The French Have a Word for It

by Josh Lanyon

  *****

  A glance back at the bed showed Thomas still sleeping peacefully. They still had an hour before he had to get up and start getting ready for his flight. Colin wanted to make every minute of that hour count; Thomas could always sleep on the plane, and if all Colin was going to have were memories, he wanted as many as possible.

  In the bathroom, he relieved himself, flooded a glass with lukewarm tap water, gulped it down. Refilled the glass and guzzled that down too.

  On his way back to bed he glanced at the phone on the night table. The red light was blinking to indicate Thomas had a message. His gaze focused on the pad of hotel stationary placed there for the convenience of the guests. There was a phone number written in Thomas's firm hand.

  It was a number Colin knew very well. It had once been his own–or rather, his grandfather's. Mason Lambert's private phone number.

  The strength seemed to leave his body. He put his hand on the nightstand to keep from sitting on the edge of the bed. He felt…like he'd been hit by a car. Weak, shaky, stunned.

  Was there a reasonable explanation for Thomas to have that number?

  Sure, all kinds of reasons. And none of them applied. Colin knew with absolute certainty that Thomas Sullivan had come hunting him.

  And found him.

  And fucked him.

  The betrayal was so massive he couldn't seem to think beyond it for a few seconds. He remembered their conversation of the day before–the careful, assessing way Thomas had studied him.

  “So what's the job? Can you talk about it?”

  “Not really. Routine stuff. No drama.”

  “You bastard,” he breathed, raising his head to stare at the bed. Thomas continued to sleep, untroubled, unaware, a small, content smile on his firm mouth.

  Colin straightened up. For one brief moment he considered waking Thomas to tell him what he thought of him. To tell him how he'd looked up to him all these years, admired him, worshipped him, maybe–loved him, certainly. A kid's love, true enough, a first infatuation. Not what it…might have been if they'd had time. If Thomas hadn't been lying to him the whole time.

  But what was the point?

  What could Thomas say that would change anything?

  Nothing.

  And the conversation was going to be even more humiliating than this–and this was humiliating enough. The fact that it had not occurred to Colin once, not even once, that the odds of meeting Thomas Sullivan in Paris after all these years were astronomical? Way beyond the possibility of romantic coincidence. It just went to show what a sap…what a…quel imbécile stupide et crédule. As they said over here. Or screamed as they threw chairs and dishes.

  As silent as a cat burglar, Colin found his clothes and dressed, grabbed his trench coat. On the way out, though, a thought occurred to him.

  He tiptoed back, picked up the pad and set it on the pillow beside Thomas.

  Thomas might as well know his little ruse was over. He'd been found out–and Mason Lambert with him.

  But oddly Colin felt very little anger at his grandfather. At least that betrayal had been motivated by love and concern. Aggravating, but genuine nonetheless. His grandfather couldn't believe that Colin was safe and healthy and happy without proof–and control. But that was more about not trusting the world than not trusting Colin.

  So Colin placed the pad of hotel stationary with the telltale phone number in the still-warm pillow indentation, and then he let himself out of the hotel room, closing it carefully, soundlessly.

  The rain was coming down in a silvery mist when he reached the pavement.

  He began walking.