Only, as soon as the thought crosses his mind, he feels the vicelike knuckles in his head grip tighter to the silky string.
“A sommelier who doesn’t drink,” Julien says, trying to get the easygoing conversation back by deploying some of the charm Greg has taught him over the last few months. “What can I say? I’m an oxymoron.”
This gets everyone laughing, even Alec. The server arriving again gives them all a solid distraction.
For some reason, his eyes are drawn back to the menu, down to the swirly pink writing on the right-hand side. After spending so much time with Greg, making TikToks and various concoctions, he’s curious to check out the twists on classic offerings.
One specific menu item catches his attention: a grapefruit rosé sangria with tequila.
Without questioning it, Julien takes out his phone, snaps a picture, and adds it to his text chain with Greg with the accompanying text:We should do a sangria happy hour.
It’s silly, really, that they hadn’t thought to do one earlier.
Wineandliquor. JulienandGreg.
But then he remembers: there might not still be anandto hope for.
Instead of stoking the embers of a fire set on burning out, he deletes the photo, erases the message, and joins in the conversation properly, even if his heart can’t quite come to the table.
Twenty-Two
GREG
How did Greg let his ex talk him into going out in SoHo?
There’s a chance it was the way Stryker paid for Greg’s cappuccino earlier without so much as a comment. Or the way Stryker actually listened when Greg told him about the happy hours he’s been hosting and detailed the various cocktails he’s created over the last few months.
“You made all those by yourself?” Stryker asked, sounding almost...impressed.
“I can’t take all the credit,” Greg says, even if he’s trying to shove Julien through a trapdoor in his mind.
There has been no word from Julien since he got out of Greg’s car yesterday. NoI landed safelytext. NoI got to the hoteltext. NoI miss youtext.
Which leads Greg to believe that Julien had meant what he said, and Greg needs to find peace with that.
After tonight, that is.
Because he’s in no state to get back to midtown and behind the wheel of his car. Not that that’s the top thing on his mind right now. His mind, which is bathing in drink thanks to Stryker’s prepurchased bottles and heavy pours, is zeroed in on the club’s music, which shakes the floor. Greg moves his body luxuriously under the strobing lights.
Anika, a budding stylist and friend from his past life, dances across from him. She’s wearing a cropped and ribbed tank top, high-waisted black jeans. Her cat’s-eye makeup is bold, daring any man who isn’t her boyfriend, Josh, to approach with caution. The brown skin of her arms is dabbed with glitter that sparkles hypnotically each time the light hits at the right angle.
Josh dances behind her, both hands hooked onto her waistline. He’s tall, white, and has curly golden hair that he’s slicked back. A gold chain bounces around his neck as the two of them let the beat take over. Josh is a fledgling actor—kind of a family business, his dad was a sitcom star in the eighties—and he’s got a couple popular jobs on his résumé, but nobody here bothers him.
That is one thing Greg misses about New York City life. The anonymity. How he can be in the loudest, most crowded room and be able to dance like a freak without anyone caring. Least of all Anika and Josh, who are now making out with an unmatched vigor. Even with the TikTok fame, Greg never had to contend with attention he didn’t want—except from grabby guys at LGBTQ clubs who thought that just because Greg flaunted his body online and in person, he was a piece of meat open for manhandling.
While he could do without the Handsy Hanks, Greg concedes that his life thus far in the Lehigh Valley has been lived under a microscope. Not a closely observed one, per se, but in a smaller environment, he senses his place on the petri dish more acutely. The staff at Martin’s Place is small. His social circle is small. In some ways, this makes the blows, especially emotional ones, much bigger.
Over at the booth, Stryker is pretending not to bop his head too rigorously to the music because that would be gauche. That much, at least, hasn’t changed. Stryker doesn’t dance. Not in the way Julien “doesn’t” dance. It’s not a lack of confidence or rhythm. It’s a lack of desire, a reservation of energy. Stryker manspreads in his booth, above the crowd, sipping and smoldering and not engaging with anyone on the other side of the velvet rope.
Greg forgot how good it felt to be on that side of said velvet rope. The confidence floods your body until you’re tingling all over. Though, once again, that could be the drink.
Greg hasn’t taken his antidepressant. One, because he didn’t think he’d be in New York City this late (and itislate), so he didn’t bring it with him. Two, because he decided an hour or so ago that he would get absolutely shit-faced. He will be telling his therapist about neither of these decisions.
He contemplates how hurt he was when his relationship with Stryker ended, but he wasn’t devastated. Somehow, Julien’s silence since the airport has Greg hovering slightly north of that emotion, an emotion he desperately doesn’t want to feel.
Jeez. Devastationanddesperation? That’s a wicked combination he hasn’t felt since he arrived at the academy, and even then, their rigorous schedule and studies didn’t allow him time to wallow in either.
He bets Julien is thriving out in Texas, learning and laughing it up with his classmates. There’s no reason for Greg to be here marinating. Their pact was not a promise of more. He knew that. Just like he knows he can have more nights out like this one—sweaty and free and forgetful—if he takes the new position. He’ll have the money to do it and people like Anika, Josh, and Stryker to do it with.
