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22
TWO RYANS
Hunter
It’s true that text messages have made our lives easier. It’s also true that it can royally suck to try to convey tone in them. After I’ve showered and brushed my teeth, I open a message to Nate and do my best to seem upbeat.
Hunter: Hello! What time should I arrive? Also, I’ve no idea where you’re staying! Hope you’re having a good night.
Nate: Whatever works for you. Luxe Hotel in Knightsbridge. 1412. I’ll leave a key at the desk. I’ll be out for a while.
Ah but I can read his tone loud and clear in his reply. He doesn’t want to see me. This week is going to be cracking.
Tightening the towel around my waist, I head for the closet to find some clothes to take with me.
I should at least look the part, right? But what does a newly married queer man wear when he meets his annoyed husband?
The Internet’s answer? Something your husband will think is hot.
Thanks, Google. My husband doesn’t even want to see me.
Still, I choose a tight black T-shirt and jeans. I tug on motorcycle boots, then check my reflection. Much better than my navy-blue button-up in Vegas.
I leave my minuscule place in Bloomsbury, and on the walk to the tube station in the twilight, I return to my long list of texts.
Let’s see. Mum wants to take us out to dinner. I wince. That has awkward written all over it.
Trevor and Liam want to grab a drink or a coffee with Nate and me. Sounds complicated. Do we keep up the ruse for them or let them into the circle? No clue, so I hold off on that one too.
My sister wants to chat. Harlow understands me better than anyone, so I FaceTime her, hoping to catch her at work in New York.
She answers immediately. “Hello, Hunter. Or should I call you The English Cutie?”
I wince. “Please tell me I don’t have an Internet nickname.”
“You don’t have an Internet nickname,” she says drily. Then she grins and whispers, “Lies. Sweet little lies.” There’s a pause then she asks, “What happened? Do I need all night to listen to your story?”
“Shockingly no. It’s a simple story involving bourbon and a bet,” I say, and it’s a relief to talk to someone who knows why romance twists me up.
“Nothing is ever really simple,” she remarks, too wise for her twenty-one years. “What’s the real story, Hunter?”
I heave a sigh. “Oh, just the usual. The fantastic guy I drunk-married believes I hoodwinked him because I seemed like Charlie from the chocolate factory, but it turns out I’m Jay Gatsby, even though I’m not. And now we’re living in The Proposal.”
“Who’s Sandra Bullock and who’s Ryan Reynolds?” she asks.
“Obviously we’re both Ryan Reynolds. But that’s no shade on Sandra. She’s hot.” I pass a vintage clothing shop—Angie’s Vintage Duds—and smile at the purple-haired owner scurrying around the store. She waves back.
“I’m sure Ms. Bullock appreciates your appreciation. So, let’s see, you were living in Two Ryans, and now you’re in Two Ryans Are Married But Having A Misunderstanding.”
I laugh in spite of myself as I round the corner near the station. “Yes, but the other Ryan is pissed at me because he thinks I’m, I dunno, shady or secretive. To top it off, we have to stay hitched because we’ll both look like right idiots if the world finds out what we did. The up-and-coming producer trying to make it on his own turns out to be taking after Daddy. That kind of nonsense. So, Ryan and Ryan are pretending they’ve been secretly dating for four months. The upshot is I feel like a total wanker.” She sighs sympathetically. “I bet the other Ryan will understand why you didn’t say anything about Dad and the show when you first met.”
Possibly. I don’t know how Nate will handle it. “But I don’t know a thing about how relationships work, and now I’m having a big relationship,” I say, feeling a little helpless.
No, a lot.
“Welcome to the Big Relationship Club. We have jackets,” says my sister wryly. “But I get it. I understand why you didn’t let on.”
“Of course you do. I just feel like…like I’m repeating Dad’s last marriage,” I bite out, hating the taste of those words.
“You’re not, though,” she insists.
But that’s only the half of it, and I’m at the tube entrance, so I can’t tell her more. “I’m about to go underground. Wish me luck, Harlow.”
“Good luck.”
I take the tube to the Knightsbridge station and walk a few more blocks to the Luxe Hotel, where a uniformed doorman ushers me into the gleaming lobby.
At the sleek, black reception desk, I give my name to a mustached man in a tailored suit, and he says, “Wonderful, Mr. Colburn. Your husband went out but I believe he left something for you…”
