Page 93 of Him
“But then I realized that it probably wouldn’t matter. If she loved me, the job wouldn’t matter. But she didn’t. Not enough anyway.”
Okay, check, please. There’s a small but statistically significant chance I’m going to be crying into my beer in a minute. And won’t that be fun to explain?
“At least I know I did everything I could,” he adds. “I told her that I loved her, that I wanted the real deal. I made my case, and I made it strong. So I have no regrets.”
Fuck. It’s not like I can say the same thing. Wes pushed me away, and what did I do? I went for a run. I let him sneak off like a thief in the night. I didn’t say, “I love you.” I did not say it. Instead, I just choked it back.
I am a moron.
“Jamie?” my mother says gently.
“What?” I croak.
“You okay over there?”
Where do mothers get that ability? It’s so fucking inconvenient. “I’m fine,” I mutter, convincing nobody.
“Whoever she is, honey… If she matters to you, I hope you’ll tell her.”
Argh. I guess there’s someone else I’ll need to see after that interview in Toronto.
35
Wes
I approach the floor-to-ceiling windows of my potential apartment’s living room, gazing at the panoramic view of Toronto’s waterfront. It’s definitely the best view of all the other apartments I’ve looked at today, but the calm water of Lake Ontario reminds me too much of Lake Placid. Of Jamie.
But who am I kidding? Everything reminds me of Jamie. Last night I couldn’t even sit at the hotel bar without remembering the roadside place back at camp, where we shared our first kiss. This morning I walked past a candy shop and thought of the purple Skittles he’d bought me. At the last apartment I toured, I spent ten minutes staring at the futon bed on the floor remembering the two mattresses we slid together at the dorm.
I can’t escape Jamie Canning, no matter how hard I try.
“You’re not going to find a better deal in this neighborhood,” the realtor chirps. She waltzes over and stands next to me, admiring the view. “Rent this low for a two-bedroom Harbourfront condo? It’s unheard of.”
I turn away from the window to study the huge open-concept room. The apartment isn’t furnished, but I can already imagine how it would look with furniture. Leather couch and massive flat screen in the living area. A dining room table. Some tall stools for the eat-in breakfast counter.
I can picture myself living here, no doubt about it. And I have to admit, I’m a lot less likely to break my self-imposed celibacy rule in this neighborhood. The gay scene isn’t as prominent here compared to the other areas I visited. One apartment was down the street from not one, but three gay bars.
Not that I’m looking to hit up any bars and sample the meat market. The idea of being with anyone other than Jamie absolutely kills me.
“And I’m not sure if this is a plus or a minus for you,” the realtor continues, “but the owners told me they’re planning on selling in a year or two. If you’re already living here and looking to invest in real estate in the city, you’d be in a great position to buy this place.”
I frown. “What if they decide to sell earlier and I’m not interesting in buying? Will I have to pick up and move?”
She shakes her head. “You’ll be signing a one-year lease. You’re guaranteed the place until the lease is up.”
Fuck it. “I’ll take it,” I tell her. Because honestly? I’m tired of apartment hunting. I just need a place to sleep. Doesn’t matter where.
Either way, my heart won’t be in it. My heart is back in Lake Placid. Or maybe it’s in California. It goes wherever Jamie Canning goes.
I feel like such a shit for walking out on him like that. But I’ve never been good with goodbyes. Which just proves I’m as immature and thoughtless now as I was four years ago. I cut him out of my life back then too. I guess that’s my “thing”.
I really am an asshole.
Oblivious to my self-hatred, party of one, the realtor’s face lights up. “Wonderful. I’ll draw up the paperwork this evening.”
Five minutes later, I step out of the glass lobby onto the sidewalk, breathing in the warm July air. There’s a streetcar stop a block away, so I shove my hands in my pockets and head toward it. I just want to get back to my hotel and spend the rest of the day doing nothing, but as I climb onto the streetcar, I decide against that.
I can’t keep wallowing in misery. Canning and I are over. And in a few days, I’ll be immersed in training, which won’t leave me much time to explore my new home.
