CHAPTER 1
RYAN
"Hey man, congratulations," Gavin, my boss, slaps me hard on the shoulder, a delicate glass of champagne sloshing in his massive spade hand. I'm pretty sure he has been carrying that around all night as an accessory. The guy doesn't even drink.
I'm standing in the middle of the Inner City Annual PRIDE Art Show. The art show that my boyfriend convinced me to do, the art show I've spent the last five months preparing a collection of pride-inspired superheroes with awesome tattoos, of course.
The art show my boyfriend didn't bother to show up for. Thankfully, Gavin closed the Tattoo shop I work at, Savage Ink, early for the night so that all the guys and Nyx could come see my show and support me. Yet my boyfriend of two years couldn't find the time in his busy schedule to show up.
I don't know why I'm even surprised at this point. Tonight isn't the first time I've been left waiting for Drew to grace me with his presence.
We agreed to meet for dinner at a restaurant near his office last week so he could nip out for a lunch date with me. I sat in that restaurant for over an hour waiting for him, chewing on breadsticks and calling his phone, which kept rudely telling me, "This call can not be connected," as I was staring at the door, scowling at every person who entered, until the server had asked for the third time if I was ready to order. I finally gave up and went home.
I'm not sure when he came home that night, but when I woke up, there was a note on the kitchen counter telling me he had to go to Utah for a few days, "Love you, sweetheart, I'll be back as quick as I can." That was all I got, some lousy note, not even an apology. It was becoming a pattern with him, and I fucking hate it.
Tonight's art show is the annual charity event for the LGBTQ+ Youth Centre in downtown Denver. The aim of the evening is to gather works of art done by local artists to sell to the community, and all proceeds go to the center. As expected, it was a huge success. All the artwork sold, including my illustrations.
Apparently, the people of Denver like graphic comic-style art. BoneRider, the unofficial name of the piece, was the first one bought today.
I wasn't planning to do this show initially, but Drew kept going on and on about depriving people of having my art displayed on their walls. I never imagined myself as a canvas type of artist, but I am super proud of my work for this show.
I wanted to thank Drew in front of all these people for pushing me to do this by giving some soppy speech he would probably groan at. Still, he's not here. And what's worse is that he's missing the chance to see these kids from the center excited as hell, knowing that the money raised tonight will get them. I don't even know what. A basketball court? Or maybe a kick-ass art room.
This event is probably the most fulfilling thing I've ever done. If only there were a place like that when I was growing up.
For the first hour, I kept glancing back at the door every few minutes, expecting him to rush in late, hair mussed from the wind and a flush of embarrassment tinging his cheeks, muttering the same bullshit apology that I'm sick of hearing at this point. At least he would have shown up, better late than never, right?
Ben, his colleague at the firm, is here, and he even bought a Quick Rimmer to show support. He doesn't know it's called that, they wouldn't allow me to print the name of the illustrations, kids being there and all. But it doesn't stop me from stifling a laugh when he compliments how I draw the character's tongue sticking out with a star tattoo in the middle.
When I casually asked him if he knew where Drew was, he just frowned slightly. "He was elbow-deep in documents when I was heading out. I offered to help, but he wouldn't have it, it could take a while. I'm sorry, man, I know he was excited for tonight. He mentioned it a bunch of times. He wouldn't miss it, right?"
Unfortunately, Ben was dead wrong. Drew never showed. He missed the whole fucking thing. I could tell the guy felt guilty when he came to congratulate me once again before leaving with good old Quick Rimmer tucked under his arm.
I could see the pity in his eyes as he waved goodbye. I could also see the pity in my friend's eyes as they left me in the now-empty gallery space.
I had been expecting to go home with Drew, but now, standing here, my hands stuffed into the pockets of my jeans, I feel like a kid whose parents forgot to pick them up from softball practice as I ask Gavin for a ride home.
Thankfully, Gav is a man of few words by nature, so the drive back to my place is quiet, except for the low chatter from the radio. I know he can tell how bummed I am about Drew’s noticeable absence tonight, but he doesn’t bring it up, obviously wanting to avoid a conversation about feelings as much as I do.
Arriving home to a dark, empty house after the event, there was no sign of Drew's Volvo in the driveway, which wasn't a surprise. Since Drew was a no-show at the gallery, I figured he was sleeping at his office, yet again choosing to sleep cramped on a hard leather couch rather than coming home to his bed and his boyfriend. Not that he even notices he has a boyfriend when he is at home.
Have you ever tried to watch a movie with your significant other while they type furiously on their laptop, cursing under their breath? That's a one-star review. Also, it's disrespectful to the cinematic masterpiece that is End Game.
Waving behind me to thank Gav for dropping me home, resisting the urge to yell, "Thanks, Mr. Savenger," I climb up the wooden porch steps and unlock the front door with a heavy sigh.
I walk inside and take off my boots, leaving them strewn across the entrance hall like some act of teenage defiance but also because I don't want to track any dirt onto the ridiculously expensive rug in the living room that I just had to have when we first went shopping together. I have so many regrets about that now, the main one being my credit card nearing its limit. Although it is super soft to kneel on, I figured that out in the best way possible when we first brought it home a year ago.
I stand and stare at the rug for a second. "Hell, for all I know, he's standing on somebody else's expensive rug right now." The words spilled from my mouth, skipping the filter in my brain before falling from my lips. That thought stops me in my tracks at the base of the stairs.
I haven't seen my boyfriend properly in days, weeks probably. The nights he does drag himself home to bed, I'm already passed out, and the only way I could tell he had been there was the mess at his side of the bed the next morning, already cold from his early exit.
I'm too tired to be pissed right now. I should be so fucking pissed that I march straight into Drew's office and demand he gets his head out of his ass. But I don't, because what would be the point? I doubt I could muster enough willpower to put my boots back on, never mind haul myself halfway across town for an argument that always ends the same way, with me accepting that I come second to his career.
Standing at the base of the stairs looking up into the darkness toward the bedroom we share, I realize I'm not mad about tonight. I'm not angry because, on some level, I expected him to let me down, and I expected it because it's how things have been for the last, fuck, eight months maybe. I'm starting to believe that he will never put me first.
I'm probably more pissed at myself than I am with Drew right now, I made so many promises to myself that I wouldn't go through this again, I wouldn't become somebody's doormat again. Yet all I've done for the last eight months is accept his behavior, brushing it under the expensive rug to avoid confrontation.
I know Drew isn't my ex, although they have similarities, like being driven and charming. Joshua was just as confident in pursuing me as Drew. Lulling me into a false sense of security with grand romantic gestures and overwhelming me with love until, one day, I woke up and realized I had nobody but him in my life.
