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“I was assuming your place,” I say.
He smiles down at me. “Yeah, that would work. Got a roommate, but he was the drunk guy who handed you that cash. He’s in the club.”
“Will he be okay?”
Owen shrugs. “Probably. Come on. Apartment’s empty.”
I should probably tell him to go take care of his friend,and I’m not exactly proud that I don’t, but I want this to get where it’s heading. The longer I linger, the more time I have to think about it, and I definitely don’t want to think about it.
So when Owen walks me a few blocks toward a building wedged into the tight, winding streets of Capitol Hill, I shut up and go along with it.
I go along with a whole lot more that night.
Maybe some day I’ll regret this reckless phase of my life, but it’s not like a man has ever taken me seriously or cared enough to date me for more than a few paltry weeks. If this is all I can get, why shouldn’t I have my fun while I can?
MY ALARM GOES OFF at a truly unholy hour of the morning. I groan and slap around through unfamiliar terrain until I find it. It’s four o’clock in the morning. I’ve gotten maybe two hours of sleep. Owen is a passed out heap of man beside me.
I force myself out of the bed. Owen’s apartment is dark, and I have only a vague memory of where my clothes might be. I dig around on the floor for them and throw on whatever I find. The shirt feels a little big and may very well belong to Owen, but I don’t have time to care. I have to drag my ass all the way up to Tripp Lake before the catcafé opens.
Shit.
Okay, this isn’t my finest moment. But last night was fun. Very fun. I cast one last look back at Owen, who’s lying face down in his tussled bed. He probably won’t even remember me in a few days, but at least we had a good time.
“Have a nice life,” I mutter before slipping out of his bedroom.
The layout of the apartment is a blur. I remember nothing about it. We were kissing before he even got his door open last night. When I step out onto the street, I have to drain my phone’s dying battery figuring out where the hell I am and which bus will take me north. The second I’m on a bus, however, I set an alarm and pass right back out.
That’s how I get from Seattle all the way to Tripp Lake, more than an hour north. It’s a stark contrast to step off a bus and suddenly go from the downtown of a city to the middle of nowhere. The sun burns off the dew clinging to every blooming tree and quaint storefront on Tripp Lake’s Main Street. It’s pretty much the only road in this town. Everything else is hiking trails and side streets.
I slouch down Main Street, resolving to abuse my employee privileges to make myself the most decadent and plentiful coffee of my life the second I get inside Rainbow Rescue Cat Café.
But I stop short before making it to the actual café. A Pride flag hangs in the window — and not simply because it’s almost June. Chloe, the owner of the shop, keeps that rainbow flag up all year long. She makes no secret that this establishment is a safe place for queer clientele and employees.
Apparently, some people feel differently.
Scrawled in spray paint across the window is a word I don’t dare say aloud. Three harsh letters dripping down the glass in red. A declaration that no matter how safe Chloe wants this place to be, there’s always someone out there willing to make it unsafe.
I don’t have the energy to be angry or even scared. I look at that word scrawled across the window and sigh.
It’s going to be a long, long day.
Chapter Two
Luke
THE FLUORESCENT LIGHTS hum. A din of hushed conversation rustles the silence. Students shift and fidget at their desks.
And me? I’m just happy to help.
Most of my kids are ignoring me, both because they’re teenagers, and that’s what teenagers do, and because I gave them a list of math proofs to work through. Most of them have their heads bent as they work through the problems, pens scratching away. I’m lucky. I have a group of amazing kids. They’re still teenagers, and that comes with all the melodrama and mischief that teenagers always come with, but overall I adore these kids. It’s early May, so I only have a few weeks left with them, and I want to send them into their summer vacation with as much math crammed intotheir heads as I can.
A student raises her hand, and I move swiftly through the rows of desks to reach her.
“Mr. Richardson? I’m stuck on this one.”
I bend to see the problem more clearly. And I do have to bend. Classrooms are not designed for guys over six-foot, and sometimes my size does leave me feeling a little out of place, but I try to brush it off. The important thing here is Claire and the math proof she’s struggling with.
I spot the problem in her work, but instead of pointing it out and giving her the answer, I try to walk her back through the whole problem step by step. I don’t have to. There are plenty of teachers at Tripp Lake County Regional High School who would provide the answer and move on, but I want Claire to leave here understanding this and not just getting a good grade. So I take my time, patiently going point by point through the proof. By the end, Claire is a step ahead of me and confidently solving it on her own.
