I approach the floor-to-ceiling windows of my potential apartment’s living room, gazing at the panoramic view of Toronto’s waterfront. It’s definitely the best view of all the other apartments I’ve looked at today, but the calm water of Lake Ontario reminds me too much of Lake Placid. Of Jamie.
But who am I kidding? Everything reminds me of Jamie. Last night I couldn’t even sit at the hotel bar without remembering the roadside place back at camp, where we shared our first kiss. This morning I walked past a candy shop and thought of the purple Skittles he’d bought me. At the last apartment I toured, I spent ten minutes staring at the futon bed on the floor remembering the two mattresses we slid together at the dorm.
I can’t escape Jamie Canning, no matter how hard I try.
“You’re not going to find a better deal in this neighborhood,” the realtor chirps. She waltzes over and stands next to me, admiring the view. “Rent this low for a two-bedroom Harbourfront condo? It’s unheard of.”
I turn away from the window to study the huge open-concept room. The apartment isn’t furnished, but I can already imagine how it would look with furniture. Leather couch and massive flat screen in the living area. A dining room table. Some tall stools for the eat-in breakfast counter.
I can picture myself living here, no doubt about it. And I have to admit, I’m a lot less likely to break my self-imposed celibacy rule in this neighborhood. The gay scene isn’t as prominent here compared to the other areas I visited. One apartment was down the street from not one, but three gay bars.
Not that I’m looking to hit up any bars and sample the meat market. The idea of being with anyone other than Jamie absolutely kills me.
“And I’m not sure if this is a plus or a minus for you,” the realtor continues, “but the owners told me they’re planning on selling in a year or two. If you’re already living here and looking to invest in real estate in the city, you’d be in a great position to buy this place.”
I frown. “What if they decide to sell earlier and I’m not interesting in buying? Will I have to pick up and move?”
She shakes her head. “You’ll be signing a one-year lease. You’re guaranteed the place until the lease is up.”
Fuck it. “I’ll take it,” I tell her. Because honestly? I’m tired of apartment hunting. I just need a place to sleep. Doesn’t matter where.
Either way, my heart won’t be in it. My heart is back in Lake Placid. Or maybe it’s in California. It goes wherever Jamie Canning goes.
I feel like such a shit for walking out on him like that. But I’ve never been good with goodbyes. Which just proves I’m as immature and thoughtless now as I was four years ago. I cut him out of my life back then too. I guess that’s my “thing”.
I really am an asshole.
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 fucked-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?”
“Do you take walk-ins?” I ask.
“Yep, but it depends on what you’re getting done. Bigger pieces require multiple sittings.” He gazes at the tats peeking out of my sleeves. “But you probably already knew that.”
I look around, examining the photos plastered all over the walls. There are some incredible pieces up there. “Did you do all these?”
“Damn right I did.” He grins. “Are you looking for a custom piece?”
“No, just something simple.” I hold up my right wrist. “One line of text here.”
“I can do that for you no problem.” He rises from his chair and sets the magazine aside, then talks prices with me.
It’s affordable, and I feel an instant trust toward the guy, so when he says, “Why don’t you come on back?” I follow him without any further questions.
He leads me through a dark curtain into a workspace that’s clean and uncluttered. That’s a good sign.
“I’m Vin,” he says.
I arch a brow. “Is your last name Diesel?”
He snickers. “Nope. It’s Romano. Vin’s short for Vincenzo. My family’s Italian.”
“I’m Wes.”
We shake hands, and then he gestures to the chair. “Have a seat.” After I sit down, he rolls up his sleeves and asks, “So what text do you want inked?”
I reach into my pocket for my phone, tapping on the screen to pull up the note I’d left in my notepad app. I find it, then hand him the phone. “Those numbers exactly.”
He studies the screen. “You want it as numerals or spelled out?”
“Numerals.”
“How big?”
“Half an inch maybe?”
Nodding, Vin grabs a sketchpad and scribbles down the numbers before handing the phone back. His pencil flies across the pad as he sketches something. A moment later, he holds up the page. “Something like this, maybe?”
I nod. “Perfect.”
“You’re easy to please.” With a grin, he quickly bustles around to prepare his station, grabbing supplies from a nearby cupboard while I scrutinize his every move. I’m pleased to see that the medical-grade needle he brings over is packaged, which means this shop is disposing of the needles after every use.
Vin settles in front of me. He snaps on a pair of latex gloves, takes the needle out of its packaging, then reaches for the tattoo gun.
“So where is it?” he asks.
I wrinkle my forehead. “Where’s what?”
He swipes disinfectant over the inside of my right wrist. “Those numbers…they’re longitude and latitude, right? Coordinates? Where would I wind up on the map if I looked them up?”
“Lake Placid,” I say gruffly.
“Huh.” He looks intrigued. “Why Lake Placid? And feel free to tell me to mind my own business, if you want.”
I swallow. “No, it’s fine. The place means a lot to me, that’s all. I spent the best summers of my life there.”
Vin pours black ink into one of the plastic cups on the tray in front of him. “I hate the summer.”
I can’t help but grin. You’d think someone who deals with the frigid Canadian winter for half the year would welcome the hot weather. “Why’s that?”
“Because it always ends.” He lets out a glum sigh. “We get, what, two, three months? And then it’s gone and we’re back to shivering in our long johns. Summer’s a total cocktease.” He shrugs, repeating himself. “It always ends.”
He’s right about that. Summer always ends.
