with hazy visions of his father’s sneer and warped, surreal coverage of the X Games explosion he’d caused on ESPN. 

He had made the wise decision to dress in shorts, rather than in his usual khakis, and a polo in case he was asked to spend another day completing yard work. His own personal court ordered purgatory.

Wren had raised her eyebrow at his wardrobe shift and slight (embarrassing) dishevelment but said nothing before asking he give the lobby a second mopping. Apparently Dennis had decided the main entrance was a great path through which to transfer the previous summer’s cycling equipment. He was going to kill that old fuck.

He set to work, and for an hour and without anyone around to piss him off, Bradley’s ire seemed to dissipate. He sunk into an oddly zen state as he clumsily worked out the finer details of mopping a large area. He had accepted his fate at this point. These twelve weeks were his Twelve Tasks. If you thought about it, Heracles and he weren’t that different. Sons of great, cruel figures sentenced to pay their amends after a fall from grace. This was the way of things. 

He knew, of course, this calm would be short lived and it would take exactly a single soul to step on his wet floors to send him into a rabid state of indignant snarling but in this moment, he had the gravitas and mental fortitude of a monk. This would be great fodder for his reflection log. 

The day went on with little incident. He moved from the floors to finishing the front weeding and finally releasing the West Spoonerville Community Centre’s placard from where it’d been temporarily imprisoned within a thick wall of vines and shrubbery. 

He had been forced to ask Wren how the power washer worked and she patiently showed him, her small frame adopting a wide stance to withstand the force. She turned it off to hand it to him and curtly, almost politely, nodded before scurrying back into the building. She no doubt had parents to placate and hordes of their gremlin offspring to corral from one activity to another.

Once or twice, he caught Max’s profile as he moved kids along and asked them to follow him as he led them toward the back where there was a small skate ramp by the east staircase. He was grinning broadly and Bradley could hear his guffaw from where he worked. Obnoxious.

This pattern continued as the week went on. Bradley moved as quickly and quietly through his tasks as he could. He kept his head down, nodded when instructed by Wren, avoided the goddamn children, the break room, and the other community centre staff. He especially dodged Max Goof at every turn. He was there to do time and the conditions were humiliating enough. He had a constant dull gnawing feeling deep in his gut. He couldn’t endure the additional labour of pretending to be amiable. He’d never managed as much under ideal conditions.

On day four, he spent his break parked under a shaded area a block from the grounds and laid his head down while the alternative rock station played at the lowest volume setting. He was actively trying to stave off a headache.

He checked his phone for only the second time that day to find it dead. He stared at it for a moment, confused, when he remembered that he wasn’t in the habit of remembering to charge it himself. The Uppercrust staff were generally considerate enough to care for his belongings as they surreptitiously cleaned his wing of the manor while he was taking breakfast or in the shower. During the school year, Tank would take care of it. Most evenings in the Gamma house, Bradley spent villainously monologuing or ranting about something plaguing him or drunkenly grumbling his frustrations to Tank and he’d inevitably crash. In the morning, his room would be slightly tidier, his books stacked and ready to go for the day; an aspirin and a glass of water on his night stand.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Not now, he’d think about it later. Right then, he needed a charger.

When he reached the front desk, there was nobody there. He wondered if maybe Wren was behind it unbeknownst to him, as pint sized as she was, and began to lean over the side in search of a charger when a head popped up.

“Oh!” an elderly woman startled, putting her hand to her chest. She had her entire head of white hair wound in a spiral atop her head and a pair of glasses hanging from a pearl chain around her neck. “How can I help you?”

“Uh,” Bradley hesitated as he took in her unexpected form. This woman was older than God.

“Oh, you must be the Uppercrust boy.” She perched her glasses at the very end of her long nose only to peer at him over them anyway. The unbidden image of an alert bloodhound came to mind.

“Right, yes,” he began, smoothing the front of his shirt. “I’m Bradley. I wondered if you had a charger– well, uh, for my cell phone.”

“Yes, yes,” she waved her hand dismissively. “I suppose you would carry around one of those mobile bricks. Let’s see what we have here.”

She puttered around behind the large oak desk for a moment before pulling a stubborn drawer out jerkily, revealing dozens of tangled assorted chargers. He was surprised she hadn’t keeled over from the force. “I reckon one of these might hold you over.”

After some clarification on what he needed (no, that’s for a Motorola, ma’am, I need a Nokia charger), he was ready to thank her and be on his way before she slowly raised a halting hand. Bradley was unsettled by her unhurried, distant air and he could feel the urge to say something snarky and dismissive crawling up his throat.

“I’m Bev,” she said solemnly, holding his gaze. “I’m the centre director. It’s lovely to meet you, Bradley.”

“Likewise,” Bradley returned uneasily, looking around for someone, anyone , Wren even, to put an end to this interaction.

Bev’s face broke into a mischievous smile. “I’ll be leaving you to your business then.”

Jesus Christ. He all but ran.

So the centre was run by the world’s oldest woman and a juvenile delinquent, he mused as he collected trash by the east end of the building. This area bordered a thick wood and was where the older teenagers were encouraged to park. Bradley suspected the concentration of detritus at this end of the parking lot was correlated with their after hour extracurriculars. Namely, making out and hot boxing. He was appalled but couldn’t necessarily blame them for not knowing these activities were what pool houses were for.

At least it was Friday. 

He had a whole weekend to hibernate. Drink. Revisit his DVD collection. No Gammas to boss around, no summer homes with which to entertain, no false affections to be offered, nobody to lord over. The reality of his impending first weekend spent alone, away from the Uppercrust estate, was quickly dawning on him.

He was standing perfectly still, gripping his nearly full garbage bag and grabber tool in his balled fist, staring furiously at the ground when the nearby building doors burst open and out stepped Max carrying far too many skateboards. He was going to drop them all.

Max yelped at the sight of him, clutching the skateboards harder to his chest, tripping on the cuff of his obscenely baggy jeans and falling flat on his ass with a loud oof.

Bradley couldn’t help it. He was cackling.

Max dropped everything he was holding and quickly righted himself. “Fuck off, Brad.”

“Not my name,” Bradley shrugged. “What’s up, Baby Goof? Operating a skateboard smuggling operation?”

“Oh please,” Max said, picking up the skateboards and walking toward a car that made Wren’s look like a Bentley. Bradley shamelessly trailed after him. “They need repairs.”

“And what, you’re going to spend your weekend fixing them up?” Bradley needled, watching Max struggle to open his trunk. “That’s awfully selfless.”

Max tensed his jaw, silently, carefully packing and shutting his trunk. Bradley patiently waited and was rewarded with Max fully turning to face him, arms crossed. “Is there a point to this or…?”

“Just checking in on our resident Mother Teresa, is all,” Bradley said, mirroring his stance.

“What, you mean you aren’t here picking up trash out of the kindness of your heart?”

Bradley sneered, “You could say that. A slap on the wrist, all things considered.”

“I’ll say,” Max gave the garbage bag he was still holding a sweeping look. Bradley really could kill him. “Tell me, Brad, do you imagine this is more or less degrading than being my towel boy might’ve been?”

He’d missed this– antagonizing someone but especially Max. He hadn’t felt anything in ages and here was Max with his stupid, lazy, gap toothed smile and intriguingly spotted face playing into their old shit talking. He’d baited him so hard, Max was leaning forward, ready to poke an accusing finger into his chest.

“Spoken like a true beacon of the community,” Bradley gritted out.

Max laughed at that. 

“I guess you’d know.” He flipped the sunglasses sitting in his hair down over his eyes. “See you later, Brad.”

He drove away leaving behind enough exhaust to cause a second hole in the ozone.

Though he’d never admit it, Bradley was almost relieved when Monday swung back around. 

He’d spent his few waking hours that weekend testing the limits of his survival skills: chiefly failing to cook an omelette, googling which bathroom cleaning products couldn’t be paired together, and, in the end, resolving to do little more than play video games and speak to no one, including the same pizza guy who looked increasingly concerned after every successive delivery he made. 

He’d thrown his phone into his night stand drawer and unplugged his landline. Nobody had called and nobody would.

He was so tired. 

He tried to think back to a time when he’d actually cared about his body, his eating habits, getting literal sunlight. He couldn’t do much more than shower and finger comb his hair before he sluggishly made his way into the centre.

“Look alive, Uppercrust,” Wren intoned but she eyed him with some concern. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” he replied, flipping through the log and task list Dennis had left for him. Bathrooms, some inventory, pruning and upkeep by the front, nothing crazy. He could deal with that. There was a beat of silence before Wren spoke again.

“There are, uh, some breakfast burritos or whatever. In the break room.” He could tell she was speaking with a carefully casual air. Bradley looked up to consider her through narrowed eyes but her face remained impassive as she stared back. 

“Right,” he returned. “That’s– thank you.”

She nodded and left the front desk, sweeping by him. Bradley noticed that she basically power walked everywhere. She always forcefully pumped her short legs with her back held straight, chin slightly raised, arms close to her side. Like a sixties cartoon character. 

One bland microwaved breakfast burrito later, he was knee deep in the entrance garden bed repotting hydrangeas when he noticed Max making his way toward the front carrying a stack of boxes and Wren Speedy Gonzalesing her way over to share the load. He couldn’t hear their conversation from where he worked but he could see their easy grins and casual body language. Their warm rapport disgusted him. He shifted his supplies so he could crouch with his back to the pair of them.

The rest of the day and the next (and with Dennis fortunately absent), Bradley had achieved a sort of flow. He was getting the hang of basic gardening and cleaning tasks, he’d figured out where supplies were kept, and he and Wren managed to establish a nearly silent, civil symbiosis. 

He filled his daily reflection with slightly less bullshit thoughts. They were mainly cliches about the satisfaction of a hard day’s work but he felt he had genuinely found some calm in the ache and mindlessness of manual labour. He liked taking a step back to appreciate his efforts. As an added bonus, he didn’t have time to think about his father, or Tank, or the Gammas, or what anyone thought of him when he was ready to pass out as soon as he got home each evening.

Of course, the monotony he had come to emotionally rely on was occasionally broken by one Max Goof. 

Max was everywhere and spoke to everyone. Children excitedly exclaimed his name and ran to him when they caught sight of him. The teenagers awkwardly but eagerly accepted his high fives. The other WS community centre staff looked pleased to work with him. He was like their mascot. 

Bradley supposed it wasn’t all that different from when the two of them were at Chesterton. Max was unfortunately likable. He dressed terribly, had facial piercings, and truly awful posture. In fact, Bradley had never seen him not leaning on something; he was always casually leaning, with his arms crossed and hands tucked into his sides. Still. Max smiled often, he made others laugh. Even when Bradley was too far away to make out what he was saying, he could hear Max’s low, encouraging tone. 

It was infuriating.

Especially since it was becoming clear Wren and Max were particularly friendly. Wren, who could otherwise be found scowling at a clipboard, smiled around Max. Bradley had even heard her laugh– a pleasant tinkling sound he was sure he might’ve imagined if he hadn’t seen it for himself. And Max– Max was risking permanent spinal damage by how willing he was to lean to make up for their height difference as they greeted one another and caught up at seemingly every opportunity.

Their dynamic made sense in a way. Wren, despite her cargo shorts and oversized shirts and messy hair, was cute. When she wasn’t staring holes into Bradley and speaking in her eerie Wednesday Addams monotone or zooming around like the Road Runner barking orders, she was almost charming. And, well, girls liked Max. It was easy math.

A part of him wondered why he was so bothered by the two of them. He had suspected that Max may have spilled the beans on Bradley’s X Games antics but nothing Wren did suggested that. She wasn’t warming up to Bradley by any means but she tolerated him and looked less and less like she’d swallowed a lemon when he asked her a question. Bradley was acutely aware that his supervision was just one more thing Wren had to do and he didn’t necessarily need the woman who signed his goddamn court required daily reflection to be nice to him. He didn’t need anyone’s pity or kindness. 

Max did though. Max needed it and everyone, even Bev, seemed willing to indulge him. 

Whatever.

He let his disdain slip to Wren while helping her stock the kitchen pantry. It was a larger haul than usual because something, something, ice cream day was coming up later that week. The younger kids in particular were apparently looking forward to it. 

Bradley was only half listening to Wren’s explanation of the tradition when he spotted Max speaking to one of the other staff members in the hall, a youngish woman with colourful braids and paint splattered overall shorts. Bradley thought he might’ve seen her a few times on the grounds, encouraging four year olds to draw inspiration from their environment for their finger painting pieces. Max was, as always, practically horizontal with his side pressed against the wall and listening intently with an open expression.

“He really can’t help himself,” Bradley muttered as he finished organizing the spice rack.

“Huh?” Wren looked up from where she was counting and jotting down numbers of condiment bottles and turned her head to quickly take in the scene in the hall.

“Nothing,” he shook his head, “you were saying about Friday–”

But Wren’s suspicious gaze was already morphing into one of puzzled amusement. “Are you– are you jealous… of Max?”

“No,” he spluttered, “don’t be ridiculous.” 

He turned to reach for another bag of pantry supplies from their pile but Wren was too fast. She jumped up and blocked his path.

“What’s up, Uppercrust?” She was grinning now. Her typically disinterested affect was gone. She was practically gleeful and he could see her unusually long incisors. It was kind of freaking him out.

“Nothing.” 

“You’re sure?”

“Yes." He hissed; he could hear the hint of agitation in his voice.

There was a tense pause as they stared at one another. Finally, Wren sighed. “He’s just a nice guy, Bradley. Don’t sweat it.”

“What on earth is that supposed to mean?”

She stooped to pick up one of the bags and pressed it into his hands. 

“Nothing,” she replied in a soothing tone. “Let’s finish this up.”

From the hall, he could hear shared laughter.

Thursday was a bit of a shit show. 

There is an extreme weather warning this afternoon for the residents of eastern Pennsylvania, his car radio garbled, as he drove carefully through sheets of rain. Bradley was dreading how much worse it could get and wondered how the greater Philadelphia area could remain in operation with this weather. 

“Uppercrust! You’re here!” Wren barrelled toward him as soon as he stepped in the building. She took no mind that he was absolutely drenched. “It’s going to be an inside day, obviously, so I need some help setting up the gym for the little ones and–” 

So he spent the next two hours setting up different activity areas in the gym– an obstacle course, the crafting corner, a scavenger hunt. He’d even found a dozen little wheeled stools for children to scoot around on in the supply closet and a rainbow parachute that had seen better days but was still operable. 

Once he was finished, Wren, who had organized the quiet reading and movie areas in the library, ushered him to the front to help check kids in and take attendance. Which might’ve been easier if he had ever once interacted with any of them.

“And you are?” He asked a wispy little boy staring up at him through coke bottle glasses. He paused for a moment to notice the child had little hand painted ducks on his rain boots.

“Archie,” the boy whispered, looking around. 

Bradley scanned his list, “Archie, Archie – Archibald Simmons?” God, that’s unfortunate, he thought.

He was about to shuffle the kid along and move on to the next but Archie seemed hesitant to join the other kids in the gym. He instead appeared to be actively trying to disappear.

Bradley hesitated and then crouched so he was eye level with him, “What’s up, why don’t you want to join your little friends?”

“Ms. Mac always takes me in,” Archie sounded muffled with his chin and mouth tucked into his coat.

“Oh,” Bradley quickly looked around for Wren with no luck. This is why he didn’t talk to kids. “I guess– I could walk you in. Uh, I’m Bradley.”

He held out his hand for the child to shake and Archie looked at him consideringly before gripping Bradley’s index and middle finger and shaking. And then they were off. Soon wee Archie was putting his things away in his cubby and settling down with pipe cleaners and a paper plate in the crafting corner. Phew.

The rest of the check-in went smoothly and Wren thanked him with an absent pat to his shoulder as she ran off to help someone calm a group of younger teens.

Finally, he breathed, he could move onto his task list. He felt a little less zen than usual because every room was packed to the gills with kids doing their best to make the most of a rainy day and the staff were darting around counting heads and occasionally redirecting their attention to manage the simmering chaos. It was fine though; he found he’d sort of gotten used to the hum of chatter and the occasional collective outburst that was soon stifled by a nearby staff member.

He was helping Wren carry more bean bags into the movie corner when the overalls girl (Zara, he’d learned her name earlier that day) ran up to Wren breathlessly.

“Hey, so I was just down in the basement looking for the old board games– Dennis mentioned extra storage at some point and I thought– well, I guess it doesn’t really matter now but–”

Wren began to lead her into the hall, nodding at him to follow, before spinning around to face Zara. “It’s already crazy around here; please, spit it out.”

“The basement is flooding.”

“It’s flooding?”

“Not the whole thing, I don’t think,” Zara whined, wringing her hands. “Not where the extra storage is, like further in. Like where the water heater and whatever else is.”

“God,” Wren said under her breath. “Okay, okay, uh – go find Bev and let her know. Dennis is off today so we should figure out what we’re looking at before we give him a call.”

Zara immediately turned on her heel and left. Wren watched her turn the corner before sagging against the wall, covering her face with her hands. She didn’t move and Bradley stood in slightly panicked silence. What was happening–

Wren suddenly popped back up, like one of those inflatable men outside used car lots, scrubbing her hands over her face, and shaking out her arms. She was already halfway down the corridor before she called, “Come on, Uppercrust, let’s find some flashlights and go see how fucked we are.”

Bradley was no expert but they appeared to be pretty fucked.

The basement ran under most of the building and was, thankfully, divided into different storage closets, old rec rooms, and a large old kitchen area with a freezer and additional pantry. From the staircase, however, they could tell that the main utility room half a floor down was submerged in at least four feet of water. Bradley briefly wondered if the water would be just about up to her chin if Wren were to stand in it. As it was, nobody was going down to inspect anything in a flooded utility room.

“There are some fuse boxes all the way in the corner. They probably cover the storage areas and the west end of the building but I can’t be sure.” Bradley had never seen Wren emote so much. Her eyes were somehow even wider and she was tapping her fingers along her thigh. “You need to call Dennis and I’ll call the city. Ask him what to do for now. As soon as we get this shit drained, he can figure out how bad it is.”

Bradley did just that. Strangely, he felt a little bad for interrupting Dennis’ day with his granddaughter (“She graduated kindergarten today! Can you believe it?” ) and he doodled on the back of a CVS receipt as he listened to Dennis’ meandering, distracted thoughts regarding different areas of the building and their corresponding source of power. This building had been built in the 60s which explained a lot. In the end, Dennis concluded that if the storm didn’t let up within the next hour or so (unlikely) and the basement was still actively flooding (Wren would be lost to it at this point), it was best the city cut the electricity entirely to ensure everyone in the building remained safe and absolutely not electrocuted.

Great.

Wren took the news about as well as could be expected and Bev swanned in from wherever her office was to discuss the logistics of calling all the parents and arranging emergency pickups before the city came to shut off the power. Bradley considered letting Wren know he had a fully charged cell phone they could use in case they were cutting it close but suddenly, everyone was in motion and working as a seamless unit to gather and ready the kids. 

After every kid had gone home, the staff had stayed behind to tidy up the centre and he had, unquestioningly, joined them. It had been dark but they’d managed. 

The entire time, Wren had darted from room to room with her flashlight insisting they were forgetting something. Bev tried to assure her that everything was fine and Dennis would be back very early to begin accounting for the damage to the basement. The centre wouldn’t even open until midday (he was thankful for the opportunity to sleep in). It took the entire staff pleading with her to call it an evening but Wren finally relented.

He arrived home after six and skipped a shower in lieu of collapsing in bed. 

Lying awake, Bradley found he shared her uneasiness though. He stayed up for a bit playing the day back in his head. He thought about Archie’s duckie boots and Wren’s face when she’d allowed him to see her momentary panic. It left him feeling strange; something in his chest felt like it was squeezing. He wished he wasn’t so tired; he couldn’t reflect on any of it further.

He succumbed to his exhaustion shortly after.

Wren was right; they had forgotten something.

He walked up to the end of the front desk a quarter to ten feeling oddly light. The storm had cleared and the consistent mugginess they’d been barely coping with for the last week was gone. The air was crisp and he’d remembered to drink coffee for once. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this good.

As he flipped through the maintenance log (oh, Dennis really had shown up earlier to complete repairs, nice), he heard a sniffle from under the desk.

“Wren?” Bradley circled the length of the desk and gawped at the sight of her sitting underneath, crouched in the far corner; her knees were tucked into her chest. She looked absolutely defeated. “Are you– are you feeling okay?”

She looked up at him with red rimmed eyes and said nothing for a moment. 

“We open in three hours and the freezer has only just come back on,” she whispered.

He waited. As far as he could remember, they’d all divvied up the contents of the perishable foods in the kitchen and taken them home to store.

“We forgot to clean out the basement freezer.” She suddenly reached out, gripping both of his wrists and pulling him down. He squatted low and awkwardly shuffled on his feet to join her under the desk. “Bradley, it’s Sundae Day.” 

Oh. Well, fuck.

“So… it’s all melted?”

“Maybe some of it can be salvaged but I don’t think slightly refrozen goopy ice cream is exactly what everyone imagined.” She let out a little broken laugh and blew her nose into a tissue. “Sorry, I’m being gross. I’m just tired, I think.”

She was being gross; personally, he would sooner die than allow for such a display but still. Bradley felt for her. He had the uncomfortable realization the centre probably carefully stretched its resources however it could. The opportunity to treat a few hundred kids to a sundae station was a big deal, despite how sad he found the entire situation. 

The image of teeny tiny Archie fearfully turtling his head in and out of his raincoat at the prospect of playing with his peers came to mind. Goddamnit.

“Any clue what to do?” he chanced.

“The ground is still soft; I could ask Dennis to dig me an early grave,” she sighed. “Or a nap maybe.”

“Have you called Bev?”

“Not yet–”

“Don’t call Bev.” He wondered how much a sundae per child could even cost. “Is anyone else coming in soon?”

“Max,” Wren sniffled. “He was going to help with setup.”

“Great. The two of you set up then.”

Wren was staring at him now. “Nope. Nope.”

“It’s ice cream, Wren,” he said slightly condescendingly. He suspected he was getting that gleam in his eye Tank used to love pointing out. His scheming look. Except the scheme was literally just buying some kids a not insignificant amount of ice cream and charging it to his father. Not really a scheme at all, really. He was so acing community service.

“Nobody wants your fucking money, Uppercrust–”

“Not really my money,” he reasoned. “I just carry the card–”

“That’s such a rich bitch thing to say–”

“Do you want to salvage your little community tradition or not?”

She took a long breath. “Would you accept the centre offering to partially expense the cost?”

“Of course,” he lied. “Are you going to let me save your ass now?”

“Fuck you,” she replied but she did look somewhat relieved.

At that moment, Max sauntered in but stopped when he caught sight of a red faced Wren and Bradley with his trademark shit eating grin sitting under the desk. His eyes darted back and forth between them. “Good… morning…”

“Morning, Baby Goof,” Bradley beamed at him. “MacPherson here shit the bed.”

“Uppercrust– ”

“Ah ah,” Bradley wagged his finger at her. “I’ll be going now. Don’t mark me absent.”

Wren turned to look pleadingly at Max. “We have to replace all the ice cream. Please go with him.”

“Wait, I don’t think–”

“That’s really not necessary–”

She raised her hand for silence in an uncanny impression of Bev. “I need to collect myself and I have a few people showing up early. So go.”

Max and Bradley refused to look at one another as she left. 

Bradley was walking straight toward his car pretending he didn’t catch Max hesitating by his own out of the corner of his eye. “You coming?”

Max stubbornly planted himself by his– was that a Sunfire? – driver’s door. “We could take mine?”

“This isn’t The Flintstones, Baby Goof,” Bradley drawled. “I’d rather get us to the store and back in one piece.”

Max’s face turned red. Well, the unpigmented apples of his cheeks looked a bit pink; the rest of his face had become an even deeper brown since Bradley had last seen him. 

“At least, it’s mine. It actually cost me something,” he asserted.

“I’m surprised they didn’t pay you to take it off their hands. How much did that put you out? A quarter and some belly button lint?” 

Max threw up his hands, spluttering. Bradley might’ve heard the rest of his irate reply but he had already seated himself at the wheel of his Lexus and shut his door.

After a moment, Max opened the front passenger and slid in. “Fuck you.”

Bradley’s smirk faltered as he started the car. He realized that they had never shared an enclosed space like this before; it was strange detecting Max’s earthy, citrusy scent. Out of the corner of his eye, Bradley noted his easy, sprawled posture in the front seat as Max tried to surreptitiously take in the details of the car’s interior. 

He cleared his throat and pulled out of the parking lot. 

The car ride was almost silent. Bradley tried to keep from fidgeting. He would catch himself tapping the steering wheel or tunelessly humming before abruptly stopping. Max sat perfectly still with his body slightly turned toward the door, his brow furrowed. Bradley was so used to the two of them voicing their animosity toward one another, Max’s palpably repressed anger made him uneasy. He didn’t know what to say, if anything. Going tit for tat was their thing but this felt like maybe he’d struck a nerve. This is hell, he thought . 

As soon as they walked into the grocery store and Bradley grabbed a cart, he felt some of his anxiety subside. He was going to buy so much fucking ice cream. Max, for his part, trailed behind him, seeming as though he felt out of place.

Ten minutes later, Max was reaching into their nearly full cart when Bradley slapped his hand away.

“This is butterscotch,” Max deadpanned. “Generally, we try to stick to Neapolitan; you know– vanilla, chocolate, strawberry?”

“Variety is important,” Bradley sniffed as he inspected two different brands of matcha sorbet. He was beginning to get irritated. “Do me a favour and go pick out sprinkles or something.”

“Wren will already have sprinkles–”

“Then go sit on your hands somewhere–”

“What is your problem?”

“I’m trying to do this right,” Bradley snapped, leaning over the cart. “I know she said to tag along but–”

“This isn’t how we do things, Bradley,” Max gestured to the two dozen or more jumbo cartons Bradley had carefully stacked. “The sundaes are a tradition. We need to be able to replicate this–”

“I’m trying to make it special.”

“What’s up with you?” Max asked scathingly. “Did you get visited by the Ghost of Community Service Future or something?”

Bradley fell silent. He could feel heat crawl up his neck in humiliation. Max seemed to play back his words and looked embarrassed.

“That wasn’t fair. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Bradley began to busy himself with returning some of the flavours into the freezer. He had privately wondered earlier if kids even liked coffee flavour before tossing it into their pile. Leave it to Max Goof to piss on his parade.

He understood why Max was treating him like some rich asshole with a newly acquired conscience. In some ways, he was some rich asshole with a newly acquired conscience. He was unsure how to pick apart his own motives, if he was honest. Kids were looking forward to ice cream and he had the means to deliver on that. It felt like a no-brainer but he was beginning to appreciate the optics; he could sort of see it from Wren and Max’s perspective. He didn’t care if they thought he was on some apology tour; he wasn’t labouring under the delusion this would make anyone like him. He didn’t need nor want that. 

After a tense silence, Max stepped away from the cart, “Y’know, I think I saw maraschino cherries in the next aisle.”

“Fancy,” Bradley replied sarcastically. “Next you’ll be suggesting gold flakes.”

“Hey, if you can find gold flakes, you can have gold flakes,” Max hesitantly grinned. The studs under his bottom lip caught the grocery store fluorescent lighting and Bradley found himself fixated on the gap in his front teeth.

“I doubt it,” Bradley said quickly, looking away. “This is Spoonerville.”

“You never know,” Max said in a sing-song tone. Bradley accepted the implicit olive branch and followed him down the other aisle.

In the end, they did not find gold flakes. 

Sundae Day was both a complete blur and, reportedly, a success. 

Bradley had ducked out to avoid the chaos just as the youngest of the children approached the different prep stations Wren had put together.

Bradley thought Wren might’ve been shooting him grateful looks but as it was a Big Secret what he’d done, and Bev serenely looked on as several of the children helped themselves to heaps of Rocky Road and cookies & cream, he elected to ignore her. He was busy pretending he wasn’t at all experiencing a confusing mix of stifled emotion and catharsis at the sight of Archie carefully holding a bowl larger than his head with two large scoops of mint chocolate chip and joining two other children at a bench. 

He sat in his car during his lunch break slowly eating a protein bar he’d recovered from his glove compartment (one of these days, he was going to get into the habit of packing a lunch) when Max tapped his finger on the passenger window. He was beaming as he gestured for Bradley to unlock the door.

“Whoa, whoa– you can’t eat that in here.”

“It’s for you,” Max said excitedly, handing Bradley an obscenely large bowl of ice cream. “Or we can share. Whichever. I would’ve grabbed two but the kids are going crazy in there. Turns out butter pecan is a hit.”

“Yes, well,” Bradley said airily, lifting his chin. “I could’ve told you as much.”

The combined fifteen minutes to and back from the store enduring Max’s presence in his small car was one thing. He wasn’t sure what to make of the two of them just sitting there with nothing to distract Bradley except for a shared bowl of ice cream between them. He wasn’t even sure he could stomach any of it at the moment.

“Wren asked for the receipt, y’know.”

“I know.”

Max nodded as he shoved a large spoonful of chocolate into his maw. Bradley frowned.

“Please don’t fuck up my car.”

Max effortfully swallowed, tongue darting out to the corner of his mouth. “I won’t lie, I’m tempted.”

Bradley felt inexplicably flustered. This thing they were doing, this friendlier version of their back and forth he was beginning to share with Max, unnerved him. He took a scoop of vanilla and resisted examining the pattern of discolouration on the back of Max’s left hand.

There was a long shared silence. Max spoke first. 

“I started coming here when I was seven,” he said quietly. “Summers were long and PJ wasn’t always around. It was nice coming here sometimes and knowing adults who weren’t my dad would look out for me.”

Bradley thought back to his childhood summers. There was the sleepaway camp he attended with the sons of other WASP-y east coast types. He had always thought maybe he’d enjoyed himself but he now felt as though he had spent much of his time maintaining his position at the top of their dumb rich white boy pecking order and going out of his way to demonstrate his athletic prowess. It was sort of lonely and stressful. He wondered if Tank remembered things differently. He wished he could ask him.

“Met Wren here,” Max continued. “This place is Bev’s baby but Wren is the one who loses sleep over making sure kids have a good time every summer.”

“Wren’s cool.”

“Yeah, she is,” Max sighed in a way that irked Bradley.

“Does your dad live in Spoonerville?” Bradley asked quickly, suddenly wanting to talk about anything else. He inwardly cringed and hoped it wouldn’t be weird to ask Max about Goof Sr. He held his breath waiting for Max to give him a look or to change the subject or leave the car and slam the door or tip this bowl over his head–

“Dad moved actually,” Max replied pleasantly, reaching for another spoonful, “He sold the house and he and Sylvia have settled down in the city. It’s weird driving by my old place and seeing the front door painted a different colour and different flowers out front but it’s good for him.”

Bradley could only nod and feel stupid.

“My break is almost over. So I should…” He gestured out his window.

“Right,” Max smiled at him, picking up their spoons and tissues before leaving. “Thanks for saving the day, Brad.”

Bradley couldn’t be bothered to correct him. 

Wren wasn’t being nice but her slightly warmer manner of speaking to Bradley wasn’t unwelcome. 

He was unsure what to think of it. The girl who signed his community service day log wasn’t going to be his friend just because he’d once bailed her out of a shit situation or because he occasionally said something she found funny or because he wouldn’t actually mind if she were his friend. Bradley tried to think of the last time he’d made a friend that wasn’t somebody who was already in his orbit of sons’ of Uppercrust business partners, or Gamma members who were sons of Uppercrust business partners, or with whom he was forced to make idle chit chat with at dinner parties because they were sons of Uppercrust business partners. 

Except Tank, but that had been all Tank’s doing.

After his little adventure as the undisclosed saviour of ice cream and childhood joy, he returned to his routine of remaining apart from everyone and everything. He completed his tasks, he barely refrained from expressing irritation around Dennis (though he was finding the man infinitesimally more tolerable), and he sat in his car and remembered to eat the prepackaged grocery store turkey sandwich he’d packed. Somehow he was unable to recapture his former zen.

A week after he’d last spoken to Max, the man popped up directly behind him while Bradley was setting up the new sprinkler system, scaring the shit out of him. “Can I help you? ”

“Yes, actually,” Max grinned. “We’re short staffed and I could use some help supervising the three-legged race.”

“You need help… supervising.” Bradley hedged.

“It’s the six to eight crowd. They’re accident prone. I have the first aid kit but in case it gets to be a bit much– well, I’d appreciate it.” 

Max smiled again like he was trying to win him over. Bradley looked away.

“Uh, okay, yeah. I just need to finish this up. Give me five.”

“Sure thing,” another broad grin. 

Ugh.

“She fell on her face, Max.”

“I mean, yeah, but I’m telling you that baby tooth was on its way out,” Max tried to comfort him. “I saw her wiggling it just the other day.”

Bradley had let a pair of children he was intently watching get hurt. One moment, they were fine and the next, one of them had somehow tripped over their joined legs and sent the other flying. There were tears, and snot, and blood, though Max insisted that practically all kids did was get hurt and most of the blood was from an overdue baby tooth loss and a minorly scraped knee. As a form of damage control, Bradley had searched the scene of the crime for the tooth and (without retching) secured it in a ziploc bag for the child to later negotiate for a fair, market competitive price. 

He was still coming down from the ordeal after the kids were sent home, but Max seemed to find it all hilarious. He kept giggling to himself like an idiot as they cleared the field of toys and sports equipment.

“Max, she was sobbing,” Bradley groaned. God, he hated everything.

“She’s seven,” Max replied calmly. “And Anjali loves a little drama. She was fine as soon as she got a Mulan bandaid.”

When they’d finished, they walked toward the front entrance in (what Bradley wished was a) comfortable silence. Max looked like he was at ease as he ambled alongside him. Bradley tried to act normal. He felt a faint buzzing in his ears and under his palms. He crossed his arms. He felt as though he couldn’t trust himself to do more than put one foot in front of the other.

Wren met them at the front desk as he stood at one end, filling out his reflection. Max was sitting in the old leather chair with his legs crossed over the desk, fidgeting with an old walkman he’d found in one of Bev’s many sticky drawers. 

“This thing is like jammed shut,” he complained, trying in vain to pry it open.

“Hey Uppercrust,” Wren didn’t hesitate to knock Max’s legs off the table; he let out an oof in surprise. “Any key takeaways from today?”

“Children are prone to physical injury due to their own sheer incompetence,” Bradley replied glumly.

“That they are,” she turned to Max. “I need a ride.”

Max, who was still smiling widely at Bradley’s distress, shrugged. “Sure.”

Bradley tried not to stare at the two of them. He had obviously been aware of their closeness but observing it from two feet away felt different. Their shared history felt especially apparent as Max stood to lean into Wren, handing her the walkman to inspect. She rolled her eyes affectionately after quickly managing to pop out the tape.

He felt a bit sick. It had been a long day. 

He pushed his completed daily reflection across the desk. Wren absently signed it and wished him a good night. He could only nod.

A week later and another tap on his front passenger window.

“Yoo-hoo,” came Wren’s monotone, “Uppercrust.”

Bradley unlocked the door. Letting just anyone sit in his car was becoming a habit.

He had been sitting in the parking lot after a long Friday, just zoning out and mustering up the will to drive home and spend the long weekend alone. 

The Fourth of July was on Tuesday and he had spoken with his mum earlier that week. She’d asked the standard questions (Do you look well? Is there anything you need me to keep from your father? ) and then spent fifteen minutes filling him in on the pressures of planning the party in Westchester County. Both of them were aware he was expressly forbidden from attending. It wouldn’t do the family any good for him to be seen in his current state. Still, he listened and made the appropriate sounds of concern and awe. 

If his mother were a flower, she’d be an orchid. If orchids sustained themselves on a steady diet of red wine and people fawning over them.

Wren didn’t even disguise looking and feeling around every inch of his car. “What the fuck, Uppercrust?”

“It was a gift.”

“Before or after you chose a life of crime?”

“Before but this almost came at the expense of my misdeeds.”

She reached into her book bag, nodding slowly, “You forgot your notebook.”

“Oh thanks,” he tucked it away in the console. He was looking forward to spending the next four days refusing to reflect. 

Wren played with his stereo for a minute, turned it off and faced forward with her hands clasped in her lap. Something was up but he was tired so he laid his head back again and waited. 

“So listen,” she started. And then nothing. Ah yes, he thought, he had always enjoyed suspense. He wasn’t at all an impatient asshole prone to snapping during uncomfortable social situations. 

“Are you going to just sit there or—” 

“Shut up, I’m trying to say something.” She took a deep breath. “Look, I know you probably have plans. Like boats and wine and shit.”

He gave her a skeptical look which seemed to fluster her further. “I don’t fucking know! Whatever. But if you’re free Tuesday, my family is having a little thing.”

“Your family,” he echoed. 

“Yes. And our neighbours and friends and whoever.”

“And you’re inviting me,” he processed aloud, confused. He hadn’t expected this at all. Wren had a family. A family with a Fourth of July event for friends. To which he was being invited. 

“You don’t have to come,” she said sharply, crossing her arms. “I just thought—“

“No, no, it’s— I just wanted to, y’know, make sure.”

“Oh,” she relaxed. “Well, I’m inviting you, so.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.” She nodded once and left.

He leaned his head back again and ran what had just happened over in his mind a few times. The squeezing feeling in his chest was back. 

He finally found the energy to drive home.

Chapter Text

Oh Uppercrust, Bradley said in a shrill, mocking tone that sounded like nobody he actually knew. My family is doing a small thing. You should come.

He was sitting in his car, alone, half a block from a sectioned off part of a residential street on which there was a block party. From where he was parked, he could view some of the festivities– dozens of people greeting one another excitedly, children running around with streamers and kites, families lugging coolers. The smell of barbecue and the bass of speakers wafted through his cracked car window. 

He wanted to scream but instead sank low in his seat and tried to think.

He was coping with this wrench in his plans quite well, actually. He had not been reduced to lurking in his car obscured by a dense willow tree. He had not been seized by a clench in his stomach, he was not hiding, he was not panicking– he was strategizing.

He double and triple checked the address Wren had texted him and could think of only two explanations. It was possible Wren’s modest familial gathering was taking place somewhere within the hoopla he could distantly observe from the safety of his vehicle, or Wren MacPherson was a dirty filthy fucking liar who had effectively set him up for social disaster.

He felt a bit sick. He hadn’t interacted with another human being all weekend with the exception of the Target employee he might’ve glared at for seemingly judging his purchases. Maybe going to any gathering, however small, was a bit much for him when he’d spent the last month hermitting outside of his required time at the community centre.

He’d spent his weekend in a sort of unfuck my life fugue state. He’d decided he was tired of squandering his every spare moment in Spoonerville by excessively sleeping or drinking or moping or otherwise isolating himself. He could no longer justify letting himself waste away.

Saturday morning, he had sat on the sofa with a half drunk gallon jug of orange juice and a notepad, resolved to make a to-do list. 

First, Bradley needed to stop living in his own filth in a minimally furnished apartment. Sure, he didn’t have any staff or some wayward Gamma to exploit for the purpose of this very necessary deep clean but it was just as well. He had planned to rely on the mindlessness of scrubbing and vacuuming to distract from the kaleidoscope of anxious thoughts and images that constantly played on loop in his head.

Second, he needed to get his head on straight. As he’d chugged the last of his juice and nibbled on a dry butt end piece of toast, he ripped the page out of the pad, flipped over his list and scrawled Things To Avoid Thinking About. 

A pause. Number one, uh, Tank.  

That was a strong start. 

Father, Gamma House, the zit on my forehead. He’d stared at it for another moment before finally writing Max and flipping the sheet over again. That was that then.

With a plan laid out, Bradley had set out to make something of a home of his little place. He had picked out a pair of succulents to sit by his balcony, new pillows, a floating shelf, and a plush stuffed penguin he’d gingerly placed at the foot of his bed. He liked how soft it was and he figured there was no need to spend all his time alone. Someone would be privy to his rants.

After exhausting all of his home improvement options, he had cautiously ventured outside on his skateboard for a few hours. He’d dug it out from the back of his foyer closet and the weight of it tucked under his arm caused him an unfamiliar unease. 

He rounded his block a few times before steadily hazarding further away from home, down quiet residential corners, and finally stumbling across an empty parking lot. He tried to practice a few simple moves– a basic ollie, a ride switch– fumbling a few times before he felt somewhat comfortable again. 

Even so, he was lacking his previous fluidity, his confidence, his bravado. 

After an hour of this, his knees hurt, his eyes stung, and he felt a lump rising in his throat. He couldn’t manage most moves he’d mastered as a kid on his first try. Being on a board felt too foreign, his hands and knees wouldn’t stop trembling. He was so fucked.

He recalled the abject misery and humiliation of squatting with his head between his knees, alone, in an empty lot behind an Office Depot closed for the long weekend, just trying to breathe.

God, this is pathetic, he’d thought.  

He had been wise not to overestimate his abilities and decide to make some ill-advised comeback at some nearby skatepark trying to show off. And if he’d bumped into Max– 

Bradley had abruptly stood up at the thought and hopped back on his board. He was just rusty; he’d been the best after all. In spite of recent events, nobody could deny him that glory, however tarnished.

He had laid in bed that night bone tired and feeling lonelier than he could admit to himself.

Still sitting in his car, ruminating, he felt weary and exhausted, slumping further into his seat. He surveilled a young man carrying a twelve pack being embraced by a group of revelers with whoops and applause. The ice in his own cooler was probably half melted at this point. He needed to either bite the bullet or get out of there.

Though I could just leave. 

He didn’t know these people. Nobody would know to question his absence.

“Uppercrust!”

Bradley had been wandering around, lost in the general hubbub of bodies and waving sparklers and clutched beer bottles, when he heard someone call his name. He spotted Wren a ways away, standing on her tiptoes, waving both arms next to a woman he didn’t recognize.

He felt irritation at the sight of her heat his face but he figured he still needed to be on his best behaviour. He changed course, walking toward her and still heaving his cooler. 

Wren looked different. She looked casual, relaxed even. She was wearing a modest sundress and her typically shaggy locks were pulled away from her face, plaited in a single braid. Possibly most disorientingly, she was smiling at him.

“You made it!” she said, “I wasn’t sure you were coming.”

I almost wish I hadn’t. 

“Yes, well,” he attempted to vaguely gesture at the scene around him. “I wasn’t expecting something to quite this scale.”

“No?” Wren was looking up at him with a look that was far too wide eyed and credulous to be sincere. 

“You- you mentioned family and friends– this is… this is– did you get the necessary permits for this?”

Wren cackled at that. “Developed a respect for the law, have you? Been reading up on city permits?”

“I mean, I was led to believe this was– you didn’t say anything about–” he spluttered, “You tricked me.”

Wren reached up to put her hands on his shoulders. 

“Yes, Bradley, I tricked you.” She looked entirely too pleased with herself, lips twitching as she fought a smile. “But it’s chill. I’m glad you made it.”

He took a breath, calmer but displeased at how easily she’d disarmed him. 

The woman next to her was watching Wren with a fond expression. She turned to him, holding out her hand. 

“Hey, Bradley. I’m Layla.”

He put down his cooler and shook her proffered hand. Her grip was warm and strong. She was head and shoulders taller than Wren and spoke with a subtle Southern accent. Wren, for her part, seemed unbothered that she’d failed to introduce them and just looked on, seemingly entertained by the exchange.

“Nice to meet you,” he replied. There was an awkward pause.

“Come on,” Wren said, still smiling, “Let’s ditch your stuff and get you a drink.”

She led him to what appeared to be the true centre of activity– a bungalow with nearly every window and door thrown open. From where Bradley stood, depositing his cooler filled with bags of ice, watermelon slices, limes and a fifth of rum (he had a quarter pint in his pocket just in case), the most significant foot traffic was through the garage. He figured it must’ve connected to the kitchen as streams of people carried a continuous procession of side dishes out into the street. He accepted the beer Wren handed him from one of the two dozen or more coolers stacked under the trees lining the side of the house.

He followed both girls as Wren approached a man with slicked back hair dressed in a Hawaiian shirt standing before a massive grill set up on the front lawn.

“Hey, Dad,” she said, brightly, “This is Bradley. He works with Dennis at the centre.”

The man’s previously focused and grim expression brightened as he turned to greet them. He had the same toothy grin as his daughter. He somehow seemed perfectly at home at the heart of the chaos.

Bradley had trouble paying attention to their small talk as he was observing Wren from the corner of his eye. She was watching Layla and her father laugh together with a small smile, shoulders relaxed, her expression thoughtful. Once or twice, he’d wondered what Wren was like when she wasn’t stomping around barking orders or subtly panicking about some logistical error or another. He supposed he was catching a glimpse and becoming increasingly puzzled by his inclusion in this setting. He was unsure how to feel about being privy to her moment of adoring contentment.

Wren’s mother joined them shortly after and welcomed him with a tight hug. He caught a whiff of her perfume–something sharp and comforting like cinnamon. He was forced to accept a hotdog before he could finally excuse himself for a breather.

He stood at the end of the driveway, trying to collect himself as he ate. He watched people move in and out of the house, to and away from the grill and line of coolers, absently guessing which of them were just more MacPhersons. He guessed a good many– many of them with the same jet black, shaggy hair and wide, upturned eyes and sharp little chins.

This is Bradley. He works with Dennis at the centre.

He played the words in his head a few times. Wren didn’t sound like she was telling a white lie. There was nothing pointed about her intonation or phrasing. He was Bradley. He worked with Dennis, y’know, at the centre. She made it sound like that was how she routinely described him. A dull weight settled in his stomach. He choked down the rest of his hotdog and focused on slowly sipping his beer.

Eventually, his standoffish lurking was interrupted when Mr. MacPherson waved him back over and he was pulled into another conversation. The girls had disappeared and so he awkwardly hovered near the grill as Wren’s father worked, trying to look comfortable and not slightly sweaty from overwhelm.

“How are you finding your time at the centre?”

“It’s good.” Bradley answered politely. “Everyone is nice and it’s fairly straightforward work.” 

“That’s good to hear,” Mr. MacPherson nodded, pausing to quickly flip a few of the patties. “I’m glad you have Dennis around to show you the ropes. He’s been at that centre as far back as I can remember. He even recommended Wren for her position, y’know.”

“I didn’t actually.”

“Oh yeah. He’s always looked out for the kids in this town.”

Bradley paused to consider this. It made sense to him that Dennis was a long time Spoonerville presence. Though he found himself routinely irritated by the old fuck, he’d become reluctantly partial to him on occasion. It really depended on the day. 

He briefly wondered if he counted as a kid Dennis looked out for before dismissing the thought. He wasn’t a Spoonerville kid. He wasn’t a West Spoonerville Community Centre kid. He certainly hadn’t done anything to warrant anyone’s care. He was an interloper making reluctant amends. 

What the fuck am I doing here?

Suddenly, the urge to run washed over him in a nauseating, warm wave.

He stood rooted to the ground, staring into his bottle, when Mr. MacPherson interrupted his thoughts again. Bradley wasn’t escaping any time soon.

“Do you usually spend the holiday weekend with your folks?”

“Generally, yes,” he said quickly, clearing his throat. “It made more sense to stick around this year. They’re, uh, in New York.”

The thing was, Bradley was only used to entertaining these sorts of questions from a specific breed of older person. Rich, stuffy, imposing types. Members of his parents’ respective social clubs, distant relatives, Uppercrust business partners introducing themselves to him as old family friends. 

He was used to sly probing questions; he was adept in dodging queries asked under the guise of polite chatter or syrupy concern. He was used to being scrutinized. He knew cool gazes and pursed lips; he had learned to adopt them. He knew the theatre of asking and being asked questions like one cared when they, in fact, did not. 

What he was not familiar with was the way Mr. MacPherson was humming to himself and continuing to flip patties while turning toward him every few minutes to give Bradley a cheerful smile. He did not ask any more questions about his family or point out that Bradley’s drive home was a mere two hours and a perfectly reasonable round trip for a four day holiday weekend to celebrate with one’s family. He just slapped a thick patty on a styrofoam plate and prompted him to fix himself a burger by the condiments table.

Unsure what else to do, Bradley came back to stand by him and was asked no more questions about himself. In a not wholly unpleasant way, he felt like a child; like he’d latched onto Wren’s dad and was sticking by his side if only because he didn’t need to speak much. 

Mr. MacPherson began to tell him stories. About how his grandparents had immigrated from the Philippines with his young mother and made a life for themselves in California before settling further east, his childhood antics with his siblings, his own college days, how he’d met Wren’s mother, the repairs he’d been making around their home, Wren and her brother when they were young.

Bradley listened intently, taken by the older man’s reminiscing. He sounded proud. When Bradley was offered a second burger, he accepted, grateful for the excuse to keep disguising that he had nothing to offer, nothing meaningful to say.

“You know,” Mr. MacPherson said after a long moment of shared reflective silence. “Wren would never let me jabber on for this long. She thinks I’m a sentimental old fart.”

Bradley swallowed hard.

“It’s nice,” he shrugged. “She probably thinks so too.”

The man laughed. “Yeah, she probably does.”

For the next couple of hours, Bradley wandered around. 

He had finally relented and allowed himself to be pulled away from Wren’s dad and forced into an endless stream of introductions. He primarily focused on taking tiny sips of his beer and taking in everything and everyone around him. 

He met more of Wren’s folks–uncles, aunts, cousins, cousins who weren’t really cousins but were definitely cousins. He met Glenn, who lived four houses down and whose home boasted one of the prettiest magnolia trees he had ever seen. He observed a group of high school aged boys insisting they would break the Guinness world record for the longest consecutive game of hacky sack. He watched them manage it for a solid ten minutes before one of them fumbled and let it hit the ground. He almost laughed at their collective aggrieved groan. 

He continued to wander along the street and observe. Observing people leaning into one another in laughter, holding one another, exchanging long hugs, calling to one another, kissing. The longer he took it in, the more he felt as though he was floating. He was just a body standing amongst other bodies. He was less alive, less vital. He was a steady cam on the move, capturing moments of excited, longing, realized connection.

He wondered what sort of evening his folks were having. He could picture it in his mind’s eye. His mother had mentioned the finer details of her catering plans– there was certainly no grill out front though she was probably remaining true to the tradition of burgers and potato salad and corn on the cob. 

Most starkly, he knew the affair was an opportunity for schmoozing. Very impressive adults peacocking and talking shop and veiling their actual thoughts when necessary. 

Maybe he wasn’t missing much.

He turned back to get another beer.

He wasn’t sure how much later but he found himself sitting on a curb, legs stretched out, his head tilted back. He had achieved a little more than a buzz and was deep breathing as he tried not to think about anything. He’d been fine for awhile but his anxieties felt like they were swarming his senses. 

Fuck. He was failing miserably.

He wished he were at home— he wasn’t generally prone to homesickness but he couldn’t help but wonder if his parents had thought about him once all evening. He thought about the undoubtedly hellish Gamma rager he was missing and to what degree of mother henning Tank could be expected to be up to in the morning while a dozen frat guys recovered from near terminal hangovers.

He missed Tank most of all. 

He was fully laying back onto a stranger’s lawn with his phone raised above his face, busy considering whether or not he should send Tank a text— something super casual obviously — like maybe wishing him a good Fourth of July or a simple hello. He felt someone heavily plop themselves next to him.

“Hey, man,” Max said in a low tone, “I’d offer you another beer but you already look a little sloshed.”

Bradley sat up quickly, too quickly. He immediately worked to take a deep breath. Max’s face was inches from his own; he was grinning, cheeks pink, clutching a bottle.

“Aren’t you underage?” Bradley asked in a reflexively severe tone, attempting to subtly put a little distance between them.

Max shrugged, unbothered. “What’s got you staring at your phone?”

“Nothing,” he stashed his phone in his pocket, text unsent, likely humiliation averted. “When did you get here?”

Max was staring out at the moving crowd, sending a quick wave to someone Bradley didn’t recognize. 

“About a half hour ago. Dad and Sylvia had a thing in the city today so I only just got back.”

“Right,” he nodded. 

Max contentedly sipped his beer and Bradley stared firmly straight ahead. From his periphery, he watched the way Max’s long fingers idly peeled the label of his bottle. He wondered if it was a good idea to cut early and call a cab.

“Oh hey, Max!” Wren popped out of nowhere with Layla in tow. “Didn’t realize you’d be here so early.”

Max grinned lazily. “Anything for you, MacPherson.”

Wren placed her hand over her heart, feigning a saccharine affect, as the girls settled in next to the two of them. 

As the three of them chatted, Layla and Wren’s hands kept brushing one another’s and they kept exchanging shy, knowing looks. Max himself looked as relaxed as anyone could look without melting entirely into the lawn. He sat cross legged in the grass next to Bradley, arms stretched behind him and head lolling to one side. He seemed unalarmed that Wren and this strange woman were behaving… affectionately.

Bradley leaned into the excuse of his drunkenness to contribute minimally to their discussion. Something, something, some festival in Philly, acts they were looking forward to, effective routes into the city. He instead narrowed his eyes and observed them closely. 

At one point, Max reached for Wren and settled his head on her shoulder, their conversation uninterrupted. Layla had moved and was squatting by the edge of the curb, carefully making a dandelion necklace. She hardly looked up as Max practically nuzzled into Wren’s neck like the grossly affectionate little freak Bradley had always suspected him to be.

Bradley felt embarrassed at the display. Something hot and unpleasant rose in his chest. 

He really couldn’t make sense of their dynamic. He’d always assumed Wren and Max shared… something. He wondered if Max was dense or if he was aware of Layla and Wren’s flirting. 

Maybe, his drunk thoughts reasoned, the three of them share some sort of understanding. Though that didn’t seem quite right either. He looked away and stared into the middle distance– Max really should have been at the top of his Things To Avoid Thinking About list. 

He was so shit at this.

A part of him was appalled but another part wondered if he was just that inexperienced. 

Maybe this was commonplace amongst people his age and just not cool to talk about. What did he know? He’d always found women confounding and sometimes a bit frightening. In the past, he had relied heavily on his snobbish persona to disguise his ineptitude and disinterest in dating. And he always ignored the Gammas when they boasted about their exploits. He really couldn’t have given a shit but maybe he should’ve. Maybe then he could make some fucking sense of what he was looking at.

The conclusion he’d drawn– that this was a possible three way arrangement, a weirdly chill three way arrangement– did little to temper the intense discomfort he was experiencing. He felt a bit sick and a bit like screaming.

You’re drunk and also surrounded by people. You’re being paranoid and weird. You need to calm down.

Layla, upon finishing a second necklace, hopped to her feet, declaring she was in need of another hotdog and Max, having renewed his strength somehow, quickly followed. They playfully shoved one another as they walked away.

Wren watched them for a moment and then sidled up to him, a mischievous gleam in her eye Bradley had never seen before. “You need a break.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re totally freaking out. I’ve got something that might help.”

She led him to her house and toward the back. The MacPherson backyard was lit by dozens of small bulbs, giving the space a heady atmosphere. A battered grey sectional and two wicker armchairs were pulled closely together with a glass table at the centre. He was surprised at how isolated it felt. He could still hear the party but it seemed distant, muffled by the cramped, cozy space.  

He was so fucking relieved. 

Following Wren’s lead, Bradley chose to curl up at the far end of the sofa and draped a threadbare blanket across his lap. Wren settled, cross legged, into one of the wicker chairs and for a while, they just… existed. 

Bradley continued taking deep breaths. He hadn’t spent this much time focused on self regulating since he was a child. He realized this silence was different from the civil, ruthless silences they’d routinely shared in his first few weeks at the centre. This felt peaceful.

That was until she sat up a bit straighter and pulled a cigar box out of her dress pocket.

“Cigars? Really?”

“Not quite,” she said calmly, before clicking it open and dumping its contents onto the table. He leaned in to see a pack of rolling papers and a ziploc baggie of–

“Yeah, I don’t think so.”

“No?” Wren said casually, looking a bit surprised.

“I’m serving community service?” Bradley replied incredulously. “You literally supervise me staying out of trouble? You report to a judge?”

“Oh right.” She pulled out of her other pocket a small metal disc that appeared to have a lid. “I suppose that would make this a conflict of interest.”

“Right.” Bradley was quickly sobering up, so taken aback that Wren, of all people, was offering him weed. “Besides, I’m an athlete. Also the X Games piss test and–”

He cut himself off. He wasn’t necessarily banned from the X Games but he was never going to compete as a Gamma again so he was as good as banned. He had always taken meticulous care of his health. Before coming to Spoonerville, he had rarely even drank to excess. He’d avoided recreational drugs and was strict with the Gammas as well. On occasion, one of them would stoop to doping but Bradley thought the practice was stupid and counterproductive even if his father could sway the Games committee to look the other way. Weed was especially stupid and he hadn’t before seen the appeal of escaping his own thoughts. 

Though I could really use something to fucking relax right now. 

“Fine,” he said, watching Wren finish grinding and begin to roll. She had been paying his long silent moment of inner turmoil no mind. “Whatever, sure.”

“There’s no gun to your head, dude,” Wren scoffed. “I’m actually being super duper nice right now. You should be buying me weed.”

“If I had any idea how to go about doing that in fucking Spoonerville, I might,” he countered. “Besides, do your other criminals get weed? Or party invites?”

“Not sure,” she said, lining up the joint and running her tongue across the seam. Bradley thought she looked absolutely ridiculous doing this while dressed like a Sunday school teacher. For once, her work attire might’ve been more appropriate. “You’d be my first.”

“How’s that?”

“Probably because if you’re from around here and get hit with charges like yours, you serve actual time.” She winked at him and raised the joint to her lips, lighting up. “Not a lot of richie rich types with dumb rap sheets slumming it here with us.” 

“Oh, wow,” Bradley said, sounding bored and venomous. “You got me. Are your other staff around tonight?”

“Some of them.” She passed him the joint after a few quick puffs. “They’ve been coming and going but they mostly live nearby anyway.”

“Like Max?”

“Like Max,” she said, slyly. “Funny you mention him.”

Bradley ignored her, taking a careful inhale and suppressing his urge to cough and passing it back. 

He figured this confirmed what he’d already gathered: everyone present was a Spoonerville community member dropping by as facilitated by some unspoken, long standing tradition. Wren knew them, they knew her and her family. They probably loved one another. And here he was, the outlier. His invitation was explicit because it had needed to be. This realization made him feel strangely thrilled even if Wren had basically called him a lonely, spoiled loser. He was an outsider but he was still there. Sitting in her yard, smoking her weed.

The churning in his stomach that’d been present all evening subsided the tiniest bit. 

“Makes sense Baby Goof comes and goes when he pleases,” he finally said. “No ambushing him in his car.”

“Oh trust me,” Wren said, passing the joint back and gesturing for him to hold onto it, reaching for another paper to begin rolling again. “I would have for your sake if there was a chance he wouldn’t be.”

Bradley tried not to choke on his inhale.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, you know…” She wasn’t even looking at him now, coolly focused on her work.

“You’re being weird,” he said firmly. He tried not to sound panicked and confused. “You’re making it weird.”

“Max said something like that.”

“For once, I agree with him.”

She looked up and gave him one of her signature wide eyed, unsmiling, unblinking stares. 

“You’re so dumb,” she said, sounding bored. “You’re both actually so dumb.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure what you’re getting at but we don’t exactly have the best history.” 

Just as he’d spoken, Max himself came bounding into the space, followed closely by Layla. Max was speaking to her animatedly, moving in that fluid, loping way of his. Layla seemed similarly enthused. Bradley might’ve caught the tail end of their conversation if he hadn’t been staring at Max’s silhouette before he stepped under the string of lights.

“Aww, you guys got started without me?” Max said as soon as he spotted the pair of them tucked away in the backyard furniture. He took long strides and threw himself into the middle of the sofa where Bradley sat comfortably. The two of them were pressed into one another, shoulder to knee. 

Kill me, Bradley thought.

“Got one right here for you, buddy.” Wren tossed the newly completed second joint toward him.

Max, who upon closer inspection was well and truly smashed, leaned harder into him before murmuring into his ear: “It’s honestly fine. I actually already smoked a bit earlier.” 

He gave Bradley a closed lip, conspiratorial smile, quirking a brow. Bradley couldn’t tell if it was the high or their proximity or the summer heat, but he was beginning to sweat profusely. He leaned away and put the butt of his joint out in the grass.

Layla had smoothly sauntered toward Wren and draped an arm around her shoulders, perching herself on the arm of the wicker chair. 

“Keeping busy?” she asked, planting an egregiously tender kiss to Wren's temple.

Bradley’s head immediately swiveled toward Max, who sat with his feet tucked under him, back straight, fully focused on lighting up. He paid zero attention to the two girls, even as Layla took Wren by the hand and quickly dragged her toward the house. Wren turned to look at Bradley as she passed, lecherously wagging her brows.

Bradley was going to lose his fucking mind.

“How are you feeling?” Max asked after a while. Against all known laws of physics, he’d managed to sink even further into the cushions (and Bradley’s side) with seemingly no intention of moving away. Bradley thought it was a testament to Max’s drunkenness that they found themselves sitting in the relative dark, curled into one another on an oversized outdoor sofa. 

Max felt cool against his feverish skin; Bradley could feel his hair brushing his neck. He thought back to when Max had first gotten in his car, how close he’d been, how angry his silence was– this was different. This was very different. Max was impossibly close now. He smelled like earth and something acidic; like grass and tart apples and black tea.

There was an awkward pause. Bradley realized he hadn’t yet spoken. 

“Uh,” he cleared his throat, “not that everyone isn’t nice. I just– sometimes a break is needed.”

“I get it,” Max hummed understandingly. “Crowds can feel weird. Like being around other people.”

“That’s because you like being in front of them.”

“You calling me a show off?” Max replied cheekily, nudging his elbow into his side. Bradley tried not to squirm away.

“Well, yeah.”

“Way harsh, Brad.”

“I mean, I’d know.”

“Hmm.” Max said, blowing his hair out of his face. “You’re not much like that anymore though.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The churning in his stomach had come back once he was in Max’s company again. 

“I dunno.” Max said slowly. “You’re around, but it’s like you’re hiding most of the time.”

“Well, y’know.” Bradley floundered, trying to think of what to say. He simultaneously wished he was anywhere else and relished the press of Max’s body against his own, the two of them speaking in low tones, Max’s big messy flyaway curls dancing in his periphery. “Things are different now.”

“Maybe,” Max shrugged, finally ashing his joint into a small tin plate he’d pulled out of his pocket. “But making things right doesn’t always need to look like. I’m not sure– it’s like you’re hanging your head like a sad, sorry dog.”

It felt as though someone had thrown ice water into Bradley’s face. The hazy warmth he’d felt steeped in dissipated and he shoved at him, half sitting up. 

“Fuck you.” He was sure his face was screwed up in anger and, more humiliatingly, hurt. 

“Wait. No, wait, it’s not like that.” Max wrapped his hand tightly around his wrist, pulling him back down. They were facing one another now, faces inches apart. Max sounded hurried, pleading, his gaze focused– darting around as though he was examining Bradley’s face. “Listen, listen. Please hear me out.”

Bradley felt breathless and unsure as he watched Max start and stop, gesticulating wildly with his free hand, attempting to gather his thoughts. 

“You used to be hot shit, okay?” he said, emphatically. “You– the Gammas obviously were on a streak before you even came along– but you came up, what, two years ago? And you had style. You gave them flair. The team was suddenly uniform, cohesive. And you were just a freshman then.”

Bradley scoffed. “What the fuck does that have to do wi–”

“I’m not done.” Max continued, still clutching his wrist. “You were that guy. You were in basically every skateboarding magazine and on every blog. You were everywhere.”

He took in Max’s expression. He looked determined. His eyes shone in the sparse lighting, his lips formed a tight line, his jaw set. Bradley thought back to the empty Office Depot parking lot and sighed.

“Yes, well. That’s you now.”

“I guess, but you did it first. Like, to that scale– you did it first. And I only thought of it as something PJ, Bobby and I could gun for because the Gammas already had.”

“You calling me your inspiration, Goof?”

“Your skateboarding, yeah.” Max’s face broke into a grin. “It was fucked up to finally meet you and learn you’re actually a terminally rich asshole though.”

“And now I’m a sad sack of a terminally rich asshole is your point.”

“That’s exactly it, yeah,” Max nodded quickly. “And I’m tired of it.”

Bradley scoffed. He couldn’t believe the turn this conversation had taken.

“Well, you’re welcome,” he said in a voice so condescending, it was as though he’d been possessed by a ghost of his former self, “I’m so very happy I could inspire the less fortunate.”

Max looked stunned. 

They stared at one another for a second and burst into laughter. Stupid, intoxicated giggles that unraveled them both and eventually devolved into them falling into one another again, clutching their aching sides. 

“God, you’re such a dick,” Max said, coming down from his fit. 

They fell silent, the tension having dissolved. They both lay down, legs swung over opposite ends of the sofa, their heads next to one another. They were almost cheek to cheek. Bradley felt buoyant.

“It sounds like you gave this some thought,” he finally said. 

“Well, you were being a bit pathetic. It was getting hard to watch.” Max said. Bradley could feel his breath sweeping along his cheekbone. “I’m glad you made it out tonight though.”

Bradley recalled his chat with Wren earlier. We don’t exactly have the best history, he’d said and meant it. 

Suddenly mortified, he wondered if Wren could see them from a window. Cross faded, huddling and laughing and whispering as if they hadn’t spent an entire academic year antagonizing one another. Sharing this horrifically intimate moment like Bradley wasn’t in this situation exactly because he had gone to the severest lengths he could imagine just to beat Max at what he’d long considered himself the very best at. What the sports world had considered him one of the best at.

Was he so pathetic, was he so starved for connection, that he was delighting in the validation of a guy who had proven himself better than him, who had inadvertently contributed to his downfall? 

He wondered what his father might think if he could see him now. The thought made his blood run cold. 

A deep pit of shame opened in his chest. He had to go. He had to go. He would walk. He would call a cab. It was probably barely 11pm. 

He sat up trying to gather his thoughts– he would need to come back for his car and his cooler. He wondered if he had cash on him, if he knew this area well enough to just find his way home–

Max yawned loudly and stretched next to him. His eyes closed, his features relaxed. 

Bradley found himself openly staring. There had always been something about Max’s shaggy curls and the contours and contrasts of his face that had drawn Bradley’s gaze. He took in Max’s still flushed cheeks, the facial hair shadowing the brown skin of his jaw, the bulb lights drawing attention to the silver studs under his mouth–

He looked away just as the first crack of fireworks went off in the background.

“Hell, yeah.” In an instant, Max was alert and had excitedly righted himself. “Let’s go find some fucking sparklers.”

He stood up and threw his arm around Bradley, guiding him back toward the party. 

Bradley felt disoriented. Oscillating between wanting to be near and also far, far away from Max was giving him emotional whiplash. He was given no time to process any of it before he was standing by the curb where they’d convened earlier, standing shoulder to shoulder with Max, the two of them staring up at the admittedly impressive firework display.

A little further down, he could see Wren and Layla handing out sparklers to children and teenagers. Max could hardly contain his excitement as they were handed two. 

“You love this shit, huh?” Bradley asked, amused at the huge dopey grin Max wore.

“Yes, well,” Max replied sheepishly, “I think they’re sort of pretty and nostalgic.”

He nodded, taking in Max’s joyful expression, the gleam in his eye. He radiated with it and Bradley forced himself to look away.  

The fireworks show lasted a bit longer and everyone stood in appreciative awe. Soon, the evening was coming to a close and the crowd broke up as they all began to clean up and wish one another inevitably drawn out farewells.

Bradley returned a wave goodbye to the hacky sack teens, and shook hands with Glenn, wishing him and his magnolia tree all the luck. Even the MacPhersons appeared and pulled Bradley into slightly stiff hugs. 

“I hope you pay us another visit, son,” Mr. MacPherson said, gripping Bradley by the shoulders in a manner reminiscent of how Wren had done upon his arrival. 

“Thank you for a wonderful evening, sir,” he said sincerely, “You throw a hell of a party.”

At this, Mr. MacPherson only looked bashful, evidently touched by the compliment.

Wren and Layla ambushed him and Max last. Bradley took a step back to allow the three of them to engage in whatever goodbye they needed to share but instead he was pulled into their group hug. When they let go, Wren pinched his cheek.

“Get home safe, Uppercrust.”

“Sure, Wren. See you tomorrow.”

In the end, Bradley and Max abandoned their cars in front of the MacPherson residence with the express promise they would come back for them in the morning. With no cash between them, they resigned themselves to the trek from one end of West Spoonerville to the other.

“We fucked up,” Max moaned, “One of us should’ve stayed sober.”

Bradley shrugged. In truth, he didn’t mind the walk so much. The neighbourhood streets still felt alive with kids setting off firecrackers and adults lining the sidewalk, squeezing in final words before calling it a night. Max shuffled along next to him, sometimes opting to walk on the street to avoid people. 

Eventually, they decided to avoid the prolonged festivities and ventured along until they found a quiet main road lined with closed businesses. They walked together unhurriedly, sharing a comfortable silence, occasionally stopping to look at a window display or pointing out silly trendy shop names. 

“Pizzazz,” Bradley read one of the restaurant signs. “Like pizza but with pizzazz?”

“That’s just awful,” Max intoned.

“Comes with a handful of confetti chucked into the air.”

“Comes with your very own cane and top hat.”

“Comes with Michigan J. Frog tap dancing atop the box.”

Max guffawed, that stupid laugh of his ringing out in the empty street. 

“Shh,” Bradley admonished, failing to disguise his own laughter.

Max shoved him. He barely kept from tripping as he jumped off the curb and into the street. Bradley shoved back and they spent the next block or so attempting to knock one another off the sidewalk and into the empty street, cursing and laughing.

When they’d finally crossed back into a residential area, Bradley began to recognize where they were and figured he was about five blocks from his place.

“Well, that’s me,” Max said, stopping to point down the street to their left. 

“Oh, that’s cool. I don’t have much further to go either,” he said quickly. “I didn’t realize you stayed around here.”

“Yep,” Max said, popping the p. He was swaying back and forth with his hands in his pockets. It seemed like oddly nervous behaviour given how casual and comfortable he’d seemed all evening. “I, uh, I’m staying with Bobby. I’m subletting his brother’s room for the summer.”

“That makes sense,” Bradley said, trying not to fidget or shuffle his feet. “Well, it was nice of Wren to invite me. It was cool to meet her family. And Layla.”

As soon as he mentioned Layla, Bradley wondered if he’d overstepped or said something wrong because Max’s expression immediately changed. A slow smile curled his lip. 

“So you picked up on that?” he said, grinning. “Not that it was subtle.”

“I- I guess it wasn’t.”

“Yes, well, you know how gross people can be. What with the honeymoon stage.”

Bradley was unsure how to respond, mystified by this exchange. He could feel his stomach sinking, absolutely gripped by confusion and desperation. He didn’t know why he needed to know but it was suddenly paramount that he understood what was going on.

“I mean– I mean, you’re happy, right?” he asked.

“Are you kidding?” Max laughed, placing his hand on Bradley’s shoulder. “This was a long time coming. I got sick of watching them dance around one another. And that was before we all left for college.”

I got sick of watching them dance around one another. Them. Dance around one another.

God, he was so stupid.

“Oh. So Wren and Layla–”

“Are undoubtedly spending the night together, yes.”

“I’m sorry,” Bradley said, thankful for the late hour because he was positive his face had gone completely red and praying that Max wasn’t registering the sheer relief he was feeling, “I guess– I just always assumed you… and Wren… or maybe Layla too…”

Max looked dumbfounded.

“You thought–” 

“Forget it,” Bradley said quickly, waving his hands, “Forget it. I have to go.”

“Wait–”

“No, it’s okay. It’s late,” he pressed on. “Good night. See you tomorrow.”

He stiffly turned on his heel and speed-walked away, leaving a slack jawed Max in his wake.

From half a block away, he heard Max shout, “Good night, Bradley. Get some rest.”

He ignored him, breaking into a run until he’d traversed the five blocks, crossed his building lobby and, skipping the elevator, flew up six floors until he all but crawled into his apartment. The burn in his legs didn’t compare to how absolutely, positively mortified he felt.

He couldn’t believe himself. He leaned against his front door and slid down until he was crouched with his head between his knees.

What had he thought? That those three friends were in some consensual love triangle? That Max’s girlfriend had a girlfriend and they were peacefully coexisting? He supposed it wasn’t impossible but the more he thought about it, the dumber it sounded.

Exactly how drunk was I?

He found that he was feeling almost entirely sober, if a bit exhausted, by the time he was ready for bed. As tired as he was, his mind was racing. He lay under the covers, curled around his plush penguin, mentally combing through every detail of the evening.

Bradley had attended a block party hosted by his community service supervisor’s family. Phrased like that, it sounded bizarre and sad.

He wondered what it would be like to have a time machine so he could tell Bradley of three months ago he would soon find himself humbled, living in what he would’ve obnoxiously considered squalor, and effectively abandoned, left to toil in Max Goof’s hometown, and then being extended an olive branch by relative strangers who had no reason to give a shit about him. Old Bradley would’ve had a conniption.

If Wren hadn’t extended an invite– if he had declined– he imagined he might’ve spent the evening eating takeout in his room, watching whatever firework display happened to play outside his window. He tried not to dwell on that and instead recalled the feeling of watching Mr. MacPherson confidently and smoothly work the grill, being lulled by his gently told stories. He let all of it– the nerves, the embarrassment, the warmth– wash over him.

The uncomfortable truth that had been niggling in the back of Bradley’s mind for the last few weeks finally reared its head: Uppercrusts didn’t really do community. At all. Not in any sense that seemed to matter anymore. The Uppercrust way was to carefully acquire and maintain relationships for the near sole purpose of consolidating power or influence. He wasn’t even sure his parents liked their friends. 

Bradley had always conducted himself the same way. Mainly, he found carefully controlling and manipulating people around him alleviated his anxiety and assuaged his paranoia about others. It didn’t seem so bad to apply pressure through whatever means available to him when they themselves only remained in his company to benefit from proximity to him. It was mutual. Symbiotic.

It had always felt fair. Until Tank, of course.

Whatever people in fucking Spoonerville were doing wasn’t that. For whatever reason, he had been given the opportunity to find a little comfort in the company of people who shouldn’t have cared about him. He still felt baffled Wren had bothered. 

Most of all, his conversation with Max in the MacPhersons’ backyard plagued him. He played it back to himself. The intimacy and the confrontation.

You used to be hot shit. He’d said it imploringly. He’d needed Bradley to understand. You were being a bit pathetic. It was getting hard to watch.

Nobody had ever really spoken to him that way before. Sure, he’d been insulted but anyone worth a damn had a healthy cohort of enemies. Put downs from his father were another thing. His mother would get a jab in now and again if she had had enough to drink but it was always couched in faux concern. The Gammas had never dared and Tank was always incredibly gentle.

Max’s delivery was harsh but his intent appeared to have lacked malice. He seemed determined to break Bradley out of some sort of spell, like his words would pierce through Bradley’s spiritual and emotional catatonia, trying to shake something in his brain loose.

It was getting hard to watch.

I’m sure it was, he thought.

And still. High and drunk as he was, Max had sat by him, stayed with him, scolded him, laughed with him, leaned into him. He wondered if the reason Max was acting this way with him was because they were approaching something like friendship. 

Maybe this was why he had misguidedly assumed Wren and Max were lovers. They were friends. Which meant he and Max… were… friends.

Max and I are friends.

He should’ve felt content. Perhaps even elated but instead it felt like something was lodged in his throat. Bradley buried his face in his plush penguin and fought the dawning realization threatening to permeate every corner of his consciousness.

The next morning, he pulled himself out of bed, having slept very little and barely coping with the undeniable reality that he wanted to kiss Max Goof.

Chapter Text

Despite being seldom seen nor heard from, it was apparently a big deal Bev would be away for a few days. 

Unfortunately, all this really meant for Bradley was that laid back, cannabis toting, holiday Wren was dead and gone. It was as if she’d never really existed, with the way she was carrying on. For the remainder of that week back, her ostensibly increased responsibilities and the resulting flurry of nerves meant her foot remained firmly on Bradley’s neck. 

For instance, on their second day back from their long weekend, she approached the front desk and rather unceremoniously interrupted his busy morning routine with some demands of her own.

“We’re down a staff member,” she said curtly, after stomping up to him. She was back in her usual attire, including the ugliest pair of overly long cargo shorts Bradley had ever seen, complete with all the keys in the world hanging from her belt loop on a carabiner. Her hair was in its original miserable state. She didn’t even bother to look up from her clipboard as she addressed him.

“Good morning,” Bradley replied in a falsely cheery tone, “and why is this important to me, specifically?”

“We need someone to help supervise the middle grade scavenger hunt,” she said, finally looking up. He could make out the slight strain in her expression.

Even so, he gestured toward the log in which Dennis illegibly scrawled his task list every day; he could usually squeeze in a quick breakfast in the time it took to decode it. “I would love to but I’m swamped.”

“Sucks to suck,” Wren returned dismissively. 

“But–”

“You’re going to meet Delilah out front before lunch so get your affairs in order.” 

She was already out of the lobby and down one of the halls before Bradley could think to ask who the fuck Delilah was.

Delilah was a new hire, very young, and possibly an idiot. 

Though if Bradley was feeling charitable, which he was wont to do increasingly these days, he could empathize with the terror of feeling ill equipped to facilitate an activity she didn’t prepare, for twelve to fourteen year olds she’d never met, on her very first day. 

Bradley did his best to support her in his own way: by taking pity on the nervous, stuttering Delilah. He began prompting the kids to split into their chosen groups before sending them on their way with their first clue. No stretches, no ice breakers, no introductions. Just forbidding cheating or destruction to property, and casting two dozen middle schoolers to the four winds with the express instruction to never leave the community centre premises and hoping for the best. 

When asked for any hints on any of the clues, Bradley was less than helpful.

“We only have two to go,” gasped a young girl running up to him, clutching a handful of paper slips, “but this one doesn’t even make sense.”

The rest of her group gathered around him, a trio of bug-eyed sweaty runts. They all stared at Bradley expectantly.

“Locate the spot where our stories are preserved and displayed, but don’t expect them to be framed,” he read aloud. “What’s hard about this?”

“We’re hungry and we want to win,” one of them said, rolling her eyes. He tried not to show how relatable he found this particular gripe.

“Yeah, no leg up for you,” he said, returning the slip. “And I’d start putting your heads together before the others catch up.”

All of their eyes whipped to Delilah who stood next to him with her arms clamped awkwardly to her sides. “Uh, w-what he said.”

With deeply disappointed groans, the kids trudged away, looking back on occasion to send them both dirty looks or stick out their tongues. Bradley ignored them.

Was this what childcare is, he wondered, because it’s fucking easy. He elected to ignore the three-legged race debacle of a few weeks ago and smiled smugly to himself.  

The activity was eventually wrapped up– the three would-be cheating musketeers having completed the hunt first and being rewarded with bragging rights– and he was, thankfully, able to enjoy the relative peace and mercy of getting back to his actual work.

Bradley found the return to routine near blissful. He didn’t want, for even a moment, to think about his weekend or the absolute emotional tempest he was keeping at bay. The Things to Avoid Thinking About list had never felt more crucial. Between working and his recently renewed dedication to pretending he gave a damn about his well being, everything felt a bit easier. 

He had been keeping up with the pretense of enjoying his bare living quarters for the summer. He had even begun to make his bed in the mornings. He would spend several minutes adjusting and readjusting where his plush penguin sat at the head of it, between his pillows, just so. He had initially refused to name it to avoid leaning into the true absurdity of the comfort he found in the damn thing, but caved and began to refer to it simply as Pip. 

Pip, his succulents, his immaculate floors, his still unused kitchen, the Avoid list tacked to the corkboard by his desk. The previous morning, after picking up his car from the MacPhersons and before leaving for the centre, Bradley had stood in his apartment to look around and wondered what anyone would make of this space. Would anyone be able to deduce his state of mind in spite of the near spotlessness? He was unwell; would they be able to read it in the carefully displayed magazines on the coffee table, or the starched curtains? Maybe the stack of unopened mail he stashed under his bed or on the floor of his closet would be a clear indicator. 

You’re fine. You’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine. He ignored any evidence to the contrary.

That afternoon, Zara, in all her colourful, paint splattered glory, accosted him as he sat in his car eating his lunch, gingerly rapping a knuckle on his driver door window. Apparently, pawing at his car was everyone’s favourite method for getting his attention. He really needed to nip that in the bud.

He took a long moment to stare dully at her smiling face. He was attempting to telepathically communicate that he was hot and tired, and his store bought cold salad was not taking the edge off. It didn’t work; Zara continued to smile patiently until he rolled his window down in defeat.

“Hi Bradley!” she beamed at him, “How have you been?” After a beat of silence, she cleared her throat and said, a little less confidently, “I wondered if I could ask you for a favour?”

He sighed and figured it was best he step out of the car. “Sure, what’s up?”

Bradley could admit, if he were being the slightest bit reasonable, Zara had done nothing to him. This might even be the first time they were speaking directly to one another. And yet, as he took in her technicolour braids, old overall cutoffs with painted cat paw prints on the pockets, her pretty, cheery face, her soft, lilting voice – all of it – he couldn’t help but glower. He had an intrusive flash of memory: observing through the crack in the open staffroom door into the hallway as Zara chatted amiably, looking up at Max as they both laughed, Max himself leaning into her–

“You might have already heard the news! We’re combining some age groups to complete a mural by the lobby to mark the end of summer. It’s going to be beautiful, transformative even! It’ll really be a timeline to show Spoonerville community pride and the kids–”

“Right,” Bradley interrupted. He wasn’t sure but it was possible he had suddenly begun to develop a headache.

Zara’s near perpetual smile dropped the tiniest amount and wow, didn’t Bradley deserve to feel like the worst – “Look, I’ll cut to the chase. I thought I’d ask if you could help. It won’t be the most fun thing in the world but it’s important to the kids and I’d be so grateful.”

Bradley just stared at her and took in the slight edge of anxiety in Zara’s expression. “And you came to me?”

“Should I not have?” She looked puzzled, but excited. “You’re around, the kids like you. Obviously, if you don’t have the time–”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” he said, holding up his hand to cut off her dreamily enthused spiel. “I’ll do it.”

Zara’s features lit up; she was smiling so hard, the apples of her cheeks made her eyes squinty and bright. Goddamnit, he thought. 

“Ah! Thanks so much, Bradley. Seriously!” She was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet now.

“Anything else or–” He made a show of nodding toward his car as though he had important business to attend to, chiefly the lettuce in his salad undoubtedly wilting in the summer heat.

“No, no! I’ll see you around!” And she was gone.

Bradley sighed to himself, resignedly stuffing the rest of his lunch into his maw. Could’ve been worse, he supposed, but not by much.

Bradley’s mother had a particular savvy for picking the absolute worst times to call. 

“Mum, it’s seven in the morning,” he said flatly.

“Yes, well, love, it’s about noon here and your father and I have been terribly jet lagged. Neither of us have heard from you in some time–” She cut herself off to coo at someone in the background about getting her another one of these – yes, yes, extra olives. Some things never changed – the sun rose in the east, set in the west, and Caroline Uppercrust was having a martini.

“Wait – Dad is there?” 

“He’s somewhere around here. On some call or another.”

Oh.

“You’ve been keeping out of trouble, dear?”

“Yes, mum,” he replied, weary.

“Oh good,” she paused. “You know your father gave Judge Doyle a ring the other day. He’s been very concerned about the severity of your punishment – they really threw the book at you–”

Bradley held his breath.

“– and the judge wasn’t having it. It’s a ridiculous display of might, love. Incredibly unseemly.”

Bradley held the phone away from his ear for a moment to take a deep, steadying exhale.

“– and, of course, your father is displeased. The last thing he wants is for you to fall behind in your pursuits.”

“Right, yeah,” Bradley returned, faintly. 

He rarely felt like a participant during these calls, especially if she had been drinking. 

She went on and on: his father would need to wait until the holidays before he could introduce Bradley to any of his key business contacts, Bradley was behind in his internship experience and had given up any chance of working with a senator before the following summer, and oh, how his father worried, he worried so much. 

He felt sick. Bradley always felt sick.

“Mum, why isn’t he telling me any of this?”

“Your father is a reserved man, Bradley,” his mum said in a mildly scolding tone. “He will call you in time.”

He was lightheaded, half relieved, half filled with dread. His father taking this long – over a month – to stew was objectively a bad sign for him. Bradley wanted nothing more than to be berated by his father in that calm, exacting, cruel way he had, and be done with it. Unfortunately, his anger and punitive impulses only compounded the longer they went unexpressed.

The call ended with his mum cheerily dismissing him. He could hear her addressing wait staff, ostensibly for another drink, as she hung up. Bradley resisted the urge to get back in bed for the day and curl up and be consumed by his dread and fear and shame. 

He made his bed instead and laid Pip in his favourite spot.

While shaving, Bradley had an oddly intrusive memory. 

He had been young, maybe eleven or twelve, and fresh from a long summer at camp. His brown hair, bleached from the sun, had grown past his ears. His face was dotted in freckles, his arms and legs had browned remarkably. He had even shot up two inches which, at the time, he hoped meant he might catch up with Tank who was already towering over every other boy they knew. 

He’d come home, picked up from the camp by the family driver, Mr. Alcott, and had hoped he might run into the foyer and be greeted by one of his parents. Instead, he found only house staff, and had to wait until that evening to meet his parents in the main dining room.

He had walked in, with barely contained excitement, dressed slightly too casually for supper. His mother sat with her back to him at one end of the table, while his father, sharp eyed and sour, spotted him first.

You look like a stray was all he said before turning back to his evening newspaper.

In the present, he stared into the mirror, at his sun-bleached overgrown hair curling around his ears, his freckled cheeks, and browned skin. There was a white line between his brows from where he furrowed them and dark circles around his eyes. 

If he could see me now, he thought darkly.

That week felt boring and Bradley wondered if that’s how he liked it. 

Wren, still keeping it together under the stress of Bev’s absence, had walked back their rapport a bit. Bradley didn’t find he minded too much, given the circumstances. She barked at him a bit, skimmed and signed his daily reflections with an unimpressed quirk of her brow, and then released him for the evening. Privately, he hoped she was asking for help on occasion but he could tell she wasn’t. Ah well.  

For his part, Bradley found he was beginning to have a bit of energy after arriving home from the centre; just enough to move him to grab his board, and spend a few hours riding around his neighbourhood and practicing moves in random empty parking lots.

He hadn’t regained all of his former confidence. He still couldn’t bring himself to practice with anyone else around; his moves still felt halting, like he didn’t quite trust himself, like something in him urged him to avoid risk. In spite of it all, he found he took longer to grow tired; that he no longer felt reduced to a mess after a single, or even a dozen, failed moves. The ache in his body felt almost satisfying and he would fall into a dreamless sleep every night. 

He tried desperately not to reflect on the implications of what losing skateboarding might mean for him. To lose the capacity to compete for a time was one thing, but his connection to his body and his board felt fragile. Skateboarding had given him Tank, and the Gammas, and the X Games, and an agile body, and a sense of worth removed from being an Uppercrust. He wondered what he was if he was neither no longer great, nor connected to how fluidly he used to move, how he felt, for the split moment, when he was suspended in the air diving off a ramp. The joy that vibrated deeply in his body, the satisfaction that seeped into his tired bones. 

To go an entire nine days without spotting or being spotted by Max Goof was its own accomplishment. 

Bradley blushed furiously at the recollection of waking extremely early the morning after the Fourth of July to sleepily trudge back to the MacPherson residence so he could retrieve his car under the cover of near dawn. The thought of bumping into Max there made him want to curl up and die. He imagined the both of them hungover, awkwardly waving to one another, and getting in their respective vehicles mere hours after Bradley realizing the nature of how affected he felt by Max. It made Bradley all but seriously consider faking his death and becoming a sheepherder in the Scottish Highlands somewhere.

As it were, he had since spent his time at the centre mindfully completing his tasks and keeping an ear out for Max’s low, relaxed voice or his obnoxious guffaw and speed walking in the furthest direction whenever he heard it. 

He knew Max would catch up to him at some point. 

He had once again been cleaning up the trash by the east end of the building– fast food wrappers, empty slushie cups, butts of cigarettes and joints. Teenagers were gross and, yet, Bradley was somehow appalled every week. 

He was musing and humming along to his CD player when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Bradley practically jumped out of his skin and swung his trash grabber in a wide arc.

“Whoa there,” Max said calmly, his hands playfully raised. “Didn’t mean to spook you.”

“No?” Bradley said, tearing his headphones off. Inexplicably humiliating, the opening notes of Hey Jealousy by the Gin Blossoms could be heard blaring from them before he paused his CD. He felt an icy hot sensation running down his back. He did his best not to just stare at Max with a slack jawed, wide eyed look of panic. 

Despite how unsettled he felt, he couldn’t help but take in Max’s appearance. He was rapidly cataloging everything Max. His hair looked different; now the sides were a little more close cropped and his curly fringe fell over his brow instead of his eyes. He had changed the piercings that sat under his lip so they were pointed little spikes instead of the little steel balls Bradley was used to seeing. He stood casually, and grinned widely, the gap in his teeth prominent, and his lightly freckled cheeks pink, presumably from the heat. Most upsetting, he stood so close, Bradley had to tilt his chin up a bit to look into his eyes. 

What a fucking dick, Bradley thought. He ignored how warm he suddenly felt. 

“Long time no see,” Max drawled, crossing his arms loosely. He looked rather pleased with himself. “You been keeping busy?”

Bradley shrugged, trying to casually gesture with his grabber to the ridiculous heaps of litter in which they were standing. “Well, you know.”

“Thanks for not taking my head out with that,” Max said, paradoxically leaning further into Bradley’s space.

“Maybe don’t sneak up on me then,” Bradley scoffed.

“But then I wouldn’t get to hear you scream.” 

Bradley stared into Max’s smirking face, alarm bells going off in his head while a smaller, barely contained part of his brain burst into confetti and doves. His stomach felt as though it was doing a full loop de loop at the mere implication of Max’s taunt. 

Actually, now that he was already considering it– had they always sustained this much eye contact? Bradley tried to mentally run through their previous verbal altercations and gauge if they had always been this… direct. Intense. He reasoned that his feelings – however loathsome – were important to consider as he tried to read the situation. Surely, his stupid embarrassing feelings were colouring how he was reading any of it.

This is normal, he decided. Just regular ole shit talk. Even so, he needed an exit strategy.

“Fuck off, Goof,” he finally managed, tiredly taking a step back.

He noticed Max’s smile fade a little into something more sincere, less mocking. “Haven’t seen you around in ages. Figured you might like to, I don’t know, hit the skatepark later… you know Bobby’s around to hang so it wouldn’t be like, uh...” 

At this, Max trailed off and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

“That sounds…,” Bradley trailed off. He looked around the parking lot and gave Max a meaningful look. “This might take a while though. And after–”

“I get it.” Max cut in, waving his hands a bit. “You’re probably tired and I bet it’s been a long week–”

“Right! And normally–”

“For sure–”

“Wren’s been on my ass–”

“Yeah, she can be a bit–”

“But I hope you and Bobby have fun,” Bradley finished.

They stood there for a moment, both very still. Bradley turned his face away and waited, hoping the right words to diffuse the awkwardness might find him. Finally, Max chuckled, tightly tucked his hands into his sides and shrugged. “Okay, well, it was nice to catch up.”

“Yeah,” Bradley nodded. 

Max began to slowly retreat for a moment before he abruptly turned around. “I will see you around though, right?”

Bradley refrained from reminding Max Goof of all people that he was looking at several more weeks of court mandated community service and that if Max wanted to find him, it was quite easy. “Yeah?”

“Oh good,” Max smiled. “Sort of had the idea that you were avoiding me or something.”

Bradley forced out a strained laugh. “The world doesn’t revolve around you, Goof.”

“Oh sure. Because I’m the one who needs the reminder.”

Bradley turned his back to avoid watching him walk back into the building.

Eventually Bev returned from her supposedly well earned vacation. To do exactly what or where, Bradley couldn’t say, but it meant that the old Wren – regular, chicken-with-its-head cut off, speed-walking-champion, terse-but-not-mean Wren – was back. 

Bradley was rather enjoying the return to their holiday weekend rapport. Something about one’s community service supervisor supplying one with weed allowed an odd friendship to blossom– and, in their case, a camaraderie built on a foundation of sly barbs, dry sarcasm and a love of complaining.

On one occasion, he offhandedly asked if there was anything she needed. Wren looked nonplussed at how uncomfortable and open ended the offer was and hesitantly declined. During his lunch break, he picked up an overpriced smoothie for them each. She gave him a small smile, and neither acknowledged the gesture.

What Bradley didn’t particularly enjoy was Wren’s capacity for overwhelmingly astute observation and shameless insinuation.

“Max is off today,” she said idly, flipping through one of the many colour-coded staff logs she kept under the front desk.

It was the following Monday and another unreasonably hot afternoon. The children had all been supplied with ice packs and freeze pops to temper the heat and many had opted to do an indoor activity rather than step outside. The distant cacophony of dozens of children spread out across several activity rooms served as a sort of ambient blanket of noise for Bradley. He stood at the front desk, diligently engaged with the Sisyphean task of trying to come up with a fresh new angle for his daily reflection. He hummed distractedly at Wren.

“But, I guess I don’t really have to tell you that,” she continued.

“Sorry– what was that?” Bradley asked, after a beat. He looked up to see Wren’s wide gaze fixed on him.

“I don’t have to tell you that Max is off today,” she repeated smoothly.

“I barely speak to Max.”

“And yet, you know his schedule,” she said slowly. “I just figured. Y’know, with the way you’ve been doing a great job of avoiding him.”

“I’m not avoiding him.”

“But you do know his schedule.” 

They stared at one another as Wren’s lips slowly curled into a smug smile. Finally, she shrugged and walked away, allowing Bradley to try to return his reflection.

God, he really couldn’t stand her.

Obviously, he had begun checking Max’s schedule every morning since the parking lot debacle in order to best avoid speaking with him. Though he felt avoid was a bit extreme to describe his tactics for maintaining a careful distance between them. Bradley didn’t make it a point to disappear whenever he was nearby anymore. Max had already let on he was aware he had been doing just that. Instead, Bradley was walking a very fine line. 

It was all very simple: when Max was on his breaks or engaged in activity prep or some otherwise solo activity, he knew to make himself scarce. However, he allowed himself to be found milling around or walking by as Max taught a class or supervised an activity. From afar, Bradley would catch his eye and Max would grin widely and wave to him. He would casually wave back and ignore the flushed, lightheaded feeling this simple exchange would inspire. 

He thought back to Max’s earnest expression after they’d spoken. Sort of had the idea that you were avoiding me or something. What a nightmare. This way he could hope that his absence would be read by Max as wholly incidental. 

See, Bradley thought to himself as he lay in bed every night halfheartedly considering the extent of his machinations, I’m not even avoiding him. I’m simply busy when he isn’t. It’s an awful coincidence.

Over the following week, once or twice or a dozen times, he would feel Max’s eyes on him. Sometimes he would give into the impulse to look up from trimming the rose bushes by the front entrance or sweeping in the lobby and catch him. Max would smile and stare for a moment before looking away with a curious flush across his nose and cheeks. Increasingly, Max’s gaze seemed a bit distant, maybe a bit confused. Bradley refused to consider why that might be.

It was all so terribly stupid, Bradley thought. He was so stupid.

This all started on the Fourth of July when they had become friendly. They were friends. This was what Max did – he was a sociable person who practically collected goodwill. The people person, the community centre mascot, possibly the most well liked guy at Chesterton. Bradley continuously reminded himself he was simply earning the same attention literally anyone else who hadn’t spent a year antagonizing Max would’ve received. Max liked people. Really, the fact Max could care about Bradley at all was testament to how much of a saint the idiot was.

All of it nauseated Bradley but he had found solace in this turmoil having remained contained in his own head.

Fuck Wren and her all-seeing raccoon eyes, he thought.

Days later, Bradley found himself dedicating an entire afternoon to reorganizing one of the larger first floor storage closets when Bev approached him. He was crouched and sorting through multiple unlabelled cleaning solution bottles and he looked up to see Bev looking in at him from the slightly ajar door.

“Uh, hello, Bev,” he said, slowly standing. She was dressed in an orange caftan and her white hair seemed to be held in its loose bun with no fewer than three ballpoint pens.

“Ah yes, dear,” she said in her kind, magnanimous tone. It really grated on Bradley’s nerves. “Well, Kit– you know Kit–”

As a matter of fact, Bradley did not know of anybody named Kit.

“–had a birthday today. There’s far more cake than anyone knows what to do with and so I thought I’d invite you to share some before the afternoon staff arrive.”

She stood with her hands clasped and Bradley got the distinct impression that it was probably best he accept some cake. He looked around at the mess he’d made by removing every item from every shelf of the closet. “Yeah, okay.”

In the staff kitchen, Bev held up a knife he wasn’t entirely confident she could wield and carefully cut him a slice. The cake itself was a lumpy, green, homemade buttercream monstrosity. 

She handed him his slice on a paper plate and turned to dig into her own, humming happily. Bradley reluctantly shoved a large forkful into his mouth and swallowed sharply. Fuck, it was good. Small miracles, he supposed. 

After several minutes of shared silence, Bev turned to Bradley. “How have you been doing? I’ve been meaning to ask how your holiday had gone.”

“Um,” Bradley said, confused. “I’ve been good. It was good.”

“Oh?” She murmured, curiously. 

“Yeah, I spent the Fourth with Wren and… and, uh, her folks.” The back of his neck began to feel hot. 

“Yes, yes,” Bev looked at him with an amused, knowing expression. “I’m glad you had the opportunity to become better acquainted with more of Spoonerville. Which reminds me—”

He expected her to go on but she instead turned back to the cake and, with trembling hands, cut herself another, far larger slice. Bradley, baffled and frustrated, watched as she dug in again and on her second bite, finally said, “Have you considered how you might contribute to the Exhibition?”

Bradley looked on, confused, as Bev made quick work of her slice. “I’m sorry, what?”

“The Exhibition, dear,” Bev said, primly, elegantly dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a Kermit the Frog party napkin. “That package Wren gave you on your first day should have all the details you need but it’s the community centre showcase. The children and youth spend this month preparing and in August. All of Spoonerville attends to enjoy their talents.”

He thought back to his first day and vaguely recalled a manilla packet of some sort. He’d have to fish it out of one of the piles of books and paperwork carefully and precariously stacked in his bedroom closet when he had the chance. 

“I’m sure this has something to do with that mural being painted by the lobby?”

“Yes!” Bev clapped her hands. “Precisely. Gosh, you’ve been so engaged.”

Bradley felt his face immediately heat with embarrassment. He turned back to his remaining bit of dessert and offered, “Zara talked to me about helping with the— the mural.”

“Of course,” Bev smiled serenely. “Zara is a free spirit but she’s practical. It’d make sense she’d snag you first.” 

“… snag me?” he interjected, indignantly. 

“Oh yes, Bradley,” she said, unruffled by his tone. “It’s a small community and everyone likes a helping hand on occasion.”

Bradley wasn’t sure how to respond to that. He suspected she was waiting for him to say more, but the silence stretched thin for several moments.

“Well, I’ve certainly had my fill,” Bev said, gesturing toward the cake and staring at it wistfully as though mentally denying herself another slice. She made her way toward the door. “It was lovely speaking with you, Bradley. I’ll see you at the first Exhibition planning committee meeting.”

A planning committee? Christ, that sounded tedious. 

He took a moment after she left to consider their conversation but then shrugged it off. Bev was Bev. 

But a second slice sounded like a good idea, actually. 

Once or twice that week, Bradley bumped into Dennis who seemed inexplicably happy to see him. Bradley, taken aback that the old man wasn’t somehow privy to his colourful frustrated internal monologue every time they worked together, did his best to return the genial pleasantries and follow up on details of Dennis’ life. It felt quite odd to consider that Dennis might be fond of him but he had no evidence to suggest otherwise so Bradley met him with a half smile and a half joke and nodded attentively as Dennis made every short story long. There was a rhythm to it and Bradley found he hardly minded. It reminded him of Mr. MacPherson.

Maybe just as surprising, Zara had begun to think they were the very best of friends. She waved excitedly to him whenever they crossed paths, ambushed him in the staff room with updates on the children’s potential mural plans, and laughed at his confused, dry quips as he wondered why on earth she was speaking to him. 

Zara was just so bright. Quite often, she would accessorize her colourful hair with glitter or beads or little clips. She didn’t seem to own a single work outfit that didn’t have paint all over it. She was small and she was adorable and yet, she ran her art classes like a well oiled machine. She always spoke in a deceptively calm, melodic tone, sweetly chastising and redirecting the children back to their activities. It was really something. Bradley often found himself charmed before quickly reminding himself he wasn’t the only one. 

It never really worked though. Bradley felt concerned there was some evidence to support a budding friendship when she’d invited him to join one of her youngest groups later that afternoon.

“We’re exploring portraiture a bit which feels like a big undertaking for young kids,” she’d shared nervously. 

It turned out she didn’t have much reason to worry. The five to seven crowd were insane and their art work reflected their bonkers sensibilities. Bradley strongly considered the possibility some children simply didn’t own a mirror at home. Some of Zara's more grounded suggestions went ignored as the children took more imaginative approaches to recreating themselves.  

A wonderfully chatty Archie opted for a shade of forest green for his own likeness. Like a Ninja Turtle, he explained to Bradley, rolling his eyes. Two children opted to “trade” hair colours. Another insisted he was a ghost and that his blank canvas was technically a complete piece; Bradley tried not to look very amused as he left Zara to cajole the child into participating.

Soon the activity room was a simmering, contained chaos. 

Zara moved like a hummingbird from student to student; her eyes saw all and she sang twice as many praises as she did supply admonishments. Bradley, for his part, mostly circled their work tables, cleaning up messes, retrieving extra supplies, and nodding along, with equal parts enthusiasm and reserve, as kids shared their works in progress. Creative licence was being exercised liberally. 

He was crouched, intently listening to a young girl, Christina, explain why she had given herself bat wings, when he looked up and noticed Max leaning in the doorway. He seemed to be taking in the scene though he hadn’t noticed Bradley yet. Zara— looking serene and in her element— waltzed over to speak with him.

He mentally noted it had been six days since his Avoid Max 2.0 schemes had begun and felt himself shrink a little.

Absurdly, Bradley sank to his knees a bit as to be slightly obscured by the round table of busy, noisy kids to which he had been distributing clean brushes. 

“Um,” Archie said, from his seat. “Mr. Bradley, are you hiding?”

“Of course not,” Bradley replied, but he remained on the floor, still somewhat listening to the bat wing pitch but mostly consumed by Max’s presence. 

He imagined he was there to check in with Zara and would be on his way, remaining completely ignorant of Bradley’s impromptu involvement in that day’s lesson. As he took him in, he thought Max looked a bit drawn. His lean against the doorframe seemed more fortifying than casual and he was murmuring to Zara in a way that seemed a bit detached.

He meant to look away and carry on when Zara turned and caught his eye, looking delighted. Before he could duck or keel over from embarrassment, she gestured a bit until Max followed her gaze. 

For a moment, they stared at one another as Bradley stood up and sheepishly waved, holding up the brush he had plausibly been searching for under the table. Max nodded but his expression was inscrutable, perhaps a bit amused, and more than a little unimpressed; his eyebrows slightly furrowed and, for once, he was not smiling. 

Bradley sharply turned his full attention toward the children, continuing to supply them with more brushes and observations on their progress. 

Eventually, Max disappeared and Zara returned to the class, taking a moment to thank him for his help again. 

After the class was wrapped up and the children were shuffled off to their next activity, he listened to Zara rambling cheerily about what a success it had all been. He ignored the knotted feeling in his stomach, the tension in his jaw, and tried very hard not to think about anything at all. 

Cringing, but frankly quite over himself, he survived the rest of the afternoon by keeping his head down. He needed to find Wren and just call it a day. 

Though when he did spot her in the lobby, she was engaged in what appeared to be an intense whispered disagreement with Max. Wren stood over a large spreadsheet laid across the front desk, looking as though she was trying to tune him out, as Max looked frustrated, wound up. If not for their body language, Bradley might not have realized they were fighting at all. 

“Max,” she groaned as he approached the desk. “I really can’t do this right now.”

“I’m just asking you to maybe–”

“Seriously, we can discuss it tomorrow,” she insisted, turning her back on him before noticing Bradley.

Bradley grimaced and, not knowing what else to do, silently slid his journal across the desk. The three of them tensed as Wren immediately signed it, the quality of his reflection going completely disregarded. Max looked from Wren to Bradley and back, before huffing exasperatedly and striding away. Bradley wasn’t necessarily perturbed by an upset Max, but Max being upset with Wren for mysterious, potentially interpersonal reasons felt like new territory. 

“Don’t mind him,” Wren said quietly as she hunched over her spreadsheet again. “I’ll check on him in a bit.”

He nodded as if it were any of his business. Though he hoped all would be resolved before he needed to speak to either of them again. What a bizarro world it would be if Wren ever again needed to reassure Bradley about Max’s behaviour. 

That evening, Bradley searched high and low for his first day manilla envelope before eventually finding it under his bed.

It was heavier than he remembered. He shook it out to find amongst the detailed outline for the Exhibition: some court papers, a conduct agreement, a community centre staff manual, a map of the centre he might’ve found handy if he’d bothered to open this when he’d first received it, and a stack of pamphlets for community resources. The last thing to flutter out as he shook the envelope was a blue business card for The Spoonerville-Augusta Distress Support Line. 

We’re here to listen, it read in bold.

He considered it for a long moment. Wren’s words, as they sat tucked away in the MacPherson backyard, floated back to him. 

You’d be my first. Not a lot of richie rich types with dumb rap sheets slumming it here with us.

He imagined her angrily putting this package together for some smarmy rich fuck up sent to make her life difficult for an entire summer, but still thinking to include the number of a helpline he’d never use. 

It was an absurd mental image. For a moment, he pictured how he might crack a joke about this to Tank. How Bradley might bask in his delighted chortle and the way Tank would gleefully slap him too hard on the shoulder. 

His amusement was soured. Tank would probably love nothing more than for Bradley to get help; for Bradley to speak to someone, even an anonymous stranger, even just to get to the bottom of why he sucked so much. 

He wished Tank were with him now. 

He wanted to sit quietly with Tank on the couch. Or rant to him as they got their reps in at the park. He wanted Tank with him, by him, without needing to explain the warring emotions in his head; he had never needed to explain anything to Tank– not the way it felt like practically every social situation he walked into filled him with dread that he needed to mask with arrogance, not how often his discomfort looked like the most scathing thing he could think to say making it past his lips, and not how he hated that people made little sense to him. 

He hadn’t ever had to say a word of it to Tank. He was still and he was there and he was warm; he calmed the giant waves of emotions lapping at the shores of Bradley’s consciousness. He missed being Tank’s problem. He missed knowing Tank had chosen to bear it.

Bradley tucked his knees into his chest and held himself tightly. Crying’s a rare, private thing, his father’s smoothly disdainful voice echoed. If you must, at least do it with the door shut.

With a sick feeling, he tucked the card and the Exhibition papers into the drawer of his bedside table, shoved everything else back into the envelope, and kicked it all back under his bed. He crawled into bed, stomach twisted in knots, too tired to think about a late dinner, and curled himself around Pip.

The bad news: the planning committee meeting took place after his workday.

The good news: there was a potluck which meant Bradley was eating real food. 

He sat cross-legged on the carpet in the corner of the preschool nap room with Zara, holding a generous portion of chicken souvlaki and rice. The other committee members, a colourful group of parents, community members, and former staff and volunteers, gathered around by the front of the room. Everyone was chatting and picking at their food idly as they waited for it to start but Bradley was too busy inhaling his meal to engage much. 

Even Zara seemed a bit tired as she stuffed her face with nearly as much gusto. Bradley was a little tickled by her focus as she scraped her plate. It was nice to consider he wasn’t the only loser college kid who couldn’t cook. For the first time, he felt somewhat grateful Bev had forced him to participate in anything. He hoped she would keep finding ways to feed him.

Delicious food aside, the meeting was as dull and logistical as he imagined it would be. There were some highlights as he listened to the other Exhibition presentations: a choir concert, a breakdancing competition, a spoken word cafe pop up, science demonstrations, a youth-ran bike repair service demonstration, a skate jam, and the home ec kids were having a bake sale. Bradley, who had always been tangentially privy to the various programming efforts, was a little bit awed as each committee member outlined the work put in. He could make out messy handwriting where kids had contributed to the pitch, before the discussion seamlessly transitioned to budget considerations.

Thankfully, as the latest recruit for juvenile mural painter wrangling, he was left mostly off the hook. Zara had patted his hand appreciatively while introducing him to the group. She then launched into a detailed plan for how they were going to transform the wall by the front lobby into a mural commemorating the centre’s history. She sparkled and Bradley couldn’t help but feel pleased for her.

She approached him when it was all wrapped up.

“Aaah, thank you for being here,” she said quietly. They stood in the hall and she was holding both of his hands in each of her own; Bradley couldn’t bring himself to withdraw. “I was so nervous.”

“You did a great job,” he reassured her. She shrugged, bashfully.

“You should go. I have one more thing to do,” she said, waving him away gently, and ducking back into the room.

He stepped outside into the sweltering evening heat to see the only other car in the staff parking lot besides his was Max’s. He froze for a moment praying he may get out of this unscathed but he could make out the silhouette of his curly head and noticed all of his windows were rolled down. 

He began to walk toward the other end of the lot where he was parked, when Max’s head perked up and he turned a little to catch him. 

Bradley gave him a small wave, grimacing, but Max, friendly neighbourhood ball of sunshine Max Goof, only frowned. Oh okay, well fuck me then. Now that Bradley was closer he could see Max looked tired and was not dressed in one of his ridiculously oversized t-shirts he came to work in everyday. Instead, he was wearing a white tank top. Which was, hmm, not at all interesting. 

Bradley wished he knew how to act like a normal person anymore, but decided scurrying to his car while Max watched him with narrowed eyes was probably not the best move. He was practically ten feet away from Max’s car anyway, so he extended his version of an olive branch.

“You’re here late.”

“I’m Wren’s ride home.” Max only continued to give him an unimpressed look. 

“Right.”

Silence. Well, Bradley thought, can’t say I didn’t try.  

“Something I can help you with?” Max asked, sharply, before Bradley could think to just walk away. 

Despite the fact a healthy amount of hostility was par for the course for their former rivalry, Bradley felt put off by this. For one thing, Max had rarely instigated their arguments, even then. And for another, what could Max be pissed at him for? He was hardly ever around. They had spoken a handful of times practically all month. 

“What’s crawled up your ass?” he replied, indignantly. 

“A lot of things. What do you care?”

“I don’t.” 

Max laughed, a harsh bitter sound. “Go home, Bradley.”

It was mean and confounding and unwarranted and so unlike Max. He thought it was probably best he walk away and forever pretend he wasn’t affected by Max’s angry gaze. Finally, he turned away and Bradley felt his chest seize. He immediately thought of the warmth of the MacPherson’s dimly lit backyard and Max pressed into him and their shared drunken laughter and the sparklers Max held lighting up his face and Max’s impassioned, unintentionally backhanded praise and Max’s hot breath in his ear–

Impulsively, uncharacteristically, he walked toward the passenger door of the ancient Pontiac Sunfire with purpose, pulled the door open, and smoothly plopped himself into the seat.

“Dude –” Max sounded as mortified as he was angry.

“What is it?” Bradley demanded, turning to face him fully. “What’s your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem,” Max argued. 

Jesus Christ, the car smelled like Max. Like black tea and green apples and musk and sunscreen. Bradley avoided inhaling too deeply lest he feel lightheaded. Their sudden proximity meant he could now fully take in Max in a tank top. A sliver of Bradley’s consciousness was intently studying the spidery web of white cutting through the dark brown of his broad shoulders and down his arms.

Focus, focus, focus.

“Yes, you do,” he insisted. “You’re arguing with Wren. And you look like shit.”

Max spluttered. “I look like shit? ”

“It’s true.”

“And you give a fuck?”

“I absolutely do not.”

Max pressed his lips together. They stilled for a moment, the frenetic, angry energy giving way to something still angry but more contemplative. Max took a long steadying breath.

“It doesn’t matter now. Most of it is shit I can do nothing about.”

Bradley hummed. “Didn’t take you for a defeatist.”

“Yeah, well.” Max said resignedly, waving his hand a bit. “Sometimes I have to learn to take a hint but when I do – I don’t know, something will happen and make it all more confusing.”

Bradley couldn’t make heads or tails of such a cryptic reflection so he changed tack. “And the shit you can do something about?”

Max hesitated. 

“Bradley, this isn’t–”

“So you don’t want to talk about it?” Bradley needled.

“Quit fucking interrogating me,” Max pushed back. He leaned into the console so they were now face to face. “You can’t barely speak to me for weeks and then treat me like I’m on trial or something.”

Bradley swallowed. “Fine.”

Max sighed and he turned away, sinking into his seat. Bradley mirrored him and, for several minutes, they wallowed in that tension together. Max finally broke the silence.

“I guess I have a bit of a problem kid. Well, he’s not a problem. He’s a kid. But I’m at my limit.”

“Who’s the kid?” he asked as Max rested his forehead on his steering wheel.

“Tyler. He’s like eight. He’s new to my skateboarding drop-ins and I think he’s got a talent for it,” Max said, dully. “It’s just… he’s confident, but angry and a bit bratty. You know the type.”

“I don’t actually,” Bradley replied drily.

Max huffed a laugh; Bradley tried not to feel delighted by that. “Yeah, smart kid though. I just wish he wasn’t so obsessed with disrupting class and picking fights.”

They fell into another pensive silence; from the corner of his eye, Bradley took in Max’s profile– the sheen of sweat along his jawline, how heavy his curls looked in the heat. “Maybe he just needs to feel important.”

“Sorry?”

“If he’s good,” Bradley began tentatively, “If he’s good and he keeps showing up but causing all this trouble, maybe it’s like a control thing. And he needs a way to… feel like he’s part of something.”

Forehead still resting on the wheel, Max turned his head to look at him for a long considering moment. He still looked tired but he was smiling faintly. “And what do I do with a kid with control issues?”

“You give him something to do,” Bradley continued, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Like a job.”

“So what? I make him my little assistant and he’ll stop trying to smash his board against one of the rails?”

“Maybe. At least, he’ll be busy and have something he can be in charge of.”

“Hmm,” Max sat back a bit. “I think Wren would call this, uh, redirecting energy or something. I guess I haven’t had time to think about it practically.”

“Wren… you two, uh, good now?”

“Oh, you noticed?” Max said, sarcastically.

“Your little lovers’ quarrel?” Bradley replied. “It was hard to miss.”

“I guess we’ll be okay. I was being kind of needy,” Max shrugged. “I think I forget this is Wren’s first summer actually running things while Bev and Dennis get older. Everyone else is kind of new. I got back from college and everyone and everything is different, y’know?”

Bradley nodded. He wanted to make a small joke, change? what’s that? but refrained.

“Hey Bradley,” Max turned his entire body to face him. “Thanks, y’know… for the advice and everything.”

“Oh,” Bradley said, feeling stumped on how to respond. “It’s– it’s fine. It’s nothing.”

Max was now looking at Bradley as though he were studying him; he tilted his head slightly, not quite smiling, but face soft, leaning in a bit. “You’re sure?”

He went still. Max was so close and he felt a pull in his gut and something hot rising in his throat. Words? Vomit? Either way, he took that as his cue to leave. 

“I have to go.”

“Okay,” Max nodded slowly, still looking into his face intently. “Have a good night, Bradley.” 

“Yeah, night,” Bradley replied, more quietly than he’d intended and abruptly got out of the car.

The good news: Bradley’s skateboarding was improving somewhat, he was eating twice a day, and when he looked in the mirror, he didn’t feel a base level contempt for his appearance. 

The bad news: if Bradley had one of those memory eraser stick things from Men in Black, he'd use it on Max and then himself.

Things had changed between them, by increments and then all at once, though how or what it meant was lost on him. All he knew was that he couldn’t be bothered to avoid Max at all anymore and he seemed pleased with him. Max began to ask about his day and, if close by, would nudge Bradley with his elbow and share a private joke, send him a private smile.

Bradley felt simultaneous elation and dread. He would do his best to quip back, acknowledge Max’s mischievous looks, awkwardly return his soft smiles, but he felt unmoored and too focused on his clammy hands and upset stomach and rapidly beating heart. 

Max was a glaring distraction, but he had always been. 

He supposed it wasn’t all bad. With Max’s proximity came new things to take his focus; like the heady pleasure of getting to breathe in his scent or see his smile up close, like mentally mapping the curls at the nape of his neck or the intriguing pattern of discolouration that disappeared into his shirt collar – anyway, it wasn't so bad. Bradley hoped the effect of his proximity would eventually wane. 

In reality, he assured himself, he was just finally getting the Max Experience. He was practically a Spoonerville native if he’d managed to fall into Max Goof’s most benevolent orbit. Max liked him and, most relevant of all, he liked everyone. At least this way, Bradley didn’t have to be met with his narrowed gaze anymore. There was relief in no longer needing to dedicate quite so much time to avoiding him; he’d been exhausted and this change meant Max was happy and Bradley was managing. 

Sometimes he would catch himself, would wonder how much time was lost as he took in the line of Max’s throat, or his large hands gesticulating as he spoke, would try to imagine what anyone watching might see – did he look captivated? Was his face as impassive as he hoped? He thought anyone in Spoonerville would understand the context, understand Max’s pull. 

In private, alone in his bed when he could be most honest with himself, he wondered what anyone in his old life might think if they could see the effect Max Goof had on him now. Bradley, reduced to something small and aching and stupid by his bitter rival, the man who had bested him while he had been at his athletic peak. Worst of all, he would imagine his parents looking in at him during one of these moments like he was in a fish bowl and they were pressed against the glass. Both staring, aghast. His father, quietly rageful, and his mother with her lips pressed together in disgust and disapproval. The image would make him feel so raw and exposed, his throat would immediately close up with panic.

To be softened by a man was one thing, but by Max Goof was a particularly humiliating fate and he was succumbing to it. 

Wren, of course, noticed what was different about them, however. She had the grace to say nothing but she did give Bradley the occasional meaningful look, there was something warm and knowing about it. He elected to ignore it.

Nearly a week after Bradley had lost his fucking mind in Max’s car, he was standing at the furthest end of the soccer field, trimming the weeds by a goal post. He had been putting off addressing the grass, waiting for a milder day, but such day never came and his mornings had become increasingly busy. There was always someone ambushing him as he moved from one end of the building to the other and Bradley, as gruff and stone faced as he often was, very rarely declined. So there he was, after an early lunch of cheese, fruit and deli meat shared with Zara, attempting to maintain the field under the noon sun. 

About to pull the cord to crank the whacker again, he looked up to see Max across the way, carrying a plastic bag and making long steady strides toward him. 

“Hey,” he smiled. “It’s fucking hot out here so–”

He reached into his bag to pull out a Gatorade.

“Fuck, thanks,” Bradley gratefully reached for the bottle. “You know – should’ve thought to handle the field before noon but the day got away from me.”

“Yeah, I figured it couldn’t be avoided,” Max said, nodding sympathetically. “I actually wanted to know when when your lunch might be because – I thought –  maybe–”

“I already took it,” Bradley said, a bit too quickly but with complete sincerity.

“Oh. Oh okay,” Max said uncertainly. There was a pause as Bradley made an awkward show of trying to twist the cap off his drink with his sweaty palm. 

“Well,” Max continued. “I also wanted to ask if you would be around next week. I have one of my drop-ins for the younger kids. I, uh, wondered if it would be a good time to use your advice. Um, from earlier. And have you there.”

There was silence. Bradley, as smoothly as he could manage, took a long drink. Max waited patiently with his arms crossed, looking unsure but amused.

“Yeah, sure,” a pause and then, “Yeah, that would be good.”

“Oh,” Max looked more surprised than Bradley felt the situation warranted. His lips curled into a slow grin. “Okay, nice. I– I’ll see you then. Or y’know around.”

He made a wide, awkward gesture as if to indicate that he would be seeing Bradley on the soccer field specifically before nodding several times, and walking away.

Bradley, who had been desperately trying to act natural, finally allowed himself to take a deep breath before taking another sip of his Gatorade. Feeling better, he turned to his weed whacker and got back to work.

Later, as he passed the front desk, Bradley found Bev curiously looking for something in one of her dozen tiny apothecary drawers.

“Hi Bev,” he greeted her, haltingly. “What are you looking for?”

“Would you believe it – I’m looking for my phone charger,” she said, amused but with a rueful twist of her mouth. “Seems I’ve finally joined the land of the living.”

Bradley had time before he needed to sit down with his reflection for the day so he thought nothing of offering to help. Unfortunately, Bev was unpredictable and after finding a charger, she suckered him into having tea with her in her office. An office Bradley had previously assumed existed, but had never seen.

Dennis must do the cleaning in here, he thought as he sat in a slightly peeling but well worn leather arm chair. He was grateful he had been saved from the overwhelm because to describe her space as cluttered would have been an understatement. 

Upon first entering the room, he had watched from the doorway as she carried two cups of tea on saucers, lithely maneuvering her way until she perched both on the edge of the desk. And oh, the desk – covered in stacks of files and loose sheets of paper; upon closer inspection, they looked to be community newsletters, sign up sheets, volunteer forms, some blank HR forms. There were at least three chipped coffee mugs, all of which had paintbrushes sitting in old paint water. A dish of loose change and silver rings, and a pen in every colour imaginable scattered in what looked like a homemade bit of pottery.

On the walls were collages of faded photos, littered slapdash; a framed photo of a rabbit hung just above Bev’s head where she was seated across from him. There was just so much to look at: jars, buttons, jars of buttons, a calligraphy set in the corner, stacks of old annotated calendars, bundles of dried bouquets hanging upside down from the ceiling. An entire woven basket was overflowing with what seemed to be drawings and handmade cards from children. Along the windowsill sat succulents that reminded Bradley of the ones in his apartment, and, further along, were four incense sticks burning in a leather holder.

It was a room specifically designed to give Bradley a panic attack. He felt something warm in his chest.

The two of them sipped their tea for a moment, Bev humming to herself and Bradley still taking mental notes as he looked around.

“How long have you been in Spoonerville now, Bradley?” she asked softly, both hands cupping her tea as though to warm herself despite the July heat.

Bradley found himself mirroring her tone, her posture. “This would be week seven.”

“Oh, time has flown,” she said, after a pause. “The way the staff tell it, it feels like you’ve always been around.”

Bradley had nothing to say to that so he took the tiniest sip of his tea. 

“How have you been finding your time?”

“Fine,” he said quickly. A pause, then, “it’s hard sometimes but mostly good.”

“Mostly good?”

“Dennis leaves me to my work. Wren is around. I – I spend time in the art room with Zara.” He cleared his throat. “It could be going a lot worse.”

Bev raised her eyebrows, and said nothing for a long stretch. Then she asked, conspiratorially, “Would you like to see a bit of something I’ve been working on?”

Bradley nodded quickly, hoping it had something to do with the calligraphy set. 

The rest of the day felt enveloped in that room at that moment. Tea, and Bev’s chaotic office, and getting to quietly watch her surprisingly steady hand drag black ink across white card stock.

Friday was Pool Day, which took place every two weeks at the West Spoonerville Community Wave Pool. Kids with community membership passes entered free—young kids in the morning, older kids in the afternoon. It involved a ton of staff supervision and seemed like the one day nobody could book off.

It all sounded like a nightmare to Bradley, who actually relished the fact fewer children and youth would be milling around while he completed his task list. For whatever reason, more and more of them had begun approaching him lately—to make idle chit-chat or ask for help with something. He was unsure how to communicate that he was neither an authority figure nor an employee, and was instead a privileged asshole enduring a slap on the wrist for hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth of property damage and risk to public safety.

Even so, he struggled to ignore their pleas.

On one occasion, he had been roped into helping a group of teenagers set up a TV and VCR in the spare recreation space, only to learn they were planning to watch something called Akira .

He was holding up the VHS box and reading the back of it skeptically while half a dozen fifteen-year-olds pleaded their case. Thankfully, Wren appeared.

“You know anything about this?” he asked.

She looked at him, puzzled. “Obviously it's a no – forget it. I already told them no.”

Bradley shrugged, happy to be on the outside of whatever was going on.

“That’s that then,” he said, turning to the kids, who all let out comically deep, drawn out sounds of aggrievement. Bradley tried not to laugh in their faces. It was a shame, really; the movie actually looked kind of cool.

When he drily relayed the story to Max, he gave Bradley a slightly incredulous look, then guffawed loudly and tried to hide his laughter in his sleeve. Bradley was a little baffled but felt sure anyone looking would have seen him unabashedly glowing with satisfaction. He allowed himself the moment anyway.

This Friday was different because Bradley was suddenly pulled into the web of Pool Day logistics. Remember to bring some swim trunks and a towel tomorrow, Wren had called after him with little explanation as he ducked out of the centre lobby to enjoy his Thursday evening. 

So here he was, bright and unreasonably early, standing by the lobby front desk and waiting for further instruction. Extra set of eyes, ears, hands, Zara had told him cheerily when he caught her in the staff break room, we always need them. Sounded fun.

Before long, he was joined by Delilah, Zara, Max, Bev, and nearly thirty children. It was barely contained chaos leading them out of the centre and onto the sidewalk as the children marched in a gleeful procession on the fifteen minute journey to the wave pool.

It wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Despite the fact the entire group was under ten years old, there was a familiarity with the routine that they all neatly filed toward the change rooms. All Max and Bradley had to do was tuck their things in a locker and then stand in the doorway counting heads as all the boys tried their best not to run toward the pool. It was a sensory nightmare but a logistical cake walk.

There was also the small detail that, at some point, Max might discard his own shirt to get into the pool but that was eating up no more than a third of Bradley’s brain. He was cool and collected. 

It was a bit trickier, of course, when Max finally did get in. He was wearing green swim trunks and standing in the middle of the shallow end surrounded by a ring of children as they played Marco Polo. Zara was seated cross-legged in a lounge chair where she handed out towels and kept company with the children who wanted a break. Delilah and Bev alternated between getting in the pool to play and keeping anyone from venturing toward the deep end.

For his part, Bradley sat on the edge, a bit further away. He had his swim trunks but kept his shirt on, kicking his feet a bit and dutifully scanning and counting heads. He was terrified at the prospect of one of these runts drowning because he was too busy, for example, idly studying the muscles in Max’s back or, uh, thinking about how the water weighed down his curls until they brushed his shoulders. For example.

Max eventually swam up to Bradley, nudging him playfully. “There are four other staff members and two lifeguards and all the kids are at the shallow end. You can get in for a bit, y’know.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” Bradley said, looking well over the top of Max’s head and making a show of his constant left, right, right, left scanning. All accounted for.

“I’ll make you get in,” Max threatened, but he had a gleam in his eye that caused Bradley mild alarm.

“I’d like to see you try–” but Bradley was already being shoved by two pairs of small hands. He righted himself so that he was standing, shirt drenched, pride only slightly bruised as peals of children’s laughter echoed around the pool.

“Max fucking Goof,” he said lowly, gritting his teeth. “I’ll kill you.”

Max was smiling more widely than he had ever seen him; he leaned a bit into Bradley. “You promise?” 

“We are at work.”

“Best have some fun then.” And then he left Bradley to peel off his sopping wet shirt.

Bradley had fun. 

He could admit that to himself and himself alone. He had zero interest in catching Max’s eye and seeing that self satisfied grin for the fortieth time that morning. Bradley had spent a half hour playing Sharks and Minnows in the leading role of The Shark before finally dragging himself out and refusing to get back in. He had limits, damnit.

The trek back felt less enthused. The under ten crowd was exhausted and hungry and so Bradley became privy to the sound of their dragged feet and whining. So much whining, a choral breath of just whining.

The good news: as soon as they reached the centre, the staff took over and readied the children for lunch time, leaving Bradley to return to his Friday routine.

The bad news: even with a packed change of clothes, Bradley badly needed a shower and was strongly considering just going home for the day.

More bad news: at the first sign of Bradley’s distress, Max approached him with a bottle of shampoo and body wash he had retrieved from his car, of all places, and suggested Bradley use the community centre showers.

The worst news imaginable: Bradley, too embarrassed to explain to Wren why he needed to go home, did just that and then spent the rest of his work day smelling of green apples and musk. 

If Max Goof cottoned on to the deeply loaded offer of supplying him with his own shower products, Bradley couldn’t tell. He completed the rest of his tasks in a daze. Every time he caught a whiff of himself, he couldn’t help but think back to Max’s smile, Max’s gaze, Max’s low murmur in his ear. Disoriented and going through the motions, he was thankful he was left alone to go about his business until it was time to go home. It was bad enough Wren had given him a strange look as she leaned across the desk to sign his reflection and he’d flushed to the tips of his toes.

When he finally got home, he was exhausted enough to launch himself into bed at 4:30 pm but considered the thought of his sheets and pillow and Pip smelling as he did at that moment. He stepped into the shower and scrubbed himself raw. His thoughts were buzzing, something felt lodged in his throat.

He didn’t allow himself to think about it for a moment longer before tucking himself in and succumbing to sleep.

Bradley was unsurprised to learn that Max was a highly organized instructor.

As the children gathered around, already wearing all of their safety gear, Max introduced him to the group. Some of the kids were already familiar with him and waved enthusiastically. The rest must’ve sensed him more as an ominous custodial presence and were puzzled to see him upfront and centre.

“Bradley is going to help us out today and he suggested that we choose one of you to act as our assistant,” Max said in his warm, measured teacher tone. 

Bradley didn’t need to guess who Tyler was; he was the only child glowering right at Max. Bradley was taken aback that someone so small could contain so much palpable resentment and bitterness. He almost let out a bark of inappropriate laughter when he spotted him.

“Uh, hi,” Bradley piped up, a beat too long after Max finished speaking. “I’m Bradley and I’m here to get to know all of you and see your progress. We, uh, thought having one of you help us demonstrate basic safety and some moves would be a cool change of pace.”

He pretended to scan the small crowd of mostly eager faces before continuing. “Max has shared with me how many of you have been enthusiastic and shown a lot of promise, so based on that… is Tyler here today?”

All of the children looked around until they spotted him toward the back. Tyler’s reaction was one of complete surprise, before his face darkened a bit. He stared at Bradley skeptically. Thankfully, none of the other kids pointed out how bullshit this selection process was and instead looked on in polite bafflement and slight disappointment.

“Ah, there you are,” Bradley said as soothingly as he could manage. “Why don’t you come up by me and lead the stretches?”

Tyler, suspicious but disarmed, came up to the front. He was a mere wisp of a child and Bradley would’ve questioned Max having referred to the child as a “complete hellion" if it weren’t for the way he came to stand next to Bradley, giving him a hard once over. 

“Right,” Bradley continued undeterred. “Start us off.”

And so Max stepped back as Bradley prompted Tyler to review safety, equipment, and lead a warm up. Each time Bradley urged him to continue, he would shoot Bradley, and sometimes Max, a distrustful look but his voice didn’t waver as he took the other children through the parts of the board. As Tyler explained ways to fix one’s stance and push off, Bradley stood behind him and silently demonstrated. 

The kids who had long since conceded to Tyler’s authority, oohed and aahed.

“Has Mr. Bradley been on TV like Max?” a girl with pigtails peeking out of her helmet asked.

At this, Tyler turned to Max and Bradley as though they had personally disrupted his lesson, and gestured as if to ask, well, have you?

“I–” Bradley began uncertainly.

“Oh yeah,” Max interjected. “He was the best. At least, until I came around.”

At this, the group began to titter and whisper. Tyler rolled his eyes and continued with what he was saying. Confused by what had just unfolded, Bradley looked at Max who only smiled and winked playfully. Bradley hoped the hot sun might explain his flush.

After Tyler’s walkthrough, the children spread out to practice, mostly in groups of two or three. Tyler alone chose to break away and stood in a corner practicing his turns. He didn’t look angry; instead he looked sullen, contemplative maybe.

Max and Bradley circled around the rest of the group correcting stances and redemonstrating moves before Bradley finally broke off to check in on Tyler.

Tyler sensed his approach but didn’t stop to acknowledge him, only tensing and tucking his head between his shoulders a bit. Bradley kept his distance.

“How long have you been practicing?”

“Since I was six,” Tyler replied defensively, finally stopping. He was trying to stare Bradley down again. This kid.

“You started younger than me,” he replied mildly. “My parents didn’t let me touch a board until I was ten.”

“That sucks,” Tyler sighed, almost sounding sympathetic.

“Yeah, parents can suck.”

Too quickly, Tyler took a step forward, staring at Bradley even harder somehow. “You can’t say that.”

“Why can’t I?”

“Because,” he waved his hands exasperatedly like he was speaking to an idiot, “they’re your parents.”

“They’re people. People can suck sometimes. I suck sometimes.”

Tyler just stared at him in dismay and then looked away as though he needed a moment to consider this. 

“I suck sometimes,” he said, looking down at his hands.

“Not today, you didn’t,” Bradley said gently. “Today you were really cool and helpful.”

“But – but you didn’t even need my help!” Tyler shouted like he’d been waiting to make this crucial point. Bradley was grateful Max had already led the rest of the group into the building before this escalated, but now he was left to reason with the world’s angriest and most perceptive eight year old. “You tricked me!”

He inwardly sighed.

“Okay, so maybe Max or I could’ve taught the lesson and it would’ve been fine but everyone else needed you. Everybody here today managed a successful push off and foot brake. Everyone remembered the safety rules.”

Tyler fell silent, seemingly caught between absorbing the praise and the betrayal of being tasked with an unnecessary role.

“You did great today,” Bradley continued. “Hey, maybe one of those kids will end up on TV someday because you taught them how not to crack their heads open on the pavement. That’s a big deal.”

“Or I could,” Tyler interjected boldly. “I could be on TV.”

“You could,” Bradley replied, “but I think that would be far less surprising.”

Something like pride flickered across Tyler’s features. After a while, he allowed Bradley to walk him back into the centre to join his group.

Trying to debrief his conversation with Tyler was difficult when Max kept gazing at him like he’d singlehandedly solved world hunger.

It was the end of the day and they were standing by the front desk waiting for Wren; Bradley because his reflection needed a signature and Max because he needed to borrow twenty bucks. Apparently, Max explained, he and Wren had been passing the same twenty bucks back and forth for nearly a decade and it was likely the foundation of their friendship. Bradley chose not to inquire any further.

“Listen,” Bradley said, wanting to cut the discussion short. “Just don’t talk to the kid like he’s a kid. He has authority issues and he just sort of… needs something more real. Also, I think he might hate you specifically.”

Max looked stunned, taking this in for a moment, before he just stepped a bit closer. “I think that just means you should be at all future sessions Tyler attends.”

“No.”

“Why not? I think you’re good for him,” Max said, his voice a little more insistent. “Plus, I don’t know if I can survive another meltd–”

“Fine,” Bradley cut in. “Fine. Please stop talking. I’ll consider it.”

Max smiled, really he was standing far too close now, staring at Bradley, leaning in–

“What do you two want?” Wren said, striding in, making them both jump.

“Sign this.”

“Twenty bucks, please.”

Wren gave them both a weighted, skeptical look. Bradley avoided her gaze but Max only grinned at her. She sighed, fishing into her pocket and slapping a twenty dollar bill into Max’s extended hand.

“Thank you most kindly,” he said with feigned somber. “I shall use it to purchase pizza.”

Wren rolled her eyes as she pulled Bradley’s notebook toward her. “What are your plans for later?”

Bradley, who had no reason to assume he was being spoken to, said nothing but Max excitedly replied, “Oh, I was going to hit the skatepark; they just reinforced all the rails. I was just about to ask Bradley if he’s down.”

Wren and Max turned their gaze on Bradley.

“Oh, that sounds great but I was going to–” Sleep. He was going to sleep. He was going to go home and honk shoo honk shoo mimimi to his heart’s content.

“You should go,” Wren said, signing and passing his notebook back. “Lord knows, Max has told me enough about your skills–”

Max gave Wren a sharp look. “You don’t have to come, Bradley. I just thought I’d ask.”

Bradley felt a flash of panic. He wondered why Max was hesitating, and briefly considered giving into the knee jerk instinct to decline. They had quite literally just spent most of one afternoon together. The thought of seeming too available, eager, made his stomach churn. 

Though if he declined, what were the odds Max would ever ask again? He hoped he would; he desperately wanted Max to keep asking and asking and asking but that felt cruel and ridiculous. Really, it couldn’t have mattered that much to either of them. If he hadn’t attended Wren’s Fourth of July, would she have cared? Who might Max have passed the time with? Fuck, now he was preoccupied with picturing some imaginary person drunkenly curled up next to Max under the MacPherson’s fairy lights. 

He had a moment of clarity when he noticed Max and Wren were watching him. 

He cleared his throat and, impulsively, with all the false bravado he could muster, turned toward Max. “Yeah, sure. I’ve been wondering how rusty you’ve gotten.”

Max’s reaction was immediate. For possibly the first time, he looked delighted by Bradley’s shit talking. 

Chapter Text

Bradley was going to pass out from dread.

It was just after seven and he was standing nearly rooted to the ground outside a coffee shop. He was gripping a scalding cup of green tea he had just bought in order to delay the inevitable. His board was tucked between his knees and his messenger bag hung loosely across his shoulder. He hardly ignored the heat shooting up his arm as he took deep breaths to steady himself. 

Across the street was the skatepark. It was tucked slightly behind a community soccer field, half ringed by chain-link fencing. It wasn’t much to gawk at – even from his vantage point, he could see patches of cracked concrete and graffiti littered across ramps and quarterpipes. It was about what he expected. If ever there was a place that churned out someone like Max Goof, it was this. Unassuming, unglamorous, functional, well loved.

He would have had a better view if he just crossed the street already but, unfortunately for him, he was still sipping gingerly from his dangerously hot, overly steeped tea. 

Max hadn’t specified a time. Later this evening, he had said carelessly, lazily grinning and providing no further elaboration. For all Bradley knew, he was there already, smoothly showing off, limbs loose and warm.

He couldn’t do it but he had to. He had to. With a sudden surge of resolve, he abandoned all pretence, chucking his nearly full cup into the trash and marching across the street.

The park was busy. Bradley took in the cacophony of wheels clattering across metal edges, sneakers scuffing along rims, loud whoops and jeers. He watched for a moment as a teenager landed a clean kickflip near a set of stairs, earning reverent cheers from a group of younger kids. Another almost immediately wiped out trying to dive off a rail, limbs flailing as he landed, before promptly popping back up, shooting his friends a dazed thumbs up.

It was, quite frankly, inelegant. Every ramp was spray painted with overlapping graffiti tags, fresh and faded, and every rail weathered. It all had the effect of making the park look lived in. Worn, curated, and pulsing with activity. The smell of sweat, asphalt, and weed was especially potent. He couldn’t be surprised; if he’d learned anything it was that Spoonerville was seemingly the homeland of the scrappy, the lively, and the mildly delinquent. He almost smiled to himself as he recognized the irony that he, the very picture of a WASPish spoiled brat, was the one with the rap sheet.

He circled the perimeter for a few minutes, scanning the crowd to find Max. He quickly found him at the bottom of the wide bowl, mid-run, his wheels cutting through the air as he smoothly glided toward the rim. He looked good — devastatingly good — knees loose, shoulders relaxed, fluid. He landed effortlessly and immediately spotted Bradley, breathing a bit hard, cheeks flushed, his smile widening into a grin. 

“You showed!” he called out gleefully. 

Bradley approached him steadily. “I said I would.”

“Well, yeah–”

“And I was curious how washed you’d gotten.”

Max beamed at him. “Are we getting a return of Asshole Bradley?”

“He never left,” Bradley replied, crossing his arms loosely.

Max snorted, brushing his sweaty curls off his forehead. “It’s a zoo in here but it’ll slowly clear out when the streetlights come on.”

“Alright,” Bradley said, making a point to look away and give the park a long, sweeping look. “Let’s do it.”

Max smiled, looking as though he was reaching out to give him a fist bump, but instead he grasped Bradley’s shoulder, his hot palm squeezing, shaking him a bit excitedly. Bradley tensed but didn’t retreat. “Let’s do it.”

To put it delicately, the warm up was a bit of a shit show for Bradley. His body would not cooperate – his joints were tight, his timing off. Despairingly, he imagined he was moving with as much grace as a hermit crab trying desperately to squeeze into an old shell. Max, for his part, stayed close by but didn’t comment, just gliding circles around him, idly landing trick after trick perfectly. 

“Stiff,” Max finally said, pulling up next to him after a while.

“Yeah,” Bradley replied wearily. “Haven’t been practicing much. I mean, a bit. But it’s different since ....”

He trailed off. Max said nothing, just looked at him patiently, studying him, before silently executing a clean shove-it. He stood closer to Bradley and looked at him expectantly. His hair had curled tighter and sunk low in the heat. Bradley ignored the way his shirt clung to his chest.

Pushing down the heat of simultaneous embarrassment and relief rising in his cheeks, he replicated the basic move with a little less finesse and Max smiled. 

For a long while, they slipped into something like a game. Max would land a combo, and Bradley would either try to replicate his move or return with something simple but clever, more precise. They traded tricks, smiling at one another after every well executed move. They were garnering some attention, though Bradley assumed it was really Max’s spotlight. Max Goof, local legend, riffing with a stranger. The instinct to feel envious reared its head but this time it was softer – muddled. Bradley felt grateful that he was basically unrecognizable, changed by a long summer in the sun — in Spoonerville, and dressed more casually than he might’ve previously allowed himself. He was wholly outside his original context. 

Bradley burst out laughing as he watched Max pull off another ridiculous manual combo. “You’re a show off.”

Max walked his board back toward him, spreading an arm out proudly like a true showman. “What can I say? There’s a crowd and flair is my civic responsibility.”

Bradley rolled his eyes. He tried not to stare at Max’s hand gripping his board, or the way he kept pushing back his floppy, sweaty hair. His gaze was warm, his smile teasing, and, despite the onlookers, he was clearly directing all of his attention at Bradley. Bradley was being treated to the full Max Experience turned up to eleven. It made him want to jump into an open manhole.

Needing a break, he gestured toward the bench by the fence. Max nodded, peeling off to run some lines by the funbox. Bradley sighed in relief. 

Taking a seat, Bradley took several moments to breathe deep. He was collecting himself. He was fine. Things were going fine. Even if he was sweating profusely, and blushing, and his brain was rapidly offering up as many exit strategies as it was zeroing in on Max’s smile or his arms or his hair. Despite all of it, he was fine. He briefly locked his knees as if to make a break for it while Max was preoccupied with demonstrating a move to a younger teenager – but he stayed seated and focused instead on grounding himself. He took inventory of his body – the warmth in his joints, the satisfied exhaustion creeping in, the steady thrum of his pulse from exertion. 

From afar, he noticed Max quite obviously glancing at him over his shoulder as he landed a trick. He noticed Bradley caught him and didn’t shy away, just stood there smiling cheekily at him and gesturing at himself as if to draw his attention. Bradley played along and, in a rare moment of silliness, made a chef’s kiss gesture, curling his fingers inward and kissing them dramatically. He saw Max laugh aloud, caught his distant guffaw.

He watched Max a bit longer — long enough for doubt to begin creeping in. 

He thought of the first time they had met when he had caught sight of Max – leading his friends past the Gamma house, gliding effortlessly across campus. Max had been completely at ease, looking back to grin at PJ and Bobby. For weeks following, and after Max’s rejection of his retrospectively underhanded offer of joining the Gammas alone, all Bradley could do was seethe as he watched him skate. Seamless, confident, charismatic, markedly unpretentious. It made this shared time at the skatepark at the behest of Max himself feel surreal. 

He couldn’t even attempt to track their trajectory and was unsure if he wanted to chance it. Clearly, as soon as Bradley stopped being an awful selfish person, Max had found in him a sad little cause; he was being extended friendship and something knowing, warm. The feeling of shame hotly crawling up his back was warring with the lightheaded feeling inspired by Max looking at him every few minutes. Of course, there were things Max couldn’t know or Bradley wouldn’t see this friendship blossom much further. 

Eventually, with his breathing steadied and his nerves more quieted, Bradley rejoined him.

As the sun dipped lower, the two of them retreated to the bench to rest, tucking their boards beneath their feet. Max had been right that the park would clear of younger kids when the streetlights came on. There were still pockets of young adults and teens hanging around the bowl but the chaos had simmered into a low hum.

They sat in shared silence. Both of them, sweaty and tired, eating from a bag of gummy worms Max had conjured from somewhere; presumably his back pocket if how warm and tacky they felt were any indication. 

Max pulled his phone out to read a text. Bradley respected his privacy, choosing to look straight ahead.

“My dad,” Max explained anyway. “He, uh, he sends me daily ‘I love you’ texts.”

“Your dad must have a great phone plan.”

“Ha, no,” a pause, “Okay, maybe. I think it’s more like a mixture of his old helicopter parenting and guilt.”

“What would Goof Sr. have to feel guilty about?”

“I guess for leaving Spoonerville, selling the house, moving to be with Sylvia in the city. That whole thing.”

Bradley hummed. “A dad with a guilty conscience. I didn’t even know dads came in that model.”

“No? What’s yours like?”

Bradley laughed bitterly. “You don’t want to know.”

“Wait – you’re the third, right?” Max said, sitting up a bit. “So that would make your dad Bradley Uppercrust the Sec–”

“Don’t. He’s like Beetlejuice except it takes just the once.”

“Damn,” Max laughed. He had a way of laughing with his entire body sometimes. “I guess I should stop complaining.”

“You should,” Bradley said drily. Their banter faded into something steady. He sat with Max in that moment, shoulders brushing, gummy worms finished, fingers still sticky. A thought struck him. “You and Wren work things out yet?”

Max turned his head to look at him. In his periphery, Bradley could study the last bit of sunset filtering through his mop of curls. He could feel Max’s gaze. They really were sitting too closely for two men sharing a large bench. 

“Uh, yeah,” he replied lowly. “It was mostly a miscommunication. Well, that and a build up of a lot of feelings. We’ve been friends for so long, sometimes we assume things and then we have to clear the air. It was a whole thing.”

“Gross,” Bradley blurted.

“Kinda, yeah,” Max chuckled. “But you just gotta sometimes. I’m actually hanging with her and Layla soon.”

“Sounds domestic,” Bradley said, wrinkling his nose.

“You should come.”

“I wasn’t fishing for an invite.”

“Didn’t say you were,” Max said smoothly. “Besides, Layla likes you.”

“I met her once and we barely spoke.”

“That’s probably why. You should give her the chance to get sick of you.”

Bradley laughed. “Do fuck off.”

“No seriously,” Max insisted, eyes darting between his eyes and smile. “You should come. I like them as a couple – Wren is a lot and Layla mellows her out.”

“What, like, opposites attract and all that?” Bradley said, raising a brow.

Max gave him a long look, slow and searching, a smile playing on his lips. He turned away and said quietly, “Yeah, something like that.”

“I guess I always wondered if that cliche actually plays out. Like in real life. I’m glad it works for them.”

Max leaned in just a bit, his tone teasing. “Why? You prefer to date high-strung, overly competitive nutcases like yourself?”

“You’re so funny, Max.”

“Then what is your type?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think I have one.” Bradley said. He could feel heat rising in his cheeks, his palms beginning to sweat, but something wasn’t allowing him to shy away from Max’s curiosity. Max, who was watching him with his head tilted, eyes narrowed slightly.

“No?”

“It’s stupid.”

Max sat back a bit. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It‘s just. I’ve never really dated,” Bradley said, speaking more openly than he’d done with anyone besides Tank, but still unable to meet Max’s gaze. He was unsure what came over him, but he couldn’t stop running his mouth. “Never… wanted to, really.”

Max didn’t speak, but his attention sharpened. The silence drew out for far too long. Bradley pushed through it. 

“I’m not good with people. You’ve probably noticed. Most people are hard to be around. I didn’t want people dating me because they wanted something from my family or whatever. I don’t understand flirting. And frankly, basically everyone I know is kind of gross.”

A long pause. Surprisingly, Max chuckled, a bit breathlessly, nervously. 

“That’s not stupid, Bradley. I think you just don’t like people who care about where you come from.”

Bradley smiled. “That’s probably it.”

“So what happens when you meet someone… who isn’t that?”

“I don’t know.”

Max’s expression didn’t falter. If anything, his gaze softened. 

Bradley blinked, “What?”

Max gave a shrug. “Nothing. I just think it’s kind of interesting.”

“Is that your way of calling me a freak?”

“That’s my way of saying I think I get it.”

“Oh sure.”

“No, I think I do.” Max shrugged, looking a little bit bashful for some reason. “I had a girlfriend in high school. Roxanne. Sweet, smart. She wanted to do veterinary medicine.”

Bradley looked over, then looked away. “Let me guess. She broke your heart.”

“Basically. Or maybe I told myself it was mutual. We were just… different.” He pressed his knee against Bradley’s thigh for a long moment. It felt too casual; Bradley held his breath until Max moved away again. ”I really only wanted two things in high school anyway. To date her and meet Powerline and I think I’ll hold onto one of those a bit more.”

Bradley sat up sharply. “You did not meet Powerline.”

“I was on stage with him. With my dad too.”

“How? ”

“We crashed the stage.”

“What would have possessed you to do such a thing?”

“To get the girl, obviously.”

“And there were no charges pressed?”

“Nah. He was surprisingly chill.” He spoke with a practiced casualness, picking an invisible piece of lint off the knee of his jeans, as Bradley gaped at him incredulously.

“What the fuck? It’s by some miracle I’m the only one of us completing community service,” Bradley noted, half in anger, half with amusement.

A slow smile spread across Max’s face. “Yeah, but only one of us incurred significant property damage.”

Bradley finally settled back against the bench, thinking over this bit of lore dazedly. Seriously, Powerline? He leaned into the warm press of Max’s arm.

“Anyway, not much dating since,” Max continued. “Nothing serious anyway.”

“I guess if you ambush Powerline on stage for your very first girlfriend, it would be difficult for anyone else to feel like you really liked them.”

Max laughed, fidgeting. “Yeah, I guess I didn’t give myself much room to up the ante. But that’s not why.”

“What is it then?”

“It’s complicated. I’ve been feeling preoccupied lately,” he said softly, thoughtfully. “School, and then… It's been a weird summer. What I thought I wanted changed, I guess.”

Bradley tried to process that, but the words stalled somewhere in his throat. His mind scrambled for meaning, brushing up against something hard to read. “Well, that’s not fucking cryptic or anything.”

“I’m just saying it’s fragile right now,” Max pressed his shoulder into him, giving him one of his small, private smiles. “Maybe I’ll tell you after I figure it out.”

They let that sit between them. 

Bradley felt raw, flayed open. This discussion had felt intimate and he couldn’t make sense of most of it. Skin feeling tight, jaw aching from tension, he got to his feet in search of a distraction. “Alright. One more run before we call it a night?”

Max’s eyebrows rose, but he stood too, picking up their boards and handing Bradley his. “Only one?”

Bradley stretched his arms overhead, feigning nonchalance. “I’m easing back in, remember? Don’t want to overdo it and end up on the news again.”

“That was cable access,” Max deadpanned. “At best.”

“Tell that to my mother.”

Max snorted, then nodded toward the far end of the bowl as they walked up to it. “Alright. Race you to the spine.”

“You just want to watch me fall.”

Max met his gaze. 

“Nah,” he said, casually. “I just like watching you try.”

That threw Bradley for half a beat—just long enough for Max to smirk and drop in.

The man is a peacock. Still, Bradley followed him, feeling more at ease than he had in weeks.

They looped into rhythm—smoother this time, more in sync. Max with his effortless finesse, Bradley with deliberate precision, still catching himself, still correcting. They didn’t talk, but they circled one another in a quiet choreography: carving lines, trading momentum, catching flashes of each other out of the corner of their eyes. Their laughter echoed around them, cocooning them as they orbited one another.

When Bradley bailed a landing and skidded out, Max was already hopping off his board to offer a hand. Bradley took it without thinking.

“You really have gotten rusty, Uppercrust.”

“I was distracted.”

Max made a tsk sound. “Excuses, excuses.”

“Oh fuck off.” He could hear it now. He could hear the warmth and borderline affection colouring his words. It was fucking embarrassing. 

Max must have heard it too because he stepped closer, close enough to force Bradley to lift his chin. “What distracted you?”

Instead of stepping back, Bradley put both his hands on his chest and gave him a small shove. “You were hogging the good lines.”

Max looked slightly shocked but quickly recovered. 

“I guess I was,” he conceded, grinning broadly.

Some time later, when the sun had long since set and they were nearly the last people lazily lapping circles in the park, they decided to call it a night. They parted ways by the edge of the fence, prolonging their farewell with idle observation and stupid jokes. It reminded Bradley of their trek home after Wren’s party, only they were now sober but spent, and all the dumber for it. 

Max’s body language was loose, his gaze lingering, and Bradley felt trapped in it. He only stared, tried to keep up with their banter, shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably, but didn’t rush to leave. Max would need to dismiss them both and he did. He rubbed the back of his neck in his self conscious way, gently shoved Bradley’s shoulder and said good night with careful ease. 

There was something. There could be something and Bradley couldn’t name it. But it fizzed in his belly, like a shaken can of pop, as he walked all the way home in a daze. 

Zara had mastered the art of suckering Bradley into deceptively time consuming tasks. 

Oh, Bradley, a sickly sweet caricatured version of her living in his head simpered. We should check out the community centre archives. It’ll give us and the kids so much inspiration, Bradley. This is a meaningful way to tie the kids to their shared history, Bradley.

This is how he found himself still at the centre, an hour after his day had ended, somehow roped into what Zara had insisted would be a “quick dive” into the archives. They were in a cool, dim space across from the unused kitchen; there was very little to take in apart from exposed pipes, two milk crates to sit on, and a concrete floor, and what looked like three dozen assorted stacked plastic bins, all carefully labelled ARCHIVE: DO NOT TOUCH – WREN >:( in permanent marker.

Forty years worth of a centre’s history and somehow Wren’s presence was down here too.

Zara stood next to him, taking in the volume of potential material, excitedly bouncing on the balls of her feet. She had scooped her lavender and periwinkle braids off of her neck and into a giant loose bun atop her head. This is how Bradley knew she meant business. 

“Alright,” she said determinedly. “Let’s get to it.”

He wasn’t entirely sure what to expect as he pulled down one of the bins at the top for Zara to rip the lid off of. He imagined photo albums, maybe. The odd trophy or something. Instead, she pulled out neatly bundled newspaper clippings tied with twine, curled Polaroids, rolls of undeveloped film, laminated event posters with badly kerned fonts, and a yellowing homemade card for Dennis with his name misspelled. Coating the bottom was conservatively all of the glitter in the world. Loads and loads of congealed clumps of glitter brushed up against and coated his hands as he pulled out a photo album tucked into the corner. He decided not to have an absolute conniption over it.

Zara had already moved on from sorting through the clippings and had reached into another bin to pull out a stack of photos. 

“These should be from the seventies,” she said quietly. 

They fell into a shared, focused silence. Bradley was reading someone’s unsteady, loopy cursive on the back of a photo of a small child seated at a much too large piano. Her two front teeth were missing and her coiled hair was brushed into two puffs held together by little baubles. Thank you, Miss Bev! For making me practice.

“Oh look,” Zara said breathlessly, turning to show him a photo from the stack she was holding. “It’s my dad.”

Bradley held the photo in awe. It was an old photo, faded warm, of a group of children and younger teenagers. He looked to where she was pointing to see a boy about fourteen with brilliantly coiffed hair, smiling wild and carefree at someone out of frame. His arms were thrown around two boys on either side, both of whom were also laughing. His shirt read Spoonerville Summer Jam ‘71. Someone standing slightly in the distance was holding a garden hose, their thumb over the nozzle so as to mist everyone in the foreground. Another kid near the bottom edge with visibly scraped knees was miming speaking into a megaphone. It was chaos in snapshot form.

“He’s so small,” Bradley said, smiling, handing the photo back.

“Right?” she breathed. They were both speaking gently now, the basement suddenly feeling enveloped in their shared wonder. “He hadn’t grown into his ‘fro yet. My grandma used to say he looked like a toothbrush.”

They laughed softly. She pulled out another photo, on the back labelled West Spoonerville Crew ‘75. It was a candid shot of a group of young people. At the centre, he could see Zara’s father, older, grown out of his gangliness, his hair cleanly cropped, and the beginnings of an impressive moustache coming in. Some people really had it all, Bradley thought.

“That was his first job,” Zara said, pressing into his shoulder to have a second look. “Went to every program here. He even learned to swim here before they closed the pool and put a lot over it. Integration was still new so it was a big deal for him and his siblings.”

Bradley looked at the photo again. Zara’s father was bright eyed and his smile lifted his cheeks, making his eyes look like two crescent moons. He could see the resemblance immediately. Something hot was crawling up his chest, pressing up tight in his throat.

He swallowed. “Huh.”

Zara didn’t press the moment. She had already moved on. “Oh look! There in the corner.”

There they were – Bev and Dennis, twenty five years younger. He looked closer, studying Bev’s long blonde hair, worn down. She was dressed in a long linen dress. Inexplicably, Dennis looked mostly the same. The two of them were the only ones turned to the camera, grinning broadly, hamming it up while their staff engaged with one another.

There was so much – he was halfway done digging through the sheer amount of saved-event flyers (carnivals, holiday parties, bonfires, talent shows, bake sales) when he came across a newsletter detailing an event: a 1990 car wash fundraiser featuring “free hotdogs and DJ PJ!!” At the bottom of the write up was a collage of photos one of which featured a young stocky boy wearing sleek wraparound sunglasses and posing with his arms crossed, posture leaned back. In the frame, he could see a soaked, exaggeratedly scowling Dennis, presumably from one of the advertised “sponge-bucket challenges”.

“Oh God, he’s so adorable,” Zara commented, looking over from another bin she was pulling down. Why she sometimes insisted on not asking for Bradley’s help when she was so small, he was unsure, but he let it go.

A lightbulb went off in his head.

“Wait,” he said slowly. “PJ? Like Max’s friend, PJ?”

“Yep. He was another year rounder. Well, sometimes his dad would drag him off for something, but Max and him were joined at the hip.”

Bradley recognized PJ as Max’s teammate but he also recalled Max telling him more about him. Something about how he was spending his summer backpacking in Europe with his girlfriend and how happy Max was for him. Ordinarily, Bradley would have been paying attention but all relevant details had been relayed to him as he stood on the gymnasium floor looking up at Max standing on a ladder to repair a basketball hoop. His t-shirt was slightly too cropped and when he raised his arms to reach for the hoop – never mind. 

The point was, Bradley recognized PJ. 

“Oh shit,” Zara jumped from where she had been standing on her milk crate to pull down another bin. “We’re in here.”

Bradley was confused for a moment before reminding himself we did not include him. She opened the bin to fish out a faux leather album, corners peeling, and held it tightly to her chest. 

“Brace yourself, okay?”

“Sure…”

She opened it to the fourth page of the album and pointed to the photo at the bottom. It looked to be a chaotic shot of a ping pong tournament mid-game. His eyes scanned the frame and caught sight of Zara, nine or ten years old, focused like she was following the action closely. Without a hint of exaggeration, Bradley thought she looked a bit like a cherub. A cherub dressed in a jumper dress and with rows of colourful beads hung from her braids. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a more adorable kid.

“I like your beads,” he remarked.

“Thanks,” she laughed. “They made skipping rope a huge pain.”

The image of a young Zara annoyed at the clacking and whipping of her braids as she played made him chuckle. 

He almost put the photo down before he caught sight of them. Nearly out of frame, and through the strain of the flash photography, he could make out a little girl with a sharp bob haircut also watching the game but with her arms crossed and stance wide like a war general. She looked seconds away from telling someone off. Behind her stood a boy smiling widely for the camera. He had a prominent gap tooth, curly hair, dark skin and, at the centre of his face, across his nose, a patch of unpigmented skin. He had his arm reached out, giving the war general child bunny ears. 

Wren and Max then. Thick as thieves since the very beginning.

Bradley tried to imagine a version of his child self tucked in among them. A small, freckled, ruddy cheeked Bradley looking on, maybe smiling shyly, nose wrinkling into the camera. He felt an ache, small and foolish, blooming under his ribs. 

Eventually, he and Zara stacked their chosen archive materials to carry to the art room, cleaned up and carefully returned the bins, and locked up. And all the while, something wistful and heavy and warm and unyielding sat in his gut. 

It stayed with him all the way home.

He laid in bed that night, the inside of his eyelids playing a shifting kaleidoscope of weathered memories. A young Zara’s beads, her father from boy to man, PJ’s “cool” sunglasses and tough guy pose, a potentially immortal Dennis, and Wren and Max, looking fearless and vulnerable together.

He thought about what his own childhood photos might reflect — sanitized, choreographed images of a young Bradley. Stiffly dressed in pristine starched summertime whites, posed between his parents soberly staring into the camera, asked to smile with his lips lest the camera capture his freshly lost front tooth. 

He had been soft; he had been every bit as soft. 

It was week eight and Bradley had fallen into a new rhythm. Nothing about his task lists had changed much, aside from the additional workload related to the mural project and supporting Max’s drop-in twice a week. He was unsure what felt different but something felt lighter, smoother, more contented despite the increased busyness. 

Thankfully, Dennis had become less scarce and was taking on a bit more of the groundskeeping. He met Bradley by the front desk early one morning, and together they watered and mulched the flowerbeds to keep them from wilting in the August heat. It was silent, companionable work. 

Afterward, Bradley had poured them both lemonade Bev had left them in the staff fridge. Dennis accepted his with a tired grunt of thanks. They sat together for a long while before Dennis began to share a long, meandering story — musing aloud, disjointed half recollections, grounded in their quiet. 

Bradley didn’t mind listening, resting his eyes in the early sun as he sipped. 

Wren, with the Exhibition date looming, had resorted to truly bizarre ways to cope. Her exhaustion sometimes made her emotionally inconsistent — giggly one instant and despairing the next. No matter how many of her tasks were shuffled onto the shoulders of Bev, Zara, or Bradley himself, her routine still remained a whirlwind of scheduling meetings, chasing down vendors, and verbally eviscerating permit officers over the phone. Bradley could especially tell she was having a terrible time when she would take a long look at him, and say something strange but fond. 

“You know, you’re a good kid, Uppercrust,” she sighed, signing his reflection log without reading a word of it. “It’s not your fault you’re like that.”

“We’re the same age.”

“It’s not your fault you like polos. You never had a chance.” Then she sleepily walked away with the three clipboards she’d stacked precariously at the end of her desk. 

Bradley seriously considered forging her signature the next day. 

“You talk to Wren earlier?” Max asked as they wrapped up their drop-in session, dropping a bin of helmets at the back of the storage closet with a loud thud.

Bradley glanced up from his clipboard where he’d been ticking off an equipment checklist. His presence at the drop-in was not wholly necessary but Tyler had given him a curt nod and remained on his best behaviour throughout their lesson. Bradley had only caught him rolling his eyes on two occasions — a record, honestly — and felt a surprising, stupid surge of pride about it. 

“Avoiding it, actually.”

“She told me she stared into the mirror at two in the morning and seriously considered giving herself bangs.” 

Bradley blinked.

“I’m not a shrink, Max. I wouldn’t know where to begin with a crisis that dire.”

“Same,” Max said with a shrug. “So I bought her a coffee and called Bev. I’m hoping that gets us through the day.”

Bradley let out a small, involuntary laugh. “Bev and coffee? What won’t you think of?”

Max flashed him a cheeky smile, pressing their shoulders together as they stood outside the gymnasium storage, everything accounted for, the air smelling of dust and floor wax. Bradley willed himself to stay still.

“So listen,” Max began. 

“Uh oh,” Bradley said blandly. 

“Because Wren is busy, I need a favour.”

“No.”

“I haven’t even asked yet.”

“No.” 

Max laughed, nudging him again. “It’s a small favour.”

“That’s a lie.”

“It is a lie,” Max admitted easily. 

Bradley dragged a hand down his face. “Fine. What?”

“I’m making the banner for the skate jam event for the Exhibition,” Max said. He looked embarrassed so Bradley said nothing, waiting for the detail that would make this request absurd. It was an unbearably charming tell; Bradley refused to think about it too hard. “I would’ve used the same one Wren and I made four years ago but when I was getting it out yesterday, I tripped and it tore.”

“You tore it.”

“In half.”

Bradley made a small sound of aggrieved disbelief and shook his head. 

“Come on,” Max said, stepping into his space, hands clasped in a ridiculous, dramatic plea. He was clearly trying not to smile. “Look at me — I’m begging.”

“Please don’t do that,” he replied quickly. 

“I’ll get on my knees,” Max said, already bending his knees a bit as if to sink to the ground. Bradley’s face went up in flames, body locking in mortification. The image in a wholly different context quickly flashed in his mind.

“Do not do that,” he said, strained, teetering on the edge of panic. 

Max quickly stood back up to his full height but leaned close. 

“Then say yes,” he said, sounding a bit breathless, a new gleam in his eyes. Bradley hated him. 

“Fine,” he snapped, throwing up his hands and briskly walking away from Max and his stupid satisfied expression. 

The next morning, Bradley had arrived early to mop the lobby floor, and take a quick inventory of cleaning and art supplies for Wren. He fell into the mindless rhythm of his task list, humming tunelessly to himself. At some point he had begun to relish the wee hours before the centre opened, when there wasn’t a soul around and he could move around without having to remember to drop his scowl. As much as he liked the kids, it would be much easier if they accepted that his resting expression was innately unpleasant. 

Bev quietly stepped up to him as he locked up one of the supply closets, causing him to jerk bodily in surprise. 

“Morning, Bev,” he said breathlessly. “Jesus, you’re stealthy.”

“Sorry, dear,” she said, giving him a considering look, mouth twitching with amusement. “You’re in early.”

“Lots to do.”

“Oh I’m sure. I wouldn’t keep Max waiting much longer though.” 

Bradley froze. “Max is here already?” 

“Oh yes,” she nodded slowly. “I’d join him sooner rather than later.” 

She patted him on the arm with a conspiratorial smile before retreating to her office. 

Bradley pushed open the gym door and stilled, letting it swing heavily behind him.

“What the fuck is all this?”

Max was already there, crouched over the floor where he’d taped down a huge sheet of butcher paper at all four corners. Beside it, laid out with deranged precision, were every art supply known to man: paint, brushes, stencils, tape, markers, rulers. It was absurd.

“I figured this might take a while,” Max said cheerfully, pushing to his feet and crossing the gym in a few easy strides. “Thought all this might make it easier.”

Bradley barely heard him as he walked further into the gym. His gaze caught on the other thing: a refreshment table in the corner, fully stocked with a coffee thermos, two kinds of Gatorade, a bag of pretzels, and a tray of a half dozen doughnuts. 

For a moment, Bradley was too flustered to speak. 

“We’re painting a banner for a children’s event,” he said finally. “Not running the Boston Marathon.”

Max, for his part, looked relaxed — old jeans, soft jersey shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows. Bradley could feel heat crawling up his neck. 

“Consider it hazard pay.”

“It’s far too much, Max.”

“Hey now,” Max said, pressing his hand to his heart in mock affront. “This took some effort.”

Bradley dragged a hand through his hair, looking around, trying to collect himself. Max’s effort could be felt everywhere he looked but he struggled to understand for whom or what it was for. The small obsessive part of it his brain – the part that exploded in tiny cartoon hearts every time Max so much as looked at him too long – had ideas but he quickly shut them down. Instead he turned to Max and aimed for something like sincerity.

“Thank you, Max, for being considerate,” he said in a monotone as though flatly reading from a teleprompter. “This was a very nice thing to do.”

Max only beamed at him, already dropping to sit cross-legged by a corner of the banner to rummage through his spread of supplies. 

“No problem, Bradley. Now grab a brush.”

Bradley hovered on the other side of the banner. “Are you planning to bubble the letters in with pencil first or just freehand it like an animal?”

“You’re the artist,” Max said, looking up from the stencils he was sorting through. 

“I’m a business major.” When Max said nothing and just hummed to himself, he resigned himself to searching for a pencil and ruler.

“You know,” Max said lightly, “thinking about putting some flames around the border.”

“Going for that Hot Wheels feel?”

“I’m targeting a key demographic. Kids love flames.”

Bradley shrugged. He had a point.

For a while, they worked in tandem though they found time to bicker. Bradley pointed out how Max managed to get paint all over himself, judged the colours he’d chosen, griped about his gratuitous snack breaks and his off-centre stencil work. Max shot back easily, unbothered.

All the while, there was a buzzing under Bradley’s skin and his cheeks felt warm. He was hyper-aware of Max – of the way his hair fell into his eyes as he knelt over the paper, the way he held his tongue between his teeth as he traced lines, his forearms. 

Exposed forearms, for fuck’s sake, Bradley thought, heart racing. It was genuinely pathetic. He made himself sick.

Two adults painting a banner didn’t take nearly long enough to justify the trunk load of snacks Max had supplied nor all the materials he’d laid out. But it did feel nice to sit along the far wall by the refreshment stand when they were finished. Bradley figured he could take the rest of the giant thermos to the front desk, where Wren and her dwindling constitution could use some fortifying.

Max laid back and sprawled his arms, narrowly missing the coffee Bradley clutched in one hand. 

“I’m spent,” he moaned. “Tell my story.”

“Maximilian Goof,” Bradley said solemnly. “Spoonerville Golden Boy, Friend to All, Ripper of Banners.”

Max laughed. “Harsh.”

He handed Max his cup and they sat together, looking on at their handiwork – bright and garish under the gym lights – laid out to dry. 

“I think some of the flames might be crooked,” he quipped.

“It’s character,” Max smiled at him tiredly. “Gives it that handcrafted, small town charm you love so much.”

Bradley snorted and dug into their snacks. The doughnuts were surprisingly good; he surreptitiously checked the labelling on the box for future reference. The gym was high-ceilinged, empty, and echoed a bit as they quietly spoke, dipping in and out of a steady but charged silence. 

Bradley felt too much in his gut – things he was unsure how to express and figured he couldn’t even if he did. He felt lightheaded with Max’s proximity; they weren’t sitting as closely as they had on the skatepark bench but they were alone and it was quiet. There was nothing else to take his focus except for Max’s hair, and long limbs, and his deep, even breaths in his periphery, within arm’s reach. He tucked one of his hands between his knees and tried to lock his posture into something casual.

He risked turning his head in his direction but Max was already watching him. His eyes were soft and unreadable, but his jaw was set in a hard line, his fingers tensing in his lap. They stared at each other and Bradley prayed his own expression betrayed nothing. 

“Thanks for doing this,” he said quietly. “You didn’t have to.”

“You threatened to beg.”

Max laughed, soft, surprised. “Oh and you would’ve hated that.”

Bradley looked away but stayed there as though he had nowhere else to be.

“This is just a formality,” Bev said, her voice feather-light, handing Bradley a cup of tea. “Here, drink up.”

It was the following week and Bradley found himself in her office again for an overdue check-in on his community service. It was a sobering reminder but at least he had the framed photo of a rabbit over Bev’s head to make unnerving eye contact with.

“It’s fine.” He took the cup and cradled it in its saucer, holding it all stiffly over his lap. 

The office seemed even more chaotic than when he’d first visited it. The stacks of paperwork on the desk had multiplied into leaning towers. Someone – maybe Bev herself – had added a bright string of paper cranes across one wall, drooping between the taped photo collages and the framed rabbit. The window sill was almost completely swallowed by plants, pots jostling for space between half-melted candles and jars of more mystery beads and buttons. 

“Don’t mind the mess,” she went on airily. “I always mean to stay a few hours behind to get it sorted, but it’s been a busy few weeks.”

“With the Exhibition,” Bradley finished.

“Oh yes. Aside from it being a showcase for the community and a testament to the talents and skills of our youth, it’s also when we rake in the most funding from the city and private interests.” She folded her hands delicately. “But we’re not here to discuss that today.”

“I guess not.”

“Bradley, you have been with us for some time now. How have you been feeling?”

“Fine,” he said, uncomfortably shifting in his seat. “You know. I get on with things.”

“Zara has mentioned your contributions to coordinating the children’s mural.”

“Yeah, but,” he started, waving his hand a bit. “I just sorta got roped into it. She needed an extra pair of hands.”

Bev smiled warmly. “That’s wonderful.”

Bradley wasn’t sure what was wonderful about it. He had only scowled at Zara through his car window until he wore down under her cheeriness and patient persistence. He had just sat there with her, throat tight, in the bowels of the centre as he gazed at precious photos like a voyeur. He said nothing, only taking a sip of his tea.

“And the skateboarding drop-in?” Bev prompted, looking serenely at him over the rim of her cup.

Bradley gave a noncommittal grunt. “That’s Max’s thing.”

“Are you not there sometimes?”

“Well yeah,” Bradley said, a bit exasperatedly. “But mostly because of this one kid, Tyler. It's a whole thing. He’s a bit… less prone to acting out with me there.”

“I’m familiar with Tyler,” she replied. “He’s a clever one.”

“He can’t stand Max.”

She laughed at that. “Good thing you’re there.”

He shrugged.

“Dennis says you’re a quick study.”

“Dennis doesn’t say anything. Or sometimes he does and then I can’t get out of one of his stories.”

“Yes,” she said, chuckling. “He’s a bit like a water hose. On or off. But he knows what he’s talking about.”

When Bradley said nothing, she continued. “And Wren?”

“She’s… good at her job,” he said, scraping his thumbnail along the handle of his cup. “Kind of bossy but fair.”

“She would take all of that as a compliment. She’s fond of you, y’know.”

“Thank goodness for small miracles.”

Bev laughed, a real, delighted cackle. “You’ve built a life here, in a way. That’s not always easy. Especially when you didn’t plan on it.”

He stiffened in his seat. 

“No, the plan was to survive community service. And – and go back. It’s temporary.”

“Of course,” she said gently, putting down her cup and leaning closer to rest her elbows on her desk. “But that doesn’t mean it can't be real. Or meaningful, Bradley.”

He stared into the dark swirls of his tea. He imagined himself very tiny, climbing into his cup to drown in the murky depths.

“What’s been most surprising about your time here?”

“I guess I thought it would suck more,” he said, swallowing. He could feel his face beginning to heat up. “I thought I’d hate it here.”

She only nodded.

“I don’t mean to be rude. I just mean… It’s not glamorous. But –” He broke off, shrugging helplessly. “The people here... they’re different. Decent.”

Bev’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Did things feel different after Sundae Day?”

Bradley’s head shot up. “You know about that?”

“Oh yes.”

“I didn’t mean to break any rules. Wren was crying under a desk and I could–”

“You’re not in any trouble. I’m pointing out a time you extended yourself. When you did more than what was assigned on a task list. Obviously, that was extremely generous–”

“Oh, that’s not necessary–”

“– of you and we would have never asked. But it showed quick thinking and care, Bradley. You stepped up.”

“Fine,” he said, in a tone of anger and mock defeat. “You got me. I didn’t hate Sundae Day. It felt good. Zara’s art classes feel good. Tyler having an easier time feels good. It’s all just so great.”

“You sound upset,” Bev said smoothly, unruffled by his outburst. “What’s happening right now?”

They sat in silence while Bradley tried to swallow through the lump in his throat. He put his tea down and tucked his shaking hands between his knees.

“I used to spend my summers differently. It wasn’t really up to me – tennis camp, sailing courses, internships, some leadership retreat where I made nice with sons of Uppercrust business partners. It was always something. Something was always lined up.”

“Was it like that all of the time?”

“Basically, yeah,” he exhaled. “Except for – except for skateboarding. That was just mine. But then I fu– messed that up too so it doesn’t really matter anymore.”

“You don’t skate anymore?” she asked.

Bradley turned his head, focused his gaze on one of the button jars. 

“I do. But it was – I was only allowed to spend so much time doing it because I was competitive. I was great, even. Now, it’s just,” he faltered. “I don’t know. I’m still figuring it out.”

“It’s yours to figure out,” Bev said. Bradley looked at her; she now had her chin in her hand, elbow propped on the desk. She looked thoughtful. “It could still be yours. Maybe not quite in the way you imagined.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he said, resigned.

“And now you’re spending your summer here in Spoonerville. How has that been different?”

“Here is… good. Sometimes. Most of the time.”

He didn’t know how to explain that he could mess up in Spoonerville and nobody jeered, nobody gossiped; trust was earned and something precious. Someone was happy to see him come in every morning, no matter how he looked, no matter what face he wore. He just was.

“It’s… easier in some ways. Feels less fake. But then it also means I can’t be fake.”

“Means you have to get to know people as you are,” she intoned.

“Yeah,” he half laughed. “And it sucks.”

“But it’s kind of special too,” she said, picking up her tea again, taking another sip.

“Yeah, it is.” He hesitated for a second. “I saw photos of you. In the archive. With Dennis and Zara’s father.”

“Oh yes, Rupert. Very nice young man.”

“I didn’t realize you’d been here so long.”

Her face split into a grin. “What, did you think I spawned into this town fully formed as I am?”

“Maybe at first.” He made a show of looking around at the stacks of paper, at the hanging art, at the walls of photos. “But this office is like an Egyptian tomb.”

She laughed. “There’s a history here, Bradley. We’re waiting for you to notice you’re a part of it now.”

Bradley took a deep breath and let that sit with him.

It was the end of another long day, leaving the centre humming with the low whirr of fans and the occasional clatter from Dennis in the maintenance closet or deep groan from Wren at the front desk. 

Down the main hall, Zara and Bradley sat cross-legged on the floor surrounded by dozens of colourful squares laid spread like a patchwork quilt: the children’s mural submissions, each one more chaotic and wonderful than the last. Some of the squares were crammed with bright swirls and monsters, some were loving depictions of families and friends, and some were abstract in nature, shapes and vague landscapes. 

Bradley studied each of them carefully.

The two of them were taping them up in the order the children would be painting on the lengths of plywood that were stacked in the art room. This is for clarity, Zara had told him, looking a bit harried.

Zara stood, reaching up to tape another mural piece to the cinder block wall with bright green painter’s tape. She had numbered the back of it with a sharpie in neat, loopy handwriting.

“You know,” she said, glancing back at him mischievously. “I didn’t actually need help for this part. I can sort through these and count all by myself.”

Bradley looked up from a mural submission from Archie on which he had drawn himself riding a magenta dragon, raising a lightning sword over his head.

“Sure, you can. But maybe you get tired of standing on your tippy toes. Maybe the painter’s tape runs out. That’s where I come in.”

She stuck her tongue out at him and stood back on her heels. “Nah, you just keep showing up because you like me best. And because you’re a sap.”

He gave her a long-suffering look. “Actually, I keep showing up because I’m a little scared of you.”

Zara broke into a delighted laugh. 

It was ridiculous, of course. He watched her recover from her amusement and took in the butterfly clips in her hair, her little frog earrings, her rows of bracelets. She still wore a sticker on her cheek that she’d accepted as a gift from one of her four year olds, for chrissake.

She could give you a toothache, he thought.

“It’s true,” he continued. “Nobody would believe me if I told them that you’re a menace.”

“And you’re full of shit,” she said warmly.

He laughed. “Yeah, I am.”

They went back to work, Bradley joining her in taping up more pieces. Zara broke the silence first. 

“Hey,” she said quietly. “You doing okay? You’ve seemed… different.”

Bradley paused, thumb idly tracing the rough texture of the wall. 

“Yes,” he said after a second, honest and surprised by his own certainty. He could be honest here; he could always be honest with Zara. “I think I might be. Or I will be.”

She nodded and gave him a small, kind smile. “That’s good, Bradley.”

“How about you? How’ve you been?”

Zara shrugged, spreading her arms out as if to indicate the mess around them. “You know me. I’m chugging along. Sometimes it feels like all I do is think about this place.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Yeah. Me too.”

She smiled wider at that and bumped her hip into him. 

When they were finished, he made Wren coffee and helped her fill out some permit forms before locking up together.

Wren had taken a vacation. 

Which was to say, Bev had sent her home for three days to rest – with the express warning that if she caught Wren anywhere near the premises or heard tell that she had been working from home, arranging Exhibition logistics somehow or faxing staff timetables or some such, she would be “very disappointed”.

Bradley was disturbed by how compelling such a threat could be.

Before she was gently escorted out, however, Wren dropped a bomb on him.

“Remember to text me about when you’re driving up to the cottage,” Wren said, distractedly. They were standing by the front desk where Bradley was filling out an inventory log while Dennis, for some reason, searched through Wren’s messenger bag.

“Wren, I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Bradley said dismissively, turning back to his work. “Please get some rest.”

“I’m serious,” she insisted. “Text me when you plan to come up. I can send you directions.”

“Directions to what?”

“Directions to the cottage. You know, this weekend. Max didn’t fill you in?”

“Why would Max –” 

He cut himself off, and flushed hotly from confusion and anger.

“I’m being shown out,” she called back, walking toward the front exit as a grim, silent Dennis prodded her in the back with the top of his broom. “But seriously – ask Max!”

Bradley wasn’t about to ask Max fucking anything.

It had been more than a week since they’d painted the banner together, surrounded by art supplies and Max’s excessive spread of refreshments. Since then, Bradley had noticed Max cooling off.

Sure, the idiot was still friendly. Still waving to him whenever they crossed paths, making a bit of small talk if the moment warranted it, but he was no longer seeking Bradley out. No longer teasing or leaning in or nudging him or making jokes. Nothing. It made Bradley sick to think about and the pining, churning chasm in his chest only made him angrier. With Max. With himself. 

It was fucking pitiful, the way the shameful neediness hollowed him out like rot. It was hell.

He wanted to ask what the issue was but he was unsure how he might address it even if he could bring himself to do so. Hey, you treated me differently for weeks and it made me want to crawl out of my skin in a good way, why did you stop?  

He would sooner mop the ocean.

Most nights, he lay in bed, rigid and forlorn, too afraid to press on the shape of his emotions –  the pit in his stomach, the lump thickening in his throat. He feared that Max realized. Maybe he had finally felt Bradley’s wandering eyes as he drank water, tracing the line of his throat. Maybe he had noted the way Bradley clammed up when he gently ribbed him. Or maybe he saw the way he made himself available, how he always relented too easily to anything Max asked of him, for what it was.

He had promised himself he would not dedicate another second to this nonsense. It was not going well. 

He had become tired; not the satisfied exhaustion that allowed him to drop into bed, like a stone, but a different tired. A tiredness that didn’t allow him to do much more than move from task to task in a fog, the kind of tiredness that made it difficult to speak even just to defensively assert he was fine, thank you very fucking much.

Wren had been watching him warily. Zara had gently let him know she didn’t need him quite as much that week. Bev kept pressing unsolicited mugs of tea into his hands. Dennis – for fuck’s sake, Dennis had taken over the lawn care. Bradley was in dire straits if Dennis noticed he was having a rough time of it.

And Max was just there. Breezy, seemingly unbothered. Once or twice, he had shot Bradley a concerned look or opened his mouth as if to say something but thinking better of it. This only made Bradley light up with anger, his stomach twisting in despair. 

As if Max actually gave a damn or had any right to. 

To put it lightly, Bradley was incandescent with barely concealed rage by the time he was privy to some cottage weekend Max had declined to bring to his attention.

They didn’t speak to one another during the drop-in Tyler attended. He was unsure if Max expected him to show up but Bradley was, unfortunately, two things: a masochist and attached to the kid. For his part, Tyler behaved fairly well, only breaking from the group once to take a moment to himself. He even demonstrated a rather sophisticated move to the awe of his peers, looking at Bradley standing behind him and tipping his chin in quiet pride. 

So all in all, not a complete waste of time. 

Afterward, they pulled the ramps and safety gear into the equipment storage in a brittle, tense silence. Bradley knew he looked like there was a dark storm cloud over his head, but Max’s careful movements were grating on his nerves. He tried not to think how the last time they’d stood in this spot had been when Max playfully pleaded for his help. He could only be so pathetic.

As soon as Max locked the storage, however, Bradley turned on him.

“What’s this about a cottage weekend?”

Max pivoted on the spot to face him slowly, eyes wide. “I was–”

“Was Wren just sleep deprived or is there some stupid invite you meant to extend me?” he asked sharply.

“Bradley, wait–”

“No, no, I understand–” He could hear his voice getting higher, tighter; his throat felt jagged with humiliation.

“Bradley, you don’t–” This time Max reached for him but Bradley smacked his hand away.

“Don’t touch me,” he said, crossing his arms. “Just talk.”

“Fine,” Max ran his hand down his face. “I was going to invite you. I told Wren I was going to invite you.”

“And then you didn’t.”

“I thought you were going to say no,” he said, looking convincingly miserable. “Look, I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Why would you think that?” Bradley retorted, too quickly.

They both stood in the awkward silence. Max gave him a meaningful look and shrugged. Bradley refused to concede to his point. 

“I didn’t want to be pushy.”

“I – I like when you’re pushy,” he said before he could stop himself.

He could feel his stomach burn with humiliation, the instinct to bolt washing over him. Max raised his eyebrows, his mouth falling open, but he recovered quickly. Lips twitching with a smile, he took a deep breath.

“Bradley Uppercrust, would you like to join me to visit Wren and Layla at Layla’s family’s cottage on Spooner Lake this weekend?”

Bradley swallowed, pressed his crossed arms closer to his chest. 

“I would love nothing more,” he said haughtily. 

“Okay, good.” Max smiled, wide and disbelieving and gorgeous. “That’s great.”

“I still want to let the record show you’ve been a fucking asshole,” Bradley said lowly.

“I am – I have been. I’m sorry.” Max sounded dazed. He was smiling a bit helplessly, stepping closer, reaching his hand out. He brushed the inside of Bradley’s wrist and it felt like an immediate shock to his system.

Bradley stepped back and made a quick exit. Head down, he made long, desperate strides out of the gym. 

He couldn’t bear the thought of Max seeing how hard he was shaking or fighting a smile.

Bradley pulled up to Max’s apartment complex at nine sharp, hands sweaty on the wheel, and his designer brand sunglasses firmly in place. 

Max was already outside, dressed in denim cutoffs, a loose t-shirt, and an awful bright teal-and-purple windbreaker. He had an oversized backpack slung over one shoulder and a large cooler balanced in his hands. He looked excited and a bit sleepy, grinning as he jogged toward the car.

“Morning,” he said cheerily, already crouching to fumble for the latch to push his seat back. He smelled like himself. Jesus Christ, this drive would feel like a millennia. 

“Morning,” Bradley replied shortly, shoving a printed sheet of directions at him. “You’re navigation today. Don’t fuck it up.”

Max laughed. “Amazing. Well, first, I’m gonna navigate us to a gas station. We need snacks.”

“You brought a cooler,” Bradley replied flatly. “And this is a two hour drive.”

“That’s all for later. And I’m hungry now.”

“Fine, sure. Whatever.”

Bradley had barely pulled out of the parking lot before Max was reaching for the CDs in his glove compartment. “What are we even listening to right now? Is this Matchbox Twenty?”

Bradley pulled his shoulders up near his ears, heat prickling up the back of his neck, but Max just kept rummaging. 

“Counting Crows, Third Eye Blind, Fleetwood Mac, R.E.M . Wait, Natalie Imbruglia?”

“You have a problem with my music taste, Goof?”

“Not really,” Max said lightly. “Just happy I remembered to bring some of my own.”

He reached for the CD player but Bradley smacked his wrist, eyes still on the road.

“Don’t touch my goddamn music. Driver picks the music. Everyone knows that.”

“But Bradley,” Max whined. “Your music is sad. And unbelievably white.”

“And this is surprising?”

“I guess I didn’t take you for the wallowing type.”

Bradley actually laughed at that. “That’s kind of all I do. But whatever, we can take turns. Just nothing too loud – I need to focus.”

Max smiled, brightly, a bit smugly. Bradley needed to stop letting him have his way but he couldn’t be blamed when it was so early and he was expected to get them both into lake country in one piece. Eventually, Max found a copy of Californication in the glove box and settled on that for a while. 

A quick trip to the gas station and Max came out triumphantly holding up two stuffed plastic bags over his shoulders. Bradley took a peek as he settled back in the car to find Doritos, Slim Jims, Skittles, gummy worms, and bottles of Gatorade. He raised his head to give Max a look of faint disgust.

“You’re serious,” he said. “This is barely food.”

“Breakfast of Champions, more like,” Max said, already chomping inelegantly on a Slim Jim. 

Bradley eventually gave in and had some of the gummy worms. “These are nicer when they haven’t been marinating in your sweaty back pocket.”

“I didn’t hear any complaints,” Max said, smirking, leaning into the console a little.

Bradley ignored him and started the car.

They hit the highway just after rush hour, falling into companionable silence. Even the itch, the buzz that flared under his skin when Max was too close, eased. The highway bled out into softer roads, shrinking lanes; the air was heavy with the green, sun-warmed scent of late summer grass and the sharp bite of fresh asphalt. Cornfields stretched out on either side of them in neat rows, large expanses of farmland blurred green and gold. Max felt the need to point out every cow he saw.

He had the directions in one hand and a stack of CD cases balanced on his knee, flipping between albums smoothly, as he competently relayed directions. Red Hot Chili Peppers to Beastie Boys to Gin Blossoms to Lauryn Hill – he was being surprisingly fair and economical. From his periphery, Bradley could take in the way he was sprawled in the passenger seat, long and lithe, still working away at his behemoth stash of junk food.

Something in his chest fizzed at the sound of Max’s humming, his voice soft and lilting as he sang under his breath.

The trees started crowding closer as they made their way into lake country. The woods were thick and lush, and broken only by glimpses of shimmering blue off the shoulders of the road.

“God, I love it here,” Max sighed dreamily. 

Bradley risked a glance and noticed how the wind caught in his hair, his lopsided grin, how the sun warmed his skin. He said nothing.

The cottage was modest by Bradley’s standards – only a weathered two-story tucked between tall trees, its blue paint faded. The porch sagged a little in the middle as he and Max crossed it. Max ducked to avoid a crooked string of fairy lights dangling under the eaves. Someone had planted fat terracotta pots of herbs along the steps; the air smelled of rosemary, thyme, basil, and mint.

They could hear a small commotion before the door opened to reveal a familiar woman; tall, smiling, a long braid of brown hair over one shoulder.

“Max!” Layla said, throwing her arms around him and tugging him down for a hug. “And Bradley! I’m so glad you could make it.”

Bradley shifted uncomfortably, perching his sunglasses in his hair. “Thank you for having me.”

“Of course,” she said sweetly. “Well, come on. Need to get you settled before lunch.”

After they’d stashed their things and put away the cooler, Max trailed after Layla, chatting easily, offering to help with the sides. Bradley wandered by the kitchen to see him washing his hands, already pulling the right drawer open for a cutting board. Of course he’d know his way around.

Bradley lingered awkwardly in the narrow hall leading to the sitting room for half a moment before venturing further. Through sliding glass doors, he spotted Wren standing at a grill on the patio, flipping something with her usual air of bored confidence. He caught the smell of charcoal and searing meat curling through the open door.

“I hope you’re as good as your dad,” he called out, walking out into the heat.

“Ooo, Richie Rich made it out after all,” she shot back. “You as good as your dad?”

“Given I’ve never seen him interact with food unless he was being served,” he said, shrugging, “I’d say yeah, just about.”

She snorted and jerked her chin toward a cooler nearby. “Grab a beer and make yourself useful.”

He obeyed, tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he popped the lid off the cooler and fished out a cold bottle. The patio was worn but sturdy underfoot, lined with mismatched chairs and an old picnic table. It was unglamorous, solid, relaxed. He exhaled, twisted off the cap of his beer, and drank deeply before putting himself to work setting the table.

Lunch wound down lazily, and the four of them quickly cleaned up. Bradley was tempted to duck inside for a long nap; judging by the way Max slouched low in his chair, he wasn’t the only one. The sun hung heavy overhead, dappling the patio in gold.

Layla bounded back from the kitchen, wiping her damp hands on the thighs of her overall shorts and clapping for attention. “Alright, y’all! Up, up! Bradley needs the grand tour.”

Max and Wren groaned loudly; Bradley silently agreed with them.

Wren leaned into him a bit, stage whispering, “You’ve seen one tree, you’ve seen them all.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Layla objected. “We’ve got gardens and trails. Secret paths – you’re gonna love it.”

Max stretched, groaning theatrically, his shirt lifting a bit to bear a sliver of taut midriff. “Okay, but I want a prize at the end.”

“Oh you’ll get your prize,” Layla smirked. “It’s called cardio.”

Bradley enjoyed the way her accent caused her to pronounce prize as prahz. 

He pushed up reluctantly but without complaint, also stretching his arms overhead. He caught Max looking away quickly, his eyes a bit wide. They fell into step behind Layla, who charged ahead, chattering and pointing out various plants along the worn dirt path that curled around the side of the house. Wren lagged behind, somehow armed with a walking stick she had seemingly conjured from thin air.

Bradley and Max ended up side by side, close enough that their elbows nearly brushed. Neither of them made any move to surge ahead, except when the path narrowed and forced one to slip in front. He tried to focus on Layla’s tour but his mind went blank every time Max’s hand brushed the back of his, featherlight. He tensed automatically, but didn’t pull away. He just kept walking, pretending he wasn’t breathing deeply through the horrors of their casual proximity.

Max didn’t glance at him once. He simply pointed toward a weathered birdhouse swaying from the limb of a tree.

"Look," Max said, and for half a second, his pinky looped around Bradley’s.

Bradley swallowed hard, face flaming, and forced himself to follow Max’s pointing hand.

Yep. Birdhouse. Definitely a birdhouse. Probably.

Max released him without ceremony and jogged ahead to where Layla was still talking about lichen or moss or something. Bradley stood frozen for longer than necessary. When he finally looked back, he caught Wren carefully looking anywhere but at him.

This was going to be the longest weekend of his fucking life.

As soon as they returned to the cottage, Bradley mumbled something about needing to change and slipped inside before anyone could stop him. The cool, dim interior was a relief after the sticky heat outside, and he navigated the narrow hallway back to the spare room Layla had shown him. He couldn’t help but note his room was across from Max’s. Fucking great.

He shut the door quietly behind him, clicked the little latch lock, and exhaled.

The room was plain: a twin bed with a quilted coverlet, a painted wardrobe with mismatched knobs, and a tiny window half-swallowed by ivy. His overnight bag was still on the bed where he’d tossed it earlier; he peeled off his shoes and sat on the edge. 

For a while, he just stared at his knees.

Jesus Christ. He was going to climb through that tiny window and figure out how to kill himself from a two-story fall.

He pressed his hands to his face, fingers dragging hard down his cheeks, like maybe he could scrape the mortification off his bones. That pinky thing. A small, soft, barely there gesture and he was fixated on it like a schoolgirl. 

It means nothing, he recited in his head. Mouthed it silently. It means nothing.  

But it might. It might mean everything. He groaned under his breath, heart still racing.

He tipped backward until he was lying flat on the bed, arms flung wide, one leg still dangling off the edge. He stared up at the ceiling, cracked and water-stained, one corner dipped with age. He tried to ground himself for several minutes, counting his breaths before just giving up. 

He was screwed.

It hadn’t even been a day and his brain was already running fucking pirouettes around Max’s hair, his dumb smile, his humming, the way he knew where the cutting boards were. The way he’d looked on the trail, sunlight on his cheeks, voice low and easy— look, he’d said. Bradley could still feel it, that gentle little loop. It was a private moment, in full view of Max’s friends. 

He covered his eyes with the crook of his arm. He was a man. A grown man, goddammit. A grown man who hadn’t wanted Max to pull away.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He had felt all of this creeping up weeks ago, had acknowledged it to himself in increments, in half truths, but he thought it would fade. That it would be something he’d look back on someday and cringe, as if it had been a temporary bout of exile-induced psychosis.

He couldn’t be… like that. It wasn’t a fucking option, and if he was, he would’ve hoped he’d pick literally any other man on the planet.

The Max Experience had felt good—safe—but it had gotten too real . What he initially assumed was just a byproduct of being bound in Max’s orbit, quickly became something he emotionally relied on. He had treated Max’s attentive, teasing presence like it was a warm fire he couldn’t touch, but could stoke just by staying close and giving in a little. Then he was found wanting, yearning to the point of distraction and misery, when Max withdrew just a little. Humiliatingly demanded Max’s attention, wanting it back, wanting to sit by the fire to warm his hands. 

Bradley never expected to find himself in Pennsylvania lake country just to be near him. To prove he could do it without falling apart. 

He needed to get this under control.

He turned his face into the pillow and groaned. He needed an hour. Just one quiet hour to lie there, breathe, and pretend he wasn’t already imagining what it might feel like to fall asleep with Max’s pinky finger still twined in his.

Bradley woke from his nap feeling subdued and a little sunsick. He was showered and changed, trying to muster the will to go back out on the patio when a knock sounded at the door. It opened a crack, and Max’s curly head peeked in.

“Hey,” he said quietly, like he might spook him. “We’re headed out to the dock. Want me to wait for you downstairs?”

“Sure,” Bradley said, turning back to look at his tired expression in the dusty mirror mounted to the side of the wardrobe. “Just—just a minute. Thanks.”

Max hesitated, but smiled and left. Bradley sighed.

The trail opened onto a small, sparkling lake, the late sun turning the ripples into molten gold. The dock, a crooked stretch of sun-bleached planks, jutted out like a diving board into the water. Wren and Layla had already dumped towels, cheap floaties, and drinks in colorful koozies in a lazy pile by the shore.

Wren was wearing a navy one-piece, like a no nonsense swim instructor. She gave him an appraising look as he approached. Max had broken off to join Layla further along the dock, the two giggling about something. 

“Feeling okay, Uppercrust?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. He cleared his throat. “Had an early morning. It caught up to me.”

He meant to say more – ask how she was doing, maybe, but Max laughed again, sudden and bright, and Bradley turned in time to see him strip off his shirt in one smooth motion.

His mouth went dry; he quickly averted his gaze, but looked back anyway. The muscles in Max’s back flexed and shifted as he stretched; his board shorts rode ridiculously low on his hips. Bradley flushed hot, his stomach curling tightly. He tucked his fisted hands behind his back.

Wren, arms crossed, didn’t even glance back. “Are you fucking serious right now?”

Sometimes, Bradley took for granted how easy it was to look clear over her head. Thankfully, she didn’t actually look upset, just exasperated and unimpressed. 

“You plan to do something about that?”

Bradley, red-faced, tilted his chin, sniffing imperiously. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, MacPherson.”

She rolled her eyes, and walked away, breaking into a run to cannonball into the still water. Layla ran behind her, taking a running leap off the dock, slicing clean into the water. Max followed on her heels with a second cannonball, causing an even bigger splash. Both girls yelled good-naturedly, splashing him, then tried to combine their force to dunk his head.

Bradley lingered by the edge, shifting uncomfortably. The girls let Max up after a while and instead decided to float on their backs, hands joined like sea otters Bradley had once seen on the nature channel. Gross.

Max swam back up to the dock, already grinning. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, leaning up and resting his chin in his hand. 

“What’s up, Bradley? Not in the mood?”

“Maybe in a bit.”

“Do I need to force you to get in again?”

“Can’t see how you’ll manage. No minions around to do your bidding. And don’t bother begging this time.”

“Damn,” Max said, calmly. “That’s a real shame. I didn’t actually have a Plan B for getting you out of your shirt.”

Bradley spluttered but Max was already swimming back to the girls, grasping Layla’s hand to join their otter-floating.

He quickly grabbed a drink and sat with his feet dangling in the cool water. He took measured sips and breathed deeply. Or at least, he was trying to until Wren began hollering from the water for him to get in. 

“Stop sulking and have some fucking fun, Uppercrust! ”

Max and Layla joined in on her heckling, the three of them paddling together toward the dock somehow, hands still joined. Uppercrust, get in! Get in, Uppercrust! Uppercrust!

“Fine!” he shouted.

He whipped off his shirt and Layla wolf whistled. Bradley rolled his eyes. As a matter of principle, he refused to feel self-conscious about his body. He was never very muscular, nor was he very broad, but wiry, compact. Even after weeks of hardly eating, his body had stayed relatively strong.

He ignored the way Max looked at him — a too-casual glance that skated a little too slow down his torso. He simply didn’t have the time.

Bradley carefully edged his way into the water, wading for a bit only to get a full-force splash to the face. Max bobbed nearby, grinning devilishly.

“You’re dead,” Bradley coughed, launching a retaliatory wave.

Laughter echoed off the water as they sloshed, chased, and dunked each other, the playful violence loosening something brittle and tight in Bradley’s chest. For a moment, he wasn't spiraling, wasn’t analyzing every brush of skin or flash of teeth. He could just be.

They retreated to the dock after a while, and sprawled on towels to dry off. The sun was still bearing down heavily.

“Should probably reapply or something,” Bradley muttered. “I’m gonna fry out here.”

“Here,” Wren said, tossing a bottle at his head, smirking. “Go ahead.”

He caught it awkwardly, hesitated. “Uh. Can someone—?”

Wren cackled. “Hard pass.”

“Not like I can reach my own back, now can I?” he said, tone bordering on whiny. “Come on, help me out.”

“You know who to ask.”

“No,” Bradley said, horrified. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Max lying on his towel, eyes closed, smirking to himself.

Thankfully, Layla, angel that she was, volunteered instead. “Come here, white boy. I got you.”

Bradley, equal parts mortified and grateful, shuffled over. He hazarded a look at Max, who was watching him, gaze half-lidded, smile smug and knowing. 

Max sat up. “I think I’m going to get back in.”

“Knock yourself out,” Wren lazily replied, lying on her stomach and tucking in for what would be one hell of a nap. 

Max laughed and then stretched like a contented cat, so close, within arm’s reach. He then ran down the dock and leaped into the water.

It hit like a gut punch.

Before he could repress it, Bradley had a flash of the imagined feel of running his hand up his sun-hot back, tracing the crease of his spine, feeling along Max’s arched shoulder blades mid-stretch. Pressing his chest to Max’s back, mouth grazing the broad slope of his shoulder. Possessive. Desperate.

Startled, he tore his gaze away and zeroed in on Layla’s massive inflatable flamingo instead, willing the rush of heat to subside.

Layla, still sitting next to him, nudged him. “Want to help me get a head start on dinner?”

He nodded and wordlessly followed her back up to the cottage.

The sun was just beginning to fall when they sat down to eat.

The table was a mess with mismatched plates and glasses, and sweating bottles of cheap rosé sliding wet rings onto the wood. He’d helped Layla bring out bowls of coleslaw and potato salad, squeezing them between trays of leftover ribs and charred vegetables.

Everything felt warm and heavy. His thoughts, his body, everything felt honeyed and hazy. 

Bradley was unsure how he found himself content, quietly listening to Layla’s stories or watching Wren lean into her, adding the odd bit of dry commentary. They bickered, and spoke over one another. It felt intimate. He was mildly dismayed with himself for being sappy about it, and entirely unwilling to care. It was nice.

Max was loose-limbed and laughing. The fairy lights washed him in a soft glow, hair still wet, expression serene. 

Bradley didn’t say much but he found his rhythm; a quip here, a question there, abrupt laughter, like he was surprised at his own amusement. Usually it was at some lighthearted jab at his own expense. Sometimes, he caught Max looking at him; soft glances, steady and sure. His gaze felt like a weight.

Every time he grew quiet, Max would press their knees together. Wren would smile at him quickly, reassuringly. Layla would nudge extra potato salad toward him. 

He always pressed back. Returned the smile. Spooned more food onto his plate without looking up. He would work through the sudden tightness in his throat and make the most of it.

It felt good. 

The patio quieted. They cleared the table. Bradley joined Layla in the kitchen, drying as she washed the dishes. Wren and Max cleared the patio, put the lake gear away in storage. They all worked in a hushed, efficient tandem.

Once they’d finished, they lingered in the kitchen over some shared ice cream. Wren yawned first. Layla tugged her up by the wrist with a sleepy wave. She began nudging a still-tipsy Wren upstairs, but not before Wren turned and gave Max and Bradley a truly outrageous double brow wag.

They ignored her.

Max nodded his head toward the patio doors and Bradley followed. They settled onto the bench in the back garden. They sat very still. The woods pressed in around them, sound thick with frogs and crickets and the slow, sleepy stirring of the lake in the distance.

Yawning, Max shifted, slouching lower, his foot nudging Bradley briefly. Then he reached in his pocket and produced a battered Altoids tin, flipping it open one-handed with a practiced click to reveal a slightly squashed joint inside.

He looked at Bradley with a smirk, raising an eyebrow.

“Wren roll that for you?”

“Naturally,” Max said, already placing it between his lips. “You in?”

Bradley shrugged.

Max lit it, free hand cupped around the flame. Bradley was reminded of the image of him holding a sparkler on the Fourth of July, giddy, waxing poetic about how pretty and nostalgic they felt. His head swam with the two Maxes. The Max that had felt new to him that night and this one, looking down at his lit joint, his jaw sharp, mouth soft, lashes shadowed, in the brief flicker of the flame. 

He took a slow, easy drag and exhaled out of the corner of his mouth, smooth, the smoke curling into ribbons between them. He held it out for Bradley to take and their fingers brushed. 

His first inhale burned and he coughed immediately, doubling over in his chair. Max snorted and patted his back gently. The second drag went down smoother. 

They passed it back and forth lazily, the silence growing deeper, heavier, sweeter. Bradley felt like he was floating. He tipped his head up and stared at the night sky, tried to figure out what constellations he could see based on a vaguely recalled childhood astronomy lesson. 

“Are you having a nice time?”

Bradley turned to look at him too fast. His head felt a bit cloudy. 

“Yeah,” he answered slowly. “Yeah, I’m having a nice time.”

“I'm glad you came.”

“Thanks for inviting me.”

“I’m sorry I almost didn’t.”

“Yeah, what was that about?”

Max blew out a long breath. “Sometimes… I can’t tell what you’re thinking. Makes it hard to know whether I’m – I’m doing too much. If I’m asking for a lot.”

“You are,” Bradley said faintly, uncertainly. He felt like there was a helium balloon in his chest, pushing up near the top of his throat, making him admit terrifying truths. “But it’s fine. It’s nice.”

Max gave him a long, intent look, the fairy lights reflecting in his dark eyes, making them glow. He turned his hand resting on his knee over, palm up. 

Bradley looked at his hand and back. Max only gave a small nod.

He stared at him and then reached out, tracing the lines of Max’s hand lightly. His skin was warm. Dry. A callus had formed at the base of his fingers. He had a scar near the thumb Bradley had never noticed before. 

Slowly, he brushed his thumb along Max’s wrist. Max’s breath caught, just slightly. He didn’t move. 

Bradley did it again, very gently, and then pressed in a bit, just enough to feel the flutter of Max’s pulse, rabbit-fast. 

It made his own chest ache. 

He then pulled back a bit to slide his hand along Max’s wrist, brushing their palms together, and intertwining their fingers. 

There, we’re holding hands, he thought a bit wryly, even through his high, and the delirious shock of Max letting him touch him. Like kindergarteners with a crush. 

He looked up to see Max’s reaction and he was already staring at Bradley. He wasn’t smiling or teasing, just looking at him slightly wide eyed, lips parted. 

Something in Bradley’s gut was buzzing, his head felt a bit loopy. He was scared, but more than that, he was thrilled. 

The distance between them felt paper thin. 

Heart stuttering, Bradley tilted his head, leaning into him a bit. Max’s gaze dropped to Bradley’s mouth, flickered back to his eyes. 

He froze. For one suspended second, he thought Max would close the distance, and would kiss him, fully, hungrily. He wanted him to. 

Instead, Max squeezed their clasped hands gently, and he whispered, voice thick, “We should probably call it a night.”

Bradley stared at him, stunned, but nodded stiffly. His throat felt too tight to speak, and he had nothing to say anyway. 

They got up slowly, and filed into the cottage. After turning out the lights and locking up, darkness folded over the house like velvet. 

“Goodnight,” Max whispered as they stood by their respective rooms. 

Bradley couldn’t see his face properly but he nodded and they both retreated to their rooms.

He hardly recognized himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth and got ready for bed. Tried not to picture Max’s awed gaze, his parted lips, their intertwined fingers, as he prepared for bed. 

They’d almost kissed. Max wanted to kiss him. He was happy Bradley was there. 

He couldn’t even lie down; he could only sit rigidly at the edge of his bed, suddenly sober and reeling from what happened. He took breaths, noting the smell of cedar and old laundry detergent in the room. Let it fill his lungs, in and out. He wondered if he would be able to get any sleep.

There was a knock at the door. He grumbled a bit, confused about why either Layla or Wren would be checking on him. 

He opened it to find Max standing there, arms full of blankets. He looked like a wreck. His face was drawn, jaw set, every line of him held too tightly. He wore a hoodie and worn-in flannel bottoms, hair large and fluffy like he'd been dragging his fingers through it.

“My room’s kind of cold,” Max muttered, unconvincingly. “Thought yours might be too.”

Bradley nodded and accepted the pile. 

“Thanks.” He turned, set the blankets by the wardrobe.

But Max didn’t leave.

He lingered in the doorway, eyes fixed somewhere over Bradley’s shoulder. He exhaled through his nose. “About earlier... I’m sorry. That was—”

Bradley didn’t hear the rest. Couldn’t.

Max was standing there nervous and looking at him with contrition. Bradley took in his unguarded posture and messy fringe and the unbearable tenderness in his voice. Max, who smelled like cheap body wash and musk and black tea, who carried himself with maddening ease, defined by sharp lines and soft smiles. Max, standing here in his doorway, trying to apologize for something unsaid and — all along — mutually desired—

All the feelings Bradley had been shoving into the pit of his stomach surged upward, short-circuited his brain — and he broke. His brain broke. 

He reached up, curling his hands into the collar of Max’s hoodie, and kissed him.

It was a mess. Sloppy and lopsided — half mouth, half chin. Their noses bumped. Teeth nearly clacked against one another. Max startled, and almost lost his socked footing on the hardwood, catching himself with a quiet grunt. He pulled back, blinking. His lips were parted, eyes wide, like Bradley had knocked the wind out of him. A crooked smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.

Bradley’s stomach flipped. He was seconds from stuttering something stupid, pushing him backward into the hall, and slamming the door shut—

But Max only let out a soft, incredulous laugh.

Then he stepped forward. Close. Certain.

He reached for Bradley, lightly tracing the line of his jaw with his fingers, then cupped the back of his neck and pulled him in, kissing him soundly.

This kiss — this kiss was everything Bradley had been afraid to hope for. Warm and slow and dizzying. Max cradled his face with both hands, thumbing along his cheek softly. Bradley’s own hands flailed uselessly before catching Max’s waist, gripping tight as Max walked him back against the wall, then the bed.

He kissed like he was trying to pour something into him. Like he’d been waiting to be allowed.

And Bradley let him.

He hit the mattress with a soft gasp, Max following to fall between his legs, hands diving into his hair. When Max nipped at his lower lip, Bradley whimpered. He had no time to register the embarrassment because Max only hummed in response, curling a fist into his hair and kissing him deeper, until all Bradley could do was cling and breathe and feel.

Max kissed him slow, thorough, heady. His chest pressing down, his fingers trailing along Bradley’s jaw, throat, shoulder. His breath fanned warm over Bradley’s skin as he mouthed along his jaw, breathing him in, tasting him.

Bradley pushed into him, arching his back so they were chest to chest, but Max only pressed down more, dropping more of his weight, and kissed him hungrily, harder. 

Their bodies pressed close, flush against each other, heat building in desperate increments. His hands tangled in Max’s curls, tugged. Max groaned, low in his throat, then bit his way down Bradley’s jaw—nipping, licking, soothing the sting with his tongue.

Bradley grabbed the back of his hoodie, arching his back further, gasping. “Jesus.”

Max finally dropped his full weight onto Bradley, their hips shifted, and suddenly he could feel everything. He only whimpered more needily, eyes clamped shut as he registered the press of Max, hot and firm along his thigh. 

He panted loudly, attempting to counter Max’s weight, trying to rut against him. 

“Fuck, Bradley,” Max said, pulling back, his face flushed, his lips kiss bruised, staring at him with half lidded eyes. He shut his eyes and moaned as Bradley tried to push up once more, applying more pressure between Max’s thighs. 

Bradley laughed softly, pleased with himself, but Max only shut him up with another kiss—deeper, slower, but no less intense. His hands skimmed beneath the hem of Bradley’s shirt, just barely touching skin. Bradley shivered. Their breaths were short, erratic. They were grinding into one another, open mouthed kissing and panting, and it was too much, and not enough.

Suddenly, Max slid his hands between them and pushed Bradley’s hips into the mattress. 

“Wait, wait,” he said, voice rough. “We shouldn’t.”

He sat up a bit, moving to straddle Bradley’s hips. Max hovered over him in the dim light, his palm brushing gently through Bradley’s hair.

He propped himself up on his elbows. “And why the fuck not?”

“Because we need to talk first.”

Bradley only stared at him, slightly coming down from the heights of their aroused frenzy. The heat was draining fast, replaced by cold embarrassment. His hands were still clinging to Max’s hoodie, his breath still high, but his mind had already begun to spiral, recoiling from his own shameless want. 

As if he could tell, Max bent down and tenderly kissed him, once, twice, three times. 

“You good?” he asked quietly.

Bradley nodded, softened, still half caught up in his daze. His body had felt like it had floated miles from the mattress, untethered and glowing. Just to ground himself, he reached up and touched Max’s face — trailing a finger over the curve of his jaw, across the lighter patch of skin near his temple.

Max let him, leaning into the touch. Just watched him, breath shallow.

Then, with heartbreaking gentleness, he leaned in, pressed a kiss to Bradley’s temple, and slowly pulled away.

“I promise we’ll talk,” he said, voice hushed. "Good night."

He lingered by the bed for a moment. Then he was gone.

Chapter Text

Bradley barely registered the soft click of the closing door. 

He was too busy sinking into the sheets, staring dazedly at the ceiling, exhaling into the dark. The air felt still, hot, like Max had never really left. A shaft of moonlight illuminated the spot where he had stood gazing down at Bradley, like a soft spotlight. 

His shirt was still bunched beneath his ribs and his entire body felt tight, like Max’s weight was still hovering above him, threatening to press him in again, stretching the old mattress springs. Everything carried an impression of his body wash, breath, sweat. 

The feel of a callused palm lingered on Bradley’s jaw; imprints of fingers seemed to dig into his hip bones as the phantom press of lips slid down his temple. He had gripped Max’s hoodie so tightly, he could still feel the seams between his fingers. The giddiness burned in his cheeks even as something ugly curled around his thoughts, tainting them with old shame, well-worn uncertainties. 

Bradley was still Bradley, after all. 

They might have taken root; he was sure they would— except.  

Except: I promise we’ll talk.

A part of him was gripped by the jagged, painful instinct to cringe remembering the way he’d all but lunged at Max like a lunatic. Or worse, like a fool: some wild and unhinged Victorian spinster. Bradley Uppercrust III, at his most desperate, completely undone by some fluffy-haired boy and his stupid earnest brown eyes, showing up at his bedroom door in the night.

Except: I promise we’ll talk. Like a seed planted. 

Except: Max in the garden, features soft under the fairy lights, looking at him with a half-lidded, steady gaze. Bradley could only describe the look on his face as intent.

He kicked off the sheets tangled at his knees and turned onto his side. He pressed his face into the pillow, shutting his eyes against the waves of emotion lapping at his feet. 

There wasn’t much else to do with any of it. Certainly, no one to see him, no reason to perform. For once, he didn’t feel like he was sitting at the bottom of his Uppercrust fish bowl. Nobody was standing with their faces pressed up to the glass, watching him in dismay and horror. 

He lay there, still stunned and still hard, lips still tingling. 

Something in him snapped free and so he gave in. 

He unclenched his jaw and breathed deep, lying back. There was no static hum of what the fuck is wrong with you crawling up the back of his neck, no screeching halt. He could only savour the pulse of heat still curling low in his belly, the ache and the residual want, slow and insistent. He was floating somewhere between disbelief and elation. 

God, it was possible he was still high. 

He caught the memory in breathless glimpses, almost as though, even in his mind’s eye, he couldn’t observe it head on: Max’s smile, wide and incredulous, when Bradley reached for him. His tender gaze. Max’s weight bearing down, pushing him into the mattress, making him gasp and–

He reached into his sweatpants and gripped himself, moving slowly, almost absently. His eyes shut, tight and focused. 

–Max’s hands cradling his face, his mouth warm as it trailed along Bradley’s jaw and neck, hot tongue slipping past the seam of his lips, Max’s hair brushing his cheek, panting and groaning in his ear–

He couldn’t even feel shame properly anymore. It should have struck fast and hot, but was delayed like it was trying to find where to land. Bradley’s entire history of self pleasure up to this point amounted to rote jerking as he focused on nondescript, hazy impressions of bodies. Nebulous, undefined, disembodied: mouths, asses, a collarbone, maybe. Anything that felt, even in his most private thoughts, plausibly deniable. It was a necessary evil when the iciest, most punishing shower wouldn’t suffice.

He shoved those thoughts to the side and chased his instincts, kept moving his hand lazily, biting his lip to stay quiet as if Max would somehow hear. As if he would know Bradley’s mouth was watering at the memory of Max’s hard cock caught between them, along the seam of his pants. 

The image quickly transformed. 

Suddenly, all he could see was Max — alone in his bed, naked, hand on his own cock. The possibility hijacked his senses entirely, his every thought consumed. 

Max was so beautiful and open and always fucking sprawling everywhere, long and lithe. Bradley imagined his messy curls spread across the pillow, his lips parted, wet and pink. Max with his stomach muscles pulled taut, groaning lowly. 

He wondered what it might be like to stand over him, to crawl up the foot of the bed and drape himself between his knees while Max’s hand worked furiously. The thought of Max propped on his elbows, looking down at him, chest heaving and moaning as Bradley lowered his head. The sound of his keening whimpers, the clean muskiness of him, salty and bitter on Bradley’s tongue—

Surprisingly enough, it didn’t take much after that.

His hand stilled, breath caught sharp in his throat, body locking as it broke over him, low and bright. He could hardly make a sound, only gasping and shuddering through it as the tide finally pulled him under, loosening all the knots in his chest.

A stunned moment like his brain had become mush and a quick, almost clinical, cleanup later, he turned back onto his side, curling slightly, letting the quiet roll back in. 

There were thoughts waiting for him, cold and ugly and disorienting, but they hovered at the edges. For once, he was too tired to make room for doubt and shame. 

His breathing slowed and he let himself sleep. 

He woke just before dawn to the house still silent, exhaling when he realized his mind was too. 

Quickly tiptoeing into the dark hall, he blinked blearily at Max’s closed door, waiting as if he might hear him stir. He was aware it was an objectively insane and pathetic thing to do. Even so, the only sounds were the grandfather clock at the base of the stairs, the distant hum of crickets, and Bradley’s own thudding heart.

He snuck downstairs and maneuvered silently around the dimly lit kitchen for a cup of herbal tea, something floral and grounding. He pulled a sweater from the back of a chair, and slipped it on before stepping outside. 

It had rained overnight. The sky streaked pink, pale light caught on the wet leaves. Birdsong softly cocooned the space, high and lilting, creating a medley with the waning cricket chirps. 

Bradley spotted the bench along the low rock wall where he and Max had sat just hours earlier. He stood next to it for a long moment, staring blankly, conjuring the barrage of mental images he hoped he might organize, make sense of, press behind his eyelids— but nothing. 

Instead, he placed his tea down gingerly and sat. He still felt asleep. He’d expected to wake much later, caught in the mid-morning inertia of warm sheets before horrible, sobering awareness struck his consciousness like a bell. 

But no. In the early light, there was scarcely a thought in his head. All he could hold onto was a detached, amused, almost appreciative incredulity. His lips twitched as he tried to make sense of what had become his life. With a slow, honeyed rhythm, he began to collect the details and study them like rare coins.

To recap: Bradley, the sole Uppercrust heir and near-chronic fuckup, was at a very nice girl’s family’s modest cottage in Pennsylvania lake country. Except that it was Layla, whom he’d met all of twice. Layla who was dating Wren, his goddamn community service supervisor; Wren who was absurdly young for someone so burdened and, to his chagrin, decidedly all-seeing. Then there was Max Goof who served as a sort of patient zero for everything in Bradley’s life going tits up. 

Somehow none of them had batted an eye at him crashing their little domestic getaway. Even more perplexingly, they seemed to enjoy his company.

Max had truly become the single greatest complication of his life thus far. Bradley really couldn’t wrap his mind around how one guy could wreck his shit so fucking thoroughly. Max, whom Bradley had spent the entirety of an academic year actively studying, antagonizing, and attempting to sabotage, had landed him in Spoonerville. Or rather— Bradley’s obsession and entitlement had landed him in Spoonerville where he spent his time tending to flowerbeds and mopping floors with a pained smile; every workday, he found himself being ambushed by eager kids showing off custom bandages over their dozens of elbow and knee scrapes or giving him breathless updates on the minutiae of their daily lives. It was a strange development.

Naturally, all of this would lead to him sitting on a garden bench while everyone slept, blinking into the middle distance, mind like a still pond, loose limbed, and strangely at ease. 

He supposed there was no getting around the gay thing. The last few hours had provided some pretty ironclad evidence. There wasn’t really a heterosexual explanation for— for getting off to the thought of a dick in his mouth. 

Jesus Christ. 

He bent over his seat and let his head hang between his knees in mortification. 

Really, on a macro level, the entire situation was apocalyptically disastrous. He couldn’t think of a quicker way to nuke one’s social standing and prospects than being a queer, let alone enjoying it. In the micro, the specificity of wanting Max was obviously where his true personal ruin lay. Max who made his every sense come alive with just the force of his attention.

Ridiculous, beloved, good Max. The previous night shouldn’t have been possible.

At another hour, in another state, the thought would’ve made his stomach seize, causing him to fall to his knees and empty his guts into the grass from the bewilderment alone. He waited for the suffocation of shame to sweep through his body but still, it hung in the periphery, waiting. 

If he were honest, he didn’t even really experience the urge to consider what anyone back home might think. The Gammas, his parents, even Tank didn’t feel real some days; sometimes it took a moment to conjure them. Normally, it took no effort at all; they automatically lined the peanut gallery inside his own brain.

He stared into his cooling mug of tea before taking a sip. It tasted strongly of lavender. The rain had made the soil smell sweet and cold. He felt like a body someone had disassembled and put back wrong. The sweater he wore smelled like Max. He smirked to himself shamelessly. In an absolutely boneheaded move, he pressed the sleeve to his nose.

He knew he was fucked. Max had fucked with his head and changed everything. It was fairly impressive considering they hadn’t even slept together. 

A short laugh burst from his chest, almost a yelp, piercing the quiet. He was so fucked. 

Oh well. 

Looking around the garden, Bradley knew he couldn’t trust his delayed panic and shame, but he could enjoy the chirping birds.

Nearly an hour had passed and the sky had shifted to gentler shades of gold and bruised violet. He had barely moved, too suspended in the quiet to disturb it. A mosquito whined near his ear and he flicked it away lazily. 

Somewhere inside, a floorboard gave a low groan. A second later, the back door creaked open and Wren stepped out barefoot, expression fixed in what Bradley could best describe as a relaxed scowl.

She looked unlike herself: half-formed by sleep, her shaggy black hair past her shoulders in a nest of tangles, one side matted to her cheek. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, none of the trademark raccoon eyeliner she almost certainly used to intensify her unrelentingly wide gaze. She looked impossibly young, like a kid sneaking downstairs during a slumber party. Her faded oversized T-shirt hung to her knees. Winnie the Pooh smiled dumbly from the front beneath the words Disney World! MacPhersons ‘93.

She carried two mismatched mugs, one pressed into her chest for warmth, the other held out carefully in front of her as she approached.

Bradley raised his eyebrows as she neared.

“Hardly recognized you,” he said, voice hoarse from disuse.

Wren squinted at him, unimpressed. “Good morning to you, too, Uppercrust.”

She held out the second mug, the smell of dark roast coffee curling in the air. He took it out of reflex.

“Thanks. I don’t think the tea helped much.”

Wren looked down at his nearly empty mug sitting under the bench and then back at him, as though surprised to find it there. “Huh. Guess I’m too generous.”

She sat down beside him without further comment, pulling her knees up, hugging her coffee close and tilting her head back. They didn’t speak. A bird called out somewhere in the trees followed by another, half a beat too late.

Bradley glanced sideways at her. “You always wear that to bed?”

She didn’t open her eyes. “Jealous of my impeccable taste?”

He snorted. 

They sat like that for a while, both sipping from their mugs in the hush of the waking garden. 

She pressed her shoulder into his side. “You doing okay?” 

“Why, you know something?” he asked drily. 

Wren smiled conspiratorially. “I have my suspicions.”

Bradley hesitated then just shrugged, giving her a flat look. 

She hummed sympathetically. When she leaned into him again, neither of them moved away. 

Max found him dozing on the ancient velvet sofa in the living room, the August sun now slanting warm through the windows. Bradley hardly remembered sleepily curling into the soft cushions after coming back in. Distantly, he could make out soft chatter coming from the kitchen. 

Crouching down and sitting back on his haunches, Max caught his eye, seemingly studying him up close. Bradley, in sleepy horror, pulled back slightly, tucking his mouth into his shirt. He knew he looked terrible; he was still tired, his hair was tangled, and he’d been caught red-handed wearing Max’s discarded sweater. 

Bradley scowled deeply as he took in his charmingly messy mop of curls and slight smile. Hesitantly, Max reached for him and brushed his hair away from his face. Bradley held his breath.

“We’re starting breakfast prep,” he said quietly. “The girls refused to keep it simple. I heard something about waffles but there’s coffee ready now.”

Bradley was only half listening, caught on the way Max’s tongue flicked nervously along the underside of his lip studs. Their faces were far too close together. He turned onto his side, tucking himself away.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Give me ten.”

He couldn’t see Max’s expression but he imagined his face breaking into a grin. Max patted him on the thigh twice, stood, and walked out.

Bradley came downstairs, showered and changed into a t-shirt and jeans. He had left Max’s sweater folded carefully on a living room chaise, determined to pretend he’d never worn it. In the kitchen, he found Wren, Layla, and Max in a well-choreographed flurry of motion and noise. 

The kitchen wasn’t very large. There was hardly enough counter space, the wooden cabinets looked small and crammed, and a small breakfast nook was jammed in the corner. Above the gingham curtains over the windows hung glass vials with sprouting herbs. The flooring was a yellowing checkered linoleum and the counters were slightly chipped in some places. Still, it was bright and earthy and warm. The wooden island in the centre took up maybe too much room and the three of them still managed to smoothly navigate around one another while putting together what looked like a breakfast feast. 

Bradley smiled at the scene they made. 

Layla was pulling out a pan of pastries from the oven, washing the room in a hot, buttery smell, as Max called out BEHIND while maneuvering a knife around a much too large watermelon. Wren was perched on the edge of the counter, hovering over what looked like a long camping griddle as she flipped bacon and scrambled eggs. 

None of them seemed to notice him until Layla looked up, removing her oven mitts and running the back of her hand across her forehead. She was dressed in shorts and a yellow t-shirt that read Bee Kind.  

“Morning Bradley,” she beamed, gesturing to the pan of pastries. “My mum sent us up here with fatayer.”

He nodded politely, clearing his throat. “I’m not familiar, but it smells great.”

She winked at him. “Oh, trust. You’re going to love it.”

From the counter, Wren gave him a two finger salute before hopping down and pulling an electric waffle iron from the pantry. Max stood by the nook with his back turned to them and was humming as he placed the rest of the fruit along the quickly filling breakfast table. 

Bradley hesitated, hovering near the counter, unsure how to fit neatly into the chaos. He noticed a bowl of mixed berries and tried to make himself useful by transferring them to the table. When he turned back toward the counter, he felt a hand slide along his lower back, warm and steady.

Bradley immediately felt his face flush. His heart hammered against his ribs as he quickly glanced sideways at Wren and Layla. Neither noticed anything, both locked onto the task of preparing batter and bickering over how to make the waffle iron work.  

Max caught his gaze with an amused gleam.

”Coffee?” he asked lightly, his eyes darting along Bradley’s face. 

Bradley stared, taken aback by his nerve, but gave a stiff shrug, the heat still climbing his cheeks. 

Max fixed him a cup, carefully handing it over, letting their fingers brush. Then he seamlessly rejoined the flow of labour and conversation.

Layla was recounting a strange story regarding a recent family reunion where one of her elderly uncles was convinced her pre-med major meant she could accurately diagnose a rash. Max joined in with jokes and knowing asides. Wren seemed to be listening but otherwise focused on the waffle iron, more subdued than usual. Bradley stood with them, listening, absently smiling at their enthused chatter, entirely content to just take long sips of his coffee.  

A few times, he could feel Max watching him or noticed the way Max angled his body toward him.

Bradley ignored him. 

The table was so full, Layla pulled out an extra wooden slat to extend it. It was a ridiculous amount of food for the four of them: bacon, waffles, toast, various jams, ostensibly as much fruit as Layla had managed to fit in her VW bug the previous morning from a nearby farmers’ market, and that flaky fatayer, which Bradley thoroughly enjoyed. The spinach was bright and lemony, the cheese rich and slightly tangy. 

Max was settled beside him. At some point, he had stretched his legs out, pressing his knee into Bradley. Max’s constant need to recline any time he wasn’t upright wasn’t surprising but he made no move to withdraw or shift himself away under the small table. 

Through narrowed sidelong glances, Bradley studied him. Irritatingly, blessedly, he looked just as he always did: relaxed, smiling easily, lazily adding in the occasional quip as the girls talked, carrying on eating his ludicrously large stack of bacon. 

There was, however, a curiously pink patch along the pale bridge of his nose.

Out of curiosity, Bradley casually shifted in his seat, reaching for the precariously high stack of waffles, so their legs were further pressed together. Max’s expression didn’t change. Without missing a beat, he continued telling a slightly distracted Wren about the old spare canoe they could fish out of storage. His only tells were his face growing pinker and his fingers beginning to tap a quiet rhythm along the underside of the table. 

Bradley didn’t know what to make of that. 

He frowned to himself and reached for the syrup, applying a liberal amount to his waffles, feeling like a man stranded without a map. He shoved a generous forkful into his mouth and pushed down the sharp, dizzying feeling churning in his stomach.

Once everyone was sated, a collective restlessness began to creep in. They each stood one by one and began to clean up. 

Wren was the first to begin stacking plates with Bradley quickly following and positioning himself by the double sinks. He kept his head down and built up suds in the basin, hoping to be ignored. The rest of them began piling dishes around him. Wren took up space next to him, not making eye contact with anyone and drying in silence. 

Great. 

Layla put on the dusty radio in the corner and the static crackled for a bit before settling on something muted and jazzy. She began to collect leftovers and transfer them into containers to carry down to the lake for later. Max began wiping down surfaces and sweeping. 

The four of them worked in quiet tandem before Layla clapped her hands once, giving a pointed look at the large rooster themed clock hanging above the arched doorway.

“We should set up the canoes before the sun gets too high,” she announced. “I don’t want to be sweating through my shirt before we even push off.”

Max pulled down the dish towel he’d tossed over his shoulder, folding it neatly over the counter. “I’ll help.”

Layla grinned and squeezed Wren’s shoulder as she passed her. “You good in here?”

Wren didn’t look up from drying a mug. “Got it covered.”

Bradley said nothing, just kept washing and the kitchen fell into silence with just the two of them. Something in Wren seemed to deflate as soon as Layla and Max made their way out. 

When they were finished, they sat at the picnic table out on the patio. Wren propped up the parasol at the centre and it was a great relief. Bradley was unsure why they were sitting around when he was sure Layla and Max had the canoes ready to go by the dock, but Wren was clearly gearing up to something.

He waited, patiently, even as she stared into the middle distance, focused and chewing on her thumbnail like she was receiving a vision. 

Finally, Wren sighed, long and quiet, her head tipped back like she might fall asleep sitting up. For all her razor focused silence as they’d worked, she suddenly seemed very tired. The silence stretched. 

“Do you want to talk about your thing first?” she asked abruptly.

Bradley startled. “What thing? No.”

She shrugged, looking over. “Figured maybe finding you moping in the garden at the ass crack of dawn would get you to share with the class.”

Bradley spluttered, completely caught off guard. 

“You were up, too. So why don’t we talk about your thing?” he snapped. “Since you obviously have one.”

She smirked at him but nodded thoughtfully. Another silence sat between them. This time, Bradley felt a little less gracious.

“I’m tired.”

He said nothing, waiting.

“Like, I think I’m burning out,” she continued quietly. 

He paused. “Oh, do you now?”

“Shut up.”

“Even while you’ve been away?”

“Especially since I’ve had time away.”

She was sitting next to him on the picnic table bench but she turned her whole body sideways to face him, somehow absurdly small enough to comfortably cross her legs. 

“I’m serious. I need to talk about this or I’m going to combust.” She was making entirely too much eye contact and it unsettled Bradley. “And you’re like an asshole who’s somehow a good listener. Plus, every time I try to talk to anyone else, they just try to make me take a break.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Shut up, I’m talking.” She took a deep breath, puffing her cheeks out to exhale. “I’m burning out because it’s too much. The centre is too much. And I don’t want to be anywhere else but… I feel stuck.”

Bradley worked to move past the emotional whiplash and focus on her words. “What’s making you feel stuck?”

“All of it. I just— it’s hard to explain. I’ve spent half my life there.”

“But?”

“But… Bev and Dennis are getting older and every year, there’s just more. The place keeps getting bigger and more complicated.”

“And that’s where you pick up the slack,” he prompted. 

Wren nodded, a bit shakily. 

“No offence, but does it need to be you?”

There was a pause as Wren sat up, back ramrod straight, cheeks burning. 

“Well no one else stepped up,” she said defensively, her wide eyes boring into him like he was the sole source of all her problems. “Everyone else went off to college or got married and had kids or moved away. They fucked off. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re not a very big town.”

Bradley sat back a little to avoid her misplaced wrath. He paused to think and winced a little at how ill-equipped he was for a conversation about duty or abandonment.  

“And this means you don’t get the chance to fuck off and do any of that,” he said, hazarding a guess. 

She looked defeated. “Right.” 

He nodded slowly. He wasn’t exactly the sort of person who could be counted on for a dose of emotional support, even when he wasn’t quietly spiraling and trying to sort through his own bullshit. 

“First, I just need you to know I don’t have any wisdom to share,” he started hesitantly. “But you love it and it’s clear everyone at the centre cares about you. And that—that matters, right? It’s not nothing. Maybe things need to become more… sustainable.”

Wren let her head drop into her hand, elbow propped on the picnic table. She looked vaguely impressed. “That’s very wise, Bradley. Easier said than done but, y’know. Good reminder. You get a B in being a friend.”

“Thanks,” he said drily. “Maybe Spoonerville is rubbing off on me.”

He watched her despairing expression melt, mouth curving into an evil little smile. “Maybe. Or more like Max has been rubbing off on you.”

“Jesus Christ, Wren.”

“I bet that wasn’t the only thing he was—”

“I will drown you in the lake,” Bradley said too loudly. He shoved her, half panicked, half incredulous, and nearly sent her tiny frame onto the deck. She shoved back, doubling over with cackles. Childishly, they squabbled for several minutes. 

Wren managed to slide away and stand up without toppling. She turned to stick out her tongue and flipped the bird with both hands, before ducking around the side of the cottage to join Max and Layla.  

The little shit, Bradley fumed. The nerve of her. 

He was unsure what she knew. She certainly suspected a great deal. It was becoming increasingly clear he and Max were probably not exceptionally subtle with— with whatever was going on. 

Had Max confided in Wren? Did Wren know about what happened? 

Would it be the end of the world if she did? Wren who was undoubtedly down by the water, shamelessly giving her own girlfriend a kiss on the cheek. 

The thought of anybody knowing nauseated Bradley. It made his skin crawl and filled him with a dread so visceral, he didn’t feel it would be an overreaction to dig his own grave. 

And yet, practically speaking, he supposed it wouldn’t be completely awful if it was Wren. She had been giving him knowing looks for weeks. Though, he still felt she owed him the basic decency of at least pretending she didn’t. She did him a great disservice by making it clear that he walked around like a raw nerve. 

After managing a few steadying breaths, he followed.

Bradley returned from their canoeing in a fugue state. 

He stood in his room, downing a bottle of Gatorade as he gradually came back to himself. He had spent the entire time on the lake sharing a boat with Layla in a silent trance, unable to engage with anyone, grounding himself by paddling. 

At one point, Max, watching him, had given him a small reassuring smile, seemingly checking in. Bradley could only give him a blank look.

He still felt floaty, heady, completely disoriented. An uneasy unreality clung to everything around him. The strange, sparsely furnished guest room was shadowed and washed in afternoon light, filtered through the vines outside the window. His bag lay open, its contents strewn about. He caught a glimpse of himself in the dusty mirror along the side of the wardrobe. He looked unlike himself, haunted, out of sorts.

It was frankly ridiculous. 

He reapplied deodorant, swapped his sweaty t-shirt for a linen button-down, and shoved his few items back into his scuffed leather weekender. 

He was fine – sunsick, a bit tired, but fine. All he had to do was make it back to his shitty apartment so he could have a chance to think, away from this cottage, away from the girls, and certainly away from Max. 

For a second, he froze at the thought of having to spend another long drive with the man on the way back to Spoonerville. The thought of Max sprawled in his passenger seat goodnaturedly humming and snacking and teasing. 

The stuff of nightmares.

Bradley was suddenly struck with the concern this is when Max intended for them to talk. 

What initially read as comforting, grounding, compelling evidence he wasn’t alone with his disgusting, mortifying, consuming yearning quickly began to warp and curdle into dread. Bradley imagined himself white knuckling it as he drove them back to town while they reached an understanding, realizing an inevitable miscommunication. 

It didn’t matter what happened under the cover of night during a shared moment of heat. He was alone in this. 

He sat on the edge of the bed shakily. When he considered the facts of the matter, he had little to cling to, little that didn’t feel shrouded in speculation and wishful interpretations of Max’s warmth, his steadiness, his kindness. 

He needed air. He stood up to crack the window. By the front porch, he could see Layla watering her herbs, Wren somewhere out of sight as the two chatted. He could hear their murmurs and hushed laughter even from a floor up. 

Bradley was quickly learning couples could still be annoying, even when he liked them.

He paced the narrow space between the bed and wardrobe. 

He had kissed Max. Max had kissed him. Things had… escalated. They had yet to clear the air. 

He was only across the hall, packing his own things. It was possible Max himself might come to his door at any moment. Bradley couldn’t even imagine what he might have to say. He pictured Max, shoulders folded inward—there to express regret or to smooth out some miscommunication that had resulted in Bradley grossly misunderstanding their relationship. Maybe he would ask if they could pretend nothing had happened. Maybe Max would offer to remain friends as sorry consolation. 

He scoffed at the thought in preemptive rage. They were not about to be fucking friends. 

Bradley wasn’t sure what he wanted but he knew he would sooner swim headlong into the Mariana Trench. 

He would sooner mop the ocean. 

He would sooner eat a denim jacket with a knife and fork. 

He would sooner—

There was nothing else to do. Bradley had no choice but to find Max first and head him off. 

He crossed the room and wrenched his door open only to find Max already in the hall, pacing along the carpet runner. He looked up in surprise. 

They both stilled. 

Max smiled at him nervously but Bradley had already worked himself into an anxious, irate mood. He meant to say something measured and cold, but what came out was:

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Max blinked, taken aback. For a second, he looked like he might turn and walk away. 

“Could I come in… I wanted to talk?”

Bradley felt his stomach drop. His hand still grasping the doorknob twitched. 

“You’ve got the floor.”

Max’s brows furrowed. He was no longer smiling. “Out here?”

Bradley hesitated and gave him a considering look. Max seemed ready to leave for town, his hair returned to its usual state of purposeful chaos, and back in his shorts and ugly windbreaker. His mouth was pressed into a thin line but his posture was open. He looked like he was bracing for something.

Sighing, he stepped back. Max walked in and stood at the centre of the room. Bradley stayed by the door. Neither of them dared look at the bed.

“Is everything okay?”

“I don’t know, Max,” Bradley said irritatedly. “Is everything okay?”

“Okay,” Max said, face twisting with concern. “It’s just that things seemed good today—”

“We didn’t even talk today,” Bradley snapped. 

“Well yeah,” Max shot back, his frustration becoming apparent. “Obviously, because— but we were good. So what happened?”

“You know what happened,” Bradley seethed, waving his hand around. “It was—”

He cut himself off. Max was watching him, hesitant, confused, brows furrowed and lips slightly pouting. 

Jesus Christ, he couldn’t stand the man.

“I want to get this over with,” he finished as evenly as he could manage.

They stared at each other, seemingly willing the other to speak. Bradley could feel his heart hammering against his ribs as he tried not to look into Max’s eyes or fixate on the curve of his mouth. 

He was unsure why he was hesitating— mutually agreeing none of it meant anything wasn’t exactly a complicated discussion— but Max was just watching him, expression entirely unguarded. 

“Bradley, it’s okay if–”

“I don’t fucking know how to do this,” he interrupted, dragging his hands down his face.

“Okay. That’s – okay.” Max huffed a laugh but then settled his expression into something more serious. He paused thoughtfully, eyes darting around Bradley’s face. Then, continuing to ignore the made bed next to both of them, he sat down on the floor and crossed his legs. “Let’s, uh, let’s play Truth or Truth.”

“Excuse me?” Bradley said, still standing. 

“Truth or Truth,” Max said easily, leaning back on his hands. “You ask, I ask. You can skip a question, but then you have to say why.” 

“Max, please stand up.”

“No. Sit down and play Truth or Truth with me.” He looked up at Bradley with something like mischief in his eyes. It was stupid, it was unnecessary. It was an absurdly transparent emotional risk. 

Bradley tried one last time. “You want me to sit down? You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

Bradley watched him, trying to determine his angle, before giving up. Then heaving a loud sigh, he settled on the floor, sitting fucking crisscross apple sauce, facing Max but several feet away. 

“Fine, whatever,” Bradley allowed, sighing and clasping his hands to hide them between his knees. “But you start.”

Max tapped his chin mock pensively. “Alright. What’s your favourite cereal?”

Bradley stared, marvelling at his audacity. “You’re full of shit.”

“Favourite. Cereal.”

“Fine. It’s Lucky Charms.”

“Lucky Charms? And you judged my gas station haul?”

“Well, yeah – it’s literally just sugar. I don’t actually eat the stuff anyway.”

“Wait – you don’t let yourself eat your favourite cereal?”

“Stop trying to fucking psychoanalyze me. It’s my turn, anyway,” Bradley looked to the ceiling, wracking his brain. His chest felt constricted, his stomach in knots, but he was still somehow entertaining Max and his stupid stupid game. “Uh, I don’t know – favourite movie?”

“I tell people it’s Do the Right Thing which is true, but if I’m honest, it’s probably like, The Little Rascals.”

Bradley snorted in genuine amusement. “Typical.”

“Hey now – and what? Your favourite movie is Wall Street.”

“Sure, if I were cartoonishly evil,” he said, stopping to think, reaching for something more honest than he’d typically permit. “I think it’s more like, uh, Dead Poets Society, actually.”

“That makes sense. Sensitive white boys at private school,” Max said teasingly, leaning in to look him in the eye. “I found your Jeff Buckley CD under your passenger seat, by the way.”

“God.” Bradley pressed his hands into his face. “Please shut up.”

Max did, laughing softly, tipping backward again to lean on both hands. He looked calm, but his cheeks had pinkened, making his freckles prominent. 

They sat in silence for a long stretch. Max watched him. Bradley’s eyes were fixed on the window just over Max’s shoulder. 

“You surprised me last night,” Max said after a long, suspended moment. “Can we talk about that?”

“I was hoping we could spare ourselves the autopsy and skip to the end actually.”

“Oh,” Max said, looking interested. “And what happens at the end?”

They just stared at each other, both holding their breath. Bradley broke first. 

“Okay,” he said, releasing a deep exhale. “Fuck. Look, I’m sorry—”

“Whoa,” Max interrupted. “What are you sorry for?”

“What am I sorry for?” he asked incredulously. 

“I’m just saying— I’m not sorry,” Max said quickly with a small, helpless smile. “Not sure if it was clear but I was not complaining. I was just, y’know, not expecting it.”

Bradley looked away, keeping his eyes on the window again, fixated on a point where the vines overlapped most densely, keeping out the sunlight. His head spun, his chest clenching tighter, the pressure pushing up against his ribs. 

Max sat up and moved closer to him, his knee brushing Bradley’s, drawing his gaze. “Are you okay with what happened?”

Breathless, panicked, he could only take Max in. His curls looked damp. He held very still, his body forming strained lines. His hands were tucked into his lap, his thumb rubbing along the line of his wrist as if to soothe himself. 

Bradley blinked as he processed the tense, hopeful image Max made. Nothing about the situation, nothing that had happened or been said, was conveying Max’s regret or dismay or disgust or –

For fuck’s sake, they were sitting on the floor. 

“I’m not sure what I feel – what I get to feel –,” he stumbled, pausing,  trying again. “But I don’t wish it never happened or – or, I mean, I don’t take it back, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Max gave him a slow smile, looking away. His shoulders seemed to ease a bit. “That is what I’m asking. I — me neither.”

“Cool,” Bradley said, blinking hard. He felt dazed. 

“Cool.”

They fell into another silence. Bradley felt as though he was reeling from the turn this conversation had taken and it left him with only questions. 

“Why did you come to my door last night?”

Max huffed a laugh and rubbed his neck, embarrassed. “To talk? I don’t know. I think I just wanted to see you. Make sure things were okay. After everything in the garden.”

“What happened in the garden?”

“Bradley.”

“Say it,” he pushed.

“Okay, fine. I was going to kiss you.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Would you believe me if I said you make me nervous?”

“No,” Bradley said flatly. 

“Well, it’s true.”

He breathed a laugh. “You showed up and it felt like I lost my mind.”

“You did,” Max said, sounding fond. He fidgeted with the zipper on his windbreaker. “It was kinda great.”

He reached forward and shoved Max, making him burst into laughter. They settled then. Bradley looked around the room, eyes landing on the bed. He pushed the dangerous thoughts away before hesitantly turning back. 

“Now what?”

If the truth was that it wasn’t a mistake, no matter what should or should not have happened, and neither of them regretted it, what then? Bradley couldn’t bring himself to think it through alone. 

“Do you think this… do you think that it means…” he trailed off, voice feeling strained. 

“It doesn’t have to,” Max answered hesitantly. Slowly, so slowly, he reached out and gently brushed the back of his hand. Bradley tensed, unsettled, then nodded. Max laced their fingers. “I would like it to, though.”

Bradley couldn’t make sense of anything, couldn’t understand how any of it was possible.

They were sitting on the floor. 

“I just — I don’t know how this works for you. I mean—was last night… your first time—”  he asked haltingly, gesturing vaguely. His face flamed at his own daring; he didn’t mean to ask anything so bold. 

“Kissing a guy?” Max finished easily. He looked Bradley in the eye. “No. You?”

“Do you even need to ask?”

He smiled gently. “Seemed a fair enough question.”

Bradley swallowed through the lump in his throat. “Okay, last Truth or Truth is yours.”

Max made a show of humming thoughtfully, stroking his chin with his free hand, prolonging it until Bradley could feel his cheeks tighten with suppressed laughter.

“I’ve got it,” he said. “Would you want to kiss me again?”

Bradley leaned away, half-groaning, half-laughing. 

“Well, would you?” Max was gently pulling his hand, trying to get Bradley to look at him. 

“Fine, yeah, okay,” he murmured, defeated. He cleared his throat and tried again, speaking clearly. “Yes, I would.”

Max nodded, smiling from ear to ear, looking radiant. He inched a bit closer so that their knees were touching.

He gave him a flat look. “I’d like to be off the floor now.”

Max looked smug. “You think this conversation could’ve happened on the bed?”

Bradley ignored him and stood, grabbing his weekend bag. Max quickly followed. 

Wren and Layla were waiting downstairs to give them warm goodbyes, helping them pack leftovers into the car. 

Their drive back was quiet. The silence felt full, soothing the buzz under his skin he usually felt with Max so close. When Bradley dropped him off, they said almost nothing. Max only looked at him closely and reached for him, intertwining their fingers, their palms warm. Then he got out of the car, removed his cooler from the trunk, and waved as he retreated into his building.

He arrived home later that evening to the stillness of his apartment. Two days of being around others, enveloped in an almost smothering level of affection and care and attentiveness made him nearly collapse into his bed in a strange mix of loneliness and relief. 

Everything was as he left it. His succulents needed watering, his kitchen was still unused, stacks of unopened mail littered the floor of his open closet. Pip sat at the head of his made bed and Bradley held him close, burying his face into his plush fur like a child. From where he lay, he could see his Avoid list still tacked to the corkboard above his desk. 

He sat up and reached for it. Just as he remembered: Tank, Father, Gammas, something about a problem zit and, at the bottom, circled several times over, Max. 

He couldn’t help laughing as he crumpled it up and tossed it under his bed. 

Bradley arrived early and mildly sleep deprived for his Monday duties, having treated himself to a long night of thinking in circles. 

In a bid for control, he had taken some extra time on his appearance, brushing his overly long hair away from his face and applying a bit of product. His khakis and polo were worn but clean. He’d made sure he smelled good. 

He had scrutinized himself in the mirror before leaving, determined to find what was left of his old self. 

Had he changed? 

Bradley felt changed, he felt pried open. It was more than just his increased dishevelment and time in the sun. He felt like his guts had messily unspooled at his feet and he was shamefully, embarrassedly trying to tuck his disemboweled insides back in lest anyone look down. 

He looked neither proud nor haughty, neither derisive nor guarded. Just stripped down, soft, tired and alert, open. He stared harder but couldn’t so much as study his features without the memory of Max’s lips mapping them intruding on his quiet moment; couldn’t even reach for a comb without feeling the phantom grip of Max’s fingers at the nape of his neck. 

He ignored the tug in his stomach, the roiling that followed. Desire and dread, shame then want; the world’s worst game of ping pong. It came in waves, confused blurs of mortification and tenderness washing over him. 

If he was careful, if he was prepared, he could keep everyone from looking down. Not Max. Not Wren. But maybe everyone else. 

Max wanting him back only seemed to be the tip of the iceberg. There was still everything else he couldn’t manage. 

If nothing else, the distraction of the centre was welcome and he steadied himself with his usual custodial duties. He counted them off on his fingers: bathrooms, lobby, front desk, multipurpose spaces, break rooms. 

He moved quickly and with savvy grudgingly earned from weeks of grunt work and saint-like patience. The glitter-glue clog in the girls’ bathroom was removed with gloves and a coat hanger. The ants in the front planter, doubtlessly drawn by the PB&J scraps the younger children insisted on leaving as a sacrifice to their pagan god, were scraped out with a plastic fork and then covered in cinnamon powder. A note left for him about a lost beanie baby was resolved when he retrieved it from the top of a vending machine with a broom handle, cleaned it, and left it in the Lost & Found. 

He felt guarded and hyper-aware; his posture stiff, breath shallow.

Wren found him while he was mopping the front hall to slyly ask him to clear out space in the seasonal storage room for a premature Exhibition shipment coming in that afternoon. The same seasonal storage room he knew had gone untouched for years, spilling over with ghosts of community centre holidays past. 

Ordinarily, he would decline and it would escalate into a quick verbal spar. He would give her a hard time, she would insist it was necessary and urgent. He would bring up the time Dennis had referred to the infamous centre hoard as The Morgue and she would give him a backhanded compliment, insisting he was the only one finicky enough to get it done . It was their usual sharp-tongued song and dance.

Instead, he just shrugged and nodded, leaving her with little to do besides nod awkwardly, watch him closely for a bit, and speedily move on.

She still looked tired. He was sparing them both. 

As he found the keys on his ring and peered into the oft-neglected storage space, he was unsure if he felt relieved or resigned to what he found.

It was a walk-in seemingly organized as though someone had once attempted to systematize it. There were labelled cardboard boxes half collapsing under the weight of miscellaneous decor, plastic totes marked for events and others for costumes. Along the back wall was a tilting stack of unused sandwich boards and broken folding chairs kept for reasons he was not prepared to consider. 

He looked at some of the faded labelling and squinted, wondering if he might recognize a specific someone’s messy scrawl before clamping on the thought. He really couldn’t afford to become any more pathetic.

Storage room Tetris, he thought, bracing himself before he got started. I need to play fucking storage room Tetris. 

Within three hours, he had the floor cleared, swept and wiped down. He had developed a triage system for the boxes with some relabelled and lined along the walls while others had been broken down and discarded. The plastic totes, ordered by size and type, hung on a makeshift hook. 

Wren stood in the middle of the room, pivoting in a circle under the changed lightbulb, and marvelled at the sight.

“Here,” he said, handing her a rudimentary map he had scribbled on the back of a sweaty paper towel. “This should come in handy.”

Wren gave him a long look. She seemed almost awed, entirely too appreciative. “Thank you, Bradley. Seriously.”

He gave a stiff nod, looking anywhere but at her. 

“Yeah. No problem, Wren.”

Bradley was standing at the front desk, exhaustedly scrawling half thoughts into his reflection log, wondering if he could get away with getting creative with it. He could doodle a little cartoon dog with a speech bubble invoking the value of community and tireless resolve. Judge Doyle would be unimpressed, if he bothered to read it at all, but it would make Wren laugh. 

He figured he might save it for his quickly approaching last day, since it would hardly matter by then.

“Hey.”

Bradley jumped, letting his pen drag across the page. Max hardly seemed to notice, already standing far too close and wearing his stupid shy half-smile. His cheeks were pink, and he had clearly been running his hand through his hair. There was a spot on his bottom lip where he’d bitten it too hard. He had changed his lip rings again. He was carrying a fat stack of wrinkled printouts, half-bent and held together with paperclips.

“Have you seen the good stapler?” he continued. “I’m trying to set up Exhibition volunteer materials right now and the others are a disaster.”

Bradley managed to snap out of his reverie long enough to wordlessly reach under the desk and hand over Bev’s prized giant yellow stapler from its usual hiding spot.

“Oh nice, thanks,” Max replied as if Bradley had spoken. He pulled his stack from under his arm and thudded it on the desk between them, getting to work. He kept his eyes down, lips pressed tight in focus. The desk vibrated slightly with each press of the stapler.

Bradley watched his hands, pretending he was still musing over his reflection. Instead, he committed to stealing glances and fashioning the harsh line he’d accidentally drawn into an upright cartoon beagle. He noted the way Max’s curls hung over his forehead, his large hands, the slight differences in the pale patches along the lines of his wrists. He had the absurd notion of reaching across and closing those few inches. 

“These are for the welcome table,” Max muttered, eyes still on the papers. “I wondered... you know. If you would still be here for Exhibition weekend. To be part of everything.”

Bradley blinked, feeling the return of the loop de loop in his belly. “Oh. Yes, I am.”

Max didn’t look up, just nodded once and kept stapling.

A beat passed, then two. Max gathered the finished stack, and tucked it under one arm. He seemed to be hesitating. Then, without looking at him, Max reached for him. From behind the desk, nobody would have been able to see him lacing their fingers and giving his hand a soft squeeze. Even so, Bradley held his breath, feeling his face heat. 

“You busy this week?” Max asked quietly. “I thought we could hang out sometime. Maybe hit the park again after work.”

Numbly, wordlessly, Bradley nodded. 

Max smiled, looking oddly relieved. “Cool.”

Then he was gone. 

Bradley stood there stunned, forcing himself to frown lest he openly smile to himself like an idiot in the middle of the lobby. Quickly forging Wren’s signature in the margin of his doodle, he sent himself home for the day without wishing anyone goodbye.

Late that night, he took his skateboard out and circled his neighbourhood until he found himself back in the same desolate Office Depot parking lot. The street lights were dimmer, orange, washing everything in an eerie glow. He could hear the occasional hum of passing traffic from the main road. 

He dropped his board with a hollow clack and stepped on to it, breathing deep. 

It had been a while since he’d come out late to skate alone but he needed it. He needed the release, needed something to take his focus. 

He didn’t feel terrible. His body felt stiff but serviceable. His tricks landed smooth but still felt effortful. When he pushed off, his shoulders no longer seized up; he didn’t panic at the jolt of landing hard anymore. 

He worked in silence, repeating fairly basic tricks over and over, skating fast, circling wide and carving shallow arcs. There was grit in his palms and sweat down his spine, and something about it made him feel almost good, almost giddy. 

On a whim, Bradley tried for a hardflip and stuck it clean on his third try. Impulsively, he let out a loud ha into the empty lot, laughing breathlessly as he coasted to a stop, arms lifted in solitary triumph. 

Nobody was watching. He was alone enjoying a brief moment where his body and mind weren’t at complete odds.

Eventually, breathless and damp, he wandered toward the curb. He sat with his knees drawn up, chest heaving, cooling under a stuttering streetlamp. He checked his watch— just after midnight. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a crinkled bag of gummy worms. He chewed absently, staring out over the broken concrete and dandelion weeds. 

His muscles ached. His throat burned from the dry night air. But his head, finally, had quieted. 

In his soft, bone tired, meditative state, a memory resurfaced in increments. Then another, and another, collapsing into one another. He shut his eyes tight, but his mind kept splicing together long buried fragments, ghosts he had purposefully kicked into a corner to collect dust. 

The time he was ten and his godmother gifted him a silk plum tie for his birthday he’d never worn. His father had claimed it made him look like a dandy. Bradley hadn’t known what that meant. 

An older boy who had stayed at his uncle’s summer home he’d forgotten about. Tanned, worldly, beautiful. Bradley had been too young, didn’t understand the draw, except that this boy had something about his posture, his cheekbones. He’d followed him around like a pup before someone had called his mother and he was on the first plane back to New York. 

The time Bradley returned from a school dance late and visibly drunk, still reeling from the revulsion of slow dancing, completely unable to make sense of why. He had abandoned his date as quickly as he possibly could. 

On and on it went, imposing and blurred. Revealing. The truth hidden in plain sight, apparent to anyone willing to look. It had been leaking out of him for years and he’d been none the wiser. It had always been there, in his anger, in his posturing, in his silence. He could feel bile rising in his throat.

The bag crumpled in his lap. His hands stilled. A soft noise escaped him, animal, half gasp, half sob. He folded forward, bracing his elbows on his knees as the tears came fast and gutting. He wept into the crook of his arm, not hiding, not fighting, just letting go. His whole frame shook with it, ragged and involuntary. 

They weren’t sudden memories, exactly. He had spent years refusing to draw connections, to recognize a larger pattern. He was quickly realizing one revelation tended to spawn others.

For the first time in weeks, he longed for Tank’s presence. Tank would know what to do with him, would’ve known the precise way to fold Bradley’s pain into something he could hold safely in his hands. 

He might’ve even already known and he would’ve stayed if he hadn’t. 

Strained laughter broke through his sobs for a second. Crying alone in the middle of the night in a random parking lot. 

One could just keep hitting rock bottom, it turned out. 

Feeling hollowed out, he picked up his board and walked home in the dark, gummy worms forgotten in his pocket. 

Bradley walked into the staff breakroom only to stumble into a party. 

The small room was absolutely packed to the gills; seemingly every community centre staff member, both past and present, was in attendance. 

He showed up just in time to witness Zara being gently pushed into a seat at the rickety folding table by Wren. A big, blue homemade cake that read Congratulations, Z sat in front of her, and someone had lopsided a party hat over her braids. Bev was singing a folk song while Dennis clapped. A dozen other staffers Bradley recognized were also clapping and excitedly chanting her name. Pinned above the sink, along the cupboards, was a giant, gaudy, battered pink sign that read IT’S A GIRL, and beneath it, perched on the counter and swinging his long legs, was a smiling Max.

He caught sight of Bradley and his grin widened.

“There you are!” he shouted slightly over the din. Bradley refrained from glaring at him, eyes darting around the room as if anyone else might have noticed Max’s misplaced enthusiasm. 

“I was– I was in the basement,” he said, joining Max. He felt disoriented by the big pink sign and the sight of Zara having her cheeks pinched by Bev. “There was a gym equipment shipment— what on earth is happening?”

“Oh, you didn’t hear?” Max said, leaning in further than was strictly necessary. “Zara’s dad called and told us she got into CalArts for the fall.”

“Then what the fuck is this about?” He pointed up at the sign.

Max smiled slyly. “I found it in one of the back closets and nobody stopped me.”

Bradley frowned to keep from smiling. What an idiot.

He leaned against the counter beside Max, arms crossed, watching Bev shift into a second verse. He thought her voice was rather nice, and she was jigging a bit, one arm over Dennis’ shoulder for support. Wren was passing out paper cups of store brand ginger ale. Someone had found a kazoo and was being very irresponsible with it.

Zara, the ostensible guest of honour, only sat in stunned silence and blinked at her cake. She seemed a bit dazed when she was handed a slice and nodded dutifully through a chorus of congratulations. 

All anyone could talk about was how exciting California sounded, how different it would be, how far away it was. Zara fielded every quip with a strained smile.

Bradley watched her, noting her stiff shoulders and flickering, nervous expressions. He turned to look at Max, who was already looking at him. 

“Shouldn’t she, I don’t know… actually look happy?” he said, low enough so only Max could hear.

Max glanced over at Zara, then back to him. 

“She is happy,” he said gently and with a bit too much certainty. “She just doesn’t like surprises.”

“Does anyone?” Bradley muttered to himself. 

He turned back and caught her gaze. They exchanged small pained smiles over their paper plates of cake. 

Bradley knew disguised discomfort when he saw it even if Max was too sunshiney and obtuse to notice. He dug into the blue buttercream, privately resolving to check in with her. 

Soon enough, the staff began to trickle out and get back to work. Wren and Max waved everyone away with the reassurance the two would stay behind to clean up. Bradley watched Zara wave goodbye while she speedily made her way out. He stuck around long enough to stack chairs and take out the garbage. 

He rolled his eyes at the wink Max shot him as he left.

At long last, the mural painting sessions were underway.

The draft submissions had been reviewed and organized. The plywood panels were cut down to manageable size, sanded, and primed. Zara and Bradley had spent most of the morning flailing like decapitated chickens in the multipurpose room, setting up individual stations for each child. 

Each child would have a labeled tray, a canvas, and their own smock. They were good. This would be good.

Soon enough, their lively cohort of tiny artists arrived, all of them lined up outside the multipurpose room. Most of them were buzzing with excitement and he privately found their excitement contagious. 

It was show time. 

Once the children had been led to their individual stations and donned their smocks, Bradley fell back a bit as Zara provided careful, patient instructions. He watched the room, eyes darting around as he accounted for the most fidgety and easily distracted amongst the group, all strategically spread out in the four corners of the room. The more reserved children had been assigned easels by the front, where Bradley and Zara’s foot traffic would be most frequent. He set a timer on his wristwatch to alert him when they hit the midpoint. 

The two of them fell into a rhythm together, occasionally sharing a look or a curt nod above the children’s heads. 

Whatever unease had been clinging to Zara’s frame the day before seemed to have melted away. She was in top form, smiling encouragingly, smoothly redirecting attention, offering praise. 

The room moved from an enthusiastic cacophony to a steady hum of focus and back. 

Bradley did what he did best, which was to curb certain disaster. 

He caught an easel that tilted too far after Archie stumbled into it reaching to paint the top of his panel. Bradley adjusted the legs so it would better suit wee Archie’s height. He swapped out Christina’s tray for a fresh one and handed her a paper towel as she’d momentarily been distracted, trying to see how quickly she could paint the back of her hand a funky sludge colour. He caught Tabitha, one of their most withdrawn kids, staring at her untouched panel, but Zara was already crouched next to her speaking quietly. 

He kept cups of water from toppling off tables, replaced brushes, and replenished primary paint colours as he went. He weaved around the stations, awkwardly wiping the younger children’s painted cheeks and cleaning up floor messes to prevent slips. 

By the time his watch went off, he was nearing his limit. 

Zara approached him as he took a break to sip from his water bottle. 

“They’re doing it,” she said in hushed excitement.

Bradley nodded, looking on with a funny feeling in his chest. From across the room, he could see Archie’s determined expression as he added details to the wings of his magenta dragon. The rest of the children had similarly hit their stride, each of them looking carefully from their drafts to their panels. He could hardly believe how well it was coming together. 

Finally, time was up and the kids were frogmarched to their cleanup stations before being dismissed with high fives. 

Tidying was a silent affair. Bradley collected brushes and water cups, wiping surfaces with disinfectant, while Zara collected the panels and carefully lined them along the back table. She seemed deep in thought, slower, more methodical than usual. 

In a moment of foresight, Bradley decided to shut the door and the room fell into a heavy quiet. Before he could think of how to phrase it, he piped up: “So, California, huh?”

Zara sighed, shooting him an exasperated smile. “Don’t you start.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he insisted, pausing. “Just, y’know, noticed you didn’t seem too thrilled at your own party yesterday.”

“I hate surprises.”

“That’s what Max said,” Bradley said, sidling up to where she was wiping down the edges of the panels. “He’s also responsible for the baby shower sign, by the way.”

Zara laughed, sharp, as if she hadn’t expected to. “Max is an idiot.”

“He is,” Bradley replied, trying to sound casual. He stood at the other end of the table and joined her in cleaning up the panels. “Do you want to leave it alone?”

“I guess not. I’m not sure,” she said, shrugging. Then, a bit angrily: “Okay, so maybe I’d like it more if everyone didn’t act like I was so eager to get out of here.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No. I mean, art school is my dream.” Her voice was slowly rising in pitch. “And it’s CalArts. But…”

She trailed off, looking up at him. They both stilled. He didn’t prompt her, just waited. 

“Everyone I love is here and everything I care about is here. And everyone’s acting like I’m getting some golden fucking ticket.”

He nodded slowly. 

Zara still looked like herself; she was still adorned in another paint splattered overall dress and wore ladybug clips in her braids. She wore shimmery makeup and far too many layered bracelets. She looked every bit the bright cherub from the archive photos but her eyes were tired, her hands clenched into fists. Her short lived ease was gone, replaced by something like grief and anger, causing her to shrink, to physically fold in on herself. 

“I’m sorry, Zara,” he said carefully, reaching deep within himself to remain steady. “But this place is still your home. I don’t… I dont think anyone actually wants to see you go.”

“I know.”

“They’ll miss you.”

“I know. I’ll miss them.”

“Of course, you will.”

“But I love being from here.”

“You always will be.”

She burst into tears, pressing the heels of her hands to her face. Bradley instinctively reached for her as she sank to the floor. Awkwardly, he tucked her small frame under his arm, rocking them a little, saying nothing. 

They sat together like that for nearly an hour as she mourned Spoonerville.

Bradley had set himself up for failure. 

Earlier that day, he’d told Max he wasn’t down to hang at the skatepark. He didn’t explain why and hoped Max wouldn’t ask. The truth was he still felt shaken and raw after his embarrassing solo midnight sobbing fit. He wasn’t stupid enough to say as much, and too cowardly to come up with a plausible excuse.

He should’ve known Max would have no interest in prying. Still, he hadn’t expected him to just shrug with a smile and casually suggest they hang at his place instead.

This was how Bradley found himself standing outside the crooked screen door of a third floor walk-up, holding a plastic gas station bag bursting at the seams. 

He knocked twice. 

Footsteps pounded down the hall and the door yawned open. Max stood there in a hoodie and shorts, curls pushed back by a satin scarf. His eyes lit up instantly, wide and pleased.

“You brought provisions,” he said, stepping aside.

“I robbed a gas station,” Bradley deadpanned as he stepped inside. “You’re welcome.”

Max grinned and closed the door behind him. 

The apartment smelled faintly like incense and carpet cleaner. The place was clearly shared. A beat-up futon in the corner was strewn with mismatched pillows, a coffee table dotted with water rings and a tiny glass ashtray. A TV rested slightly crooked on a wooden stand. A stack of magazines were half-shoved under the table, and the PlayStation sat proudly beneath the TV, one controller already tangled in its own cord.

“You want the tour?” Max asked, flopping onto the floor, waving lazily. “It’s short: living room, kitchen, Bobby’s room down there, mine back here, one bathroom that sounds haunted after eleven.”

Bradley eyed the lava lamp in the corner, gently gurgling pink goo. “Very chic.”

Max grinned. “That was Bobby’s girlfriend’s idea. They broke up, but the lamp stays.”

He dropped the bag of snacks beside Max. “You still talk to Bobby?”

“He’s working a shitty construction job when he isn’t at his mom’s bakery, so only when rent is due or Metal Gear Solid won’t load.”

Bradley slid onto the carpet beside him, their shoulders nearly brushing. Max was already pulling out snacks and sorting them into a pile.

”You got the gummy worms,” he said, sounding pleased. “And Doritos. You gonna eat any of this?”

“No,” Bradley said. “It’s all for your bottomless pit of a metabolism.”

Max smiled, casting him a sideways glance.

They loaded up the PlayStation and started playing Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater 2, passing the controller back and forth with every bail. The apartment filled with the tinny soundtrack, the clack of plastic buttons, and Bradley’s increasingly colourful swearing every time he missed a grind.

They’d already blown through a third of the snacks when Bradley shifted, pulling his knees up.

“Truth or truth,” he said.

Max grinned, eyes still on the screen. “Oh, we're still playing that?”

“We don’t have to—”

“No, it’s just— it’s something I sort of improvised,” Max said sheepishly. He remained focused on the game, but his shoulders were creeping up by his ears. “To keep you from freaking out. And also from yelling at me.”

Bradley paused, cheeks burning. “Well, it worked. So, well done.”

“You’re saying I’m a genius?”

“I’m saying you’re an asshole and it’s your turn.”

“Now? You think I can stick a nose grind and spill my deepest secrets at the same time?”

Bradley shrugged. “Multitask.”

He shook his head, still focused. “You’re evil.”

Bradley reached over and pressed pause just as Max missed a rail by a hair. The screen froze mid-air, with Spidey suspended in a crooked bail position, the timer still reading 0:09.

He gave him a betrayed look. “Bro.”

“You weren’t gonna land it.”

“You don’t know that,” Max shot back. “That was my redemption run.”

“Truth or Truth.”

“Fine,” he said, putting down the controller. “Truth.”

“Would you survive a zombie apocalypse?”

“I think so,” Max said, crossing his legs and leaning back. “I wouldn’t enjoy it. It’d probably get lonely and miserable, but I think I’d manage. You?”

“No,” Bradley said smoothly, reaching for a Hostess. “I’d kill myself first chance I got.”

Max’s face lit in amused surprise. “Bradley, that’s fucking dark.”

He shrugged, taking a large bite. “Your turn.”

“Have you ever had a crush on a cartoon character?” Max asked. 

Bradley sighed. “Robin Hood. The fox one.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, I get it. He’s charming.”

They both laid back on the carpet, shoulder to shoulder, their game forgotten for the moment. 

“Do you like your dad’s girlfriend?” Bradley asked.

Max made a face. 

“Sylvia? She’s nice. She makes him happy. She thinks I’m a nice boy, but I swear we’ve exchanged, like, ten words tops without my dad in the room.”

“Wow. You’ve got her fooled.”

Max shoved his shoulder into him. “Shut up. Okay, did you like going to private school? Or prep school or wherever you went?”

“It was prep school and no.”

Max turned onto his side, propping his head in his hand. “Why not?”

“Because it sucked?” Feeling bold, Bradley sat up as well, mirroring him. “First impression of me?”

Max took entirely too long to think about it, so long that Bradley wondered if he was reaching for a diplomatic answer.  “I knew of you before we met. I liked your skating. But then I thought you were kind of evil. And very scary.”

“That’s fair,” he replied, nodding. “I thought you were too good to be true. A good skater, but fake. Too nice, too likeable.”

Max’s lips curved into a slow smile. “I think that’s fair.”

“Is it? Aren’t you just like that?”

“Sometimes. Most of the time, I’m trying really hard.”

“You make it look easy. What with your whole mascot vibe.”

That got him. Max’s face twisted in stunned indignation. “Mascot?”

“Spoonerville’s finest.”

“You only think that because you insist on being a pill.”

“That takes effort too, believe it or not.”

They broke into a quiet fit of stupid laughter. Still lying on their sides, propped on their elbows, their faces inches apart.

Then Max asked, “Are you relieved you’re finishing your community service?”

Bradley paused. “Sort of. Scared of what comes after though. But I still have a year left of college.”

“I’ll see you there.”

He nodded. 

They settled on their backs again and didn’t say anything for a while. The game was still paused, screen blinking in the background. 

Impulsively, absurdly, Bradley sat up. “Will you show me your room?”

Max blinked, slowly. Bradley couldn’t blame him. He was just as surprised by his own nerve.

“Why, you need to take a nap or something?”

He hesitated, wondering what he was doing. The reality that they were together, alone, just sitting in Max’s living room was catching up to him and the needy urge to take, to ask for whatever he wanted, felt compelling.  

“I want—” he started, then shrugged. “I don’t know. To see it.”

Max stared at him before nodding. “Okay.”

He got up and held out his hand. Bradley hesitated, then took it.

Max’s room was smaller than he expected. Truthfully, it was a mess. Posters on the walls: Sublime, A Tribe Called Quest, Powerline. A collage of Polaroids taped over a cracked mirror, a tangle of clothes in a laundry basket, and an unexpectedly flourishing potted plant by the window. The bed looked like it hadn’t been made in a week.

It felt lived in, nothing like his bedroom in Spoonerville, or in any of his family’s homes.

Something warm bloomed in his gut. 

Max leaned back against the doorframe.

“Well?” he asked. “Disappointed?”

Bradley turned in a slow circle.

“No,” he said. “This feels about right.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “That a compliment?”

He gave him a dry look, not quite smiling. “Not really.”

There was a long, awkward pause.

“Now what?” Max asked. His voice had gone a bit soft but his expression was daring, posture very still. 

“Now,” Bradley said slowly, giving the room another sweep, before turning to look at him. He took a breath, willing his voice to sound casual. “Now you kiss me.”

Max didn’t waste any time. Like a spring, he propelled himself forward in two strides until they stood chest to chest. Bradley froze, his bravado fading, pulse spiking, unable to look away.

He didn’t move as Max watched his face. His fingers ghosted up Bradley's jaw, thumb brushing his bottom lip, and then curling around the back of his neck, pulling him into a careful kiss. 

A jolt of panic flared. Bradley tensed, second guessing. He felt something frantic crawling up his chest, but Max skimmed his fingers along his collarbone and he unknotted, softening all at once. He reached for Max, one hand fisting the hem of his shirt.

The kiss began tentatively; just the soft, seeking press of mouths. Max drew back just enough to search his face, eyes flicking, looking for uncertainty. Resistance maybe. He paused, as if to speak, but Bradley moved to grip him by the waist, pulling him back in. 

Max kissed him again, surer this time, coaxing and insistent. Bradley responded instinctively, lips parting. Max held him even more tightly, their tongues brushing, kisses growing deeper, more searching. Their hands were still joined until he let go. His fingers slid up Bradley’s arm, then down the curve of his waist, grazing the hem of his shirt hesitantly. Bradley could only grip harder, answering with a soft sound, low in his throat.

The room fell quiet, save for the sounds of their bodies pressed together, and Bradley’s own heartbeat, thrumming with excitement. Each kiss tipped messier, needier, more fervent. He felt dizzy, and he was stupidly grateful for the way Max kept crowding him, steadying him with both hands. 

His breath came shallow, uneven. Everything in his brain narrowed down to want. He could barely string thoughts together; there was just the sharp, aching desire to be pressed closer. He backed up blindly, bumping into the mirror with a dull thud, but Max didn’t stop. His hands slid into Bradley’s hair, fingers threading deep. He tugged once, then again, harder.

Everything tilted, like balance was slipping somewhere behind him.

He gasped as Max kissed down the line of his jaw, then back up to his mouth, lips parted and breathing hard. They stumbled, a clumsy, heated slide sideways until Bradley’s back hit the wall. Max followed without pause, bracing one hand beside his head, caging him in.

They stayed tangled like that, mouths locked, as Max’s thigh slipped between his, close and deliberate.

Bradley felt caught in it, face hot and body loose. His whole awareness narrowed. Max’s tongue traced the shell of his ear. His hands splayed low on Bradley’s back, sneaking under his shirt with maddening slowness, grounding him, making him desperate.

He moaned, slightly too loudly, when Max’s thigh hitched up between his legs. Max followed it with his teeth grazing the skin beneath his collar, biting down sharp and sudden. Bradley yelped, startled, and Max soothed it with his tongue, dragging it slowly across the spot.

“What the fuck,” he gasped, flushed and panting.

Max eased back, their bodies still entwined. He was pink-cheeked and tousled, lips wet, eyes bright. He looked smug.

Bradley blinked at him, struggling to think straight. Overwhelmed, he shoved him away, just hard enough to break the moment. Max laughed, letting himself be pushed, stumbling back toward the bed. 

They returned to the living room soon after, both flushed, both avoiding eye contact and choosing to sit a little further apart than before.

They eventually ordered a pizza. They never did get around to unpausing the game.

Chapter Text

Wren cornered him during one of his rare appearances in the break room. 

It was during the mid-morning lull after an hour spent breaking down cardboard boxes in the back. Bradley sat in the corner of the near-empty space, self-soothing with a sleeve of store brand animal crackers Max had left for him. Every single biscuit was a little warped.

He was studying one of them closely, wondering if it might be a platypus, when he spotted a swish of shaggy black hair. Wren had stuck only her head into the room, her wide gaze darting around. They made unfortunate eye contact, and she beelined toward him, clutching a giant binder to her chest.

“There you are,” she said, by way of greeting. “This is for you.”

She stopped across from him in an oddly wide stance and dropped it onto the table with a loud thunk.  

The thing was massive. He was still reeling at the sheer number of colour-coded tabs peeking out when she flipped to a printed page tucked into a plastic sleeve and turned it around for him to read. Bradley’s full name was typed out in large font, bolded and underlined.

“Uh, what is this ab—”

“These are your new tasks,” she said smoothly, taking a seat. “Dennis is back soon, so most of the custodial and groundskeeping stuff will be off your plate.”

He looked around for an opportune distraction, but was shit out of luck. The break room was deserted. Whoever had started the sad, leaking coffee machine some ten minutes ago had long abandoned their cause and was unlikely to double back any time soon. Typically, he would enjoy the solitude, but it also meant no one was coming to his rescue as Wren stared at him with her All-Seeing Eyes in full raccoon mode. Her eyeliner had clearly been smudged from her tiredly rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand. 

Bradley ignored the concerned twist in his gut. He looked down at the page, skimming the list of his roles and tasks. “Set-up crew? Stagehand, bike repair gopher, bake sale watchdog—wait, this just says Wren’s Errand Goblin.”

“Correct,” she sniffed. “Very important role.”

“Wren,” he said, exasperated. “You could at least pretend I’m not about to be your personal servant for the entire run up to the Exhibition.”

She had the nerve to look affronted. “I am. Bev wouldn’t let me refer to you as my servant. She said it was inappropriate.”

“Which it is.”

“Oh, please. It would probably be good for you.”

He laughed, incredulous, and reached for another cracker. An owl, maybe. “And what do you call this entire summer?”

“Karmic justice.” She narrowed her eyes, holding her index finger and thumb a hair apart. “About this much.”

Bradley scowled at her. 

“Fine,” he agreed. “But I get a pizza to myself afterward.”

“Done.”

“I see you don’t have me dealing with the volunteers,” he said flatly, still scanning the list. He hoped it was exhaustive.

“Why would we have you talk to people when Max exists? Why would we have you talk to people when literally anyone else is around?”

“You let me talk to the kids.”

“You’re rude, and kids like that,” she replied, already sounding bored. “Trust me, we’re doing you a favour. Only Max can really handle the volunteers anyway.”

“Heard my name,” came Max’s voice from behind, making him jolt. He didn’t join them, heading instead to the counter to pour himself a steaming cup of sludge from the coffee machine, looking pleased as punch.

Bradley frowned in disgust. Typical.

Unfortunately for him, Max was also smiling broadly, the gap in his teeth fully, charmingly on display. His hair looked especially fluffy from the heat. 

“You’re never too far, are you?” Wren quipped drily.

Bradley tensed, but Max just raised his eyebrows at her. “Not sure what you mean, MacPherson.”

They shared a long steady look. Wren sighed. 

“I was just explaining to Uppercrust here why he’s my errand boy and you handle the volunteers,” she said, looking unimpressed. Bradley could feel her eyes on him as he kept watching Max. He quickly looked back down at the binder.

Max came to stand next to him, reading along and nodding sympathetically. He let their hands brush as he stole an animal cracker for himself. The coffee in his mug smelled borderline burnt, but he sipped from it like it was ambrosia. “Ah, shit luck. You got Goblin duty this year.”

Bradley whipped his head around to face him. “It’s a thing?”

The two of them nodded slowly, wearing twin expressions of mock solemnity.

When it came to running a smooth skateboarding drop-in, Max and Bradley made a good pair. 

Since relenting to Max’s incessant begging after his small breakthrough with Tyler some weeks ago, Bradley had become a consistent fixture during the ages seven to ten time slot. 

They’d fallen into a rhythm: Max managed the general chaos with warmth and an unseemly amount of naked enthusiasm, while Bradley focused on the kids who couldn’t keep pace with the others. Some of them reminded him of Tyler, sharp-edged, angry, prone to outbursts. Others were especially risk-averse or just too small or shy or liable to burst into tears at the slightest disappointment. 

This is what his Wednesday and Friday afternoons had become: Bradley and his little brood of runts, stragglers, troublemakers, and the absurdly uncoordinated or impulsive. He was unsure how this had become his life.

It sort of turned out Bradley wasn’t so bad with kids. Which was to say, he didn't know the first thing about how to reassure a single one of them. Half the time, he just sat next to them, quietly offering a juice box and hoping for the best. 

Sometimes they wanted to talk, often they didn’t. He didn’t mind either way. When they did feel like chatting, topics ran the gamut from the impending doom of the approaching school year, mean older kids, Pokémon. Sometimes they asked him personal questions like why do you talk like that or how do you know Max. He would redirect their attention fairly quickly at that point. 

Usually, talking helped, sometimes the bit of extra sugar in their systems did. Often he could bring them back to completing their drills, to try again.

Bradley as ad hoc Mother Hen to tiny weepy angry misfits would be the latest development in his summer of relentless discomfort. He tried not to smile to himself at the thought.

His little brood no longer included Tyler. Instead, Tyler would silently sidle up next to him at the end of their sessions to make idle, oddly standoffish small talk. He still stealthily stole glances at Bradley when he landed a tricky move; still tried to stifle any expression of joy when Bradley nodded in approval. He barely even scowled anymore when Max was within ten feet of him.

That Wednesday, Tyler surreptitiously approached him at the start of session. Bradley was having a moment to himself organizing the cooler bag and hoping they had enough cran-apple to keep everyone behaved. His kids were with the rest of the group circling around Max. The idiot stood across the pavement, commanding their collective attention with his wide grin and trusty clipboard. 

Bradley’s kids had promised they wouldn’t ask him for help until at least twenty minutes in unless it was an emergency. Thank goodness for small mercies. 

“The Exhibition’s coming up,” Tyler said gruffly after a long moment, his body angled away from him.

“Uh, yeah,” Bradley replied, standing up. “So I’ve heard.”

“And I’m in the jam.”

“So you are. Are you… excited?”

Tyler huffed, crossing his arms. He looked up at Bradley in frustration. “I need help.”

Bradley worked hard to maintain his blandly pleasant expression. “Have you asked Max? He's pretty helpful.”

Puffing out his cheeks, Tyler took a long moment to slowly release air through tightly pursed lips. It was a remarkable show of restraint. 

“I’m asking you for help,” he tried again, speaking slowly as though Bradley was particularly dim. “You, specifically.”

“Sure, Tyler,” Bradley allowed. “Circle back and show me what you’ve got during our last stretch?”

He prompted him to join the rest and caught Max smiling at him. Bradley stiffly nodded back.

Not a minute later, one of his kids had burst into tears in frustration so he grabbed a cheese stick from the cooler bag and changed course. 

He and Tyler were still on the pavement a half hour after the drop-in had ended, all of the equipment still laid out around them. The rest of the kids had been ushered toward the lobby for pick-up by Max who doubled back to sit by the grass lined fence, watching from a distance.

Bradley stood with his arms crossed, eyes tracing the chalk lines he had made Tyler draw to map his flow. He watched as Tyler rolled up to the short manual pad for the fifth time, trying for a standard manual and bailing halfway through. The nose of his board slammed the concrete and he muttered something rude under his breath.

“You’re leaning too far forward,” Bradley called out. “And you keep panicking.”

“I’m not panicking,” Tyler threw back in frustration. “I’m—I’m adjusting.”

“Yeah, totally,” Bradley returned drily. “Adjust it again but slower.”

Tyler scowled, kicked his board up with his foot, and paced back to the start.

From his spot lying in the grass, Max offered a silent thumbs-up. Flushing, Bradley couldn’t find it in himself to dignify it with a response.

Tyler pushed off again, hit the pad with more control this time. The manual held a few feet before he wobbled and stepped off. Bradley bit back a laugh observing his tiny frame in oversized pads and his face screwed up in concentration.

“Better,” he said. “Still stiff. Relax your knees, not your spine.”

“You sound like a coach.”

“I’m literally coaching you.”

Tyler huffed, pushing his hair away from his face. “My run is boring. It’s just a kick-flip, a 50-50 on the box, and the manual. I can’t even do the manual. The rest is just whatever.”

Bradley crouched by the chalk lines and tapped one with his finger. “It’s not whatever. It’s flow. The roll-up to the ramp, the backside 180, and the pop shove-it off the bank—those make it clean. Focus on your rhythm.”

“The bigger kids have cooler runs.”

“You’re not them.”

“I wanna end big,” Tyler insisted, frowning.

Bradley gave him a long look. “Don’t say heelflip.”

“But I can land a heelflip—sometimes.”

A sigh. “And how often is ‘sometimes’?”

Tyler bit his lip.

“You want consistency. Clean is better than sick if you can’t land sick,” Bradley said sternly, pointing to the chalk lines. “You’ve got a solid line as it is.”

“But—”

“No buts. Add the manual if you want. But keep the run tight. You can’t rely on just tricks.”

Tyler was visibly trying not to pout or whine. “Can I try the line once? With the manual?”

“You’re the boss,” he shrugged.

He stepped back as Tyler rolled to the top of the starting point. His stance looked steadier. He ran the sequence; it wasn’t perfect, but it had control. The manual faltered, but the transition into the ramp was smooth.

Bradley clapped once. “Better.”

Tyler actually smiled, wide and exhilarated. 

He joined Bradley and they both looked down at the pavement chalk lines by their feet. After a beat, he asked, almost offhandedly: “You ever get nervous?”

Bradley blinked and turned to him. “All the time.”

Tyler considered that. “Even though you’re good?”

“Who said I was good?”

“Max,” he said, rolling his eyes. 

They both looked over to where the very same man was clearly pretending to be absorbed in his clipboard.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment, smiling faintly. “I get nervous even though I’m good. And it’s okay if you do too.”

Sighing with relief, Tyler seemed to accept this. 

He was shortly sent to the front desk with a juice box and a cheese stick to meet his mother for his late pick-up.

Finally, Bradley and Max could escape the afternoon heat and begin pulling all of the ramps and equipment into the cool dark of the gym storage. Max was lightly humming to himself; everything about him indicated he was in a suspiciously good mood. Bradley felt settled, if a bit too in his own head. He inhaled deep, letting the smell of grass and heat and old gym wax ground him. 

They finished with their clean up, both standing too close together in the storage room between a stack of thick mats and folded tables. They were lit by a single flickering bulb somewhere toward the back.

“You did good,” Max said quietly. “With Tyler. I know he’s looking forward to the jam.”

“He had it.” he shrugged dismissively, crossing his arms and looking away. “I think he’s just nervous.”

“He’s been practicing during drop-in. Y’know, now that he’s actually participating.”

Bradley laughed lowly. “A small miracle, I think.”

“Yeah.” Max was closing the space between them little by little. 

Tensing, Bradley took a breath. “He still can’t stand you.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” Max murmured in hushed amusement, his breath brushing his cheek. 

He finally turned to face him and take him in: a slightly sweaty, pink cheeked Max smiling smugly, eyes bright, his lip piercings catching the sliver of light. 

It was ridiculous. It was unfair.

Bradley felt his face heat, his breath stuttered. He really had no choice except to push Max into the darkest, furthest corner and kiss him senseless. 

It should’ve gotten old. Max didn’t look any different, didn’t smell nor feel any different, but it was still intoxicating. Bradley still shuddered at the hand under his shirt, still groaned into his open mouth when Max gripped the hair at the nape of his neck. Max tugged harder as he bit down at his collarbone. He had by this point become familiar with Max’s more vampiric sensibilities and couldn’t find it in himself to be scandalized, his knees buckling slightly. Bradley only pressed in more heavily. 

They startled apart when the storage bulb actually died, casting them in true darkness. Breathing hard, they stumbled out and silently locked up. They turned to each other and took in one another’s dishevelled appearance. 

Max, hair sticking up in all directions and lips kiss bruised, squinted at him. “You look a mess.”

He couldn't help it. Feeling almost hysterical, Bradley doubled over with laughter, much to the pleasure of a beaming Max. 

Zara kept insisting she was fine. 

Since her collapse on the linoleum multipurpose room floor, when she’d allowed him to hold her close and rock them back and forth, she had made herself scarce. Bradley instinctively understood the need for some distance, to lick one’s wounds and recover some dignity, and so left her to her own devices.

But it had been a week and he missed her dearly.

He found her in one of the smaller art supply closets, trying to make off with all the poster board and buckets of assorted markers she could carry. She was in a yellow dress with hand painted mushrooms along the hem. Her braids were now a vibrant jade green. Her face was screwed up in focus. She was standing on her tip toes, teetering on the edge of a stool to reach.

He stood in the doorway watching her struggle to tuck the flesh coloured markers under her arm before speaking up. 

“You want me to get a cart or—?”

She startled, causing a bucket to slip from where it was tucked under her chin and hit the floor. She immediately whipped around to glare at him, her tiny frame slightly wrinkling the posters clutched to her chest. 

“Can I help you?”

“Can I help you?” he shot back. 

They stared at each other for a long moment. Zara cracked first. 

“You’re an ass,” she said, face breaking into her signature cherubic little grin. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

He reached for the large stack of poster board and neatly tucked it all under one arm. He shot her a cocky grin but she only rolled her eyes and stepped out of the closet still gripping several buckets to her chest. She grabbed some paintbrushes on her way out.

“What even is all this for?”

“It’s nearly the end of summer,” she sighed, leading the way to her classroom. “Prime time for the kids to write some thank you cards.”

“Thank you cards,” he repeated skeptically. 

“Yeah. You know," she said like she was prompting him. "To the staff, their families, each other."

“Right,” he replied vaguely. He didn’t share that his experience with writing any kind of thank you card amounted to the ones he was forced to write to distant elderly relatives so his mother would bequeath to him his birthday money. Once, during his first stint at sleepaway camp, he had been prompted to write a gratitude letter to his parents. He spent a week on it only to receive a general inquiry reply from the estate. 

Dumping and organizing the supplies onto her desk, he listened to her fill him in about her upcoming departure for California. Her tone and expression were ones of muted excitement and apprehension. Taking one of the too-small kiddie seats in her empty classroom, he continued to listen and watch her pout thoughtfully as she rambled through her to-do list. 

When she mentioned the upcoming installation of the completed mural pieces, he chimed in. 

“Oh yeah. I’m glad you mentioned that because—”

“I won’t be needing you for that,” she said, cutting him off. 

“Excuse me,” he retorted, hoping he didn’t sound as indignant as he felt. It didn’t help that he was sitting two feet off the floor with his knees practically touching his chest. He made a very undignified picture. 

Zara stood next to her desk at the front of the room and busied herself rearranging her supplies. She had the decency to look abashed. 

“It’s not like that,” she said. “It’s just. You’re the Goblin this year. And I already have help.”

“Don’t say it like it’s a thing,” he groaned.

“It’s totally a thing.”

“I like being Dennis,” he said emphatically. “And he’s coming back, which means I have to do whatever random tasks Wren assigns me—” he stopped to huff dramatically “— and I liked helping with the mural.”

Bradley wondered if feeling this dejected because he couldn’t participate in a children’s community mural through to the end was proportionate and found he didn’t much care. The mural had connected him to her, to the centre archive, to something that would last after he had left and returned to New York. 

Zara approached him slowly as though worried she might spook him. 

“You’re basically the only reason it all came together, y’know. Like yeah, me, the kids. But I needed you and you showed up. You didn’t even like me when I asked.”

“You could tell?”

“You have the least subtle facial expressions. Possibly on the planet.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, not meeting her eyes, still sitting in his stupidly small classroom chair. “Glad I was useful.”

“You were a friend, Bradley,” she said, placing her hands on his shoulders and shaking him a little. “And we still need you.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him to her chest for a hug. Exasperated, he endured it at first but then returned the embrace, holding her close and hiding his face in the crook of her neck. 

He really had missed her.

Max had changed.

He was being more in the most frightening way possible. 

He would give Bradley a small wave from afar every time their paths crossed. He brought Bradley Gatorades when he came in from long hours working outside, squeezed his wrist when nobody would notice. Max watched him with open fondness where anyone could see, smiling and winking and making dumb jokes all the while.

Every single time, the thrill was quickly superseded by embarrassment and apprehension. 

They were orbiting one another. It was nauseating. It was infuriating. 

Bradley wasn’t resisting in the least. 

In fact, he was very transparently developing a habit of giving into anything Max suggested: a shared lunch here, another evening spent circling one another at the skatepark there. Afterward, they might grab something to eat, because why not? Then they might aimlessly drift toward Max’s empty apartment and pretend they weren’t casually attempting to maneuver one another toward the bedroom.

It happened in slow motion each time. As soon as they both collapsed into the perpetually unmade bed, Bradley would lose his mind a bit. It was simple math: Max had long curls and lip studs. He groaned filthily into Bradley’s ear when he licked along his jaw or dug his fingers into his hipbones. Max rutted into him, kissed him back with gentle fervour. 

It made him hot. It made him feel as though he might melt through the mattress. 

He knew later, when he was alone in his bed and with his thoughts, he would struggle to process what was happening. A siren went off in his head whenever he so much as tried to take stock of his feelings, his desires. It made his chest seize and when it wasn’t causing him to retreat into himself, it only devolved into a sleepy soft Bradley reaching into his sweatpants for the third time in as many hours. 

It was juvenile and filthy.

It was his new favourite pastime. 

Somewhere in his mind, the image of himself at the bottom of the Uppercrust fish bowl flickered. The internalized peanut gallery of everyone he hate-loved had quieted. His mother’s revulsion, his father’s contempt; both remained inaccessible but the phantom, the outline of their disapproval, endured. 

Their ghosts evidenced their rot and his own. The three of them and every Uppercrust before them, existentially hollowed. 

He wished he had different desires, wished this had been exorcised from him. If only he had gotten this out of his system earlier. Maybe during a different time with a different man. 

As it was, he was deep in it. All he could do was close his eyes and breathe through the pleasure-fear as Max kissed up the length of his neck, running his tongue along the spot behind his ear.

They never removed their clothes. Max always pulled away just before they could be lost to it, leaving to bring them both a glass of water. They would retreat to the living room futon, lying close together. Bradley would curl up small and Max would sprawl against him, around him. Sometimes they talked; often, Max would do them both a favour and find something awful to watch on MTV. 

Sometimes Bradley would catch himself admitting something small. The time he had cracked his kneecap sliding down a banister. His dislike for raw tomatoes. The time he had fallen up the stairs arriving late to an introductory economics lecture and managed to play it off. 

Max liked to poke at him, to pry a little. He offered his own shards of vulnerability: what his first name was actually short for (ridiculous), the Goofs’ holiday traditions (sickly sweet), the extensive deception and road trip that had made his Powerline stage ambush possible (anxiety inducing). 

Max was every bit as ridiculous as Bradley had always imagined. He met every one of his questions with bright eyes and a teasing mouth. 

One afternoon, while rolling a joint at the kitchen table with more focus than was probably necessary, Max said: “You only let people call you Bradley.”

“What?” Bradley was smoking by the window, exhaling through a strange stuffed toilet paper roll situation Max had MacGyver’d. 

“Your name. You hated it when I called you Brad.”

“You said it like an insult.”

“I did,” Max conceded. “But you don’t let anyone call you it.”

He stared at him. “That’s because it’s not my name.”

“It kind of is.”

“It really isn’t.”

“Come on. You’ve never had a Brad phase? Soccer team, sleepaway camp, drunk frat pledges?”

Bradley ashed the end of his joint in the sink. “No.”

“No one ever tried?”

“People tried. I corrected them.”

Max paused, running his tongue along the seam of the joint. His voice softened just a little. “Okay.”

He leaned back against the table edge. “I don’t know. I just know my full name feels like mine. Even if I’m just the third.”

Max seemed to consider this and nodded. 

“It would be stupid if you went by Maximilian though,” he added with feigned distaste.

Max laughed, a sharp giddy sound and a warmth bloomed in his chest. He smiled, letting it sit between them. Max stood and moved toward the window to light up, cupping his elbow to take the toilet paper roll from him.

Max touched him often when they were alone, gently, casually. A nudge to his side, a hand along the small of his back, brushing his hair back. Once, high and sleepy, Max had given him a slow, dreamy smile and kissed him on the forehead before turning on his back with a sigh. 

Bradley thought about it every hour on the hour. It made him feel insane.

If he focused, if he really tuned in, he could feel the dread-elation-panic spiral looming, just hovering at the edges of his consciousness. Experience taught him this couldn’t last, that something would come to tip him over into oblivion and undo his fragile capacity to enjoy any ease. He loathed to wonder what it would be and refused to indulge the impulse. Besides, it was difficult to focus on catastrophizing when Max leaned into him, laughing stupidly at something on TV.

So, yeah, Max was behaving differently and Bradley was not immune. 

The only person actively noticing anything was Wren. She looked like she might soon burst a blood vessel from the pressure of biting her tongue. At the end of each day, she would glare daggers at Max as he hovered by the front desk to wait for him. Bradley would school his face, adopting the blandest of Uppercrust expressions, and Max would smile and play coy, even sometimes wagging his brows at her. 

It became something of a shared game. They didn’t discuss it aloud lest they happen to admit they were actually grateful for Wren and her perceptive restraint.

Bradley was once again making direct eye contact with Bev’s framed rabbit. 

The office had grown messier somehow. Every surface was overtaken: the desk was buried under sign-up sheets, supply orders, colour-coded Exhibition schedules, and at least three clipboards stacked with notes written in her slanted, looping cursive but crossed out and overwritten with Wren’s blocky handwriting. Half of a papier-mâché sun was drying by the window amongst the succulents and jars of buttons. 

And at the centre of the chaos, sitting primly while sipping from one of the four mugs on her desk, was Bev. She was rifling through a thick unlabelled but coffee stained folder. 

“This is just a check-in, Bradley,” she said tiredly. “You’re difficult to track down without a summons.”

“I’m around,” he replied, slightly too defensive.

She ignored that. 

“How have you been faring?” Over her reading glasses, she eyed him appraisingly. “You look well.”

Bradley flushed and resisted the urge to fix his collar. He opened his mouth to reply, but Dennis opened the door without knocking and silently lumbered in, clad in an unseasonable amount of flannel.

Bev clapped her hands once, delighted. “Perfect timing, Dennis, love.”

In an absurd bit of ceremony and theatre, she officiated a Transfer of the Keys whereby Bradley was instructed to take the ring of keys hanging from his belt loop and gingerly place them in the open palm of an inexplicably somber Dennis.

He had been officially relinquished from his groundskeeping and custodial duties. 

“Thank you, Bradley,” Bev intoned sagely, hands clasped. “For caring for the centre all these weeks. We look forward to your continued efforts with the Exhibition.”

“You mean as the Goblin?” he asked, watching Dennis clip the keys to the belt loop of his own grass stained khakis with a ridiculous degree of showy satisfaction. His weeks-long vacation must have been spent somewhere warm. The old fart was practically glowing.  

“Yes, well,” she replied, a look of distaste passing over her face. “I want the record to reflect that I never condoned such a demeaning title.”

Bradley smiled at the implication the role of the centre's logistical grunt deserved more dignity. “It is a little funny though, Bev.”

She sighed. “It is. Which is unfortunate.”

Not to be outdone by Dennis for most disruptive entrance, Wren, sweaty and flushed, barged into the room just then to inform them half the event tents had been dropped off in the parking lot and needed to be moved immediately.

Momentum was picking up at the centre with the Exhibition a little more than two weeks away. Everyone was jitterier, a bit likelier to walk speedily from task to task, more willing to stay later, if a bit begrudging. 

Being the Goblin wasn’t as terrible as he had anticipated. Wren, in her tireless organization, catered to his deep need for order and solitude. She occasionally interrupted him mid-task for some frenzied last minute favour, but he was mostly left to his task list. 

This meant he had an up close and personal awareness of Wren’s exhaustion. Drawing deep from his well of goodwill, Bradley developed a new rhythm for fitting Wren-related care tasks between his Goblin duties. 

A morning spent driving around Spoonerville in the centre truck to pick up donated supplies allowed him enough time to pick her up some lunch from a deli she enjoyed. He left it on her desk on top of a copy of a completed inventory list. He left her lozenges for her hoarse throat and a bin of labelled extension cords. He ran interference when junior staff had small requests or questions he could answer. He found a full set of walkie talkies in storage and labelled one of them with her name and a raccoon sticker from Zara; he remembered to return every single one to its dock at the end of the day. 

None of it went unnoticed but Wren was as uncomfortable with gratitude as he was. When he adopted an imperious tone for insisting she take a break, she actually relented. She would only nod, resigned, sometimes patting him on the back. 

Then he would get back to moving risers out of the gym for the choir or track down missing first-aid kits or pick up allergy signage from the print shop for the youth bake sale. 

It wasn’t a perfect system but it settled something in him. 

Two letters waited for Bradley when he arrived home late one evening. 

He picked the envelopes up and weighed them. The first was cream coloured, textured, and heavy. The second was lighter and standard white. 

Both were addressed to a Bradley Uppercrust III. Both bore the Uppercrust family crest: a stylized lion and oak tree entwined, embossed in gold foil. 

He sat on the edge of his bed, took a deep breath, and opened the first. 

Dear Mr. Uppercrust,

As a valued beneficiary and junior member of the Uppercrust family legacy, your participation in upholding the traditions and responsibilities entrusted to the Uppercrust & Sons Consolidated family lineage is of utmost importance…

His eyes skimmed the rest and he exhaled in relief to find it was just an exhaustive rundown of his fiscal obligations, capped with a warning regarding any failure to comply. The bureaucratic threat of the corporation letter was an annual touchstone. He just hadn’t expected for it to find him in Spoonerville. It made his stomach churn. 

The second letter was unexpected, however. 

From the Uppercrust Family Trust & Estate, it read:

Dear Mr. Uppercrust,

This correspondence serves as the formal notice regarding your current standing as a beneficiary under the Uppercrust Family Trust (the “Trust”). Please carefully review the following information and act accordingly…

The letter was impersonal, jargon laden, and cold. It heavily emphasized compliance and behavioural standards, lest he lose beneficiary status. His blood ran cold as he understood the threat of surveillance and the discretionary authority of the board of trustees, which included his own father. The delay of being delivered this blow, months into his community service, made him feel ill. 

The legal noose was tightening. 

He could finally guess why his father hadn’t bothered to call all summer. It was now clear why his mother had been mediating all of their correspondences while remaining dismissive of his concerns. 

Bradley Uppercrust III, his parents’ only child and sole heir, was legally and officially on thin fucking ice. 

An icy hot sensation ran up his spine. Bile rose in his throat. His hands shook with anger. 

He fought the impulse to tear up the letters. He numbly opened his night stand drawer and shoved in both right next to the helpline card he’d forgotten about. 

Then he lay on his side and fell asleep without dinner. 

Max and Bradley had agreed to come in on a Saturday to square away skate jam logistics on the sole condition Wren actually rest. Layla had even come by personally to pinky swear with them both that she would keep Wren away from all manner of clipboard, computer, or fax machine. 

On a whim, Bradley dropped by a cafe to grab some breakfast before meeting Max at the centre. He stood at the end of the counter with his arms lightly crossed, wondering how much Norah Jones anyone could stand to listen to, when he caught sight of them. 

A family of three were huddled close by the windows: a small boy sat up on his knees between his parents as they chatted quietly. He had a toy racecar and was pretending to zoom it back and forth across the table with a great deal of zeal. From where Bradley stood, he could hear the child’s muttered sound effects. 

Then, inevitably, he ran his racecar into his mother’s tea. Bradley tensed as she quickly stood and pulled the child away from the spill. Holding her son close, she looked at him with exaggeratedly wide eyes and let out a surprised oops. The boy echoed her oops with a small abashed smile.  

Bradley continued to watch as the father casually reached for a stack of napkins. 

He startled when his order was called by an impatient looking barista. A warm wash of embarrassment overtook him at the realization he’d been staring. 

Head down, blinking, eyes hot, he gathered his things and walked out. 

Max was in peak Max form. Smiling, breezy, and wearing his goddamn windbreaker again. 

Bradley walked into the lobby to find him already in the thick of things, Wren’s checklist in hand. Max watched him deposit their coffees and food onto the front desk as though he was charmed by the gesture. 

“Nice,” he said, leaning in to kiss Bradley’s temple before reaching for his breakfast burrito. “You went to the fancy spot.”

Bradley smiled but didn’t reply. He stepped away with the checklist, pretending to review it. If Max noticed his evasiveness, he didn’t say anything. He just inelegantly tore into his burrito. 

After quietly and efficiently downing their food, they jumped right into things. The checklist was extensive. 

They first had to address the boards. They each took half and got to work painstakingly tightening the trucks, replacing bearings, and fixing grip tape wherever needed. They sorted through the cones, signage and tools, inspected every single ramp and grind box, and accounted for every bit of protective gear. All of it per Wren’s instructions. 

They finally moved outside into the morning heat to determine the flow of the jam. Max was on the pavement mapping it out in chalk: trick zones, warm up spots, spectator areas and pathways. Bradley stood under the shade of an awning by the door and sketched their work on a scrap of graph paper. 

It was quiet work. Bradley had fallen into his predictable mode of sulky, introspective silence and Max worked alongside him, only speaking up when it was task related. He hummed nervously to himself whenever Bradley edged up too close to reach for a tool or to look over his shoulder at something. 

It made Bradley want to crawl out of his skin from guilt. 

When it came time to test run, Max handed him a board with a nudge. “Wanna see me show off?”

“Not particularly.”

“Well, you’re gonna,” he said and set off. 

Bradley watched him skate around a course they had laid out for children for several moments before reluctantly joining in. 

They eventually cleaned up, and returned everything to storage. Stopping by the front desk, Bradley began to fill out the office log while Max slumped over in exaggerated relief. He turned toward Bradley with raised brows. 

“What’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” he replied, eyes on the logbook. He signed their names, closed the binder, and clicked the pen shut. 

Max straightened, inching closer. He raised his hand like he might reach for him. “You’re sure?”

“I—” In a desperate move, Bradley stepped back and made a show of pulling his slightly sweaty shirt away from himself with an awkward grimace. “I’m gross right now.”

Pausing, Max looked down at the shirt and back at Bradley's face with a bemused expression. He slowly turned away. “Okay.”

Bradley felt a lodge in his throat. Taking a deep breath, he managed to speak again. “There are popsicles. In the basement. If— if you wanted some.”

He wanted to say: I’m sorry. Don’t hate me. Please don’t go. 

Instead he watched Max who was leaning on the desk again, face propped in his hand, giving him a long considering look. 

“Yeah, okay,” he finally said. He waited for Bradley to lead the way. 

Later that night, while eating pasta over the kitchen sink, he couldn’t help but feel something had just ruptured between them. 

Bradley was not sleeping well. 

He was sitting firmly at the bottom of his fish bowl. The peanut gallery had recongregated. Alone in his bed, his mind swam relentlessly with images of home. His mother’s manicure, his father’s neatly folded evening newspaper, the austere framed Uppercrust family photos that hung in the foyer. Tank’s sympathetic gaze followed by his closed fist. 

Stupidly, he scrolled through his phone for Max’s number before reminding himself it was one in the morning. That Max wouldn’t have wanted to hear from him. That he wouldn’t know what to say if he even answered. 

He dragged himself into the centre like a well groomed ghost, drawing Wren’s concerned gaze. He skulked around, avoided everyone, and threw himself into his workload so vigorously, he didn’t stop to eat or rest until he all but crawled back to his apartment. 

By the third day, he was running on fumes and feeling wretched. By the fourth, Wren had taken him aside and threatened to send him home if he didn’t take his lunch break. 

For the first time since Saturday, Max sought him out. He was smiling, speaking gently. His eyes ran over Bradley’s face like he was cataloguing him in all his haggardness and still found him pleasing to look at. 

“I feel like bánh mì,” he said, standing too close as Bradley waited to be dismissed by Wren. “I know a place if you’re down.” 

Bradley just stared at him and nodded. He wanted to reach for Max, to run his fingers down his face, to map his contours. He wanted to wrap his arms around his waist and tuck his face against his neck. Clearing his throat, he crossed his arms, tucking his hands away. 

Bradley found himself sharing a worn picnic table behind a quiet hole-in-the-wall a few blocks from Max’s place. It was a silent affair but not exactly uncomfortable. It was charged, maybe; expectant. They made quick work of their sandwiches. 

It was good. He felt soothed by his first actual meal in days.

No words were exchanged as they walked together to the apartment, the back of their hands brushing. None as they crossed the threshold to find Bobby wasn’t home, nothing as Max led him into his bedroom with its band posters and unfolded laundry and singular conspicuously healthy houseplant. 

Observing Max out of the corner of his eye, something jagged and painful was beginning to settle in his gut despite his efforts to pretend otherwise. Days, weeks, of dread and desire were pooling low, making him unsteady. Bradley felt something desperate and fearful and needy.

Instead of fleeing, he sat with Max at the foot of the bed. Max touched his face. Bradley flinched. 

Max hesitated, smiling faintly but his brows furrowing in concern. “Do you want to tell me what’s up? You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m always quiet,” he countered.

Max looked down and then back, turning his body toward him. He spoke carefully. “We can just talk, y’know. We don’t have to–”

But Bradley was already reaching for him, shushing him gently. 

They couldn’t talk. He wouldn’t be able to handle it. Twice, Max pulled away to fix him with a pointed look or to speak but he just kissed him again, coaxing him with touch. His body, his reactions, the way Bradley made him go lax; it was all familiar.

The long hour spent straddling and pushing Max Goof further into his own bed was punctuated only by breathy moans, soft keening sounds, choked off whimpers. 

He felt like he was burning up, like the friction was working him from the inside out. They weren’t in pursuit of anything except slowly escalating closeness. Bradley was driven only by the instinct to pour into him; the urge to pull at him, pin him down, kiss him slow and deep. He felt as though he was drowning at the sight of Max spread beneath him, panting, eyes half lidded, hair spilling across his pillow. His expression, typically smug or playful, was inscrutable, watchful.  

Bradley hated it, hated him. He hated that Max was seeing him. 

Impulsively, he removed his shirt. Max looked uncertain but still touched him, skating his fingers along his sides, brushing his collarbone, darting his tongue across his nipples, removing his own shirt. In turn, Bradley ran his fingers along the delicate white lines spanning his chest, listening to Max’s groans and stutters, grinding harder against him.

Slowly, eventually, Max let go, stopped watching, stopped trying to make sense of him. He tugged Bradley’s hair hard, biting down on his collarbone, making him tense, see white, lose himself. He pressed down and felt Max gasp and shudder beneath him. The two of them, holding each other close through their climax. 

They were quiet after. Max didn’t look at him for a long while but kept their hands clasped between them. He wanted to ask him if he was okay, if they were okay, but he didn’t know how. He didn’t want to know. 

When Max finally turned toward him, his face looked drawn, his mouth fixed into a hard line. He pulled him into his side, resting his head against Bradley’s temple. Max repeatedly ran his trembling fingers along his jaw and down his neck. Again and again, like he was memorizing. 

Wordlessly, thoughtfully, they lay together until Bradley pulled away, leaving their shared warmth. 

Without looking back, he walked himself to the door. 

The following morning felt more raw and unsteady than he had anticipated. His heightened anxiety and shame were eclipsed by something bone deep and knowing. 

Bradley wasn’t particularly religious. His family was Catholic in the purely performative sense. His middle names were Arthur and Francis and he was confirmed, but he didn’t show his face in church outside of Christmas and Easter, or the occasional Palm Sunday if his godmother was in town. There had been a scandal decades ago when his uncle, fresh out of college, had defected from the family business to pursue priesthood, only to run into the arms of a twice divorced septuagenarian named Elaine not even a year later. 

He was, however, vaguely superstitious.  

He couldn’t shake the sense that something ominous loomed, dark and destructive and waiting for him. He could feel it when he stood up too quickly, in his sleep deprivation, in the way the very thought of bringing dry toast to his lips made him feel ill. A part of him hoped his Max-related shame hangover was simply causing him to feel more paranoid than usual. 

For the first time all summer, it occurred to him he could just call in sick. Bradley went in anyway. 

In his worn but pristine slacks and his chin length hair cleanly brushed back, he steeled his nerves, ready to single-mindedly commit to work. He needed to muscle through. 

In a bid for something like forgiveness, or even just to smooth things over, he had shoved half a dozen bags of gummy worms in Max’s staff cubby, the same semi-revolting gas station brand he seemed to adore. He meant to leave a note but couldn’t think what to say.  He doodled a poorly rendered picture of a sun wearing sunglasses, except it had legs and it was on a skateboard. He crumpled it up and shoved it in his pocket. 

It was childish. It wasn’t enough.

It was all he had.

It would have to do until he had words. If he ever managed to find words that conveyed enough clarity to satisfy Max. Words good enough to keep Max close. 

Bradley had ruined things and, predictably, he had done it while trying his best. Because he had tried. He had leaned in and admitted care and want. In the end, he had pushed them both, offered nothing but touch and a blanket willingness to stay near, and still walked out of that apartment. He had left both of them unsettled and uncertain and unmoored. 

He hardly understood what was wrong with him, let alone what might be going on in Max’s head. Patient, giving, stupidly pretty Max. 

Bradley sincerely hoped they stayed away from one another for as long as it took to make it okay again. 

In a show of profound grace and mercy, Wren had assigned him only solo work. 

First on the docket: testing the centre’s sound system. 

He dragged the ancient PA system into a corner of the unused gym. The microphone was an old heavy wired thing attached to a thick splintered black cable that coiled around the stand like a stubborn garden hose. The stand was an uncooperative tripod situation with one leg slightly bent so it wobbled to the right. He knelt to the floor to figure out if he could steady it with a tennis ball before noticing the knob to adjust the height was missing. In its place was a thickly wrapped and warped bit of duct tape.

His abrupt sharp little laugh echoed around the gym. He really hated everything. 

He moved on to the mixer and speaker box with their Sharpie labels and tendency to emit a single crackly shriek of feedback if he so much as looked at it too long. After toying with it for a while with Sisyphean effort, he got it to work. The resulting sound was reedy and much too loud. The delay made it sound haunted.

The entire set up had a Cold War feel to it. It was practically archeological. He wondered if it joined the centre the same year Bev did. He didn’t hate it.

He sounded flat and exhausted as he spoke into the mic. “Check one. Two. This is a test of the West Spoonerville Community Centre gymnasium sound system. Goblin out.”

Goblin out, Goblin Out. The echo was satisfying, spectral. It bounced off the walls and back to him as he stood alone, still studying the amp.

He bent over it again, smiling faintly, when he felt a sudden vibration against his thigh. 

His cell phone was ringing. He froze.

His phone never rang. It had been weeks, months even. Hardly anyone in Spoonerville owned one and he was at the centre. Which meant—

His heart hammered into his ribs, hard and arrhythmic. With shaking hands, he pulled it out of his pocket to confirm his absolute worst fear. Immediately, his stomach dropped. His throat began to close up. He sank to his knees.

They hadn’t spoken in months. Not since court, not since the plea deal. He had already punished Bradley with his goddamn fucking legal letters. He shouldn’t have been able to do this. He didn’t have the right to call Bradley—Spoonerville Bradley. It wasn’t fair. 

For a moment, the impulse to chuck the thing clear across the gym gripped him. To smash it against the wall. To take his nine hundred dollar cell phone and flush it down one of the kiddie toilets he hated cleaning. 

But not answering would be worse. His fingers moved before the rest of him caught up. He numbly pressed the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Bradley.” It hit like a sharp slap to his face, bracing and corrective. Instinctively, his back straightened.

“Hi, Dad.”

“I trust your court-mandated sabbatical is keeping you occupied.”

Bradley swallowed. His throat felt like sandpaper. “I have a couple more weeks left. I’m getting through it.”

“No need for reassurances. At this point, I’ve adjusted my expectations.”

He closed his eyes. Something blistering and poisonous took root in his gut. “Dad, I—”

His father wasn’t listening. Bradley could hear something rustling through the tinny speaker. He could picture his father seated at his mahogany desk, his personal study overlooking the Uppercrust estate grounds, idly rifling through paperwork. “I imagine it’s been a rather sobering change, given the liberties you’d previously grown accustomed to.”

“I’m doing what I need to. It’s almost done.”

“I didn’t realize you thought of this as an opportunity for growth,” he said, tongue forked and mocking. “It’s hard to tell the difference when standards have fallen so far.”

Bradley reached for the edge of the amp and gripped it until his knuckles paled. The gym felt colder than it had a moment ago. His free hand moved to his wrist, digging his thumb into the tendons there, pressing hard.

His father exhaled heavily into the phone. Not so much a sigh as a calculated expression of bored displeasure. He sounded almost distracted.

“Still, one hopes you’ll come away with something useful from all this,” he continued, as though musing aloud. “Humiliation tends to be instructive, I’ve heard. For the docile mind.”

Tilting the phone away from his mouth, Bradley fought down a gag. His body was revolting, begging him to hang up, to retreat. He breathed through it.

“I am… getting it done,” he replied.

A gust of static whined behind him from the speaker he’d left running. He didn’t dare move.

“Right. Well, you’ve wasted enough time as it is,” his father said coldly. “There’ll be considerable ground to cover if you plan to reclaim any of what’s been lost.”

It had been ages since Bradley had heard anyone who sounded like himself. Distant, precise, unnervingly crisp. A voice that belied an underbelly of pure venom.

His ears were ringing now, or maybe the mic had picked up a faint loop. The gym had begun to pulse. Everything felt sharp and distorted, unreal.

“I understand.”

“We will all be relieved once this is behind us. Tread carefully. You might not walk away from your next mistake.”

Thank you. Your board of trustees and lawyers have informed me as much.

“Yes, Dad.”

The pause that followed was nauseating and just long enough for the floor beneath him to tilt.

“And Bradley, do not be foolish.” Another pause. “Don’t mistake my silence for absence. I’m always informed.”

The call ended. The screen went dark.

He stayed kneeling, cold sweat slicking the back of his neck, everything buzzing around him. Pressing the heel of his palm into the centre of his chest, he managed to stand. The pressure didn’t help.

He was able to exit the building through the backdoor and all but stagger to his car. 

As soon as he threw himself into the driver’s seat and shut the door, Bradley felt his heart rate crash, sudden and violent, like a snapped line underwater. The hush inside the car rang in his ears.

He folded over the steering wheel, letting his forehead rest against its leather grip. It was warm from the sun, almost scalding against his skin, and it anchored him just enough not to break into sobs.

His hands were limp in his lap, his fingertips pulsing. Detached, he attempted to make a fist with his right hand, but it just felt cold and half-asleep. A pins-and-needles burn rippled up his forearms. The tingling felt wrong, staticky. His eardrums throbbed like he’d been standing too close to a firework. He tried to breathe in deep. It caught hard in his throat and he choked on it. 

It was possible he was dying. 

He shouldn’t have answered. He shouldn’t have picked up. Nothing could be worse than this. 

Bradley wasn’t sure how long he sat there, mind numb. Time thinned. He felt suspended in the passing minutes, ribs aching, chest shuddering at uneven intervals. Every pain point pulsed like a metronome. 

Flipping down the car visor to look in the mirror, he prepared to take an unforgiving inventory of his state. To his surprise, he looked mostly fine. Drained. Lifeless, maybe, but fine. His eyes were red; his lips, chapped and split. 

He stared harder. His hair was still neat. Reflexively, he brushed his hand down the front of his shirt and fixed his collar.

A dull tap on the passenger-side window made him jolt so violently his teeth clicked together. His pulse surged. He blinked hard, disoriented. For a second, he half-expected to see his father himself. Instead—

Fucking Max.

Of course it was Max. 

Outside the car, bent at the waist, smiling through the glass, he was holding a coffee in each hand. He wiggled one hopefully.

Bradley stared at him. It took a full second to process the sight of him. He had his ugly windbreaker on again. 

He didn’t notice anything wrong yet, but he would. He would and he would ask. The disconnect made Bradley feel like screaming. Max shrugged with exaggerated casualness. “You gonna let me in?”

Reluctantly, too quickly, he reached across the seat and fumbled with the latch as Max patiently watched. He pulled it up with more force than necessary. 

“There you are,” he said, settling in and depositing both coffees in the console cup holder. “Thought Dennis had you trapped in another story.”

Bradley didn’t respond nor turn toward him. He just stared straight ahead at their faint reflections in the windshield. His tongue still tasted like blood. 

Max's arrival was a sensory nightmare. The smell of the coffee, his green apple shampoo, his bright jacket, the way the car dipped slightly with his weight. His body heat, his sprawl. The way his curls moved in Bradley’s periphery. 

He felt his stomach flip. This was unbearable. 

They were already doomed but right now— 

The timing— 

He vaguely recalled the ludicrousness, the boneheaded naïveté of the gummy worms. The stupid little doodle still tucked in his pocket. It had only been hours ago. 

“You’ll never believe it,” Max said, casual as anything, a smile in his voice. “The coffee machine is actually down. Zara did a run and I got yours: no sweetener, just milk, right?”

Bradley blinked and nodded stiffly. He didn’t reach for his cup. 

“Everything okay?” Max asked carefully. “I wanted to check on you after…”

He trailed off, gesturing vaguely. The events of Max’s bedroom floated back to Bradley through his haze. He wanted to die twice over. 

“Yeah,” Bradley replied, still looking ahead. “I’m fine.”

“Hm.” He didn’t sound convinced. 

Gripping the steering wheel, overwhelmed, Bradley's voice came flat and harsh this time. “What do you want, Max?”

That pulled him up short. The energy in the car shifted. Max seemed to be holding himself very still. “Just… asking.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Jesus,” he raised his eyebrows in mild alarm. “It’s not about what I have to do.”

A beat of silence. The air inside the car felt stifling.

“Something’s up,” he tried again. “You’ve been off for a while now.”

“You don’t have to do that either.”

Max gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Right. Okay. My mistake. Do you want me to fuck off? Because I’d rather you just tell me to fuck off.”

He shifted slightly, like he might actually leave, half-turned toward the door.

“Don’t,” Bradley said quickly. 

“Don’t what?”

“Act like—” Bradley waved his hand around wildly, searching for a safe way to articulate the source of his curdling frustration and despair and coming up short. “Like I’m being an asshole because I’m not in the mood to eat up the— the sunshiney Max Goof routine.”

Max’s eyes narrowed, hurt flickering behind his indignation. “Ah yes. My routine. My longest running bit, which is apparently just being nice. To you. Specifically.”

Bradley’s jaw locked tight. He stared at a point over Max’s shoulder, out at the parking lot, his vision blurring at the edges.

“Nothing is wrong,” he bit out. “And if it were, it wouldn’t be any of your fucking business. And even then—”

“Literally, what the fuck is happening with you?”

Bradley surged forward. “And even if it were, you couldn’t help, and it would make no difference. So do me a favour—”

They were talking over each other, both of them raising their voices, faces drawing closer. He thought he had never seen Max this worked up, not even during their X Games days. 

“Is this why you didn’t want to talk yesterday? Why you've been so fucking weird?” he shouted, eyes wide. “Is that what’s wrong? ”

“Nothing!” Bradley shouted back, gripping the steering wheel harder. “Nothing is wrong, nothing is happening.”

Max stopped to sit back and run his hands over his face. 

“Bradley,” he said, depleted, almost pleading. “You’re being an asshole so I need to ask — did something happen?

“No.” He let his voice settle into something steadier, colder. “Quit fucking prying.”

Even so, his voice was cracking. His chest hurt. He took a deep breath and exhaled through his teeth. Max was watching him closely. 

“I just need to get through this and everything will be fine.”

Max’s jaw tightened at that. “Get through what exactly?”

“This summer. Spoonerville. All of it. It needs to be over already.”

He stared at him, incredulous. “Oh, yeah? Enlighten me. What’s the plan?”

“Max—”

“No, really, spell it out for me,” Max pushed on mockingly. “Do you figure burning a bunch of bridges will help? You’ll just go back to doing it mopey and alone and hope nobody notices?”

“As if you really fucking care,” Bradley scoffed. 

“Don’t fucking do that,” Max snapped, throat bobbing. “I think I’ve made it more than clear that I do. I think we all have actually.”

Bradley wanted to disappear, to sink into a hole in the ground and never emerge. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. 

“Then you’re wasting your time. 

A beat, and then Max, softly: “Seriously. Please tell me what’s wrong. It'll be fine.”

A beat of silence. Bradley, still reeling, still fighting his body, tried to gather his wits. It wouldn't be fine. Nothing would be fine.

“I’m looking at the facts,” he said plainly, speaking with resolve and reasoning he didn’t trust. “Summer ends, I leave, and we both move on. It—it feels like something right now but eventually... Whatever. I… I have a life to get back to.”

Max’s eyes were burning with anger, his mouth twisting in a bitter little smile, but his voice remained calm. “You sound really eager to.”

“Please,” Bradley sneered. “What would you know about it?”

Throwing his hands up, Max laughed sharply. 

“Do I need to know the specifics? Fuck—look at you.”

He gestured toward Bradley, whose entire body was curled in on itself. Slumped against the steering wheel. Every part of him trembling with restraint.

Bradley didn’t respond right away. Then, quietly, in a voice not unlike his father’s, he said, “Max, be honest: did you think anything here was a real option for me? Did you delude yourself into thinking any of it could matter long term?”

He could feel what he’d done to Max. He could see the way his body locked up, the way he shrunk into himself. 

Finally, finally, he sounded affected, crushed. “That’s really fucked up, Bradley.”

The words hung there. Dense and heavy. In one moment of dizzying longing, Bradley almost reached for him. He wanted to remedy this. If he could press his palm along Max’s jaw, kiss them both quiet, crawl over him in the passenger seat so they could be close. He didn't even care if anyone saw them. They could be okay for a little longer. 

It could feel good. He knew Max would let him, even after he’d been cruel, even after he’d lied. 

Feeling sick, he ignored the impulse and turned away, staring at the dashboard, vision swimming.

“Max,” he said, voice fraying at the edges. “Please fuck off.”

That did it.

Max got out. He didn’t slam the door. One moment, he was there and the next, gone. 

Bradley didn’t react. In the middle of his work day and without telling anyone, he started the car and drove home in a daze. 

He hadn’t even thanked Max for the coffee he wouldn’t drink. 

He'd been wrong. It could keep getting worse. 

The natural conclusion to the worst morning of his entire life: Bradley crossed the foyer into his apartment and immediately ran for the toilet. He emptied the bare contents of his stomach, almost missing the bowl. The bathroom bloomed with the acrid stench. 

He was hollowed out, emotionally and physically. It was all very humbling. 

Managing to crawl to his bedroom, he stripped himself down to his boxers, and burrowed under his covers. 

He held Pip to his chest and finally allowed himself to cry. 

He pressed his face into his pillows like a child, muffling guttural, gasping, animal sobs. Those sobs petered out into shuddering whines.

Throat raw and with his face still pressed into the tears-soaked pillow, he fell into a deep sleep.