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Deciding to put on a brave face, I turn and dive into the colorful noise bomb that is my apartment. On any other night of the week under any other set of circumstances, I might have been delighted to come home to a house party in progress. Tonight, I’m just praying there isn’t an orgy happening on my bed right now.
There isn’t an inch of space unoccupied in the whole apartment. I have to politely (as politely as one can manage by shouldering through a crowd) push my way to the kitchen, where I find Brett and a circle of guys laughing and shouting over each other trying to retell a story about some guy’s ex, who was apparently involved in a hilarious and humiliating sexual mishap at a frat house.
Brett catches my eye, then interrupts himself. “Connor! Bro! Just the guy I wanted to see!” After a quick round of introductions—where half of the names are slurred and I retain about two percent of the information thrown at me about who is who—Brett slaps a hand over my back and pulls me aside. “How was your Friday? Bro, sorry about the whole impromptu … party thing. I did warn you this could happen, right? I swear, it was just gonna be two guys, but then they brought two others, and four became eight, and eight became … this.”
“I thought you were supposed to meet up with the guy from Pogo’s,” I suddenly recall. “Wasn’t that tonight? You said the two of you were gonna go to an arcade or something.”
“Oh, yeah, uh …” Brett clumsily runs a hand through his hair, knocking off his hat. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Well, it turns out he’s … seeing someone. A comic from Grayson Point. Probably a real stand-up kinda guy.” He burps suddenly, then chuckles at his pun. “Just my luck, right?”
“I’m sorry … bro,” I say, giving his shoulder a rub. The term of endearment sounds awkward in my mouth, but I’m trying to comfort my roommate here. “You’ll find a guy whose heart is all yours.”
“I thought I had that back in college … well, before I dropped out,” he adds, then presses a fist to his mouth to suppress a burp. “I fell hard for this cutie in my frat named Skylar. Total babe. I looked out for him. He had my back. We were tight. He stole my heart, bro … stole every bit of it. I don’t think anyone’s ever gonna compare.”
I can see the pain in his eyes. There’s a deep, heartrending story there I’m not sure he’s ready to tell. Clearly so much of his life right now is built on suppressing how he feels about this Skylar fellow.
Better to put a bookmark in it for now. “You’re a good guy,” I tell my roommate sincerely. “I think you’re going to find someone just like you with a heart the size of the whole world.”
“Yeah, but he won’t be Skylar,” Brett mumbles sulkily. Then he lifts his eyes to mine, coming out of it. “Hey, don’t let my mood drag you down! You’ve got your Alan, and I’m happy for you! Oh, and he’s here, by the way.”
I blink. “He’s what?”
“Yeah! I half-invited him. Well, kinda. I mean, he was looking for you, and I told him you would be home soon, since it’s … uh, I don’t remember what I said, actually. What time is it?” He squints at his phone. “Fuck-o’clock, that’s what time. Shit, I think I left someone in my bedroom.” He staggers into the crowd, and I just sort of let him, stunned.
I look around at once, searching the crowd for Alan. Instead, I find that gorgeous-faced black man I met on my very first day here, standing by the window with a drink in his hand chatting with someone, maybe another tenant. He’s in a designer leather bomber jacket and jeans that, yet again, affirms my otherwise unsupported assumption that he’s a model who’s walked right off the pages of a fashion or fitness magazine—or both. The muscular man has style, a heaven-sent face, and …
He glances at me, as if sensing my staring. His beautiful eyes narrow irritably and his jaw tightens.
Okay, and he’s still not my biggest fan.
For whatever reason.
“I haven’t done anything to you, by the way,” I blurt suddenly. Maybe it’s the day I’ve had. Maybe it’s the craziness of this horribly-timed party when all I want is peace and comfort. Maybe it’s just that look he’s giving me, but I suddenly have to forego my usual compassion and simply vent. “You, on the other hand, scared away a perfectly nice teenager who was drawing the Sistine Chapel on our stoop. I mean, really, why are you discouraging a budding young artist from pursuing his passions? Shouldn’t we nurture young talent?”
