Chapter 7
Austin
Over the next few weeks, it becomes a foregone conclusion that Friday night means Oliver—hanging out, laughing, smoking weed, watching movies, and sex that only seems to get miraculously better each time.
Oliver: What’s the plan tonight, Guy Friday?
Austin: You tell me. You have any jobs tonight?
Oliver: Only the kind that start with hand or blow hopefully ;)
Austin: I’m in ;). Your place or mine?
Oliver: Yours
Austin: Ok, but bring your flash drive, I want to finish uploading the images we took to your website.
Oliver: Got it. See you at 7?
Austin: Sounds good
“You’re awfully smiley today,” Luke says, startling me into dropping my phone.
“Dammit, don’t sneak up like that,” I grumble.
“Come to think of it, you’ve been smiley every Friday for the past month. What’s up with that?” he asks, ignoring my complaint.
“It’s Friday, everyone loves Fridays.”
“Yeah, but this is more than just weekend happy.” Luke taps his chin as he studies me.
“I know you’re coasting on nepotism, but some of us have work to do, if you don’t mind.”
“Never mind, you’re the cranky asshole I’ve always known and loved,” he concludes. “I wanted to see if you were up for grabbing a drink after work?”
“Yeah, I have time for one drink. I have someone coming over at seven though, so you can’t try to cajole me into round after round until it’s three in the morning and I’m pouring you into an Uber.”
“What kind of friend are you?” he pouts.
“The kind with plans to get laid.”
“Oh yeah? Anyone special?” Luke teases, already knowing the answer. I haven’t done special since Harry. But the humor on his face rubs me the wrong way, as if I couldn’t have someone special if I wanted to.
I grunt in response and feign extreme interest in my computer screen.
Luke stands in my doorway a few extra seconds, and I can feel his eyes on me, studying me the entire time. Finally, he walks away with a promise to come find me at five o’clock for that drink.
*****
Luke is drunk. After reiterating that I only had time for one drink, he ordered a round of shots and a couple of beers. He slammed the beer and ordered another within ten minutes and doesn’t seem to slow.
“What the hell is going on with you?” I demand, trying to take his third drink away from him in hopes of at least slowing him down.
“Nothing’s going on with me. I’m the golden boy, remember?” he quips, attempting to snatch the glass back from me and sloshing it all over both of us.
“Luke, talk to me. This isn’t like you. Usually you leave the meltdowns and theatrics to me,” I joke gently.
He sighs and slumps over the bar. “I’m fine. I just want to drink. Is that such a crime?”
“Fine.” I set his drink back in front of him and spend the next hour trying to suss out what the problem might be with subtle, probing questions. He stonewalls me with jokes and subject changes at every turn, demanding I stay for another drink after I finish my first.
“I told you I can’t. I had plans already tonight.”
“What, a Grindr hookup? Since when is that more important than our friendship?” Luke pouts.
“It’s not—” I was almost about to say it’s not a Grindr hookup, but I guess technically, it is. “I’m going to call you an Uber, come on.” I toss some bills down on the bar and try to nudge Luke to get up.
“Nah, you go; I’m staying.”
“I’m not leaving you here when you’re this drunk already,” I argue.
“So, stay,” he shrugs.
I groan in frustration, checking the time on my phone and getting antsy when I see it’s getting close to seven.
“Luke, quit fucking around, come on.”
It takes me another twenty minutes to get Luke out the door and into an Uber.
“Fuck,” I mutter, seeing the time as I jump into my own car and head for home, hoping I haven’t missed Oliver.
Oliver
I’m feeling like a bit of an idiot as I stand knocking at Austin’s apartment door and get no answer for nearly ten minutes. I check my phone and don’t find any missed messages from him and try to swallow the hurt that rises up in my throat. We’ve been clear that this isn’t anything serious between us. If he ended up with something more interesting to do tonight, it’s none of my business. It would’ve been nice if he’d told me, but he doesn’t owe me anything.
I give his apartment door one last pathetic glance and then turn on my heel and start back down the stairs.
Halfway down, I bump into Austin, on his way up, out of breath like he ran from his car to here.
“Whoa, where’s the fire?” I joke, the knot in my chest easing at the sight of him.
“Didn’t want to miss you,” he explains as he reaches for me.
“Then why weren’t you home when we agreed I’d come over?” I challenge.
“My best friend was having a bit of a meltdown. I got here as fast as I could. I’m sorry.”
“You could’ve at least messaged me.”
“I didn’t think; I just rushed home as fast as I could. I’m sorry.”
I want to keep being annoyed, but the I’m sorry is accompanied by puppy dog eyes that make my irritation melt away.
“Is your friend going to be okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, I don’t know what’s going on with him though. I need to talk to him when he’s not drunk. I put him in an Uber home, and I’ll call him tomorrow.”
Austin puts his hand on my hip and pulls me closer, bumping his nose against mine and then brushing our lips together in a barely there kiss.
“Don’t leave.”
“I’ll stay,” I assure him, taking his hand when he reaches for mine and letting him haul me back up the steps to his apartment.
“Did you bring the flash drive?” Austin asks, reaching for his laptop, once we’re settled on his couch.
I pull it out of my pocket and hand it over to him. Last week, we took photos of the paintings I want to offer for sale, and Austin uploaded them to a website he apparently had put together during the week. Even with only a few paintings up, I’d gotten more interest in my work this week than I have in my entire life. I’ve sold a few for triple the price I can usually get at a street market.
Austin puts on some music, and we spend a few hours working on finishing my website. He adds SOLD banners to the pieces that sold this week, telling me this will give potential buyers a sense of urgency to make a decision before someone buys the one they want. He also suggests I offer prints as well for those who want my art but can’t afford the prices he’s set for the original canvases.
“How do you know about all this stuff?”
“I got my degree in marketing. It’s felt like kind of a waste at my current job so this is pretty fun.”
“I can’t thank you enough. It all looks so professional; I can’t believe it,” I muse once he’s finished.
“You are a professional, Ollie,” Austin points out. “Your art is amazing; you just need to give people a way to find it. This week I’ll set you up with social media accounts where you can post things from your website, reach potential buyers, cultivate a bit of an online presence.”
“You don’t have to do that. You must have better things to do with your nights than work on building my business from the ground up.”
“Only on Friday nights,” he jokes.
“Oh yeah? I figured you might be someone else’s Guy Wednesday,” I tease, hoping like hell Austin doesn’t hear the quiver in my voice that undermines the casual air I’m going for.
“Not currently, no,” he chuckles.
“Me either,” I tell him. “Not that you asked or care,” I hurry to add.
He laughs again. “It’s good to know, thank you, Ollie.”
Austin sets his laptop aside and pulls me into his lap, kissing me deeply and driving away thoughts of any other man in the world even existing.