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  I can’t remember the last time I laughed like that.

  The driver begins to kiss Mr. Happy, swallowing his laughter. I can’t help but feel angry towards the stranger for stealing the sound away from him.

  I wonder if the thief is Mr. Happy’s boyfriend. If so, the relationship is new. I’ve never seen him around before tonight. In fact, I’ve never seen Mr. Happy with a man in any romantic sense before. He has a best friend, a twink just like him, but it’s clear even from across the yard that they’re not romantically together. There are his other friends too, the ones who come to his ridiculous parties, but none of them have ever touched Mr. Happy in a more-than-friends sort of way, let alone kiss him like this.

  I would have noticed if Mr. Happy had a boyfriend.

  Not because I care, of course. I’m just observant.

  The thief and Mr. Happy finally break apart, coming up for air. Mr. Happy backs away slowly, still facing the man. The driver gestures towards the house, probably asking to spend the night, but Mr. Happy just grins and shakes his head. He does come forward to kiss the man one last time, though. Then he’s practically skipping up the walkway to his front door, which is impressive since he was stumbling earlier. The driver just stands there for a moment with his hands in his pockets, watching Mr. Happy go with a look of longing on his face so intense I can feel it all the way from here.

  I take a sip of my beer, finding this new development in Mr. Happy’s life interesting. I’m not sure if this was a one-time thing, or a fresh love interest beginning to bloom. Part of me hopes for the first. Not because I care about Mr. Happy – I don’t, I hate him – but because this new man is annoying and a thief and not good enough. The part of me that’s concerned with my own sanity, however, hopes they’re falling in love. Maybe Mr. Happy will go move in with the thief, taking his decorations with him. Then I can get a nice old lady neighbor like the last one. She was great. Too old to decorate or throw parties, and whenever I mowed her lawn or shoveled her driveway, she gave me cookies.

  All Mr. Happy has given me are fucking migraines.

  I’m in the middle of daydreaming about Mrs. Hanson’s Christmas cookies when Mr. Happy’s door opens again. I stand up a little straighter, looking over at the street to see that the thief and his car are gone now. When I look back at Mr. Happy’s house, I find him slumped on his porch steps, his face buried in his hands. His shoulders begin to shake.

  Is he… crying?

  I suddenly feel like an intruder. This isn’t for me to see. He clearly has no idea I’m here. There’s no way he’d be showing this vulnerability if he did. Mr. Happy hates me just as much as I hate him.

  I slowly take a step back from the railing, but freeze when the wood creaks beneath my foot. The sound echoes through the night air. I know without looking that Mr. Happy heard it, but I still find myself looking over to check. He’s sitting in the same spot, his hands in his lap and his back rigid. I can’t see from this far away with him shadowed by the roof of his porch, but I get the distinct feeling that he resembles a deer caught in headlights. I feel about the same. Something about this is wrong. Like a piece of our world has shifted out of place.

  For just a second, I entertain the idea of talking to him. Then I turn my back and head inside like a total coward.

  It isn’t until I’m lying in bed after finishing my beer in the shower that I realize why I’m so thrown off. I could handle Mr. Happy coming home drunk. I could handle him laughing. I could handle him getting kissed. I could handle him skipping away.

  I could handle Mr. Happy being, well, happy.

  What I can’t handle is the possibility that Mr. Happy… might not be so happy after all.

  Chapter Two

  Owen

  In hindsight, maybe agreeing to be the high school’s drama director wasn’t the best idea. When I was approached after winter break with the offer, I was ecstatic. I had only been teaching English for a short time at the school and it felt good that they were acknowledging my hard work and passion. Poor, naïve man that I am, I took the job on the spot.

  I have since figured out why the job was vacant in the first place.

  “It’s not accurate!” my costume designer, Penelope, cries as she waves a dress at me. She drops her arm before lifting the other, waving a second dress. “I told her she has to wear this one!”

  “But she doesn’t want to wear that one?” I ask.

  “No! She says it’s too ugly!” Penelope makes a noise that’s somewhere between a screech and a growl. “Of course it’s ugly! But that’s what makes it accurate!”

  Trying not to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, I nod and force a look of concern. “I understand how frustrating that must be, Pen.”

  “I don’t need you to understand,” she says, nearing hysterics. “I just need you to tell her she has to wear the one that I picked because I’m the designer!”

  “I will have a talk with her.”

  “Fine!” Two dresses are tossed in my general direction before Penelope goes stomping off. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, steadying myself. I run through a list of reasons why I love my job – why I love my kids. Then I square my shoulders and turn towards Bethany, who is sitting in one of the chairs with her arms folded across her chest, glaring daggers at Penelope across the room.

  “Is it worth it, Bethany?” I ask. “You only wear the dress for one scene.”

  “It’s hideous!” Her bottom lip wobbles. I only have a moment to prepare myself before the water works come. “Jackson is going to come and see this, and he’s going to think I’m ugly! He’ll break up with me!”

  Oh boy…

  “Alright. It’s okay. No need to cry.” I put my hands up, not sure if I’m trying to placate her or if I’m surrendering to her. “We’ll figure this out, okay?”

  Bethany sniffles and nods, giving me a shaky smile. I consider it a win.

  Deciding to end my day on a high note, I turn to address the rest of my students who are scattered around the auditorium, working on their lines.

  “Alright, everyone. Listen up!” When I have all eyes on me, I give them my best smile. “Let’s call it a day. We’ll finish costumes tomorrow.”

  As they all hurry to put their things away, excited to be getting out a few minutes early, I head up to the stage where Penelope is angrily tossing things back into the wardrobe trunk. I know her well enough to know she’s going to be here for a while. Not because she’s upset, though that will probably contribute to it, but because she has a shit home life and likes to hide it with her hard work. Instead of the usual 7 classes other students take, she takes 10. She’s also on the dance team, student council, choir, and French club on top of theatre. It’s not uncommon to find her milling about the school any time of the day, and I know most nights she doesn’t leave until after dark.

  It kills me to see the kids being assholes to her when she’s dealing with so much.

  I pick up the two dresses she tossed at me earlier as I walk past the students on the way to the stage. Penelope glances over at me from where she’s hanging clothes on a wheeled wardrobe rack, but she says nothing.

  “Is there a way we can make the authentic one prettier?” I ask carefully, hoping to find a solution that will make both Penelope and Bethany happy. Or, at least, that will make them not cry. I’ll settle for no tears at this point.

  She rolls her eyes behind her hot pink large-framed glasses. “She complained about it being too frumpy.”

  “Frumpy?”

  “Yes, frumpy!” Penelope glares at me as if I was the one who used the word. “Do you not know the definition of frumpy, Mr. T?”

  I smirk. “As your English teacher, I would certainly hope so.”

  “Historically accurate clothing from this time is frumpy!” She tosses her hands up dramatically. “It’s just going to be frumpy!”

  “But is there a way to make it slightly less… frumpy?”

  Penelope huffs, avoiding eye contact. “I mean… p
robably, yeah.”

  “Okaaay.” I stand there for a moment, giving her a chance to present an idea. She doesn’t offer me a damn thing. “So… could we maybe put a petticoat underneath it? Or maybe we could get her a pretty shawl? Or some jewelry? Maybe play with the hem or take it in at the waist?”

  Penelope sighs like I’ve asked her to do something of extreme difficulty. “We have a petticoat that should fit her from our last production, so… yeah. I can give her a stupid petticoat. And some jewelry.”

  “Excellent. Anything else?”

  “Don’t push it, Mr. T,” she warns, but she’s fighting a smile.

  I laugh, putting my hands up. “Sorry, sorry, that will be perfect. Thank you.”

  She waves a hand, shooing me away. Some nights I might stay to keep her company for a while longer, but there’s a stack of essays on my kitchen table waiting to be graded and I’m in desperate need of a glass of wine after the day I’ve had.

  “Have a good night, Pen!” I call over my shoulder as I gather my coat and bag. “See you tomorrow!”

  “Good night, Mr. T!”

  As I walk out of the school, I spot our night janitor, Jim. “Hey, Jim. Do you know if we still have leftovers from that lunch meeting?”

  “We sure do.” He gestures towards the door of the auditorium, already knowing where my thoughts are headed. “I’ll make sure she gets some.”

  “Thanks.” I pat him on the back, then head out. If it were up to me, I’d stay at the school 24/7. There’s so much to do, both for my job as well as my kids, but it’s healthy that I leave. It’s necessary for me to have space from this building and all the weight of the responsibilities that come along with it. It’s a lot easier to do when I know that others are willing to pick up whatever slack I’m forced to let go of.

  It also helps that I come home to a damn nice view most nights now that the weather is warming up.

  Tonight’s view is my hot neighbor in his front yard with the man I’ve come to decide must be his best friend. He’s the one that’s around the most, though there are a few others that come by often. Second in popularity is his friend’s boyfriend – or who I assume is his boyfriend, considering how often they take breaks from activities to kiss the shit out of each other – who has curly black hair, brightly colored sweaters, and a love for books that might rival my own. He tends to sit to the side and read whenever my neighbor and his friend are out together, with a new book every time I see him. Then there is the curly haired boyfriend’s friend who doesn’t come around very often, and tends to stay inside when he does.

  Aside from the three regulars, my neighbor has plenty of other visitors as well. He’s a social guy. Well-loved. It makes his open hatred for me sting just a bit more.

  But we don’t have to be friends for me to enjoy my view, and it’s a damn good view this afternoon. Both men are shirtless. Their skin is sweaty and glistening in the setting sun, muscles bunching and moving as they toss a football back and forth. They’re both wearing backwards ball caps. It’s all very dude bro, and sexy, and I’m definitely grading papers tonight near a window.

  That’s the only way I can appreciate the view; from afar, without any interactions with the grumpy man next door. It’s impossible to enjoy otherwise. His hatred for me ruins it.

  I wish I could figure out where all that hatred came from. Yes, I’ve made it my mission the past few months to annoy the shit out of him, but that’s only because he started it by constantly complaining about my decorations and then stealing my Disco Santa on Christmas. First, I was sure his hatred stemmed from me being gay, something I promised myself I’d never hide after my parents kicked my gay ass out of their pristine family. The first time I saw his friend and his friend’s boyfriend making out and my neighbor didn’t even blink an eye, I realized that wasn’t it. I haven’t had much to go on since then, other than him really, really, really hating holiday decorations.

  I’ve tried my best to find out what I can about him with the hope of solving the mystery. It’s a relatively small town, gossip thick, and the moms on the PTA were more than happy to indulge when I casually mentioned that my neighbor was the cop on TV who had just been shot during a human trafficking sting operation. They gave me a decent amount of information. Caleb Fitzgerald. Born and raised in Callenburg. Great athlete. Never a troublemaker. Left for the military straight out of high school. Comes from a great family. But then they went on a tangent about his sister, and it never felt natural for me to change the focus back to him again.

  The gathered information isn’t much to go on. At least, not as far as his feelings towards me go.

  I do know one thing about my neighbor, though. Well, two things actually.

  First, for some unknown reason, Caleb Fitzgerald hates me.

  Second, Caleb Fitzgerald is sad.

  Despite his easy going smile I’ve never been lucky enough to have directed at me, and despite his friends and family always coming around, Caleb is very sad. It’s not just a having a bad day kind of sad, either. It’s different for him. Deeper. A down-to-the-bones sadness that my own soul recognizes. That’s what draws me to him. Each time I go back to Caleb, doing something to push his buttons, it’s because I want to see the way he comes alive when we go at it. Something in him shifts. The fake happiness fades, and something else manifests in him. Something raw and angry and genuine. Something I don’t think either of us know what to do with. It’s exhilarating. Terrifying. Fucking addicting.

  At least, it was.

  Now that Caleb caught me crying the other night, then left me all alone and pathetic, I’m not sure where we stand. Anger and amusement are the two emotions we operate on whenever together. Adding in something so serious seems to have disrupted our fragile equilibrium. He hasn’t made eye contact with me once since then, and I haven’t had the nerve to try anything to provoke him into one of his fits.

  With a sigh, I get out of my car and sling my bag over my shoulder. I immediately feel Caleb’s gaze lock onto me, heavy and hot against my back. I try to force myself not to look at him. I manage to pull it off until I reach my porch, but then I break under the temptation, my eyes wandering over to him without permission. Our gazes lock. I nearly trip and fall on my face. Actually, I do trip, a little, but I manage to not fall on my face at least.

  Recovering quickly, I slip into my usual annoyingly-happy-neighbor persona I like to use whenever interacting with him. It’s a version of myself that only really comes out for him, more of a defense mechanism than anything else. When I’m being ridiculous and annoying, he can’t get to me. I already feel steadier the moment I have my cheeky grin on my face, and I’m full of confidence again by the time I yell an overly cheery, “Hey, neighbor!”

  His lips twitch. “Hi.”

  “Nice weather.”

  “Yup.”

  “Great for… that.” I step down from the porch and move closer, flicking my hand in the direction of his friend who is holding the football and watching us closely. “Throwing a ball. Over and over. Sounds like… great fun.”

  Caleb’s hands land on his hips as he smirks at me. “Sure is.”

  “Funny. I thought you were allergic to fun.”

  Before Caleb can respond, his friend tosses his head back and laughs. He’s still chuckling when he points a finger at me and tells Caleb, “I like him.”

  “Shut up,” Caleb grumbles at the same time I say, “Thank you!”

  “I love your decorations, too,” the friend adds with a grin wide enough to make it clear that he’s fully aware of how much Caleb hates them. “Do any of them sing? Dance?”

  I laugh. “Not this time. Some of the June ones do, though. Don’t you fear.”

  “Can’t wait!” his friend says at the exact same time Caleb sarcastically growls, “Can’t wait.”

  Deciding this is a great place to end the conversation, I give his friend a wave before winking at Caleb. “Well, I’m going inside now. Don’t have too much fun. Try to control yourself. I th
ink I saw a ghost of a smile earlier. That’s dangerous, neighbor. Be careful.”

  I walk inside to the sound of his friend’s laughter and Caleb’s grumbling, smiling to myself. Maybe Caleb saw me at my most vulnerable the other night, but it seems like things haven’t changed after all.

  The only problem is, I’m not sure if the realization makes me feel better or worse.

  Chapter Three

  Fitz

  I meet Huck’s boyfriend Olly for lunch on Saturday. We like to get together every once in a while without Huck and Olly’s friend Abel. It’s terrible to say, and neither of us ever would, but sometimes we need to get away from the weight that our relationships with them carry. Huck has been overbearing with Olly lately, in full protective mode since the man who tried to purchase him is still out there somewhere, and he’s been overbearing with me, in full best friend mode trying to get me to find love again now that he’s found love of his own. Then there’s Abel, who has been struggling to recover, making Olly feel frustrated and guilty because he’s having a much easier time adjusting to his new life, and making me feel a little bit of the same because the kid still looks at me sometimes like I might jump him any minute.

  Sometimes it’s just nice to be Olly and Fitz, without all those complications tossed into the mix.

  After ordering ourselves burgers and beers, Olly leans forward to start today’s lunch conversation. “So, bad news, or really bad news?”

  I laugh. “Oh, wow. What great options. I guess the bad news first.”

  “Huck wants you to date a guy from my American Lit class.”

  “Oh boy.” I scrub a hand down my face, groaning. “What are the chances he’ll actually make me bring this guy out?”

  “Oh, I’d say pretty good. My lovely boyfriend has already chosen what restaurant he thinks you should take him to.”