Several days pass before I see Hunter again. I’ve been avoiding him like the plague. Every day at the beach, I keep my head down, focus on my job, and force myself not to look for him. As much as I’m dying to see him, I can’t. Not after what happened at the bar.
I made a complete fool of myself. He saw a broken, fragile version of me that I normally keep hidden from everyone. I can’t face him after that.
One afternoon, I caught a glimpse of him crouched in the dune grass, face buried in his notebook. His brows were scrunched adorably, the way they always get when he’s focused. The moment he lifted his head, I ripped my eyes away and turned my back. I heard him call my name, but I pretended I didn’t.
Even if he thinks I’m an asshole, I’m doing him a favor. He says he wants to be friends, but he doesn’t know the real me. The real me would scare the shit out of him.
It isn’t until I’m working a shift at Beachside Burgers that I finally see him again.
I’m in the middle of bussing tables when I spot him alone at a booth in the corner, eating a veggie burger. My breath catches. He’s wearing a short-sleeved gray checkered button-up and dark jeans. Beneath the table, I spot black Converse with rainbow laces. The pop of color stands out in a way that seems deliberate.
I want to turn around and hide in the kitchen, but I’ve got half a dozen tables to clear. Fuck.
I keep my head down as I shovel plates and cups into a plastic bin. The dishes clatter together loudly, and I wince at the sound, not wanting to draw attention to myself.
“Mason?”
Hunter’s voice makes my hand twitch, and I drop a dirty fork onto the floor.
“Shit,” I mumble, bending to pick it up.
But Hunter’s faster. He snatches it up and drops it into my bin before I can. He offers a small, tentative smile that I don’t return.
“Thanks,” I mutter, not meeting his eyes.
I can feel my cheeks burning. I know I look like shit. I’m sweaty, flushed, and my apron is stained from hours of work. My long hair is pulled into a half-assed bun at the nape of my neck. I probably smell like fry grease.
“Have you been avoiding me?” he asks softly.
There’s a hint of hurt in his voice that stings more than I expect. He’s fidgeting anxiously with his fingers, his nails now painted a bright yellow. My favorite color.
“No,” I lie. “Just been busy.”
He raises a doubtful eyebrow. “Alright.”
I glance toward the dirty tables I haven’t cleared. “I need to get back—”
“Is it because I’m gay?”
I freeze, my stomach sinking with regret. “No,” I say quickly. “Of course not.”
“It’s just… I hope I didn’t freak you out with the flowers. I know you’re straight. I wasn’t trying to make it weird. I wasn’t hitting on you or anything.”
My throat constricts. I want to correct him. I want to tell him I’m gay and think he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, but I can’t. At least, not here. Not in public.
“No… the flowers didn’t bother me,” I say, shaking my head. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just… I was embarrassed. After the bar.”
He frowns. “Embarrassed? Why?”
“Because… you shouldn’t have seen me like that. It was pathetic,” I say, staring at the floor.
“You watched a child nearly die that day, Mason. I would’ve been a wreck if I was in your shoes.”
I shrug. “Yeah, but then I got drunk and said a bunch of shit I shouldn’t have.”
His lips twitch. “Like calling me pretty?”
My mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. “I—uh—I didn’t— I mean—”
