“He’s late. Membership revoked,” Kinney declares. She ties her bowling shoes at our circular booth, dyed black hair cascading over her bony shoulders.

Both Oscar and Farrow asked me why Kinney is so intensely fixated on the Rainbow Brigade club. They’re all used to Blasé Kinney. Not Drill Sergeant Kinney who’d put a wooden stake through your heart if you fucked with her plans.

I think my sister wants to feel more included with the older crew. Especially those of us who can go to gay bars and events. She’s been left out a lot. During a Pride Festival, I went to an 18+ club and she was kind of bummed.

As her older brother, I want this first-ever Rainbow Brigade meet-up to go smoothly. That meant renting out the entire venue for the night.

The upscale boutique bowling alley has ten lanes, gourmet snacks that can be ordered at the bar, and burgundy leather booths that are more hipster than family-style. Rainbow streamers cascade from the ceiling for Pride Month, and love is love coasters sit underneath our drinks.

I knew Kinney would be less-than-thrilled that Farrow got held up at work. But he’s only fifteen minutes late—and she’s already going for the jugular.

“You can’t kick him out for being late,” I say seriously. “He’s at the hospital.” It’s not like Farrow is intentionally skipping this. He wishes he could be here right now, and if she wants to give someone a hard time, I’d much rather she take out her frustration on me than him.

“Fine. Probation period,” Kinney says, yanking at her shoelace with extra force.

Oscar Oliveira stacks artisanal cheese on a cracker and eats it in one bite. He licks honey off his thumb and says, “Redford will love that.”

I notice the popped buttons on Oscar’s navy button-down reveal a script tattoo along his collarbone. Inked on his golden-brown skin are two Latin phrases: astra inclinant, sed non obligant and non ducor, duco.

I can admit that I’m not well-versed in Latin without reference help. Like the internet. I just won’t admit that to Farrow.

“Did Donnelly ink those?” I ask Oscar and motion to his collar.

“No no no,” Oscar shakes his head. “Guy has talent, but he’s not putting a needle to my flesh.” Before I ask what the tattoos mean, he motions to the top line. “The stars incline us, they do not bind us.” Bottom line, he tells me, “The motto of São Paulo: I am not led, I lead.” He picks up his buzzing phone, frowns at a message and flashes me the screen.

My boyfriend has been allergic to group chats. Pretty much ever since he’s seen how many incessantly ping my phone. But that text makes me think about Farrow and his relationship with Oscar and even Donnelly. Those two guys knew Farrow when he was with some of his exes.

Like Rowin.

I’m not about to torture myself and fish for giant details about his past relationships. But I am curious about some things only Oscar can share. “Is Farrow always like that with boyfriends?”

Oscar leans back against the leather booth. Grinning and also crossing his arms, curly pieces of his brown hair sweep his forehead. “You mean does Redford always choose the boyfriend over the friend?”

I nod, confident in this question. “Yeah.”

“Depends on the boyfriend,” he says, “but Hale, you’ve been chosen first 100% of the time, which is record-breaking.”

I should be happy about that, but a nagging thought pricks me. “I’ve put some family before him at times.”

Oscar angles forward and grabs a peppercorn cracker from a tray. “And he has to love that about you, or else he would’ve only chosen you 45% of the time.”

I nod to him before I bend down and tie my bowling shoe. “You like him better single? Then he’d pick his friends 100% of the time.”

“No, that’s not how he operates when he’s single. He’ll go all lone wolf on us, and sometimes, he’ll be harder to get ahold of. Personally, I like him in a relationship—just not with that poor bastard.”

I finish knotting my shoe and look up. “Rowin?” I ask.

Oscar pours beer from a pitcher and nods. “They fought all the time. Personality clash.” He wipes a trickle of beer off the pint glass. “I saw the red flags from the start. Redford, however, is a stubborn ass. But we love him.”

I start to smile. Yeah, we do, but my lips fall again. Realizing he hasn’t messaged in a while. Even though he told Oscar he’d text me. “I don’t have any updates for you, man,” I tell him.

Oscar looks just as concerned as me, taking a swig of foamy beer before he says, “He might be on his bike.”

I check the weather reports. Just to ensure it’s not raining.

Partly cloudy…

“Excuse me.” One of the bowling alley managers suddenly approaches. Eyes on me. Her blonde hair is tied up in a messy bun, and she seems nervous. Her gaze pings to the camera that Jack Highland holds near our lane. In order to work today, Cassie had to sign a waiver to be filmed. So she knows potentially everything she says could be on We Are Calloway.

She takes a tighter breath, focus returning to me. “Could you tell the member of your party that we don’t allow walking on the lanes?”

Fuck.

I haven’t been paying attention to Tom.

Quickly, I swing my head towards the ten empty bowling lanes. Sure enough, at Lane 1, the furthest from us, my cousin wears a pair of skull and crossbones socks (no shoes) and takes a running start before sliding down it. He skids to his knees and slams into the bowling pins. A few knock over and clatter.

Jack films it.

“Tom!” I yell. “Get over here!”

He lifts his head, longer pieces of his ash-brown hair falling into his eyes.

You know Tom Carraway Cobalt as the eighteen-year-old lead singer of The Carraways. Tom’s band only just moved practices from the basement to concert venues, but they sell out every time. You’ve fallen in love with his irreverent charm, mischievousness, and the fact that he’s a daredevil on and off stage.

I know him as my little cousin who will be the first to fall into chaos. Who chooses to run towards danger instead of away, and who calls me up every Saturday to talk about that guy in the back of the class he has a crush on. He means more to me than any words can describe.

Fair Warning: if you fuck with him, we will both fuck with you.

He walks casually back to our booth like he didn’t just become a human bowling ball. “Don’t do that again,” I tell him, being a hardass. And then I add, “Bowling alley rules.”

My phone pings with a text, and I glance at my cell quickly.

He shouldn’t feel badly. I text back: dont worry about her

And I update Oscar on Farrow’s ETA.

Tom slumps down in the booth beside Oscar, and my cousin lets out a dramatic breath, “Some people just don’t want to have fun.” Mischief twinkling in his eyes, he tosses a pretzel bite in his mouth.

“Bowling is fun,” I say with extra emphasis so he won’t try that stunt twice and ruin Kinney’s event. “Normal bowling.” My cell pings.

Tom dunks a pretzel in mustard. “Did you say Fire Bowling? Because yes, that’s extremely fun. Dude, sign me up.”

I don’t even know what the fuck fire bowling is and I’m not going to ask. I just text Farrow back: I’ll handle it.

I can’t lie and say Kinney won’t be upset. She’s already throwing out revocations and probations.

Jack positions the camera towards Tom. “What’s fire bowling?” he asks my cousin.

“Hear me out.” Tom gears up, holding out two hands like he’s ready to go into an intense conversation. “Douse the pins in gasoline. Light them on fire. Fire Bowling.”

Jack nods like he’s considering this. “I’m glad I asked.”

“Sounds dumb,” Kinney says flatly.

“Because, Kinney,” Tom refutes. “You have no imagination.”

She stares at him blankly. “I’m imagining you transforming into a toad right now.”

He touches his chest. “So I can find my prince charming. You shouldn’t have.” He messes her hair.

She sets a death-glare on him and then rolls her eyes, over the banter, and then looks at me. “Your boyfriend is now twenty-five minutes late. I’m thinking we should reconsider his probation and go straight to revocation again.”

“Kinney,” I say firmly. “He’s trying. Give him some slack here.” Like he can hear me, I get another text from Farrow.

“Wait,” Tom cuts in, stealing my attention. He’s pointing a pretzel bite at my little sister. “You’re kicking Farrow out of the Rainbow Brigade for being late? Does that same consideration apply for your date, too?”

What? My eyes widen. “You have a date?” I ask Kinney, shocked. She never mentioned anything to me, and a deep frown replaces my surprise.

Kinney shoots Tom a look like he’s spilled something.

He’s laughing under his breath and springs up from the booth. Leaving for the rack of bowling balls. He does that: throw out drama-laden statements and then exits to watch everything burn.

His mom calls him a shit-stirrer.

Oscar narrows his eyes at Kinney. “This is news to me. We could bring a date to this thing?” He lifts up his pint glass.

Jack trains his camera on Oscar and the lens extends out, zooming in. “Seeing anyone?”

“Bro,” Oscar says, putting his beer to his lips. “I’m not doing your show.”

Jack smiles. “I say this to everyone, but I really mean it for you, Oscar: you’d look good on TV. And it’s not my show.”

Both of them are pretty eye-locked. So I just watch for a second as Oscar replies, but I’m also looking at my little sister who’s ignoring me.

“Of course I would look hot on TV. Doesn’t matter. I don’t need the same problems that my little bro has with fame.” Oscar swigs his beer. “And give yourself more credit, Highland.”

Jack peeks from behind the camera, glittering charm reaching his brown eyes. “What kind of credit do you think I should give myself?”

Oscar stares at him for a long beat. “More.”

Agreed. Jack is a huge part of the docuseries, and he’s in a top executive position.

I try to capture my sister’s attention, but she’s still purposefully avoiding my eyes. “Kinney,” I say.

My sister takes a trained breath, and then peers up from her bowling shoes. “Don’t say it,” she tells me.

“First,” I start out, “I don’t know why you didn’t tell me about your date, but you know I’m always here to talk.”

She rolls her eyes like I’m so embarrassing, but a shadow of a smile—one that she wouldn’t want me to see—starts inching up her lips.

“Second, you’re being a hypocrite,” I tell her bluntly. “You’re willing to kick out Farrow but you have a date who’s also not here and she gets a pass?”

“Shouldn’t you be happy for me?” she combats. “You’re the one who told me to try seeing someone else after Viv left. So what do I do? I take your stupid advice and invite Holly here.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask her because she’s made a figurative turn and is starting to take deep, spastic breaths like she’s trying hard not to cry.

“Nothing is wrong,” she snaps back. “She’s just late like Farrow. And she’ll be here…she’s not standing me up, Moffy.”

“She’s not,” I agree, layering on the confidence for her.

“We just arrived; she’ll make it,” Oscar adds.

“I know that. But you both don’t know for sure,” she says flatly. When she gets upset, she goes into defense mode. Attack anyone in sight, and usually it’s me. She knows I can take her jabs.

Kinney swings her head to the wall clock. “How long do we have the alley for?”

“Don’t worry about that,” I say. “Can I have this girl’s number? Let me call her—”

“Over my rotting corpse,” she glares.

“I can help,” I remind my sister and hold out my hand for her phone.

She considers for a long moment, then brushes me off coolly. Like none of this matters anyway, even though we all know that it does. “I’m not worried,” she says and looks around at the near-empty space.

My phone vibrates again.

“Should we start without them?” she wonders as I read my text.

My stomach and chest immediately lighten like a huge, immeasurable weight has vanished. I glance up at Kinney. “He’s going to be here soon,” I tell her. “Don’t give him a hard time. He already feels badly.”

“We’ll see,” Kinney says.

The screen above the lanes illuminates with our names. As soon as I read it, Kinney and I both turn to Oscar who was in charge of giving the manager a list of the bowling players.

He’s grinning into his sip of beer.

“Your membership has been revoked,” Kinney declares in a deadpan.

Oscar laughs and almost chokes on his beer. He sets it down. “Hale,” he starts.

“Revoked,” she says and stands up. “I’ll be back.” She snatches up a drink menu from the table and eyes the bar.

“They’re not going to serve you alcohol,” I tell her, knowing she craves to be one of the “adults” but she’s only thirteen.

“No duh,” she replies and gives me a look like I’m the absurd one. “But they have a drink called the bubbly cauldron. I’m going to convince the bartender to make me a nonalcoholic version.” She takes a deep breath and leaves us, confidence encasing her posture, despite potentially being stood up.

My eyes drift back to the names on the screen.

Redford

Filipe

Carraway

No Middle Name Hale 1

No Middle Name Hale 2

“I’m number two, right?” I ask Oscar.

“That’s up to you two.” He sips his beer. “I know better than to get between siblings.”

The bowling alley door opens, and the noise jolts me. I immediately rise to my feet and watch my boyfriend talk to the manager beside the hostess table. He nods. She nods.

And then he turns and his gaze annihilates me. Behind his brown eyes are disappointment and guilt wrapped into a single look.

I don’t wait for him to reach us. Meeting Farrow halfway, our arms wrap around one another. We kiss briefly and then his lips find my ear. “Where is she?” he asks.

Pulling away, I tell him, “At the bar.”

His brows rise.

“It’s not you,” I say. “She thinks she’s being stood up.”

On our way to the booth, I give him a brief rundown of Holly. He keeps nodding, but he has a faraway look. This time I’m not sure if it’s because he missed so much already or because of what held him up at the hospital.

But I’m not going to pry for details. When he’s ready to share, he’ll tell me.

Still, it hurts watching something eat at him.

We both slide into the booth, and while Farrow unlaces his black boot, he spots the screen with everyone’s middle names.

“The Princess of Death didn’t try to curse you for that one, Oliveira?”

Oscar fills up a pint for Farrow. “Not afraid of Kinney Hale when I have a client who actually never yawns or gets tired. Alright, if anyone wants to be scared of someone they should fear Charlie. And he’s the only one who can beat me at chess.”

I cling onto the fact that Oscar isn’t afraid to talk about my family in front of me. He doesn’t falter or hesitate or look my way for permission.

Being treated more like a friend—it’s a good feeling.

But I catch Farrow glancing skeptically at Oscar, and my boyfriend deserts his shoelaces. Leaning forward with an elbow to the table, he motions to Oscar. “I need to ask you something. Like why you lied to me?”

I curve my arm over Farrow’s shoulders, the stress not too bad on my muscle. And I remember how Oscar has been telling Farrow that he doesn’t have a close relationship with Charlie, his client. That Charlie tells him next-to-nothing. But if that were true, then Oscar would be in the dark about Beckett doing coke.

For me, bodyguards keeping information close to the chest is nothing new. For Farrow, one of his closest friends has been lying to him for possibly years.

Oscar checks over his shoulder. Tom is out of earshot. Five lanes down, he reorganizes the bowling balls into a rainbow pattern on the rack. Kinney is sitting at the bar. Chatting with the bartender, she tries to convince him to whip up a gothic drink.

Off Oscar’s furtiveness, Jack senses that this is about to be serious and private. “I’m going to film Kinney,” Jack tells us and then exits our area.

Oscar looks between me and Farrow. “You know about Beckett,” he states.

“We do,” Farrow nods. “And man, I didn’t need to know the details from you. I understand why you wouldn’t share. But I’m confused why you went through the whole charade. I wouldn’t have pried if you said you couldn’t tell me. Instead, you led me to believe that Charlie has no relationship with you. Why do that?”

His gaze swings from Farrow, to me, and then back to Farrow. Oscar slides his arm across the back of the booth. “What’s the difference, Redford?” He shrugs. “He’s still not gushing details. He just gives me more than he has in the past.”

“Why wouldn’t you just say that then?” Farrow questions, confused more than anything. “You used to boast about progress when Charlie told you about a flight two fucking days in advance of takeoff instead of an hour before.”

Oscar drums the booth. “Because…knowing more than I should…it just makes it harder for me to brush you off.”

“Okay,” Farrow says easily, piling cheese on a cracker. “I’ll accept that. But I do want to know your reasoning behind the charade.” He pops the cracker in his mouth. “Your cunning ass owes me that at least.”

I notice how Farrow leans back into my arm that’s around him. Getting comfortable in my embrace. Before he catches me staring—because he’s a literal heartbeat from looking over with a rising smile that says you like that—I focus on Oscar.

He digs into a basket of baked chips. “You know media and fans want even the smallest fact from Charlie? Like how the guy brushes his teeth, when he takes a piss. All because he’s the enigmatic one in the press. So I position myself as a bodyguard that isn’t told shit, and then people won’t even ask me a single thing.” He crunches on a chip. “It’s not like it started that way, and Charlie is still slowly trusting me. Tomorrow, he could try to ditch my ass and fly off to Hong Kong.”

Farrow nods understandingly, and he takes a swig from his pint.

I glance at my sister, checking on her briefly to see if she’s okay, before I look back at Oscar. “Does Donnelly know?” I wonder.

Oscar picks up his beer. “It’d be a little difficult to keep that from him, considering.”

“You’re around each other all the time,” I say into a nod. It makes sense since Beckett and Charlie live together. Their bodyguards would have to be close, too. And I glance at Farrow enough to ask, “Does that make you the third wheel?”

Farrow almost laughs. “I’m better than that, wolf scout.” His smile stretches while he stares right into me. “Plus, I’ve got the guy.”

Yeah, I try hard not to smile back at that. Critical failure.

Oscar slow-claps and then cranes his neck past us to glance at the bar. “What do we know about Highland?”

Farrow sets down his beer glass. “Straight.”

Oscar reaches for a pretzel bite. “We sure?”

“You have a crush on him?” I ask.

Oscar chokes on his food and smacks his chest a couple times. Farrow is laughing, but I’m not sure if it’s at me or Oscar.

“What’d I say?” My brows furrow.

“Crush.” Oscar shoots me a look. “Bro, do I look like your thirteen-year-old sister?”

“I don’t know, Oliveira,” Farrow says easily. “You could pull off goth.” Farrow runs his fingers up the back of my neck. It feels really good and distracts me from the fact that I’m not always great at fitting into their easy banter.

Tom drops a bowling ball a few lanes away and the clatter distracts us.

Great. I’m about to rise, but Oscar slips out of the booth first. “I’m going to go help your cousin not break a toe,” he tells me. I think in part to give me some alone time with Farrow, who appears at ease, but heaviness sits behind his eyes that I’m pretty sure Oscar can see as well as I can.

After Oscar walks down the lanes, I turn to face Farrow. He tugs off his boot and puts on the bowling shoe. He looks back at me, and I know something’s wrong.

“You want to talk about it?” I have to ask.

His chest falls, but he shakes his head. “Not today, wolf scout.”

I nod and practice some patience.

“You.” Kinney’s voice pitches. “You were late.” My little sister approaches with a goblet of purple liquid and a cinnamon stick.

“That looks disgusting,” I tell her.

“It tastes like hell and the bottom of my soul,” she says, slurping a large sip from the straw and then setting an epic glare onto Farrow.

I shoot her a warning look to go easy on him.

Farrow finishes tying his bowling shoes. “Next time I’ll be the first one here, Kinney.”

“There won’t be a next time. Your membership has been—”

“Kinney,” I say forcefully. “You want to be mad at someone, I’m right here.”

She shifts her glare to me.

“No,” Farrow says, leaning back casually. “If she wants to kick me out, let her kick me out.”

Hurt flashes in her eyes and then she shakes it off by staring up at the ceiling. Like she’s annoyed. She’s not. She just wants this day to go better than it has.

And I really want this Holly girl’s number so I can fix this.

“But Kinney,” Farrow says. “If you do kick me out, I’ll still show up with my boyfriend.”

She slides into the booth next to him, her lips pressed in a line. As though she gives no fucks, but she’s almost smiling. “Fine,” she deadpans. “Membership reinstated.”

My shoulders loosen a bit, and I push the basket of chips towards Kinney. Just as she goes to grab a handful, her phone rings.

“Is that Holly?” I ask.

She checks her phone. “No.” But she’s not frowning in disappointment. Kinney hoists the phone, preparing for FaceTime. “Hey,” she greets.

“Is she there?” Audrey Cobalt asks, her whimsical voice on the line.

Kinney shakes her head. “MIA. I can’t text her for a fourth time. It’d be desperate.”

“I disagree,” Audrey replies. “Desperation is just another word for madly devoted. You should try again. Fifth and sixth times are the charm, they say.”

Kinney smiles and then flashes the screen to Farrow and me.

Red hair, pale freckled skin, and a smile that could charm just about anyone stares back at me. Her lavish pink room looks like it was made for a princess.

You know Audrey Virginia Cobalt as the thirteen-year-old hopeless romantic. In her spare time, she reads adult romance novels and narrates all the “blush-worthy” parts on her Instagram. You think she talks like she’s been factory-made from a Jane Austen novel, and you salivate for any photo she takes with her big sister Jane. You wonder what it would be like to grow up as the youngest with five Cobalt brothers, but she rarely tells you.

I know her as my little cousin, the baby in the entire Hale, Meadows, Cobalt brood. The girl who bakes cookies for her crushes that are far out of her league. Who falls madly in love with the idea of love more than the actual reality. She’s fiercely loyal to her friends and just as fierce to her family.

Fair Warning: you fuck with the baby of the family and everyone will come after you.

Over FaceTime, she waves. “Hi, Moffy. Hi, Farrow.”

“Hey, Audrey,” I say, watching her eyes slowly widen at the sight of Oscar several bowling lanes down.

“OhmyOhmy, KinneyKinney. Don’t let him see my face.” She buries herself in a pillow, and Kinney rotates the camera back to herself.

Audrey still hasn’t overcome the mortification of sending apology cookies to Oscar.

Jack, who returned to our booth, asks my cousin, “Audrey, do you still have a crush on Oscar?”

We all just hear a mumbled noise from the pillows.

Kinney keeps eyeing the bowling alley entrance. I can’t just sit here and hope for the best. There has to be something more I can do.

And I tell my sister, “Let me call this girl.”

She looks back at me, brows pinched. “What are you going to say?”

“I’m going to ask if she needs a ride here, ask what’s holding her up and tell her that I can help. That’s it.”

Kinney takes a giant breath, and she speaks into her phone. “I’ll talk to you later, Audrey. I need to text Moffy her number…” she trails off, and all of our heads swerve as the door opens.

A blonde thirteen-year-old girl in a flower sundress nears the hostess podium.

Dear World, I’m so damn grateful for this good luck. She needed it. Best Regards, a human who’s a big brother

“Holy shit,” Kinney’s eyes bug. “She’s here.” She glances at her phone. “Audrey—”

“Go fall madly in love and you must tell me everything!” Audrey hangs up first.

And before Kinney darts away from the booth, she stretches over Farrow and flings her arms around me in a short hug. “I’m sorry. I was the turd this time,” she tells me. And then she looks to Farrow. “But not to you. You were late.” She skips off at that, and Jack follows my sister to film Holly and Kinney greeting each other.

I’m about to apologize to Farrow, but he’s laughing hard. “God, your siblings.”

I love him. I love that he loves my siblings, even when they’re emotional and wound up and taking jabs left and right.

And as his laughter fades, our hands intertwine, and I tell him, “You made it in enough time so I can beat you at bowling.”

He smiles softly, almost sadly. It fucking hurts, and I can easily fix my sister’s tiny crisis—I can try to fix anything—but I can’t even attempt to fix this. And I want to be patient.

I need to be patient.

If I ask what I can do, I know he’ll just say, be here. And I’m here. But it’s been over twenty hours since we last even saw each other. Those digits are becoming normal, and I can’t remember the last time his shift was under twelve hours.

“Farrow…”

I want to find the right words. To tell him it’s alright if he has to be late again. To not make promises to my little sister about next time. Because it’ll feel worse for him if he breaks it. But I’m not sure how to say anything.

And more than that, I can practically feel his fatigue, the heaviness that mounts on his chest and tries to drag him under. I want to take that weight off Farrow. So damn badly. I open my mouth to speak, but aching, strained words come out of him first.

“I’ll be okay.”