Jace pointed at him. “Get your shit together.”
“My shit is…”
“Get your shit together,” he said again.
Jace slipped out the front door, leaving him alone with the silence. In the back of his head, he knew Jace was right. None of this was going to be solved without a conversation. He’d read enough books, knew enough history, to understand how important communication was. None of that negated his worry or his fear. None of that could magic him into someone with more experience, more skill.
He pulled out his phone and called Sebastian, who answered on the fifth ring.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” Remington greeted. “It’s me.”
“Oh. Hey.”
Remington supposed he deserved the icy tone Sebastian offered him.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Having a drink with Callahan.”
“Jace is on his way over.”
“You said Jace wasn’t due until close to eleven,” Sebastian said, the statement clearly directed at Callahan. Sebastian and Callahan exchanged some muffled words, and then Sebastian was back. “Apparently I’m having drinks with Callahan and Jace.”
“You could have a drink with me,” he offered.
“A week later?” Sebastian scoffed. “Could I?”
Remington swallowed. “Come over and have a drink with me.”
Sebastian made a soft noise, so gentle, he almost missed it. “Remington.”
“Please,” he added. Still not asking, but still trying.
“Yes,” Sebastian agreed. “Alright. I’ll be there in a bit.”
“Don’t drive,” he said.
“I’m not. I won’t.”
“Thank you.” Relief rushed through Remington’s body, sparking like hot and eager flames through his veins. It was a small thing, nearly inconsequential. But he’d given an order in person, no matter how small, and Sebastian had obeyed.
Maybe Jace was right. Maybe he could do this.
The fifteen minutes it took for Sebastian to show up at his door seemed an eternity, and he tried to school his eagerness as he pulled open the door. Sebastian looked much as he always did. Proper and put together, with pressed lines down the front of his khakis and that shiny old watch on his wrist. His blond hair was coiffed to the side, the smallest strands out of place and falling across his forehead. He stood on the welcome mat and inhaled an audible breath when Remington opened the door.
“Come in,” Remington said, standing out of the way.
Sebastian stepped into the apartment and gave the place a cursory glance, his stare settling on Remington.
“Drinks?” Sebastian asked.
“Right. What did you want?” Remington asked, heading for the kitchen. Sebastian followed him, leaning against the counter, his legs crossed at the ankle. Sebastian wore navy blue boat shoes, no socks, his pressed pants cuffed, exposing the barest hint of curly leg hair around his ankle bones.
“You can choose,” Sebastian said quietly.
“Right.” Remington smiled awkwardly. “Go make yourself at home. I’ll be right there.”
