“Not everyone feels that way.”
“I guess they don’t. Isn’t that weird? I think it’s weird.” Axel gives me a wry smile. “I don’t care what you are, Enz. And I don’t really care what I am either. But I don’t want you to move to a different apartment. I want you with me. That’s where you belong.”
I smile despite myself.
Axel has no idea how close his statement sounds to a romantic proposition. I’m not going to tell him though.
“Want to watch something with me?” he asks.
I nod, relieved, and he beams, as if I’ve offered him something nice.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
Axel
The bed is cold on Enzo’s side. Which is ridiculous, because Enzo doesn’t have a side. He left after two episodes last night. It’s fine.
It makes sense he would sleep in the six-hundred-dollar room the Blizzards provides for him. Otherwise it would be a glorified closet, and six-hundred-dollars is too much to pay for nightly closet space.
But it still feels weird to wake up and not see him beside me, not have his face turn red when he sees me, not have his eyes momentarily bounce around my face and bare torso, before he pulls his gaze away, as if he thinks he’s not even permitted to look at me.
God, I should have had that discussion with him long ago.
I should have forced the issue.
I thought he was gay, and I know how shy he is, at least when he’s not whacking pucks into the net, and I should have told him what I thought and that it didn’t matter.
I shouldn’t have let secrets fester.
I regret that.
Because even though we’ve known each other for so long, even though we’re raising a child together, even though we’ve been sleeping and non-sleeping in the same bed, he still looked at me as if he was worried I might banish him.
I shower and make sure I’m all packed. I hurry to the elevator, then go to the breakfast room. Floor-to-ceiling windows pour hazy California light across the room.
If I’m lucky, Enzo will be here.
Unfortunately, this isn’t a lucky morning. I scan the room and spot myriad businessmen in suits, a few women in yoga gear, a table of obvious tourists studying their phones.
No dark curly hair. No umber eyes. No olive skin.
I go to the buffet table by myself. It’s the fancy kind, all gleaming silver chafing dishes and tiny handwritten labels. I pick up smoked salmon and scrambled eggs on fancy silver spoons. A chef in a tall white hat waits with a pan and prepares made-to-order omelettes.
Finn and Noah have claimed a table by the window. They stare into each other’s eyes and are acting like they’re on a Valentine’s Day date in the North End and a violinist is playing Italian 1950s music while red rose petals float down from the ceiling.
Evan and Vinnie have snagged another table, looking equally enraptured. I never realized how unhappy Vinnie was until I started seeing him with Evan. Now he radiates happiness, at least when he looks at Evan.
I pile my plate with protein and plop down at an empty table. I stare at a tiny succulent that sits in the center of the table.
What if Enzo still hasn’t arrived by the time I finish? Then I will have missed a whole meal with him.
I scowl.
“Can I sit here?”
I look up, and—it’s not Enzo.
