Page 28 of Backward Motion

“You sure?” Brandon pressed.

Sam clutched the bottle of vodka he’d been pouring. Part of him wanted to leave with them, already anticipating the humiliation of confronting Felix and the inevitable dismissal that would follow.

Sam nodded and picked up his drinks, breezily wishing Brandon and Remy a good night and winding his way through the crowd to the balcony where Felix was having an intense conversation with a man wearing a red fedora. Felix was leaning in close, his hand resting on the man’s arm. Something about the way he held it there made Sam pause.

“Sometimes I feel like a fifties husband,” Felix was saying. “‘Just lie back, honey. It’ll be over soon.’”

The two burst out laughing, and Sam stiffened, his feet fixing in place, unable to make the three steps across the threshold to where his boyfriend was standing. The lights from the building across the street blurred out of focus. For a moment, he thought he was going to be sick.

“But he’s so cute, though.” Felix sounded almost wistful. “With his puppy-dog eyes and I’ll-do-anything-for-you vibe. God, and the head—”

“Here.” Sam stepped over and thrust Felix’s drink out in front of him.

Felix turned, and Sam saw he kept his hand on the man’s arm as if to show he could.

“Thanks, babe. Have you met Alfie?”

Sam felt them coming—all the things he wanted to say to Felix rising to choke him. But he swallowed the words before they could make it past his lips. Because deep down, he knew Felix was right. And it made him burn with shame that Felix knew just how pathetic he was.

Sam took a long swig of his vodka tonic. Then he threw on a smile that cracked at the edges. “Hi, Alfie.”

Chapter Fourteen

Connor turned right at the end of the street and continued toward the high school, his sneakers pounding the pavement. His headphones filled with the rhythmic thump of double bass overlaid by a chorus of hoarse growls. When he ran, he liked to listen to death metal—SepticFlesh, Abysmal Dawn, Paganizer. It helped him push through the discomfort.

Running cleared his head, and after the events at the festival earlier that evening, Connor was in desperate need of clarity. He’d returned to his apartment only to find he couldn’t sit still. He was annoyed at himself for being so obvious, torn between his growing feelings for Sam and the need to not be that creep who hits on his employees. Connor was starting to realize he’d probably carried a torch for Sam since sophomore year. Less a flame than an ember, because he’d been so violently in denial at the time he hadn’t been able to acknowledge—let alone understand—his attraction. Sam’s return to Oakdale had thrown him into a sort of reverse vortex where he was only now working through these feelings. How many times—then and now—had he stared at the man’s soft, sloping lips and wondered what it would be like to kiss him?

He ran faster to distract himself from the loop of conflicting thoughts. It didn’t help that Sam was impossible to read. He could be open and playful then suddenly distant. They had these exchanges that felt like flirting, would lock eyes in a way that made Connor’s stomach flip, yet it was all somehow platonic. He should just tellhim. Clear the air. But that would make things awkward if Sam didn’t feel the same. He might decide to quit, and having to go without Sam’s endearing smiles and easy conversation didn’t bear thinking about. The obvious choice was to simply try harder to repress his selfish impulses and focus on remaining friendly. Which meant Connor needed to get a grip on himself and not do stupid things like getting caught staring at Sam like a besotted puppy.

And yet...He shrank from the possibility, almost too afraid to hope. If there did exist a reality in which Sam wasn’t completely repulsed by him, Connor would always regret not taking that chance.

He jogged through the side entrance of the school and on toward the football field. It was deserted most nights after practice, which allowed him to complete several laps in solitude. The route from his apartment to the school had already caused him to break into a sweat, and he upped his pace, relishing the burn in his calves.

He’d made it halfway around the field when he saw the flicker of a smoldering cigarette in the distance. He could just make out the shadow of a person sitting beneath the floodlight down by the end zone. Curious, Connor continued his circuit and moved closer.

When he was several feet away, he realized it was Sam, sitting cross-legged on the grass and staring off into space. Connor slipped off his headphones and headed over, slowing to a walk. “I’m getting flashbacks,” he said when he was within earshot, still breathing hard.

Sam snapped his head up, startled. He dropped the hand with the cigarette and stubbed it out in the grass.

“Afraid I’ll narc?” Connor asked.

Sam managed a half smile. “It’s a bad habit.”

Connor shrugged. “It’s a tough one to break. Took me the better part of two years.”

“Hmm.” Sam twirled the smoke in his fingers, his face set in a brooding frown. He was wearing a too-large overcoat and looked like he’d left the house in a hurry.

“What are you doing out here?” Connor asked.

Sam appeared to ponder the question. “Hiding,” he said flatly.

“It’s a good spot for that,” Connor said, flopping onto the grass beside him.

“You’ll mess up your run,” Sam protested.

“I was done anyway,” Connor lied.

“I’m impressed. I still remember when you cut holes in your gym shorts so you didn’t have to do sprints.”