Page 31

Chapter Thirty-One

Andrew

So. That happened.

My lips are still tingling from Justin’s kiss.

I stagger over to the tables, where Sarah greets me with a smirk. Her Santa hat is tilted at an angle that suggests she’s been conducting thorough quality control of the mulled wine supply.

She raises her eyebrows. “So, Drew, the cute guy in sales who looks at you like you’re the best thing since automated password recovery was invented just kissed you under the mistletoe. Anything you want to share?”

I pour myself mulled wine with shaky hands and take a gulp. It burns pleasantly in my throat, giving me something to concentrate on besides the lingering sensation of Justin’s lips on mine.

After I’ve swallowed, I see Sarah is still staring at me expectantly.

“We’ve been hooking up,” I say.

I’m expecting disbelief on her face or the kind of skepticism usually reserved for when someone claims they actually enjoy British weather.

“Cool,” she says instead.

I blink at her. “Cool? That’s all you’ve got to say about it?”

“What? Did you expect me to disapprove? It’s not against company policy to hook up with a coworker.”

No, I expected her to be incredulous about the concept of Justin and me together.

“Don’t you think we’re a bit of a mismatched couple?” I say.

“Why? Because he’s in sales and you’re in IT? I don’t think that’s the kind of insurmountable differences romance books are based on.” She smirks.

“Um, no. Because he’s gorgeous, and I’m…not.”

Her forehead crumples. “He is really gorgeous, but you’re cute too. You’ve got that adorkable thing going on. You guys make a really cute couple.”

The idea that someone could look at Justin and me and think we’d make a good couple is shocking.

That it could be so simple and straightforward.

For a second, I imagine Justin and me as a couple. A future where we get to wake up to his cats demanding breakfast, spend late nights watching comedy shows, and have more quiet moments where I get to see all the sides of him the rest of the world doesn’t.

Happiness floods through me before reality crashes in. Every moment I’m picturing is still built on a lie.

Justin’s finally been brave enough to show the world who he really is while I’m still hiding behind a mask.

Besides, a future with Justin is not my plan. My plan is to help Justin find his stride with his sexuality, to undo some of the damage Bobby Ray did.

And it’s working. He’s just kissed a guy for the first time in public, coming out to his colleagues at the same time. Judging by all the backslapping and grins among the sales team right now, it’s been a positive experience.

The Christmas lights catch on Justin’s hair, turning him into some kind of festive angel, which isn’t helping my ability to think straight.

He meets my gaze from across the room.

And suddenly, he’s moving in that effortless way he has, like gravity itself has decided to give him preferential treatment. Several people try to catch his attention, but his eyes stay fixed on me.

“Hey.” His grin spreads like a sunrise, transforming his usual polished charm into something wild and wonderful.

“Everything good?” I catch myself unconsciously mirroring his smile before remembering all the reasons I shouldn’t, my face settling into something that probably looks more like indigestion.

“Everything is great,” Justin says.

“I’m glad.”

And I am glad. I’m so happy Justin’s coming out has gone well and the sales department has embraced him without hesitation. It’s what he deserves.

It’s what I deserved in high school too.

“You know what’s weird?” Justin’s voice is soft. “After so many years of pretending, suddenly, being myself feels like the easiest thing in the world.”

My throat tightens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I used to feel like there was a giant disconnect between who I was at work and who I was in the rest of my life.” He ducks his head. “But you’ve helped me bridge that gap.”

Guilt churns in my stomach. “I haven’t done anything.”

“You have though. You’ve shown me what it looks like when someone’s comfortable in their own skin.”

Oh, the fucking irony right now.

Justin’s smiling at me, his face so open and trusting.

How the hell did I get here?

I started this wanting to get revenge on the golden boy who made my life hell, but somewhere between his cats adopting me and him trusting me with his deepest secrets, I’ve managed to hurt us both in entirely new ways. Justin thanking me for teaching him authenticity would be amusing if it wasn’t currently breaking my heart.

Justin deserves someone who can match his courage, not someone who’s been lying to him since day one.

“Do you want to go out after this?” I say abruptly.

Justin’s forehead creases. “Out where?”

“To a club or something?”

This is what I need to do. I need to follow through on my plan. The plan is to make Justin comfortable with his sexuality and then help him meet other guys.

“I didn’t know you like to dance,” Justin says.

“I don’t really. But I thought you might like to.”

“Sure. That could be fun, dancing with you.”

I take another sip of my mulled wine, trying to calm my swirl of emotions.

It’s okay. It’s going to be all okay.

Justin is unbelievably gorgeous. He’s now officially out.

He’s found his gay sea legs with me, and now he’ll be able to happily go off and start hooking up with other guys. He’ll be able to enjoy meeting other guys, knowing he’s got some experience under his belt. Like training wheels for his new gay life, except the training wheels are me, and I’m about to become obsolete.

That’s what needs to happen.

A few hours later, we’re at Heaven, which seems like a deeply ironic name for a place that feels distinctly purgatorial. The nightclub sprawls across multiple levels under Charing Cross station, the bass vibrating through the Victorian railway arches like the whole place has a heartbeat.

My fingers clench around my gin and tonic as I watch a guy who looks like he moonlights as a Calvin Klein model lean in close to Justin at the bar. Even from here, I can see how the stranger’s biceps strain against his tight black T-shirt as he gestures animatedly.

Justin throws his head back, laughing at something the guy says, and the sight causes a hollowness that starts in my chest and spreads until even my fingertips feel empty.

This is exactly what I wanted. I wanted Justin to be comfortable enough with his sexuality to attract attention from guys like this. To realize he has options beyond the helpful IT guy who lives down the hall. I was just the practice run, the beta test before the real thing.

I force myself to look away, focusing instead on the dance floor where the crowd moves like a single organism under the strobing lights. The music pounds through my chest, but it can’t quite drown out the voice in my head, reminding me that guys who build relationships on lies don’t get to keep the fairytale.

“You look like you’re thinking too hard for a Saturday night,” a voice breaks through my spiral of self-recrimination.

I turn to find a guy with kind eyes and an arsenal of freckles smiling at me. He’s wearing a T-shirt with Sudo, Make Me a Sandwich printed across it, and something in my expression must show recognition because his grin widens.

“Finally, someone who gets the joke! I’m Nathan.”

“I’m Drew,” I manage. “And I should probably warn you that joke’s considered a bit problematic in certain Linux circles.”

Nathan launches into a passionate defense of Unix humor, and I find myself drawn into the familiar territory of tech banter. It’s easier than watching Justin with Mr. Perfect Arms, easier than acknowledging the ache in my chest feels suspiciously similar to heartbreak.

“Mind if I interrupt?” A voice cuts through our conversation. I turn to find Justin standing there, his expression thunderous. The Calvin Klein model is nowhere in sight.

“Sure, we were just discussing Linux humor,” Nathan says.

“Sounds interesting,” Justin says politely. Then he turns to me, his eyes fixing on me with an intensity that makes my pulse spike. “Can we talk? Somewhere quieter?”

“Sure,” I say.

Justin stalks across the club, leading me to a relatively peaceful corner near the emergency exit, where the music is muffled enough that we don’t have to shout.

The red exit sign casts strange shadows across Justin’s face, making him look both familiar and foreign, along with impossibly handsome.

“What are you doing?” he demands.

“Making new friends?” My attempt at a casual shrug probably looks more like a muscle spasm. “Isn’t that what we’re here for?”

“Do you want to hook up with someone else? Is that why you wanted to come here?” The hurt on his face is painful, cutting deep inside me.

“No…this isn’t for me. I… I just wanted you to see that you have options,” I stammer.

He steps closer, shoulders squared like he’s about to give the most important sales pitch of his life. But there’s nothing rehearsed in the way his hands clench.

“What part of this don’t you understand? I don’t want any other guy, Drew. I want you.” He fixes me with a hard stare. “Why won’t you believe me on this?”

My breathing is coming hard and fast.

“Maybe because I spent so long in high school being belittled that it’s hard to believe anyone would ever like me for me.”

The words are out of my mouth before I can filter them. They hang in the air between us.

Justin’s expression shifts from frustration to something softer.

Shit, I’ve never truly articulated how those years of constant bullying rewired my brain, how they planted seeds of doubt that grew into forests of disbelief. Every time someone shows interest in me, my mind searches for their ulterior motive, like a malware scanner that can’t be turned off.

Success, money, acclaim—none of it has overwritten that base programming.

“You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met.” Justin’s voice carries the same raw truth it did when he told me about Bobby Ray.

The intensity in his eyes pins me in place, like I’m caught in the world’s most emotionally devastating spotlight.

I believe him.

I believe Justin Morris thinks I’m amazing.

This is Justin increasing my sense of self-worth, even though he was the one who degraded it in the first place. How fucked up is that?

I stretch up to kiss him because that’s easier than conjuring a reply.

Justin kisses me back so hungrily that I forget about everything except the way he feels against me.

My back hits the wall as his hands frame my face, thumbs stroking my jaw with a gentleness that contrasts sharply with the urgency of his kiss.

He tastes like mulled wine and Justin, his tongue sliding against mine with a thoroughness that makes my knees weak. I clutch at his shoulders and then move my hands into his hair, needing an anchor as everything I thought I knew about us shifts and realigns. The music from the club fades to white noise compared to the thundering of my heart.

When Justin finally breaks away from me, his pupils are blown wide, making his eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them. His lips are swollen, hair completely wrecked from my fingers, but his expression holds something fiercer than just desire.

“Can we please just go home?” he asks.

Home. The word hits me like a sucker punch. Because somehow, without me noticing, home has stopped meaning my carefully curated fake apartment. It means Justin’s apartment, with Cassie’s judgmental stare and Tabitha’s noisy demands for attention, with the specific way he arranges the coffee mugs and that comfortable spot on his couch where I always sit.

I have to choke down the lump in my throat to push the next words out.

“Okay. Let’s go home.”

We decide not to bother with public transport and catch an Uber instead.

The whole ride, Justin pulsates with barely suppressed tension.

We barely make it two steps inside his front door before he’s on me, kissing me like my hesitation is a personal challenge he’s determined to overcome.

His lips don’t stay attached to mine. Instead, he kisses down my neck, pausing at that spot behind my ear that makes coherent thought impossible. His breath is warm against my skin as he whispers how much he wants this, wants me.

It’s like Justin Morris is on a one-person quest to prove to me with his actions that he thinks I’m amazing.

It’s in the way he touches me with such reverence, how he keeps pulling back to look at me with those blue-green eyes, checking that I’m really here with him, how he smiles when I gasp at his touch.

It’s the way he wraps his lips around my cock and sets to work, worshipping me in a way that leaves me gasping against the wall, one hand braced on the key hook—which is definitely not designed to provide this kind of support.

It’s in the way that pleasuring me gets him so close to the edge that after I’ve exploded, he only needs a few strokes before he’s coming too.

Eventually, we break apart to greet the cats, who seem miffed we’ve been ignoring them. Cassie’s tail twitches with clear judgment while Tabitha lets out a series of meows that sound suspiciously like a lecture on proper household etiquette. Then we go to bed.

But we don’t sleep.

Instead, Justin and I talk.

We lie there, my head on his chest, and we talk about random things like whether British people actually enjoy Marmite or if it’s an elaborate prank on the rest of the world, about the weirdest sales pitch he’s ever given—involving a demonstration with sock puppets— and about the weirdest IT ticket I’ve had to deal with, which involved Kieran insisting his monitor was reading his mind and displaying his inner thoughts. Turns out he’d been talking to himself while working and his new speech-to-text software was transcribing everything in the background.

Then, our conversation turns more personal.

I can’t give Justin the truth, but I can give him the parts of me I’ve never shown anyone else.

I tell him about how, as a kid, I was obsessed with building intricate dioramas of famous places, like a miniature version of Paris made out of cereal boxes. How I was inexplicably afraid of escalators and would cry if I had to go on one. How I still feel guilty about breaking my sister’s transmitter radio when I was seven and lying about it to my dad.

In return, he tells me about the tiny apartment where he and his mom lived before Bobby Ray, how they used to make up elaborate stories about how the water stains on the ceiling happened, about how he found an abandoned dog when he was in college but had to rehome him because his apartment didn’t allow pets, and how he still gets updates from the family who adopted him.

Justin finally falls asleep as sunlight paints the walls in watercolor shades of dawn. The colors make everything dreamlike except for Justin.

He’s solid and real in the bed beside me.

I slip out of bed and go to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee.

I wrap my hands around the mug’s warmth as I stare out the window at the new day. It’s like London is offering a fresh start I don’t deserve.

Justin now knows me better than anyone else ever has.

Yet he still doesn’t know my real name.

I have to leave. I have to leave before I fall any deeper into this thing with Justin, before I forget how to exist in a world where he doesn’t look at me like I’m something precious.

But as I turn away from the window, my gaze catches on the Christmas tree Justin and I put up together the other night.

We’d had a hilarious debate over the correct ratio of tinsel to ornaments, with Justin claiming there’s no such thing as too much sparkle while I tried to insist on some sense of decorative dignity. Eventually, our argument descended into wrestling, which led to us making out on the rug under the Christmas tree and discovering that fallen pine needles aren’t conducive to romance.

I’ll leave after Christmas. I don’t want to ruin Christmas for him.