Page 4 of The Leaving Kind

Victor’s throat constricted. He’d known it was over, but did the rest of America have to share his pain? And see him at his most unattractive? Whereas Tholo, with glossy black hair falling across his eyes—his large, dark eyes fringed with absurdly long lashes—was gorgeous. Almost unreal in his loveliness. An image of harmonious beauty with the squareness of his jaw, the perfect curve of his full lips, the smoothness of his skin—the color a blend of yellow ochre and burnt sienna. His straight nose with delicate nostrils. Even his stubble, the way it framed his mouth and curved below his cheekbones, his ridiculously high and sharp cheekbones.

How was he real? He wasn’t, was he? Tholo Smit hadn’t been born looking like this, surely.

Suddenly weary beyond belief, Victor put a hand to the center of Tholo’s chest and pushed him back. The warmth beneath his palm almost surprised him, as though he hadn’t expected Tholo to have any substance. “You need to go.”

Tholo briefly resisted the push. He met Victor’s gaze. “I’m truly sorry, Victor. For the way—”

“Save your breath. We both know this should have happened eight months go.” Victor’s heart contracted. “Or was it a year and a half ago?” His vision narrowed. “When did you shoot that film with Amir?”

“That’s—”

“Forget it. I don’t want to know. I already know.”

The pain in his knee throbbed upward, and that leg wobbled beneath him. Victor staggered back a step and reached for the doorframe. He missed. Even as Tholo leaned forward, as though to steady him, Victor batted at his hands.

“Just go. Leave me alone.”

And then he fell backward, half-in and half-out of his doorway, the jamb catching his tailbone. His head smacked the Spanish tile and something bit his elbow.

Jesus Christ.

Victor blinked against blackness and starlight. Bile rose up the back of his throat, and he swallowed, wincing at the taste of sour wine and regret. Tears stung the corners of his eyes.

Hands pulled at his, the touch familiar. Then a stranger’s voice. “Don’t move him. Don’t pull him up. Check his head and neck first.” A different hand, large and warm, cupped the back of Victor’s shoulder. “Hey.”

Victor forced his vision into focus. Two faces swam in front of him, one too beautiful to be genuine, the other all too real. He blinked and tried again. Still two faces. Tholo and the stranger from the pickup. Closer, Victor could see the lines etched across the stranger’s face. Crinkled around the eyes and mouth, as though he spent a good portion of the time in laughter. Serious across the brow.

His eyes were the color of coffee, or perhaps Hershey’s chocolate. His nose crooked slightly leftward, a telltale bump at the bridge. A wide mouth, not quite even, and two days of stubble. Perhaps more. Whoever this stranger was, he hadn’t slept well the night before. Victor could tell that with a glance from the red roadmaps in his eyes and the familiarity of bone-deep weariness. And he wasn’t exactly happy to be here, crouched in Victor’s front hallway. And yet there was a kindness to his voice and beneath the scrunch of his brow.

Victor blinked and his vision blurred. Was he crying?

So not what he had planned.

But as the sobs heaved out of his chest—shrilly, because of course he couldn’t even cry with dignity—Victor let his last fuck go. Why ever not? He no longer cared what Tholo thought of him, and the man prodding his neck and shoulders was a stranger. They’d never see each other again.

“Does this hurt?” the stranger asked.

“Everything hurts,” Victor wailed.

“Should I call for an ambulance?” Tholo asked, his accent suddenly pronounced.

Dear lord, was he flirting? Now? Victor could be lying here with a broken back and Tholo was flirting with the ... the ... truck driver.

Who was this unmasked man?

A giggle welled up from beneath the bubble of confusion now filling Victor’s chest. It came out on a burp—a burp that burned. Victor tasted wine.

Drinking last night, until he passed out on the couch, had also not been a part of the plan.

Fuck the plan.

Victor giggled again.

“I think he might have a concussion,” the stranger said.

“I will call—”

“No.” Victor forced his neurons into neutral. Swallowed another burp. “I’ll be fine.” Debatable, but ending up in the emergency room was most definitely not how today was supposed to go.

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