his stubble. Back on the same continent, he’d texted, followed by a smiley face.
Just hearing from Wes had been enough to turn his mood around. They were going to see each other again, and soon. He clung to that.
His parents were both wide-eyed and almost speechless when they met him at Dallas–Fort Worth airport. He’d wrapped them both in a giant hug, beaming, joyous about life and the world, about the overcrowded arrivals lounge, about the smell of dirty diapers, about the screaming children at the luggage carousel. He loved Wes, and maybe Wes might love him, too.
When they stopped to eat on the way home, he’d babbled about the trip, about Paris, about the sights and the university and how wonderful it all was. He’d kept Wes out of it, but his dad had given him a wink as he dipped a chip into the queso they were sharing and said, “And tell us about who you met.” His mother had slapped his dad’s arm and turned away, hiding her face as she wiped her lips.
He’d sucked his frozen margarita dry, cheeks burning, but he was saved by the server arriving with their lunch.
All afternoon, he’d daydreamed of Wes, of when he’d see him again. He’d dumped his laundry from Paris in the wash and mentally cataloged which shirts to repack, what to wear when he went to Wes’s ranch. He wanted to look good for Wes, but also like he belonged. Like he could be a rancher’s man, wrestle with the elements, hold his own out on the range. Whatever that meant. He’d need more plaid, probably. Maybe better boots. Ropers, like Wes had. Maybe even a, God forbid, cowboy hat.
He dipped his toes in the pool with his parents and listened to his mom talk about her church group. Listened to his dad describe how he’d closed his last deal and brought home enough of a bonus that they were planning their own Paris trip over Thanksgiving. His parents asked him about classes, about his major. What junior year looked like. It was nice, being happy. Seeing his parents happy, too.
Was this what it was like, when you were just… happy with everything? With life?
Justin checked his watch again. Another five minutes had passed. He’d hear from Wes soon. They’d text, and then maybe he’d call as Wes headed for home. They could while away the hours of his long drive on the phone, Justin flat on his back on his childhood bed, staring at the ceiling, his heart pitter-pattering.
His cell phone vibrated, and Justin grinned. He felt the shiver down his spine and danced as he set down his margarita, ice clinking in the glass. His mom’s laugh filtered through the screen door. Salt dusted the back of his hand. Sunlight rippled through the kitchen, casting lazy beams over the counters and the walls.
He swiped his screen on and saw Wes’s number. Bit his lip and closed his eyes for a moment before pulling up the text. Had Wes made first string? Would Justin be at every game in the fall, wearing Wes’s number? Maybe he’d bring his dad to the games. Maybe this was something they could do together. His dad would love Wes, maybe even more than he loved the thought of the bottle blonde cheerleader–slash–sales account manager Justin was supposed to marry. He pictured Wes and his dad tossing a football in the backyard, imagined him bringing them both beers. Kissing Wes, wrapping his arm around Wes’s waist. Saw his dad smile at them both.
I’m sorry, his phone screen said.
He kept reading.
He didn’t understand.
He dropped the phone. It clattered to the counter, where it slipped on salt crystals and spun, off-kilter.
He needed to breathe, but he couldn’t. The words on the screen swam together, blurring into hieroglyphs, algebra formulas he couldn’t comprehend. They didn’t make sense. Surely they didn’t mean what they said.
I’m sorry. I can’t do this. Forget you know me. I’m sorry.
Justin’s legs buckled, and he sank to the floor, his fingers gripping the granite countertop as he leaned his head against his mother’s polished oak cabinets. He smelled her lemon polish, felt the wood grain against his cheeks.
When he was a boy, he’d had a nightmare that he was being chased by a monster. He was so scared, so terrified that when the monster grabbed him and bit him in half, his vocal cords had been frozen. He’d been screaming and sobbing, but his throat hadn’t worked and he hadn’t