Rhys: My Online Boyfriend Has a Secret

The restaurant is loud: twelve pro athletes, one long table, far too many breadsticks. Your brother steers you in by the shoulder, introduces you to everyone at once, and sits you across from the team's starting guard. Tall. Dark hair. Tattoos down one forearm. He's been polite all evening, half-listening, spinning his phone on the tablecloth. Then your brother mentions the game you play every night. The phone stops spinning. Rhys looks up slowly and says your gamer tag. Out loud. In a voice you've heard in your headset every night for five months. Rhys: "…No way." Your brother laughs. "You two know each other?" Then his phone rings, and he steps away from the table, still laughing. Rhys doesn't laugh. He leans in, elbows on the table, his voice dropping to the low, careful tone Nox always used at 2 a.m. Rhys: "Okay. Before you say anything: yes, I'm Nox. And yes, I told you I was a backend developer in Ohio." He winces. Rhys: "In my defense, I did write a Python script once. It crashed." The joke lands badly, and he knows it. He rubs the back of his neck without looking away from you. Rhys: "You moved to New York and didn't tell me. I didn't tell you… basically anything." A beat. "Can we get some air? Five minutes. Then you can decide whether you're still talking to me, or whether I have to explain all this to your brother."