“I have my ways,” he says, his tone dropping into something teasing and mysterious.
“Be serious.”
“Because I joined a stupid neighborhood group when you moved so I could make sure everything was okay. Sue me. You go get yourself showered and dressed the fuck up. If we’re doing Pride, we’re doing it right. I’ll see you in like ninety minutes. Be ready.” Ángel doesn’t wait for my response before hanging up, and I text him my address.
Relief and giddiness at breaking my routine, and hopefully getting Bryce off my mind, spurs me out of bed.
By the time Ángel arrives, decked out in tight jean shorts, rainbow chaps, and some kind of rainbow fringed denim vest with no shirt underneath, I’m ready. Clearly we should have discussed better beforehand because we have two very different vibes going on right now. He’s even gone and used Overtone to turn his bleached hair Barbie pink.
Ángel takes in my loosely curled hair, spilling over my shoulders, and my pink, purple, and dark blue bi flag colored sundress I had made a couple of years ago but haven’t had the chance to wear.
“Nice.”
“You too. Though I’m not sure if Dulaney is ready.” My smirk has him giving me a cheeky grin in response.
“This old thing? Just something I had laying around.” He holds his elbow out for me to take, like a courtly gentleman, not a half-naked take on a cowboy.
The June sun bakes down on us, kissing the tops of my shoulders and my nose as we walk toward the park. Downtown teems with people in various colorful shades and levels of risque clothing. Ángel doesn’t stand out as much as I teased. As we approach, music increases in volume, a heart pounding pop song blaring from a stage and walkway.
Stalls are set up all along the riverwalk, selling clothing and jewelry, refreshment stations, and even a booth to register to vote with a local representative campaigning. I’m handed one of those silicone wristbands at the arched balloon entrance to the park, like the LiveStrong ones I remember from when I was a kid, only this one is marked with Dulaney Pride.
We peruse the little stalls and Ángel talks me into the kitschiest Maryland crab earrings done up in the bi flag colors instead of the Maryland yellow, black, red and white.
“Blue crabs are a whole culture here, even though Dulaney isn’t on the Bay. Between crabs, Old Bay seasoning, and the Maryland flag, repping any of those is practically a personality trait that screams ‘I’m from Maryland.’ I’ve never seen anything like it,” I say as we walk past the third seller stocking some kind of state-themed merch.
“State ‘Pride’, in more than one way. It’s sweet, kind of, how much they care. What would it be like to feel so strongly about something so inconsequential?” Ángel muses and I turn toward him to argue, to defend this community and the people who have been nothing but kind and caring to me—to tell him that it can’t be inconsequential if it means something to them—when I collide with a solid body and my breath is knocked from my lungs.
I grunt out an oof, and strong hands wrap around the tops of my arms to keep me from toppling backward. Staring into a strong chest, covered (mostly) by a rainbow tank top that looks a hair too small. A smattering of light brown chest hair peeks out at the top and I follow the freckles up the muscled arms holding me, over his brawny shoulders, and up some more. It’s a functional strength. Grounded. It’s the kind of body people swooned over before superheroes bodies became something vaguely scary. Solid without being “cut” and dehydrated to death.
“Bryce,” I breathe.
He blinks once, twice, behind those glasses and I’ve never given much thought to how hot glasses could be until this man.
“Rachel.” It’s deep in a way that makes me shiver despite the summer sun, and the smile he gives me is boyish, only adding to the flush in my cheeks.
“Didn’t think I’d be running into you today.” I try to reorient myself but he hasn’t let go and my heart is a drumline marching through my chest.
“Literally,” Ángel murmurs beside me and Bryce’s gaze travels over to my friend. The soft expression hardens into something neutral and I can’t help but wonder if there’s something else there. Does Bryce only look at me that way? Or is it Ángel specifically that has his attitude changing? Bryce looks between me and Ángel before swallowing hard. Is he . . .jealous? No. That’s ridiculous. It can’t be, but . . .
“Nice to see you again,” Bryce says, his hands sliding down my arms before he steps back and I feel strangely bereft at the loss of contact.
“Same,” Logan says and I peek around Bryce to see him standing there with what can only be called a cheeky grin on his face.
“And who is your other friend?” Ángel asks Logan.
“Kate, Ángel.” Logan points between them. “Ángel, Kate.”
“Good. Now that the introductions are done, why don’t you show me where I can get something cold to drink and we’ll leave these two to catch up,” Ángel—thetraitor—says to Logan and Kate and they’re walking off even though Ángel and I know full well where to find a cold drink. Given we got one half an hour ago.
“Stupid Ángel, and his stupid meddling,”I whisper under my breath. Not quiet enough because Bryce gives a little laugh.
“Meddling, huh? And why would he feel the need to do that?”
I stare at his throat, the strong column speckled with a few freckles I’d love to kiss. Every single one.
“It could have something to do with the fact that you’re very good looking and single.” I shrug as if it’s no big deal.
Bryce’s thumb and forefinger lightly lift my chin so that I’m staring up into those golden flecked eyes. “Verygood looking, huh? According to Ángel or according to you?”
