Somebody to Love (Tyler Jamison #1) - April Wilson Page 0,106

steps in front of me, just inches away.

He reaches for my hands. “You were wonderful, too.” He leans in to kiss me. “Thanks for letting me be your plus one.”

A car speeds past us in the hushed garage, headlights flashing in our faces, and someone shouts, “Go to hell, faggots!”

I freeze, my heart suddenly pounding.

“Shit,” Ian says, stepping away. He ducks into the car. “Fuck them. Let’s go.”

I slide into the driver’s seat and start the engine, letting it run for a minute while I process what just happened. It was the first time I’d heard a slur directed at me—at us—but I know it won’t be the last time.

Ian reaches for my hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” I say as I buckle my seat belt. “It’s going to happen, right?”

I’m a bit preoccupied on the short drive back to Ian’s townhouse. I keep hearing that hate-filled jeer in my head, on a repeating loop, and my blood boils. I’m not naïve enough to think a gay man can go through life without hearing slurs like that, but until I heard it firsthand, directed at me, it was a bit academic. Now it’s personal.

I am a gay man, and some people will hate me for it.

Ian’s quiet too, his eyes fixed on the road. When I pull into his driveway, I realize he hasn’t said a word since we left my sister’s apartment building. I shut off the engine, and we both sit in the car, tensions high, staring straight ahead. I’m not even sure what to say. I guess it’s just something I’ll have to get used to.

Ian lets out an audible sigh as he reaches for his door handle. “Thanks again for inviting me.” And then he opens the door and steps out, quickly closing it behind him.

I watch him jog up the steps to his front door. He’s running again. “And there he goes.”

It’s a pattern. Whenever he feels afraid that I’ll find a reason to not want to be with him, he panics. And then he runs. I guess he thinks it’s better to run than to be rejected.

I sigh. “That’s my high-maintenance boyfriend.” I can’t help smiling, not because he’s high-maintenance, but because he’s mine.

He’s halfway down the hallway when I catch up to him, grabbing his arm to slow him down. “What’s the rush?”

He pulls away from me and keeps going.

Just like on previous occasions, he’s quick to assume the worst. “Ian, wait.” I follow him into the kitchen. “Talk to me. What’s going through your head right now?”

“Nothing.” He jerks open the refrigerator door and peers inside.

“Ian—”

“I’m fine,” he says, his voice cracking. “You don’t have to say anything. I get it.” He grabs a bottle of beer from the fridge, pops the cap, and heads up the back staircase.

For a moment, I’m stunned. I think I’m still reeling from being called a faggot by a complete stranger who knows absolutely nothing about me. And now Ian’s having a melt-down because he expects the worst. He’s already assuming I’m going to bail on him because I can’t handle a homophobic jibe. Well, I’m sure as hell not going to let that happen.

I grab a bottle of beer from the fridge and follow him upstairs. When I can’t find him on the second floor, in any of the bedrooms, I walk up another flight to the roof. And that’s where I find him, in the greenhouse, seated on a wooden bench facing the lake.

The sun is setting, and the city lights are starting to flicker on. Up here, surrounded by potted trees and assorted foliage, it feels like we’re in a spacious treehouse, above and apart from the rest of the city, in our own secluded hideaway.

I join him on the bench, and we both stare out at the lake, at the cruise ships making their way out from Navy Pier for evening excursions. Smaller boats jet past them, skimming along the surface of the water.

“That’ll take some getting used to,” I say, and then I take a sip of my beer.

“What will?” He sounds hesitant, as if he’s curious about my remark, but not entirely sure he wants to have this conversation.

“Hearing slurs thrown at us. People are such idiots.”

He laughs. “Yeah. They are.”

“So, you think I’d bail on you just because some asshole called me a ‘faggot?’”

He shrugs. “You’re not used to hearing that.”

“No, I’m not. But do you really think I’d walk away from you just