Chapter 11 - Evan
EVAN
Ididn’t mean to say that. Did I mean the words? Probably. Because what he’s telling me right now about himself and Isaac feels like the equivalent of being thrown out on my ass. At least if the eviction were literal, there would be concrete steps I could take to remedy my situation. But this? Fuck.
My mind’s been in a tailspin ever since Millie walked into the hallway. I sincerely didn’t want to tell Deacon all of mine and Isaac’s business, but he should know—shouldn’t he? I would want to know if the guy I was dating was regularly dicking down his secretary. Wouldn’t I?
Or maybe the sex lives of men and dogs should stay private.
The truth is, what happens in the office reflects as badly on me as it does on Isaac.
Meanwhile, I’m in a total spiral of picturing the two of them together.
The way they’d look walking into an event together in suits––or worse—tuxedos.
They’re both so fucking gorgeous and…tall.
Wait—what do they do together? Is Deacon a bottom?
Because Isaac certainly isn’t. Or—hold on—do I know anything about Isaac at all?
This hurts like a fucking bitch. On both sides.
Because Deacon isn’t a corporate attorney or a runway model.
He’s a programmer. Like me. Which means maybe I’ve been misunderstanding Isaac this whole time.
Oh, Jesus, I can’t think like that. Deacon’s way hotter than I am, and he has a better job. It actually makes sense. Mostly.
At least I know a few things for sure—Deacon’s gay, he’s into Isaac, he’s never wanted me, and there’s not a fucking thing I can do about it. But where does this leave me with my boss?
I hadn’t thought about it much before this week, but the way Isaac is constantly horny for me is how I get a lot of my validation needs met. But I guess this explains why he’s been keeping his distance, until I literally threw myself at him like a brat in heat this morning.
My self-worth is approaching an all-time low, and that’s saying something. I have not made many good choices, and now my heart, which I’ve tried so hard to keep safe from exactly this kind of hurt feels super fucked.
“I would never ask you to leave.” Deacon says.
“Don’t promise something like that,” I say.
“I can, though. It’s my apartment. Ours, I mean.”
“Don’t you own it?”
“You pay rent.”
This is the longest uninterrupted conversation I’ve ever had with Deacon by a mile, and I’m discovering it’s a little like talking to a chat bot. I feel like I have to keep re-inputting my question to get an answer that makes sense.
How painfully good-looking he is tonight is helping nothing.
His clothes are casual, but there’s nothing understated about the way his hair is the perfect length and shade to set off his dark blue eyes—the way his cheekbones catch the shadows, and the hint of his dimples showing from the press of his full lips.
Now that I have firm confirmation that he is, in fact, into men, I’m convinced I do repulse him. But also, I kind of have to know. I need him to tell me I’m not his type, and I never even had a chance.
So I ask, “Do I like—repulse you or something?”
He scowls. “Repulse me?”
“Do you think I’m ugly?”
“What? No, of course not.”
“And you’re gay?”
He nods.
“Not that I’m saying both of us being gay means we have to hook up, but is there something that’s ruled me out for you?”
“You’re my roommate,” he says again, almost robotically.
“Well, yeah, but…”
“And we’re friends. I don’t think about it,” he adds.
“Ever?”
He doesn’t answer except to say, “Do you?“
“Well, yeah.”
“Is that supposed to mean it’s obvious?” he asks.
“I mean, I guess I’ve tried not to be too obvious about it, but I am attracted to you.
” I’m not looking at him when the word vomit comes.
I’m loading up my plate with shrimp and salad and pita bread.
I’m glancing around for the waiter because I’d like a shot of something much stronger than beer.
“Like I’m human,” I go on. “You’re basically one of the best looking people I’ve ever met.
So yeah, I’ve thought about it. Wanted it. You. Whatever—”
“Can you slow down?” he asks.
I snap my mouth shut and look down at my plate. “You can forget I said all that.”
“I don’t need to forget it,” he says. “I just want to process it. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my brain doesn’t work the same way yours does.”
“I don’t know how you could possibly know how my brain works,” I kind of snap. “You barely speak to me.”
“I do, though,” he says.
“Fine.” I sigh. “You do. It’s just an expression.”
“Is it?”
I wish I would stop fucking talking. I think I’m fine at communicating with my mouth, but I’m even better at it when I don’t have to use words. He would understand how I feel about him a lot better if he let me kiss him, but I guess that’s Isaac’s job now.
Okay—yeah—no. I really can’t let myself picture that.
“I had kind of a thing for my last roommate, and it made the living situation uncomfortable. Especially when he started seeing someone,” Deacon says.
“Ryan?”
“Yeah.”
“Great,” I say. Ryan is yet another incredibly hot guy who couldn’t be more different than me.
No wonder Deacon isn’t interested in me.
He must like edgier guys. Ryan is covered in tattoos and has the whole broody black cat thing going for him.
Isaac is edgy, too, but in a different way.
He’s powerful and quietly demanding. It’s a little terrifying how sexy he is.
I guess that answers the type question. I ain’t it.
“I didn’t hook up with Ryan,” Deacon adds.
“Never?”
“No. It was more like—all in my head.”
“You’re not trying to relate to me right now, are you?”
“Is what I’m saying relatable?” he asks, like he genuinely has no intention behind his words. He’s just saying them like he’s reading a script of clarifying questions.
“It would be,” I admit, “if it didn’t feel like shit.” Jesus fucking Christ, Evan. Shut. Up.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m totally lost. I wish I could start this whole conversation over.”
“What would you do differently?”
He appears to consider this. “I’m not sure.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “If nothing else, at least I feel like I’ve gotten to know you a little better. So, I guess, thanks for that.” I shove a large amount of food in my mouth, upset to the point of stress eating.
He goes about preparing a plate for himself in silence. The waiter finally comes over with my second beer, but instead of taking it, I apologize for ordering it and ask for the check.
This gets Deacon’s attention. “These were the appetizers.”
“I’m full.”
“Really?”
No, fuck, not really. I want to face plant into a vat of Haagen Daas. I want to curl up with Apollo on my bed and call my mom. “I think I should go home. I’m not feeling well.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“And feel free to bring Isaac over whenever. Just—you might want to give him a heads up about the fact that I live there if you’re gonna be fucking down the hall or whatever.” I have to tell myself that’s the beer talking. “Sorry—I need to get home.”
“I don’t need to have him over—”
“No. Please. It’s your apartment. I’m so sorry, Deacon, I have to go.”
“Are you okay?”
I look at him feeling utterly unglued. “Are you serious? Do you see me right now?” I’m about to burst into tears in public.
“I’m trying—”
“Try harder. Jesus. Look, I’ll Venmo you for dinner, just send me a request.”
I leave in an abrupt way, drawing attention, which Deacon doesn’t appear to notice. I’m fighting back tears for about half the walk home as I replay the mess of what just happened in my head when it hits me.
Deacon’s autistic.
The word comes from out of nowhere and hits me square in the forehead, rewiring every thought about every encounter I’ve ever had with Deacon.
Approximately half a second later, I feel like the most enormous asshole in the world to have just more or less shouted at him to do better in front of a roomful of people.
Autism would explain literally everything I ever questioned about him—especially the unconventional conversational style at dinner and at least a thousand other little things I always chalked up to shyness or even OCD in the past.
While I’ve got no doubt he’s shy, after that conversation, it’s obvious there’s a hell of a lot more to it than that.
When I sneak into the apartment without Millie noticing, and Apollo is circling my legs at the kitchen counter, I scrawl a note to Deacon on the notepad he keeps there. It’s one of the few ways we reliably communicate.
D—
Sorry I was so rude at dinner. You caught me off guard. I’m not mad at you or Isaac. I hope we can still be friends.
—Evan
That should make it clear where I stand on the matter of living here at least. Although, someone really does need to tell Isaac he’s double dipping because that man is not a fan of surprises.
And I guess I need to slowly back out of all of this. I know myself well enough to know that I’m in shock, but once that wears off, and I have to face the fact that the man I had a raging crush on is potentially falling for the man I hook up with on a near daily basis, I’m going to be devastated.
Hope is like the one thing I can survive on when all else fails, and the removal of all of it is going to sting like a bitch once the numbness wears off.