Months of meticulous manifestation, all for naught, because Christian was gone. Forever.
“Jesus Christ,Heath. The man went to Europe. He didn’t die.”
“He’s straight, anyway.”
Heath leveled his best glare across the sea of colorful margarita glasses dotting the table at Spin On D, the local bar he and his friends frequented for Friday night bitch sessions in the blue hour, before it changed over to a throbbing hotspot that operated well past Heath’s bedtime.
“He isnotstraight.”
Manuel wrapped his lips around the oversized straw protruding from the cherry-colored slush in his margarita glass and let his eyebrows respond for him. Andres was less subtle.
“Honey, that man was never going gay for you. You know that, right?”
Heath knew, down deep inside, that if Christian had wanted things between them to escalate, he’d have initiated something during one of the multiple opportunities he’d had over the years.
It was never the right time. That’s what he’d told himself. It was always a terrible time to start something because,work is very stressful, orI’m fresh from a breakup and vulnerable, Christian wouldnevertake advantage.
For every scenario there was an excuse, but the truth was that the communication pathway between his head and heart was forever clogged with pipe dreams, feral fantasies, and more half-full glasses than littered their tabletop. That was why he’d wagered everything on this trip.
They would be two single men alone for two weeks in utter paradise—a hideaway voted “Most Romantic” for years running—and it had beenChristian’sidea to go there. Why in the hell would he suggest such a thing if he weren’t finally on the same emotional wavelength?
The answer to that would have to wait, because the bastard had run off to Norway with some hifalutin hussy, and wasn’t answering calls or acknowledging messages. The coward.
Heath popped out of his inner monologue at the violent snap of Andres’ fingers in front of his nose.
“Right?” Andres repeated, and both men watched him. Manuel with sympathy, and Andres with indignant resignation.
Of the three of them, only Manuel was formally married, but Andres’ throuple was a nearly identical dynamic structure, just with extra income—and limbs. They’d both been with their significant others for years, and thus reeked of the sort of serenity that came from no longer worrying if you’re going to die alone. Heath hated and envied them for it.
“He wouldn’t have had to go gay for me, because he’s bi and that’s what bisexual means. You know that,right?” he snapped back.
Manuel averted his eyes, working his drink until it protested with a harsh gurgle, while Andres pursed his lips and sipped his own beverage with the grace of the queen he was.
“You know what bisexualisn’t? Making out with a couple ofguys at a frat party some twenty-odd-years ago, then never looking at another man again.”
“Theyou’re not really bisexual becauseargument is very trite, Andres. You surprise me.”
Andres’ ice-blue eyes speared Manuel like a cocktail olive, choking off the snicker he’d dared let loose. Heath closed his own mouth on another retort when they snapped back to him.
“Let me tell you what would surprise me,” he said in a tone that left no confusion why all his student reviews included a bevy of adjectives forterrifying. “That man sucking someone’s dick, because he’s never done it, and he doesn’t want to.”
Heath frowned at them both, though it felt more like a pout than he cared to admit. But so what? He was allowed to be sad, dammit. This was not the vacation he’d signed up for.
He’d bubbled with excitement when he’d informed his friends of the invitation. Their skepticism had been blistering and immediate, Manuel worrying his cuticles while Andres openly scoffed.
“You can’t trust that man to show up for dinner fifteen minutes from his townhouse. Do you really believe he won’t weasel out of international travel?”
Heath pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, wishing for a moment that his own drink had alcohol in it. A good buzz might allow him to forget the pathetic state of his life, or at least find amusement in it. Oh, who was he kidding? If he drank tonight, he’d just end up red-faced and sloppy, passed out in the bathroom after sobbing like a telenovela actress.
Manuel gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. “Stop chasing the unattainable, sweetie. This isn’t the fun sort of masochism.”
“The heart asks pleasure first,” Heath answered. Miss Dickinson was always there for him during bouts of melancholy.
“If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain,” Andres replied, squeezing Heath’s other arm in an almostbelievable gesture of sympathy, except his expression dripped of smug.
This was what he got for befriending fellow lit snobs. Also, for consistently picking the perfect man—with the caveat that they be perfect for someone else. Usually someone of the opposite sex.
He couldn’t even blame faulty gaydar, because he knew damn well the men making his heart go pitter-patter didn’t share his interest. He tossed himself bodily into the hopeless infatuations, anyway.
