Page 73 of Him

I pull out my phone. “We can use your car, right?”

“Sure.”

Most of the restaurants in Lake Placid are burger joints, but the Squaw Lodge Boathouse on West Lake looks like the realdeal. And since the outdoor concert is in the same direction, I make a reservation and hope for the best.

Then I go over to the closet we share and fish out Wes’s one polo shirt.

Dropping it on Wes’s bed, I find a button-down shirt for myself, and a clean pair of khaki shorts.

“You want me dressed up?” Wes asks, hoisting the shirt over his head. “Are we going on a date, Canning?”

“Seems so. The steak place looks nicer than swim trunks and flip flops.”

“So it’s my fault then.” His words are grumpy, but he’s admiring my chest while I button up the shirt. “You clean up nice, honey.”

I flip him off.

Wes heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth, and I watch him go. I even catch myself admiring his ass. Lately I find myself sneaking looks at him, trying to raise some kind ofholy shitreaction to the idea that I’m involved with a guy.

When I was young I used to try to scare myself walking through the woods alone. I’d peer into the shadows and imagine something terrifying waited there, just to give myself a little thrill. But it never worked all that well, and neither do my attempts to frighten myself over recent events.

Because it’s Wes. He’s not scary. And the things we do in bed are just plain hot.

As it happens, the lodgeisa nice restaurant. But we’re not underdressed, because the place offers dockage. In other words, some of the dinner guests have arrived on small watercraft, looking wind-tousled and sunburned.

We don’t get a table outside, because I only made the reservationan hour ago. But the interior is dark and sleek, with leather upholstery and candles flickering on the tables. We’re shown to a comfortable booth in back, and I slide onto the seat feeling like this was a damn good idea. I smell garlic bread, and there’s a microbrew beer list a yard long.

“We’re going to eat like Vikings,” Wes says, giving the hostess his cockiest grin. “Which steak is the best one?”

The girl is all too happy to stay and chat. “The creole is popular,” she says with a toss of her hair. “I like the New York strip, though.”

“Doyou now. Thanks for the tip.”

She walks away, shaking her hips, and I bite back a grin. “You werethisclose to making a badstripjoke, weren’t you? Be honest.”

Wes reaches across the table to cover my hand with his. He makes a dead-serious face, the kind he only makes when he’s pulling my chain. “I was this close to making agoodstrip joke. Duh.”

That’s when the guy sneaks up on us. “Good evening! I’m Mike, and I’ll be your server this evening…”

Calmly, Wes removes his hand from mine and looks up at the waiter.

The man glances from Wes to my hand and back again. “Welcome to the Squaw Lodge Boathouse. Have you dined with us before?” His voice has taken on a slightly different tone. Softer, with a riff of affectation in it.

I’m distracted, but Wes looks him straight in the eye and says, “Actually, it’s our first time.”

“Oh! Well, you’re in for a treat…”

He and the waiter discuss the menu, but I tune out. This is the first time someone has looked at me and decided I was a gay man out on a date, and I’m trying to figure out how I feel about that. Don’t getme wrong—I’d be seen anywhere with Wes. Any day of the week. But there’s something strange about becoming his dinner date. Like I’ve shrugged on someone else’s costume and I’m playing a role.

I order a beer and a steak when it’s my turn, and the guy runs off to put in our order.

“You buggin’?” Wes asks, nudging my foot under the table.

“No,” I say quickly. I’m not, either. “I don’t give a shit whether we set that guy’s gaydar off or not.”

Wes actually winces. “Wouldn’t blame you if you did. Look,thatdude is only jealous. But some people are assholes about it. I mean, the things you and I do every night are illegal in some places.”

“You’re really selling it to me then.”