Page 60 of From Coast to Coast
Remy
Have fun.
Feeling oddly let down, I take a deep, fortifying breath and go inside, pushing all thoughts of Remy Stone as far away as I possibly can.
Matt is already seated when I walk in the door and he raises a hand in greeting. I pick my way carefully through the crowd until I’m standing next to his table. He stands as I approach, puts a hand on my shoulder and kisses my cheek. I fake a smile I don’t feel, and surreptitiously wipe the back of my hand across my face when he looks away because kissing feels like cheating on Remy.
Matt is a good-looking guy: brown hair and eyes, tall and slim with a runner’s build. He’s got a piercing in the front of his nose and earrings in both ears. When he was working at the bar the other night, he was wearing a layer of eye makeup that was ridiculously attractive. He also had no trouble at all telling me he was interested and then asking me out. When I told him my name, he had no clue who I was. I should like Matt. I should want to date Matt. Matt is, very obviously, a catch.
But Matt is not Remy, so I have no interest in him.
The conversation is easy between us throughout dinner, and while I am having a good time, my mind is split between paying attention to my date and worrying about what time it is. I don’t want to be later than ten—I promised Remy I’d call him by then.
“You’re not into this, are you?” Matt asks, putting an elbow on the table and leaning a cheek into his hand.
“What? Of course, I am,” I protest, even though it’s a big fat lie. I am so not into this. He smiles and raises an eyebrow at me. I sigh. “I’m sorry. You’re a great guy. I’m just not in the right place for this.”
I gesture at the table between us apologetically. He smiles again, eyes kind in the dim light of the restaurant. He signals to the waiter to bring us another pair of drinks, and leans toward me over the table.
“So, is it me or is it you?”
I laugh. “Me. Definitely me.”
“In love with someone else?” he asks, but the grin slides from his face at whatever he sees on mine. “Ah. Unrequited love, huh? So, is he a straight guy, a married guy, or unaware of your existence?”
“Those are the choices, huh?”
“I’m a bartender, so I hear it all. Those seem to be the top offenders more often than not.” Matt shrugs and takes a sip of his drink. I feel a pang of longing as I look at him. Things would probably be a hell of a lot easier if I could be attracted to him and not Remy.
“Well, he falls somewhere on the queer spectrum, so not straight. Not married. And definitely aware of my existence, but maybe not in the way I want him to be. We’re just friends.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, and sounds like he actually means it. “That’s tough.”
“It’s okay. It is what it is.” I shrug. Wishing for more with Remy won’t get me anywhere, and I’ll only make myself more miserable by complaining about it.
Matt and I spend another half hour at the table swapping dating horror stories. By the time we go our separate ways, I’m happy I didn’t cancel but still relieved that I don’t have to go through the song and dance of seeing him again. It’s disconcerting how excited I am to get home and call Remy, when I was just on a date with somebody right in front of me and couldn’t have cared less. I am so screwed.
At 10 p.m. on the dot I take one more look in the mirror, tucking a few stray hairs back into place, and pull up his contact. Remy takes so long to answer, my stomach sinks all the way to my toes and I’ve got my thumb hovering over the End Call button seconds before his face fills the screen. I heave a sigh of relief. We haven’t gone a single day without speaking since I moved here, and I don’t mean to break that streak tonight.
“Hey,” I breathe.
“How was your date?” Remy asks testily, mouth turned down in a small frown.
“Started as a date, ended as an agreement to go our separate ways.”
“Oh.” I can literally see the way these words perk him up. For a second, I think he’s going to smile, but then his forehead wrinkles with confusion and he squints his eyes at me. “Wait, why?”
“I wasn’t interested.”
“Oh,” he repeats, biting his lip and turning his head away slightly. I hold the phone a little closer to my face, staring at the indent his teeth are making in that full lower lip. Calgary is so, so far away. “Well, I’m sorry.”
It’s the least convincingI’m sorryI’ve ever heard, and it makes me smile. “I’m not.”
Remy reaches up and scrubs a hand back and forth through his hair, face tipped downward so I can’t see his expression. I bring the screen even closer, narrowing my eyes as I try to take in each minuscule part of his appearance—drinking him in like a starving man being presented with a feast. I suck in a sharp breath, feeling like someone reached into my chest cavity and squeezed my lungs in their fists.He’s wearing my clothes.
“Is that my hoodie?” I ask, and immediately have to clear my throat. My voice is scratchy, like I haven’t spoken in days.
“Yeah.” Remy looks down and plucks at the front of the hoodie sheepishly. “I might have borrowed it while you were packing.”