Chapter 3: Lunchtime Confessions
The lavender scent from the patio candles was cloying. Matthew swirled the dregs of his oat-milk latte, watching the foam dissolve into a beige swirl. Across the wrought-iron table, Evan demolished a croissant with methodical precision, catching every flake on his plate. His green eyes missed nothing.
“So he’s gone,” Evan stated, not a question.
“Gone,” Matthew echoed. The word was a stone dropped into the quiet between them.
“And the ‘open for business’ sign is still hanging on the door, I assume?” Evan’s tone was light, but the edge was there. A protective, irritated scrape.
Matthew shrugged. “It’s his rule. Not mine.”
“But you play the game. I saw the look on your face when that soap opera Ken doll was orbiting you at the after-party. What’s his name? Colton? You looked like you were pricing a cut of steak.” Evan popped the last piece of croissant into his mouth. “How was the sirloin?”
“Don’t be a dick, Ev.”
“I’m not. I’m being a realist. You sleep with Colton because he’s convenient and requires zero emotional labor. It’s the equivalent of eating a gas station hot dog. It fills a hole, but you’re gonna feel gross about it afterward.”
The analogy was brutal and accurate. Matthew recalled the stark, joyless mechanics of it, the way Colton’s compliments felt rehearsed. “It’s not like that with Robert. You know it’s not.”
“I know,” Evan conceded, wiping his fingers on a napkin. His expression softened. “I also know that what you have with Robert is a five-course meal that you only get to eat three times a year. The rest of the time you’re starving. So you chew on hot dogs. I get it. I just hate watching it.”
The late afternoon sun slid behind a building, draping their table in shadow. Matthew felt exposed. Evan was the only person who could do this—slice through his carefully maintained calm and point at the festering mess underneath. They’d seen each other through everything: Matthew’s first ugly break with his parents over money, Evan’s shaky directorial debut, the confusing semester senior year where they’d blurred the lines between friendship and something else.
“Remember that winter break,” Matthew said, a faint smile touching his lips. “In your dad’s cabin. The power went out.”
Evan laughed, a short, warm sound. “For three days. We lived on canned chili and cheap whiskey. And each other.”
It had been easy. Not volcanic like with Robert, but gentle, exploratory. Two friends who were cold and lonely and curious. There had been no grand declarations, no tearing of clothes. It was a series of quiet touches under heavy blankets, shared warmth, the kind of intimacy that felt like a logical extension of their friendship. It lasted a month back on campus before mutually, amicably, reverting to form. They’d chosen their friendship over the risk of ruining it.
“It was simple,” Matthew said, the memory a balm.
“It was young,” Evan corrected gently. “We didn’t have a decade of baggage and Grammys and intercontinental drama. We just had finals and crappy dorm furniture. Of course it was simple.”
“You think it could ever be simple again?”
The question hung in the lavender-scented air. Evan leaned back, his chair scraping on the cobblestones. He studied Matthew, his head tilted. The playful glint was gone from his eyes, replaced by something more calculated, more raw.
“With me?” Evan asked.
Matthew held his gaze, not answering. The silent admission was answer enough.
Evan took a long drink of his sparkling water. “I’m not Robert. I wouldn’t make you feel like a stop on a tour schedule. I’m also not a piece of emotional fast food, Matty. I’m your best friend. If we ever went there again… it wouldn’t be a game. It would be because you were done waiting for a plane that’s always leaving the gate.”
It was the most direct thing Evan had ever said about it. The flicker of seriousness from the synopsis wasn’t a joke; it was a pilot light, constantly burning. Matthew felt a tectonic shift under the table, the safe, familiar ground of their friendship cracking along a fault line he’d pretended didn’t exist.
Before he could formulate a response—a deflection, a joke, anything—his phone buzzed on the table. ROBERT flashed on the screen. The sight of the name was a physiological reaction: a quickening pulse, a stupid surge of hope.
Evan’s face flattened. “Speak of the devil. And he calls right on schedule. He’s probably just landed.”
Matthew answered, putting the phone to his ear. “Hey. You get through security okay?”
Robert’s voice was a crackling, agitated stream in his ear. The connection was bad, peppered with echoes of airport announcements. “—absolute clusterfuck, Matty. Nightmare. The whole bloody tour’s in jeopardy.”
The warmth evaporated. “What? Slow down. What’s wrong?”
“Our work visas. The lawyer fucked it up. Filed the wrong forms or some bureaucratic bollocks. The entire North American leg is pending review. They won’t clear us for Lollapalooza. It’s off.”
The words didn’t compute at first. Chicago. The hotel room. The promise of a proper night after the set. It had been the next fixed point in his universe, the thing getting him through the empty weeks. Now it was just… gone. Erased by a clerical error.
“Off,” Matthew repeated dully.
“I’m at the airport solicitor’s office right now. They’re saying it could take weeks to sort. Might have to cancel Seattle, Vancouver, the whole fucking thing.” Robert’s voice broke with a frustration that was purely professional. “I’m sorry, love. I know you were… I know.”
You know I was hanging on by a thread, Matthew thought. You know that was my next lifeline.
“So that’s it?” Matthew heard the hollow note in his own voice.
“For now. Look, I’ll make it up to you. Maybe you can come to Berlin in the autumn if they sort this, or we’ll do a proper holiday after—”
“Sure,” Matthew cut him off. The promises were just noise now. “Yeah. Let me know.”
He ended the call. He placed the phone carefully facedown on the table. The city skyline in the distance was a blur of shimmering glass. He felt untethered, a balloon cut loose.
Evan had heard enough. He watched the disintegration happen in real-time across Matthew’s face. “Lollapalooza’s off,” Evan surmised.
Matthew just nodded, staring at nothing.
Evan was silent for a full minute. Then he pushed his plate aside and leaned forward, his arms on the table. “Right. Okay. Change of plan.”
Matthew looked at him, uncomprehending.
“You’re still going to Chicago,” Evan said, his voice decisive. “Half your roster is playing that festival. Lana, Billie, Kacey. You’re their producer. You should be there. It’s business. It’s good for you to be seen.”
“I don’t want to be seen. I want to…”
“What? Sit in that echo chamber of a house and stare at his GLAAD award? No.” Evan’s tone brooked no argument. “We’re going. I’ll go with you. I’ll say I’m scouting locations, which is half-true. We’ll stay at the Peninsula. We’ll go to the shows. We’ll eat stupidly expensive steaks. We will not talk about Robert, or visas, or open relationships. It’ll be fun. Or at least, it’ll be a distraction that doesn’t involve daytime TV actors.”
The plan was so absurd, so unlike the solitary mourning Matthew had planned, that it momentarily shocked him out of his stupor. “You’d do that?”
“Someone has to drag your mopey ass back into the land of the living. It might as well be me.” Evan reached across the table. He didn’t squeeze Matthew’s hand this time. He just covered it with his own, his palm warm and solid. A point of contact. An anchor. “What do you say?”
Matthew looked at their hands. He thought of the cold, empty couch waiting for him. He thought of Robert’s voice, already consumed by the next crisis. Then he looked at Evan’s face, familiar and steady, the green eyes holding a challenge and a promise that felt terrifyingly tangible.
A fragile, disbelieving smile touched his lips. It felt strange on his face.
“Okay,” Matthew heard himself say. The word was a door clicking open onto a different, unknown corridor. “Let’s go to Chicago.”
The decision, once made, became a fact. Evan’s steady gaze across the café table was a point of no return. Matthew booked the flights himself, a small act of defiance against the passivity that had defined his life for years. He packed for business, for summer festival heat, and tried not to imagine the hotel room Robert wouldn’t be in.
The flight was a blur of recycled air and Evan’s easy chatter about lens filters and a problematic lead actor. It was a welcome distraction, a script running over the silent, anxious hum in Matthew’s own mind. When the wheels touched down in Chicago, the humidity hit them like a wet blanket, thick and smelling of asphalt and lake water.
The Peninsula lobby was a temple of chilled marble and discreet luxury. “Adjoining rooms, please,” Evan told the clerk, sliding his corporate card across the desk with a practiced smile. He shot Matthew a look. “So I can hear if you start brooding too loudly.”
“I don’t brood,” Matthew said, accepting his key card.
“You professionally brood. It’s your Grammy-winning talent.” Evan shouldered his bag. “I’ve got that meeting with the producer from Paramount in twenty. You wanna come? Be my wingman?”
The thought of making industry small talk made Matthew’s skin feel tight. “I think I’d be a liability. You go. Seal the deal.”
“Suit yourself. What’s your move then? Not the festival yet.”
Matthew scrolled his phone absently, the festival app a grid of names he wasn’t ready to face. A post from a local vintage vinyl account caught his eye—a grainy photo of a cluttered storefront in Wicker Park. “There’s a record shop. I’ll go dig. Clear my head.”
“Dig for what? You own a mastering studio.” Evan grinned, already walking backward towards the elevators. “Look for me an original pressing of ‘Rumours.’ We can irony-play it later.”
The record store was tucked between a tattoo parlor and a vegan café, its windows plastered with flyers. A bell jingled overhead as Matthew stepped inside, the air immediately cooler, thick with the scent of aged paper and dust. The walls were sheer cliffs of vinyl, neatly labeled in cramped handwriting. A fan oscillated in the corner, pushing the humid air around.
Matthew nodded to the owner, a man with a formidable beard behind the counter, and made for the ‘Alternative & Indie’ section. His fingers trailed over spines, the ritual tactile and calming. He was vaguely aware of another presence in the narrow aisle—a younger man in wire-framed glasses, intently studying the ‘Jazz’ section. He had a thoughtful slouch, a worn sweater despite the heat.
Striking up a conversation with the owner felt easier, safer. “Any early War on Drugs in here? ‘Lost in the Dream’ era?”
The bearded man lit up. “Might have a copy in the back. Let me look.” He disappeared behind a curtain.
Alone again, Matthew felt a prickling on his neck. He glanced up. The younger man was looking at him, not at the records. Their eyes met over the top of a bin labelled ‘Psych Folk.’ The man didn’t look away. He smiled, a quick, unguarded thing that softened his whole face, then returned to his browsing, a faint pink tinge climbing his neck.
Matthew’s heart did a small, silly flip. He forced his attention back to the shelves, pulling out a pristine copy of ‘Soft Sounds From Another Planet’ by Japanese Breakfast. He was examining the liner notes when a voice, quiet and clear, spoke beside him.
“That’s a great one. The production on ‘Road Head’ is insane. The way the synth line sort of disintegrates into the guitar feedback?”
Matthew turned. It was him. Up close, he looked younger than Robert or Evan, maybe late twenties. His eyes were a warm hazel behind the glasses, and his expression was openly curious, without a trace of recognition or agenda. It was unnerving.
“It’s a masterclass in controlled chaos,” Matthew agreed, surprised by the specificity of the comment. “The drums are mixed so dry, it makes everything else feel like it’s underwater.”
The man’s face brightened. “Exactly. You get it.” He shifted the records in his hands—a McCoy Tyner, an obscure Ethiopian jazz comp. “I’m Jack.”
“Matthew.” He offered his hand. Jack’s grip was firm, his skin warm.
“You’re not from here,” Jack said, not letting go immediately. “L.A.?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“The shoes. And the tan. We don’t get that kind of consistent sun here. It’s morally opposed.” Jack released his hand, pushing his glasses up his nose. “You in town for the festival?”
“Yeah. Just got in. Needed a break from… all that.” Matthew gestured vaguely south, toward Grant Park.
“I can imagine. The sensory overload.” Jack leaned against the shelf. “What do you do? In L.A.”
The loaded question. Matthew braced himself. “I work in music. On the production side.” It was true, sterile, designed to deflect.
Jack just nodded, accepting it. “Cool. I’m in the academic mines. Ethnomusicology PhD at U of C. Basically, I get to write long, depressing papers about why we like the sounds we like.”
Matthew laughed, a genuine, unexpected sound. “That sounds more useful than most of what I do.”
They talked for ten more minutes. About Chicago’s drill scene, about the ethics of field recordings, about the best dive bars with functioning jukeboxes. The conversation was easy, peppered with light, intelligent humor. The spark of attraction was there, a low, clean burn, different from the chaotic fireworks with Robert or the hollow convenience with Colton. This felt like finding a thread of melody in a room of noise.
But it was just a conversation. He was leaving in a few days. Jack was a student. The math was pointless.
“Well,” Matthew said, glancing at his watch. “I should let you get back to your digging. It was really nice talking to you, Jack.”
“You too, Matthew.” Jack’s smile was slightly wistful.
Matthew took his finds—the Japanese Breakfast and a curiosity, a vintage Brazilian Tropicália pressing—to the counter, paid, and left. The late afternoon sun was blinding after the shop’s dimness. He walked half a block, the plastic bag swinging at his side.
“Hey! Matthew!”
The voice came from behind him, breathless. He turned. Jack was jogging up the sidewalk, his glasses slipping down his nose. He skidded to a stop, a hand on his chest.
“Sorry. I don’t… I never do this.” He held out a crumpled receipt. A phone number was scrawled on the back in neat, precise digits. “Would you maybe want to hang out? While you’re here?”
Matthew stared at the paper, then at Jack’s earnest, slightly terrified face. He was so openly hopeful. It was disarming. “I’m only here until Monday. For Lollapalooza.”
“I know. I know it’s dumb.” Jack ran a hand through his hair. “So it’s short-term. We could get a drink? Tonight, after the last act? I know a place that’s quiet. No festival bros.”
The offer hung in the humid air. A drink. It was so simple, so normal. Not a clandestine hookup in a Los Angeles bungalow, not a fraught reunion in a hotel room booked for a cancelled show. Just a drink.
Matthew hesitated. He thought of Evan back at the hotel, of the unspoken tension between them. He thought of Robert, undoubtedly in some London solicitor’s office, fighting a different battle. This felt like stepping off a known, painful path into untracked grass.
He took the receipt. His fingers brushed Jack’s. “Okay.”
A relieved smile broke across Jack’s face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Matthew pulled out his own phone. “What’s your number? I’ll text you mine.”
They exchanged digits, a modern ritual that felt oddly momentous. “Cool,” Jack said, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “I’ll message you a place. Around eleven?”
“Sounds good.”
Jack gave a little wave, then turned and walked back toward the record store, hands shoved in his pockets. Matthew watched him go, the crumpled receipt suddenly heavy in his palm.
He walked back to the hotel in a daze, the city sounds muffled. The most that could come of this was a one-night stand. Was he even in the mood for that anesthetic brand of connection anymore, especially here with Evan, where the history between them vibrated with new possibilities? The whole thing felt like a complication he didn’t need.
Back in his quiet, cool room, he placed the records on the desk. He stared at Jack’s number on the receipt. He wouldn’t go. It was a foolish impulse. He’d text an apology, blame work, blame fatigue.
His phone buzzed on the marble bathroom counter. He picked it up.
Unknown Number: Hey Matthew. It’s Jack. The place is called The Violet Hour. It’s on Damen. No pressure at all, but I’ll be there from 11. Really enjoyed talking with you.
A location. A sweet, pressure-free message. It was the opposite of Robert’s demanding charisma or Colton’s transactional slickness.
Matthew leaned against the cool glass of the window, looking out at the sprawling, shimmering grid of Chicago. The butterflies in his stomach were a quiet, persistent flutter, a sensation he hadn’t felt in years. It wasn’t anxiety. It was anticipation.
His thumbs hovered over the screen. He thought of the gas station hot dog. He thought of the five-course meal forever out of reach.
He typed back.
Matthew: Looking forward to it. See you at 11.
He hit send before he could think, the decision making itself. The flutter in his stomach didn’t settle. It spread, warm and unsettling, a current of something that felt suspiciously like hope.
It spread, warm and unsettling, a current of something that felt suspiciously like hope. The feeling was so foreign it left him jittery. He needed to talk to someone, to ground himself, so he texted Evan.
Downstairs bar in ten? he sent.
Evan’s reply was instant. Already there. Producer meeting was a masterclass in bullshit. I need a real drink.
The hotel bar was all low leather and dim gold light, a stark contrast to the sun-drenched festival chaos outside. Evan sat at a corner table, two old fashioneds already waiting. He’d changed into a dark linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up. He looked like he belonged here, in charge.
“So?” Matthew slid into the chair opposite, taking a grateful sip. The bourbon was good, smoky.
“So the producer loved my reel, loved my vision, and fundamentally does not understand what a director does.” Evan drained half his glass in one go. “He spent twenty minutes explaining the plot of his own show to me. As if I hadn’t read the pilot he sent. He kept calling the protagonist ‘the hero guy.’ It was terrifying.”
Matthew laughed. “But you got the meeting. That’s something.”
“It’s a foot in a door that probably leads to a broom closet, but yeah.” Evan studied him. “You look different. Did you buy more records or did you finally get some sleep?”
“A little of both.” Matthew traced the condensation on his glass. The confession about Jack pressed against his teeth, a living thing. He swallowed it down. It felt too fragile, too new, to expose to Evan’s sharp, green-eyed analysis. “The shop was cool. Found some good stuff.”
“Told you. Better than sitting here marinating.” Evan signaled the waiter for another round. “Lana’s on in ninety. You wanna head over, catch the end of HAIM, then go say hi?”
“Yeah. She’d be pissed if I didn’t.”
The festival was a tidal wave of sound and heat, a dense crush of bodies and glitter and the sticky-sweet smell of spilled beer and sunscreen. They navigated through the VIP checkpoint, the noise shifting from a roar to a manageable thrum. The backstage area was a labyrinth of black tents and shipping containers, a privileged chaos.
Lana’s dressing room was a haze of incense and hairspray. She was in a silk kimono, surrounded by stylists, but her face lit up when she saw Matthew. “Matty! You made it.” She floated over, kissing him on both cheeks. “I heard about Robert’s visa nightmare. That’s brutal.”
“It is what it is,” he said, the practiced phrase already wearing thin.
“Well, I’m glad you’re here. You look handsome. Stressed, but handsome.” She turned her luminous gaze to Evan. “And you brought the director. How very chic.”
“Just moral support,” Evan said, shaking her hand. “Knock ‘em dead out there.”
“Always.” She squeezed Matthew’s arm. “We’ll do dinner in LA next week. I have ideas for the next thing. Sad girl hours, but make it orchestral.”
“You know where to find me.”
They left her to her final preparations and found their spot in the VIP section, stage left. The sky was a deep velvet blue, the stage lights cutting through the dusk like blades. As Lana’s haunting opening notes spilled over the crowd, a collective sigh rose from ten thousand people.
Matthew tried to lose himself in it. The swelling strings, the familiar ache in her voice, the way she commanded the stage with a mere whisper. He was proud. He’d helped shape that sound.
But his mind kept slipping its leash.
It darted back to the quiet of the record shop, the smell of dust and old paper. To Jack’s quick, unguarded smile as he talked about synth disintegration. To the simple, terrifying act of taking a receipt with a number on it. The texture of the paper was more real to him in that moment than the iconic figure on stage.
He checked his phone. 10:17 PM. Jack’s last message sat there: Really enjoyed talking with you.
A part of him, the part trained by years of Robert’s unpredictability, wanted to bail. To text a polite excuse and stay in the safe, understood orbit of Evan and this professional world. It would be easier. It would hurt less when he left Chicago, because nothing would have started.
But that was the old logic. The logic of the gas station hot dog, of settling for nourishment that wasn’t nourishment at all. Jack wasn’t a transaction. He was a conversation. And Matthew hadn’t realized how starved he was for a new one.
He was going to go. The decision solidified inside him as Lana hit the final, soaring note of "The Greatest." The crowd’s applause was a physical pressure. He was going to get the drink and see what happened.
The house lights came up, bathing the sweaty, euphoric crowd in a warm glow. Evan turned to him, his face relaxed and happy. “She’s a fucking icon. That never gets old.”
“Never,” Matthew agreed.
“There’s a place a couple blocks from here,” Evan said, clapping a hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “Speakeasy vibe. I read about it. Let’s go debrief properly. Maybe find some trouble.”
This was the moment. The momentum of their night together was pushing them toward that door, the one with the pilot light flickering behind it. Matthew felt a swoop of guilt, sharp and sudden.
“Evan… I can’t.”
Evan’s hand slipped from his shoulder. “What? You tired? One drink.”
“It’s not that.” Matthew braced himself. “I… I met someone.Earlier. At the record store. We made plans to get a drink tonight. At eleven.”
The noise of the dispersing crowd seemed to mute around them. Evan blinked. His expression went carefully, terrifyingly blank. “You what?”
“His name is Jack. He’s a grad student. We just talked about music. He asked me for a drink.” The words tumbled out, defensive and lame.
Evan stared at him. The blankness cracked, revealing pure, unvarnished disbelief. “We came here. To Chicago. Together. To spend time together. And you’re running off to meet some random guy you picked up in a record store?”
“It’s not like that.”
“It’s exactly like that, Matthew!” Evan’s voice was low, taut with anger. “Jesus. Robert has really done a number on you, hasn’t he? You’re so used to being the one waiting that you’ve internalized the fucking itinerary. Any port in a storm, is that it? Even if that port has a PhD and glasses?”
The accuracy of the blow left Matthew winded. He saw the disappointment now, bright and bitter in Evan’s eyes. This trip wasn’t just about distraction for Evan. It was a proposition. A door held open. And Matthew was choosing to walk past it toward a stranger.
“I’m sorry,” Matthew said, the apology profound and insufficient. “I should have said something earlier. It just… happened. And I want to go.”
“Yeah.” Evan looked away, jaw tight. He let out a short, humorless laugh. “I can see that you do.”
The silence between them was a third, wretched presence. Evan finally looked back, his expression softening into something sad and resigned. “Just be careful, Matty. Please. Don’t make any bad decisions.”
He stepped forward and pulled Matthew into a brief, hard hug. He kissed Matthew’s cheek. His lips lingered for a half-second too long, a whisper of intention that was neither clearly friendly nor purely romantic. It was a question Matthew was deliberately choosing not to answer.
Then Evan let him go. “Go on. Don’t keep your scholar waiting.”
“Are we okay?” Matthew asked, his voice barely audible over the crowd.
“We’re always okay,” Evan said, but he wasn’t smiling. “That’s the problem, I think. Text me tomorrow.”
He turned and melted into the stream of people heading for the exits, a blonde head moving away without looking back.
Matthew stood alone for a moment in the emptying VIP pen. The weight of the choice settled on him. He had just potentially sacrificed the solid, complicated reality of his oldest friendship for the possibility of a conversation with a man he’d known for twenty minutes.
He pulled out his phone, his thumbs cold. He pulled up the directions to The Violet Hour. The map showed a fifteen-minute walk. He put his phone in his pocket and started walking, leaving the glow of the stage behind, stepping into the humming, neon-drenched Chicago night.