Chapter Three
Leo stared at himself in the washroom mirror. Or, rather, he stared at his bowtie. Was it too much? Carter had noticed right away. He’d laughed. Not out loud, but Leo had seen it in his dark eyes, a bright twinkle of mockery.
No surprise there—Leo had always been a joke to men like Carter.
He dithered, pushed his hands through his hair to sweep it back from his forehead. Quirky was one thing, but he didn’t want to look like he was trying too hard…
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, and tugged off the tie, opening the collar of his white shirt instead. Yes, better. That was better. More neutral, given he had no idea what to expect from Camaro89.
Shit, maybe Dee was right and meeting up without exchanging even the most basic details was stupid. Camaro89 could be literally anyone. A murderer or a gangster. Christ, he could be a Republican.
No. No, that wasn’t possible. They’d talked enough for Leo to know he wasn’t any of those things. Have a little faith. He checked his watch and grimaced to see it was already six-thirty. He’d have to walk fast to make it on time, and the last thing he wanted to do was to keep Camaro89 waiting, even for a moment. It would be awful to be sitting there, waiting, and thinking Leo wasn’t coming.
Shoving the tie into his pocket, he hurried out of the restrooms and through the station.
Of course, the city was even more manic than usual—Christmas shoppers bolstering the holiday tourists to make the streets impassable in places. But he managed to dodge, squeeze, and push his way down to W 23rd Street and saw the sign for the Whiskey Jack lit up ahead of him, the High Line stretching out almost directly above the building.
His heart thumped, knocking against his ribs as he slowed his fast walk. He was breathing hard and didn’t want to turn up gasping for air, although he was so nervous he didn’t seem able to catch his breath. He stopped twenty yards from the front of the pub, an unprepossessing building with offices above, and made himself take a deep shivery breath.
According to his phone it was 6.54pm. He blew out his held breath, fingers tingling, and a silvery shot of adrenaline fired behind his breastbone.
Okay, this was it. This was it.
Hands shaking, he fumbled his beat-up copy of Persuasion out of his bag and started walking toward the bar. The sounds of the city were muted, as if he was listening to them underwater. All he could hear was the pounding of blood in his ears, his own ragged breathing. His knees felt rubbery, his gut twisting into knots, his lungs hopelessly short of breath. He felt like his whole future was pivoting on the next few moments.
He approached the door.
He fixed his eyes on it.
He walked past it.
Shit.
He couldn’t just walk in there blind, it was too much. He needed to prepare himself. Stopping, he turned around and walked back again, passing the door for a second time. Shit.
He stopped again, fingers biting into his book. Okay, he needed to see. That was it, he needed to just have a little glimpse of Camaro89 before he walked in. He didn’t want to be ambushed by something unexpected and have Camaro89 see anything but excitement on his face. He couldn’t bear that. He’d just have a quick peek through the window first, get the lay of the land.
Walking back to the pub he glanced around to make sure nobody was watching and edged closer to one of the bar’s narrow floor-to-ceiling windows, trying to casually peer inside.
Luckily, this early, the bar wasn’t too busy. Next to the window were a couple of long, black leather sofas with a low pine table between them, and behind them smaller tables for four were scattered across the dark wood floor. He scanned the room, looking for a guy sitting alone. At the bar, he saw a couple of possibilities—one guy in a suit and probably pushing fifty, the other in jeans and a leather jacket, his back turned. Leo fixed his eyes on that leather-clad back, until the guy was joined by a woman who leaned over and kissed him.
Not him, then. He moved to the next window, trying not to draw too much attention. And then he saw it: a copy of Persuasion, the exact same edition as his own, sat propped half upright on a table against the right hand wall, half hidden by the sloping ceiling of the underside of a staircase.
His stomach clenched so hard he felt sick. The occupant of the table was hidden in the alcove formed by the stairs and Leo had to edge back a little to see him. The first thing Leo noticed was the man’s hand, wrapped around a can of Street Green pale ale (nice choice). The hand of a youngish man—yes!—wearing a heavy sweater, and attached to—
He stumbled back a step, the breath seizing in his lungs.
Impossible.
He pressed a hand to his eyes until he saw white dots of light, then looked again. But, no, the man sitting at the table with the copy of Persuasion was indisputably Alfie Carter.
Leo felt…horror.
There was no other word for it. Utter horror as his dreams fell apart like a house of cards. Camaro89 was Alfie Carter? Leo had somehow, impossibly, fallen for Alfie-fucking-Carter of Alfie’s Auto’s—two apostrophes. Alfie Carter who mocked him, who laughed at him?
Turning away from the window, heart pounding, he shoved his book into his bag and fled. Heedless of where he was going, he found himself running up the steps to the High Line. As always, it was busy, even in the cold winter night. Tourists were fucking idiots. But he found an empty bench and sank down on the icy metal, stomach churning and breath catching in his throat.
This was a nightmare.
It was impossible. Camaro89 was witty, and well-read, and sweet and— And nothing like Alfie Carter.
Alfie Carter hated him. He thought he was a prissy asshole. If Leo walked through that door right now, Alfie would be as horrified as him.
He felt a sickening sting behind his eyes as he realized that Camaro89 was an illusion, a fantasy. A figment of Leo’s imagination. Their friendship—their relationship—was a lie. It had to be. There was no way he could have fallen for Alfie Carter, the grumpy mechanic who thought he was an asshole.
“Fuck!”
That earned him a couple of cold looks from a pair of women passing by, but he ignored them. Why should he care about offending strangers?
What he didn’t get was how this could have happened. Carter was semi-literate. How could he have opinions on Poe and Henry James? How could Austen be his favorite novelist? Austen, of all people. A writer so subtle most people thought she wrote chick-lit, and yet Camaro89—Carter—loved her scalpel-like dissection of human nature. She made him LOL, so he’d said.
But maybe he’d been lying. Christ, was Dee right? Had Leo been catfished?
Catfished by the asshole who lived around the corner. Shit—a worse thought struck—did Alfie know? Was this some kind of joke?
A flush of humiliation washed over him, swiftly followed by a dark wave of fury. And on its heels, a cold splash of reality.
Carter couldn’t know. He might be an asshole, but he’d never struck Leo as insane. And faking a relationship with his neighbor for twelve months, as a joke, would be nuts. No, this must just be one of those unlikely cosmic fuck-ups the universe was so fond of these days.
It also left Leo with a problem: what the hell did he do now?
Leaning forward, he braced his elbows on his knees and pressed his face into his gloved hands. The world had turned from bright and beautiful to grim and grey, and it hurt. Half an hour ago he’d been in love, and now the man he’d loved turned out to be someone else entirely. A fake, a fiction. A figment of Leo’s fevered dreams.
Into his maudlin thoughts intruded a sound that had, for the past few months, always made him smile. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, he reached for his phone and read the message.
Camaro89: Hey, I’m here. Beer’s good. See you soon?
The time at the top of the screen read 7.12pm.
He stared at the message, paralyzed. What did he do? What the fuck did he do? Walk in there, slap his copy of Persuasion down on the table and say, “Well, this is a surprise!”
Or walk away.
It was tempting. He turned off his phone screen. If he left now he could go home and hide his heartbreak, pretend none of this had ever happened. No one could laugh at him if they didn’t know. Solitary as an oyster, that was Leo Novak. He should have known better than to try being anything else.
He got to his feet, and there below him, visible over the railing of the High Line, was the Whiskey Jack. He couldn’t see Carter from here, but the golden light spilled out onto the sidewalk and Leo felt another stab of loss. He wanted to be in there with Camaro89. Moving closer to the railing, he shivered as a cold gust swept up and around the elevated park. In his pocket, his phone pinged again. Helplessly, he pulled it out and read the message.
Camaro89: Let me know if you’re running late
Camaro89—his friend—was sitting in there alone, waiting for LLB. And despite his own disappointment, it hurt worse to know that LLB was never going to show.
How long would Carter wait?
Leo’s fingers hovered over his phone. Should he reply? Make up an excuse? No. He had to end this, it couldn’t continue now he knew the truth. But he couldn’t just leave Carter sitting there waiting for a man who would never arrive. That would be cruel. Carter might think he was an asshole, but it didn’t mean Leo had to act like one. Yet the idea of walking in there and telling him the truth made him nauseous.
He bent over, pressed his forehead to the frozen railing.
What the fuck was he going to do?
***
Every time the door opened, Alfie felt a spike of hope—followed by a long train of disappointment.
No new messages on his phone, and the remorseless clock on the screen read 7.28pm.
LLB wasn’t coming.
He figured there were plenty of reasons why not: travel problems, something coming up at work or with family. Last minute cold-feet. A blast of icy air drew his eyes to the door again, but it was only a couple of young women leaving. His heart settled heavier in his chest, a tight band of distress constricting his lungs. He hadn’t considered the possibility that LLB wouldn’t show. They’d both been so ready to meet. So eager.
What if…?
He swallowed, tightening his fingers around his half empty can of beer. What if LLB had been here, had seen Alfie and changed his mind? Perhaps, like Novak, he’d taken one look at Alfie and seen a dumb jock—all brawn and no brains. Perhaps he hadn’t given Alfie a chance.
A lump threatened to form in his throat, and he took a swallow of Street Green to wash it away. For fuck’s sake, get a grip. LLB wasn’t like that, Alfie knew he wasn’t. He was sensitive and sweet and thoughtful, and there were a dozen reasons why he might be late. And why he hadn’t replied to any of Alfie’s messages.
He checked his phone for the millionth time. Nothing.
The bar was starting to get busy and he felt conspicuous sitting alone at a table big enough for four, especially when he saw people at the bar eyeing him, ready to pounce when he left. How much longer could he stay here, waiting like a loser?
He’d give it another ten minutes. If LLB wasn’t there by then, he’d—
Another blast of cold air and Alfie’s head shot up, eyes fixed on the door and on the figure of Leo Novak standing there staring at him.
Jesus fucking Christ, as if this night couldn’t get any worse.
Novak looked ill. His face was pasty, with the exception of the tip of his nose which had turned pink with cold, and he was watching Alfie like a man eying his executioner. Alfie gave a slight nod and turned away, busying himself with his beer and giving Novak the chance to disappear into the bar.
So it came as something of an unpleasant shock to find him winding his way through the tables toward him.
“Hey,” Novak said, hovering uncertainly in front of Alfie’s table, his messenger bag still across his body and his glasses fogging up in the bar’s humid heat.
“I’m waiting for someone,” Alfie said immediately. “This seat is taken.”
“Right.” Novak sat down anyway, pulling off his foggy glasses and cleaning them on the end of his scarf.
For fuck’s sake. Alfie was about to protest when the door opened again and a young guy with blond hair and a pleasant face walked in alone, looking around. Looking for someone. Alfie’s heart skyrocketed. But Novak sat between Alfie and the room, hiding his copy of Persuasion from view. “Look, do you mind?” Alfie said, making a shooing gesture. “I said I’m waiting for someone.”
“Yeah.” Novak looked different without his glasses, like a turtle missing its shell—naked, as if he’d lost a layer of defense. “Christ, it’s hot in here.” He lifted the strap of his bag over his head and started unbuttoning his coat.
“You can’t stay here!” Alfie protested, watching the guy who’d just entered walk to the bar.
“Why not? It’s a free country.”
Alfie glared at him. “I thought you had a date.”
“It’s uh…delayed,” he said shiftily. He’d lost the bowtie, Alfie noticed absently, his gaze darting from Novak to the guy at the bar. He had his back turned now. Damn it. Could that be him? Was that LLB?
Alfie reached for his phone, hesitating. If he messaged and the guy checked his phone…
“Jane Austen, huh?” Novak said.
Alfie blinked at him. “What?”
Novak’s fingers flickered toward Alfie’s copy of Persuasion. “I assume this isn’t yours.”
“Right. Of course you do.” Alfie pulled the book toward him with a defiant look.
Novak’s gaze lingered on the cover. “Doesn’t look like you’ve read it. The spine’s not even cracked.” Alfie didn’t respond; he was not going to explain himself to this guy. “Truth is…” Novak hesitated, giving him an odd look. “Truth is, I…I didn’t exactly take you for a reader. I’d always thought—”
“I know what you thought,” Alfie snapped. “You’ve told me. Several times.” Just then, the guy at the bar turned and Alfie’s heart leapt so high he could feel it in his throat. He snatched up the book, vaguely aware of Novak turning to look over his shoulder, but then the guy lifted a hand to wave at a group piling in through the door, and Alfie’s heart just…died.
Opposite him, Novak cleared his throat and leaned forward in his chair. “Look, Carter, I think…”
And suddenly Alfie had nothing left. No patience, no kindness, no nothing. “No, you look,” he snapped, talking right over Novak. “I don’t care what you think, okay? I don’t care about your opinion. You don’t know shit about me. You have no idea who I am.”
Novak blinked at him, his pale eyes wide behind his glasses. “I might say the same about you.”
“Fine—let’s keep it that way. Because I sure as hell ain’t wasting my time on a pompous prick like you.”
“Charming.” Novak’s ashy face turned white.
“Not tonight, I’m not. So why don’t you piss off and leave me the hell alone?”
Stiffly, Novak rose to his feet. “Fine. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, Mr. Carter. It was…” His lips quivered with some emotion Alfie couldn’t interpret. “It was unintentional. I’m sure you’ll get over it.”
With that, Novak snatched up his bag and stalked out of the bar, leaving Alfie alone with his beer and disappointment.