"I don't understand anything," Ethan blurts out, his voice breaking, and I can sense the nervousness slipping through his words, as if the garden air had gotten stuck in his chest.
"What don't you understand?" I reply, trying to stay calm, though my pulse quickens a bit because I don't want this to get more tense than necessary. "I came because I won a date, and that date is with you."
Ethan looks at me as if he didn't hear right, frowning and taking a step back, with an expression that mixes confusion and something else I can't quite figure out.
"And when did you bid on me?" he asks, still incredulous, his tone sounding more surprised than angry.
"Well…" I take a deep breath, trying to sound nonchalant, though I feel the heat creeping up my neck. "I logged onto the university's website, and when your turn came up, I just did it."
The silence between us weighs heavier than any words. He lowers his gaze, tenses his shoulders, and his fingers fidget with the edge of his sleeve, as if he wanted to hold onto something. I stay still, hands in my pockets, trying not to show how stupid I feel, because, shit, it was an idiotic move. Spending so much money on something like this, just because I couldn't sit back and do nothing. But I wasn't going to let that asshole Mike get his way.
Mike wanted to take him? Have a night with Ethan and then return him like some damn trophy? Leave me with the scraps? No way in hell. And on top of that, if something like this messed up my plans with the scholarship, it'd be even worse. From the moment I saw them in the auditorium, with those looks they were throwing each other, I knew what Mike was after. I wasn't going to let him take him.
Ethan stays quiet, his breathing tense, not looking at me directly, and I can feel his head is a whirlwind of questions he doesn't dare let out. I keep watching him, every little movement of his confirming what I already knew: I shouldn't have done it, but at the same time, I couldn't not do it. I'm not going to let them ruin my plans. I'm not going to let them get away with it. And above all, I'm not going to let them take Ethan away from me.
"Wait a second," he says, raising his hands, his face tense, as if he's trying to keep control. "Where did you get so much money to bid on me?" he asks, his tone more incredulous than angry, and I see his jaw tighten. "You're supposed to be broke, Whitman. What the hell is going on?"
I open my mouth, but the words get stuck for a second. "Uh… well…" I stammer, scratching the back of my neck. "Remember that birthday gift my mom gave me, from my sister? It was a card with twelve thousand five hundred dollars."
I swallow hard, uncomfortable, because I know it sounds ridiculous. "I hadn't spent any of it, so… I used it."
"You used it?" he repeats, eyes wide, as if he can't believe it. "Noah, that money was for surviving here. You can't spend it on something so… stupid."
His tone sounds more worried than angry, and that, for some reason, irritates me more than it should. "Hey, technically, I did it for you," I reply, a bit defensive, trying to justify myself. "It didn't seem that stupid to me. Besides, the money goes to the Children's Hospital, right? It's for a good cause."
"That's not the point," he cuts me off, his voice firmer, almost sharp. "That money could've covered your tuition."
"Look," I say, crossing my arms, because I'm not going to let him make me feel guilty, "even with what I earn at the café, I couldn't pay for all of tuition. That's why we're doing the scholarship thing, right?"
I lower my gaze for a moment, because his words hit, but I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of being right. I haven't spent anything in a long time, letting the days pass without thinking about it. But lately… I don't know. I've held back so much that when I saw Ethan on stage, something in me lit up, and I did it without thinking.
Ethan sighs, running a hand through his hair, frustrated, and though he doesn't say anything, I can feel he's trying to understand me but can't. Yes, I got carried away. I hadn't planned to spend a single cent on the auction, but when I saw him up there, with the Memorial Auditorium lights on him, I couldn't help it. I don't know why I keep doing these things. But when it's about him, something in me fires up, and I end up doing stupid stuff without thinking. Because it was Ethan. Because I couldn't not do it.
"You shouldn't have," he says, looking to the side, avoiding my eyes, his tone sounding more tired than angry.
"Sure, I shouldn't have," I reply, crossing my arms with a tense smile. "And that way, I'd have let Mike have you. Would've been perfect, right? The date of your dreams."
My voice comes out with an edge I didn't mean, but it's out now, and I'm not taking it back. Ethan turns his head toward me, his look bordering on fury. "What?" he snaps, eyes narrowing.
I should shut up, damn it, I should. But that look of his, that intense green that lights up when he's angry, pushes me to keep going. "What does he have that I don't?" I shoot back, without thinking, my tone mixing defiance and something else I don't want to name.
"Twenty centimeters more, for sure," he replies, with a calm that sounds like provocation, and his half-smile drives me nuts.
"How do you know? You haven't even seen it," I throw back, with a playful, lopsided grin, knowing it'll rile him up more.
Ethan shoots me a look that could cut through the air. "I was talking about height, idiot," he retorts, with a huff.
"Oh…" I reply, shrugging, pretending indifference, though I feel a bit stung. "Well, it's not that much of a difference."
I enjoy this tension, though I won't admit it. That spark that shows up when he gets mad, that push-and-pull between what we say and what we don't, makes everything else fade into background noise. "At least with him, I would've had a real date," Ethan says, shrugging, sounding more hurt than I expected.
That hits me in the gut, a pang that mixes annoyance and something else I can't place. "And who says you can't have a real date with me?" I reply, trying to sound carefree, but my voice comes out with a hint of offense.
"Because this whole thing, Noah, is a damn lie," he says, his tone dry, almost cutting.
"Okay, but that doesn't mean we can't have a date," I insist, because I'm not letting him shut down completely.
"Noah…" he starts, but I cut him off before he finishes.
"Listen, let's drop the act for a second, okay?" I say, stepping closer, lowering my voice. "I paid for you at the auction. I won a date with you, and that's what I want: a date. Period."
I take another step, and the air between us feels heavier. "Forget the scholarship, the lie, and especially that giraffe-looking Mike. He didn't win you. I did. So please, stop playing hard to get and follow through on your part. At the auction, you said you were responsible, right? Well, take responsibility for me. I'm your date, so treat me with a bit of affection, man."
I wink at him at the end, and Ethan rolls his eyes, exasperated, but holds back before letting out a long sigh. "Fine, damn it, fine," he says, raising his hands. "I'll do it. I'll ignore it. For now."
"That's the spirit!" I say, grinning, feeling a small victory. "Come on, walk with me."
"And why did you bring me here?" he asks, looking around, his brow still furrowed.
The air smells of damp earth and fresh flowers. The lights of the Elizabeth Gamble Garden fall softly on the path, among shadows of trees and rosebushes, and the murmur of a nearby fountain fills the silence. "Well, to be honest, if my date had been with a girl, I'd probably have brought her here," I say, gesturing to the surroundings. "I don't know, it feels romantic, doesn't it?"
Ethan shoots me a quick glance, as if trying to figure me out. "And why didn't you bring the girl who bought you here first?" he asks, crossing his arms. "You'd have taken me to eat a burger or something like that."
There's something in his voice, a tone that sounds like jealousy, though he'd never admit it. That makes me smile. "And what's wrong with bringing you here?" I reply, shrugging. "It's a date like any other. Come on, let's let it flow, yeah? Walk with me."
He starts following me, though with some reluctance. The stone path winds through rosebushes and lavender shrubs that fill the air with a sweet scent. It's night, and the garden lights cast golden glimmers on the leaves and the water of the fountain. Ethan tucks his hands into his pockets, walking beside me, glancing at the details discreetly, and though he doesn't say it, I know he likes the place.
"Not bad," he murmurs, almost to himself, as his eyes trace the path.
"See? I knew you'd like it," I say, giving him a light nudge with my shoulder.
"Don't get too excited," he replies, but a small, fleeting smile escapes him, and that's enough for me.
We keep walking, stopping in front of a fountain surrounded by jasmine. The sound of the water breaks the silence, and the lights reflect glimmers on the surface. Ethan leans in a bit, looking at the reflection, and for a second, he seems lost in the moment.
"It's peaceful," he says finally, with a softer tone.
"Yep," I reply, watching him out of the corner of my eye. "Thought you could use a bit of calm."
For a moment, the entire garden seems to pause, as if we're caught in that space between what we say and what we don't. The air smells of flowers, the night is mild, and neither of us seems to want to break the moment. "And what now, Noah? Want me to hold your hand and stroll through the whole damn garden?" Ethan says, with a mix of irony and annoyance, trying to sound indifferent, though the tension in his voice gives him away.
"Hey, if you feel like it, I won't complain," I reply, winking at him with a smile I know drives him up the wall.
Ethan frowns, looks down for a second, and clenches his jaw, as if holding back a sharper retort. "Shit, this is fun," I think, and I almost let out a laugh.
"Hey, it's not the first time we've done something like this," I add, letting the comment sound casual, though I know it'll get under his skin. "We've already walked around campus, haven't we?"
Ethan lets out a huff, avoiding my gaze, and adjusts his jacket, tense. "It's not the same," he retorts, his tone dry, but it doesn't convince me.
That pulls a short laugh out of me, because I know it bothers him, and though I shouldn't, I enjoy it. He glances at me sideways, serious, and for a second it seems like he's going to say something more, but he holds back.
"And if I have a better idea…" he murmurs, looking away toward the lit-up path.
"What do you mean?" I ask, tilting my head, curious.
"Something to make this date less awkward," he replies, shrugging, trying to sound carefree.
"I'm listening, Bennett," I say, with a teasing edge, because I want to know where he's going with this.
He doesn't answer right away, just presses his lips together, as if thinking about something he's not ready to let out yet. He starts walking again, with slow steps, the crunch of his sneakers on the gravel mixing with the murmur of the fountain. And I'm left wondering what the hell he's up to.
****
The path through the Elizabeth Gamble Garden ends at a side exit, and Ethan moves ahead without saying a word, with firm steps, as if he knows exactly where he's going. I follow him, curious, as he crosses the street toward a more open area, where the sound of wheels hitting pavement starts to creep into the air, replacing the soft murmur of the flowers.
A few meters away, the lights of the Burgess Skate Park illuminate a wide concrete space, alive and chaotic. It's packed with people, even at this hour: skaters gliding down ramps, laughter and shouts of excitement cutting through the night, and music blasting from a portable speaker. The vibe is electric, with that raw energy that only exists when the night takes over everything.
"Here?" I ask, raising an eyebrow as I glance at him sideways. "Didn't peg you for this scene, Bennett."
He shrugs, with a faint smile barely forming on his face. "I used to skate in high school," he says, his gaze lost in the movement of the park. "Thought it'd be more fun than wandering aimlessly through the garden."
"Well, you're full of surprises," I say, letting a smile slip out, because I didn't see that coming.
He shakes his head slightly, eyes fixed on the ramps, where the lights reflect in his pupils. A few meters away, a group tries a complicated trick and ends up sprawled on the ground, laughing their heads off.
"Look at that," I comment, pointing at them. "If I fell like that, you'd probably be making up some dumb nickname for me by now."
"I don't need you to fall for that," he replies, without looking at me, with a crooked smile that makes me laugh.
"How considerate," I say, feigning offense. "I see empathy's not your thing."
Ethan lets out a low laugh, crosses his arms, and keeps watching the park, as if the chaos has him hooked. "I didn't come to babysit your ego, Whitman," he says, his tone dry but playful.
"And I didn't ask you to," I reply, shrugging. "Though, if you think about it, you've been pretty good at getting under my skin lately."
He shoots me a sideways glance, with a restrained smile, and shakes his head. "Don't you ever get tired?" he says, with a hint of amusement.
"Never," I reply, grinning, and for a moment, the noise of the park seems to fade, as if it's just him and me.
We keep walking through the crowd, with the music and the sound of boards wrapping around us. The Burgess Skate Park has a life of its own: the high lights bathe the ramps in cold white, casting shadows that dance with every movement. The air smells of rubber, metal, and dust, a harsh mix that sticks to your throat. Wheels hit the concrete with a hypnotic rhythm, and a kid passes in front of us with a perfect kickflip, the snap of his board cutting through the air. Further off, another launches from a ramp, does a quick grab, and falls on his back, laughing as his friends help him up.
Ethan walks beside me, slowly, his eyes taking in every detail. The lights reflect on his face, and for the first time tonight, he seems genuinely at ease, as if this chaos calms him. There's a spark in his gaze I hadn't seen before, a looseness in his shoulders that makes him seem more alive, more himself.
We stop near a rail where a group is practicing grinds. One nails a 50-50 with precision, another tries a boardslide and nearly loses balance but recovers with a jump. Ethan smiles, not with that tense smile he uses to brush things off, but with a genuine, open one that lights up his face before he notices I'm watching him.
"What?" he says, without taking his eyes off the ramp.
"Nothing," I reply, holding back a smile. "Just that you look good here."
"It's nostalgia," he murmurs, almost to himself. "This reminds me… I don't know, when things were simpler."
I nod, though I don't know what to say. I look at him a bit longer, and there's something in how he follows the skaters' movements, in that almost hypnotic focus, that I can't ignore. A girl falls after a miscalculated heelflip, gets up laughing, and the group claps for her. Ethan laughs too, a low laugh that rises from his chest, and for some reason, that sound stirs something in me I don't want to analyze.
We keep walking through the chaos, passing a line of skaters waiting their turn, impatiently tapping their boards on the ground. The lights glint off metal, sweat, curved ramps. I step aside a few meters, dodging boards that pass close by, and approach a group of guys sitting on their skateboards, relaxed, sharing a water bottle and laughing about something only they understand. One taps the beat of the music with his knuckles, another tosses a cap in the air and catches it without looking. Everything flows with a naturalness that disarms me a bit, as if this place were a world apart where no one needs to try to fit in.
I return to Ethan, who's still where I left him, hands in his pockets, watching the ramp. The light hits his face just right, and for a second, he seems like someone else, as if the noise and movement have set him free. I hand him a board I got from the guys.
"Where'd you get that?" he asks, with a surprised smile that makes me smile too.
"Rented them from those guys," I reply, pointing at the group. "For a hundred bucks each."
Ethan looks at me, incredulous. "A hundred bucks? Are you crazy?"
"Seemed like a fair deal to me," I say, with shameless nonchalance, shrugging.
He lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Noah, they rent them for fifty an hour over there," he says, pointing to a small shop at the edge of the park, still open, with kids returning boards and others waiting with helmets dangling from their wrists.
"Seriously?" I reply, looking toward the shop. "Back in my day, it wasn't like that."
"Your day?" he mocks, with a laugh that stings. "What, are you the skate grandpa now, Whitman?"
I shoot him a playful look and hand him the board. "I want us to skate together."
"What?" he asks, surprised, eyes wide.
"No one's going to look at us weird here. Come on, let's have fun. You said you wanted this date to be less awkward, right? Here's your chance."
"We don't even have helmets," he protests, though I can tell he's tempted.
"We don't need them," I reply. "Besides, you were the pro, right?"
Ethan rolls his eyes but drops the board to the ground, puts a foot on it, and pushes off with a naturalness that leaves me stunned. "Hey, Bennett! Already showing off, you bastard?" I shout, as I do the same.
The board vibrates under my feet, the air cuts across my face, and the sound of the wheels mixes with the music and laughter. Ethan spins with confidence, and when our eyes meet, we burst into laughter. We skate side by side, gliding through the park, with the lights and noise wrapping around us, as if the world has shrunk to this moment.
The rhythm of the wheels on the concrete is sharp, steady, almost hypnotic. I pick up speed, crouch, and try an ollie. It's not perfect, but I stay upright. Ethan shoots me a quick glance, half approval, half mockery, before pulling off a shove-it that chains into a spin that leaves me speechless.
"What was that?" I shout, laughing.
He doesn't answer, just smiles, spinning the board under his feet before pushing off again. His style is fluid, like the concrete is an extension of him. I try to keep up but end up wobbling, barely recovering my balance. A group of skaters stops to watch, I don't know if out of curiosity or pity. I push off again, manage a short manual, just a few seconds on the back wheels, and feel like the king of the world.
"See that, Bennett?" I shout. "You're looking at a natural prodigy!"
Ethan brakes, turns with the board under his foot, and raises an eyebrow. "Prodigy?" he says, mocking. "Keep dreaming, Whitman."
He picks up speed, hits a low ramp, spins in the air, and lands a kickflip so clean that the group nearby claps. "Oh, yeah?" I say, spurred on. I try to copy him, but my board slips, and I end up on my ass on the concrete. The impact echoes, and laughter erupts around me.
Ethan covers his mouth, trying not to laugh. "You earned that for being a show-off!" he shouts, letting out a cackle.
"Shut up!" I reply, laughing as I get up, brushing off my pants. "The ground attacked me, it wasn't my fault."
I keep skating, more out of pride than skill, and at one point, Ethan loses his balance too, falling to the side and rolling a bit. It doesn't take long for the same to happen to me. We look at each other from the ground, and the laughter comes naturally, echoing through the park.
The air smells of burnt rubber and freedom. The lights gleam on the concrete, and the shadows of skaters zip by at full speed. Ethan gets back up, one hand on his side, with a smile that doesn't fade. "Every time we do something together, we end up like this," he says, laughing. "No gear and making fools of ourselves."
"At least we're consistent," I reply, pushing myself back onto the board.
We move through the ramps, dodging other skaters, laughing for no reason, letting the speed carry us. No scholarships, no lies, no Mike. Just the noise, the wind, and us, skating under the lights of the Burgess Skate Park, as if the night belongs to us.
"Ready for a real challenge?" a guy shouts from a ramp, with a wide, cheeky grin. He's wearing a black T-shirt with a worn Thrasher logo, ripped jeans, and sneakers that have seen better days. Next to him, a couple of friends back him up: one with a backward cap and a board under his arm, another with a hoodie tied around his waist, his face lit up by the lights.
"We haven't seen you around here," the T-shirt guy adds, balancing his board under his foot. "And when strangers show up, we put them to the test."
"A test?" I repeat, with a light, almost mocking tone. "Is that what you call it when you want to lose with style?"
The guy grins, tilting his head. "You've got a mouth, blondie. Let's see if your feet can back it up."
"Don't worry," I reply. "My natural talent makes up for any technical shortcomings."
Ethan lets out a huff that barely hides a laugh. "Natural talent? More like natural ego," he whispers, with a smile he can't hold back.
"And as you can see," I add, gesturing theatrically toward him, "my friend here plays humble, but don't be fooled. He's the terror of the ramps."
"Excuse me?" Ethan looks at me, eyes narrowed, holding back laughter.
The group bursts into laughter. The guy with the cap leans forward, amused. "Oh, so the quiet one's the dangerous one?"
"Totally," I reply, with a serious air. "He's got a record of epic falls. Quite the show."
Ethan shakes his head, but his smile gives him away. "Don't help me so much, Whitman," he says, giving me a light shove.
"Hey, I'm doing PR," I reply, returning the gesture. "A bit of marketing doesn't hurt."
The group laughs, and the initial tension melts into a quick camaraderie, the kind that comes when everyone speaks the same language of jokes and sarcasm. "I like them," the T-shirt guy says, spinning his board. "But we don't hand out respect for free here."
"Chill," I reply, smiling. "If it's about falling, we're experts."
Ethan laughs, looser now, and the air between us all feels light, as if the park has accepted us. The laughter dies down a bit as the guys move, forming a semicircle around a ramp. Some keep practicing on the side, but most are watching us, expectant. The air smells of rubber and hot dust, and the white lights reflect on the concrete, marking every movement.
"Okay, blondie," the T-shirt guy says, adjusting his cap. "Let's see if that ego's worth anything."
"Deal," I reply, spinning my board under my foot. "But if you lose, don't cry."
Ethan shakes his head, laughing under his breath. "God, you're still the same," he murmurs.
"And why change?" I wink. "It works too well for me."
The guys laugh, and the one with the hoodie tied around his waist raises a hand. "Ready, or did you just come to talk?"
"Ready," Ethan says, stepping up beside me, with a confidence that surprises me.
One of the skaters starts the countdown with his fingers. "Three, two, one… go!"
The sound of wheels explodes. I push off hard, and the concrete vibrates under my feet. The night air hits my face as we take the first curve. The crowd shouts, whistles, moves through the shadows to follow us. Ethan takes the lead, hits a ramp, and lands with precision. I follow, almost glued to him, feeling the vibration in my legs. A group claps as I pass through a pipe, grazing it with my board.
One of the rivals tries a jump and falls hard, rolling on the ground. The other trips over him, and they both end up tangled, laughing their heads off. "That's some coordination!" I shout, unable to hold back my laughter.
Ethan laughs too, so hard he almost loses his balance. And right there, I get distracted: a ramp appears out of nowhere. I try to react, but my board slips, and I fall flat on my back with a thud. Laughter erupts around me.
"That counts as style, right?" I shout from the ground, raising a hand.
Ethan passes by, laughing his head off. "Autodestruction style!" he yells.
He keeps up with the other guy. They zigzag at full speed, and the shouts get louder. Ethan takes the lead, but when the other guy falls, he turns to check if he's okay. In that move, his board slips, and he ends up on the ground. The park explodes in laughter and applause. No one seems to care who won. Everyone high-fives, shoves each other playfully, and the boards roll again.
I walk over to Ethan, who's still sitting, laughing. "Well, we lost," I say, "but we put on a show."
"And you took a cinematic fall," he replies, still laughing.
"Details," I say, smiling.
We lie back on the top of the biggest ramp, the cold concrete against our backs, the sky lit up by the park's lights. Everything hurts: the scrapes on my elbows, the bruises on my knees, the ache in my muscles. "I think we should've rented the protective gear," I murmur.
Ethan laughs, his voice hoarse from the effort. "Yeah, not your best idea."
"I didn't even know there was a shop," I admit, smiling.
The silence that follows is calm, broken only by the distant hum of boards and music. I turn my head and look at him. His hair's a mess, his shirt clinging with sweat, and a soft, almost satisfied smile on his face, as if the night has lit him up.
"I didn't know your name was Alexander too," he says suddenly, without looking away from the sky.
I turn to him, surprised. "What?"
"Alexander," he repeats, turning his head slightly, with a curious smile. "Could I have been calling you Alex this whole time?"
I let out a small laugh. "No, better not. I don't really like that name."
"Why not?" he asks, glancing at me sideways.
"Because only my sister calls me that," I reply, running a hand through my hair. "She does it because she knows it bugs me."
Ethan laughs, letting out a breath. "Sounds like a great sister."
"Trust me, she is. Sometimes too much," I say, with a tired smile.
He stays quiet for a moment before speaking. "Still, it doesn't sound bad. Noah Alexander. It's got strength."
" That name came from my dad, after my grandfather," I reply, lowering my voice. "And yeah… it carries weight. Maybe too much."
Ethan nods, without saying anything else. The silence returns, accompanied by the hum of music and distant laughter. "Bad memories?" he asks, with soft curiosity, not sounding intrusive.
I let out a slow breath. "Let's just say my relationship with him was incredible at first," I start, looking at the sky. "I admired my grandfather almost as much as my dad. We'd go fishing, to fairs, to games… any excuse was good to get out." I smile faintly. "He was one of those people who filled everything with their presence."
Ethan doesn't say anything, but his attentive gaze gives me a nudge to keep going. "But when I was twelve, I found out something that changed everything," I continue, my voice lower. "I found out he was hitting my grandmother. Had been doing it forever. And kept doing it."
I feel his steady breathing nearby, and it gives me a strange calm. "To me, my grandmother was… I don't know, a refuge," I go on, searching for the words. "That person who was always there when things got rough. When my mom was busy or things at home got tense, she was my safe place. She made you feel like you were worth something."
I run a hand over the cold concrete, feeling its texture. "She wasn't perfect, but she had this warmth that wrapped around you. Being with her was easy, you didn't have to pretend."
Ethan nods slowly. "And with your grandfather… it all fell apart?" he asks, his voice low.
"Yeah," I reply, with an empty laugh. "Everything I admired became… different. With him, it was adventures, but with my grandmother, it was home. And in the end, I realized I needed the latter more."
Ethan murmurs, almost in a whisper, "I see."
His tone isn't pitying, but understanding, and that hits me more than I expected. "When I found out what he was doing to her, everything changed," I continue, my gaze on the sky. "I started noticing things, patterns. Like how he spent all his time with me, but treated my sister like she didn't exist."
I let out a dry laugh. "Shit, the old man was a misogynist. Not surprising, right? Someone with his money, raised in an era that thought women were only good for smiling and making coffee."
Ethan smiles a little, and that pulls a smile from me, though it shouldn't. "So Alexander Whitman stopped being what he was to me," I go on. "I stopped seeing him as the man who taught me to fish or fix things, and just saw… a piece of shit on the horizon."
The silence that follows doesn't weigh heavy, it's just there, as if the air understands it doesn't need to be filled. "And when my grandmother died," I add, lowering my voice, "he was still alive. I couldn't stop thinking why her, why not him."
Ethan looks at me cautiously. "And now, how's it with him?" he asks, almost whispering.
I let out a humorless laugh. "I told you, didn't I?" I take a deep breath. "The old man had a midlife crisis… at an age when the only crisis he should've had was respiratory. He decided to go skydiving."
Ethan blinks, confused. "Skydiving?"
"Yeah," I reply. "He didn't know how to open the parachute in time. He was too close to the ground, and when he finally managed, it was too late."
I look at the sky, hands behind my head. "And that was the end of his story. Ironic, right? He fell from the highest point and crashed into the ground."
Ethan doesn't say anything, just listens, with a calm, nonjudgmental expression. "Don't get me wrong," I add. "I didn't celebrate. But when they told me… I didn't feel anything. No sadness, no relief, nothing. Just emptiness."
I let out a slow breath. "And that's when I realized Alexander Whitman was nothing to me anymore."
The silence wraps around us, with the sky feeling bigger and more distant. Ethan's there, not talking, but his gaze says enough. For the first time in a long time, I feel light. "But it's your name," he says, turning to me, his tone calm but firm. "Don't see it as an extension of him. It's yours, Noah. You're Noah Alexander Whitman… a dumb blond who loves his family."
Shit. That pulls a bigger smile from me than I want to admit. I feel a warm pressure in my chest, something between relief and gratitude that I don't know how to handle. I've never told anyone this. Not Joe, not Chris. And here I am, opening up to Ethan, someone who was a stranger months ago, someone I dragged into an absurd scholarship farce. Someone who, without me realizing, has become the person it's easiest to be myself with.
"Hey," I say, turning to him. "You know what?"
"What?" he replies, laughing softly.
"If you were a girl… you'd totally be my type."
There's a silence, and I see his smile fade a bit, becoming smaller, almost fragile. "Yeah…" he murmurs, so low I barely hear it.
I sit up quickly, brushing the dust off my pants, and hold out my hand. "Come on, let's go."
"Where?" he asks, raising an eyebrow, curious.
"You picked this place," I reply, smiling. "Now let me finish this date at a place I choose."
Ethan lets out a soft laugh, gets up, and looks at me with a mix of curiosity and tiredness. "Anything else I should know?"
"Just that the night's young," I reply, still holding his hand.
He gives me a warm smile, wordless. We head down from the ramp, the lights casting long shadows on the concrete and the echo of our laughter fading into the distance, and I feel like what's left of the night belongs to us.
****
I drive down the highway, the sound of the engine in the background, Palo Alto's lights fading among the trees and the mist that's starting to smell like the sea. Ethan's next to me, arm resting on the open window, looking at the landscape with a calm that doesn't need words. Every now and then, he throws me a glance, or a small smile slips out for no reason, and I just keep driving, letting the moment breathe on its own.
After almost an hour, the highway opens up between hills covered in damp grass, and the air turns saltier, fresher. The sound of waves creeps in over the engine's hum. I turn onto a narrow path, and at the end, Half Moon Bay State Beach appears, a stretch of silver sand under the moonlight. A weathered sign marks the entrance.
I turn off the engine, and the silence hits all at once, broken only by the constant murmur of the sea. The air smells of salt and wet wood, with that freshness that wakes up your skin.
Ethan gets out of the car and stands staring at the horizon, where the waves gleam like someone spilled liquid silver. "Night swimming?" he asks, with a mischievous smile that makes me laugh.
"No thanks," I reply, leaning down to take off my shoes and socks. I leave them by the car and walk toward the shore. "Come on, follow me."
He hesitates for a second but follows, hands in his pockets. The water hits our feet with a cold that stings, and we both let out a short, almost childlike laugh. "This is relaxing, right?" I say, watching the waves rise and fall, erasing our footprints in the sand.
"Yeah…" he replies, his voice softer, almost lost in the sound of the sea. "It feels good."
We walk along the shore, the waves lapping at our feet, leaving foam that dissolves quickly. In the distance, the lights of a restaurant flicker, and some silhouettes walk along the beach, barely visible against the waterline. Suddenly, Ethan splashes me, with a laugh freer than ever.
"Hey!" I shout, splashing him back with a wave of water.
"You started it!" he defends, laughing as he dodges another wave.
"Liar, but I'm still gonna win," I say, throwing more water at him.
We run along the shore, dodging waves, splashing each other like we're fifteen, laughing for no reason until exhaustion slows us down. We keep walking, now in silence, side by side, letting the sea speak for us. The breeze messes up our hair, the air is cold but not bothersome. Ethan looks at the sky and murmurs something about how clear the stars look. I glance at him sideways, saying nothing, because I don't need to. This shared peace is enough.
The phone's clock shows midnight, and we turn back toward the car. We climb in barefoot, with wet pants and sand stuck to our skin. The engine starts, and the sound of the sea fades as the coastal lights disappear in the rearview mirror. The drive back to campus is calm, almost perfect.
We arrive at campus around one in the morning. The air is colder, and the plaza's lights bathe the cobblestone paths in a faint golden glow. I park, and we get out slowly, still with the sea's salt on our skin and sand on our pant cuffs. We walk through the plaza in silence, Ethan with his hands in his pockets, a calm smile peeking out under the streetlights.
"That was good," he says, glancing at me sideways. "Thanks."
"Glad you think so," I reply, smiling. "Those two thousand bucks were worth it, right?"
He lets out a soft laugh. "I don't know about that much, but… yeah, it was good."
I look at the ground, kicking a dry leaf lightly. "It felt like when I used to play tennis," I say, without thinking too much. "For fun, not to please anyone. Before everything got… complicated."
Ethan looks at me, curious. "It's been a while since you talked about that."
"Yeah," I admit, shrugging. "When it started being just what my dad wanted, it lost its charm."
"Maybe you should pick it up again," he says, his voice calm, like he's thought about it before.
"Pick it up?" I ask, glancing at him sideways.
"Yeah," he insists. "You've already cut out doing things for your dad, with this whole scholarship farce. Why not do it for yourself this time?"
I take a deep breath, kicking another leaf. "I'm not sure."
"Why not?" he asks, his tone not pushing, but nudging. "I heard there's an exhibition match coming up, open registration. You could try it, just for fun."
"I don't know, Ethan," I reply, looking at the path.
He gives me a light nudge with his shoulder, smiling. "Look who's doubting now," he says, with a teasing edge. "And here I thought you were the one who never gives up."
I let out a laugh. "Touché," I reply, glancing at him sideways. "And you? Would you go back to playing soccer?"
He laughs, shaking his head. "It's been a while since I trained."
"Let's make a deal," I say, stopping in front of the lit-up fountain.
"What deal?" he asks, stopping beside me.
"If you start training again and join the team, I'll play tennis," I say, with a smile that tries to be confident.
Ethan lets out a laugh. "That sounds like blackmail."
"Nah, it's a fair deal, right, Bennett?" I reply, raising an eyebrow.
He smiles, with that grin that starts as mockery and ends up sincere. "Okay, but promise you'll come support me," he says, looking straight at me.
His tone catches me off guard, pure and unfiltered. "Of course," I reply after a second. "But you're coming to my match too, deal?"
"Deal," he says, holding out his hand.
I give him a firm shake, and the contact lingers a bit longer than necessary. The air between us feels dense, my pulse quickens, and for a moment, I can't look away from his eyes.
"Noah Whitman."
A rough, deep voice cuts through the moment. I turn on instinct. "Mr. Sterling," I reply, seeing the man approach, his imposing figure under the streetlights.
"Come here. Now," he orders, with a dry tone that leaves no room for jokes.
I look at Ethan, who frowns, confused. Sterling makes an impatient gesture with his hand. I walk toward him, and as soon as I'm close, he grabs my arm tightly, dragging me a few meters away from Ethan, out of earshot of the silent plaza.
"Hey, this is abuse of authority!" I say, half-joking, trying to pull free. Sterling doesn't budge, his grip firm until he lets me go abruptly.
"What do you think you're doing?" he asks, his voice low, sharp as a knife.
"What do you mean, what am I doing?" I reply, trying to sound calm. "I'm heading to the Alpha Centauri house to sleep."
"I'm not talking about that, Whitman," he snaps, stepping toward me, his gaze fixed. "What are you playing at with that boy?"
"Excuse me?" I say, frowning, feeling the tension rise.
"You think I don't notice the stupid things you do?" he says, with impatience. "The whole campus is talking about how you're now in a relationship with a guy. With him." He nods toward Ethan, who's still standing a few meters away, watching us with a furrowed brow. "Faking a relationship for a scholarship isn't exactly a model of integrity."
"Listen," I reply, holding back my irritation. "I already told you I'm gay. It's not a lie. That's why I'm with him."
Sterling raises his eyebrows, with a sarcasm that makes my blood boil. "How convenient," he says. "Just when you need a scholarship, you go to my office and, suddenly, you're gay."
"It's my word against yours," I retort, lifting my chin. "You've got nothing on me."
"Noah!" he exclaims, raising his voice. "Do you have any idea of the ethical implications of this?"
"I'm not doing anything wrong," I reply, holding his gaze, though I feel my pulse in my temples.
Sterling sighs, lowering his tone slightly. "Listen, kid. I don't know what you're after with this, but tell me… does he know what you're doing?"
"What?" I say, confused, though my voice sounds tenser than I want. "What are you talking about?"
"This, Whitman. You. Your little game," he says, with a tone that cuts.
I stay silent. Ethan knows everything, he knows about the farce, and yet he agreed to go along with it. But I'm not going to drag him into this mess. Not after everything he's done for me. "He's got nothing to do with this," I say, firm, my jaw tight.
Sterling watches me in silence, his expression hard, unreadable. The air between us grows heavy, with the wind slipping through the trees as the only sound. "You think I'm an idiot, Whitman?" he says, his voice heavy as lead. "I don't buy any of this. I've seen you on this campus for years, flirting with girls, playing with one and then another, for you to come now with this story."
"Listen, sir…" I try, but he cuts me off immediately.
"No," he says, his voice firm. "You have no idea what you're doing or how serious this could be."
"What are you talking about?" I ask, trying to stay calm, though my breathing gives me away.
"You think just saying you're gay will get you that scholarship?" he retorts, crossing his arms. "It doesn't work like that."
"What are you talking about?" I say, irritation creeping into my voice.
"The scholarship isn't just about sexual orientation," he says, more restrained, but with judgment in every word. "You need to prove it. A history, something to back up your application, to make it legitimate. Documents, background, proof that you're part of the community you claim to belong to."
I stare at him, incredulous. "Are you telling me," I reply, my voice rising, "that to apply, I need a history of abuse, homophobia, trauma, just to be believed?"
"That's not what I'm saying," he responds, not breaking eye contact.
"That's exactly what you're saying," I snap, the anger spilling out. "What do you want? That I document how many guys I've dated? That I list who I've slept with? What do you expect, photos, proof, or the damn used condoms as evidence?"
Sterling falls silent, surprised. No one talks to him like that, and I know it. But I don't stop. "Do you think that's fair?" I continue, stepping toward him. "That for a scholarship, I have to prove I suffered, as if pain is the only thing that validates being gay? Do you think we all have to carry scars for you to take us seriously?"
The silence stretches. Sterling looks at me, and for a moment, his hardness seems to give way, as if my words hit a spot he didn't expect. "Those are hard arguments to counter," he admits, almost to himself, in a low voice.
"You can't stop me from applying," I say, not breaking eye contact.
"You won't get it just with this," he responds, coldly.
"Then what else do I need?" I ask, my voice firm, though the anger still vibrates.
"The scholarship is for active members of the LGBT community," he says, narrowing his eyes. "It's not enough to declare it. You need involvement, a track record, something verifiable: programs, organizations, letters of recommendation, documentation that proves commitment."
I hadn't thought of that. I stupidly thought the farce would be enough. "And if I get involved now?" I ask, locking eyes with him. "If I participate, would that count?"
"As long as you can document it, yes," he replies, his voice professional. "I can't stop you from applying. The office reviews merits and backgrounds. If you meet the criteria, they'll consider it. But it's not instant."
"Okay," I say, a plan forming in my head. "Leave it to me."
I try to step toward Ethan, who's still waiting, but Sterling grabs my arm again, with the same force. "Be careful, Whitman," he warns, his voice low but heavy. "If this goes wrong, you're going to hurt more people than you think. The consequences will be serious, and don't expect me to cover for you."
I look at him straight, his hand gripping my arm, a mix of authority and warning. "What do you want me to do?" I ask, holding back the tremor in my voice.
"Do it for real," he replies. "Get involved, build a real track record. If you're just trying to scam the system, the institution will deny you and expose you. And if someone gets hurt because of this farce, the responsibility is yours."
He lets go of me abruptly, ending the conversation. I stand there, my arm still burning, with one thing clear: I can't let Ethan pay the price for this.