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“I’m gonna have to leave New York,” I say. Out loud. For the first time.
“We can figure something out,” Chris says because he’s a good friend. The person I’ve known the longest in the city. The guy I met in line at a fucking Starbucks. We were always there at the same time, and we struck up conversations that we eventually took to the park to continue while we finished our coffees.
Not only did he hook me up with my job, but Chris also invited me to live in this two-bedroom with himself and three other men. He said it would be tight, and it has been, but it was far better than what I’d been doing which involved the YMCA and a lot of “Let’s go back to your place.”
To say I slept my way through my first few years in Manhattan would be putting it kindly. I had it down to a science. At the time, I’d been doing odd jobs between go-sees. Food deliveries, waiting tables. I was even, briefly, an usher on Broadway.
Which is another reason I can’t believe this is what it’s come down to. A choice between living in some shitty apartment across the river to continue working as a doorman, or getting the hell out of this city that seems intent on chewing me up and spitting me out.
I very much feel like I’ve been spit out.
My thoughts drift uptown, to Olivier, who didn’t come home last night. If it hadn’t been for the crisis here, I’d be in his bed right now, with or without him, but I would have known he’d show up eventually.
“You don’t have to go anywhere, Drew. But I have been meaning to ask you what happened with you and Jericho the other night.”
I tip my head back until it hits the couch. “I started to see the writing on the wall when Eric moved out. I think I’ve been slowly backing off.”
“You guys are good together,” he says. “She’s the best of the best, you know?”
“Maybe too good,” I mumble.
“Oh, I get it. You’re feeling sorry for yourself.”
I turn to glare at him. “That’s so fucking insensitive, dude.”
Christian frowns. “I—you’re right. You doing okay?”
“Just between you and me, I’ve been seeing someone else.”
His lips part, and I know I’ve not only stunned him but sworn him in under bro code without his consent. “Since when?”
“A few weeks.”
“Is it serious?”
“I don’t know if I’d call it serious, but it’s different, and Jericho deserves a lot better.”
“Does she know?”
“Not yet?”
“Drew.”
I sigh. “What difference does it make? I’m not gonna be around much longer anyway.”
“Where are you gonna go?”
California? Texas? “Home,” I say. “To start. Then we’ll see.”
“You’re giving up.”
I’ve given up, I want to tell him. There’s a difference. “We should get some sleep.” I stand and stretch.
Before I go into the bedroom, Chris says, “I’m sorry.”
The words land like lead weight on my shoulders. “Yeah. Me, too.”
Closing the door behind me, I pull my phone out of my pocket. There’s a text from Olivier.
