Chapter Two
Robbie
Regrets…I’ve had a few.
I struggled to recall if those were song lyrics or just the words playing over and over in my mind for the last three months.
Could’ve gone either way.
As I hotfooted my way along Robson Street in downtown Vancouver, I tried to clear my mind.
Another day down. And now a week off. Most offices took the week between Christmas and New Year off, but my boss understood people needed dental work during the holidays.
With most other offices closed, our clients who couldn’t normally get time off work were gracing our chairs.
Plus, a pile of emergencies had me hopping to fit everyone in.
My very non-glamorous role as a dental receptionist paid decently, gave me good hours, and kept me out of trouble.
I pulled up the lapels of my wool coat. I’d chosen stylish today over practical—even knowing the wind would be blasting from the west. Damn Pacific Ocean. Well, if one went over the Strait of Georgia, then eventually one reached the Pacific.
Whatever. Seriously…that’s what you’re choosing to think about?
Better than the alternative.
Yeah, okay, that’s true.
I kept walking westward. The Christmas lights still shone brightly in all the stores.
Along Robson Street, those shops tended to stay open late.
To catch both locals hustling home from work as well as the tourists who were so plentiful this time of year.
The big city on one of the biggest nights of the year.
My plan to drown my sorrows sounded better and better. I was supposed to have a date tonight. With Vernon. Seriously. His lovely parents—whom I’d never met—had named him after the town in the south interior of British Columbia where he’d been conceived.
Some parents really wanted to set their children up for failure.
Not that Robbie was much better. Sure, I could’ve gone by Robert.
But if I pronounced it the way my parents did, then it was ro-bear.
Way too fucking pretentious. Even for the cosmopolitan Vancouver.
So I stuck to Robbie. Easy to remember. Two syllables. Simple.
Kind of like me. As much as I wanted to be fancy, I was just a guy who liked the occasional drink, enjoyed his job, and kept a tidy studio apartment.
Vernon hadn’t appreciated any of those things. He’d declared me dull and had tried to make me over into someone he’d be proud to be seen with. I’d declared our fledging relationship terminated and had booted his butt to the curb.
Which made me feel all kinds of pathetic because I couldn’t even make a go with a guy named Vern.
I hit the corner of Thurlow and Robson and nearly barreled into someone who’d stopped abruptly.
Fucking asshole.
As I righted myself, I caught sight of the red light.
Jesus, I would’ve just walked right into the intersection. And likely been splatted.
Memories of three months ago assailed me, and I staggered.
The dog, clearly belonging to the guy who was turning, woofed.
Said guy turned.
My breath caught.
I nearly passed out.
Because it couldn’t be him. He was dead.
“Sorry about that.” He gazed at me with familiar pale-blue eyes. “Hey, are you okay?”
I swayed.
He grinned. “Get started early?”
“Whaa?”
“Drinking.” That grin didn’t diminish. “Everyone does things in their own time, but you should be more careful. Lots of tourist traffic around here, and they’re clueless.”
I blinked. I tried to make him focus.
He wouldn’t, though, because my eyes swam. “You’re…” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
His brow furrowed. “Can I help you get home? Do you live around here? If not, can I call you a cab?”
The light turned green.
I bolted. Nearly ran through the intersection in my need to get out of there. Fortunately missed the cyclist running the red and plowing into my crosswalk. Must escape. Because I’m losing my mind. The guy even sounded like—
Nope. Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t let my mind go there. To that horrible place. To that horrible day. To all the regrets threatening to bring me to my knees.
Two blocks down, as I neared Jervis Street, I slowed. I’d only knocked into three other people—who’d all apologized. So freaking Canadian. I drew in deep lungful of air as I struggled to get my equilibrium back. That proved impossible.
Because I’d just met a dead man.
Or rather, a man who had died.
Three months ago.
Right before my eyes.
I’d held him…as he died.
Yet he’d been right there, just now. Walking a freaking-cute dog. On Robson Street. In the middle of downtown Vancouver. On New Year’s Eve.
And I hadn’t even had a drink yet.
Because, to be honest, I felt off-kilter. Like I had indulged. In my college days, I’d done that. Probably why I’d barely graduated. I’d sobered up. Well, had stopped binge drinking. Then, three months ago…
He’s dead. You saw him die.
And yet I’d seen him around the neighborhood. Just last week. But it had been a trick of the light, right?
You didn’t have the guts to go to the funeral. You didn’t actually see the body. Maybe he didn’t die.
Patently ridiculous. I’d been there when the paramedics had declared him dead.
Alrick had held me. Had comforted me. Had helped me home after the police had secured the scene and we’d all been escorted away.
Alrick had asked Maurice, the dentist, to get my coat.
Then the hygienist had literally stuffed me in a cab for the ten-block drive home.
He’d hustled me up to my condo, forced me to drink tea I hadn’t even known I’d had, and had sat with me for hours while I’d been… numb.
I’d just witnessed someone hit by a drunk driver as he legally crossed the street. Someone I knew. Someone to whom I’d owed an apology and a conversation.
And one wasted asshole had robbed me of that opportunity.
I strode down Cardero Street and then down Barclay to my building.
I let myself in and headed up in the elevator.
To the fourth floor. I could’ve walked, but my legs still burned from the run.
I wasn’t in the greatest of shape. I looked good, but running any long distance tested muscles I rarely used.
Or so I told myself.
I entered my studio apartment with a sense of dread.
Should’ve gone straight to the bar.
Except bar food was expensive. Coming home to heat up some leftover stir fry and naan bread made more sense than enjoying one of Jack’s amazing burgers. Of course, if I stayed late, I’d probably break down and enjoy one anyway.
I bent to undo my running shoes. I wore leather ones at work—had to look professional—but no way did I wear them anywhere else.
Damn expensive things were for appearances, not practicality.
I shucked my coat, draped it over one of the bar stools at my high-top table, and headed for the fridge.
Ten minutes later, I sat on my sofa bed and scrolled through the various movies I’d saved on my PVR.
Oh, one I hadn’t watched. Cole Hamilton and Peter Erickson had done a little indie film a few years ago.
About gay lovers. Peter had won an Academy Award.
And he had…I squinted. Been accidentally outed during filming?
I’d heard something about it back then. Anyway, he’d married some guy, and they had two kids.
Right. Cole had recently come out as bi and was in a relationship with two other very attractive and clearly smart people. A nurse and an engineer.
Vern was a waste-disposal expert for the city of Vancouver, and he hadn’t thought I was worthwhile. Not that his job wasn’t important…more the fact he felt I should’ve gone out with the trash.
I forked some stir-fry into my mouth.
Or was it that I’d decided he should be put out on the curb?
Regardless, I was alone on New Year’s Eve.
And, by the end of the movie, I was crying. A good ugly cry at the brilliant upbeat ending of a fantastic film. One I’d watch again. Just…maybe not when I was in a state of…whatever I was.
Because I couldn’t get the ghost out of my mind.
Needing to do just that, however, I gave the dude one massive shove.
I showered, donned a beautiful dark-plum shirt that complemented my coloring, paired it with my black knit pants, pulled on my wool coat and, finally, added comfortable shoes that looked nice and hadn’t set me back nearly a paycheck.
I headed out the door. If I wasn’t going to get lucky tonight, I was at least going to wind up with a nice buzz.
Or so you tell yourself.