Page 15

Chapter Fifteen

Justin

There are seven scuff marks on Drew’s doormat. I know this because I’ve been standing here long enough to count them.

Twice.

The fact I’m cataloging doormat damage instead of actually knocking is not my proudest moment, but there’s something about Drew that turns all my usual confidence into the emotional equivalent of a sugar-rushed puppy on roller skates.

I messaged him to ask if he’d been to St Paul’s Cathedral yet, and when he said he hadn’t, I suggested we go together today under the guise of us both being foreigners who should see London’s cultural landmarks.

But really, I just wanted another excuse to spend time with Drew after Wimbledon.

His banter and wry observations have become addictive. I’ve managed to get good at coinciding my morning tea breaks with his over the last week, and we started this joke where we rate the office cookies—sorry, biscuits—by their dunkability. Debating the optimal coffee-to-biscuit ratio while trying to make Drew laugh has become the highlight of my mornings.

He’s agreed to come with me today, so there’s no reason I should be this nervous.

My hand seems to decide it’s tired of waiting for my brain to get its act together because, suddenly, I’m knocking on his door.

Drew answers, wearing charcoal slacks and a green sweater that makes his dark eyes seem even deeper behind his glasses. I’ve noticed he wears contacts for work but glasses outside of work. When he sees me, his face settles into the neutral expression you’d expect from someone practicing their passport photo.

This careful neutrality is something I’ve come to expect from Drew, especially when he first sees me. It’s like he’s programmed his responses to be perfectly civil, but nothing more. Now, his hand stays wrapped around the door handle, and he shifts his weight backward slightly as if preparing to retreat at any moment.

Is this standoffishness part of what intrigues me about Drew? He seems strangely resistant to my usual techniques of getting someone to like me. It makes me want to try even harder.

Because I’m growing used to him acting like this now, I know how to push past it by finding something that engages him until he relaxes around me.

This morning, M&Ms are the breakthrough.

When we leave our apartment building, I check Drew’s okay with us stopping at the Tesco around the corner.

He waits outside while I dash inside to buy a sandwich for Amos. And at the counter, I impulsively grab a bag of M&Ms.

“Do you want some M&Ms?” I offer Drew as we continue to walk toward the tube station.

“Ah, thanks.” Drew takes the bag off me.

And because I seem to notice every detail about Drew, I can’t help but notice that as he pours some into his hand, he seems to avoid the brown M&Ms.

“Do you have something against brown M&M’s?” I asked.

“Brown M&Ms are an affront to humanity,” Drew says.

“Wow. Tell me how you really feel about brown-colored chocolate.”

Drew pushes his glasses up his nose. “Brown M&Ms are unsettling. What are they trying to prove with their earthy sensibleness? Candy is supposed to be brightly colored.”

I’m about to try to conjure up some defense of the muddy rejects of the candy rainbow when I spot Amos ahead in his usual spot. Kryptonite is curled beside him on a square of cardboard that has seen better days.

“Are you okay to stop here for a minute?” I say to Drew.

Drew’s forehead creases. “Sure.”

I crouch next to Amos and Kryptonite. Kryptonite’s tail thumps against the cardboard while Amos barely looks up from the Metro spread across his lap.

“This is my friend Drew. Drew, this is Amos and Kryptonite,” I say.

“Don’t tell me there are two of you now,” Amos grumbles.

“I just wanted to share the joy of your sparkling personality with a wider audience,” I reply.

“At least tell me there’s actual food in that bag and not more hotel vouchers.”

“Bacon sandwich. Extra crispy, just how you hate it.”

“You’re getting worse at this whole charity thing,” Amos mutters, but his hands are already reaching for the bag.

“Next time, I’ll try to see if they’ve got one that is burned completely.”

“Go on then, off you go. Some of us have work to do.” Amos gestures at his newspaper, where the crossword is half-completed in meticulous handwriting.

“See you Monday,” I say.

As we walk away, Drew falls into step beside me. I glance up to find him scrutinizing me so closely that heat invades my face.

“How long have you been giving him sandwiches?” he asks quietly.

“About two years. Started when I first moved into my apartment.” I shrug. “I was walking past him on the way to work every day, and one morning, I just…got him breakfast. Somehow, it turned into our thing. I’ve tried giving him hotel vouchers, but he seems to prefer the streets.”

“Do you know much about him?”

“Not really. He doesn’t talk about himself. But he’s got strong opinions about pretty much everything else.”

Drew’s quiet for a moment, his eyes focused on some distant point, his forehead creased.

But as we head into the tube station, he asks me about what housing insecurity is generally like in London, and we spend the tube ride to St Paul’s Cathedral talking seriously about the problems of unhoused people in the US and the UK.

I see a deeper, more reflective side of Drew, someone who really seems to care about the underlying societal issues that cause housing insecurity.

Which only makes me like him even more.

When we exit the St Paul’s tube station, St Paul’s Cathedral rises to our left, the white stone dome piercing the London sky in an imposing but oddly graceful way.

The morning sun catches Drew’s profile as he tilts his head back to study the cathedral. Something about the way the breeze ruffles his dark hair makes my fingers itch to smooth it back into place.

“You know what this place is missing?” Drew says suddenly.

“What?”

“Gargoyles. A building this grand needs at least a few stone creatures scowling down at everyone.”

“Maybe they thought gargoyles would clash with the whole ‘pristine wedding cake’ aesthetic they’ve got going on,” I say.

“I personally feel that the lack of grotesques is a design flaw. How else will tourists know they’re being properly judged by architecture?” Drew says, and I laugh.

Drew always has this weird reaction to my laugh. His eyes widen before darting away, and his shoulders tense for a moment before relaxing again.

“I’m taking it that the lack of gargoyles won’t stop you from visiting the cathedral though.”

“Nope. Let’s go in.”

Drew wanders ahead of me, and my eyes linger on the way his jeans sculpt to his ass, the way his dark-gray T-shirt stretches across his shoulders when he reaches out to hand over his ticket.

“ Keep your eyes where they belong, boy, unless you want people getting the wrong idea about you. ”

It’s Bobby Ray’s voice.

But ever since Wimbledon, when Dave so casually accepted Drew’s sexuality and tried to set Drew up with his cousin, I’ve spent time thinking about what it would be like to stop hiding.

Bobby Ray had very specific ideas about what made someone a “real man.” The way you walked, talked, who you looked at, how you held yourself—everything was a test I couldn’t afford to fail. Even now, thousands of miles and many years away from him, I still catch myself monitoring my gestures, measuring my words like he’s standing over my shoulder with that disappointed sneer that always preceded his lectures about “men these days being too soft.”

I was fourteen when I realized I was attracted to guys. I’d been watching Tommy Rodriguez do pull-ups in the weight room, the muscles in his back shifting under his thin T-shirt. My whole body had lit up like someone had flipped a switch, and suddenly, everything made sense. Why kissing girls felt mechanical, why I spent so much time in the weight room watching other guys work out, why I kept a magazine cutout of David Beckham hidden in my locker “for hairstyle inspiration.”

That night, I’d locked myself in my room and had my first real panic attack, terrified that somehow Bobby Ray would know just by looking at me.

“ Stand up straight, shoulders back—you’re not some limp-wristed fairy from California. ”

I’d gotten so good at playing the role Bobby Ray demanded, being the perfect Texas football player who dated cheerleaders and never let his eyes linger too long on other guys in the locker room. And I know I’m still playing that role, just with a different audience.

What would it be like to just be open, authentic?

Like Drew is?

I take a deep breath and follow Drew inside.

Inside, the cathedral’s ceiling soars overhead, creating a vastness that makes you feel simultaneously tiny and part of something enormous.

Drew stands on the stone floor, studying his phone intently.

“Are you looking at the app?” I ask because we’d both downloaded the multimedia app that came with our tickets.

Drew snaps his head up. “I was actually looking up the history of gargoyles.”

“What is the history?”

“Turns out they were basically medieval drainage systems with attitude. They started as fancy rain gutters, but then someone decided, ‘Hey, if we’re going to have water shooting out of mouths, why not make them terrifying?’”

“Because nothing says ‘welcome to church’ like being judged by demon-faced plumbing,” I say.

“I guess it was the ultimate warning for sinners about what will happen if you don’t shape up,” he replies.

Our footsteps echo on the marble floor as we wander past elaborate monuments and gilded mosaics.

I consult the app so I can share some historical facts with Drew in exchange for his facts about gargoyles.

“Did you know this is actually the fifth St Paul’s?” I ask. “The previous ones kept burning down or getting destroyed. This one was built after the Great Fire of London.”

“So what you’re saying is the fourth time wasn’t the charm?”

“Apparently not. Though this one’s lasted since 1710.”

“When was the first one built?” Drew asks.

I scroll through the app for information. “AD 604, during the Anglo-Saxon period.”

“I can’t get over the history here,” Drew says. “It’s incredible how something can be built and destroyed so many times, yet still end up standing.”

Something pulses inside me at the reflective look on his face. There’s just something about Drew’s company that makes me feel different compared to everyone else. It’s almost like I can breathe fully without measuring each inhale.

That realization spurs me to ask him something that’s been knocking around in my head over the last few days.

“Speaking of things that need rebuilding,” I say, my heart rate increasing. “I got a message from my boss at the animal shelter I volunteer at.”

Drew comes to a stop so he can look at me. “You volunteer at an animal shelter?”

“Yeah. It’s called Second Chances. It’s where I got Tabitha and Cassie.” I shift my weight, suddenly finding the marble floor fascinating. “They run this auction every year—it’s their biggest fundraiser—but Maria’s struggling to find an online bidding system that won’t eat up all their funds in fees.”

Drew’s eyebrows lift slightly. “What kind of system does she need?”

“Nothing too fancy. Just something where people can bid on items before and during the auction. I told her I might know someone who’s good with tech stuff.” I try to keep my voice casual, even though my heart is racing like I’m back in high school asking someone to prom. “Any chance you could help me with it?”

Drew’s mouth quirks up at the corner. “I think I can squeeze helping you set up the auction into my packed schedule of stopping printers from taking over the world,” he says.

Relief and something warmer flood through me. “Thanks. Maybe we could grab coffee sometime this week and go over the requirements?”

“Yeah, that would work.” Drew nods, and a giddiness spreads through me at the thought of spending more time with him.

I need to move before I do something stupid, like touch him.

We make our way up the spiral staircase toward the Whispering Gallery. The worn stairs remind me how many people have come up these steps before us.

When we reach the gallery, we find ourselves alone in this section.

According to the app, the space gets its name from a quirk of acoustics where whispers against the wall can be heard clearly on the opposite side of the dome.

“It’s the ultimate eavesdropping architecture,” Drew says when I tell him this fact, running his hand along the curved wall. “Like a seventeenth-century party line.”

I watch his face as he takes in the view of the cathedral floor far below, sunlight from the high windows catching on his glasses. Being up here feels like being in a different world, suspended between earth and sky.

“The American version would probably have cup holders,” I say, and Drew’s resulting laugh echoes in the dome.

“And a drive-thru option.”

“Fast-track salvation, guaranteed or your money back.”

We’re both grinning, and there’s this moment where our eyes meet.

I hold my breath.

“You know what’s weird?” Drew says, breaking eye contact to look out over the railing. “How different churches feel here versus back home. These actually feel…historic.”

“Yeah, every town I lived in growing up had churches that were basically the same design, like they were following some cookie-cutter blueprint.”

Drew turns to look at me. “Did you move around a lot when you were a kid?”

Something about his curious expression and the peaceful space we’re in makes it easy to answer.

“Yeah, we moved lots. My mom was a single mom, always chasing something better. A better job, a better apartment, a better life.” I grasp the ornate handrail, staring down at the arches below.

“She had this thing about fresh starts. Every new town was going to be the place where everything finally clicked into place. Until it wasn’t, and we’d pack up again.”

“That sounds hard, always being the new kid,” Drew says softly.

“It was, sometimes.” I swallow. “But I learned to adapt. To be whatever version of myself would let me survive until the next move.” I trace my hand along the smooth metal of the railing.

Drew blinks at me.

“I stayed in the same place for high school though. My mom had remarried by then, and my stepfather had a job at the local steel mill.”

I don’t like to think too much about high school and the person I was then. I’ve gotten pretty good at keeping those memories locked away, but sometimes, they ambush me when I least expect it. Last month, I saw this kid at the grocery store getting hassled by his friends, and suddenly, I was back in that cafeteria, watching Connor dump milk over our classmate’s backpack while I just stood there. I had to abandon my shopping cart and leave. Couldn’t even look the cashier in the eye.

I take a deep breath before I continue. “Sometimes, I think I got too good at it, you know? At being whatever version of myself would fit in fastest.”

Drew’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Do you still feel like that now?”

My heart pounds against my ribs as I lift my gaze to his.

Up here, suspended in this ancient space where whispers carry across centuries, it feels possible to finally let out the truth I’ve been carrying for so long. If Dave could accept Drew so easily, maybe it wouldn’t be a big deal if I told the truth about my sexuality?

And out of anyone in my life, Drew is the person I want to tell the most.

But before I can find the words, a tour group emerges from the stairwell, their chatter shattering our bubble of privacy. Drew steps back slightly, and something complicated passes across his face before his expression smooths out.

“We should check out the Stone Gallery next,” he says. “The view of London is supposed to be amazing.”

“Yeah, good idea.”

As we climb the next set of stairs, I can’t help wondering what would have happened if that tour group hadn’t arrived. If I would have found the courage to be honest with Drew about who I really am.

I’m aware my motivation for telling him isn’t totally about authenticity.

Because I can’t help thinking that if I came out to him, it could mean that Drew and I could one day be more than friends.

The more time I spend with Drew, the more I wonder what it would be like to kiss him. What would it be like to finally be completely real with someone?

With him.