Page 45 of Point of Contact

“Everything okay?” he mumbled around his toothbrush, leaning down to quickly spit and rinse.

Trevor nodded, trying to sound reassuring. “Yeah, just need to take care of something. I won’t be long.” He wasn’t ready to tell Carl what he was planning yet, in case he couldn’t go through with it. Best not to get his hopes up.

He made quick work of the drive downtown, pulling up to the curb across the street from Jelly’s. It boasted a large outdoor courtyard strung with white lights and warmed by strategically placed heat lamps. Servers flitted amongst the table groupings, and the sound of conversation and laughter drifted to Trevor’s ears.

Inside, more tables, and Trevor was surprised by how busy the place was for a weeknight. The bar was huge, the centerpiece of the room, racks of liquor bottles behind it lit up in neon colors. Trevor managed to squeeze into an end spot, and he perched on the stool, leaning his elbows on the padded leather edge of the counter, looking for Jesse. He didn’t see him for a moment, finally spotting him across the way mixing drinks for a group of women. Jesse wore a tight black T-shirt and black jeans, both of which molded themselves to his tall, lean body. A tattoo peeked out from under his right sleeve, just the bottom half of it visible, something curlicued and swirly. He flashed a practiced, sexy half-smile as he waited on the women, and Trevor couldn’t help but contrast it to the open, happy grin he remembered from the night of the party, one that lit up his entire face.

Trevor squeezed his eyes shut, the sounds of the nightclub fading away, replaced by the memory of splashing, whooping...

“Trevor?”

Trevor opened his eyes and looked right into Jesse’s concerned ones. “Oh, hey, Jesse.”

“Hey.” Jesse leaned on the bar top toward him, the fabric of his T-shirt stretching tightly over his broad shoulders. “It’s good to see you. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, sort of.” Trevor blew out a breath. “I was actually hoping to talk to you about something.”

Jesse’s gaze was steady. “Sure. I have a break coming up in about forty minutes. Can you wait that long?”

“Of course. Thank you, Jesse.”

It’d been ages since he’d sat and had a beer in a bar, so Trevor impulsively ordered an Amstel Light, watching as Jesse pulled it expertly from the tap into a tall glass before placing it on a coaster in front of him. Trevor thanked him and sipped the cold brew, listening to the chatter of young people out for a good time swirling around him. At one point Jesse reappeared with a small plate of bruschetta, and he slid it onto the bar along with a small stack of napkins.

“Oh, I didn’t order—” Trevor began, and Jesse tapped his fingers on the edge of the plate.

“I know, but you need something to soak up the beer. It’s on me.”

Jesse hurried off before Trevor could say anything else, and Trevor stared after him, touched by his thoughtfulness. He picked up the first piece and bit into it, the rich flavor of fresh tomato and spicy basil bursting on his tongue. Always intermittent these days, his appetite decided to make an appearance, and before long he’d polished off the whole thing.

When Jesse eventually swung by to pick up the empty plate, Trevor said, “That really hit the spot, Jesse. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“How did you know I love bruschetta?”

Jesse paused, looking down at the plate in his hand. “It was Riley’s favorite appetizer,” he said at last. “No matter where we went, if there was bruschetta on the menu, he was getting it.” He quirked his lips. “He had to have learned to love it somewhere.”

Trevor was startled into a chuckle. “You’re right. We always fought over the last piece, too.” He pantomimed a silent tug-of-war, and Jesse laughed.

“I can’t stand tomato myself, so that was never an issue with us.”

“So if bruschetta wasn’t on the menu, what would he get? What was his second favorite appetizer?” Trevor asked challengingly, delighted when Jesse answered without missing a beat, “Mozzarella sticks. And those we fought over, because he always tried to hog them.”

Trevor could picture it so clearly, Riley’s attempts to snag the last piece of bruschetta, pretending to growl if Trevor reached for it first. Tears, never far away, sprang to his eyes, but once again, sharing a happy memory with someone who really knew Riley seemed to make the pain more manageable, less cutting. Before either of them could say more, Jesse’s name was called from across the bar, and throwing an apologetic glance at Trevor, he went back to work.

Trevor finished his beer, and when Jesse at last waved to him to indicate he was on break, he pulled a twenty from his wallet and dropped it in Jesse’s tip jar before getting up to join him. Jesse donned a black leather jacket, saying, “I only have fifteen minutes, so wanna go outside where it’s quieter?”

“Sure.” Trevor zipped up his hoodie, and hands stuffed in their pockets, they left the restaurant and ambled slowly up the sidewalk.

“What’s on your mind?” Jesse asked when Trevor didn’t immediately speak. Now that the moment was here, Trevor was having a hard time finding the words.

Finally he cleared his throat. “Uh, I’ve been thinking maybe it’s time to—to pack up Riley’s bedroom.”

Jesse was silent for a moment, then asked, “Why do you think it’s time?”

Trevor clenched his fists inside his pockets. “Well, it’s coming up on a year since he died, and—”

“Doesn’t matter if it’s been five years, Trevor. If you’re not ready, you’re not ready.”