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It had been like being struck by lightning, so sudden and forceful that it had knocked him on his arse in the best way. Except knowing how it felt made it worse, because it turned out that Jack was the only one for him, and he’d probably never get to feel that electric thrill of attraction again.
Everyone knew lightning never struck in the same place twice.
Tristan was staring at him, concern etched on his features. “Harry?”
Harry blinked away the sudden wetness caused by someone caring about him right now and waved a hand at the suit. “I—no. I’ll find something else.”
The crease in Tristan’s brow deepened. “What exactly did Jack do? Did he cheat? Do I have to beat him up for you? I mean, I’d hire someone else to do the actual hitting, since obviously I’m too pretty for violence, but I could arrange it, if you want. I know people.”
That dragged a half-choked laugh out of Harry. Of course Tris knew people. Harry had no doubt that Tristan could have a dozen burly leather-clad men at their house with a snap of his fingers. Some of them might even be able to fight. He flapped his hand again and managed a hoarse, “Thanks, but no.”
Tris looked unconvinced, but he didn’t push. Instead, he said, “Wait here,” and darted back upstairs. When he came down, he was carrying a Coles bag with one of Harry’s many other ugly shirt-and-pant combos shoved inside, along with his orange Converse. Then he pulled out his phone and tapped the screen. “I’ve ordered you an Uber to Ambrose’s, on me,” he said. “You’re not going on the bus with that bag. It fucking reeks of weed and you’ll probably get yourself arrested, and I can’t be arsed bailing you out.”
Harry nodded gratefully and went to wait on the footpath. It didn’t take long for his ride to arrive. His driver made a few attempts at conversation, but soon got the hint when Harry gave one-word answers and left him in peace. Harry sat silently in the back and made a mental note to tell Tris to give the guy five stars, if only for being able to read a room—or a back seat. Whatever.
The car slowed to a crawl amid the snarl of early morning traffic, but Harry didn’t really mind. It gave him time to get his shit together before he had to face Ambrose. Not that Ambrose would be anything but supportive—his own relationship had hardly been plain sailing at the start—but the hurt was too raw, too new, for Harry to want to share the details.
And what would Harry tell him, anyway? That his boyfriend, who they’d agreed wouldn’t tell his family about Harry yet, hadn’t told his family about Harry yet? When he put it like that, it sounded like something one of his preschoolers would come crying to him about.
Except, there was more to it than that. It was the way that Jack hadn’t even hesitated to deny him. Maybe, when all the other kids in Jack’s Sunday school had been learning about baby Jesus, meek and mild, Jack’s takeaway had been Saint Peter denying his friendship because he was afraid of what people would think. Even though he hadn’t grown up in the church, Harry was pretty sure that particular scripture wasn’t meant to be taken as dating advice.
Wow. Harry blinked, startled at his own cynicism. Jack might have issues with his parents knowing about Harry, but he wasn’t that much of a self-serving arsehole.
Was he?
Harry was dragged from his thoughts when the driver pulled over in front of Ambrose’s weird old building. He nodded his thanks and climbed out, dragging his duffel and pushing the button for Ambrose to buzz him up. It was still surreal to Harry that Ambrose had ended up here, a Bad Boyfriend date somehow morphing into Ambrose settling down with Liam. He guessed it just went to show that anything could happen when it came to romance.
Anything except Harry getting his own happy ending, apparently.
When he got to Ambrose and Liam’s fancy building, he buzzed and Ambrose let him in. He didn’t take the elevator—it was old, and in one of those cages that had to be manually pulled shut, and Harry had always been slightly freaked out by it. He took the stairs instead, dragging his feet because wallowing in his own misery felt better than having to explain everything to Ambrose. He had the feeling it’d sound even dumber out loud than it did in his head.
Ambrose met him at the door. “Are you okay, Harry?”
Harry dumped his bags on the floor and shuffled into the sunlit living area. He wanted to faceplant on the couch, but Tobermory the cat was already stretched out there, so he had to settle for sitting on the floor instead, tugging at the knotty strings of the weird lumpy rug under the coffee table.
“Do you want a drink?” Ambrose asked him.
Tobermory yowled.
“Not you. Harry.”
“I want a Coke spider,” Harry said.
Ambrose blinked at him. “Um… I think we have creaming soda. How about a creaming soda spider?”
“Okay.”
Harry stared out of the open balcony doors. The day was bright and sunny, and the breeze that came in off the harbour was cool. This place was nothing like Harry’s dingy sharehouse, but he liked his house. He liked that it was old and decrepit and held together with nothing but the force of habit. He liked that it was the worst house on the street, and he liked the way the neighbours’ mouths made unhappy shapes when they looked at it, like it was a black hole sucking in their property values. He liked that there was graffiti on the living room wall that had been there for at least forty years. But mostly he liked that he lived there with Jack, and they slept together in a sagging bed and drifted off to sleep at night staring at the mottled patterns of mildew on the ceiling.
Ambrose set a fizzing creaming soda spider down on the coffee table and passed him a spoon. Then he sat down next to Harry. “So, on the Harry Sugar Scale of Emergencies, I’d say this is at least an eight.”
Harry scooped some ice cream out and ate it. “Maybe a nine.”
“I’ve got some Tim Tams in the cupboard.”
Harry frowned at his spider. “I just don’t get it.” He jabbed the lump of ice cream down with his spoon, making the drink fizz some more. “Why couldn’t it have been you that I liked?”
Ambrose’s face did something complicated. “Well, I think the ship’s sailed on that, sorry mate.”
