Page 4 of Reggie and Delilah's Year of Falling

And I’m not a musician—not like Charlie, Beau, and Asher all are. Or like any of these women I watched last night, or Ryan Love. I can’t play guitar. I can’t write lyrics. I couldn’t even get a handleon the recorder in third-grade music class. So what do I know?

“Okay, one more question though,” Charlie says, and Beau, Asher, and I all groan. Charlie smiles sheepishly but keeps going.

“Don’t hate me,” he says, holding up his hands. “But have you thought any more about those outfits?”

We went shopping last week at some vintage stores on Retro Row, searching for the perfect stage outfits. Ryan Love’s well known for the sequined capes and embroidered tulle skirts she wears on stage, and I think Charlie was trying to help me figure out a stage look of my own. He picked out shiny gold leggings, crop tops with balloon sleeves, and a short romper covered in feathers.

They were so not me. Though I guess that’s the point.Mewouldn’t be doing this in the first place.

“No. No—forget it,” he says, waving that away. He pulls me close. Our hips touch and he runs his hands up and down my arms. “You look great.” I’m wearing what I usually do when I’m not in the Willmore Prep uniform: high-waisted jeans, a plain white T-shirt, and my checkerboard Vans. I threw a flannel over it tonight because the temperature has dipped below sixty-five and I’m freezing. But when he says it that way, touching me like this, I get pretty close to believing him.

“Really, kid, you’re made for this.”

Kid.I don’t remember exactly how that nickname started—he said it and it felt like the way things were supposed to be. Just like how Charlie and I became friends.

One day I was sitting all alone at lunch at a brand-new private school, and some cute boy sat down next to me and said, “Oh,youIneed to know.” The next day I was in their group, drawn into their orbit. I felt special, chosen.

Am I really made for this?

I don’t know. I don’tthinkso.

But I’ve always believed in the magic of the new year. Even though it’s just a day on the calendar, I love the idea that we get a chance to start over. Maybe when I step onto the stage tonight, I’ll feel like I belong there. Maybe the spotlight will make me into someone I’ve always wanted to be.

I keep that corny shit to myself, though.

“You ready?” Charlie asks, sliding open the door to the back seat. Asher and Beau are already in the front, arguing over what we’re going to listen to on the way.

No.

That’s the honest answer. But I pull on my chill exterior and shrug.

“Yeah, whatever. Let’s go.”

Reggie

I really fucking hate New Year’s Eve.

There’s always this big expectation that your life is going to change. Like, you couldn’t get your ass together the rest of the year, but somehow, through some woo-woo holiday magic, you’re all of a sudden going to start running marathons or figure out what exactly a 401k is or fall in love just because the clock strikes midnight? And, like, according to some arbitrary calendar created by whoever, it’s time for a fresh start?

Yeah. Sure. That’s allcompletelyreasonable.

That’s why I’m ignoring this bullshit holiday and spending tonight like I spend every Saturday night. As a cloud giant named Slarog.

Well, I’m not always a cloud giant. But he’s my favorite NPC. Slarog shows up in all the Dungeons & Dragons campaigns I run.

“As you enter the grand vault,” I say, keeping my voice low to build tension, “your limbs still ache with exhaustion fromthe climb to the Infernal Slopes, the steep mountain peak where Slarog’s castle sits perched high into the clouds. The room is so immense that it’s difficult to decipher where it ends, if it even does at all. A ceiling of mist overhead seems to reach the night sky. Walls of great boulders loom above your heads.”

“Oh, those boulders are coming into play! I’m calling that shit right now,” laughs my best friend, Yobani—or as he’s known on Saturday nights, Trickery, the tiefling bard. He grabs a handful of Hot Cheetos from one of the bags scattered around the outskirts of my dining room table. “I love it.”

“Boulders, though?” Greg says, raising a thick eyebrow. “I find it hard to believe that a cloud giant would keep his precious collection in such shabby quarters, as they value wealth and status.”

Greg is Gruldaito Gloomcloud, a human fighter—easily the most boring option in D&D. So it’s a perfect choice for Greg.

Yobani groans. “Not your campaign, Gruly.”

Leela (or Walona, the half-elf sorcerer) jabs him with her elbow. “You know he hates that.”

“Gruldaito,” Greg corrects him sternly. “And I know. I just want to make sure that Reggie has at least consulted the Monster Manual and we’re not goingentirelyhome brew here. Maybe the walls should be gilded, or at least composed of something rarer, like... obsidian? Just an innocent suggestion.” He purses his lips and shakes his head like he doesn’t care, even though healwayscares.

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