January 2001, Super Bowl Sunday

Spoiler alert: The Falcons did not go to the Super Bowl. Not even close.

Jason blamed their shitty season on the fact that I’d missed their last four games. I think he believed it, too. He seemed really pissed that I hadn’t been around. I tried to explain that I’d wanted to come, but the thought of driving past my old apartment and possibly seeing Hans’s car there made me physically ill, but Jason was too drunk to listen to reason. As usual.

Instead, I’d been spending my weekends hanging out with Juliet and Romeo, whom I had totally neglected, and redecorating my sad excuse for a bedroom. The first order of business had been to move my fucking bed back to the correct wall. I’d also come home with a lot more shit than I’d left with, so finding places for all the lamps and art and candleholders and pots and pans and dishes I’d stolen had been a challenge.

I ended up hanging the pots and pans from hooks over my bed, the way they do in fancy kitchens. My mom said it was “an eyesore,” but it made me smile every damn time I looked at it. It reminded me that I’d finally become the badass I’d always wanted to be. I was done being a victim, like I’d been with Knight, or somebody’s plaything, like I’d been with Harley. With Hans, I’d been through heaven and hell, and I’d come out the other side dragging a sack full of Satan’s housewares to display as my trophies.

Even so, it’d still taken a solid month for me to come out of my funk. My school and work routines were finally back to normal after the holidays. My bedroom was starting to resemble a place I might want to inhabit again. But what cheered me up the most was the late-night phone call I’d gotten from Hans a few days before the Super Bowl.

It was the first attempt he’d made to contact me since I moved out, and he sounded absolutely pitiful. He was soooo sorry. Letting me go was the biggest mistake of his life. He wanted me back. Ever since I’d left, everything had gone to shit. He’d gotten a DUI and was probably going to lose his driver’s license for a year. Phantom Limb’s record label dropped them due to low debut album sales. And, to top it all off, Midtown Village evicted his ass for not paying his rent. I asked if he was living in his BMW, hoping he’d say yes, but sadly, he was back in the castle on the lake.

By the end of that phone call, the last shred of bitterness I’d been hanging on to floated away like a feather on the breeze. I called Jason with a smile on my face and told him I was in for the Super Bowl.

There were a lot more people at his apartment than usual, but Jason, even in his inebriated condition, dropped what he was doing when I arrived to make sure that I got a beer and a spot on the couch.

I decided that I needed to disappear for a month at a time more often.

I had just settled in for a long night of staring at the TV and pretending like I knew what the fuck was going on when something by the door caught my eye.

No, not something.

Someone.

Jason’s newest arrival was tall and lean and dressed in black from head to toe. He shrugged off his black wool coat and draped it over an armless chair in Jason’s entryway. Underneath, he had on a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up high enough to show off his defined forearms and biceps. His shirt was tucked into a pair of black slacks that fit just right. And, as he walked toward the living room, he reached up and loosened the knot on a stylish, skinny black tie. Above the neck, he had a jawline that rivaled Captain America’s, cheekbones for days, and sandy-brown hair that had been styled just like Mark McGrath’s.

He looked like a bad boy with a good job and a great body, and I was definitely in the market for one of those.

Slurping the drool back into my face, I planned to either fall on the floor at his feet when he passed and fake a seizure or pretend to be choking so that maybe he’d give me the Heimlich maneuver. Either way, it would end with him thinking he’d saved my life and us forming an instant, unbreakable bond.

I was about to make a dive for it when I heard Allen shout, “Ken!” from somewhere near the kitchen.

I wondered why he was looking for Pajama Guy when he wasn’t even there yet, but when Allen bounded over with his arms outstretched and tackle-hugged Mark McGrath’s look-alike, I realized that I’d been wrong.

Ken was there.

And Ken was fucking hot.

It was just like how Superman duped everyone into thinking he was just a mild-mannered reporter by putting on a suit and a pair of glasses. I couldn’t believe that Ken had tricked me into thinking he wasn’t my type by simply throwing on some running pants and a pair of Nikes. Was I really that shallow? He was smart and good-looking and funny—in a dry, mean kind of way—but I’d completely dismissed him as just some goody-two-shoes jock.

I suddenly had no idea how to act, what to do. Ken was my buddy. I should at least be able to say, What’s up? but I couldn’t. I just sat there, hiding in plain sight, waiting for more signs of Ken-ness. I watched him fight his way out of Allen’s hug like a ninja. Yep, very Ken. I watched him pull a Gatorade out of Jason’s fridge. Super Ken. And I watched him smile when he finally saw me from across the kitchen counter.

That GQ-looking motherfucker with the black shirt and the black tie and the sexpot hair and the turquoise eyes was smiling…at me. I think I leaned forward and sighed with dreamy hearts in my eyes before I remembered that I was supposed to smile back.

There was nowhere on the couch for him to sit, so I got up. I had every intention of walking over to him and saying hello, but I got weirded out and took a right turn at the last minute, heading out to the balcony to smoke. I hadn’t even grabbed my coat first. I was such an idiot.

The vibe outside was totally different. In preparation for the party, Jason had put up a few strings of white party lights and installed speakers that were hooked up to his stereo. Inside, it was loud and bright and warm and chaotic, whereas outside, it was dark and cold and still and melodic. A brooding song by Linkin Park was just ending, so I curled up on Jason’s cushy outdoor love seat, lit a cigarette, and enjoyed the moment as much as I could while slowly dying of hypothermia.

The moment didn’t last long. Within the first three seconds of hearing the next song, I was already considering throwing myself off the balcony. As if it wasn’t bad enough that I’d committed to sitting outside in the freezing cold, the universe thought it would be absolutely hilarious to make me listen to “Falling Star” by Phantom Limb while I did it. I’d been able to completely avoid that song since our breakup, but my time had come.

I sighed and surrendered to my fate. As I listened to the lyrics, really listened to them, it was as if I were hearing the song for the first time. It didn’t make me sad. In fact, it made me giggle. And then laugh. And then cover my own mouth to shut myself up so that I could listen some more.

“Falling Star” wasn’t an epic tale of fated destinies and true love, like I’d made it out to be in my mind. It was a fucking breakup song. It was about a girl who was meant for bigger things than her lover. He’d tried to keep her small, but in the end, she exploded into what she had always been meant to be, leaving him in the dust.

I can tell you when they streak the sky,

Where the falling stars go when they leave the night.

I know how they shimmer, infrared.

I know because one fell and landed in my bed.

I know it’s wrong to keep her.

She belongs light-years away.

I know it’s wrong to keep her,

So every day I pray.

Don’t let my falling star fade away.

Please let this falling star…

Fall for me.

I put my falling star on a leash,

And I tied her to a post on the mezzanine.

She could easily burn through the rope,

But I think she likes the way it feels around her throat.

I know it’s wrong to keep her.

She belongs light-years away.

I know it’s wrong to keep her,

So every day I pray.

Don’t let my falling star fade away.

Please let this falling star…

Fall for me.

I was wrong. She cannot be contained.

She tricked me with her laugh and her falling ways.

I didn’t know until it was over.

She’s not a falling star. She’s a supernova.

“You like this song?”

I jumped, my hands still clasped over my mouth, and turned to see Mark McKen closing the door behind him. He was wearing his coat and carrying mine. A smile split my face wide open, and tears pricked my eyes. I didn’t know who I was happier to see—Ken or my coat.

Handing me my shiny maroon flight jacket, Ken said, “It’s kinda whiny, don’t you think?”

I burst out laughing as I pulled my coat on like a blanket. “It’s whiny as shit!” I cackled.

I scooted over to make room for Ken on the love seat, but he retreated to the opposite side of the balcony, just like always.

Never too close.

“So, what’s your favorite band?” I asked, taking a drag from my cigarette as if I wasn’t in danger of losing my fingers to frostbite in the process.

“Sublime,” Ken answered without missing a beat.

Snort. “Sublime? Shut the fuck up.”

“What’s wrong with Sublime?”

Oh shit. He’s serious!

“Nothing!” I backpedaled. “They’re awesome.”

“Then what is it?” Ken arched a brow and leaned against the balcony railing, enjoying watching me squirm.

I enjoyed watching him watching me squirm.

“Um, literally all they sing about is drinkin’ forties and smokin’ weed.”

“And child prostitution,” Ken deadpanned.

“Oh, right.” I giggled. “How could I forget about ‘Wrong Way’?”

“I don’t know. It’s basically the greatest song ever.”

“Hey,” I said, distracted yet again by his appearance, “I like your outfit. Why’re you so dressed up?”

God, I hope that didn’t sound as creepy as it felt.

“I had to work. I’m usually off on Sundays, but a buncha assholes called out because of the Super Bowl, so I had to go in for a while.”

“Guess that’s the problem with being the boss, huh?”

“Yeah, especially when all your employees are fucking teenagers.” Ken smirked. “No offense.”

“Hey!” I laughed and threw a pillow at him from Jason’s love seat.

I had terrible aim, but Ken reached out and caught it before it flew over the railing. The movement was so effortless; I think he could have done it in his sleep. He smiled and pretended like he was going to bean me with it, then tossed it gently onto my lap as I squealed and covered my face with my forearms.

Lowering my arms in embarrassment, I locked eyes with Ken who looked all too pleased with himself. We fell into a comfortable silence just as “With Arms Wide Open” by Creed began to play.

“Oh God. Speaking of whiny-ass rock stars.” I jumped up and flicked my cigarette butt into the parking lot below. “C’mon,” I said, grabbing Ken by the lapel of his coat and dragging him back into the apartment. It was as close to touching him as I thought he’d let me get. “I can’t handle this shit.”

Ken came willingly, and I made a mental note.

Weird about hugs. Does not mind being dragged around like a dog on a leash. Interesting.

Jason saw us walk in and barreled over like there’d been a goddamn emergency. “Ken! Ken!” He stopped right in front of us, huffing and puffing. “What’s your last name, bro?”

It was a strange question to ask out of the blue, but I’d been dying to know the answer myself. It felt like time stood still, the party drifted away, and the background noise had been muted as every cell in my body leaned forward and listened. I listened as if Ken were about to tell us the winning lottery numbers. I listened as if he’d discovered the recipe for calorie-free beer. I listened as if whatever came out of his mouth next, no matter how unfortunate or unpronounceable or lacking in vowels it might be, would one day be my last name, too.

“Easton,” he said.

Easton, I thought. I like that.

Ken and BB’s story continues in SUIT, coming Fall 2018.