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It was why finding out Hunter’s true identity had been so awkward and disappointing.
Whatever friendship we’d been building up had been tainted by a real-life earlier version of me that had hurt Hunter and his friends. It was like discovering you’d planted seeds in sand instead of earth. You might have adequately watered them, but they would never grow roots.
I shut down my computer and somberly ate breakfast at the bay windows, watching Uncle Ben take off on his daily morning run. He sure had a lot of energy to burn.
Or frustration?
Sexual frustration?
Because he missed Jason, the love of his life?
I dropped my bowl into the sink with the clattering urgency to investigate. Pulse rabbiting, I snuck into Uncle Ben’s home office, found his address book—a leather-bound relic—and found Jason’s number.
Was I really doing this?
Yes. I needed to.
The phone rang four times before Jason picked up. “Miss me already, Harry?”
I inhaled sharply.
Jason’s coy, sexy purr; the hint Uncle Ben had called recently; and Harry. Uncle Benedict’s given name. Something he never let anyone else use.
My heart pounded in the base of my throat.
“Harry?” Concern, tenderness.
I slammed my eyes shut. “It’s not Harry.”
Silence descended thickly down the line. “Marc?”
“Y-yeah.”
“Shit, is Harry okay? I can fly out in three hours. Fuck, I’m hailing a cab right now—”
Jason’s panic almost broke me.
“He’s fine. Nothing happened to him. He doesn’t know I’m calling.”
Relief came in the form of a sigh and a relieved curse. And then, patiently—which is more than I might have deserved for calling like this—“Wait, why are you calling?”
“How long were you together?”
A pause. “Maybe you should speak to your uncle.”
Maybe I should. “How long?”
“It’s complicated.”
I tossed my pen atop my notepad. “How long.”
“We never stopped.”
I stared at young Uncle Ben and Jason in their framed picture on the desk. “Why didn’t he tell me?”
“Marc, honey, you really should talk to your uncle.”
“I’m talking to you.”
Jason gathered his thoughts, breathing heavily. “It’s been casual the last few years.”
I laughed, wryly. “The last six, you mean.”
“It might have been about that.”
Heat built behind my eyes and their smiling Kodak-moment blurred. “Casual meaning you’re free to sleep with whoever you want while you’re out of town?”
“We’re mature adults, Marc.”
“That’s a yes, then.”
“I hear that this news is upsetting you. I don’t know what to say.”
“I’ve met you, like, a dozen times over the last years. You never gave anything away.”
“We were discreet.”
“It’s because you never liked me, right? I was a jackass, and you didn’t want any part of raising that.”
“Marc, listen to me. I like you.”
I didn’t believe him. Jason was just being a nice guy. Saying what he was meant to say.
“My passion has always been ballet. Your uncle knows that. He encourages me to live my dreams. He is the best person I know.”
I blinked hard. Damp lashes coolly stamped my skin. “He never does, you know.”
“Never does what?”
I stared at the ceiling, hoping it might stop the gathering tears. “Never dates.”
Jason chuckled, brushing me off. “Of course he does. He dates all the time. No trouble getting lucky with a body like that!”
I shook my head. “He. Never. Dates.”
Jason remained quiet.
“My uncle—”
He sucked in a sharp breath and his voice cracked. “I gotta go.”
He hung up.
I dropped the phone and scrubbed my face. Fuck.
I didn’t know how I could tell Uncle Ben about this call.
Or how I could make everything up to him.
But Uncle Ben and Hunter wanted to save the gazebo, and I knew I needed to make that happen.
I spent the rest of the day writing and rewriting my spotlight article on Uncle Ben and Jason, and devising a strategy to save the gazebo. The thing was, I needed to establish value. Not only sentimental and aesthetic, but economic.
I researched the cost of benches and pansy beds, and amateurly calculated the economic valuation of cultural heritage. I dug out my notes from Professor Shammas’s class and headed to the econ department to ask for advice, calling property services on the way.
Five minutes later, I had a Tuesday meeting booked with the senior adviser overseeing the redevelopment. I texted Hunter the details, and Hunter texted back he’d be there.
I strode across the quad through a straggle of students bustling before the weekend.
Hunter: How was your day?
Just like that, his mouth was on mine. Gentle pressure at the points under my ears, the sticky heat of my nervous breath mingling with his. My veins jittered, and other places too. I bit on my smile like I could get drunk from it.
Me: It’s not over yet.
After chatting with Professor Shammas, I bussed to the sports center on Squirrel Hill. I breathed in the scent of rubber, polished floor, and sweat.
The sweat was probably my own nerves.
I rolled my shoulders back and assumed a lazy swagger. Three of the five courts were in use. Judging by the uniformed guys in wheelchairs tossing balls around, one court was Hunter’s.
