Page 38 of Detectives in Love
I study his face, trying to tell if that’s sarcasm. Then, more lightly, I add, “Well, it was doomed from the start, like every high school crush. Still—kind of strange running into both her and Fred within two days.”
“Statistical probability,” Xavier says, his eyes still fixed on the window.
It annoys me that I can’t get him to even look at me.
“Not like we ever run into your old classmates,” I smirk. “Bet you were Mr. Popular back then.”
Xavier’s expression darkens. “Actually, it was the opposite. I didn’t really have friends.”
I blink, caught off guard. “Come on. The girls must’ve been all over you.”
“Nope. I was scrawny back then. And this face?” He gestures vaguely. “Only got me attention from bullies. Everyone called me queer.”
Something twists in my stomach at the bitter edge in his voice. And for a split second, I wonder—was it just a word they threw at him, or is he actually gay?
But before I can sit with the thought, Xavier goes on.
“Got my ass kicked daily in middle school. So no, definitely not Mr. Popular.”
My throat goes dry. I want to hug him, but I know he wouldn’t take pity well, so all I manage is, “Shit. Xavier, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” His mouth curves faintly, but his eyes stay distant. “It taught me something.”
“What’s that?” My voice comes out quiet, my chest pulled tight.
“Pretty boys need muscle,” Xavier says, finally meeting my gaze.
A shaky laugh slips out of me. “Well, karma’s come around, right? First of all, you’re ridiculously hot now.” My face heats, but I hold his gaze. He rolls his eyes, though I swear he’s blushing even in the dim light of the car. “Second of all, who cares if you didn’t have friends in high school? You’ve got me. And let’s be real—I’m the best.”
I grin, and for a moment, Xavier actually smiles. It’s a real smile, one that reaches his eyes. But then it fades, leaving only the ghost of it behind as he says, “You really are.”
My heart pounds in my throat. I’m definitely reading too much into it, but I can’t help myself. He holds my gaze a second longer, then turns back to the window, breaking the spell—looking lighter somehow, but still a little sad.
I turn to my own window, still burning a little. A few seconds pass, and then I feel it—something cool brushing the back of my hand.
Fingers. Xavier’s fingers—just barely resting against mine.
I don’t move, don’t even breathe, just let him hold my hand. The gesture is so tender, my heart aches. I want to look at him—at our hands—but I don’t, like I’m afraid of startling a wild animal.
We sit like that, not speaking, our hands resting there between us. Time slips by, and I feel stupidly happy, until the cab jerks to a stop.
“We’re here,” the driver says, half-turning.
Xavier pulls his hand back and straightens. “Thanks. Can you wait here for us? I’ll pay extra for the time.”
The driver agrees, and while he and Xavier discuss the details, I get out of the car.
Cold air hits me the second I step outside. I shove my hands into my pockets, shivering against the wind.
As soon as Xavier steps out, he nods ahead. “We’ve got to walk a bit. The crematorium’s a block away. Didn’t want to draw attention.”
I nod, and we head down the empty street, keeping our heads low. A few minutes later, we reach another intersection.
“There,” Xavier says, pointing.
A five-story building sits on the corner, no fence—just a wide, open lot around it.
“We need to go around back. There are cameras at the front.”
