Page 8

Chapter Eight

Justin

“For the last time, Moose, you are not a lapdog.” I attempt to reason with the hundred-and-fifty-pound mastiff trying to edge himself onto my lap.

“Are you being sizeist, Justin?” Lucy, another volunteer, looks up from where she’s scrubbing out a kennel.

“I’m just being realistic. I don’t think we’re doing Moose’s future owners any favors by making him believe that people will be enthusiastic about having a mastiff use them as a human beanbag.”

I scratch Moose’s ears to reduce the sting of my comment. He leans into my hand. I swear if Moose was a cat, he would purr.

Saturday mornings at the Second Chances Animal Shelter are my sanctuary. With dogs and cats, there’s no judgment or expectations. Just unconditional acceptance, even if it comes with a side of drool.

The shelter manager, Maria, corners me as I finish Moose’s walk.

“So, about the fundraiser…” she begins, and I’m immediately nervous. Maria with a clipboard and that particular gleam in her eye is dangerous.

“We need some special auction items,” she continues. “Things that will really draw the crowds. I want to auction off a date with you.”

I nearly drop Moose’s leash. “What?”

“You’re perfect! Successful, handsome, good with animals.” She taps her pen against the clipboard. “And you know we need this fundraiser to be successful.”

I do know. Maria does a fabulous job at managing to keep the shelter afloat, but I know the annual fundraiser is the difference between keeping our doors open or turning animals away.

The thought of saying no to cases like Moose, who came to us so scared he wouldn’t let anyone near him, makes my chest tight.

“That’s emotional blackmail,” I say.

She tilts her head. “Is it working?”

“Yes.”

“Great. I’ll get started on the marketing. How do you feel about posing with puppies for the promotional photos?”

A memory slips into my mind. Me clutching an injured kitten and a deep-pitched voice laced with contempt.

“ Real men don’t cuddle animals. They shoot them. ”

I push the voice away. It’s not welcome in my head.

“Sure, I’m happy to help however you want me,” I tell Maria.

After I finish at the shelter, I go back home to grab a quick lunch before I head to the gym, which is my usual Saturday afternoon routine.

I like having routines to fill the void of my weekends.

When I first arrived in London, I tried to find a friendship group among other ex-pats. But I got sick of my new friends trying to set me up, of the well-meaning suggestions that their friend Sarah/Emma/Jessica would be perfect for me.

True friendship is difficult when you’re concealing such a large part of yourself.

It’s easier in a big city to melt into anonymity. Now, my social life normally only involves drinks with my colleagues and clients, where the talk is nearly always about work or sports.

It feels safer that way.

My phone buzzes as I’m heading out to the gym. Mom’s photo appears on the screen. It’s one I took of her on my last visit home, trying to capture her smile but only managing to catch a hesitant version.

“Hi, sweetie,” she says when I answer. Her voice has that careful quality she always takes with me. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“No, it’s fine, Mom. I’m just heading to the gym.” I adjust my gym bag on my shoulder. “How are you doing?”

“Oh, you know me, keeping busy.” There’s a pause, and I can almost see her twisting her wedding ring, which she still wears even though she hasn’t been married for five years. I can’t stand the sight of it, hate that a reminder of him is still on her, but I think it makes her feel safer when strangers assume she’s married.

Besides, I know how naive it is to think we can remove all traces of Bobby Ray just by removing the physical reminders. I still find myself checking my posture when I sit— shoulders back, chin up, none of that sissy slouching —while Mom still starts so many of her sentences with “I’m sorry,” like she’s apologizing for existing.

“The car’s been acting up again,” she says.

My jaw clenches. Of course it has. Because Bobby Ray made sure she couldn’t afford anything reliable when she left him.

“What’s wrong with it this time?”

“It keeps stalling at intersections. The mechanic says it might be the fuel pump, but honestly, something else seems to break every month.” Her voice gets smaller. “I can probably manage it…”

“No, Mom. Let me help.” I hate how sharp my voice comes out. I take a deep breath and soften my tone. “I should have some bonuses coming up if everything goes well. They will hopefully be enough for a new car. Something decent.”

“I don’t want to be a burden.”

The words slice through me. How many times had Bobby Ray used that word? Burden. Drag. Dead weight.

“You’re not a burden, Mom.” I pause at the entrance to the gym. “I want to help. Please let me help.”

“You’re such a good boy.” Her voice catches. “I’m so proud of you.”

I close my eyes, fighting the familiar mix of love and resentment. Because where was that pride when Bobby Ray was trying to make me into his version of a “real man?”

“Thanks, Mom. We’ll figure something out with the car, okay? I’m at the gym now. I’ve got to go.”

After I end the call, guilt settles in my stomach like a lead weight. Mom’s all alone in Texas, dealing with an unreliable car and the aftermath of Bobby Ray’s financial abuse, while I’m living it up in London.

But the thought of moving back makes my stomach clench.

Sometimes, I think the Atlantic Ocean isn’t enough distance between me and Texas.

I push through the gym doors, inhaling the familiar scent of rubber mats and metal.

I like the gym. I enjoy working out, pushing my body until my mind goes quiet, until there’s nothing but the burn in my muscles and the steady count of reps.

A woman on the treadmill keeps sneaking glances my way but, luckily, doesn’t approach me. I’m the master of a polite turndown, though it never feels particularly nice.

The endorphin high from my workout evaporates as I approach the locker room doors. My steps slow, the familiar tension creeping back, like my body is automatically armoring itself.

Because the locker room is the only part of the gym I don’t like.

I’ve got my locker room strategy down to a science now though. Grab the corner locker, which makes it easier to keep your back to the room. Keep your eyes on your phone, your shoes, or that fascinating piece of lint on your gym bag. Never look up when that group of guys from the weight room comes in laughing about their weekend plans. Definitely don’t notice how the new guy who was just pressing three hundred and fifteen pounds on the bench has a smile that could power the whole gym’s electricity.

After the locker room torture is over, I head home to my apartment building.

As I head into the lobby, I notice a guy wrestling with the door that always sticks in humid weather.

And my heart starts to thud slightly faster. There’s something familiar about his dark brown hair and how he’s walking, with a particular combination of purpose and caution, like someone who’s mapped out every step but is still checking for obstacles.

“Drew,” I call.

He turns, and he’s wearing glasses, which throws me for a second.

But my eyes fly to his hair, which is cut in clean lines that accentuate the shape of his face.

It’s definitely Drew.

Drew, the cute, funny new IT guy who was my savior at work yesterday, who had a drink with me last night, his nose doing this adorable scrunching thing every time he found something amusing.

The guy who has slid into my mind at odd points today, making me smile when I remember his deadpan delivery about British food.

“Uh…hi,” he says.

I look at the bags of shopping he’s carrying and spot milk and bread, along with a whole lot of microwave meals.

“You live here too?” I’m fairly sure I fail to hide the delight in my voice.

Drew shuffles his grocery bags into one hand so he can push his dark-rimmed glasses back up his nose. “Um…yeah. I’ve just moved into Flat 28b.”

“That’s my floor. I’m Flat 26a. We’re almost neighbors.”

I’m grinning broadly at him, and the corners of his mouth tweak up in a hesitant smile.

“I guess I should be almost neighborly and invite you over for a drink to welcome you to the building.”

He stares at me for a few seconds, his eyes behind his glasses blinking rapidly.

His hesitation provides a gap for me to second-guess my motives.

What am I doing?

What about Drew makes me want to get to know him better? I’m used to my instinct to push people away, but something about Drew makes me forget all my carefully constructed rules about keeping people at arm’s length.

And he’s a colleague of mine, a fellow American who is new to the country, and buying him one beer last night definitely hasn’t repaid him for how he saved my ass yesterday.

I’m just being friendly. Neighborly. A good colleague. All those safe words that don’t explain why my heart speeds up when he pushes his glasses up his nose again.

“I want to show you this great comedy clip about the differences between Americans and the British,” I say. “It’ll make you laugh, I promise.”

He continues to look doubtful. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised about his hesitation. I mean, the guy does think my search history involves conversations with my refrigerator and an unhealthy obsession with hand sanitizer. He probably thinks I’m one step away from wearing a tinfoil hat.

“Okay.” His agreement seems to surprise him, along with me.

“Great. Uh…does around five suit you?”

“Sure.”

He still seems uncertain, but as he moves toward the stairs, I fall into step beside him.

“Can I help you carry one of those bags?”

“No, I’m okay, thanks.”

We walk up the stairs in step with each other. My heartbeat is doing double-time for reasons that have nothing to do with physical exertion.

Drew keeps his eyes fixed ahead, like the faded carpet patterns hold some fascinating secret, while I try not to be obvious about stealing glances at his profile.

“See you at five,” I say when I reach my apartment door.

“See you then.”

After I get inside my apartment, I realize I’m grinning.

I quickly scan my apartment. As a hangover from my upbringing, I always keep my apartment immaculate. The punishment for not being tidy was harsh when you lived with Bobby Ray. A misplaced shoe had once cost me a weekend in my room with nothing but a Bible.

But I can’t help looking at my apartment critically now, trying to see it through Drew’s eyes. My tropical fish tank fills up one corner, the school of neon tetras darting in formation like tiny synchronized swimmers showing off their best routine.

The bookshelf next to the fish tank is stuffed with cookbooks and true crime novels, while the walls are covered with black-and-white photos I’ve taken at the shelter. My favorite is of Moose mid-shake, jowls flying, perfectly capturing that mix of dignity and ridiculousness only mastiffs can achieve.

A loud meow announces Tabitha’s arrival as she saunters out from her favorite sunbathing spot behind the curtains. Her sister Cassie isn’t far behind, her black tail held high like an exclamation mark.

“Here comes trouble,” I say as Tabitha immediately launches into operatic meows while Cassie weaves a complex figure around my ankles.

“I know, I know, you’re starving,” I tell them. “Life is so hard when your human abandons you for most of the day.”

After I’ve made a fuss over the cats, I head to the kitchen, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach that feels suspiciously like first-date nerves. Which is ridiculous because this isn’t a date. It’s just being neighborly.

I may be reaching the limit of how many times I can repeat the word neighborly to myself.

Still, I pull out the ingredients for guacamole, my hands moving on autopilot as I dice the onions and tomatoes. Everyone should experience authentic guacamole at least once in their life. Me putting in so much effort has nothing to do with the sound of Drew’s laugh last night…

After I make some guacamole, I’ve still got time to kill, and I start the familiar motions of making my mom’s chili. Maybe I’ll be able to convince Drew to stay for dinner?

At precisely five o’clock, there’s a knock on the door.

My feet feel oddly disconnected from my body as I head to the door. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and run a hand through my hair before realizing I’ve probably just messed it up completely, along with adding sweat to it. Which I don’t think has ever been highly rated as a hair gel.

I take a deep breath and open the door.

And there’s Drew.

He’s still wearing the glasses like earlier, which highlight his deep-brown eyes, making him look sophisticated and somehow softer at the same time.

I swallow hard. “Hey, man, come in.”

I step back to allow Drew into my apartment.

He comes in cautiously like he’s mapping out the space, those eyes behind his glasses scanning every detail.

“You want a beer?” I’m already moving to the fridge, grateful for the excuse to do something with my hands.

“Ah, yes, please,” Drew says.

Grabbing two beers and opening them gives me a chance to collect myself, and I’ve got my confident smile plastered on my face as I turn back around.

“Thanks.” Drew takes the bottle off me. His fingers only brush against mine for a millisecond, but it feels longer than that.

He immediately takes a long pull from the bottle.

“Have a seat.” I point to the oversized leather couch I’d splurged on when I got my first bonus. It’s too big for the space, but it’s the kind of couch that encourages you to sink in and stay.

Drew sits tentatively on the edge as if worried the couch will swallow him whole.

“Do you want some guacamole? Or if you don’t like that, I’ve got some spiced nuts or chips and dip or pretty much anything else you could want.” I’m aware I’m rambling, but my suave has completely abandoned me. “Except Marmite, of course. That’s where I draw the line. Some things are just wrong.”

Thank fuck I’ve managed to salvage it with some yeast-spread humor because the corner of Drew’s mouth quirks upward momentarily before his lips settle back into a neutral expression.

“I like guacamole.” He says the last word slowly, like it’s unfamiliar.

I head to the kitchen, oddly conscious of Drew’s eyes following me as I grab the guacamole from the fridge and arrange tortilla chips in a spiral pattern.

I can’t help feeling weirdly proud when Drew’s eyebrows lift at the sight of the perfectly diced tomatoes and the sprinkle of cilantro on top.

He uses a chip to scoop some of the guacamole. “This is amazing.”

“Thanks.”

He obviously senses my pride because his eyebrows rise. “You made this yourself?”

“Yeah. I mean, I like to mess around in the kitchen.” I think of the microwave meals I saw in his bags and can probably guess the answer to my next question, but I ask it anyway.

“Do you cook?”

Drew shifts his weight back on the couch. “My cooking skills extend to knowing exactly how long to microwave different brands of ready meals to get the best results. I’ve got spreadsheets and everything.”

His deadpan delivery makes me chuckle.

“And here I thought I was being fancy with my homemade guacamole, but you’re out there revolutionizing microwave science. Do you have graphs? Please tell me there are graphs.”

Drew’s mouth does that quirky thing again, where it looks like he’s wrestling back a smile.

“I’m not going to confirm or deny the presence of graphs,” he says.

I laugh, which seems to be the magic ingredient for letting Drew’s smile win the battle, transforming his entire face like someone’s flicked on a switch.

My cats apparently decide my laughter means the interloper isn’t a threat because Tabitha appears from her fortress behind the couch while Cassie materializes from wherever she’s been conducting her latest surveillance operation.

Drew croons to them as they weave around his legs.

“Who do we have here?” he asks.

“The black one is Cassie, and the tabby is Tabitha,” I say.

My cats aren’t much to look at. Tabitha’s missing an ear, and Cassie’s got a permanent squint that makes her look like she’s judging everyone’s life choices. Drew doesn’t seem fazed, though, scratching under her chin until she tilts her head back and closes her good eye in bliss.

“Don’t let their friendliness fool you. They’re just trying to recruit you into their ‘convince Justin to feed us more treats’ campaign.”

Drew chuckles softly as he continues to pet them. “I admire their tactics. Multiple operatives, coordinated approach, targeted manipulation.”

“Their contract negotiations mostly involve strategic purring,” I say, and I’m rewarded with another Drew smile.

“How old are they?” he asks.

“They’re both rescue cats, so we’re not exactly sure. The vet thinks Cassie is probably about five or six. But Tabitha wasn’t fully grown when I got them two years ago, so she’s probably not quite three.”

“Two years of treat negotiations? No wonder they’ve perfected their technique,” Drew says.

“It’s hard not to spoil them. I actually got my fish tank so the cats would have something to watch during the day.” I duck my head, slightly bashful at revealing how far I’ll go to keep my furry overlords happy.

Drew doesn’t reply, and when I raise my gaze, he’s studying me. There’s something in his expression that I, with my salesperson experience of reading people, can’t quite work out.

Confusion? Curiosity?

My heart starts to beat faster.

He looks away from me, his eyes scanning my apartment.

“So, besides the cats, you live here alone?” he asks.

“Ah…yeah.” I scratch my neck. “What about you? Do you live alone? No girlfriend?”

Drew’s entire body tenses and his hand freezes mid-pet, causing Tabitha to bump her head against his fingers in protest.

When he looks at me, there’s something almost defiant in his face.

“I’m gay.”

My throat suddenly goes tight. It’s like all the air in the room has disappeared, sucked out by the force of those two syllables hanging between us.

“Oh right. Well, that’s cool,” I manage.

Drew’s eyebrows shoot up. “It’s cool?” Somehow, there’s scorn in his voice, and my cheeks heat. Is that not the right thing to say? Or is his mockery coming from another source?

Does he know? Does he suspect about me?

My heart races.

“Yeah, I mean…just…it’s cool…” Yeah, it appears I have no advancements from that.

Drew’s expression twists.

“So, no boyfriend then?” my mouth asks.

“No, no boyfriend.” He puts his beer bottle on the coffee table with a small thud. “Listen, I better head off.”

“Wait, I was going to show you that comedy skit about the differences between Americans and Brits. You’ll love it, I promise.”

Drew’s eyebrows pull together. He stares at me for a few beats before he answers.

“Yeah, okay.”

The tension in his shoulders stays as I frantically find the YouTube clip on my TV.

I press Play, and the comedian launches into his routine about how British people consider tea-making a sacred ritual while Americans think dropping a tea bag in cold water is acceptable behavior.

Drew’s laugh is barely audible at first, more of an exhale than an actual sound. But when the comedian starts mimicking a British person having an existential crisis over someone putting milk in Earl Grey, Drew’s shoulders begin to relax.

Tabitha takes advantage of his lowered defenses to claim his lap, kneading his thighs before settling down like she’s appointed herself Queen of Mount Drew. He absently strokes her fur as the comedian moves on to comparing American and British approaches to complaining in restaurants.

“Americans are like, ‘this food is terrible, I demand to speak to the manager,’” the comedian demonstrates in an exaggerated accent. “While British people are like ‘oh no, everything’s fine’ while secretly planning to leave a passive-aggressive TripAdvisor review.”

This time, Drew’s laugh is fuller, more genuine. His smile transforms his whole face again, softening the edges I didn’t even realize were there until they disappear.

Cassie, not wanting to miss out on the attention her sister is getting, headbutts Drew’s arm until he shifts to pet her too. The sight of him with a cat draped across his lap while another demands his attention does something strange to my insides.

A cute guy who is nice to my cats? Who is funny and smart and somehow manages to make glasses look criminally attractive?

He’s also gay and single a voice inside my head reminds me.

We work together, and he lives just down the hallway from me.

I might not be playing with fire, but I’m definitely fiddling with the matches.