Page 9

Chapter Nine

Andrew

Of all the places I ever expected to be, sitting on Justin Morris’s couch is not one of them.

And I just told him I’m gay.

My fight-or-flight response had kicked in, waiting for his face to transform into the sneer I saw a thousand times as a teenager.

But while Justin seemed taken aback by my words, he hadn’t reacted with disgust or revulsion. Instead, he’d dismissed my sexuality like it was nothing.

Then he’d insisted I stay to watch some TV with him.

My heart settles as I watch the comedian act out an American confidently asking for directions versus a British person apologizing for existing while getting lost. “Americans are like, ‘Which way to Big Ben?’ while British people are like, ‘So terribly sorry to be such a bother, but I appear to be having a slight geographical uncertainty…’”

Justin sits on the other side of the couch, half watching the screen and half watching me, and every time I laugh at one of the jokes, he brightens like someone’s adjusted his contrast settings.

It’s like he really cares about what I think.

I cling to my memories. Remembering his harsh laugh that time Connor deliberately knocked my laptop off my desk, sending pieces scattering across the floor like technological confetti. Justin hadn’t been the one to do it, but his laugh cut deeper than the actual damage.

Then there was the time Justin spotted me browsing a graphic novel with a gay protagonist at the school book fair. He didn’t say anything at first, just nudged Connor and nodded in my direction with a knowing look. Later, when I was checking out, Connor “accidentally” bumped into me, sending my selection tumbling to the floor. And Justin had been right there to sneer, “Required reading for you, right?” loud enough for the line of students behind me to hear. I left the book where it fell, retreating empty-handed.

And the thing is, I deliberately wore my glasses tonight rather than contacts, and just like when he saw me today in the hallway, he still hasn’t figured out my true identity.

How is it possible that someone who featured so heavily in my high school nightmares doesn’t even recognize me when I’m sitting on his couch?

Despite being the punchline to his jokes for four years, I apparently wasn’t important enough to make it into his long-term memory.

But despite my constant replay of memories, I find it hard to reconcile the Justin from high school with Justin the rescue cat owner, lavishing affection on his pets. Justin the guy who makes guacamole from scratch, who fumbled with the remote when he was trying to find comedy clips about US/UK differences to make me laugh.

The comedy clip finishes and Justin turns to me.

“Hey, do you want to stay for dinner? I’ve made some chili, and I made way too much like normal, and it doesn’t really freeze well, so do you want some?”

The way Justin speeds through his words makes me blink. It’s almost as though he’s nervous. Which is ridiculous. Why would Justin feel nervous around me?

“That is, if you haven’t eaten yet?” he finishes.

“Uh…no. I haven’t eaten yet.” I push my glasses back onto my nose. “I was planning to have a microwave dinner that the packaging optimistically calls restaurant quality cuisine , but I’m fairly sure my taste buds would probably classify it as a crime against food.”

I’m not lying. I’ve been existing on microwave meals since I moved into my apartment. I know there’s a chance I’ve been taking the authenticity thing too far, but I haven’t wanted Justin to ever question how Drew, the lowly IT technician, manages to afford Uber Eats from top restaurants every evening. Suffering through microwave meals is a small price to pay to keep my revenge plot intact.

A smile slides onto Justin’s face. “Well then, it’s probably my public service to save you from a microwave dinner and insist you stay for chili.”

My mind swirls. Should I accept a dinner invitation from Justin?

I mean, I accepted his invitation to have a drink tonight because I thought it would be weird if I didn’t. There’s no good reason why Drew the new IT guy at work, a fellow American, wouldn’t say yes to a drink from his colleague.

But now he’s inviting me to stay longer.

Can I handle spending more time with him?

But I’m still trying to puzzle my way through the contradictions between the Justin I knew in high school and who he is now.

Maybe gathering more data is a good idea.

“Okay, I wouldn’t want to stop you from doing your public service duties,” I say slowly.

Cassie butts her head against my hand because, in my mental scramble to process Justin’s dinner invitation, I’ve stopped petting her.

Justin watches me resume with a small smile. “I’m impressed how much Cassie has warmed to you. She usually treats visitors like they’re trying to steal state secrets.”

“Well, I’ve perfected the art of looking nonthreatening. It’s a skill I developed along with my inability to cook.”

Justin laughs, and I try to ignore the flush of satisfaction that goes through me.

Although maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that making Justin laugh gives me satisfaction.

He and his friends degraded so much of my self-esteem in high school. They trained an entire school to see me as someone not worth listening to. So now, each time I make Justin laugh, it feels like I’m rewriting that history.

See, you were wrong about me. I am a good person. I didn’t deserve the way you treated me.

My throat tightens as Justin stands and heads to the kitchen.

He moves around his kitchen with easy confidence, getting out bowls and spoons. He’s made fresh cornbread too, which sits cooling on a rack.

“Do you want another beer?” he asks.

“Ah yeah, sure.”

He glances up at me. “Dinner will be ready soon if you want to wash up? The bathroom is the first door on the right.”

I let out a breath, trying to relax, as I go to the bathroom and wash my hands.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks have slight splotches of color.

This is all part of my revenge plan. I’ve just got to stay cool and make it through dinner.

When I return to the living room, Justin has everything set up on his dining table.

“It’s ready,” he says.

The chili is amazing. Spicy but not overwhelming, with chunks of tender meat and tomatoes that taste like they came from nature rather than a laboratory.

Since I became rich, I’ve had the chance to try some of the world’s most expensive food items. I’ve eaten Wagyu beef, sampled caviar from fish with better pedigrees than most people, and consumed desserts that looked more like art installations than food.

It might be due to the fact that right now, I should be eating plastic chicken masala, but Justin’s chili honestly rates up there with the best things I’ve ever eaten.

I can’t help the words spilling from me after my first few bites. “This is incredible.”

“Thanks,” Justin says. The tops of his cheeks tinge pink. “Though I feel like your standards might be slightly skewed by your relationship with microwave meals.”

“Just slightly,” I agree.

“This is actually a really easy recipe. My mom taught me how to make it when I was a kid because it was my favorite dish and I was always hassling her to make it. I guess she figured it would be easier if she taught me so I could have it whenever I wanted without bothering her.”

I can’t help a smile escaping me. “She sounds like a great mom.”

“Yeah. She is.”

Despite his words, something in Justin’s voice makes me snap my eyes up to him. His body language has shut down, his shoulders tensing like someone flipped an invisible switch.

His teeth catch his bottom lip as he stares into his bowl.

I get the feeling Justin has more to say, so I wait.

“She’s been through a rough time over the last few years, but she’s coming out of it now,” he adds finally.

“What type of rough time?”

He sips his beer before carefully setting it back on the table.

“She broke up with my stepfather about five years ago. He wasn’t a nice guy, and he managed to hide all their assets in trusts, so she was left with virtually nothing.”

I blink. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry it happened too.” Justin peels the label off his beer bottle in methodical strips that match his careful words. “But she’s definitely better away from him.”

He raises his gaze to meet mine and his eyes seem a more intense blue-green than usual. “What about you? What is your family like? Are your parents still together?”

“Yeah, they’re still together,” I say.

“Do you have any siblings?”

“I have one sister who’s five years older than me.”

“I’m an only child,” Justin offers.

Shit. I didn’t ask him whether he had siblings, did I? Because I already know Justin Morris is an only child.

Does he think it’s weird I didn’t ask him?

And is telling him about my sister going to clue him in to my real identity? Although I doubt he paid attention to the fact that Andrew Yates, the nerd he picked on in high school, had an older sister.

I focus on breaking off a piece of cornbread, my mind churning. I need to move this conversation past our families or any other things related to our lives back in the States before I trip up.

Work. Work is good.

“So, you said last night that your presentation went well,” I say.

Justin swirls his spoon through his chili. “Yeah, it went really well. Which is good because we’ve got a trade show at the end of next week. I struggle more at those, so it’s nice to get a big win in the bag before then.”

“Why do you struggle at trade shows?”

Justin struggling at anything seems to counter everything I know about him.

“I don’t know.” He sets his spoon down carefully against the edge of his bowl. “I should love trade shows because I love talking to people, you know? But I actually find them too…intense. I’m fine for one-day trade shows, but I find multi-day trade shows really stressful, trying to keep track of who I’ve already spoken to.”

He raises his gaze to mine, a small crease marring his perfect forehead.

The idea that Justin gets stressed about trade shows is like discovering Superman gets anxious about flying. It doesn’t match my memories of the golden-boy quarterback who can charm anyone.

“I would have thought working a crowd would be second nature to you.” I catch myself after the words leave my mouth, but Justin doesn’t seem to find my words suspicious.

“That’s the problem, everyone assumes that. So when I mess up, it feels ten times worse.” He gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Like I’m failing at being myself.”

I have no idea how to reply to that.

“But enough about my social anxiety,” Justin says, reaching for more cornbread. “What’s the latest in the IT department? Please tell me I’m not the only numpty whose technology is misbehaving.”

I try to channel Drew the IT help desk technician as I answer Justin. “Oh, trust me, you’re definitely not alone. Yesterday, someone panicked because their mouse wasn’t working, and after twenty minutes of troubleshooting, we discovered they’d been trying to use their stapler as a mouse. Apparently, they look similar enough.”

Justin laughs, and a warm flush spreads through me at the sound.

I continue to tell Justin some of my work stories and he laughs in all the right places.

It’s not until Justin is laughing at my descriptions of how three different people submitted urgent IT tickets yesterday because they “lost” their files, only for me to show them they’d just minimized their windows, that I realize we’ve long since finished eating.

The relaxed feeling drains from my body and my stomach tightens. Is he wondering why I’m still here now that we’ve finished dinner? Is it weird that I’ve lingered longer than eating the meal required? Am I once again failing at some social protocol everyone else seems to inherently understand?

Shit, this is like being back in high school, second-guessing myself constantly.

“Are you okay?”

I hate that Justin is looking at me with concerned eyes. Because those eyes never saw me as worth being concerned over before. Those eyes don’t even remember me.

I take a deep breath. I’m a successful adult, for god’s sake. I’ve left all that crap from high school behind me.

“Uh, yeah, I just realized I should be doing the dishes.” I stand abruptly and start clearing the plates.

“You don’t have to—” Justin starts.

“If you made me dinner, I have to do the dishes. That’s the rules,” I say. “Plus, loading a dishwasher is about the only domestic skill I’ve mastered. You’ve got to let me show it off.”

I’m trying to reset the mood, and the grin on Justin’s face gives me a pulse of triumph. Because it’s my sense of humor that made him smile. Regardless of what happened in high school, I can entertain Justin now.

“I’ll rinse then,” Justin says, moving to the sink. “Though I should warn you, my pre-rinsing technique has been described as slightly obsessive.”

I force skepticism into my tone. “How can you be obsessive about pre-rinsing?”

He flashes me another grin. “Ah, you have much to learn.”

“Apparently, I do.”

I quickly learn exactly what Justin means. Each plate gets the same treatment—rinse, examine, rinse again—like he’s worried the food particles might be plotting a rebellion.

“I’m pretty sure that bowl has confessed to all its crimes by now,” I say after Justin gives the bowl he’s holding one last scan.

“Hey, in the war against stuck-on food, there can be no prisoners,” he replies as he finally hands it to me.

“I’m beginning to see that you subscribe to the ‘leave no food particle behind’ school of dish rinsing,” I say.

He’s standing there with damp sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair slightly mussed from the steam, as he gives me a grin.

“Some people call it obsessive. I call it giving these dishes their best chance at a clean future.”

I can’t help the chuckle that escapes me, and Justin’s charming grin widens. Despite myself, my heart rate increases.

I’m a gay man. He’s gorgeous. It’s a natural biological response. It doesn’t mean anything.

I tear my gaze away. I need to talk about something completely unsexy with no chance of shared humor or connection.

Looks like we’re going back to talking about work.

“So, how’s the sports catalog coming along? I heard Dave mention something about updating product descriptions.”

“Oh god, don’t remind me. I spent three hours yesterday with Debra from Marketing trying to brainstorm how to make soccer shin guards sound exciting.”

“I’m imagining there are only so many ways you can describe plastic leg armor before you start questioning your life choices,” I reply.

We continue to talk about work as we rinse and load.

“I see someone else got the perfectionist gene,” Justin says, watching me reorganize the top rack to accommodate the last glass. “I think you missed your calling as a dishwasher Tetris champion.”

“What can I say? When you spend your days doing password resets, perfectly aligned dishes become your creative outlet.”

Justin laughs. He straightens the dish towel before glancing at me.

“It’s nice having company to do the dishes. Tabitha and Cassie try, but somehow, there’s a limit to the scope of the conversation with them.”

“I’m so glad that my conversation skills rank above animals who can’t actually speak,” I deadpan.

Justin’s laughter echoes off the kitchen tiles.

I turn away so I can hide my reaction to the sound.

When I glance at him again, he’s propped against the kitchen counter, weight resting on one hip, watching me, his expression still retaining traces of his laughter.

“Do you want to watch another one of those British comedy clips? There’s this great one about American versus British attitudes to the weather that I think you’ll appreciate.”

He accompanies his invitation with such wide-eyed hope that my heart skips a beat.

And a sudden realization dawns on me.

Justin wants to be my friend.

For all his charm, social grace, and workplace popularity, Justin seems slightly lonely. And he appears to be looking for excuses to spend more time with me.

This is not an outcome I expected.

“Sure, I’ll watch another clip,” I say slowly.

As we head to the living room and nestle into his too-comfortable couch, my mind swirls.

If I become friends with Justin, it will be easier to carry out more acts of revenge against him if that’s what I decide to do.

Isn’t there a saying, “Keep your friends close but your enemies closer?”

Although, who am I actually justifying this to?