Chapter Twenty

AFTER CONNOR LEFT, Trey leapt up and moved to the edge of the balcony, where he had a view on to Dexter Avenue. He watched for Connor’s familiar figure, ambling downhill, toward the Fremont neighborhood. There he was. Trey waited until he was out of sight, assuring himself Connor wouldn’t turn back.

He didn’t like this. Connor rarely left the house. He was the original homebody. And lying? That was something else he’d never seen Connor do. That was why it was so easy to recognize. His jitteriness and failure to meet Trey’s eyes told Trey all he needed to know about the veracity of his story.

What the fuck was going on?

Once he was sure Connor was gone and Trey was reasonably certain he wouldn’t return, he went inside and changed. He’d head down to the Cut and see what the hell was going on. But he needed to be careful. Connor couldn’t know he was following him, spying on him. That would ruin everything—especially if Connor was attempting to hide something from him.

So he went into the closet and pulled out stuff to disguise himself—a black baseball cap, a pair of nonprescription glasses in a plain black frame, rectangular in shape, and nerdy in appearance. He found an old navy turtleneck and a pair of dark denims. Chuck Taylor black high-tops.

After he was dressed, he applied some bronzer to darken his skin.

He looked at himself in the sliding mirrored doors of the closet. A middle-aged hipster, a common creature for Seattle, stared back. To say he didn’t recognize himself would be taking things too far. Even with the glasses, darker skin, and the baseball cap pulled low over his brow, one close look would give him away.

He shrugged. He had to hope this would be good enough. He couldn’t just sit at home if his business was being affected. He’d simply have to rely on the fact that he looked different enough to pass muster. He prayed the Cut wasn’t some tiny, brightly lit joint with communal tables.

If it was, he’d have to turn around and come back. He couldn’t risk being recognized. It was too weird and would make Connor too suspicious. And if he was suspicious, he’d cover his tracks even more carefully.

Trey knew all about such maneuvers.

Odds were, given the location, the neighborhood, and the Cut’s proximity to Seattle Pacific University, the place would be noisy, dim, and crowded.

Fingers crossed.

Trey pulled an old army-green trench coat out of the depths of his closet and set off.

 

HE COULD BE, thank God, inconspicuous at the Cut. The place harkened back to when Seattle was more of a seafaring, fishermen town, rather than the tech capital it had become over the last decade.

Perhaps the Cut had been here that long. Fishermen’s Terminal, after all, was within a couple miles’ distance in Ballard.

The place was almost a cliché, Trey noted as he waited for the hostess, a young woman with a fuchsia pixie cut and tattoo sleeves, to seat him. The floor was dark, scuffed wood that looked none too clean. Tables were round spools, also stained dark. One wall was a massive bar that looked ancient, as if it had not been brought in, but as though it had grown up organically from the ground beneath it. Decorations? Fishnets, shells, a harpoon over the bar.

The lighting was soft, mostly from fake candles flickering on top of the tables and the bar.

The music here was even a throwback to Seattle’s grunge days. Right now, Trey recognized the trailblazer of that particular musical genre, Green River, singing what was for them a big hit, “Ain’t Nothing to Do.”

The place reeked of craft beer and ennui.

He didn’t see Connor right away. The place was too busy, the pace too manic with people shifting around, moving from the tables to the bar and back again.

At last, he spied him across the crowded room at a table in the corner. He was not surprised to see Connor wasn’t sitting with a bespectacled and female editor from New York City, but with a tall, mustachioed guy whom he recognized as the man Connor had been kneeling in front of earlier.

Steve, who’d been a part of Connor’s life for so long. Steve, who had been a father to Miranda as she grew up. Steve, the de facto husband who had preceded Trey. Steve, with a history both good and bad.

Connor had told him Steve had more than broken his heart—he’d ripped it to shreds.

So what was he doing with him here now, looking so cozy and covert? Why did he need to lie to Trey about where he was going?

Trey pushed down the rage inside. A player hates nothing more than being played.

They were only a couple feet away from the bar, and both had tall glasses of beer in front of them. There was a plate of french fries between them, drizzled with ketchup. Their heads were bowed and close together, as though they were plotting—or on a date. The fact that they were deep in conversation could work to Trey’s advantage.

When the hostess returned, smiling and menu in hand, Trey told her he’d rather sit at the bar, if that was okay. “I see a stool open down there at the end.”

The placement couldn’t have been more perfect. Although a post separated the bar from Connor and Steve’s table, the proximity would allow Trey to listen in to their talk. He knew he could glean enough to either reassure himself he had nothing to worry about—or cause his hackles to rise if he did. Either way, he’d be inconspicuous, even if he was close.

A little awkwardly, he kept his back to Connor as he made his way to his seat at the bar. One hand on the brim of his baseball cap further shielded his face.

When the bartender approached, Trey, instead of answering his cheery “What’ll you have?” simply pointed to the tap for an Interurban IPA. The bartender, bearded and flannel-shirted—of course—expertly filled a tall glass from the spout, ensuring there was a healthy head, but not one that was wastefully big. “Thanks,” Trey said in the softest voice he could muster. He added, a little louder, “Run a tab.”

As he sipped his beer, he swiveled about a quarter of a turn and glanced at the pair out of his peripheral vision. They were still oblivious, talking and making eyes at one another.

Trey sipped and found it difficult to make out more than every other word. But, as it turned out, every other word was more than enough to piece together the gist of their conversation.

And Trey didn’t like that gist. Not one bit.

The bartender returned after a few minutes to see if Trey wanted to order any food. “The Spam sliders are great,” he said.

“I just want to be alone, okay? I’ll let you know.” Trey glanced back again, hoping he hadn’t attracted attention. He hadn’t. The bartender, smile gone and both hands up in surrender, retreated. Trey had a feeling it would be difficult to order another IPA, so he sipped slowly.

The gist of what was going back and forth was that Steve had made a mistake in leaving their “family.” He blamed himself and his own vanity—something about the approach of middle age and his head being turned by someone showing interest when he thought such interest was in his past. He’d been foolish and self-centered. He knew that now.

And the bombshell. Could they maybe work toward a reconciliation?

Trey nearly choked on his beer at Connor’s reply, which was not, as Trey had hoped, a firm no.

Because Connor’s voice was a bit more on the tenor side, it rose above the crowd noises better than Steve’s. And his words made the anger rise inside Trey, like a horde of murder bees had awakened and taken flight.

“Good god, Steve. I told you I got married. That ship has sailed.” There was a long pause. “But. But. I do miss you.” Another pause. “And, although there are a lot of good things about my new husband, most of them are superficial. I don’t know, hon, I might have been a little hasty.”

“Just like me,” Steve said.

“No, not just like you, mister.” Connor’s correction was voiced in a loving, teasing way. “I was free, not by choice, but by circumstance. I didn’t wreck a home to be with someone new.”

If Connor’s words had been spoken in a condemning way, Trey might not have been as upset. But what he was gleaning from Connor’s tone was a flirtatiously chastising vibe. He hated it.

Connor went on, sighing. “I don’t know, Steve. As my mom might have said, were she still around, we’ve both made our beds; now we have to lie in them.”

Steve said something along the lines of how he always thought that old chestnut was stupid. It allowed no chance for correcting mistakes.

“Is that what you did with Rory? Made a mistake?”

Trey didn’t hear a response, but he assumed Steve was either nodding or shaking his head. The next words out of his mouth were clear enough and came down on the side of nodding. “We called off the wedding.”

“For me?”

“Aren’t you full of yourself?” Steve asked and they both laughed. “But yeah, you had a lot to do with it. That and Rory finding someone else! Jesus. When you told me you’d tied the knot, I was stunned.”

“I was too,” Connor said so softly Trey strained to hear and make sure he got the words right. Connor went on, “I mean, I could live with the decision, but there are so many red flags—”

Trey suspected Connor was about to launch into waving those flags around, and maybe twirling a baton, but the waitress arrived and interrupted, asking if they wanted to order anything else. Trey hoped they’d request the check and put Trey’s torture to an end. But they told her they wanted another round and even ordered more food—a burger for Steve and the blackened salmon special for Connor.

And here Trey was, stomach rumbling and feeling a little sick. Was he about to lose his good thing?

The waitress swung by him, since she was close. “Get you anything to soak up the suds, dude?”

Trey shuddered. “No.”

Her attention caused Connor’s head to swivel toward him. Trey caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned away and hunched over his beer. He needed to get out of here. His Spidey-sense tingled, telling him he didn’t have long before he was spotted.

What could he say? What would he say?

He didn’t want to have to grope for an answer. He couldn’t allow Connor to see him as a stalker. It was bad enough his being here, worse that he hadn’t identified himself, especially when he sat about two or three feet away.

He threw a ten on the bar and stood. As unobtrusively as possible, he edged toward the door, but he didn’t miss Connor saying, “We can talk about it.” And those words burned Trey to his core.

Outside, he could smoke, make a plan.