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“Thank you,” he replied anyway, “and call me Chris.”
“Chris,” the guy nodded.
“Right, bye,” he said and turned around, headed back for the stairs.
As he stepped out onto the empty concourse, he wondered what to do with himself. Joq was clearly fine, at least he’d managed to glean that much—he’d been to work that evening and already left for the night.
Which meant he wasn’t replying on purpose.
Chris needed to take the hint.
He strolled back over the bridge, preoccupied by what he’d done wrong. Everything seemed fine. He’d kissed Joq goodbye before he left his apartment to rush off to the board meeting the day before, his suit hastily thrown over a quick spray of Joq’s deodorant. Joq had kissed him back so deeply, Chris had ended up straddling him on the couch again before he had to pull away or he’d have been even later.
The streets were busy and as he meandered in and out of the throngs of people towards the garage where he parked his car, he thought nothing about that sent the message that they were over.
By the time he got to his car, he was decided.
After knocking on Joq’s door for a third time, he had to concede he wasn’t there. But Chris already knew that. The place was dark and it felt empty.
He thought about staying but then he imagined Joq turning up with another guy in tow. Chris felt all the life drain from him at the thought. What had Joq said—‘It’s not like I can’t bring hook-ups home anymore’—and maybe that’d been a revelation for him?
They weren’t together, so what was stopping him doing it now?
Chris couldn’t stay for that.
He left, his dress shoes clicking loudly on the concrete steps, and felt a pang of jealousy and hurt shoot through him unlike anything he’d ever experienced.
8
By Monday morning, Joq had to concede that Chris had let it go with a lot more ease than he thought he would.
Well, it’d been a good start to moving on, he thought as he went to get coffee.
It was only after he’d taken his coffee and walked back into the laneway, eyes searching both ways, that he had to acknowledge he’d come there with the hopes of running into him.
He was pathetic. He was not doing this again. Falling for some guy. Maybe he could take up sailing. He’d always wanted to try it and why not? He had money and nothing keeping him in Melbourne. He could sail around the world and win a fucking trophy of his own for once.
Did people get trophies for that? He pondered it as he made his way to work.
He was definitely not scanning the guys in their well-tailored suits as they made their way into the heart of the CBD while he went the opposite direction.
Not looking at all.
He got a call from a private number on Wednesday. He was walking home and his heart fluttered stupidly when the phone rang before he saw the absence of the name.
He answered it anyway with a clipped, “Hello.”
A breath and a hang up.
“For fuck’s sake,” he said under his breath, heart plummeting, he really was pathetic.
He could call. He could text.
But as he crossed from the bay side to the houses to head down his street, the afternoon sun warm with the fresh feel of a newly arrived spring, he had to admit it was ridiculous to miss Chris. To wish he’d tried harder than three messages.
They’d both been upfront. They’d agreed to what it was they were doing.
So they’d had a connection and watched TV together—so what? They were nothing and it really was nothing.
