Him (Him #1)(63)

Right, and then I’ll fly to work on a Pegasus, befriend a genie, and get paid in leprechaun gold.

Wes notices my expression and sighs. “It could happen,” he insists.

“Yeah, maybe,” I say noncommittally.

The old couple pushes their cereal cart away, and Wes and I step forward, charging the ice to Elites’ account. Five minutes later, we’re loading the bags into Wes’s trunk.

I’m no closer to reaching any sort of conclusions about my predicament, and Wes seems to sense that. He nods at the gas station fifty yards from the supermarket. “Let’s grab some slushies,” he suggests.

“The ice’ll melt if we leave it in the trunk for too long,” I point out.

He rolls his eyes. “It’ll take us all of five minutes. Besides, science has proven that slushies are conducive to the making of important life decisions.”

“Dude, you really need to quit quoting ‘science’ all the time.”

Laughing, we lock the car and make the short trek to the gas station, where Wes grabs two empty cups and nudges me toward the slushie station. He fills his cup with the cherry flavor and then waits. But I haven’t had a slushie in a long time, and I can’t decide. So I put some of each flavor in my cup.

At the counter, the middle-aged clerk chuckles at the sight of my rainbow concoction. “I did that once,” he remarks. “Felt sick for days afterward. You’ve been warned, son.”

Wes snickers. “My buddy likes a little bit of everything.”

I give him the side-eye for that awful joke. We pay for our drinks and leave the store, but we’ve barely taken two steps when Wes slaps his forehead. “We forgot the straws. Wait here. I’ll grab ’em.”

As he ducks back inside, I linger near the door, admiring the sleek, silver Mercedes S-class that pulls up to one of the pumps. A gray-haired man gets out of the Merc and smooths the front of his silky tie. Shit, the guy’s rocking a suit that probably costs more than my parents make in a year.

His gaze flicks in my direction. “Are you the attendant?” he barks out.

I shake my head. “It’s self-serve,” I call back.

“Of course it is.” His tone is condescending as f*ck, and there’s a sneer on his face as he twists off the cap of his gas tank.

Frowning, I turn away from Snobby McSnobbers just as Wes pops out the door. He hands me a straw, his forehead wrinkling when he notices my expression. Clearly he thinks my frown is a result of my Detroit dilemma, because he lets out a quiet sigh.

“You’ll figure it out, babe,” he says softly. “You’ve still got time.”

Then he leans into me, gripping my shoulders with one arm. He brushes a reassuring kiss over my cheek, and my entire body tenses, because Snobby McSnobbers chooses that exact moment to glance our way.

The look on the man’s face cuts through me like a blade.

Disgust.

Pure, malicious disgust.

Jesus. Nobody has ever looked at me that way before. Like I’m a piece of dog shit they’ve just had the misfortune of stepping on. Like they want to wipe my very existence off the face of the earth.

Beside me, Wes stiffens. He’s just realized we’re being watched.

No, that we’re being judged.

“Do you know that guy?” he says warily.

“No.”

“He looks familiar.”

Does he? I’m too stuck on his expression to know.

“Ignore him,” Wes murmurs, taking a step toward the car.

My breathing is shaky as I follow him. Unless we walk all the way around the gas station to get back to our car—which I’m unbelievably tempted to do right now—we have no choice but to pass the Mercedes. As we near the man in the suit, I find myself bracing myself the way I do on the ice right before a puck flies toward me. I’m in defense mode, ready to protect myself at all costs, even though I know I’m being ridiculous. This man isn’t going attack me. He isn’t going to—

“Fucking faggots,” he mutters under his breath as we walk by.

Those two words are like a blow to the gut. From the corner of my eye I see Wes flinch, but he doesn’t say a word. He keeps walking, and I struggle to match his brisk stride.

“I’m sorry,” he says when we reach the car.

“Nothing to be sorry about, man.” But I can’t deny I’m shaken up. That bubble Wes and I have been living in all summer has just burst. If we somehow managed to keep seeing each other after camp, I might encounter this type of shit all the time.

Unbelievable.

“People are *s.” His tone is gentle as we get into the car. “Not all of them, but some.”

My hand shakes as I place my slushie in the cup holder. “This happens to you a lot?”

“Not often. But it happens.” He reaches for my hand, and I know he feels it trembling as he laces our fingers together. “It sucks, Canning. Not saying it doesn’t. But you can’t let jerks like that get to you. Fuck ’em, right?”

I tighten my grip on his hand. “Fuck ’em,” I agree.

Still, the drive back to the rink is subdued. We don’t say much as we drop the ice off at the cafeteria. I really wish I could just brush off that bigoted comment—that look—but it stays with me. Gnaws at me. Yet at the same time, I feel a burst of pride for Wes. No, it’s awe, because it takes true strength for him to be so unflinching about his sexuality. His own parents refuse to accept it, and even that doesn’t keep him down.