Page 30

Chapter Thirty

Justin

During my time at DTL Enterprises, I’ve had to do huge presentations, meet famous sports celebrities, and negotiate high-stakes deals.

But nothing has made my heart beat as fast as adding a small photo frame to my desk.

The picture sits there like an undercover agent among my collection of Houston Texans merchandise and Spurs memorabilia. It’s a snapshot of Tabitha sprawled across Drew’s lap, though the photo only shows his jeans. Cassie lurks in the background, her judgmental expression perfectly captured as she surveys her sister’s betrayal in choosing a human lap over their shared cat tower.

“Are those your cats?” Dave’s voice booms across the sales floor as he leans over my cubicle wall. “Since when do you have cats?”

My stomach clenches.

I’ve spent so long hiding any part of myself that’s not the stereotypical sports-obsessed Texas guy. But the photo makes me happy every time I look at it, so I want it on my desk.

Before I can respond, Dave continues, “That black-and-white one looks like it’s plotting world domination. That’s exactly the expression my mother-in-law’s cat gets right before it tries to murder my ankles.”

“That’s Cassie,” I say. “And yeah, world domination is definitely on her agenda. Though she’d probably delegate the actual conquering to her sister Tabitha while she supervises from her throne.”

Pete wheels his chair over so he can see. “You’ve got cats? Mate, why didn’t you say something when I was boring everyone with stories about my sister’s demon chihuahua?”

“That thing isn’t a dog. It’s a rat that’s learned to bark,” Dave says.

I smile as I turn back to my computer.

Pete wheels back to his desk, humming the theme from Cats under his breath, while Dave launches into a story about Pete’s sister’s chihuahua that involves three garden gnomes and what sounds like a hostage situation.

After I update my quarterly projections, I move on to comparing prices with our competitors, highlighting the cells where we can undercut them. It’s like planning game strategy, only with profit margins instead of passing yards.

“Hey.” Drew’s voice makes me jump.

He’s hovering by my desk, pushing his glasses up his nose. He’s recently started to wear his glasses more at work, and I really like it. Somehow they just make Drew seem more authentically him.

“Hey,” I say.

“I was just wondering if you want to grab some lunch?” he asks.

I glance at Dave and Pete, who are still debating whether Pete’s sister’s chihuahua qualifies as an actual dog or simply “a very angry dust bunny with teeth.”

My pulse quickens. Will they interpret Drew and me having lunch together in a way that makes them suspect the truth?

But Drew’s just standing there with that half-smile of his, and suddenly, keeping up appearances seems less important than spending my lunch hour with him.

“Sure,” I say.

We go to the café just around the corner from DTL Enterprises, which looks like British nostalgia had a head-on collision with a 1950s American diner, then decided to cover up the damage with a layer of grease.

“I can’t believe you’re voluntarily eating beans for lunch,” Drew says as he eyes my plate suspiciously.

“Hey, don’t think I haven’t noticed you going native with the black pudding.” I nod at his full English breakfast.

He grins. “It’s growing on me. Like mold on slightly expired bread.”

“British food was what we first talked about, remember? That night in the pub?”

Back when Drew was simply a cute IT guy who had helped me when my presentation went feral.

A complicated emotion comes across Drew’s face.

“I remember,” he says quietly.

We stare at each other for a few heartbeats. I never know what triggers these moments with Drew when he seems so conflicted and his smile takes on that edge of uncertainty.

“But that wasn’t the first time we talked. You saved me from committing the cardinal sin of using Marleen’s mug,” Drew continues finally.

“Oh, that’s right. I prevented you from committing social suicide by ceramic.”

It’s so easy to forget that things between Drew and I are supposed to be casual. Easy to forget about everything except how much I love being with someone who makes even eating beans on toast feel like fun.

“So anyway,” Drew says, breaking our eye contact to fiddle with his phone. “I was looking up some stuff about prosopagnosia last night and found this app that’s in beta testing. I thought you might find it useful for the customer Christmas function.”

He slides his phone across the table, and I nearly drop my fork as I scan through the features.

The app is called Recall+, and it uses your phone or smartwatch camera to discreetly identify people you’ve tagged previously, sending subtle vibration patterns to a smartwatch to alert you about who’s approaching.

“Holy shit,” I breathe, scrolling through the setup screens. “This is… This could actually work. Like, really work.”

“The reviews say it’s pretty accurate,” Drew says. “You can trial it for free for the next month.”

I look up at him, my throat suddenly tight with an emotion I’m not ready to name.

I can’t believe he found this for me.

His whole reaction to my face blindness has been amazing. He’s the one who actually worked out what was going on with my brain, and now he’s trying to find ways to make my life easier without making me feel broken.

Is this what it feels like to have a proper partner? A partner who doesn’t just accept your imperfections but actively works to help you navigate through life more easily.

“Thank you,” I say, and I’m not just thanking him for showing me the app.

He ducks his head, a blush creeping up his neck. “I just happened to stumble across it. It’s not a big deal.”

But despite his words, it feels like a big deal to me.

It’s a sign that Drew cares about me. Really cares. It has to be.

Armed with the Recall+ app, the Christmas client function goes better than any social event I’ve attended.

My watch buzzes discreetly against my wrist as Janet from United Sports approaches, and I greet her by name before she even opens her mouth. Two quick buzzes signal Rebecca from Active Life. When the CFO of United Manufacturing joins our group, the gentle vibration pattern lets me know who he is, which turns a potentially awkward encounter into a twenty-minute discussion about green initiatives that I know he’s interested in.

It’s incredible to feel confident in this kind of networking situation. Like I’m finally playing a game where I know all the rules instead of fumbling in the dark.

When I get home, the smell of Thai food hits me before I even open my apartment door.

Drew’s on my couch with Tabitha on his lap and takeout containers on my kitchen counter.

His glasses reflect the soft lamplight as he looks up at me.

“Hey, how did it go?” he asks.

“Good,” I say. “It went really good.”

I can’t help the lump in my throat as I look down at him, noting his sock-clad feet and his laptop on my coffee table.

“You didn’t need to figure out dinner,” I manage to get out.

“I might not be able to cook, but I can at least order takeout,” he says. “I didn’t know how much you’d get to eat while you were schmoozing.”

I collapse next to him on the couch. “You’re a mind reader.”

Drew untangles himself from Tabitha, who gives him an affronted look as he heads to the kitchen. He returns with a plate piled high with pad Thai and green curry, which is exactly what we shared one night coming back from Tower Bridge. He’s even remembered my weird thing about wanting the rice and curry separated.

Drew is constantly doing nice things like this for me. It’s like he’s collecting data on everything that makes me happy.

“The app was incredible tonight,” I say, accepting the plate he hands me. “I didn’t blank on a single person’s name.”

“That’s great.” There’s something in his voice I can’t quite read.

“What are you doing?” I nod to his laptop. “Are you still working on optimizing the marketing system?”

Drew hesitates, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “Actually, I was looking at what apps exist for people who are diverse in other visual and cognitive ways. For things like color blindness, I think it would be relatively straightforward to develop an app that could identify colors in real-time. And for hearing loss, an app could transcribe conversations so people can keep up with conversations around them in a group setting.”

“Oh wow. Is app development something you’re interested in?”

“Maybe. I mean, yeah,” Drew says. He looks down at the couch cushion, fiddling with the edge. “I like the idea of using technology to make people’s lives easier.”

Even though the idea of Drew leaving DTL Enterprises creates a hollow feeling in my chest, I want what is best for him. And there’s no doubt Drew’s talents are not being used to their full potential as a help desk technician.

“I think you can achieve whatever you set your mind to,” I say, and Drew rewards me with a smile.

While we eat, we brainstorm other conditions that could benefit from technology, bouncing ideas off each other.

Then, after we’ve stacked our plates in the dishwasher, we retreat back to the couch, where Drew continues to research what apps are currently available while I type some follow-up emails to customers I saw tonight.

“Oh, I almost forgot, a package arrived for you,” Drew says, nodding toward a brown paper package propped against the door.

I retrieve it, and my warm glow fades when I recognize my mother’s careful handwriting. I know what she’s sent—what I asked her to send—but my pulse still does that thing it used to do when I’d hear Bobby Ray’s truck in the driveway, like it’s going too fast and too slow at the same time.

I return to the couch, my stomach churning.

Drew’s steady presence beside me on the couch, the familiar clicking of his keyboard as he works, helps ground me.

The paper crinkles under my fingers as I carefully peel back the tape.

My mother’s note at the top is brief.

Hey darling,

Here are all the photos I could find. It was harder than I expected.

Have a lovely Christmas.

Looking forward to seeing you soon.

Love,

Mom

Inside, nestled between tissue paper, is a Christmas sweater, which is my mom’s standard holiday gift.

But underneath it is a large envelope and my old yearbook.

Photos spill from the envelope as I open it, each one striking a different chord in my memory. There I am at ten, surrounded by my mom’s attempt at Christmas decorations in our tiny apartment. It was the year before she met Bobby Ray.

I stare at my face. I have a shy, almost embarrassed smile, but I look happy.

Another photo slides free: thirteen-year-old me at my first football practice, shoulder pads making me look like an overdressed turtle, still innocent enough to think being good at football would make Bobby Ray proud.

The graduation photo hits me the hardest. Every hair perfectly placed, smile calibrated to exactly the right wattage—the picture-perfect all-American quarterback. But now I can see what I couldn’t then: the tension around my eyes, the way my hands are clenched at my sides, how much energy it took to maintain that illusion.

I suddenly realize Drew has stiffened next to me. When I glance over, his gaze is fixed on the scattered photos with an intensity that seems out of proportion to my awkward teenage fashion choices.

“You okay?”

He blinks rapidly. “Yeah, just…processing Teenage Justin in all his glory.”

But something’s off about his tone. Something doesn’t quite match his usual teasing.

“I asked my mom to send me some photos and my yearbook because I have to put together a speech for my class reunion. I was class president.” I let out a self-conscious laugh.

Drew freezes. “Your class reunion?”

“Yeah. I’m going home in early January for a few days. The app will definitely come in handy there too.” I blow out a breath. “I still have no idea what I’m going to talk about in my speech though. It feels like having to play a role I quit years ago.”

“You’re allowed to have changed since high school,” Drew says. He studies me with those intent brown eyes.

My stomach feels queasy. When Drew told me the other night how he’d been bullied in high school, it brought some of my suppressed memories from high school closer to the surface. I know my anger at someone treating Drew like that is hypocritical. Because I’d done exactly the same thing to one of my classmates as Drew’s bully had done to him.

“I know I’ve changed since high school. I really don’t like the person I was in high school. But I spent so long pretending, being what everyone expected me to be—the captain of the football team. I don’t know if I have the…the…courage to show them the real me.”

Drew bites his lip. “The real you is kind of awesome,” he says quietly.

Warmth floods my chest. Something inside me uncoils at his words. Leave it to Drew to cut straight through my spiral of self-doubt with such casual conviction.

“Just ‘kind of?’” I say.

He raises an eyebrow. “Sorry, I apologize for the hedge. Would ‘thoroughly, overwhelmingly, and persistently awesome’ better suit your ego?”

“Definitely.”

When I meet his eyes, the affection there catches me off guard.

Trying to hide my emotions, I reach for the next photo spilling out of the envelope.

My breath hitches when I see it.

It’s me at age ten, posing with my snow globe collection. I’m gap-toothed and gangly, proudly displaying my collection on shelves I helped Mom put up. My Houston Texans T-shirt is two sizes too big—another thrift store find—and my smile shows the kind of unguarded happiness that exists before anyone tells you there’s a wrong way to be happy.

“That was my snow globe collection.” I swallow. “Before Bobby Ray smashed them all.”

Drew stares at the photo for so long that I think he’s going to burn holes in it.

I can’t help staring at it too, my heart breaking at the thought of how that kid had no idea that in just a few years, he’d learn to hide his smile, to measure every gesture against someone else’s definition of manhood. How that kid would soon learn to translate every ‘be a man’ into ‘be less you,’ until hiding became as natural as breathing and twice as necessary.

How he’d spend so long trying to become someone else that he’d almost forget who he actually was.

“That was my flamingo one.” I point at it. “I used to shake it before bed and pretend the pink glitter was magical sand that could grant wishes.” I lean back, sinking into the cushions. “I knew these were going to be hard to look through, but I didn’t think they would be this hard.”

I take a shuddering breath, drawing a hand across my face. “I wish… I wish I could go back in time and tell the young version of me that it will all turn out okay.”

Drew continues to stare at the photo.

“Yeah, I wish I could do that for myself too,” he says softly, and I’m reminded of what high school was like for him, how he was bullied for just being him.

His expression stirs something in the back of my mind, but I’m too busy to examine it now.

Right now, I want to wipe that look off Drew’s face, just like I want to wipe my memory clear of everything.

Because I’m no longer a scared kid trying to squeeze myself into someone else’s definition of normal.

I’m a grown man, and I’m sitting next to the best person I’ve ever met. He knows exactly who I am, and he likes me back. My life is good now.

I kiss him.

Drew hesitates for a second before he kisses me back carefully like he’s reading Braille with his lips and finding all my unspoken words. His hands cup my face with the same reverence I held for those precious globes, and something inside me shifts back into place.

When I draw back, I rest my head on his forehead for a few seconds, letting the warmth of his skin ground me in the present.

It’s important to remind myself that the ten-year-old kid with his precious collection is finally smiling again.

And it’s all because of Drew.

What’s actually happening between Drew and me swirls in my head over the next few days. It’s still on my mind as we make our way into the DTL Enterprises Christmas party together.

The party is being held in a converted Victorian warehouse that can’t quite decide if it’s trying to be industrial chic or Santa’s workshop gone rogue. Exposed brick walls clash with tinsel garlands while fairy lights wage war with the original iron fixtures for atmospheric dominance.

I discreetly check my smartwatch as we enter, grateful for the subtle vibration patterns from the Recall+ app helping me navigate the sea of unfamiliar-familiar faces. Everyone looks different in their party clothes, but at least Roger’s reindeer sweater makes him easy to spot by the makeshift bar, the LED antlers acting like a beacon.

“I see Roger’s gone full ugly Christmas sweater,” Drew comments.

“That’s actually tame compared to last year,” I tell him. “He wore one that played ‘Jingle Bells’ every time someone bumped into him.”

Drew laughs as Dave materializes next to us, tinsel wrapped around his neck like a sparkly python. “Justin! Finally. I need backup. Pete’s trying to convince everyone that Die Hard is a Christmas movie.”

Drew gives me a small smile. “I’ll leave y’all to that cultural crisis. I should probably go find Xander and Adam.”

I watch him weave through the crowd toward the IT corner, and I’m tempted to follow.

I want to spend the party with Drew by my side, joking with him, getting the full benefit of his sardonic observations and lightning-quick comebacks.

I don’t understand why Drew has been so insistent we’re just friends with benefits. We get along so well and have so much fun together. Things are scorching hot in the bedroom, and our affection extends outside the bedroom with casual touches, hugs, and kissing.

Lots of kissing.

It’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a relationship.

How do I raise the topic with him? How can I ask if he’s noticed that the ‘friends with benefits’ label is starting to feel like something we’ve outgrown?

Surely, the way he reaches for me in his sleep, the way he’s become my cats’ favorite human, the way he unconsciously adjusts my tie every morning before we leave for work, means something?

What’s holding him back?

Is it the fact I’m not out yet? Is he cautious about being in a relationship with someone in the closet?

Sometimes, I catch him staring at me with an impossible-to-read expression. Longing? Guilt? Fear? I can’t put my finger on it.

Right now, I hate that he’s walking away from me.

But instead of going after him, I follow Dave to where Pete’s standing by the buffet table, gesturing with a mince pie for emphasis. “It’s set during Christmas! There’s a Christmas party! Santa hats are worn!”

“By that logic, Jurassic Park is a summer vacation movie,” Dave replies.

While Dave and Pete continue to argue, my attention drifts to where Drew’s speaking with Adam.

What would it be like to spend the whole Christmas party by Drew’s side without worrying about what anyone thought?

“Earth to Justin.” Pete waves a hand in front of my face. “You need to back me up. Die Hard —Christmas movie or not?”

“What? Oh yeah. Definitely Christmas. Nothing says holiday spirit like crawling through ventilation shafts.”

Pete makes a triumphant gesture while Dave scowls at me.

But I’m not worried about Die Hard politics.

My eyes are already seeking Drew again. He’s pulled his phone out to show Adam something. It’s probably about server configurations, database optimization, or whatever brilliant thing he’s working on now.

Because Drew is brilliant—not just with computers, but with people. The way he explains technical stuff without making anyone feel stupid, how he helps people in that quiet way, the gentle patience he shows my cats when they decide his laptop keyboard is their new bed.

“You okay, mate?” Dave asks. “You seem a bit distracted.”

“I’m fine.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, like Bobby Ray’s cheap bourbon.

Because I’m not fine. I’m at the point where the lie about who I actually am is threatening to smother me.

Pete launches into a dramatic retelling of Die Hard quotes, complete with a terrible Bruce Willis impression. I laugh in the right places and join in the debate about whether “Yippee-ki-yay” counts as a Christmas greeting, but my awareness of Drew never fades. Like he’s become my true north, my internal compass constantly reorienting to his presence.

When the marketing department challenges the sales department to a carol-singing competition, I search for Drew’s reaction. He’s moved to perch on the edge of a table, talking with Sarah from Accounting.

“Your turn, golden boy,” Dave announces, shoving the microphone at me. “Show these marketing amateurs how it’s done.”

I belt out “All I Want for Christmas” with more enthusiasm than skill. The sales department might be losing this sing-off based on pitch, but we’re definitely winning on volume.

Despite my singing skills being somewhere between a tone-deaf rooster and an enthusiastic car alarm, I can’t help directing my words at Drew. It might not be the most romantic gesture ever made, but the lyrics make so much sense to me right now.

Because it’s so true. He’s all I want for Christmas.

He watches me as I sing, that half-smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

And suddenly, I can’t stand it anymore. Can’t stand pretending Drew’s just the helpful IT guy who fixes my computer. Can’t stand watching him from across the room when every cell in my body wants to be next to him.

Bobby Ray’s voice tries to surface again—“ What kind of man lets everyone know he’s ? —”

But for the first time, another voice drowns it out. My voice. The real one, not the one I practiced in front of mirrors, trying to sound “normal enough.”

The kind of man who’s done hiding. The kind of man Drew deserves.

Because Drew definitely deserves someone who’s proud to be with him. Who doesn’t treat him like a secret. Who’s brave enough to choose him over other people’s expectations.

I deserve that too.

The realization hits me like Texas summer lightning—sudden, brilliant, and somehow inevitable.

I deserve to be honest about who I actually am.

When the song ends, I hand my microphone to an eager Pete.

Then, as Pete starts to belt out “Grandma Got Ran Over By a Reindeer,” I make my way across the room toward Drew.

My heart thunders against my ribs with each step. Drew’s half-smile turns into a full bloom as I approach.

“Hey,” he says. “Your singing was…enthusiastic.”

“What can I say? Nothing brings out my inner Mariah quite like competitive carol singing.”

“I think you just traumatized several Christmas carolers into early retirement.”

I laugh, and Drew’s focus skips to my lips, his gaze lingering on my mouth.

The air between us heats.

And when I glance up, it seems like the universe is sending me a message because we’re standing under a sprig of mistletoe.

Drew follows my gaze upward, his eyes widening slightly.

“Oh,” he says softly. “We don’t have to… I mean, I know you’re not?—”

I cut him off by cupping his face in my hands and kissing him.

The party noise fades, replaced by my heart pounding in my ears. Drew makes a surprised sound against my mouth before melting into the kiss, his hands coming up to grip my shoulders.

When we break apart, the first thing I see is Drew’s face, his eyes wide.

Then I become aware of the sudden quiet, the weight of dozens of eyes on us.

A laugh bubbles up in my chest, hysteria mixed with relief. Because the world hasn’t ended.

And Bobby Ray’s voice has gone quiet.

Drew’s still staring at me like he can’t quite believe what just happened.

“Sorry,” I tell him, though I’m not sorry at all. “I’m just tired of pretending you’re not the best part of my day.”

Drew’s eyes go soft, but there’s still something in his expression I can’t interpret. He seems almost haunted, like he’s carrying some secret weight that’s threatening to pull him under.

“Yo, Justin,” Dave’s voice over the microphone shatters the bubble between us.

I turn to find the whole sales team still standing near the karaoke machine, staring at me with wide eyes. For a split second, I’m transported back to high school, that same feeling of being watched, judged.

But this time, it’s different. This time I’m choosing to be seen, choosing to be real, and the freedom of that choice makes me feel lighter than air.

“I really need to go talk to the sales guys for a second,” I say. “But I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Sure,” Drew says.

I feel oddly weightless as I cross the floor. Like I’m walking through one of those dreams where everything’s shifted sideways into something new and terrifying and wonderful all at once.

And while my stomach is churning at the prospect of the upcoming conversation, one part of me is oddly calm.

Because this is me. Like it or lump it.

Dave and Pete come toward me. Dave practically bounces on his toes like a kid who’s spotted presents under the tree, while Pete keeps opening and closing his mouth like he’s rehearsing what to say.

“So, looks like you’ve found a way to ensure your tech is always functioning smoothly,” Dave says with a smirk, waggling his eyebrows.

“Dude, why didn’t you tell us so we’d stop trying to set you up with girls? Unless you bat for both teams? Which, you know, I totally respect because it increases your chances of finding a home run,” Pete says.

“No, I’m not bisexual. I’m definitely gay.”

I can’t believe how easily the words come out of my mouth. So many years of lying and pretending, and here I am, standing in the middle of the DTL Enterprises Christmas party, feeling like I’ve finally found the right playbook after years of running the wrong plays.

“He obviously waited until he was in a relationship to tell you so he could duck all your matchmaking attempts,” Dave says to Pete.

The guys start to squabble over their matchmaking prowess and my mind drifts back to Drew, to that look on his face after I kissed him. Like he was both happy and devastated.

Something is obviously going on with him. It’s almost like he’s carrying around his own version of Bobby Ray’s voice, some ghost from his past that won’t let him fully embrace this thing between us.

But we’ll figure it out. Because I’m done hiding. Done pretending. Done letting memories of Bobby Ray dictate who I can love.

I’m choosing Drew. Choosing us. Choosing to be brave enough to deserve him.

Now I just have to convince him to choose me back.