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. “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 undressing 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 under his sleeve.
He pulls back his sleeve and 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’.” He drops his sleeve.
“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. Always the designated driver, that one. It’s odd how people change, yet things stay the same.
“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. I mean, the girl had a point. They’d been together for, what, three weeks? Relationships in high school were like the rise and fall of the Roman Empire: spectacular, but mostly sad.
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 because, well, I don’t know. 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.
“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. There’s a tall guy 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 open. I shut it with a snap. “What are you doing here?” It’s the question of the day.
“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. I 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? That’s certainly a coincidence. I’m guessing he was drawn toward the game as I was.
Well, 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 in the red-light district 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 mean, 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 Duke, 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. “Hopefully I don’t blow it all on one trip.”
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 goalie.
“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 Seattle this summer for a video game company doing programming. 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 programming. 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?”
“Lydia is doing well. She’s starting her last year of nursing school in the fall. She’s really involved with community theater, actually. She wants to stay in North Carolina and is hoping to get a job at the Duke University hospital.” 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. “Lydia’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.
“Logan?” 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.”
His 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.”
“Let’s do that.”
We check the map and find my hostel only a few miles away. Since it’s a beautiful day outside, not too hot, we decide to walk.
Everyone is out. Shopping, eating, sight-seeing. Like Paris, Rome is beautiful. But unlike Paris, it’s far, far older. It blows my mind that I’m walking the streets of what used to be a great, ancient empire. I’m walking the streets of where Julius Caesar once ruled. Before he got stabbed in the back, that is.
Also, Rome has a lot of fountains. And I mean a lot of fountains.
When we reach the hostel, I ask the receptionist if there’s a room available.
“We have one bed left in a shared 4-person room. Thirty euros a night plus tax.”
“That’s perfect,” Logan says, and passes over his passport and money so they can check him in.
I ask, “Is there any way we can leave our bags here until it’s time to check in?”
“Sure.” The guy smiles at me. He has an English accent, and a lot of piercings around his ears. Dark hair and eyes. He’s definitely my type. And judging from the appreciation in his gaze, it looks like I might be his type too.
As he leads us to a locked closet in the hallway, I notice his body. Fit. Maybe a long-distance runner, as his legs are toned. We drop our bags and head out the door, but before we step outside, I hear the guy say, “See you around, maybe?”
I glance over my shoulder. In my peripheral vision, I notice Logan frown. Again, I give the British guy a once-over. “Sure thing,” I say with a grin. Logan snorts.
Outside, we loiter on a street corner, looking at the GPS on Logan’s phone. Aside from going to a gay bar later in the evening, I didn’t have any plans set up ahead of time. I start to ask Logan if there’s something he’d want to do when he says, “Be right back.”
“What—?” But he disappears around the corner.
Ten minutes pass, and I begin to worry that he’s either gotten hit by a car or he’s been kidnapped, when someone pulls up to the curb. It’s Logan on a scooter.
“Dude.” I approach and run a hand over one of the handles. “This is either the worst idea you’ve ever had or the best idea you’ve ever had.” Because Italian drivers do not mess around. I’ll likely be a smear on the roadway before the day is done.
His grin is playful, and it makes my own mouth curve in response. He revs the tiny engine. “Hop on.”
I straddle the back of the scooter, keeping some space between us. “Uh.” My mind blanks as I think of where to put my hands. I finally settle them on his shoulders. It seems like a safe enough place. “Where to?” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
And we’re off.
Chapter 10
Logan
Austin and I spend the day being lame and touristy. We scooter around the city, laughing and drinking and having a good time. We reminisce about old times, old friends. Austin doesn’t hesitate to remind me of the time I bleached my hair after I lost a bet. Since I wasn’t allowed to cover up the dye job, I had to endure months of ragging from my friends, as well as disgust from many of the girls I had crushes on. Note to self: bleached hair is a natural girl repellent.
After a few hours driving around, we find a small café along one of the cobblestoned streets, and pass the time sipping wine and eating way too many cookies than is healthy. We must have walked close to ten miles today, getting lost in the narrow backroads. My legs are sore. It’s near dark now. The city is gold and white from the multitude of lights. And the wine is really freaking good here. I’m on my third glass. Austin sips from his water.
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