Sunsets for the Hopeful and the Hopeless: The second installment in The Moonboy series

By G. Louis Mueller and Dalton Smith

Following the death of Liam Russell's father, he decides to rejoin the social scene by attending a party where he meets a new kind of reckoning, Aaron Espinosa. It doesn't take long for Liam to recognize the destructive nature of his infatuation. But months after their meaningful first night together, Liam struggles to win the internal war of keeping Aaron out of his life. Through inescapable memories and bilateral vulnerability brought to the boys by shared tragedy, they are drawn together once again. Many moons of adventure follow their reunion, which sparks a fire in Aaron's life, who finally comes to terms with his own feelings for Liam. Together, they leave behind a trail of moments to never be forgotten. Life as they know it isn't bound to stay bright forever though. The time that follows their demise is what helps Liam to fit into the forever burning skin of The Moonboy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543989823

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ISBN: 9781543989823

A prequel to The Moonboy and His Solstice

For the love of the world and music, and those who can find happiness when it feels impossible.

Table of Contents

Part Zero: No Strings Attached

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Part One: Too many Strings to Count

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Part Two: Replacing Strings With Rope

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

PART ZERO:

No Strings Attached

November 17, 2017

CHAPTER ONE

For an ephemeral moment, the cliques of my peers standing in groups around the room freeze, dumbfounded as I shuffle through the entryway of Kayla Sandoval’s house. I use her as somewhat of a shield from their stupid, surprised faces. Her being such a close friend makes my arrival simpler, shoveling away some of the weight in my anxiety.

These losers look like they’ve just seen someone die in a horrible car accident. No, actually, they look like they’ve seen someone whose father just died in a horrible car accident. Oh, wait, that someone is me.

Watching everyone make an awkward effort not to stare, reminds me that they are all just as familiar as I am with the tragedy that has struck my family.

I didn’t invite any of them to put an x-ray over my life for the past few months, but they did it regardless, asking invasive questions about my father’s death, not even realizing the insensitivity of it all. That pain was buried along with a corpse—so mutilated that it called for a closed-casket viewing—and I can’t understand why anyone would want to get their hands dirty enough to resurface those many days and nights of grieving.

Kayla holds my hand, reminding me that people will want to show their condolences through shallow greetings and pity hugs, given from ill projections of empathy. I try not to physically express how out of place I feel, but I’m obviously still achingly tense because her hand-hold gets tighter, and my throat starts to feel like I’m swallowing rocks.

Vitality returns to the crowd and I’m approached by my other inner circle friends, Nina Turner, Miriam Rivera and Stella West. It’s not a pleasant surprise to see them, more of a saving grace.

I’ve been exclusively talking to them for the past three months because having more than four friends at a time like this makes life so much more draining.

Their hugs release me into a brief state of glowing thoughts and smiles.

I let a social wall fall down, flashing a smile to anyone who greets me as I saunter by. Seeing the things people do to make me feel welcome isn’t as bad as I had imagined. They don’t treat me like The-Kid-Whose-Dad-Just-Died, so that’s a plus.

It’s weirdly sickening that everyone is ignoring the situation completely though. The lack of attention to the subject gives me the idea that Dad’s accident means nothing more than a few sympathetic words. Just another person who’s passed through this wasteland of a world.

I don’t want to forget him.

It’s been so long since I’ve been to a party, and I didn’t think I would come to one anytime soon.

It took a lecture from my mom and my brother, Luke, to convince me to leave my room. They told me I should start being social again, stop stressing about Dad’s death and how it’s affecting the family. Mom always tells me it’s unhealthy to dwell on things like this. She says Dad would want us to continue to pursue our aspirations, and learn to not let his death get in the way of the full lives we are bound to live.

Looking around, warming up to all of these familiar faces, I can’t seem to grasp the months that have passed me by. The days of social opportunity that I chose to stay isolated in my room.

I miss this.

Finally, my friends and I make it to the backyard, and a sharp fall breeze hits my skin.

What inspired the festivities, Kayla? I ask, falling into a lawn chair.

Over the fence line, I can see the nighttime horizon of San Francisco. The lively Golden Gate Bridge stands tall and vociferously.

I’m trying to make it an annual thing to have a party the Friday we go on break for holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas. She now shares the chair with me.

Well, it’s a good idea, and I’m glad I came. My arm falls over both of her shoulders.

The five of us crunch our bodies in order to cram onto the end of the lounge chair.

I forgot what it feels like for all of us to hang out as a group. This is nice. Stella inhales deeply.

A sign of mental tranquility.

Thank you for twisting my arm to come, Kayla. I lean my head onto her shoulder, now taking my turn to relinquish by inhaling, feeling a somewhat exhausting release.

"Everyone has missed you. You were absent for six parties now—for an understandable reason of course." Stella pinches my arm.

"We’ve missed you the most, obviously." Kayla relaxes onto me.

"It’s so early for the sky to be this dark already." Miriam spurts out, not even being close to the subject of conversation.

It’s 6:48pm.

But it makes for a killer view, Nina adds.

It’s true, the city has never looked better. There’s a thin shower of illumination falling off of the moon, and an even brighter dome of light projecting from the city.

I can just barely see the bay and how the bordering restaurants reflect light into the water.

Such a gentle current.

Readjusting to a personable mindset from a visit with my friends aids me in an attempt to grab a drink.

Having to excuse myself past people until I reach the table where the bowl of blueberry lemonade punch almosts kills me, but it’s all worth it when the carbonation of the tart drink hits my lips.

Spiked? I could only hope so.

My eyes flicker around the living room, surveying how stupid teenagers can get when they drink.

After a moment of standing alone—like I’m suddenly incapable of interacting with school mates who I’ve known my whole life—I squeeze my shoulders through what little space lies between each person.

The scent of trashy beer and overworked hormones motivates me to speed up my pace.

Just when I’m about to place a foot onto the back wooden deck, I’m paralyzed.

The smell of beer overwhelms me, and a cold liquid slips down my whole body. My back tenses again as I realize some idiot has splashed beer all over me.

I turn around, What the hell is wrong with you? I shout to the first person I see holding a red solo cup.

Oh shit, sorry man. A tall—maybe a football player—senior from school pats my shoulder.

I murder him with the fury of my eyes.

Watch yourself! My voice thunders above the heavy bass of the music.

I stick to the wall as I make my way to the kitchen in search of paper towels.

My shirt’s gonna smell like beer now. How the hell do I explain this to Mom?

Eventually, I reach the kitchen and my eyes immediately find a hand towel.

The wall that separates this space from the living room creates just enough of a sound barrier for me to catch my breath and hear myself think. I’m almost too angry to notice that there is someone else here. Another person—who obviously doesn’t belong at this party—seeking nothing more than a bit of quiet.

I look up, and sitting on the counter next to the sink is a boy: quiet, attached to his phone, deep in the music blasting from his headphones—which is drastically different from whatever the hell is on in the living room. He has the most beautiful hair, nice glasses, and a handsome face.

Oh, so handsome.

I’m pretty sure I’ve seen this guy in the hallways at school, but I don’t think I’ve done anything more than a casual head nod to him.

There is a magnetic loneliness he carries, it makes me nervous to dampen my cloth, but it makes me endlessly more tempted to approach him.

Hey, cutie, can you scoot over a bit so I can wet this towel?

Yo, I need to reach the sink.

Aye, Kayla’s counter isn’t a seat, get up.

I flip through ways to ask him to move, but throw each of them away, and stay quiet while attempting to squeeze around him. Luckily, he takes the hint and hops off of the counter.

I stand by the sink for a couple of minutes, dragging the towel across the back of my neck and left sleeve of my shirt.

You should know, it’s never gonna come out with just water.

I turn around to discover the handsome boy is talking to me.

Excuse me? I respond, taken aback.

I‘ve never talked to this guy in my life and he’s trying to tell me how to clean myself up.

Why don’t you come clean it yourself then, smartass.

He slips his phone into the front pocket of his gray slim-fit jeans, and walks towards me.

I’m just wondering how he was able to read my mind.

"I mean, I guess you could try to get it out, the boy shrugs. Give me the towel. I’ll get your back." He insists, like observing my frustration is painful for him.

Who are you? I snap, passing him the cloth.

His hand wraps around my arm as he pulls my sleeve into the light shining from above an island in the middle of the kitchen. I notice the intense warmth of his fingers sinking into my seemingly icy skin, and a switch flips in my whole being. The weight of the tension shifts as soon as my eyes rush to meet his. I look for a sign that my senses are right, that his hold on me is anything more than a friendly gesture.

I’m Aaron Espinosa, he says.

Our eyes find each other just like I hoped they would, and for the longest second, I stop thinking about Dad. About what he would’ve thought of this interaction, or how he’d try to tell me not to trust a boy I met at a party.

Almost as if being next to Aaron in this moment extracts me from a cold, sleazy reality.

I can’t help but express the tingling in my body through a slight smile to Aaron.

He catches it and smirks back, asking, "So, whose shirt am I trying, but failing, to clean right now?"

Name’s Liam Russell. I lean back against the white marble top of the kitchen island.

My head falls and I focus on detailing in the tile on the floor, even though I should be looking for signs from him based on his mannerisms.

Like how his mouth is slightly open while he grabs my arm snugger, or how I imagine he doesn’t want to let go of me.

Any sign.

Yeah, uh, I don’t think it’s gonna come out. It’s being stubborn. He shoots the towel back over to the sink, watching it fold up as it hits the marble. "But maybe it’s not that noticeable."

I take a few steps back and he squints to examine the shirt.

No, it’s most definitely noticeable. He laughs. His hand pats me on the shoulder in a jokingly sympathetic way.

Dude, my mom is gonna kill me. I start to think of the last words I speak before she beats me over the head with a book when I go home.

Maybe you shouldn’t have been drinking, he banters.

Hey, asshole, I wasn’t drinking. Some other idiot spilled it on me when I was trying to go outside. I argue.

"That’s what someone who was drinking would say." He bumps his elbow into mine.

I feel the small moment of contact kill me inside, which translates into a smile towards him.

"Well, my friends are probably wondering if I left the party by now—so I’m gonna head back outside. Thanks for trying to clean my shirt."

Apparently, my nervous attempt to leave the kitchen panics him because