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“Oh, yeah? That hot trainer of yours got you running in circles around the gym?”
Who in the fuck am I going to go out with tonight? I pray my ass isn’t resorting to hitting up one of my snooty photographer colleagues, making up some false alibi of wanting to scope the scene for inspiration.
Which I guess, in some aspects, isn’t actually all that far from the truth.
It’s just one specific inspiration I’m in need of.
An “inspiration” that slipped right through my damned fingers.
“Yeah,” I answer him belatedly. “Trainer’s got me working hard. Something like that.” I pull out my phone, fretting.
Just then, the French doors pull open, and his young, bright-eyed roommate Connor appears in a t-shirt and jeans, which bunch up on a pair of red-and-white sneakers. “Wait a second,” says Connor, interjecting himself into our moment here. “Didn’t mean to overhear, but … you … you need a guy to hit the town with?”
“He needs a wingman,” Brett clarifies.
Connor gasps excitedly. “Hey, I have the perfect guy in mind for that!”
Brett and I look at each other, then stare at him expectantly, waiting.
He spreads his hands excitedly. “Me! I’m your guy! I’ll be your wingman!”
My eyebrows draw together critically.
Brett, however, sees no problem in his way-too-suspiciously-chipper roommate’s proposal. “Great idea! You were just complaining that Alan is busy with some kind of project tonight, and your dinner plans with him were canceled.”
“So really, you’re the one doing me the favor,” Connor points out to me.
I stare at him hard. “Actually …”
“There you go, Dante,” Brett decides with a slap on my shoulder—which, from the painfully loud smack and his wince, probably hurts his hand more than it did my shoulder. “Problem solved.”
I frown irritably at him.
Connor’s cheery face is in front of mine. “So when do we go? Aw, shoot, I need a minute or two to get ready. I still have that distinctively antiseptic Wales Weekly scent on me and could use a shower. Oh, what should I wear? Shit, are we doing more of a club scene thing, or a bar scene thing? It makes a difference.” With that, he heads back into his room to pull something out of his wardrobe.
I turn my definitively sour glare onto Brett, who misinterprets my sourness for nerves, of all things. “Whoever this guy is you’re trying to find, he’s lucky. You’ll have a great time tonight, man.”
This is the worst fucking idea ever.
6
Also, Lex is full of shit.
Cute guys don’t just re-pop-back-up in Mayville.
Connor and I have spent several hours in three different nightclubs with no sign of him. Our busy asses have been hit on by so many guys tonight, I’m ready to just start saying I’m straight so they’ll back the fuck off.
Twink Whisperer Connor over here isn’t fazed one bit. He just sits there looking pretty with his vodka tonic in hand, smiles sweetly, and says, “No, sorry, I’m taken by my awesome boyfriend Alan.”
As if this extra element is what I needed tonight.
To hear about how perfect his boyfriend is.
How happy he’s been.
How he just somehow fell into this big city like goddamned Dorothy from Kansas, discovered his place right away, landed the perfect bro roommate, found love within a week, and can’t be happier.
“Are you annoyed by something?”
I throw Connor a look. “I’m not annoyed.”
He squints at me awhile, studying my face, and (wisely) decides to let it go. He asks something else: “Can you tell me about this guy we’re lookin’ for?”
“No.”
“Alrighty.”
We ditch another nightclub and spill onto the street. It’s a particularly louder-than-usual night. Or else it really has been so long since I’ve gone and forced myself into the noise of a Friday night.
“I probably sound like a broken record about Alan,” Connor volunteers suddenly when we stop at a corner waiting on the traffic light to change, “but I’m worried … about what’s ‘next’.”
I lift a questioning eyebrow at him.
“I mean, there’s an upside,” he explains. “The distance is sort of working in our favor right now. Alan still has his space while we continue building our relationship, and I still have mine … but …” He frowns. “Since Brett and I both have boyfriends now, it just feels strange, you know?”
“Strange how?” I ask, inwardly catching myself off-guard. Why am I investing myself in his life at all?
Connor appears ever so glad I asked, and ever so glad to answer: “It feels like we’re playin’ some game of tug-of-war with our significant others … who are halfway across town.”
The traffic stops, the lights change, and the pair of us start our way across the street. “You just got done saying you’re happy you guys have space,” I start to say, confused, “and now …”
“Would Brett be, like, super mad if I left Piazza Place, do you think?”
I stop halfway across the street. “Say what?”
