Chapter 3: The Party
The texts from Conrad were a constant, low-grade electricity in Matthew’s pocket. A photo of a hideous modernist sculpture in a Stuttgart plaza with the caption “Thinking this is more your taste.” A voice memo of the rain against his hotel window late at night. A simple “Hope your Wednesday is less soul-crushing than this contract review.” The anticipation was a physical thing, a coil tightening in Matthew’s stomach. Conrad was flying back Saturday afternoon.They had plans for dinner that night.
“You’re practically glowing,” Liana said, cornering him by the micro-kitchen.“It’s disgusting. Also, I need the Q3 projections.”
“They’re in the deck. And I’m not glowing. I’m just… not actively despairing.”
“A high bar for you.” She smirked.“So.He just kissed you and left?No indecent proposal? No invitation to see his apartment’s view?”
“It was romantic,” Matthew defended, feeling his ears go hot.“It was… correct.”
“‘Correct.’ Jesus. You sound like a Victorian widow.You got blue balls from a perfectly executed date. That’s a new one.”
Dominic was less subtle. “A whole week?” he’d groaned, painting a large canvas in the middle of their living room. “You kissed a handsome, employed man with great taste in drinks and then just… went home alone?To what?Watch The Proposal again? Mate, the patriarchy has nothing on the self-imposed torture of gay men who are scared of a good thing.”
“I’m not scared,” Matthew muttered, knowing it was a lie.He was terrified. Conrad felt real, and real things could disappear, leaving a different, deeper kind of ache than the one Jake Ryan routinely provided.
Oliver slung an arm around Matthew’s shoulders in the office cafeteria on Thursday.“So.Conrad the Lawyer returns tomorrow.The suspense is killing me. Mostly because Liana won’t shut up about it.”
“You’re one to talk,” Matthew said, dodging the familiar, confusing warmth of Oliver’s proximity. “How’s Toby?”
“Busy.Stressed.The usual.” Oliver’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Which is why you’re all coming over tomorrow night.We’re having a thing. Pre-weekend wind-down.Drinks, music, Toby’s famous pork belly bites. Be there or be… well, sad and alone, I guess.”
The invitation felt like a rope thrown across a chasm.A distraction.
Friday night arrived, and Oliver and Toby’s flat in the Castro was already pulsing with life. The setting sun flooded through the bay windows, turning the airborne dust to gold and painting long shadows across the warm oak floor. The air was thick with the scent of seared meat, citrus, and a dozen different colognes. A playlist of hip-hop mixed with 80s synth poured from a discreet speaker.Matthew arrived with Dominic and Liana in tow. Toby, aproned and flushed from the kitchen, handed them glasses of something dark and fizzy. “Aperol spritz,” he announced, his British accent slicing through the noise. “Don’t drink it like lager, you animals.”
“Yes, chef,” Dominic winked, already scanning the room.
The party was raucous, a mix of Toby’s restaurant crew, Oliver’s design friends, and a few Facebook faces.Matthew nursed his drink, leaning against the bookshelf. He watched Oliver work the room. He was in his element, laughing loud at someone’s story, his hand resting on a friend’s arm, his head thrown back. He was beautiful in the dying light, and Matthew felt a familiar, guilty pull.Then he saw Toby watching Oliver from the kitchen doorway. The expression on Toby’s face wasn’t the usual affectionate exasperation. It was something harder, flatter. As Matthew watched, Oliver drifted over to a guy Matthew didn’t know—a tall, bearded man in a tight henley—and leaned in close to hear him over the music.Oliver’s hand landed on the man’s shoulder, a replay of his own office move. Toby turned and walked back into the kitchen, the swing of the door a little too sharp.
The night rolled on.The music got louder. The spritz bottles emptied, replaced by tequila.Liana was debating something passionately with one of Toby’s sous-chefs. Dominic had disappeared onto the balcony with a painter.
Matthew was getting another beer from the fridge when he felt a presence behind him.Oliver.His breath was warm and sweet with liquor near Matthew’s ear. “Having fun?”
“Yeah. Great party.”
“It’s okay.” Oliver’s voice was low, just for him.“Too many people. I’d rather just have a few close friends, you know?” His fingers brushed Matthew’s back as he reached past him for a lime. “You look good tonight.”
Before Matthew could formulate a response—a deflection, a joke—Toby was there, inserting himself between them with a tray of empty glasses.His movement was efficient, territorial. “Oi.Jackson.The ice is melting. Can you grab the fresh bag from the basement storage?”
“Can’t it wait?” Oliver’s smile was lazy, his eyes still on Matthew.
“No.It can’t.” Toby’s tone left no room. It was the voice he used in the kitchen, the one that brooked no argument.Oliver’s smile faltered. He held Toby’s gaze for a beat, a silent, tense communication Matthew couldn’t decipher. Then he shrugged, the casual gesture somehow offensive.“Fine.Whatever.”
He pushed past them both. Matthew watched him go, heading not toward the front door but to a narrow interior staircase at the back of the flat that led down to the building’s shared storage. Toby watched him, too, his jaw tight. Then he exhaled, forcing a smile back onto his face as he turned to Matthew.“Another drink? You’re looking peaky.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
A few minutes later, Matthew needed air. The heat, the noise, the confusing thrum of attraction and guilt had condensed into a headache behind his eyes. He wandered down the hall towards the back, thinking the basement exit might lead to a quieter space, and saw the door to the staircase was slightly ajar.He heard their voices before he saw them. They were on the small landing halfway down, the raw concrete space lit by a single, bare bulb.“…exhausting, Toby. It’s just a fucking party.”
“It’s not the party.It’s the performance. It’s every party. Every time.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.Flirting with every man in the room. Especially him.”
A cold trickle slid down Matthew’s spine.Him.“Matthew? Don’t be absurd.He’s my colleague. My friend.”
“You don’t look at your friends like that.And you don’t touch your friends like that. I’m not blind, Oliver.I’m just tired.”
There was a long silence. Matthew held his breath, pressed against the wall, heart hammering against his ribs.
“What do you want me to say?” Oliver’s voice was softer now, drained.“That you’re wrong? That I don’t feel… something?A connection? It’s complicated.”
“Complicated.” Toby’s laugh was a short, bitter sound.“Right.Well, uncomplicate it. While I go upstairs and play the grateful host to the guy you’re apparently ‘connected’ to.”
Matthew heard footsteps coming back up, heavy and fast. He scrambled backward, darting into the nearby bathroom and closing the door just as Toby emerged from the stairwell, his face a storm cloud. He didn’t look towards the bathroom. He just strode back towards the noise of the party, a man retreating to a battlefield.Matthew leaned against the sink, his reflection pale in the mirror. The buzzing in his head wasn’t from the alcohol anymore.It was from the echo of Oliver’s voice. A connection.
He thought of Conrad, of the thoughtful texts waiting on his phone, of the dinner planned for tomorrow, of the correct and romantic kiss. Then he thought of Oliver’s hand on his shoulder, his laugh in his ear, the years of wanting something that was, by all boundaries, off limits.He splashed cold water on his face. The party sounds felt distant now, muffled and absurd. He couldn’t help but wonder what was going on—in their relationship, in Oliver’s head, and now, unsettlingly, in his own.
He couldn’t help but wonder what was going on—in their relationship, in Oliver’s head, and now, unsettlingly, in his own. He found Dominic by the stereo, deep in conversation with a guy whose sleeves were rolled up to reveal forearms dusted with flour.“This is Leo,” Dominic said, not taking his eyes off him. “He makes the bread.”
“I need to tell you something,” Matthew said, his voice low.
“Can it wait?” Dominic murmured, leaning closer to Leo. “He’s explaining the sacred symbiosis of sourdough starter. It’s surprisingly hot.”
“I just heard Oliver and Toby fighting.In the basement.About me.”
Dominic finally glanced at him.“Of course they did. Toby’s not an idiot. But look, that’s their mess.” He placed a hand on Leo’s arm. “You were saying about the hydration percentage?”
Matthew stepped back, the noise of the party swallowing him whole.He was a ghost here. He slid through the crowded rooms, the laughter and music now abrasive and sharp.Toby was nowhere to be seen. The kitchen was just a stained aftermath of bottles and abandoned plates. Liana caught his eye from across the room and raised a questioning brow.He shook his head.He needed to leave.
He remembered leaving his cardigan in the guest room earlier. He pushed open the door; the room was dark, lit only by the streetlight filtering through the slats of the blinds. The air was still and cool, a relief from the heat of the main space.He saw the dark lump of his sweater on the bed.
“Leaving so soon?”
The voice, slurred and close, made him jump. Oliver was leaning against the doorframe behind him, having followed him in.He’d closed the door. The thump of bass from the living room was a faint pulse through the wall.“Yeah. I’ve got… stuff tomorrow,” Matthew said, his throat tight.
“Stuff.” Oliver pushed off the doorframe, unsteady.He took a few steps into the small room, crowding the space. His eyes were glassy.“That’s right.Your big date with Conrad the Lawyer. Is he everything you hoped for?”
“Oliver, you’re drunk.”
“I am. And you’re evading.” Oliver smiled, a lazy, dangerous curve of his lips. “Is he good to you?Does he text you sweet things? Plan perfect little dates?”
“It’s none of your business.” Matthew moved to sidestep him, aiming for the door.
Oliver’s hand shot out, landing warm and heavy on Matthew’s shoulder, stopping him. The touch burned through the cotton of his shirt. “It should be.” Oliver’s voice dropped, the teasing gone, replaced by a raw sincerity that was worse. “You deserve to be with someone who actually makes you happy, Matt. You really do.”
The sound of his name in Oliver’s mouth, the gravity in his drunken gaze, shattered every defense. Before Matthew could form a word, Oliver closed the distance. His mouth was on Matthew’s, tasting of gin and lime and a years-long ache.Matthew’s mind screamed a dozen reasons this was catastrophic. He saw Conrad’s texts, Toby’s hardened face, the professional ruin waiting on Monday.His body ignored all of it. A dam broke. He kissed back, his hands coming up to grip Oliver’s arms, pulling him closer. It was hungry, messy, and everything he’d imagined since his first week on the team.It tasted like confession.
They stumbled backward, falling onto the bed in a tangle of limbs.The weight of Oliver, solid and real above him, was a fantasy made flesh. Oliver’s mouth moved to his jaw, his neck, his hands tugging at Matthew’s shirt. One button came loose, then another.The cool air on his skin was a shock.
“Wait.” The word was a gasp.Matthew put his hands on Oliver’s chest, pushing him back just enough. “Stop. Oliver, stop.”
Oliver blinked down at him, breathing heavily, confusion swimming in his eyes.“What?”
“I can’t. Toby… Conrad… I need to go.” Matthew scrambled out from under him, standing on unsteady legs. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs.“Matt, don’t—” Oliver called out, his voice rough.
But Matthew was already at the door, yanking it open, fleeing into the blur of the party. He spotted Dominic in the corner of the living room, now fully making out with Leo the baker against a bookshelf. Liana, seeing his face, broke away from her conversation.“Matthew? What’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer. He just kept moving, a straight line to the front door, through it, and into the cold San Francisco night. The fog had rolled in, swallowing the streetlights in hazy halos.He walked without direction, the cool mist on his burning face. His lips still tingled. His head spun, a dizzy carousel of Oliver’s mouth, Conrad’s steady gaze, and the devastating, certain knowledge that he had just broken something he didn’t know how to fix.
His head spun, a dizzy carousel of Oliver’s mouth, Conrad’s steady gaze, and the devastating, certain knowledge that he had just broken something he didn’t know how to fix. The cold fog seeped through his shirt as he walked for blocks, the city’s amber lights blurred into wet streaks on the asphalt. He finally hailed a cab, leaning his forehead against the cool glass, replaying the feel of Oliver’s hands and the sickening lurch of his own response.
Sleep was a fragmented series of fevered images—Oliver’s lips, Toby’s accusing stare, Conrad’s trusting texts morphing into question marks. He woke to the harsh chirp of his phone on the nightstand, sunlight like a reprimand through his blinds. Two notifications glowed.Conrad: Back on the ground. Can’t wait to see you tonight.Been thinking about that view all week.
Then, ten minutes later, Oliver: Hey.Can we talk?Coffee today?The duality punched the air from his lungs. He typed a reply to Conrad, his thumbs clumsy.Me too.Excited.8 is perfect. He stared at Oliver’s message, the panic from last night crystallizing into a cold, sharp dread.He had to face this.Okay.Where?
An hour later, they sat across from each other in a cramped café in the Mission, the hiss of the steamer and the clatter of cups a jarringly normal soundtrack. Oliver looked wrecked, his eyes shadowed, his usual effortless style replaced by a rumpled hoodie.He hadn’t touched his americano.
“I’m so sorry, Matt,” Oliver began, the words tumbling out in a low rush.“Last night… I was obliterated. I shouldn’t have followed you in there.I shouldn’t have done any of it.”
Matthew studied the grain of the wooden table. “I overheard you and Toby.In the basement stairwell.”
Oliver went very still. He let out a long, slow breath.“Right. Of course you did.” He looked directly at Matthew, his gaze clear now, and terrifyingly sober. “What I said to him… it wasn’t just drunk nonsense.The feelings are real.I’ve had them for a while. But that doesn’t make what I did okay. I crossed a massive line.”
The confession, spoken plainly in the daylight, was more devastating than the kiss itself. Matthew’s own heart hammered a traitorous agreement.He carefully folded his hands in his lap. “I accept your apology, Oliver.”
“That’s it?” Oliver’s voice was soft, probing.
“What else is there?” Matthew lied, the taste of it bitter. To admit his own long-held want would be to open a door they could never close. It would unravel his job, his friendships, the fragile promise with Conrad.“We work together.You’re with Toby. Let’s just… try to act normal on Monday.And we don’t tell anyone. Any of it.”
Oliver searched his face for a moment, then nodded, a defeat in the slope of his shoulders.“Yeah.Okay. Normal.”
They parted on the sidewalk with a stiff, awful nod. Matthew walked away, the confusion now a lead weight in his chest.He had gotten the apology, the confession, a path forward. So why did he feel like he’d just lost something?
He pushed into his apartment hoping for the merciful quiet of an empty space. The sight that greeted him was almost comic in its contrast: Dominic, in nothing but burgundy boxer briefs, was entwined on the sofa with Leo, the baker, both of them laughing softly.A blanket was half-draped over their legs.
“Oh, hey man,” Dominic said, not untangling himself. “You vanished last night.”
Leo smiled, unabashed.“The sourdough starter monologue worked.”
“Great. Happy for you,” Matthew mumbled, heading for his room. He heard murmurs, the rustle of clothing. A minute later, Leo emerged, fully dressed, giving Matthew a friendly wink as he let himself out.Dominic, now in sweatpants, padded into the kitchen. “Seriously, you bailed hard. Everything alright?” He leaned against the counter, his artist’s eye missing nothing.“Fine.Just tired. The party was a lot.” Matthew busied himself with water from the tap, unable to meet his roommate’s look.
“That’s the story?” Dominic’s tone was light, but pointed.“Because you look like you witnessed a crime. And Oliver was acting pretty weird after you left.”
A promise was a promise.“Nothing happened. Just… too many spritzes.” The lie was flimsy, a tissue paper wall.
Dominic watched him for a long second, then shrugged, the motion conveying his utter disbelief without a word. “Okay.If you say so.” He didn’t press further, which was somehow worse.
Alone in his room, Matthew opened his closet. He focused on the tactile: the weave of a navy shirt, the crisp line of charcoal trousers.Concrete details for a concrete date.Conrad. Thoughtful, stable, present Conrad. He pushed the memory of Oliver’s ragged confession and the fevered kiss into a dark compartment in his mind, turning the key with deliberate force. Tonight was about forward motion, about the man who made plans and kept them, about the possibility of something real that wasn’t already entangled in other people’s heartbreak. He laid the clothes on his bed, a fragile armor against the chaos he was determined to leave behind.