Accidentally in Love (6 page)

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” Tom said, knowing that there was doubt written all over him.

“Of course it is,” Cal told him. “It’s a great idea, just like it was the first time I suggested it, and the hundred times since then that I’ve reassured you.”

Tom felt his face flush. “If you—”

“Look,” Cal said, turning to him and putting a hand on each of his shoulders, a touch that felt more intimate than Tom would have expected. “I’m doing this because I want to. We’re going to have a good time. So take a deep breath and decide you’re going to have fun. Okay? Fun. I know you know what fun is.”

Cal had come up with the idea that he was going to repay Tom for helping him the night he’d been beaten up by not only taking him out to dinner but for drinks and dancing at some club afterward. Tom hadn’t been to a club since college, and he’d been a reluctant participant in the whole scene, accompanying his dorm mates because they’d needed a designated driver who wasn’t likely to go off with someone and leave them stranded. They’d made it clear that a refusal would result in a lot of negative consequences, and he’d gone along with their plans to avoid being left behind yet again.

“I know what fun is,” he said now, grumpily. “I’m just not sure this is my kind of it.”

“You can’t be sure until you try.” Cal patted his shoulder. “Anyway,
you
should be the one reassuring
me
right now that I’m not going to scare everyone off. I’m still pretty bruised up.” He touched his own cheekbone tentatively.

“You look better than me even with the bruises.” Tom studied Cal, trying to be objective. Cal’s hazel eyes weren’t bloodshot anymore, and the faint bruising around his eyes just gave them a shadowed look, as if he’d been up all night partying. His nose was still swollen, but even that wouldn’t put people off. “You’ll get people cooing over you, wanting to kiss it all better,” he said in an attempt to cheer Cal up. Cal had recovered physically from the beating, but his normal effervescence had gone a little flat. Tom didn’t like that. Cal’s breezy good humor was something he’d gotten used to, and he found that he missed it.

Cal laughed. “Yeah, well, if they do, I’m counting on you to defend me. I really don’t like being fussed over.”

“You want me to be your bodyguard?” Tom asked, amused by the idea. “I can do that, I guess.”

“You’d better.” Cal took a step back and looked at Tom thoughtfully, and Tom had the distinct impression that he was being judged.

“You don’t like what I’m wearing? I thought we were going to that steakhouse. It’s casual.” Tom knew he sounded defensive. How was he supposed to help it?

“What if you meet someone amazing at the club?” Cal shrugged like it didn’t really matter that much one way or the other, and that was what enabled Tom to nod when Cal suggested, “Come on. Let’s see what else you’ve got in your closet.”

He followed Cal toward his own bedroom, stopping when Cal did.

“Off limits,” Cal said, gesturing, and Tom understood.

“Oh. Right. Yes, go ahead.”

“You must have some jeans that are…well, less baggy.” Cal rubbed his lower lip, head slightly tilted to one side. Being studied was discomforting at any time. Being studied by Cal was distracting. Tom found himself studying the other man in return, taking in Cal’s model-like, almost beautiful features while he could.

“I have some really old ones that probably don’t fit,” he offered. “They shrank in the wash when I screwed up the settings and pretty much boiled them.”

Cal’s eyes lit up. “Considering how you go for, uh, comfort fit, that might work.” He made flappy motions at Tom. “Go. Shoo. Model for me.”

Tom grinned and began opening drawers, looking for the shrunk jeans with only a vague idea of where he’d seen them last.

“I suppose you’re going to want me to wear a different shirt too,” he said without turning his head. The blue and gray plaid one he was wearing was clean and hole-free, but even he could see it wasn’t in the same league as Cal’s dark gray khakis and silky-looking shirt.

The silence behind him was answer enough, and he rolled his eyes, safe in the knowledge that Cal couldn’t see him. “You know, I’m pretty sure that show was called
Queer Eye for the Straight Guy
,” he said, finally locating the jeans. “I’m not straight. Not even a little bit.”

He stood and shook the jeans out. They were black denim, or at least they’d started out that way. The legs looked incredibly skinny compared to the ones he usually wore, and he remembered buying them in a rush at the store, flustered into grabbing them off the wrong pile by an over-attentive saleswoman. That wasn’t a good memory. Maybe tonight would make up for it.

Assuming they even fit him.

Without giving Cal’s presence a thought, Tom undid his jeans and kicked out of them, skinning out of his shirt a moment later. He reached for the old jeans and became aware that Cal was staring at him, really staring, taking him in from head to toe.

Tom felt heat rise in his face and waited for a comment along the lines of Cal being able to see why he covered himself up. He’d been overweight as a child, eating to comfort himself more than out of greed, and gym days had been a nightmare. Jogging and better eating habits had changed that, but he still looked in the mirror and saw the child, not the man. “What?”

“You’re so
built
,” Cal said in a transparent way, then shook himself slightly. “Sorry! I wasn’t… I know, I know, crossing over into personal territory. You’re just…pretty. Pretty hot, I mean.”

“We’re in my bedroom,” Tom pointed out. Pretty? Hot? Really? It was hard to believe. He quickly tugged the time-faded jeans on and fastened the button and zipper. “Okay, what do you think?”

“Much better. And here. Try this.” Cal handed him a shirt that Tom was pretty sure had been tucked way into the back of the closet, because, honestly, he couldn’t remember ever having worn it. He obeyed and put it on. Looking at his reflection, he could see why he’d never worn it, and was surprised he’d even bought it. It was a deep red, dark enough to look black in some lights, with a sheen to the fabric.

He made a face at himself in the mirror. “You’ve
got
to be kidding me.”

“Okay, I’ll admit, it might be a tiny bit dated, but it fits you, which is more than I can say about the stuff I usually see you wearing.”

“I just don’t…don’t want to…” Tom gestured at his body. “I don’t like people looking at me. That’s why I jog at night.”

Cal gave him a shrewd look. “You do know that you’re this tall, buff guy, right? Because if you stopped dressing like you’re auditioning for a role as a scarecrow and showed off that body and didn’t give the world this attitude of ‘don’t look, I’m nothing and no one,’ people would be staring for all the right reasons.”

Confusion and insult held Tom silent. His emotions must’ve shown on his face, because Cal sighed and moved next to him, his arm coming around Tom’s shoulders. “I’m not going to apologize for being as direct and honest as you always are. You’re hiding from everything out there. I’d say you were scared, but I saw you when I was getting kicked around, and I don’t think it’s in you.”

“Not scared.” Tom wasn’t talking to the Cal who stood beside him, the real, warm Cal who was still holding him in a friendly one-armed hug, but Cal’s reflection. It seemed easier that way. “I’m just too used to being the odd one out. The joke. You can dress me up like Cinderella, play fairy godmother all you want, but at midnight, I’m changing back again.”

“I don’t believe it,” Cal said with a slight shake of his head. “That’s not the real you. You don’t need a fairy godmother, just a little nudge in the right direction.” He shifted his hips so that they bumped Tom’s, which was probably meant as an illustration of his point. It took Tom’s level of discomfort from slight into definite, so he took a step away.

“Maybe it’s not the right direction for me,” he said.

“Maybe it
is
and you ought to give it a shot,” Cal countered. “Anyway, the point of tonight is for us to hang out and have a good time, okay? So stop looking at it like it’s some kind of test. It’s not.”

Tom sighed. “It kind of feels like it.”

“Well then, we’re doing it wrong. Come on. Let’s get out of here and get something to eat.”

* * *

The restaurant was crowded, but they had to wait only a few minutes before they got a table. It had been more than a year since Tom had been there, and not much had changed. The atmosphere was pleasant, bustling, with a large fireplace in the center where flames from a small fire were crackling, even though the weather outside was so warm.

Their table was actually a small, semicircular booth, more intimate than a table, though Tom wasn’t sure what about the two of them said “couple.” He took a seat, keenly aware of how strange this felt. Not a date, no, but not a business meal or a family one either.

Their server, a young woman with cheerful smile and a mass of blonde curls gathered back into a ponytail, handed them each a menu, recited the specials, and took their drink order, then left them alone, her routine accomplished in a matter of moments. Tom flipped open the menu and began to read it, giving the task all his concentration.

“See anything you like?” Cal asked casually.

Tom jerked his head up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tune you out.”

“You didn’t,” Cal said. “I’m just incredibly indecisive, and I like to discuss the menu and get help making up my mind.”

“Oh. Well, last time I was here, I had the scallops to start with.” Tom smiled. “The description sounds really fancy, but they were good.”

Cal read aloud. “‘Fennel pollen crust, grapefruit, and chardonnay
beurre
blanc
.’ I like fennel. I'm not sure that the pollen crust part sounds appetizing.”

“Well, there you are,” Tom pointed out. “One less option to consider.”

“Yes, but you said they were good.” Cal sighed sadly. “See? Indecisive.”

Tom could tell when he was being teased, but this kind of teasing was fun. They worked their way through the menu until they’d decided what to order, sipping at the pinot
grigio
Cal had chosen when Tom had told him that he didn’t know a Shiraz from a chardonnay.

“The last time I came here, I was with my parents,” Tom offered after their food order had been taken. The wine was relaxing him, and he wanted to make conversation.

“Yeah? How did that go?” Cal’s interest seemed forced, but Tom realized he’d never heard the other man talk about his own parents. Funny, since Cal seemed inclined to talk about anything and everything else.

“Fine. It’s always fine. I mean, we don’t fight or anything.”

“Let me guess.” Cal looked at Tom over the rim of his glass. “As long as you don’t delve into anything too personal?”

The truth behind that hit Tom like a blow, and for a few brief moments, the world slowed to a stop, everything around him frozen. It started up again, and he heard himself saying, “Yeah. Good guess.”

“I thought it might have something to do with that.” Cal was a little too smug about it, and part of Tom wanted to knock him down off that pedestal he seemed to accept as his due.

“What about you? Do you fight with your parents?”

Cal shook his head slowly. “My mother’s dead.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“How could you? I know I don’t talk about them.” Shrugging, Cal finished the wine in his glass and poured more. “My dad’s fine. We don’t fight. Don’t do anything, really. I hardly ever talk to him.”

“I
talk
to them,” Tom said slowly as he tried to put his relationship with his parents into words, “and they always remember my birthday, that kind of thing, but they don’t really get me. Yeah, I know I’m too old to say my parents don’t understand me, but it’s true. They’re these lively, popular people, kind of like you, and I was this fat, moody little kid with no friends. I embarrassed them. When I told them I was gay, it was almost a relief for them to finally have a reason for the way I was. They hung every failure on that one hook.” He gulped down what was left in his glass, the chilled, pale wine making his mouth tingle, and glanced at Cal. “Your dad—does he mind you being gay?”

“Probably. He’s never said.” Cal’s wrist rested on the edge of the table. His hands were strong-looking, solid and a little bit square. He lifted his eyes to meet Tom’s, transparent in that moment. “I told him when I was—I don’t know—twenty, twenty-one. I was home from school for Christmas. I’d been avoiding telling him. I think I was pretending it was just that he didn’t need to know, but I could have used that as an excuse forever. We were loading the dishwasher, and I said it, just blurted it out: ‘
Dad, I’m gay
.’ He stopped moving for as long as it took to let out a breath, not any longer than that. Then he put another glass on the rack and said, ‘Okay.’ And that was the end of it.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad.” Tom frowned at the heavy white tablecloth as if Cal’s shared memory were laid out there, beside his napkin and cutlery. “I mean, it beats, ‘
Get out and never darken my doors again
.’”

“Indifference isn’t acceptance,” Cal said.

“No, it isn’t,” Tom agreed, the truth of it making him ache for Cal. From what he’d seen of the man, Cal thrived on being noticed and admired, and to have someone that close turn away from him had to have hurt. “Okay, it’s going to start raining over our table if we bring up any more childhood memories. Tell me something about your job. I know you take photographs for a living, but if you could choose, what do you like shooting? People, places, kittens in flowerpots?”