people on dates. Couples held hands across the small tables. Two girls fed each other bites of cheesecake. He kept searching, peering at every table—
Justin, though, had already seen him. When Wes spotted him, he was staring at Wes, his jaw hanging open, his face pale, a crimson flush staining his sweeping cheekbones. He was at a table for two, a lit candle flickering between him and another man. Very romantic. Wes’s teeth ground together.
Justin’s date turned, trying to spot what had spooked Justin, and Wes laid eyes on the man sitting where he so desperately wanted to be: the dancer from the night before, the one who had been so damn intimate with Justin, as if they were having sex with their clothes on in front of everyone.
Of course Justin would be dating him. Of course. He was the kind of cool, sophisticated guy who could attract a man like Justin, who could captivate him, keep him happy.
Wes’s fists opened and closed as he stared at Justin and his partner. His pulverized heart buckled like he’d taken a full-force tackle, like all three linebackers had pancaked him at once. Like he was a smear left over after the impact. His vision blurred, and he turned away, pushing through the crowd and the tables, trying to escape from the deck, from this moment, from his own life. He couldn’t navigate the narrow spaces, though, and he bumped elbows and spilled wine, jostled cups of coffee and bounced silverware as he tried to thread his way through. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, he kept choking out. I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry. Forget you know me.
“Wes!”
He couldn’t face Justin. Not tonight. Not when Justin was on a date and the last of Wes’s heart was turning to dust. He needed to get away, now. Needed to get somewhere he could let out the scream building inside him, where he could claw out his own failure, where he could cry, just cry, and whisper Justin’s name as he clung to the memories of Paris.
Wes made it through the restaurant and the kitchen and back out to the alley before he exhaled. He ended up braced against the side wall, elbows to the brick, fingers laced behind his neck, forehead down. He sucked in breath after breath. Squeezed his eyes closed.
The back door of the restaurant slammed open and bounced off the alley’s wall. “Wes!” A voice hissed. “Damn it, Wes.”
He turned, and there was Justin, glaring at him from the steps.
He was lit by the dull puddle of white light around the restaurant’s back door. He was in his skinny jeans and a long-sleeve university shirt. The sleeves were pushed up, showing off his forearms, and his jeans hugged every line of his quads and hamstrings. He had on boots like he’d worn in Paris, artfully untied at the top. His hair was pushed back, puffed up and held in place.
He was so damn beautiful it hurt.
“What are you doing here?” Wes tried to clear his throat. He sounded like he’d been strangled.
“That’s my line,” Justin snapped. “That’s what I should be asking you: why are you here? Are you following me?”
“What? No.” Wes shook his head. “I work here. I unload and I stock. Fridays I help out during the rush. This is my job.”
Justin blinked. Some of his vibrating fury faded.
“Are you on a date?”
“So what if I am? What do you care?”
Wes picked at the mortar between the bricks. His lips twisted, and he fought against the burning behind his eyelids. “Is he good to you?”
“That’s your question?” Justin shook his head, gazing upward. “That’s what you ask me? You see me on a date, and that’s the first thing you think of?”
“It is a date.”
“Yes, it’s a date. I’m moving on. It’s not like there’s any reason for me not to. You ended things.”
Justin’s words hit Wes like ninety-mile-per-hour football passes. They made his lungs seize, ripped his breath away. “I know—”
“Do you? Because I don’t think you do!” Justin marched down the alley to where Wes had tried to hide. “If you did, you’d make more fucking sense. Care to clue me in on what you know?” His head bobbed left and right as he spoke, and his voice was vicious, cutting. “Why do you care that I’m on a date? Why are you leaving flowers on my windshield? Why do you have pictures of Paris up on your wall? Why do you have a picture of us under your