Him (Him #1)(74)

Oblivious to my self-hatred, party of one, the realtor’s face lights up. “Wonderful. I’ll draw up the paperwork this evening.”

Five minutes later, I step out of the glass lobby onto the sidewalk, breathing in the warm July air. There’s a streetcar stop a block away, so I shove my hands in my pockets and head toward it. I just want to get back to my hotel and spend the rest of the day doing nothing, but as I climb onto the streetcar, I decide against that.

I can’t keep wallowing in misery. Canning and I are over. And in a few days, I’ll be immersed in training, which won’t leave me much time to explore my new home.

I grab a late lunch at a small café overlooking the lake, then wander around for a bit, slightly amazed by my surroundings. The streets are so clean, and the people are so damn polite. I can’t even count how many times I hear the words “excuse me” and “sorry” and “thanks so much” in the two hours I spend exploring.

Eventually I go back to the hotel, where I take a quick shower before tackling the next item on the day’s to-do list. Email agent—check. Find apartment—check.

Next up is a phone call to my father. Gee. Can’t wait.

I dial my home number, then sit at the edge of the bed, already dreading hearing the sound of his voice. But my mom is the one who picks up the phone.

“Ryan, how nice to hear from you,” she says in her crisp, emotionless tone.

Yeah, I’m sure she’s thrilled. “Hi, Mom. How’s everything in Boston?”

“It’s lovely. I just walked through the door, actually. I was meeting with the historical society tonight. We’re talking with the city about restoring the old library on Washington.”

“Sounds fun.” As if. “Is Dad around?”

“Yes. Let me ring him on the intercom for you.”

Yup, our house in Beacon Hill has intercoms in every room, because that’s how rich people roll. Who has time to walk into another room and hand someone a phone when they’re so busy counting their piles of money?

My father comes on the line a moment later, greeting me coolly. “What is it, Ryan?”

Hello to you too, Dad. “Hey. I just wanted to talk to you about the Sports Illustrated interview.”

He immediately goes on guard. “What about it?”

“I’m not going to do it.” I pause. When he doesn’t respond, I hurry on. “Rookie seasons are too unpredictable, Dad.”

“I see.” His tone is clipped. “And this has nothing to do with you wanting to hide your…activities…from the magazine?”

“It’s not about that,” I insist. “I can’t have a reporter following me around for a whole year, especially if that year ends up being a bust.” I clench my teeth. “As for my activities, you don’t have to worry about that. As of this moment, it’s a non-issue.”

“I see,” he says again. “Then it was a phase. ” He sounds smug.

Yes, Dad. My sexuality is a phase. Who I am, to my very core, is a phase.

Bitterness clogs my throat, threatening to choke me alive. I can’t deal with him right now. Or ever. But especially right now.

“Anyway, I appreciate the opportunity, but the interview won’t be happening. Please thank your friend for me.”

I hang up without saying goodbye, then bolt to my feet, resisting the urge to hit something. Am I a bad person for hating my parents? No, for loathing them? Sometimes I feel like I’m going straight to hell for the thoughts I harbor.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I glance around the suite. I guess I can watch some TV. Order room service. Do something to distract myself from thinking about Jamie or my parents or my f*cked-up life.

But it feels like the walls are closing in on me. I need to get out of this room. I need to get out of my head.

I grab my wallet and keycard, tuck them in my pocket, and hightail it out of the hotel. Once I’m on the sidewalk, I falter, because I honestly don’t know where the hell I’m going. I consider ducking into the bar across the street for a drink, but I’m scared I won’t stop at one. My first night in Toronto, I got blackout drunk, alternating between kneeling over the toilet puking my guts out, and curling up on my bed missing Jamie. I refuse to make that a habit.

I start walking. It’s eight o’clock on a weekday, so stores are still open and the sidewalks are crowded. Nothing or no one catches my interest, though. So I keep walking. And then I walk some more, until the neon sign of a storefront in the distance snags my attention.

The tattoo parlor beckons me like a light at the end of a tunnel. I find myself walking toward it without really thinking about it, and suddenly I’m in front of the door.

I’ve been considering getting this done for a while now, but it felt too cheesy. Now, it feels bittersweet. And fitting.

I hesitate for a beat, then study the store hours posted next to the door. The shop’s closing at nine. It’s eight-twenty now. Chances are, it won’t be enough time for the artist to see me, but I’m nothing if not impulsive.

A bell rings over the door as I stride inside and approach the longhaired guy behind the counter. He’s in a black wife-beater, leaning back in a swivel chair with a magazine in his lap. His neck, arms and shoulders are covered in ink.

“Hey,” he says easily. “How can I help you?”