Page 47 of Cross + Catherine: The Companion

“Kind of have to be when my best friend is living a couple of states away from me, now.”

“I like him,” Tommaso said, tipping his glass in Zeke’s direction.

Cross ignored Tommaso, and looked at Zeke again. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

He didn’t—nor was he interested in—getting the first degree from his friends. Besides, he didn’t talk feelings. He just wasn’t the type.

It wasn’t his style.

Not giving Zeke a chance to question him further, Cross pushed out of the booth. “I’ve got to go take a piss.”

Neither of the guys moved to follow Cross. Men weren’t like women who always seemed to need to use the bathroom in groups.

Like a fucking book club for bathrooms.

Not bothering to chat more with his friends before he left, Cross weaved in and out of the dancing people on the main floor of the club. The place was so full that it was starting to feel a little claustrophobic.

Suffocating, even.

Soon, Cross was closed in the men’s bathroom. He relieved himself at the furthest urinal from the drunk trying to figure out where his piss was supposed to go.

A fucking shame, really.

Men like him—criminals—were labeled stains on society, but there was that stupid drunk. Shitfaced, and fucking stumbling around like a fool. At least men like him didn’t get smashed and make public scenes of themselves.

They did have standards.

Cross zipped up, and headed for the sinks. He took a little bit longer to wash his hands, but that was simply because he wasn’t ready to head back to the table just yet. Zeke would have more questions. He would push and prod until he got something from Cross that satisfied him. It was just how the two were in their friendship.

This time, he wished that Zeke wouldn’t do that at all.

He didn’t want to talk.

Not about what sent him to Chicago.

Not about New York.

Not about Catherine.

None of it.

Cross stared at his reflection in the mirror.

The bruises from Dante’s beating were finally gone—it had only taken a couple of weeks for those to yellow, and heal. He needed a fucking haircut, but the barber he preferred was in New York, and he didn’t trust anybody yet in Chicago to do it.

He kind of depended on Zeke to look out for Camilla while Cross wasn’t close enough to do it. He missed his mother’s cooking on Sunday afternoons like nothing else. He wished the calls he made to Calisto were enough to satisfy his need to have his step-father close, but they weren’t even close.

Nothing was good enough.

Chicago wasn’t New York.

The people here could never replace the people there.

Mostly, he missed Catherine.

Cross met his own gaze in the mirror. All over again, he was stuck reminding himself that this was for the best.