The look he sends me is almost wary. “Thanks.” He sets the beer down. Austin isn’t much of a drinker, so I assume that’s the last sip he’ll have. Even knowing that, I still wanted to get it for him.

  While Manuel disappears to get another drink, I turn toward Austin and find a safe topic of conversation. But surprisingly, he talks first.

  “How are you feeling about—you know.”

  Ah. The breakup.

  I shrug. “Pretty good, all things considered. Live and learn, right?”

  He nods. Murmurs, “Live and learn.” He takes a swallow of his beer.

  “What about you?” I ask, suddenly curious. “Are you seeing anyone?”

  “No.”

  I wait for Austin to elaborate, but he remains as closed as ever. A short laugh slips out, because I’m not at all surprised. I’m suddenly remembering how difficult it was to converse with him in group settings. “Come on, man. That’s all you’re going to give me? No juicy gossip? No trail of broken hearts?”

  He sighs. Glances at the television before turning back to me. He looks amused. “You really want to know?”

  “I’m asking, aren’t I?”

  My friend shakes his head. “I’m telling you, it’s that Gilmore Girls. The need to pick apart romantic relationships.” But his eyes dance, and he goes on. “There was one guy I met at a party when I was a freshman. We lived in the same dorm. We dated for a few months.”

  I wave my hand, gesturing for him to go on. “And?”

  “And it turns out he was a narcissistic asshole who gaslighted me. I decided relationships weren’t really my style. Nowadays, I stick to hookups, and I’m happy with that.”

  I understand—to an extent. Getting burned can color your perspective, but ever since I met Austin, he’s been closed off emotionally to most people, aside from his sister and, well, me. I don’t want one bad experience to make him think relationships are something to fear.

  I’m curious as to what type of guys he goes for though. The way he looks now is different. He’s edgier. It makes me wonder if he attracts men of a similar look. He didn’t have those tats in high school, or the eyebrow ring. It’s the juxtaposition of his edginess and the quiet, calm personality beneath that intrigues me.

  “You have a type?” I ask.

  He chokes on his beer, spewing it across the table. Christian takes no notice as he screams obscenities at the game. Germany made a blunder, causing the other team to score, I think. Greg and Manuel have both disappeared.

  “You want to know my type?” he croaks once his coughing fit is under control.

  “I don’t know, I’m curious.” The bar is busier than it was, and many of the patrons are men, some Italian, some American, some French. There’s a good variety of ethnicities. I draw his attention to the bar. “Any men over there who catch your eye?”

  He follows to where I point, considering the crowd for a moment, brows knit. Then he tips his chin toward the end of the bar. “The guy in the blue shirt. Short dark hair.”

  I appraise who he points to. He’s a good-looking guy. Around our age, probably. Fit. At one point, the man turns around and scans the crowd, and I catch sight of his raw-boned face. He has dark eyes.

  It seems Austin goes for the tall, dark, and handsome. Interesting. Growing up, I always pictured him with a blond girl. Maybe it was his hair. It was so fair back then, more white-blond than it is now, and he always reminded me of some Scandinavian dude.

  I take a sip of my beer before remembering it’s empty. I’m going to need another soon. “You could always go talk to him,” I say.

  “He’s straight.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “I just can.” He looks around, zeroing in on a different man across the room. “That guy’s queer, though.” I turn to look. Tats. Partially shaved head. Jeans that mold to his legs. “I’m not sure what he identifies as, but it’s not straight.”

  This man has similar coloring to the other. I shake my head. There doesn’t seem to be any signifier to me that the man isn’t straight. I guess it comes with the territory. “Are you going to go talk to him?”

  “No.” He turns back to me. “I’m not looking for anything. And anyway, I’d rather catch up with you.”

  For some reason, the statement makes me smile. While I wouldn’t blame him for hooking up, I’m glad he’s choosing to spend his time with me. Four years is a long time to not speak, and we only have five weeks left of the academy.

  Our server returns. “Another refill?” She turns her pretty smile onto Austin once she realizes there’s a new addition at the table. Her eyes linger on his tattoos, on full display, and his bare chest. “And you, honey?”

  I muffle my laughter behind my hand as he blinks at her in confusion, probably having no idea that right now, she’s fucking him with her eyes. “Uh.” She rests her fingers on his shoulder, stroking softly. Either she doesn’t notice he’s barely touched his beer, or she doesn’t care. Probably the latter.

  “I think he’s good,” I say, leaning forward to draw her attention away from him. I point to my now empty glass. “But I’ll have another Stella.” I grin at her, but she’s no longer looking at me. She’s looking—no, leering—at Austin. Which is fine, but it’s a little irksome as Austin isn’t even interested in women.

  “Sure thing.” Another winning smile in Austin’s direction before she saunters off, not bothering to ask Christian his order. He’d probably ignore her anyway.

  “Jealous?” he asks, all casual, a devilish gleam in his eyes that wasn’t there earlier.

  I slant him a look. “That girl has no idea you swing the other way.”

  He shrugs, comfortable in his own skin. “It’s the tattoos. It always gets them.”

  Without realizing it, I study the ink spreading up his right arm. “What does this say?” I point to a line of narrow script that disappears around his bicep.

  He rotates his arm so I can get a better look. Tempus edax rerum.

  “It’s Latin,” he says. “It means ‘Time, devourer of all things’.”

  “Fitting.” I never imagined Austin as someone who’d ever get a tattoo, as he was pretty straight-laced in high school. He was the one always watching out for my drunk ass.

  “I got my first tattoo after I broke things off with my ex.”

  My eyebrows lift to my hairline. Austin offering a piece of himself without my asking for it? I remain quiet, not wanting to miss anything.

  “I needed to feel in control of my life. At the end of that relationship, I had no self-esteem, and generally felt like shit. The tattoo was a reminder to myself: I am the master of my own life.” A sheepish smile. “Sounds like a load of crap, now that I think of it.”

  I shake my head. “It’s not.” It’s real, after all. And it’s true.

  “I guess. Anyway, not long after that I got my second tattoo, and my third. It turned into a form of self-expression.”

  “Yeah, just like Brandon Love,” I joke.

  “Brandon Love—” He pauses as realization dawns. “The Christmas party, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh, God, I’d forgotten about that.” Laughter bursts out of Austin, loud and free. The server returns with my drink. She leaves quickly, but not before smiling at Austin again.

  I shove aside my annoyance and take a sip. “He was such a dumb ass. Drunk off his ass, too.”

  I soak in the memory. It was a few days before Christmas. One of our friends hosted a party because his parents were out of town. A rager, that one. Anyway, we were all sitting around shooting shit when Brandon, one of our teammates, comes over and tells us he wants to get a tattoo because his girlfriend, Mame, kept claiming he wasn’t serious about her. They’d been together for, what, three weeks?

  After more hassling from Brandon, Austin drove all three of us to the nearest tattoo parlor. It was after midnight. In stumbled Brandon, drunk. He tells the guy, in no uncertain terms, that he wants Mame’s name tattooed on his ass. I imagine that’s when the tattoo artist tried to talk him out of it, because Brandon shouted, “This is the woman I’m going to marry!”

  Laughing harder, Austin says, “Then he was screaming like a dying animal as they tattooed his ass. He just kept saying, ‘Mommy! Mommy!’” He snorts into his beer, shoulders shaking as he bows his head, trying to hold himself together.

  An hour later, Brandon hobbled back into the waiting room. He was so damn proud of his new tat and couldn’t wait to show his girlfriend.

  “And then—” Austin’s laughter descends into hilarity. He can’t talk anymore because he’s crying, banging a fist against the table so the glasses rattle. This causes Christian to glance over at us in confusion. Two guys laughing their asses off for no apparent reason? He shrugs and goes back to watching the game. “Then he shows us the tattoo.”

  How could I have forgotten? Brandon pulled down the waistband of his shorts so we could see the ink. He’d ripped the bandage off it, which you’re not supposed to do, but again, he was drunk and a moron. He’d told the tattoo artist to write the word “Mame” inside a heart.

  It said ‘Mom.’

  Chapter 9

  Austin

  “Where are you off to?”

  I glance up from packing clothes on the bed. Logan stands in the doorway, dressed in a t-shirt and exercise shorts, having returned from breakfast. I ate close to an hour ago, as I have a flight to catch this morning.

  Smiling, I shove the rest of my toiletries into my backpack and zip it up. “Rome.”

  His eyebrows lift skyward. “No shit? You didn’t mention it.”

  I give him a half-hearted shrug. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I’d take the plunge. But flights are so cheap between European cities it seemed like a wasted opportunity if I didn’t take it. It’s been a slow process opening up to Logan again, too. Our first week came and went, and while things are closer to normal than ever, I hesitated in mentioning it to him. Maybe I thought he wouldn’t care? And maybe I was afraid that in mentioning it to him, I’d want him to come with me. Our rocky beginning has finally smoothed. I don’t want to stir the pot.

  “I’m just going for the weekend,” I say, slinging the backpack over one shoulder. “Coming back Sunday. Don’t trash the place when I’m gone, okay?”

  He gives me a funny look, but before he can respond, I’m out the door. I have a plane to catch.

  I reach the airport with plenty of time to spare. Boarding isn’t for another thirty minutes, so I wander around until I find a bar with a soccer match playing. Perfect.

  I head for an empty seat. A tall guy sits to my right with nice broad shoulders. A quick glance of appreciation is all I allow myself. Then I do a double take at the shaggy dark hair, the strong profile. “Logan?”

  He swivels toward me on his bar stool, goofy grin in place. “Austin. What are the odds?”

  My mouth gapes. I shut it with a snap. “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh.” Leaning back in his seat, he tilts his head in a nonchalant manner, taking on an air of importance, one hand gripping a glass of beer. “Just having a drink.”

  “In an airport?”

  He rolls his eyes, dropping the act. “I’m going on a trip, idiot. To Amsterdam. You left so quickly this morning I didn’t get a chance to tell you. Booked the flight last week. Sixty dollars round trip. You can’t beat that.”

  And we just so happen to show up at the same bar, same time, same day?

  Since I’m here, I slide onto the stool next to him. The bartender asks me what drink I want.

  “Ginger ale,” I reply. He nods and goes to get my order ready.

  “Need to settle your stomach?” Logan asks.

  “A little bit, yeah. Flying makes me kind of anxious.” I mean, we’re sitting on a chair in the sky. That’s just not natural.

  Once the bartender sets down my drink and I take a sip, I turn toward Logan. “So. Amsterdam, huh?” My smirk leans toward a leer. I think we both know why he’s going to Amsterdam.

  “Yup.” He doesn’t bother hiding the devilish grin. “Weed and women. What more can you want?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Your health? Seriously, you need to be careful about catching an infection. I don’t know how often the prostitutes get tested, but it can’t be that often.”

  “They’re called sex workers.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Okay, well, we know what I’ll be doing.” His eyes crinkle when he smiles like that, and my heart can’t help but turn over and display it’s vulnerable underbelly. Logan doesn’t know how irresistible he is. “What are you going to do in Rome?”

  “Besides eat a shit-ton of pasta? Walk around to see the sights. To be honest, I’m mostly going for the food.” I take another sip of my soda. The bubbles help settle my stomach. “I’ve never traveled abroad, so I’m not going to cram too much into the trip. I only have two days.”

  Logan shifts in his seat, his knee touching mine. “You never traveled in college?”

  “I could never afford it. I was on scholarship at UCLA, and I didn’t have much wiggle room to travel or buy a lot of things. On the weekends I was a ref at some of the rec leagues, so I made money from that. I saved as much as I could.” Was it hard, at times, watching my friends do great things while they left me behind? Yes. But that’s life.

  Logan flicks a glance at the screen and sits up straight. “Shit.”

  Somehow, in the last four minutes of the game, Arsenal made a goal.

  “Are you a Chelsea fan now?” I ask in curiosity, studying him in a new light. In high school, Logan was a die-hard Arsenal fan. Nearly kicked my ass once when I insulted their keeper.

  “I am.” He watches me, as if daring me to challenge what we both know: that he used to despise Chelsea.

  I merely take a sip of my drink. “Turncoat,” I mutter, to which he snorts into his beer. Then I ask, “How’s your family doing?”

  “Jason is doing well. He’s working at an internship in Denver this summer for a tech company. This is his second summer working there, so he’s hoping they’ll hire him when he graduates college in two years. He’s insanely smart. Got a 4.0, is involved in all sorts of extracurriculars.” He laughs self-deprecatingly. “And here I am kicking around a ball, not even utilizing my degree.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. I always thought Jason would go into politics. He was really into the debate team in high school.”

  “Me too. I think he got bored of it though. No one was ever better than him, and it’s hard finding inspiration when you’re already the best at something.” In the soccer world, there’s always someone faster, more disciplined, more sure-footed than you. Some people always want to be the best, but I love nothing more than finding inspiration in others, seeing my shortcomings and working toward improvement. “My dad is doing well. And my mom—” He takes a breath. “She passed away a few years ago. Car accident.”

  “I’m sorry, Logan. I didn’t know.”

  “Yeah.” His focus goes to the line of liquor bottles displayed along the back of the bar. “It was hard on everyone, but especially Jason. That’s when he switched to IT. He realized he didn’t love politics and wasn’t following his dream. Life’s too short, you know?” He shakes his head as if to scatter the sadness coloring the air. “What about you? How’s your family doing?”

  “Megan is doing well.” I decide not to mention my mother, who isn’t doing well, and who Logan’s never met. I’m not ready to air out the skeletons in my closet yet, if ever. “She’s coming to visit, actually. You’ll be able to see her.”

  An announcement comes on over the intercom. “First call for boarding for flight 678 to Rome.”

  “That’s me,” I say, downing the rest of my drink. The conversation was too short for my liking, but I’ll see Logan in a few days.

  The flash of disappointment across Logan’s face, however, is totally unexpected. “Have a good trip,” he says, watching me.

  “You too.” In high school, we’d always talked about exploring Europe together. But that’s obviously not in the cards today. If I budget correctly, I might have enough money to take another weekend trip soon. I’ll be sure to ask Logan to tag along.

  Boarding goes relatively smoothly. I settle into an aisle seat when, twenty minutes later, I spot a familiar face among the line of people struggling to pack their bags into the overhead compartments. And, lo and behold, he takes the seat across the aisle from me.

  It’s the second time today I’ve been blindsided. Unless Logan has an identical twin brother I didn’t know about, and this is all a cruel joke. “I thought you were going to Amsterdam.”

  Logan’s smile lights up his face. “Changed my flight. I decided it would be more fun traveling with a friend than alone.” He stares at the back of the seat in front of him, murmuring, “I guess I wasn’t ready to say goodbye yet.”

  My stomach flutters at the confession. It seems as if he doesn’t realize what he said. “Oh. Well, when in Rome, right?”

  He settles back as the flight attendants finish closing the overhead compartments. With a smile, I settle in as well. It’s a two-hour flight to Rome. Enough time for a quick nap.

  We take off, and soon, I’m dreaming in the clouds.

  Two hours later, we touch down in Rome. Together, Logan and I make our way off the airplane. It’s early morning, so we have the whole day ahead of us, plus tomorrow. Check-in at the hostel isn’t until early afternoon.

  Then I realize our dilemma. “You need a place to sleep.”

  “Ah.” He laughs. “I kind of forgot about that.”

  We’re standing near the baggage claim in the airport. It’s busy at this hour. People coming and going, speaking a multitude of languages. We didn’t check any bags, but it offers a good place to figure out what the next step is. I say, “We can see if there’s an open bed at the place I’m staying at.”

 

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