out his features in the false twilight. “Are you that football player?”
He shook his head, gave an open-palmed wave, and beat a retreat, scrambling out the exit and through the foyer to the entrance. Head down, stare at the floor. Tuck his shoulders down. Look small.
Yeah, right. He couldn’t look small if his life depended on it. People parted before him like the Red Sea, which was great, except that drew attention, and, more than anything, he didn’t want that. Murmurs rose to his ears. Hey, he looks familiar. Is that Wes Van de Hoek? What’s he doing here? I wonder if his girlfriend is a dancer.
He made it outside and jogged around the side of the building, hiding in the darkness between two sodium lights. The parking lot was filling up as family and friends of the dancers spilled out of the planetarium. Cars beeped. Doors opened and closed. Engines turned over, and tires squealed on the pavement. He waited, and the crowd thinned until there were only a handful of cars left.
There was the little white Honda, the two-door coupe that parked next to his rust bucket back on West Campus. He’d scoped out Justin’s car for three days, made sure it was his. Like Justin had said, he’d parked next to Justin’s little car even when he had no clue whose it was. Now, of course, everything about Justin was imbued with too much meaning. Walking by his white Honda was almost like walking by him, and Wes had to hold back from running his fingertips along the hood of his car every time he passed it.
He hurried across the dark lot, digging the program out from his back pocket and a pen from his front. He scribbled a quick message on the inside, then took the snip of lavender he’d cut from the garden at Daisy Lane and folded it into the center. If he was more sophisticated, he’d fold the program into something cool, like an origami crane, or a swan, or even a heart, but he wasn’t that guy. He wasn’t cultured, and he wasn’t suave, and he didn’t know how to do things like that. He didn’t know how to dance with Justin like they were making love, and he didn’t know how to tell Justin that, no matter what he’d said in those texts, he didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean a single word.
He tucked the folded program and the lavender beneath Justin’s windshield wiper, then turned and strode away.
Rafael walked Justin to his car after they’d changed and washed their faces, wiping away the makeup and the face paint. Justin’s hair was still done up, two French braids tracing either side of his teased pompadour. Rafael’s hair was short and razored, sticking up wild after the performance. Justin had never seen Rafael look so casual, in his zip-up hoodie and his dance leggings.
“So…” Rafael said, leaning against Justin’s car door. “Did you think about what I asked?” He bit his lip, almost but not quite smothering his smile as he rocked side to side.
“I did.”
“And?”
“Yes,” Justin said slowly. “I would like to go out to dinner with you.”
Rafael hadn’t made a secret of his attraction to Justin. He’d been like a shark ever since dance practice started, circling Justin, asking to partner with him in the duet, bombarding him with smiles and questions about his life, wanting to get to know him in every way.
It was… nice. Easy. Comfortable. Rafael was like him, gay and out and happy in his own skin. He was an art major and had an apprenticeship as a tattoo artist. He didn’t have sky-high aspirations, and he didn’t care about other people’s opinions. He hated cowboys, thought hicks were dumb, and couldn’t tell a football from a basketball or a baseball. He’d never ridden a horse.
He was funny, and he was smart, and while despite his sharp tongue, and his even sharper personality, he was gentle with Justin. Genuine. He wanted to get to know Justin, not just get into his pants. That slow, tender consideration had worn him down, and he went from tolerating Rafael’s curiosity and his flirtations to looking forward to them. They were good dance partners, and he enjoyed Rafael’s company.
It didn’t feel like he’d felt with Wes, but there probably wouldn’t ever be a guy like Wes again. Well, for damn sure there wouldn’t ever be a cowboy again, or a footballer, or a football-playing cowboy. He’d known it was a