It’s not like Stryker killed somebody. He’d been mean. Everyone is mean sometimes. Hell, Julien was mean frequently.
No, that’s not quite true. Julien was guarded, blunt, not mean. Often reacting to a world not built for him and his beautifully neurodiverse mind. There’s a difference. But that’s not the point.
The point is: people can change. Nobody is just one thing, one trait.
Julien showed him that.
Greg decides to take Stryker’s compliment and, in turn, take the seat next to him in the booth.
“Thank you,” Greg says, slapping on a smile. “I still have some moves left.”
“Saving them for something?” Stryker asks.
“Someone.”
“Who?”
“You, maybe?” Greg’s hopefulness tumbles out in the question.
Stryker raises an eyebrow, pours Greg another drink. “Hmm. Smooth words there. I might be able to beswayed.”
Anika guffaws. “Was that a pun, Stryker Storm?”
Stryker blushes. Greg doesn’t think he’s ever seen Stryker properly blush. Maybe because he’s always wearing a lot of makeup, but still. It’s sweet. Greg slugs back his drink, smiles to himself.
Maybe Frank Sinatra had been speaking for him when he sang,I want to be a part of it.
New York, New York is looking more and more like Greg’s address once again.
Twenty-Three
JULIEN
Airplanes are complicated beasts for Julien, which is why he wiggles now in his window seat. He already wiped down the headrest and armrests with the sanitizing towelettes provided by the cute flight attendant with the good hair. Even so, he stares out at the tarmac, feeling his antianxiety medication work itself through his system, and can’t help but wrestle with his flight-based unease.
For starters, he doesn’t travel much. Time and funds don’t allow it. Plus, he doesn’t enjoy the lack of control over his space. Crammed arm-to-arm with someone else on a seat he knows has been cleaned—but probably not thoroughly—with recycled dry air spitting out from vents.
On the other hand, he does his best thinking in transit.
With his noise-canceling headphones on, classical music turned up, he can close his eyes, decompress, and settle with his thoughts. Not the intrusive ones but the inconvenient ones involving feelings and life and other such nuisances that don’t feel so annoying when they’re about Greg.
Julien succeeded (mostly) in blocking out Greg for the last four days, giving himself over to the rigorous focus the course demanded of him. His brain and body are tired now. Wiped out from the rush of adrenaline and the flood of knowledge that crashed over him every day. The only reprieves in his intensive were the dinners with his course mates that went until the late evening, where most of them would get pretty tipsy and end up spending more than Julien had budgeted for. But in the end, he slapped down his card when it came time to split the bill, knowing that, thanks to the happy hours, he had a savings cushion, and the togetherness was worth the cost of someone else’s too-good time.
Grabbing his phone from his bag, he selects a Bach playlist he has downloaded. The wheels and mechanisms in his mind immediately slow down to the twinkling notes of theGoldberg Variations. He’s about to let go completely when there’s a tap on his shoulder.
At first, he assumes it’s the flight attendant since there’s so much backlight from the open window behind him, but then the person ducks down and Julien makes out the features. It’s Carlos, from his class.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he says, sliding into the seat beside Julien.
That’s some sort of kismet. If only Julien were in any mental place for a second meet-cute. At least, he thinks Carlos is queer. Not that they broached the topic.
Julien inches a little closer to the window to give Carlos space to settle. “Didn’t you say you were from New York?” He realizes after he’s asked that he skipped hello, something he’s been trying to be better about.
“I am,” Carlos says, wiping down his tray table. “Cheaper to fly to Allentown and take the shuttle to Newark than fly direct. These sommelier courses don’t come cheap. I have to be economical where I can.”
Julien doesn’t mean to be so obvious about sizing Carlos up. He’s wearing a blazer. On aplane. Surely he has the money to fly direct.
Carlos, clearly catching Julien’s confusion, says, “My father always taught me to dress the part I want. I allocate the money I need to look like a Master Sommelier so that one day when I am one, I’m comfortable.”
