by Beth Bolden
He warmed up, cycling through some of their older hits, singing along under his breath, just to keep his memory up. When Star Shadow had reunited early in the year, he hadn’t played any of their songs in forever, and now that he was practiced, he wasn’t going to make the same mistake again and let himself get out of practice.
Next, he pulled out some music he’d buried under another pile. He hadn’t been hiding it necessarily, but Benji came over to his house frequently when they weren’t touring, and he hadn’t wanted him finding it.
Benji was so sensitive about what he perceived as the failure of his solo album, and he didn’t need to know that Diego had been tweaking one of the songs—his favorite, “Violet”—to try to find a more musically interesting place. A place where maybe they could put it on the Star Shadow album.
It was almost definitely a fool’s errand but Diego loved the song, and he didn’t want it to die. Even if he only ever played this for Benji, the time he’d spent would be worth it.
He ran fingers over the keys confidently, then grabbing the pencil he’d stuck through his ponytail, made another notation on the sheet music.
Benji had been so eager to prove himself, he’d gone the hard route every which way he could on this song, but what it really needed was space for the melody and the lyrics to grow and develop and stick.
The way they’d always stuck on Diego.
He made three more notations, simplified the breakdown after the chorus some, and glancing at his watch, considered pulling out his acoustic guitar and adding a second part.
Because really, when it came down to it, that was sort of what he pictured when he reworked this song. A duet, just him and Benji—the songwriter and the subject—singing this song to each other. Star Shadow would do this new version justice, but, not for the first time, Diego wanted a song for them like “The Scientist” had been for Leo and Caleb.
But the glance at his watch told him that he needed to shower and get dinner going, or else he was going to be sitting at the piano when Benji got here, and there was no way he was ready to hear what Diego had in mind—yet.
CHAPTER SIX
Benji changed his shirt three times, and when he finally settled on one Cora had specifically said made him look fuckable, he sweated right through it.
It was not an auspicious beginning.
It had been so long since he’d actually been on a date, he couldn’t even remember the last time. He and Sophie had fallen in together casually, and then developed a more serious relationship almost by accident. Humiliatingly, there had been more than one occasion when he’d actually thought that it was good she was around because it had kept his hands and his mouth, and most importantly, his cock, away from Diego.
Sophie had gotten the shitty end of the bargain, but then he’d given her a lot of money in the divorce. They might not be even, but miraculously, she didn’t seem to hate him. In fact, when she’d informed him she was leaving, she’d even hugged him and told him that what he needed more than anything else was to find the courage to go after what he really wanted.
Not what the world wanted for him.
Some days it felt impossible to juggle the demands of Star Shadow’s fanbase, his own fanbase, both labels, and Jay. Much of the time it didn’t feel like there was even room in there for what Benji wanted.
Everyone struggled with balance, but for Benji, for whom saying no was next to impossible, it was a nightmare.
But this thing that was developing with Diego, it was worth every bad moment, every impossible situation he’d been placed into. He would sacrifice a lifetime’s worth of peace, if they could figure out how to make this work.
Benji changed his shirt a fourth time, slipped into his Maserati, and then drove to the florist. He’d considered bringing a really nice bottle of wine, but he didn’t know what they were eating, and Diego wouldn’t be impressed that he could hire a sommelier to pick out something fancy. Flowers it was, and Benji knew exactly what he wanted.
Still, the florist looked at him like he was a little crazy. “You want red roses and violets? We don’t really . . . violets really aren’t a bouquet type of flower.”
Benji tapped an impatient foot on the floor. “I don’t care,” he said. It needed to be roses, red as blood, for Diego’s tattoo, and violets because he had written the song about Diego, and he wanted him to know it, unequivocally.
“How about purple roses?” the florist asked, showing him a vase full in the floor-to-ceiling display cooler. “Very trendy right now.”
Trendy might matter to other people—if the flowers had been for Sophie, Benji would have just grabbed whatever the florist suggested—but these were important. He needed them to send a message.
I know it took forever, but I’m here now, and I’m going to win your heart.
“Could you do anything with the roses and the violets?” Benji asked, and any other time might have been embarrassed at the pleading tone he used. But he’d wanted this so much, and was tied up completely in the idea those two flowers represented. “I promise, price isn’t an issue.”
“A lower arrangement, maybe, something bedded in moss,” the florist said hesitatingly. “It would take a little while to construct. Half an hour, maybe?”
Benji glanced at his watch. He’d put on the silver Patek Phillipe, with his second-best shirt. Nothing was more important than this date, but he wasn’t willing to be late, either. The good news was that Diego’s house wasn’t far, and he could probably just make it on time, if he drove his Maserati the way it had been designed to be driven—way too fast.
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
The florist looked relieved, and went into the back room, presumably to get started.
Benji pulled out his phone, hoping for a distraction so he’d stay calm and not sweat through another shirt.
Twenty-eight minutes later, the florist was back, cradling a wooden box in her arms, violets and red roses nestled together inside a bed of moss.
It was wild and unique and Benji gave the florist a look of everlasting gratitude. This was everything Diego was, and somehow the florist had known even though he couldn’t possibly.
Seven minutes of Grand Prix driving later, Benji pulled up to Diego’s driveway. Carefully, he lifted the flower arrangement from the passenger seat and got out of the car, trying to regulate his breathing.
He’d told Diego a few days ago that they’d been friends for ten years, so why were dates such a big deal? He’d even called Diego and arranged for them to meet at his stylist’s office, with the explicit plan of taking Diego to dinner afterwards.
But that was a far cry from the purposefulness of this evening. If they were still just friends, he’d never have shown up here, with flowers, dressed up, to eat a dinner Diego had planned and then cooked for him.
There was an inevitability with every action that made Benji’s heart race.
He rang the bell, and unlike last time he’d been here, dressed in jogging clothes and praying to God that he hadn’t waited too long to say how he felt, Diego opened the door right away.
He was wearing another of his favorite long-sleeved semi-transparent t-shirts. This one was navy, and Benji could see the shadow of the rose tattoo through the fabric. His hair lay in shining waves against his head, and Benji wanted nothing more than to touch it. But this time, unlike every other time he’d had the desire, now he was allowed.
So he did, reaching out and cupping Diego’s head in his hand, fingers trailing through his hair. They stood there for a long, drawn-out moment, just staring at each other, and then Diego came the rest of the way, pressing up against the flowers, and kissing Benji like it had been weeks, not only twenty-four hours.
“Wait,” Benji said breathlessly, pulling back. As much as he wanted to kiss Diego, he didn’t want the flowers crushed because, unlike any other random bouquet, these actually meant something.
“These,” Benji continued, pressing the arrangement into Diego’s hands, “are for you.�
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A look of wonderment crossed Diego’s face, as his fingertips lightly danced over a violet and then a rose bud, as red as the tattoo Benji could still barely tear his eyes off of. “They’re beautiful.”
It was incredibly cheesy but also incredibly accurate for Benji to say, “Not as beautiful as you.”
Diego flushed a little, and looked up, eyes full of warmth and an emotion that Benji hoped was love. “Come in. I have just the place for these.”
Benji trailed him into the house, past the foyer and into the kitchen, where the lights were dimmed and candles were burning, and then out onto the terrace. He’d set a table for two outside, with an embarrassingly large amount of candles offsetting the lights strung across the top of the balcony.
Los Angeles was laid out in front of them like a gift, but Benji only glanced at the view. He watched as Diego set the flower arrangement onto the table and smiled.
“Roses for me, violets for you, right?” Diego asked, his sideways glance so affectionate, Benji could nearly feel it on his skin, like a caress.
“Sort of,” Benji admitted. He’d wanted to believe he could bluntly say what he’d never explicitly stated before—that all the poignant, haunting yearning of “Violet” was for one person, and one person alone—but when faced with the perfect moment to say it, his courage stumbled.
Suddenly Diego’s face lit up even brighter than the lights of Los Angeles. “For ‘Violet,’” he said. “My favorite song of yours.”
Benji flushed. Why hadn’t he been able to say it? He shouldn’t be punishing himself for failing at the last moment, but it didn’t feel great that he hadn’t been able to follow through. What if he couldn’t follow through with the rest of what he’d hoped for tonight?
“Yeah,” he said, “you figured it out.”
Diego moved closer and gathered him up into a very tight hug. A hug much like they might have had only a few weeks ago—supposedly purely platonic—except that this one went on and on and on. Before, one of them would’ve had to let go before it got weird, but now that wasn’t necessary anymore. They could hold each other as long as they liked.
“You should’ve told me, long ago,” Diego murmured into Benji’s ear. “I know how much that song means to you.”
“And now I know how much it means to you,” Benji whispered back. He couldn’t have said it even six months ago—his marriage notwithstanding. He hadn’t been ready. There were moments now, flashes of doubt, where he wondered if he was ready now. He’d been so sure he was going to tell Diego everything about “Violet,” but he hadn’t been able to.
At least not yet, anyway. The evening was still young.
Diego shifted backwards and looked very serious. “You know it’s more than just my favorite song.”
“It is?” Benji wasn’t sure where Diego was going with this.
“I’ve been . . .” He hesitated. “I’ve been working on a new arrangement.”
“Of ‘Violet’? Why?” Benji knew Diego had been one of the few unabashed fans of his solo album, and of that song in particular, but why would he be continuing to waste his time with it now?
Diego shrugged. “It’s beautiful. I love beautiful things. Do I need another reason?”
He didn’t, but the hesitation in his voice scared Benji. “You’re not . . . I’m not going to record any more solo music. Not for a long time. I’m done, for now.”
“Right, yeah,” Diego said, and lightened up as he changed the subject. “Dinner’s almost ready. You want to help me finish it up?”
“Sure.”
For every moment of crippling self-doubt, there were easily a dozen more where everything came easy and natural to them, like they’d been doing this relationship thing a whole lot longer than a few days. Diego reached out for Benji’s hand and laced their fingers together, giving him a little squeeze.
“I promise not to poison you,” Diego said with a chuckle. “It’s just a roast chicken.”
“You roasted a chicken?” Benji didn’t like dwelling on things he wasn’t good at, but cooking was definitely one of them. “I didn’t know you could do that.”
“It’s not exactly hard. You just follow a recipe.” Diego led the way through the patio doors to the kitchen, where something smelled incredible in the oven. “We just need to finish up the rice and the green beans. Do you want wine?”
“That’s what I should have brought,” Benji grumbled. “Wine.”
Diego smacked him lightly on the shoulder. “The flowers were gorgeous. Are gorgeous. And you’re gorgeous for giving them to me. Besides, I picked up some wine.” He grinned. “You know the place. It’s got lots of food, and even some booze.”
“I know what a grocery store is,” Benji retorted, but his facial muscles involuntarily twitched up into a smile. He couldn’t help it. As nervous as he’d been—as he still was—it was so good to be here, just soaking in Diego’s presence.
“That’s not what Leo says,” Diego said, pulling out green beans from the fridge and grabbing a pan from the hanging rack above the stove. Diego’s kitchen didn’t feel anything like Benji’s—his was lived-in, with warm terracotta and reddish tones, nothing like Benji’s stark white sterilized room that he barely ever used.
“Leo’s an idiot.”
Diego flashed him a knowing little smirk. “But he’s not wrong.”
“I cook,” Benji protested. “And it’s not like Leo can cook either. He eats cold cereal ninety-nine point nine percent of the time.”
“I don’t think he ever claimed he could.” But Diego clearly had some skill, as he whipped out a terrifying-looking chef’s knife and very competently chopped the green beans into smaller pieces.
“I’ve just been so busy, it was easier to have someone else prepare meals and leave them in the freezer,” Benji pointed out. “I don’t know how you make time to do it all.”
Diego rolled his eyes. “That’s easy. I don’t have a solo career. I don’t produce music for other artists, like you do with Leo, and I definitely don’t have a stylist. Though . . .” Diego paused and glanced over at Benji, his gaze skimming over him. “If she picked out that shirt, I’m not complaining.”
It had never occurred to Benji that the reason he was so much busier than everyone else was because he’d chosen to do all this extra stuff. Stuff that Diego didn’t do. Leo did help with songwriting and producing, when Benji was working on an album, but initially, that hadn’t even been Leo’s choice. Benji had dragged him into the studio about two years post-Star Shadow, when it hadn’t looked like he ever left the house he and Caleb had shared before.
“Why not?” Benji asked. Because he realized he genuinely wanted to know. Diego wasn’t lazy; he had some ambition, and more than some talent and skill. Why wasn’t he doing anything with them?
Diego shrugged. “Maybe I’m good with what we do already.” Shifting his attention to a pot on the stove, he picked up the lid, fluffed something inside with a fork and slid in a pat of butter he had already portioned out. “Dinner’s nearly ready. The wine’s just in the fridge. Can you open it and pour?”
But Benji was frozen in place. “We weren’t doing anything already, not before Caleb came back this year. We were officially broken up. We’d all moved on. Well, some of us had moved on.”
Benji didn’t necessarily mean Diego in that statement—mostly he’d meant Leo, who’d been stuck in a five-year-long rut after losing Caleb—but maybe it was more applicable than he’d realized.
What had Diego been doing?
“I do stuff,” Diego said, and his voice was defensive around the edges.
“Right, right, of course you do.” Benji kicked himself for bringing up the subject on their big date, even if it was inadvertent. The last thing he wanted to do was piss Diego off by nearly accusing him of being lazy and aimless and not doing anything with his life. But really, besides the wonder of Ana, what was the last thing he’d created?
“Where’s the wine again?” Benji wasn’t proud
of himself trying to change the subject, but he did it because he was afraid if he didn’t, he might not drop the conversation at all. And it wasn’t going to end well—definitely not the way he’d been hoping this date would end.
“The fridge.” Diego had shifted into comfortable neutrality, and Benji sent up a prayer that he hadn’t just fucked everything up.
But, that annoying voice inside of Benji reminded him, if Diego isn’t doing anything with his life, that’s not your fault.
No, it was not. But he wasn’t going to jeopardize any of this by saying so outright.
He found the wine, and the opener, sitting out helpfully on the counter next to the fridge. Diego, whatever he did with his time, did know how to plan a dinner. Benji hadn’t ever seen him as a planner, but there was real planning involved with this evening. And suddenly, with that thought, the nerves were back.
What else had Diego planned for tonight?
As he poured the wine, Benji tried to steady his suddenly trembling fingers. Whatever Diego had planned—or whatever he hadn’t—they would be fine. They’d been friends for almost ten years. No matter what happened, he knew neither of them would let anything ruin that.
But as they sat on the patio, and clinked wine glasses in a makeshift toast, Diego’s eyes glowing in the candlelit dusk, something inside Benji trembled.
He wanted so much. Not just Diego pressed naked against him, but a hundred other moments like this one. A thousand. He remembered during the tour, when Leo had kissed Caleb on stage, and after Benji had questioned him, all Leo had said was that he was “being free.” And Benji, who would’ve claimed before this moment that he was perfectly free, suddenly realized how many rules and directions and self-enforced guidelines he was truly laboring under.
Suddenly that was what he wanted too. More than anything else. To simply be free.