Chapter 4: Bonding
The salt-kissed air of Malibu was a welcome shock to the system after the recycled atmosphere of the rehearsal room. Marie’s house was exactly what Matthew had expected: a stark, modern masterpiece of glass and steel, all sharp angles and breathtaking views of the endless Pacific. It was a monument to success, but it felt strangely empty, like a museum after hours.
“Don’t look so impressed, Scott,” Marie said, handing him a chilled glass of rosé. “It’s just a place to store my shoes and avoid my ex-husbands.”
The first night descended with a comfortable, chaotic energy. Sara, freed from the constraints of her mommy-influencer persona, mixed a lethal batch of margaritas while Marie commandeered a state-of-the-art karaoke system. The music was too loud, the jokes were too crude, and the tequila shots appeared with alarming frequency.
Matthew found himself laughing, truly laughing, for the first time in weeks. He watched Sara and Marie butcher a power ballad with theatrical glee, their old rivalry momentarily forgotten in a shared, sloshy harmony. He even did a passable, if slightly wobbly, duet of an old boy band hit with Ryan, their voices slotting together with an ease that defied the years and the tequila.
Later, the party fractured. Sara was lecturing a bemused Marie on the benefits of fermented kale, their voices carrying from the kitchen. The main room was quiet, lit only by the flickering fire in the vast fireplace and the moonlit ocean beyond the glass wall. Matthew stood there, mesmerized by the rhythmic crash of the waves, the alcohol humming warmly in his veins.
A presence materialized beside him. Ryan. He held two glasses of water, offering one. “For the impending doom,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
Matthew took it, their fingers brushing. “Thanks.” He took a long drink, the cool water a shock. The silence between them was different now—not the hostile quiet of the early days, nor the focused intensity of their rehearsals. It was charged, heavy with things unsaid.
“You were good tonight,” Ryan said, not looking at him, his profile outlined by the firelight. “I mean, you’re always good. Your work… I’ve followed it. The Grammys. Everything.”
Matthew turned, leaning his hip against the cool glass. “You have?”
“Of course I have.” Ryan finally met his gaze, his blue eyes serious in the dim light. The actor’s charm was gone, stripped away by the hour and the alcohol, leaving something raw and unbearably honest. “I’m so proud of the man you became, Matthew. I always rooted for you, from a distance. Watched you build this incredible, substantial life. A life that means something.”
The words landed not as a compliment, but as a key turning in a long-locked door. Matthew’s throat felt tight. “It’s a good life,” he managed. “Dan… he’s…”
“I know,” Ryan interrupted softly, a sad smile touching his lips. “I’m happy you have him. I am. It’s just… sometimes I can’t help but wonder, you know? What if I hadn’t been so scared? What if I’d had a fraction of your courage back then? What would our lives have been?”
The question hung in the air, vast and unanswerable. It was the ghost that had haunted every interaction, every glance, every practiced dance step. And now, voiced aloud, it became real, solid.
Matthew didn’t have an answer. He could only look at Ryan, at the familiar lines of his face, the earnest regret in his eyes, and feel the two decades of distance collapse into this single, trembling moment. The roar of the ocean seemed to fade into a dull whisper.
Ryan took a half-step closer. “I’m so sorry, Matty. For everything.”
The old nickname, spoken in that tone, undid him. Matthew nodded, a jerky, helpless motion. He saw the same helpless surrender reflected in Ryan’s eyes. Then Ryan was moving, closing the small space between them, and his arms were around Matthew, pulling him into a tight, crushing embrace.
It was not a friendly hug. It was an apology, a confession, a question. Matthew’s arms came up around Ryan’s back, his hands fisting in the soft fabric of his shirt. He buried his face in the crook of Ryan’s neck, breathing in the scent of salt air, tequila, and that faint, essential cedarwood. He felt Ryan’s breath hot against his temple, the solid, muscular reality of him a stark contrast to the ghost he’d been carrying. Time stretched, thinned, and snapped. The embrace lasted a second and a lifetime, a dangerous, perfect equilibrium where the past and the present fused into a single, unbearable point of contact.
“Ahem.”
The sound was like a gunshot.
They sprang apart as if electrocuted. Sara stood in the arched doorway, a empty margarita glass dangling from her fingers. Her expression was unreadable, a carefully neutral mask that somehow conveyed more shock and disapproval than a shout ever could.
“Marie’s looking for more limes,” she said, her voice flat. “I think I saw some in here.”
The spell was shattered. The ocean roared back into the room. Matthew could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic, guilty rhythm. Ryan ran a hand through his hair, his gaze fixed on the floor.
“No,” Matthew stammered, his voice rough. “No limes in here.”
Sara’s eyes flickered from Matthew’s flushed face to Ryan’s rigid posture. She gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Right,” she said. “I’ll check the kitchen.”
She turned and left, leaving the two of them standing in the devastating silence, the ghost of their embrace clinging to the air between them like smoke.
She turned and left, leaving the two of them standing in the devastating silence, the ghost of their embrace clinging to the air between them like smoke.
Ryan cleared his throat, the sound rough and out of place. “I should…” He gestured vaguely toward the kitchen, not meeting Matthew’s eyes.
“Yeah,” Matthew managed, his own voice thin. “Me too.”
They walked back separately, a careful ten feet of polished concrete between them. The memory of Ryan’s arms, the solid warmth of his body, buzzed under Matthew’s skin like a live wire. Each step felt unsteady, the floor tilting slightly beneath his feet.
Sara was already at the kitchen island, violently muddling limes with a wooden pestle. She didn’t look up as they entered. Marie, perched on a stool, watched them over the rim of her wine glass, her expression unreadable.
“Find what you were looking for?” Marie asked, her tone light but edged with something sharper.
“The view was distracting,” Ryan said, sliding onto a stool beside her. He grabbed a bottle of tequila and poured a shot, downing it without a flinch.
Matthew focused on the rhythmic crash of waves outside, anything to avoid the questions in Sara’s eyes. He could still feel the imprint of Ryan’s shirt fabric against his palms.
“Okay, who’s up for another round?” Sara’s voice was forcibly bright, a stark contrast to her earlier silence. “I feel a truly horrific rendition of ‘I Will Always Love You’ coming on.”
“Spare the windows, Rodriguez,” Marie drawled, but she nudged the karaoke remote toward Sara. “My security deposit is already a nightmare.”
The next hour passed in a blur of forced laughter and off-key singing. Matthew nursed his water, the tequila’s warmth now a cold knot in his stomach. Every time Ryan laughed or moved, Matthew’s gaze flickered toward him, involuntary and electric.
During a lull, Marie stood and stretched. “Matthew, come help me find that bottle of aged bourbon I’m hoarding. It’s buried in the study somewhere.”
He followed her down a wide hallway lined with platinum records and photos of a younger, glossier Marie. The study was a cozy, book-lined room that felt more lived-in than the rest of the house. Marie closed the door softly behind them.
She didn’t look for any bourbon. Instead, she leaned against her desk, arms crossed. “So. You and Ryan.”
Matthew’s heart stuttered. “It’s not what you think.”
“I think it’s exactly what I think,” she said, a wry smile touching her lips. “I knew, you know. Back then. I knew about the two of you, and I saw how destroyed you were when he ended it.”
The admission landed like a physical blow. “How?”
“I had my own secrets to keep,” she said, her gaze drifting to a photograph on the wall—Fusion4, all toothy grins and matching outfits. “Management had a very specific plan for all of us. No messy personal lives. No complications.”
She looked back at him, her blue eyes suddenly vulnerable. “They made me get an abortion when I was nineteen. The father was the drummer from Crimson Tide. We were just kids, but it didn’t matter. The label arranged everything. They said it was ‘brand management’.”
Matthew felt the air leave his lungs. The glossy pop star facade cracked, revealing the raw truth beneath. “Marie, I… I had no idea.”
“No one did,” she whispered, her voice thick. “I just packed it away and smiled for the cameras. Chased the fame, the hits, the next big thing. And now I’m here, in this empty house, wondering what it was all for. It’s so… lonely.”
He stepped forward and pulled her into a hug. She stiffened for a second, then melted against him, her shoulders shaking with silent tears. He held her, this woman he’d known for twenty years, and saw the fierce, frightened girl she’d always been.
“I always knew there was more to you,” he said softly into her hair. “Behind all the diva nonsense, you were the strongest one of us all.”
She let out a wet laugh, pulling back to wipe her eyes. “Don’t tell Sara I said that. My reputation is all I have left.”
They stood there for a moment in the quiet study, the weight of shared history settling between them. The buzz of his moment with Ryan was still there, but it was muted now, overshadowed by this new, profound connection.
The buzz of his moment with Ryan was still there, but it was muted now, overshadowed by this new, profound connection. He returned to the main room to find it emptying, the party’s energy spent. Sara was collecting glasses with a quiet efficiency that felt judgmental, while Ryan was already gone, vanished down the hall without a word.
“I’m calling it,” Sara announced, not looking at Matthew. “My kids will be up in approximately five hours, and they have no respect for a hangover.”
Marie just waved a languid hand from the sofa, her earlier vulnerability hidden once more behind a mask of cool detachment. “Don’t let the door hit you, darling.”
Matthew took the cue and retreated to the guest room he’d been assigned, a sleek space with a wall of glass facing the dark, murmuring ocean. The door clicked shut, sealing him in a sudden, overwhelming silence.
As the night drew to a close, they retreated to separate bedrooms. Matthew couldn't turn his brain off. He stared at the ceiling, the geometric shadows shifting with the moon. Marie’s confession echoed in the quiet, a tragic story he’d never known was unfolding alongside his own teenage heartbreak. The industry had chewed them all up in different ways, spitting out versions of themselves they were still trying to reconcile.
Then his mind, treacherous and relentless, circled back to the tender moment with Ryan. He thought about how far they’d come from the naive kids they were when they first joined Fusion4, wide-eyed and believing in the fantasy they were selling. They were just boys, then.
But then he thought about the way he felt when Ryan held him again. The specific, solid weight of him. The heat through his shirt. The way his own body had molded into the embrace without a moment’s hesitation, as if no time had passed at all. It was more than nostalgia. It was a current, live and humming, reconnecting a circuit he’d thought permanently disconnected.
Emotions and attractions from years ago, long boxed away and labeled ‘past’, now rattled the lid, threatening to spill out. They felt dangerous, potent enough to shake the very foundations of his life with Dan. He pictured Dan’s kind, trusting face and a wave of nauseating guilt washed over him, so sharp it made him sit up in bed.
The room felt too warm, the air too thick. He got up and pressed his forehead against the cool glass, watching the white foam of the waves glow in the darkness. His phone, charging on the nightstand, lit up with a text. It was Dan. Hope you’re having fun with the old gang. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do! Miss you. The cheerful message felt like an accusation.
He didn’t reply. He couldn’t form a lie, even a simple, cheerful one. Down the hall, a floorboard creaked. He wondered if Ryan was also awake, staring at another ceiling, trapped in the same storm of what-ifs and regrets. The thought was a hook in his chest, pulling him toward a door he knew he could not open.