It’s clear he’s speaking from experience. I’d ask clarifying questions, but it doesn’t seem like he’s open to exploring the topic further by the way his features pinch and his eyes dip back down to the board. He nudges the dice toward me.
I wonder, once again, about those fingers. Long, boney, soft-looking. How would they feel tracing down my jaw?
“What were you doing here so late anyway?” I ask, pushing off my attraction to him. “A faux concierge seems like they’d be off much earlier than midnight.”
“I got off at 7:00 p.m., but my mom works as a housekeeper here, and she’s got the overnight shift today. I like to stick around until she gets her room assignment for the night. Get her settled with her suitcase and everything. Then, I grabbed a late dinner and drinks at the adjoining bar. By the time I was closing out my tab, Annabelle, the woman on the desk tonight, asked me to call you.” The stuff about his mom is lovely. It punctures my sternum and injects me with just enough grief that I have to get up.
Four weeks ago, Buckley told me that my grief was one of the reasons he was leaving me. That it was unhealthy after all this time, but what he failed to see was that Mom’s absence reverberates through every one of my decisions. I’m reminded of it every time I make a student loan payment or talk to Dad or watch my favorite show. It’s horrible when someone is both everywhere and nowhere all at once, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
I scrub my face with the back of my wrist. “That’s really sweet. Most guys would be embarrassed to be working the same place as their mom.”
“Yeah, well. I’m not most guys,” he says. And I believe him because he’s here playing a game with me and eating pizza and not making me feel bad for how awful I look right now. Most guys would’ve run for the hills as soon as I opened the door. He came inside with a mission: to make me feel better, maybe? “Plus, my mom sacrificed a lot for me. Being a single parent and all.”
“For the last six years, I’ve only had my dad,” I say, a second sudden ripple of connection running through the room. My throat becomes a trash compactor filled with unspoken words. I can’t tell him about Mom. I can’t get that vulnerable with this sexy stranger. I don’t even know his last name.
The sound of rustling paper signals he’s paying me rent even though I haven’t asked for it and have almost entirely lost track of the game. My heart keeps hiccuping. I pop a TUMS to stop the acid reflux from commandeering my night. Despite my ugly countenance, Leo doesn’t seem fazed by my obvious undoing.
He offers me a lukewarm smile. “Should we count out our banks and call it a night?” he asks, voice slightly wavering.
The chalky medication makes me cough before I can say, “No need. You win.”
In a strange display of...something, he does a victory dance. His hands are on his knees, swiveling in and out to the funky electronic theme music to a late-night airing ofWhammy! Press Your Luckon the Game Show Network. “I never win things!” Goofiness glides across his face.
He’s got moves. He’d far surpass even my best student in Cardio Dance Fit classes. “What aboutMinecraft? Seemed like you were doing pretty well at that this afternoon.” I remember how coldly I treated him. “Sorry about my attitude when we met. It was wrong of me to speak to you like that.”
“Thanks, but that’s customer service for you. I’ve dealt with worse,” he says, waving it away. I can’t tell if he’s unfazed or he doesn’t want to think about it. “But there’s no winning inMinecraft.”
“What’s the point of the game, then?” My love of old game shows stems from the adrenaline of rooting for my favorite team. It’s stimulating yet comforting to experience a high-stakes, no-thought competition from the comfort of my couch or my bed. A way to unplug from the world and then devolve into a ball of catharsis when someone’s life changes by winning a massive jackpot or a new car or a lavish vacation.
It was escapism. Escape from questioning my sexuality, Mom’s diagnosis, the world at large.
“There is no point toMinecraft. That’s the point.”
“So, you just roam around shooting things?” Sounds maddening to me, but I don’t say that because he clearly enjoys it, and after Buckley’s mean words, I never want to judge someone else for their interests.
“Pretty much. It’s like virtual LEGOs. It’s an open world where you build things and adventure and survive. It’s about imagination and creativity and free thought.” He cocks an eyebrow at me. “You’ve never played before?”
“I wasn’t much for computer games,” I say. “Never didThe Simsor anything like that.”
His hand flies to his heart. “You mean you never made the two boy Sims kiss for...research?”
“Uh, no?” My cheeks flush. I pop a second TUMS just to be safe, and to stop myself from choking with excitement on his words. He’s confirmed he’s some form of queer, which charts a couple new directions this night could go. Maybe, by the end of the night, those hands I’ve been admiring will be all over me.
Leo must notice my shifting, wistful expression. “Can I say something?” he asks as he sorts the game pieces into their proper, plastic slots.
“Sure.”
He slides the lid back on the box. “Someone else’s shitty decision doesn’t reflect back on you. You know that, right?”
My eyes fall from his eyes to his bare feet. How is he okay being barefoot on this disgusting carpet? I can’t even think about the kind of fungus he must be picking up without the acid reflux returning. Defensively: “I don’t even know what you’re saying.” Because him being here and sexy andthoughtfulis so much to process. One good quality too far for my addled brain.
“I’m saying your ex is an idiot.” His toes wiggle for the sole purpose of making me smile. It works. “You’re not broken just because you were broken up with, Holden James.”
My full name presses me to the wall. What I wouldn’t give for a little physical comfort right now, arms and hands and warmth and breath ghosting across my cheek. Why am I so inconveniently horny?
“How do you know my last name?” I ask, more confused and aroused than before.
“I booked your reservation, remember?”
