Chapter 2: Family Reunion
The executive office at the Millennium Network was a temple of cold modernity, all sharp angles, white leather, and a floor-to-ceiling window that offered a sprawling, smog-hazed view of the city. Matthew sat in a deeply uncomfortable chair that looked like a piece of sculpture, trying to absorb its rigidity. Dan had offered to come, but Matthew had insisted on facing this first skirmish alone. A mistake, he now thought, as the sterile air conditioning raised goosebumps on his arms.
Sara arrived first, bursting in with the chaotic energy of a minor hurricane. She hugged him tightly, smelling of baby wipes and expensive perfume. “Okay, I’m here. I bribed my mother-in-law with a spa day. This better be worth it.” She looked around, whistling low. “Fancy. They couldn’t have sprung for a place like this back in the day. We did our first contract signing at a Sizzler.”
Marie entered next, a vision in a cream-colored power suit, her blonde hair a perfect sheet of gold. She offered air-kisses, her gaze already calculating the room’s hierarchy. “Darlings. Have we heard anything about the staging? I was thinking a hydraulic lift for my entrance during the bridge of ‘Electric Summer’ would be a moment.”
Before anyone could answer, the door opened again.
And there he was.
Ryan Lucas looked like he’d just stepped off a yacht, or at least a very convincing photoshoot for one. He wore a soft, navy cashmere sweater that clung to his famously muscular torso, his blonde hair artfully tousled. And he wasn’t alone. A step behind him, like a handsome shadow, was Jonathan Andring, all bronzed skin and a tight, white t-shirt that showcased his own impressive physique.
The air left Matthew’s lungs.
“Hey, guys! Sorry we’re late,” Ryan said, his voice the same warm, melodic baritone that had once whispered secrets into Matthew’s skin. He moved around the table, pulling Sara into a genuine-looking hug, then Marie. When he got to Matthew, he paused, his famous blue eyes—laugh lines at the corners now—scanning his face. “Matty. God, you look… great.”
The old nickname, coming from him, felt like a violation. “Matthew,” he corrected, his voice tighter than he intended. He stood and offered a hand, a stiff, formal gesture. Ryan took it, his grip firm and warm. The contact was a jolt, a direct line to a past he’d thought was fossilized.
“Right. Matthew.” Ryan’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes flickered with something unreadable. “This is my boyfriend, Jonathan. He wanted to see the inner workings. Hope that’s cool.”
Jonathan stepped forward with a placid, open smile. “Big fan of the work you all did. Really iconic stuff.” He shook each of their hands with a gym-conditioned grip.
Matthew felt a hot spike of resentment. He wanted to see the inner workings. It was a power play. A way for Ryan to show up with his new, uncomplicated, openly gay life while forcing Matthew to navigate the minefield of their history with an audience.
They all took their seats, the large glass table feeling suddenly claustrophobic. The network executives, a man and a woman in sharp black outfits, began their spiel about branding and synergy. Matthew barely heard them. He was acutely aware of Ryan, just five feet away, the scent of his cedarwood cologne cutting through the sterile air.
It was Marie who broke the corporate spell. “Let’s cut to the chase,” she said, leaning forward, her manicured nails tapping the glass. “Billing. And set time. The special is two hours. We get a twenty-minute block. I need a solo. ‘Heart of Glass’ was a top-ten hit for me. It’s non-negotiable.”
A thick silence fell.
Sara snorted. “A solo? Marie, this is a Fusion4 reunion. Not the Marie Sorensen show featuring some backup singers she used to know.”
“My solo career has a legacy,” Marie shot back, her voice acquiring a sharp, brittle edge.
“So does the group,” Matthew said, finally finding his voice. “The fans are coming to see the four of us. Together. Doing the songs we did together.”
Ryan, who had been watching the exchange with an infuriatingly amused expression, chimed in. “I think Marie has a point. A solo could add a nice dynamic. Show our range.”
Matthew swiveled to face him. “Our range? We were a bubblegum pop group, Ryan. Our range was from Key of G to Key of A minor.”
“Speak for yourself,” Marie snapped. “Some of us had actual vocal talent.”
“Oh, here we go,” Sara groaned, throwing her hands up. “The ‘I was the real artist’ routine. You couldn’t harmonize to save your life if it wasn’t for Matthew arranging the parts.”
“That’s not true!” Marie’s composure cracked, a flush creeping up her neck.
“It is true!” Sara fired back. “And you, Ryan, always taking her side because you thought she was the star who could carry you. You were always so calculated.”
Ryan’s cool facade finally slipped. “Calculated? That’s rich, coming from you. You leveraged the group into a lifestyle brand for crunchy moms. Don’t talk to me about calculation.”
The room erupted. Marie was shouting about respect, Sara was listing every perceived slight from 2003, and Ryan’s voice rose in defensive anger. Jonathan looked like he wished the floor would swallow him whole. The network executives stared, paralyzed.
And Matthew just watched. He watched the veins bulge in Ryan’s neck, the way his handsome face twisted with a petulance he knew all too well. This wasn’t the proud, evolved man from Instagram. This was the same scared, ambitious kid who would say anything to win an argument, to protect his spot.
The noise became a dull roar in his ears. He saw Ryan gesture wildly, and it was the same gesture he’d used when he’d ended things in that hotel room, all frantic, self-justifying energy.
Without thinking, Matthew stood up.
His chair scraped loudly against the polished concrete floor. The sound cut through the shouting. Everyone stopped and stared at him.
He wasn’t looking at Marie or Sara. His gaze was locked on Ryan. The words came out quiet, but they carried, sharp and clear in the sudden silence.
“You haven’t changed at all, have you?” Matthew said, his voice dangerously low. “Still playing sides. Still saying whatever you need to say to get through the moment. It must be exhausting.”
Ryan’s face went blank with shock. The charm evaporated, leaving something raw and exposed underneath. For a single, unguarded second, he looked like the terrified boy from the balcony.
Then it was gone, replaced by a mask of cold indignation. The room held its breath. The carefully managed reunion was in shambles, and the deepest, oldest crack was now wide open for everyone to see.
The silence in the wake of Matthew’s words was absolute, broken only by the faint hum of the HVAC system. Ryan looked as if he’d been physically struck, his mouth slightly agape. Marie and Sara were frozen, their previous argument forgotten in the face of this deeper, more personal rupture. Jonathan stared fixedly at the tabletop.
Then the conference room door swung open.
“Sounds like a goddamn zoo in here,” Kelly announced, striding into the room as if she owned the building. She dropped her briefcase on the table with a definitive thud, her sharp eyes scanning each face. “What did I miss? Marie, you’re flushed. Sara, you have your ‘I’m about to stab someone with a organic carrot stick’ face. And boys.” Her gaze landed on Matthew and Ryan. “You two look like you’re recreating the climax of a telenovela. Sit. Down. All of you.”
Her voice, a blend of frayed patience and absolute authority, cut through the lingering tension. They all slowly retook their seats, chastised like schoolchildren.
“Now,” Kelly began, leaning forward on her palms. “Let’s be real for one second. You have a twenty-minute block. That’s three songs. Maybe a four-minute banter break if you can manage not to draw blood.” She looked pointedly at Ryan and Marie. “One of those songs has to be ‘Upside Down’. It’s non-negotiable. The network will want the biggest hit.”
Matthew’s stomach dropped through the floor. The air seemed to thin around him. ‘Upside Down’. He had written the melody on a cheap keyboard in his parents’ garage, the lyrics scrawled in the margin of his algebra homework. He was seventeen, drowning in a secret, aching crush on his bandmate, crafting a pop confection about the dizzying feeling of seeing someone and your world flipping over. Ryan had never known it was about him. Until now, perhaps, as the title hung in the air between them, a ghost from a time before everything got complicated.
“Fine,” Marie said tersely, breaking the silence. “But I’m singing the second verse. The original recording has me on harmony there and it was a travesty.”
“We can discuss arrangement,” Kelly said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “The other two songs are ‘Electric Summer’ and ‘Crush’. That’s the set. No solos. No new material. A tight, nostalgic twelve minutes. Do we have an agreement?”
There was a beat of resistance, a collective holding of breath. Then, a series of terse, reluctant nods moved around the table. It was an agreement, but the room felt no lighter.
The meeting dissolved quickly after that. The network executives fled first, followed by Ryan and a silent Jonathan. Marie left with a clipped “I’ll have my people send over my rider.” Soon, it was just Matthew, Sara, and Kelly in the cavernous, silent office.
Matthew stood by the massive window, watching the distant traffic crawl along the freeway. “I’m out,” he said, his voice flat. “I can’t do it. I’m quitting.”
“Matthew,” Kelly sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is exactly the kind of drama I was hoping to avoid. You heard them agree. It’s three songs.”
“It’s not about the songs,” he said, turning to face them. “It’s about that. What just happened. It’s all still right there, festering. And ‘Upside Down’? Of all the songs…” He trailed off, the memory of writing it, of hoping Ryan would somehow understand the coded message, feeling unbearably naive.
Sara came to stand beside him. “I know,” she said softly, linking her arm through his. “I know what that song means. But look, that was then. You’re not that kid anymore. You’re Matthew Scott, respected producer, married to a great guy. You have a life Ryan can probably only pretend to have on Instagram.”
“She’s right,” Kelly added, her voice losing its agent-edge and becoming surprisingly gentle. “Walk away now, and that’s the last memory. That fight. Go through with it, and you reclaim it. You prove it doesn’t own you. And let’s be practical. The contract is signed. The penalty for you pulling out would be… significant.”
Matthew looked from Sara’s earnest, worried face to Kelly’s pragmatic one. He thought of Dan, of the stable, loving life they had built far from the glare of pop stardom. Letting Ryan have this power, letting him be the reason he walked away from a professional commitment, felt like losing all over again.
“Just think about it,” Sara urged, squeezing his arm. “Don’t decide right now. Sleep on it. For me?”
He stood there for another moment, the city’s indifference a stark contrast to the turmoil inside the room. Sara’s plea hung in the air, a fragile thread tethering him to this madness. “Okay,” he finally breathed, the word tasting like a surrender he wasn’t sure he could honor. “I’ll sleep on it.”
He didn’t go home. The thought of filling their quiet, safe house with this toxic energy felt like a violation. Instead, he found himself on the sidewalk, the late afternoon sun warm on his face, and pulled out his phone. Dan answered on the second ring. “How’d the lion’s den go?” His voice was a welcome anchor.
“It was… a lot. Are you still on campus?” Matthew asked, his own voice tight.
“Just finished my last seminar. Where are you?”
“There’s a bar around the corner from the network. The Rusty Nail. Can you meet me?”
“I’m on my way,” Dan said without hesitation. “Twenty minutes. Order me a bourbon, the cheap stuff. Sounds like we’ll need it.”
The Rusty Nail was the antithesis of the executive office—dark wood, sticky floors, and the comforting smell of stale beer and fried food. Matthew slid into a worn vinyl booth, the cushion sighing under his weight. He ordered two bourbons and waited, tracing a watermark on the table with his finger.
When Dan walked in, his shaggy hair catching the dim light, the world felt like it clicked back into its proper axis. He slid into the booth, his knee immediately finding Matthew’s under the table, a solid, familiar pressure. He took a slow sip of the bourbon, his eyes never leaving Matthew’s face. “Okay,” he said softly. “Talk to me. Start from the beginning.”
And Matthew did. The words tumbled out in a rushed, frustrated cascade. He described Ryan’s unannounced arrival with Jonathan, the performative normalcy of it. “He brought his boyfriend, Dan. Like a shield. Or a trophy. I don’t know which was worse.” He recounted Marie’s diva demands, Sara’s fiery defense, and the way the room had instantly splintered into the same old factions. “It was like no time had passed at all. We were just older, angrier versions of our same stupid selves.”
He saved the worst for last, his voice dropping. “And then Kelly shows up and lays down the setlist. ‘Upside Down’ is on it.” He looked at Dan, whose expression shifted with immediate understanding. “The song I wrote about him. The one he never knew was about him. I have to stand on a stage and sing that, to him, while he stands there with his… his boyfriend.”
Dan listened, his hand now covering Matthew’s on the sticky table. He didn’t offer platitudes or try to minimize the pain. He just absorbed it, his thumb stroking slow, calming circles on Matthew’s skin.
“So I told them I quit,” Matthew finished, the declaration sounding hollow now. “Right there. I’m done.”
Dan was quiet for a long moment, finishing his bourbon. He set the glass down with a soft click. “You can, you know,” he said finally. “Walk away. We’ll figure out the contract. I don’t care about the money. I only care about you.”
The simple, unwavering support was a balm. “Kelly said if I walk away, that fight is my last memory of it all. That it lets him win.” He repeated Sara’s words, the ones that had stuck in his head. “She said I’m not that kid anymore. That I have a life he can only pretend to have online.”
“She’s not wrong,” Dan said, his gaze steady and sure. “You’re Matthew Scott. You’re not defined by a band or a boy who broke your heart twenty years ago. You’re defined by the life you’ve built. By your work. By us.”
Matthew looked down at their joined hands, at the simple platinum band on his own finger. He thought about the grand piano in their living room, the studio in the garage where he built worlds out of sound, the quiet, certain love of the man sitting across from him. This was real. Ryan, the reunion, the screaming match—it was all just noise.
He took a deep breath, the smoky air of the bar filling his lungs. Kelly’s words about reclaiming the memory echoed, merging with Dan’s steadfast presence. He could let this break him, or he could use it. He could let the past be a haunting, or he could finally, after all this time, lay it to rest.
“I’m going to do it,” Matthew said, the decision solidifying as he spoke it aloud. “I’m going to suck it up and do the damn show.”
Dan squeezed his hand. “Okay.”
“I’m not doing it for them. Not for Kelly, or the money, or even for Sara.” He looked up, meeting Dan’s eyes, a new clarity settling over him. “I’m doing it for me. I’m going to walk into that rehearsal room, and I’m going to sing those stupid songs, and I’m going to remember that for every bad memory, there was a good one, too. Before all the drama, there was just… music. And that part was mine.”
He would reclaim it. He would take the soundtrack of his first heartbreak and perform it not as a ghost, but as a man who had truly, finally, moved on.