“So you’re what?” I ask. “Gay? Bi? Pan?”
“I’m gay.”
“And you’re out? Is that why you and Sonja called it quits?”
He stares at the tips of his shoes. “Not exactly.”
I slam my palms against the wall so hard they sting, pain radiating up my arms. Stupid move for a guy who makes his living with his hands. But that just goes to show how fucking frustrated I am. It’s like we’re back in college, when I was out and Chris was—confused. That confusion almost killed me. And I’m not about to subject myself to that a second time.
It’s like my grandmother—God rest her loud and proud Italian soul—used to say. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
“I can’t do this again.”
I push off the unforgiving bricks and head for the door. I’ve got to get back inside ASAP, to the emotional safety of the crowded club. The longer I’m this close to him, his tangy, woodsy cologne filling my nostrils, overpowering the smells of the city, the more my resolve chips away.
And I need every damn bit of resolve I can muster.
But Chris has other ideas. He snags my arm as I pass, stopping me. The heat of his hand burns into my biceps, like he’s branding me as his.
“Don’t go.” His voice is soft, almost a whisper. And desperate. “Let me explain.”
It’s the desperation that gets me. I’ve always been a sucker for a dude in distress.
“Explain away.” I shrug off his hand and fold my arms across my chest. Listening is one thing. Touching is another.
“I’m out.” He shifts his weight restlessly from one foot to the other, still somehow managing to imbue the restive movement with the easy grace of a dancer. “Mostly.”
“What’s mostly?”
“Sonja knows. A few close friends. Some of my family.”
“Some?” I arch a brow at him, although I’m not sure he can read my facial expressions in the dimly lit alley.
“My sister. She’s cool with it.”
Which means his parents, who probably won’t be quite so cool with their only son’s sexual awakening as a gay man, are still in the dark. My lips are pressed together in a thin, exasperated line, but that doesn’t stop a sigh from escaping. This is looking more and more like a bad rerun of our senior year.
“Let me ask you something.” He nods, as if I’m waiting for his permission to continue. Spoiler alert: I’m not. “You’re a good-looking guy. I assume you’ve dated your share of dudes. Gone out in public. Held hands walking down the street. Made out in the back row at the movies.”
Maybe even fucked—or been fucked by—a guy or two or ten. But I’m not going there, for reasons I don’t want to examine too closely. It’s not like I’ve been celibate, although I can count my lovers on one hand. No one’s ever measured up to Chris, and as hard as I’ve tried, I’ve never really gotten over him. Still, I’ve got no right to expect him to live like a monk.
He ducks his head and his hair flops over his eyes, shielding his face. “No.”
“No to what?”
“To all of it.”
The shock of his answer rolls through me, making me stumble. I mean, just look at him. He’s like a Greek god, only better. He could have any guy he wanted. And yet, he hasn’t.
“Then how do you know—?”
His head snaps up.
“How do I know I’m gay?” he finishes for me. “Trust me, I know. I don’t need to fuck a bunch of randoms to figure out that I prefer dudes.”
“Who said anything about fucking?” Sure, I’d thought it. But I didn’t say it. Has he added mind reader to his list of talents postcollege? “I’m talking about dating.”
“I’ve got nothing against dating.” Chris shuffles his feet again and starts, then stops, to reach for the pack of cigarettes in his back pocket. There’s something he’s not telling me.
