Page 221 of A Taste of Vanilla

Uncertainty stays with me. Just the quiet, unsettling knowledge that the people who love Halston are watching me, and somehow, instead of making me want to run, it makes me want to become the type of man who can be watched.

nineteen

. . .

Nerd Church and Other Unsafe Intimacies

HALSTON

Oliver’s baris closed to the public, which means Saints & Sinners is at its best. No strangers, no Vipers, no tourists asking if the absinthe cocktail is “fun.” No men in boat shoes leaning against the bar thinking about cheating on their wives. Just low light, locked doors, the smell of citrus and whiskey, and a handwritten sign Oliver has taped to the front window that says:

PRIVATE EVENT

NO SPORTS

NO QUESTIONS

Underneath it, Dev has added in smaller handwriting:Unless they are lore-related.

Oliver has either not noticed, or has chosen not to.

“I hate this,” he says from behind the bar.

Marley sits at the largest corner table with a bag of sour candy, three mechanical pens, two notebooks, and the expression of a woman who is about one fictional decision away from a mental breakdown. Dev is beside her wearing a velvet cape noone asked him to wear, and Lisa, who got a babysitter specifically to be here, sits with one ankle crossed over the other, calmly sorting dice by color.

It dawns on me that she’s the only person who could face a dragon, a tax audit, and a toddler’s birthday party with the exact same expression.

I stand near the end of the table with my backpack clutched to my chest like it contains state secrets.

But it contains something worse than state secrets.

My Dungeons & Dragons binder.

My maps. My notes. My hand-drawn kingdom with a spoon-shaped river, a haunted orchard, and an emotionally unstable prince, seven rival baker guilds, a mountain range called the Widow’s Teeth, and one cursed lake I accidentally made too romantic and cannot undo.

And Warren is here. He’s here because Marley invited him without asking me, which she claims is “normal friend group integration” and I claim is a “targeted attack on my nervous system.”

He sits at the end of the table in a dark t-shirt, his arm tattoos on full display, his hair tied back, and his posture straight. He doesn’t have dice, but he does have a character sheet and a mug of black coffee Oliver made him with spite.

He looks serious.

Warren always looks serious, but this is different.

He’s observing. Out of his league.

“Give us the map, Halston.”

“No.”

“You made us close early for nerd church.”

“I didn’tmakeyou do anything.”

“You told me, and I quote, ‘I need a big table and mood lighting, and your place is the only one I can think of.’”

“That’s setting the mood, Oliver.”

He rolls his eyes. “Give us the map.”