“Anyway, I didn’t know about this until last year, but apparently—” I pause to bite into my cupcake. “Apparently, our very own Simon Spier has written a single work of Love Actually fanfiction.”
Bram’s eyes light up. “Okay.”
“And I have reason to believe it’s on fanfiction.net.”
“Are you serious?” He presses his fist to his mouth.
“But he won’t tell us his pen name.”
“I bet we can figure it out.” Bram’s already pulling his phone out. “Fanfiction dot org?”
“Dot net.”
“Okay.” He’s quiet for a moment, scrolling.
“I think there are like a hundred stories in the whole fandom. Abby and I were able to narrow it down to fifteen possibilities.”
“Oh, so you’ve already been working on this.”
“I tried for weeks, Bram. Weeks.”
Junior year, right after Abby moved here.
We were all spending the night at Morgan’s, and her mom had exiled the boys to the guest room after an illuminating game of Truth or Dare. Morgan and Anna fell asleep pretty quickly, but Abby scooted all her blankets next to mine on the floor—on our stomachs, side by side. “Leah, we have to find it,” she whispered. She was still a little tipsy from Truth or Dare, and I was somehow tipsy by association. I had the full list of Love Actually stories pulled up on my phone.
“Do we start at the top?”
“Or we could start with the Keira Knightley self-insert sex erotica,” said Abby.
I giggled. “Sex erotica?”
“Yes.”
“As opposed to sex-free erotica?”
“I mean, I’d read that, too,” she said. “Okay, this one.”
And so we started. Right away, we could rule out a few grammatical shitstorms, along with anything that seemed too technically knowledgeable about sex. “There’s no way,” I’d insisted. “I guarantee you—I would literally bet you a million dollars that Simon Spier has never heard of the perineum.”
“I concur,” Abby said, tapping the back arrow. I’ve always thought that was such an intimate thing to do: touching the screen of another person’s phone. She opened the next story. It was weird. Once we knew Simon had written one of them, it started to feel like he could have written any of them. Or all of them. Under ninety different pen names. Maybe all those times he said he was checking his email, he was actually writing sex erotica.
Then she shifted slightly under her blankets, and her whole body pressed against mine. My right side to her left. And I forgot how to speak.
“It’s this one,” Bram says, jolting me back to the present. He slides his phone toward me on the table.
“No, you did not just find Simon Spier’s secret fanfiction in five minutes.”
“I did.” He smiles. “I’m a hundred percent sure.”
I read it aloud. “‘All I Want for Christmas Is You,’ by youwontbutyoumight. How do you know this is him?”
“Well, first of all, the pen name.”
“I don’t get it.”
Bram leans forward on his elbows. “You won’t, but you might. It’s an Elliott Smith lyric. That’s the first giveaway.”
I tilt Bram’s phone closer, reading the summary. “‘Sam/Joaquin (semi-original character).’ Okay . . .”
“Read the rest of the summary.”
“‘Original male character based closely on Joanna. Just a fluffy m/m retelling of the school concert scene. Smiley face.’” I look up at Bram, grinning. “Oh my God. Simon was such a sweet baby gay, writing the gayest fanfiction. I love it.”
Bram smiles. “It’s perfect.”
“How did Abby and I miss this?”
“Did you even know he was gay, back then?”
“No. Okay, wow. That was even before the whole Martin thing. I guess we weren’t looking for the gayest fic in the bunch.”
“This isn’t even the gayest,” Bram says.
“Ladies and gentledudes, I’m back,” Garrett announces, and we both look up with a start. Garrett slides into his seat, setting a cardboard cake box on the table in front of us. “Check it out.”
Bram nudges the box open, revealing an extravagantly decorated buttercream cake with polka dots and rosette flowers. And a message, carefully piped onto the center:
“You bought Simon and Nick a cake?” Bram asks slowly.
“Fuck yeah. I love those dudes.”
“Well done, Garrett,” I say.
“Thank you, Burke. I appreciate that.”
“So, no congratulations or anything. Just, like . . . their names.”
“Yeah, but look at the R,” Garrett says, glancing back and forth between Bram and me. “That’s badass, right? Totally my idea.”
“It’s very badass,” I assure him.
Bram just raises his eyebrows and smiles.
Add this to the list of things I’m never doing again: sitting in the front row of a play.
Eye contact. So much eye contact.
Simon once said that when the stage lights are on, the audience looks like a giant dark blob. But maybe the front row is the exception, because I swear Taylor just spent forty-five minutes gazing directly into my face.
But the show was amazing, even with Martin Addison back in commission. Or maybe it’s because Martin was back in commission, as much as it kills me to admit that. I hate when assholes have talent. I want to live in a world where good people rule at everything and shitty people suck at everything. In short: I want Martin Addison’s voice to crack like an earthquake.
After curtain call, we linger in the lobby, waiting for the actors to come out. Garrett sidles up to me, holding the cake box, his blond hair winging out from under a baseball cap. “So, Eisner can really sing, huh?”
I feel strangely shy. “Yeah.”
There are hordes of parents out here, holding flowers. I spot Simon’s family near the dramaturgy display, doubled up on bouquets. “Alice is here?” I say to Bram.
He nods. “It’s her spring break.”
Alice Spier is exactly who I want to be when I’m in college. She is nerd-cute perfection—effortlessly smart, hipster glasses, and zero tolerance for Simon and Nora’s bullshit. I may have had a low-key crush on her in sixth grade, until I fell hard for her adorable dumbass little brother.
“So, Burke.” Garrett nudges me. “I’m guessing you need a ride home.”
“Oh. I guess.”
“Cool.” He nods. “I’ve got you covered.”
I feel awkward all of a sudden—heavy-limbed and tongue-tied. “Thanks,” I manage. Yesterday it was Garrett’s sweatshirt. Today he’s giving me a ride home. It’s like the universe is trying to make him my boyfriend, which is messed up. Even if a tiny weird part of me wonders what it would be like to kiss him. It probably wouldn’t be awful. Technically, he’s cute. He has very blue eyes. And everyone thinks athletes are hot. Is Garrett hot?
He could be.
Though the idea of objective hotness fucks me up a little. The idea that certain arrangements of facial features are automatically superior. It’s like someone woke up one day with a boner for big-eyed, soft-lipped, tight-bodied cheekbone people, and we all just decided to go along with that.
The doors to the back hallway swing open, and the cast and crew start to trickle into the lobby. But Garrett rests his hand on my arm.
“Okay, what does the average University of Georgia student get on the SAT?” Garrett asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Drool.”
“Haha.”
He pokes my arm. “You’re smiling.”
I snort and look away, my eyes drifting toward the Spiers. Nick’s parents are there, too—Abby’s mom is chatting with them while her dad and brother check their phones. And even though I’ve never met Abby’s dad, there’s no question: he’s a middle-aged male version of Abby, eyelashes and all. Which is super disorienting. I turn quickly away, and my eyes fall on Mom.
Mom, as in my mom, dressed in work clothes and looking slightly out of place. I had no idea she was coming. I guess she snuck in through the back. She’s standing a few feet away from the other adults. To be honest, she’s always been weird around my friends’ parents. Maybe because she’s the youngest, by over a decade. I think she’s paranoid that they secretly disapprove of her.