There are only a few things that Matt Collins really likes. He likes his family. Lord help him, he really does enjoy their company, even when his brothers are being complete pains in the backside and his mom continually keeps her supper prayer so long that the food is always half-cold before they’re allowed to eat. He likes his job and studies; he teaches undergrads about aerospace engineering and he does research for his PhD dissertation when he’s not in class. He also likes a good cheeseburger.

He’s a simple guy, who likes simple things, and he doesn’t like much else besides that. He’s just not into a lot of other stuff—you don’t move to the city and start a formal engineering and academic career because you have a lot of extracurricular fun, after all. He keeps himself busy and he likes that. He likes being busy, his family, his job, and his burgers. So, sure: he likes stuff.

On the other hand, there’s a lot of stuff that Matt really does not like.

One of these things, decidedly, is driving. Matt, without a shadow of a doubt, in every way possible hates driving.

He also hates Poplar, Kansas, his small hometown that he fled from the day he graduated high school, but that’s a nonstarter. The wedding of his only friend in high school is coming up and whether or not Matt wants to return back to the wheat fields and memories, he’s got to be here...and to be here, he’s got to drive.

Matt’s hated things have a habit of melding together.

This, of course, is proven when Matt is driving (horrible) on his way to Poplar (atrocious) and he gets pulled over by none other than his high school crush and tormentor, Sebastian Anders (unbearable).

The guy—deputy now, Matt can’t get the image of the tall man in uniform out of his mind—hadn’t recognized him. Even after he’d gotten Matt’s license and name, he still had no memory of Matt. Matt shouldn’t have been surprised; Sebastian hadn’t given him a whole lot of thought even when they lived in the same small town. Thinking of Matt once he’d left town would be a bit out of character, at least.

But still.

Matt would have liked it if he had been remembered at least a little bit by the one person that Matt couldn’t seem to forget. He would have liked it if the guy could’ve remembered one of the, what, two hundred people in the entire high school.

But he’s Sebastian Anders, and this is Poplar and Matt knows very well by now that he doesn’t get what he wants from those two things.

It builds a little sand castle of annoyance in his gut, the kind that’s a little sad and hurts his stomach, but similar enough to the mounds that grew inside him during his childhood and teenage years that he’s used to it, able to swallow around the grainy sand.

He ignores it. He’ll ignore it while he’s here for Peter’s wedding, and he’ll ignore it on the drive back to Wichita, until the car is back at the airport and he’s surviving on public transportation and he forgets all about the castle in his gut. He’ll ignore it and everything will be okay.

Matt’s in the middle of the only bar in Poplar, a sweating beer in his hand. It’s lukewarm and tastes exactly like it did the last time he was in town, the night of his high school graduation, when his dad shoved a beer in his hand and called him a man.

Matt takes another swallow. It crawls down his throat in a wet trickle and he grimaces. He’s not sure if the grimace is due to the beer or his brother’s loud voice.

“I can’t believe that guy is getting married.” Mike laughs, one hand on his knee and the other loosely holding his own beer bottle. Mike’s twenty-one and still thinks that thirty is old. “And to a baker! A guy baker.”

Mark, their oldest brother, shrugs and lifts a hand. The bartender, who Matt kind of recognizes but mostly doesn’t, nods at them. “Drew seems really nice.”

“Yeah,” Mike dismissively says. “But it’s Peter. I didn’t even know Peter was gay!”

“Why would you?” Matt can’t help but jump into the fray of this conversation, even as it teeters a little toward dangerous territory. “You don’t know Peter.”

“Hey, I eat at Amelia’s all the time.”

“Oh, well, I apologize,” Matt rolls his eyes. “I didn’t realize you two were so close.”

The bartender—he’s a redhead that really does seem familiar, what was his name? They must’ve gone to high school together considering his approximate age—comes over and deposits three more beers on their table, picking up the empties and retreating.

“I’m just saying,” Mike continues on, twisting off the cap and tossing it. “It’s weird.”

Matt looks at Mark; his brother doesn’t look as gleeful or surprised as Mike, but he doesn’t disagree either. It makes something unpleasant curl in his throat, the sandcastle in his stomach rising higher and higher.

“Peter is a good guy,” Matt says. It’s true, but it’s not what he wants to say. “He is my best friend.”

“You haven’t spoken to him in years.”

“We talk infrequently, but it’s not been years since our last phone call.”

“You haven’t seen him in years, then.”

“And yet, I’m in his wedding.” Matt takes the cap off his own beer and downs nearly half of it. He hates it, but the alcohol shoots down and splashes into the sandcastle, breaking apart a bit of its height. “He loves this man, and that’s what matters.”

“Here, here,” Mark lifts his bottle, interrupting whatever Mike was going to say, and the conversation ends with the finality in Mark’s tone. They hit their beers together with a soft clink and the silence as they drink is the most comfortable it’s been since Matt pulled into town earlier that day.

The brothers sit in silence until most of that round is gone. Mike stands up to get the next and even when Matt begs off, saying two is enough for him, he just rolls his eyes and comes back with three new bottles.

“So, Matty,” Mark grins, leaning against the table. His brothers have the same sharp, hard jaw that he does, the same light brown eyes, but their hair is lighter, nearly blond in the summer time, whereas Matt’s stays dark no matter how much sun he gets. It’s the clearest marker that he’s the black sheep of the family, the one that doesn’t fit in. It would be comical how cinematically on the nose it is, if it didn’t ring so painfully true most days.

“Yes?” Matt sighs, leaning back in the chair. He’s exhausted—the flight from New York, where he was attending a conference, and then the drive from Wichita to Poplar has him feeling like he’s been on the move for days and days. Mark’s grin widens then, whole rows of teeth on display, and Mike starts laughing. The discomfort he felt before disappears and all he’s left with is that nice, happy family feeling.

He really does like his brothers, even if they make him more tired than anything else.

“How’s being the smarty pants of the family?”

“I’m not the smarty pants,” he places the phrase in air quotes and his brothers laugh. “I’m just still in school.”

“Yeah, but not in a night school kind of way. You’re getting a PhD.”

“He’s too awkward to get a job just on networking, though, isn’t that right?” Mike elbows him, chuckling.

“Fair point,” Matt allows.

Mark swallows around a huge gulp of beer. “How’s the—dissertation?” Mark looks at him, frowning, and Matt nods. Mark barrels forward. “How’s the dissertation coming?”

“Well,” he says. “It’s going well so far. I’ve been struggling with the dimensions of my equation, the boundaries it places—” he stops at the glazed looks in his brothers eyes. “It’s going well so far.”

Mark nods and slaps the table. “Well, good! Glad!”

“Yeah,” Mike agrees quickly. “It sounds like it is good.”

Matt stifles a fond smile. “Yeah, I’m hoping so.”

“And—teaching?” Mike adds, looking at Mark quickly, who shoots him a really small nod. Mike perks up. “Yeah, how’s teaching?”

Matt knows that his brothers don’t understand him very well; he’s weird, quiet, studious, and doesn’t date girls—which they all pretend isn’t for any particular reason, even if he’s pretty sure Mom and Mark at least know why—but they try. They try really hard, and they come visit him in Wichita most of the time so he doesn't have to come back to Poplar and he really does love them. They don’t get him, but they wish they did, and Matt sometimes thinks that’s the most important thing a family can do.

So, because he loves them, he tries to keep his answers about the things that bore them quick. “It’s nice,” he says. “I enjoy working with the students, particularly the older ones. They tend to work very hard and have a firm grasp of their area of interest, which makes it easier and more rewarding to help them. I believe I’d like to continue, even if after I get my doctorate, and start working on non-theoretical projects.”

They nod at him, practically in unison. “That sounds great, man!”

“Thanks,” Matt accepts the clinking of their bottles again.

There’s a loud crash, and Matt starts, beer flying up and out from the bottle as he jumps. It sloshes over the lips of the bottle and onto his hand, running down his wrist and forearm.

He groans and sets the now empty bottle down, reaching around for a napkin. The ones on the table are being used by his brothers to soak up their own spilled beer, and he carefully extracts himself from the table, arm held out to try and prevent the spill from getting on his clothes. As he makes his way towards the bar, Matt can’t help but eye the commotion that’s happening on the other side of the bar.

There’s two guys, big and burly and definitely fitting into the stereotype Matt’s created of a Kansas farmer, yelling at each other. Their actual complaints and voices are hushed by the sound of the music playing and the loud murmur of the crowd that’s growing around them. Matt eyes them as he mops up his arm.

The bigger guy, bald and thick, grabs the front of the other guy’s shirt, his meaty hands fisting the material.

Matt looks between them and the bartender; the redhead is on the phone, watching the fight as he speaks lowly. He hangs up the phone and then snaps out an aggravated Brad! when some random patron starts to walk towards the fight. The patron, supposedly Brad, stops and looks back at the bartender sheepishly, retreating.

Matt leans on the bar, reaching for more napkins, and decides studiously not to look at them. He’s not sure who the bigger guy is, but the smaller one is not that small and Matt’s pretty sure he’s the same jockhead that used to play football in high school and would snap out names like slaps when Matt walked past in the hallway. If it is the same guy, he never actually hit Matt, but he’s apparently way more comfortable fighting nowadays.

The potential jockhead guy shoves the bald guy away and raises a fist. The bald guy scoffs and they start hitting each other in earnest.

The bartender sighs heavily. Matt imagines this must happen a lot.

He goes back to his table where his brothers aren’t even pretending to be subtle; Mike’s on his knees on his chair, straining to look above the bar, while Mark leans back so far in his chair that he’s only balanced on one leg. Matt has half a mind to kick it out from under him.

Instead, he sits down and uses his spare napkins to clean up the bit of mess that they didn’t get.

“Holy shit,” Mark says, letting out a small trill of laughter. “Did you hear that?”

Mike laughs, too, while Matt looks up, squinting. “What happened?”

“John just called Patty a—” Mark cuts off, gaze flickering between Matt and the fight. “He’s like really railing into him.”

“Called him a queer,” Mike says, eyes still glued on the fight. “He’s such a homophobe.”

“Bigot,” Mark mutters, reaching for his beer without looking away. He winces when a fist crashes into the bigger guy’s jaw, and Mike lets out another burst of laughter.

“Is he—actually—” Matt cuts himself off.

Mark answers anyway. “Nah, I don’t think so. But you know these kind of guys.”

Matt feels the castle in his gut. He feels a little sick.

He hates this town a lot.

Mark’s hand slaps into his beer, knocking it over. “Not again,” he groans.

Matt jumps up. “I’ll get it, don’t worry.”

He crosses past the bar to the table, ignoring the shouts and music and sound of the door opening and slamming. He focuses on his single task—getting to the bar to grab napkins and not hightail it out of Poplar before he even sees Peter. He focuses so hard, actually, that he slams into the hard wall of another person’s body.

Matt ricochets off of the person he’d slammed into, flying backwards and nearly falling on his ass; two strong arms reach out and hands clench around his forearm and bicep, righting him quickly.

Matt blinks, shaking his head, and looks up at none other than Deputy Sebastian Anders.

Dread and surprise fill him, falling out of his body in the form of a really high pitched, anxious laugh.

Lord help him, he’s going to miss the wedding if all his days keep going like this.

“Mr. Collins,” Sebastian—no, Deputy Anders, Matt really doesn’t owe or deserve any familiarity with the guy—says, voice monotone and one eyebrow raised.

“Uh,” Matt’s still shaking his head. He stops so fast it almost hurts. “Thanks.”

Deputy Anders nods and pats him on the shoulder once before turning away, heading towards the fight.

Matt forgets that he was trying to ignore the brawling homophobes in the corner. He watches with something akin to helplessness as the deputy storms into the middle of the fight, one hand wrapped around the back of the bigger guy’s neck, as if the deputy is some lion taming its little cub. The other guy’s hands fly up, and he takes a step back and away from the bald guy and the deputy.

Deputy Anders says something, a stern look on his face and his mouth moving quickly, words flying out at a speed that Matt hadn’t thought him capable of. By the time he’s letting go of the neck he’s holding and folding his arms across his chest, both men look thoroughly chastised, if not begrudgingly so, while they shake hands.

It ends impressively quick, considering how long the fight went on and how passionate they seemed.

The bigger guy goes to sit down at a table while the smaller one waves and leaves the bar, supposedly done with his evening out. Matt watches them all and even when Deputy Anders turns back, catches his eye and frowns, Matt can’t look away.

Though when he starts towards him again, eyes kind of narrowed, Matt does jump into action. His body shakes a bit, just for a second, before he gets control of it again and finishes his route towards the bar, grabbing a fistful of napkins.

He’s got them in hand and turns to head toward his brothers again when Deputy Anders makes it to him, stopping just short.

“Mr. Collins,” he says his name again, crossing his arms. His uniform shirt is pushed up to his elbows, and Matt can see the sprawl of his muscle when he stands like that. Matt’s pretty sure the guy’s not flexing, but he wishes he was. It would be a lot easier to not think about how good Sebastian—Deputy Anders—turned out looking if he was able to think he was vain or something.

Deputy Anders looks him up and down. “I should have expected you to be here.”

Well. He’s not vain, maybe, but he is a jerk. Matt’s able to push the thought of him being attractive right out, letting a little bit of anger swell in its place. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying,” Deputy Anders continues, arms still folded and face still smirking. It’s an annoying look. It annoys Matt and he digs his proverbial claws into that feeling. “Mr. Can’t Drive is here when there’s a bar brawl.”

Matt’s jaw drops. “I’m just standing here.”

“Sure, sure,” Deputy Anders says, dismissively. He finally unfolds his arms and lets them hang by his side, making him look a little less defensive. It barely eases the tension between them.

Matt’s teeth clench. “Right.” He tries to swallow the bitter taste of anger on his tongue. He shouldn’t be this mad, not really. He knows it has less to do with some deputy mocking him and more to do with the history with this particular deputy—a history that the deputy doesn’t even remember or care about...so he tries really hard to swallow the anger.

“If you’re just here to stir up trouble in my town,” Deputy Anders says, “you shouldn’t stay.”

Matt decides quickly that he really, really doesn’t care where his anger is coming from.

“You know what,” Matt says, hand curling into a fist so tightly he feels his fingernails go through the thin material of the paper napkins. “Screw you.”

Deputy Anders eyebrows shoot up his forehead. He takes a half step back, as if Matt’s words were physical, one leg behind him. “What?”

“This is fucking unbelievable,” that sharp anger transforms into a bitter laugh. He locks his jaw, looking around the room. No one is watching them—not even his brothers, who normally would be staring at any amount of drama, notice. Exactly like it’s fifteen years earlier, Matt’s completely invisible. Except this time, he’s a grown man and not some teenager who is too afraid to stand up to the guy. “This is unbelievable. This is why I left this stupid town.”

Deputy Anders blinks at him. “Wait, what?”

“Screw this. Screw you.” Matt turns on his heels, ignoring Deputy Anders calling after him, and throws himself in his chair.

Mark and Mike look at him, surprised. Matt forces his hand to unclench and the tatters of napkins fall on the table.

“Fight ended,” Mike says, as an offering.

Matt nods, trying hard to ignore the stare of the deputy that he feels on the back of his neck, trying to unclench his jaw, trying to give himself one good reason to not leave Poplar right now.

“Yeah,” Mark answers, exchanging a glance with Mike that Matt can’t force himself to care about. “How about we head home, see if Mom and Dad are still up?”

Well. Matt guesses that seeing his parents is one reason. He nods and they all stand up, grabbing their coats. When they leave, Matt doesn’t look towards the bar to see if the deputy is still there.

His heart is still slamming and the sand in his stomach is a storm, so he’s pretty sure he’s there, anyway.

The next morning starts with a headache, and Matt can’t decide who is truly to blame: the alcohol, the town, or the deputy. He knows the answer is probably just himself but he doesn’t like that option, so he ignores it for as long as possible.

Matt leaves the motel room he’s staying in, because at twenty-eight, sleeping on his parent’s couch is a little out of the question. The one good thing about staying in the motel in Poplar is that now that he’s actually here, he has no reason to drive the monstrosity around town. Everywhere is easy walking distance and if for whatever reason he needs to be somewhere that wouldn’t be within walking distance, his brothers live and work a maximum of five minutes away.

The walk to Amelia’s is one he long ago memorized. He’s pretty sure he’s never walked this exact path, from the motel to the restaurant, but it’s no more difficult than it would be from the grocery store, the high school, his house—Amelia’s was a little haven inside of Poplar, and Matt spent the majority of his time growing up at the counter.

The bell’s the same as when he was a teenager and it rings, just this side of annoying, when he crosses the threshold.

“Matt!” Peter’s voice booms through the room immediately, and Matt jumps a little.

He can’t help the smile that splits his cheeks when he spots Peter.

His best friend looks good—happy. Matt hasn’t seen him since his mom’s funeral and even then, he was only down for half a day. He regretted that a little, at the time, not really being here—but he had deadlines and work. Peter had understood.

And now, Peter’s getting married.

Married.

Matt kind of never believed any of them would get that cliche of a happy ending. He’s glad that if it’s happening to anyone, it’s Peter.

“Peter,” Matt walks past the tables and customers, hugging his friend. Matt pulls back first, and Peter takes a step away, grinning. His blond hair is a little longer than he usually wears it and his shoulders are wide, wider than Matt remembers them being. He’s probably working out for the wedding. Matt makes a mental note to make fun of him for it later, after their pleasantries.

The restaurant is busy, and a few people openly stare at them. It grates against Matt, making him feel on edge and hard, but even as he’s drowning in self-consciousness, he knows that these people are staring curiously, not angrily, and that Poplar has changed. Well, maybe not changed—but at least here, in Amelia’s, where the owner is happily and openly going to marry a man, it’s okay.

He knows he’s not on trial here, even though he can’t shake the feeling that he is.

Peter introduces him to a few of the regular customers and the waitstaff, showing him the changes that he’d made since he took over—or, more specifically, as one of the waitresses points out, since Drew started openly mocking him for his bad decor.

By the time Matt’s on his way to the kitchen to actually meet the famous fiancé, he’s heard from half a dozen people that Drew’s the best thing to ever happen to Peter and that their wedding is going to be the best catered event in all of Kansas. Matt doesn’t have to meet him to think that’s probably true.

Peter pushes back the door, shoots him a nervous look, and gestures for Matt to walk into the kitchen.

Matt does so slowly, if only to draw out Peter’s nervousness as long as possible. When he does get in, he sees Damien at the grill, flipping burgers and bacon. Matt’s actually looking forward to talking to Damien, who was always nice, if not a little shy when talking to Matt.

Then, at the island, there’s a guy with long, curly hair tied in a loose knot at the back of his neck, hands carefully kneading dough.

“Peter, I’m going to kill you if you interrupt me one more time,” says the guy, who has to be Drew the baker, thrusting forward as he works the dough out. “This is not going to be like the peanut butter brownies.”

Peter rolls his eyes, sharing a conspiratorial smile with Matt as if he’s in on the joke. Matt’s not, but Peter looks wildly happy again so he doesn’t bother pointing it out.

“Of course not,” Peter says, placatingly. “But I would love it if you could take a break and say hi to Matt.”

“Matt?” Drew’s hands slip in his motion, and he pitches forward, slamming his palms onto the island to catch himself. He looks up, eyes wide, and smiles in a perfect replica of Peter’s nervous expression at the door.

“Nice to meet you,” Matt inserts himself into the conversation now, closing the space between them and offering Drew his hand.

Drew quickly grabs a rag and wipes his hands off before shaking Matt’s hand. “You, too.”

“Excited about the big day?” Matt asks, taking his hand back and leaning against the counter.

Drew grins and nods, going back to kneading the dough. “Sorry for doing this while we talk—it’ll set if I don’t. But, yeah.”

He looks up at Peter, and the two stare at each other. It’s a bit much, even for an engaged couple, but it’s more sweet than gross, so Matt doesn’t feel too sickened.

“What are you making?” Peter looks around as if he can figure it out from the ingredients.

“A pistachio and mint bread.” Drew glances up at them before rolling his eyes. “It’ll be good. Trust me.”

Peter holds his hands up in mock-surrender. “I know better by now.”

“That you do.” Drew grins.

“So, how has it been since you got back?” Drew asks, folding the dough in half.

Matt shrugs. “It’s been all right.”

“Uh, oh,” Peter says. “I’ve heard that before.”

Drew looks between them before raising his eyebrows and turning back to his work. He hums when Peter presses Matt to answer, but doesn’t reply or look up. Matt decides that he likes him.

“Well,” Matt looks around the kitchen, noticing that Damien has disappeared. “Do you remember Sebastian Anders?”

“The cop?” Drew blurts before shaking his head and lifting a floured hand. “Not my business.”

Peter smiles fondly at him, and Matt decides that, actually, he likes him a lot. “Yeah, Sebastian’s a sheriff’s deputy now. He comes in sometimes.”

“Right,” Matt shrugs. “Just ran into him, is all.”

“Wasn’t he—” Peter cuts himself off and waves a hand around. Matt’s not sure what exactly Peter’s trying to convey but he nods anyway. “How was it?”

Matt rolls his eyes. “The usual. He’s a jerk still.”

Drew huffs out a laugh while Peter frowns. “What happened?”

Matt relays the story as briefly as he can, trying to skim over the parts that make him look a little biased—the terrible driving skills and the clumsy falling. Peter gets the details out of him anyway.

“He is just still a jerk, which I assumed, but I didn’t necessarily enjoy learning firsthand.”

“Did he remember you?”

“Oh, hell if I know.” Matt was pretty sure he didn’t, though. “Doesn’t really matter.”

Peter drums his fingers on the counter in front of him. “He’s been so nice every time I’ve seen him.”

Matt shrugs. “He was always nicer to you.”

“Well, I wasn’t out then,” Peter points out. Drew’s head snaps up at that, and they both watch as the things that they aren’t saying dawn on Drew. His face tightens a bit.

“Fuck the police,” Drew says, lifting a fist.

Matt cracks a grin. “Yeah, screw authority.”

“All right, all right. Settle down,” Peter says, rolling his eyes at them. Matt and Drew exchange a wry smile and when Matt starts asking about bachelor parties and honeymoon plans, both men allow the conversation to drift away from Matt’s unpleasant experiences with Sebastian.

The day bleeds into late afternoon, and even though Matt begs off when Peter offers to close early so they can all hang out, he can’t find it in himself to regret being in Poplar that day. Seeing Peter so happy, with a guy that Matt could actually see himself hanging out with again, makes the day and even the previous day worth it. Matt spent so long thinking that no one like them—no one gay—would ever be happy in Poplar, that he decides seeing those two get married will be worth the time spent at home.