Wylie
But it wasn’t.
Still, he would strive to make it his own.
The first couple of days he focused on unpacking, getting groceries, settling in, and meeting his neighbors (or trying to.) They all stared at him like he had a third eye, gave weak handshakes, and mumbled their majors before retreating back into the confines of their gray boxes. Not very neighborly.
He’d visited campus before, so he knew the general layout, but the day before classes began, he spent a few hours mapping out his schedule and determining how long it would take to get from here to there so he wouldn’t be late, since time management wasn’t one of his strengths.
He’d need to learn how to cook some basic stuff too, since he’d mostly relied on the pit and his neighbors’ leftovers to feed him over the years.
He didn’t have the budget to eat out all the time, which meant there were going to be a lot of ramen noodles and Hot Pockets in his future.
As for his academics, he found out on his first day that in no way was law school going to be a cakewalk.
The syllabus alone for some of these classes was 30 pages long, and he was pretty sure his torts professor hated him.
It was on sight with the man after Wylie showed up to the first day of class twenty minutes late, due to the classroom number looking like a “0” instead of an “8” in the classic etched stone.
The torts professor was also fond of calling on people whether they’d raised their hand or not, and he’d caught Wylie in a weak moment, distracted by a daydream about Diego.
His guess had been so wildly off base that it seemed to personally offend the professor, who suggested he check his schedule again to make sure he was in the right classroom (ha, ha) while also making him look stupid in front of his classmates, which was guaranteed to come back to bite him in the ass once group projects began.
And speaking of his classmates. Not the most conversational bunch.
Wylie was trying to make friends, but all of his intros were landing wrong, not to mention that their slick hairstyles and luxury brand clothing made him feel like a broke-ass country bumpkin.
He suspected they weren’t surviving on leftover pizza and canned soup, which was later proven true when he met up with them at a swanky bar downtown where the draft beers alone cost $10.
They drank like they all had trust funds.
Wylie couldn’t afford to party like that.
He missed Nancy and Hannah too, namely the day-to-day stuff that didn’t translate well over text.
He didn’t call them because he didn’t want to seem desperate or give them a glimpse of his true state of mind, which honestly wasn’t great.
And what if it turned out that he couldn’t hack it?
They had invested so much in him over the years and had hyped him up to a ridiculous extent.
The last thing he wanted was to disappoint them.
During a particularly low moment, feeling dejected and pretty pitiful, he trudged over to the gas station near his apartment and bought a vape.
He felt bad about doing it, and he was obviously betraying the pact he and Nancy had made to quit smoking, but that first hit transported him right back to his deck at Sunset Village when he used to sit up there on his rooftop and watch the sun set over the water.
He thought of his many closing shifts at the pit with Diego and the quiet moments after sex when they’d both lie in bed with the sweat still drying on their skin and chat about nothing at all, the scent of clove mixing with that of Diego’s skin.
Wylie inhaled deeply, trying to recapture that perfect feeling.
God, he missed the man–the taste of him, the way his afternoon stubble scratched against his cheek, the slip of his hair through his fingers when he held on tight and fucked him hard and fast from behind. The way Diego fell apart during sex and became so soft and pliant in his arms afterward.
He missed their conversations too, and the moments of silence when they didn’t need to say anything at all because they were already on the same wavelength. Vibing. Like a phantom limb, Wylie kept reaching out for some crucial part of himself and coming up empty.
As he walked back toward his apartment, sweating through his shirt in the sweltering late August heat of “the swamp,” he wondered if the female servers at the pit were still hitting on Diego.
Had Emma made another attempt? Most of them knew Diego was gay and that he was Wylie’s…
whatever he was, but what if there were new people at the pit?
And who was working the takeout counter?
What if it was some other thirsty, queer man? What if that man hit on his Diego?
His thoughts devolved into a snarl of jealousy and petty anger, none of which were healthy or productive and certainly weren’t going to help him analyze this case briefing, which was due by midnight that night.
Wylie had not written a word of it yet. Another thing he’d never experienced before: writer’s block.
He pocketed his vape and trudged up the stairs to the small concrete box that was his new dwelling.
His homesickness would fade, everyone said so, and as far as Diego was concerned, well, you could lead a horse to water but in no way could Wylie force that stubborn-ass man to drink.
Wylie waited a week before calling Diego. He’d sent a couple selfies with him posing in front of UF landmarks where he’d pretended to be happy and thriving, and they’d texted, sure, but it was mostly just pit gossip and nothing of substance. No dick pics either, Wylie thought ruefully.
But he had something he needed to get off his chest, and only a phone call would do.
It was a Tuesday night and, if the pattern held, Diego would be just returning from dinner at his mom’s house.
He’d be at his apartment, maybe watching TV or possibly jacking off–the thought of it aroused Wylie immensely but also made him sad with longing.
He should be the one there getting Diego off (or denying him.) For a hot minute, Wylie panicked that Diego had moved on and might already have another man in his bed, but judging from how long it had taken him to crack that nut, he doubted it.
Before the quicksand of longing and regret had a chance to suck him under completely, Wylie punched Diego’s name on his phone.
“Heyyy,” a familiar voice said in a low, intimate rumble. Diego sounded relaxed, probably lying in bed. Damn but Wylie missed that voice.
“Is this a bad time?” Wylie asked on the slim chance there was someone else there with him. In fact, if that was the case, he’d probably need to go puke up his gas station tuna fish sandwich and drown his misery in a bottle of whiskey.
“It’s always a good time to hear from you, boss. Just got back from my mom’s. I was hoping you might call me sometime,” Diego said with a hint of reproach.
Wylie wished to remind him that the phone worked both ways and that Diego could have saved him a lot of heartache and stress by simply calling him first, but that wasn’t the reason for this call.
“I’ve been busy, I guess,” Wylie lied. Busy being depressed and sad as hell.
“How’s the apartment? How’s school?”
“Let’s Facetime,” Wylie suggested because he needed to see Diego, not just hear his voice.
He was greedy like that. He’d spent the last week trying not to think about the man who’d turned his entire world upside down, and he’d utterly failed.
He wasn’t going to deny himself this opportunity for connection now that he had it.
A moment later, Wylie was holding a grainy Diego in the palm of his hand.
The lights were off in his bedroom, reminding him even more of their post-coital intimacies.
He was reassured to see Diego’s gorgeous face, but also sad that this was the most he could have.
His eyes burned. Christ, was he going to start bawling again?
“Better?” Diego asked with a soft smile.
“Much better,” Wylie confirmed, though he’d rather have Diego right there beside him in his bed.
Preferably naked. Wylie recognized the t-shirt Diego was wearing, one he’d gotten for free for donating blood back when the mobile unit had hosted a blood drive in the pit’s parking lot.
His normally clean-shaven face had a two-day stubble and his hair was a bit longer, now the perfect length to really grab hold.
He searched Diego’s face for the signs of recognition to assure him that nothing monumental had shifted between them, that the deep feelings he harbored for this man might still be reciprocated, even if the distance had separated them.
“How have you been?” Wylie asked. Diego looked good, if not a little tired.
“Eh,” Diego said with a shrug, and Wylie had an inkling as to what that single syllable might mean.
“Working a lot?” Wylie asked.
“Yeah, I picked up a couple extra shifts at the pit. Trying to save up for a car.” Diego dragged one hand down his face and, come to think of it, he did look a bit rundown.
“Doing too much?” Wylie asked.
“Maybe,” Diego said sheepishly. “Just…trying to stay busy, you know?”
“Yeah, same here,” Wylie admitted. Seemed like they were both riding the same shit-tastic wave of trying—and failing—not to miss each other. Wylie was, at least. “You miss me giving you rides everywhere?”
“Yeah, and it’s hot as hell down here. I’m sick of showing up everywhere with sweaty pits. Nice shirt, by the way.”
Wylie was wearing a UF Levin College of Law t-shirt with the old-school Gators logo on the front. “Thanks. They push ‘em on us like cheap pizza and credit cards around here. Listen, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”