Chapter 1: The Call That Rewinds Time
The coffee was perfect. Matthew Scott held the warm mug between his palms, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the hazy Los Angeles skyline. His home in the Hollywood Hills was quiet, a curated sanctuary of bleached wood and soft textiles, a world away from the grinding noise of the studios. In here, there was only the faint scent of bergamot, the silent grand piano waiting in the living room, and the satisfying knowledge that his next session wasn’t for three days.
His phone shattered the peace. The screen flashed KELLY - AGENT. He considered letting it go to voicemail, but Kelly had a radar for avoidance. She’d just call back louder.
“Tell me you’re sitting down,” her voice blasted through the speaker before he could utter a hello.
“I’m always sitting down when you call, Kel. It’s a defensive posture.”
“Good. You’ll need it.” He could hear her lighting a cigarette, a habit she’d never admit to having. “Remember that Y2K nostalgia special NBC is producing? The one-hour prime-time thing, ‘I Love the 2000s’ or whatever?”
“Vaguely.” He took a slow sip of coffee.
“They want a reunion. A one-night-only performance. The full quartet.” She paused, letting the words hang. “They want Fusion4.”
The coffee turned to acid in his throat. He set the mug down carefully on the teak side table, the click of ceramic on wood abnormally loud. “No.”
“Matthew.”
“That’s not a negotiating position, Kelly. It’s a fact. No.”
“It’s one song. One night. They’re offering mid-six figures. For one song. It’s a nostalgia puff piece, a bit of fun. You go on, you play ‘Upside Down,’ the audience squeals, you collect a giant check for your retirement fund.” Her words were rapid-fire, a hustler’s symphony.
“My retirement fund is fine. I have a studio in my garage. I produce charting albums. I don’t need to dig up a costume from 2002 and dance on a lit-up stage.” His voice was tighter than he intended. He walked to the window, the view suddenly feeling less like a sanctuary and more like a very nice cage.
“It’s not about need. It’s about exposure. A different demographic. The people who watch this are the ones now buying their kids iPads and feeling sentimental. It’s good for the brand.”
“My brand,” Matthew said flatly, “is that I write and produce hits for other people. My face is not the brand. Fusion4 was a… youthful experiment. It’s been over for fifteen years.”
“Exactly! That’s the whole point! The sweet, cringe, hilarious nostalgia of it all. Come on, Matt. Marie is in. Sara is in.”
He closed his eyes. A familiar, old tension coiled at the base of his spine. “And Ryan?”
A beat of silence. A long drag on the cigarette. “He’s in. They’re all in. It’s just you holding the door closed.”
“I’m not holding anything closed. I just have a life. A career. Robert.” Saying his boyfriend’s name was an anchor, a reminder of his present, stable reality. A long-distance reality, but a solid one. Five years. A shared home in London. Plans.
“Robert will think it’s a hoot. And it’s one weekend of rehearsals, tops. You still play the piano every day. You could probably still do the routine in your sleep.”
“I don’t want to do it in my sleep. I don’t want to do it awake.” The memory was a physical thing now—the synthetic beat, the sticky hairspray, the desperate, hopeful look in Ryan’s eyes under the stage lights. The crushing weight of his own silence afterwards.
Kelly’s tone shifted, softened into the dangerous territory of sincerity. “Look. I get it. Okay? I do. That whole thing was… messy. But it’s been a lifetime. You’re not those kids anymore. You’re a thirty-eight-year-old man with a Grammy on his shelf. This is business. Pleasant, lucrative business. Just think about it. Don’t say no. Just say you’ll consider it.”
Matthew pressed his forehead against the cool glass. Outside, a hummingbird darted at a feeder, a blur of iridescent green. Frantic, beautiful movement going nowhere. He felt a sudden, profound fatigue. Arguing with Kelly was an energy sink; she always won through attrition.
“Fine,” he breathed, the word leaving him like a surrender.
“Fine, you’ll consider?”
“Yes. I’ll consider. That’s all.”
“That’s my guy! I’ll email the details. Don’t overthink it. Just look at the number.” The line went dead.
He left the phone on the window sill and walked to the piano. He didn’t sit. He just trailed his fingers across the smooth, cool lid. He hadn’t played that song in years. Not since the final, brutal fight in a cramped Helsinki hotel room, rain sheeting the windows, the last of his naive faith dissolving in Ryan’s dismissive laugh.
Fusion4 hadn’t been a boy band. It was two guys, two girls, matching outfits, choreography that was more enthusiastic than skilled. They’d had a middling hit, “Upside Down,” that charted in the lower teens. That was enough for two albums, a tour of shopping malls and summer festivals, and a permanent, low-grade hum of anxiety. He’d written “Upside Down” in a delirium of secret yearning, pouring his confusing, electric attraction to his bandmate into four chords and a sugary synth line. Ryan had sung the lead, grinning right at him during the key change, and Matthew had felt the world actually, physically tip.
The relationship, when it finally stumbled out of the closet and into the dark corners of tour buses, was everything and nothing. It was the most profound connection of his young life and a professionally mandated secret. It was fumbling and intense and terrifying. Ryan was all bright, chaotic energy, a born performer who lived on the applause and the next thrill. Matthew was the planner, the writer, the one who fretted over harmonies and schedules. He’d loved him with a desperate, all-consuming fire. He’d built his entire world around the stolen moments, the hidden touches, the future he imagined for them once the group inevitably faded.
And Ryan had crushed it. Not with malice, but with a casual, breathtaking carelessness. It was fun, Matt. But it’s not real life, is it? Real life, for Ryan, was a solo deal, a repositioning of his brand, a girlfriend conveniently photographed on a red carpet. Matthew had been packed away with the matching satin shirts.
The humiliation had been absolute. It wasn’t just a broken heart; it was a demolition of his identity. The band dissolved soon after, not with a bang, but with the quiet, administrative click of contracts not being renewed.
He’d rebuilt himself from scratch. He learned production. He cultivated a ear for other people’s talent. He buried the part of himself that believed in grand, dramatic love stories, and found something calmer, steadier, safer with Robert. He’d erected a life of impeccable, controlled success.
And now they wanted him to go back. To stand on a mark, under hot lights, and sing the stupid, secret song with the man who’d treated his heart like a forgotten prop.
His fingers, resting on the piano lid, curled into a faint tremor. He wasn’t that desperate kid anymore. He was successful. He was loved. He was safe.
The echo of Kelly’s words—mid-six figures, just one song—mixed with the older, more piercing echo of Ryan’s laugh. The offer sat in the quiet room, a ghost in a glittery jacket, waiting for an answer. He had said he would consider it. The consideration felt like a door, long sealed and painted over, groaning open on rusty hinges, letting in a draft of something that smelled like cheap body spray and heartbreak.
The consideration felt like a door, long sealed and painted over, groaning open on rusty hinges, letting in a draft of something that smelled like cheap body spray and heartbreak. He needed a voice of reason. Or, at least, a voice that wasn’t screaming about brand synergy.
Robert picked up on the third ring, the sound of a bustling airport terminal momentarily flooding the quiet room. “Darling. I’ve got seventeen minutes before they shove me into a metal tube. Tell me something fascinating.”
“Kelly called,” Matthew said, sliding down to sit on the floor, his back against the piano. “You’re not going to believe the offer.”
He laid it out, the nostalgia special, the one-song deal, the mid-six figures. He braced for Robert’s serious, considered opinion.
Robert’s laugh was a booming, unfiltered crackle down the line. “No! Fusion4? That’s brilliant. Absolutely wicked.”
“It’s not brilliant, it’s mortifying.”
“It’s a laugh! Oh, come on, you have to do it. I demand front row tickets. I need to see my serious, sophisticated producer man in whatever horrifying assembly of pleather and velour you used to wear. Did you have frosted tips? Please tell me you had frosted tips.”
Matthew pinched the bridge of his nose, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “It was the early 2000s, Robert. Of course I had frosted tips. Briefly.”
“There you go! It’s a historical reenactment. It’s camp. You have to say yes. Think of the stories.”
The warmth in Robert’s voice was genuine, his amusement complete. He saw it as a silly, harmless bit of business, a funny story for dinner parties. He had no context for the hollow feeling in Matthew’s stomach, the specific gravity of Ryan Lucas’s name. Their history was a locked box Matthew had never found the right moment—or the right courage—to open. Robert knew there was an ex-bandmate, an ex-boyfriend, a vague period of ‘messy youth.’ He didn’t know the shape of the scars.
“I’ll think about it,” Matthew said, matching Robert’s light tone. “Mostly so I can hear you cackle from the audience.”
“That’s the spirit! Gotta run, love. Rehearsal call in the morning. Miss you. Say yes!” The line went dead, leaving behind a cheerful void.
The reassurance Matthew had hoped for felt thin, diluted by Robert’s breezy detachment. He was alone again with the decision. He pulled his phone back into his hands, his thumb hovering over the Instagram icon. A morbid curiosity took hold. If he was going to consider walking back into that world, he needed to see what it looked like now.
He searched for Marie first. @mariesorensenofficial. Her feed was a masterclass in persistent glamour. Professional photoshoots in dramatic gowns, studio snippets of new dance-pop tracks that sounded just a little too similar to last year’s model. The comments were polite, but sparse. A sponsored post for a teeth-whitening kit. The most recent picture was a candid from a songwriter’s retreat, her famous blonde hair swept over one shoulder, caption: Back to my roots, creating from the soul. New era coming. The likes were a fraction of what a true A-lister would command. He felt a pang, not of envy, but of recognition. She was holding onto the ledge by her manicured fingertips.
Next, Sara. @sarasvillage. Her grid was a burst of chaotic, colorful life. Five beaming kids in matching pajamas. A reel of a spectacularly failed cupcake decorating attempt. A heartfelt caption about postpartum anxiety next to a sponsored post for probiotic yogurt. My little village! she’d written under a picture of a messy, beautiful kitchen. A million followers. She’d traded a recording studio for a homework table, and she seemed, genuinely, thrilled about it. He smiled, a real one this time, and double-tapped a picture of her oldest wearing a football helmet three sizes too big.
Then, his thumb stalled. He typed the name. @ryanlucas.
The profile was public. The first picture was Ryan and Jonathan, tanned and ridiculous, wearing florid shirts at some tropical resort. Ryan’s arm was slung around Jonathan’s broad shoulders, both of them grinning at the camera with uncomplicated joy. Jonathan was all white teeth and perfectly curated stubble, his physique obvious even in the loose linen. Living my best life with my best guy. #blessed #gaysofbeverlyhills.
Matthew scrolled. Ryan at a premiere, looking sleek in a tux. Ryan on the set of Pacific Shores, his soap, in a doctor’s coat. Ryan and Jonathan at a farmers market. Ryan and Jonathan with a ridiculously small dog. Ryan, finally, openly, unapologetically gay. Living the life he’d been so terrified to claim when he was with Matthew. The life Matthew had fantasized about building with him.
The photos were a punch to the gut. It wasn’t jealousy, not exactly. It was a more corrosive, confusing feeling. It was the stark, high-definition proof that the problem had never been the world, or the industry, or the fear of being found out. The problem had simply been Matthew. He wasn’t the right guy. He hadn’t been worth the risk.
Jonathan’s smiling face, kind and uninteresting, was the final seal on that truth. Ryan had chosen safety after all—just a different, more acceptable kind. A safer, handsomer, less complicated bet.
Matthew tossed his phone onto the sofa. It landed with a soft thud. The quiet of the house pressed in, far heavier than before. Outside, the sun was beginning to dip, painting the sky in streaks of orange and purple. He looked from his silent, elegant piano to the gleaming studio visible through the glass door to the garage. He had built a perfect, controlled life here. A life of respectable success and a charming, if distant, boyfriend.
And across town, or on a soundstage, or at a farmers market, Ryan Lucas was living a happy, shiny, open life, wearing his truth like a comfortable jacket. The ghost from the past wasn’t haunting a dusty old stage. It was thriving. And it had just been offered a prime-time special.
He got up, walked to the kitchen, and poured himself two fingers of whiskey. The liquid burned a clean, clarifying path down his throat. He stared out at the deepening twilight, the city lights beginning to sparkle like distant, indifferent stars.
Kelly’s number glowed on his phone screen, still face-up on the sofa. He took another sip, the ice cubes clinking a solitary toast in the silent room. The decision, now, felt less like a door opening and more like a gauntlet thrown.
The decision, now, felt less like a door opening and more like a gauntlet thrown. The whiskey glass was cool in his hand, but the warmth in his chest had turned into a low, stubborn burn. He couldn’t call Robert again; his boyfriend’s cheerful dismissal would only make him feel more isolated. There was only one person who had been in the trenches with him, who had seen the whole ugly, beautiful truth of it all.
He scrolled past Kelly’s name and found Sara’s. It was late on the East Coast, but she’d be awake. She was always awake.
She answered on the second ring, a cacophony of childish laughter and splashing water in the background. “Matt! Hang on—TJ, don’t you dare pour that shampoo on your sister! Sorry. Bath time. The war zone. What’s up?”
Just the sound of her voice, harried and real, eased the tightness in his shoulders. “Hey, Sar. You got two minutes?”
“For you? Always. Kids! Daddy’s in charge! I’m going to the laundry room for a grown-up conversation!” The noise faded, replaced by the hum of a dryer. “Okay. I’m hiding. This is my spa. Talk to me.”
“Kelly got an offer. For a Fusion4 reunion. A one-song thing for some NBC nostalgia special.”
The silence on the other end was profound. Then, a low whistle. “Wow. Okay. That’s… a blast from the past. And you’re calling me because you’re freaking out.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Matt, I changed your sheets after you cried for three days straight when he broke up with you. I know your ‘freak-out’ silence. It has a specific pitch.” Her voice was gentle, devoid of judgment. “So. Marie’s desperate, I’m bored, and Ryan’s… well, he’s Ryan. Are you in?”
“That’s the question. Robert thinks it’s hilarious. Kelly sees dollar signs and a brand refresh. I see… a minefield.”
“The minefield being one six-foot-tall, blonde, formerly-closeted soap actor.”
He leaned back against the kitchen counter. “Seeing him would be hard. Pretending everything’s fine for the cameras would be harder. Hearing that song… God, Sara. I wrote that about him. Everyone was dancing to my pathetic, secret crush.”
“It wasn’t pathetic. It was sweet. And it gave us all a career for a hot minute.” She sighed. “Look. I’m not going to pretend it wasn’t awful. What he did to you was cowardly and shitty. But it was also, like, a hundred years ago. We were kids. Scared kids.”
“He seems pretty unscared now. He’s got the boyfriend, the dog, the whole out-and-proud package. It’s just galling, you know? He wouldn’t give us that chance, but he’ll give it to some Instagram-famous actor named Jonathan.”
“Jonathan’s nice. Kind of boring, but nice. I follow him. He makes a good smoothie.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “This isn’t about Jonathan. This is about you having to stand in a room with your ex and not spontaneously combust. Which, for the record, I think you can handle. You’re not a heartbroken kid anymore. You’re Matthew Scott. You’re a big deal.”
“It feels like going backwards.”
“It’s a weekend. A very, very well-paid weekend. Think of it as… emotional hazard pay. And it’s just us. Me and you. And Marie, who will probably have a rider demanding only green M&Ms. And Ryan, who will be on his best behavior because his publicist told him to be. You can do civil. You’re the king of civil.”
He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “What if it’s a disaster?”
“Then it’s a funny story. ‘Remember that time we tried to reunite and it was a dumpster fire?’ My followers would eat that up. Come on, Matt. Do it for me. Do it so I can have a weekend in L.A. without someone asking me where the sippy cups are. Do it so we can have one last dance, for old times’ sake. Please?”
Her plea was wrapped in warmth and a thread of genuine excitement. She wasn’t pushing for business; she was pushing for a shared experience, a bookmark in their middle age. He thought of her chaotic, joyful life, so far removed from the sterile perfection of his own. She was offering him a connection, a thread back to a part of himself he’d walled off.
The resistance in him, brittle and sharp, began to soften. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was just a weekend. He wasn’t the same person. Ryan certainly wasn’t. The power dynamic had shifted completely. He held the cards now—the career, the respect, the stable life. Showing up wouldn’t be a surrender; it would be a demonstration.
“Okay,” he said, the word surprising him as it left his mouth.
“Okay you’ll think about it?”
“Okay, I’ll do it.”
A shriek of delight came through the phone. “Yes! Thank you! Oh, this is going to be epic. I’ll dig out my old platform sneakers. Okay, I have to go, I think someone just flooded the bathroom. I love you! Call Kelly!”
The line went dead, leaving him in the sudden quiet of his kitchen. The momentum of Sara’s excitement carried him. If he waited, he’d talk himself out of it. He picked up his phone, found Kelly’s number, and hit call before the doubt could resurface.
She answered instantly. “You’ve considered. I can hear it in your breathing. You’re going to say yes.”
He took a final, deep breath. “Set it up. But my terms. One song only. ‘Upside Down.’ Two rehearsal days, max. I’m not doing any press junkets where they ask about ‘old flames.’ My involvement is strictly musical and performance-based. Understood?”
He could hear the triumphant grin in her voice. “Understood. I’ll have the contracts to you by morning. Welcome back to the boy band, Matthew.”
“It was a mixed-gender pop group, Kelly.”
“Whatever. You’re gonna look great in HD.” She hung up.
Matthew placed the phone down on the counter. The gauntlet had been picked up. The city lights outside seemed sharper now, less like indifferent stars and more like the lights of an arena, waiting. A nervous energy, part dread and part something else—something perilously close to anticipation—crackled in the quiet air. He finished the whiskey, the burn now a familiar companion.
The past was no longer a locked box. It was a rehearsal schedule, a contract, a song he’d have to play again. And in a matter of weeks, it would be Ryan Lucas, standing across from him in a studio, for the first time in fifteen years.