All of the Above

by Quinn Anderson

  “I’m not pale. I’m fair.”

  “Uh-huh. Just consider it. For me.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

  “That’s all I ask.” She pulled a pair of white jeans out of the closet along with a silver belt. “Here. Wear these with that green shirt. Classy, and more understated than your usual style, but still with that little extra kick that says ‘Brendon.’”

  “Ooh.” Brendon took the pants. “Nice choice. And if it rains, Matt will be in for dinner and a show.”

  Sasha snorted. “It’s supposed to be a clear night, so don’t fret. What time are you meeting him?”

  Brendon stripped down to his skivvies and jumped in place to get the tight pants over his hips. “Seven.”

  “Oh good.” Sasha glanced at her watch. “You’ll be fashionably late.”

  “I’ll what?” He whipped around to look at the clock above his stove. It was already a quarter to seven. When the hell had that happened? “Shit. I haven’t done my hair yet.”

  “Your hair is fine.”

  “I don’t want it to be fine. I want it to be resplendent.”

  “Then you’d better get moving, dost.”

  Brendon finished dressing in lighting speed, ran a brush and some product through his hair, and downed the rest of Areesh’s wine, much to the older man’s dismay. Combined with the cat ears, his pout looked comical.

  Brendon pulled on his shoes without unlacing them and grabbed his keys before flinging the front door open. “You guys can lock up after me, right?”

  “Sure thing,” Sasha chirped. “Key’s under the mat, yeah? Don’t be surprised if you come home to find Areesh passed out on your couch.”

  Areesh, who was staring mournfully at the empty wine bottle, called after him, “Knock ’em dead, tiger.”

  “Thanks, guys. Don’t wait up.”

  His apartment complex had no assigned parking, which meant he sometimes got stuck in front of other buildings. Naturally, this was one of those times, and his rust bucket was three buildings down. To top it all off, the wind was howling. By the time he got inside his car, he looked like he’d been shooting a shampoo commercial, and not in a good way.

  The drive to the restaurant was just as frustrating. He felt like he was traveling through Jell-O. In reality, it probably took about twenty minutes, but to Brendon, eons had passed, life on Earth had been obliterated, and he was the only remaining soul left to scream into the abyss.

  It occurred to him, as he pulled into an empty parking spot behind the restaurant, that he might be overreacting a smidgen.

  Café Luis was a small but festive two-story building with bright-yellow walls and enough string lights to put Las Vegas to shame. The faint sound of guitar emanated from it, along with the smell of bay leaves and garlic.

  The sight of it was usually enough to fill Brendon with excitement. He associated it with birthdays and celebrations, after all. Tonight, however, he approached with no small amount of trepidation. He smoothed his hair as he walked, but he could tell just from touching it that his sleek mane was ruined. He’d start sweating any second now, and then he’d really be in trouble.

  He rounded the corner to the front of the restaurant and smacked into something solid and warm. Or rather, someone.

  It was Matt, of course, and judging by the dazed look on his face, he hadn’t been expecting someone to hurtle into him. Though he did a brilliant job of catching Brendon by the shoulders and steadying him before Brendon could fall on his face.

  Jesus. Sweat sprang up on Brendon’s brow just as he’d predicted. His eyes darted down, and he realized with a gulp that he wasn’t the only one who’d dressed for the occasion. Matt’s pullover sweater had been replaced with a fitted black jacket, a blue shirt, and nice jeans. Even his messy hair had been styled with gel and what Brendon suspected were fingers. It was still tousled, but now it was in a purposeful way that made Brendon weak.

  “H-hi,” he stammered.

  “Hi.” Matt recovered much faster than he did and grinned, bright and easy. “You just love to crash into things, don’t you?”

  Brendon laughed, both from embarrassment and from the dizzying effect of Matt’s smile. “You caught me. Literally.”

  Matt kept his hands on Brendon’s shoulders, perhaps to make sure he stayed upright. “I was going to apologize for being late, but it seems I’m not the only one.”

  “No, sorry. I lost track of time when I was getting ready.” Brendon ran a futile hand through his hair.

  “You look great. Better than me most of the time, for sure. I generally look like I fell out of my closet, and I’m comfortable with that.”

  A surprised laugh burst from Brendon, and he found himself relaxing. “I’m going to sail right over the closet joke you just set me up for.”

  “Much appreciated.” Matt gestured to the restaurant. “Shall we?”

  “We shall.”

  Matt held the door open for him, which Brendon had been hoping he would do. Not because it was polite, but because it gave him a chance to show off. As soon as he walked in, George, the host, spotted him from his place behind the bar. “Brendon! Good to see you, buddy. It’s been a minute.”

  Brendon waved, a picture of casualness. “Hey, George. How’s tricks?”

  “Same old. You need a table?”

  “For two please.” Brendon inclined his head toward Matt, who was looking suitably impressed. “One with a nice view.”

  “I understand.” George winked. “Coming right up.” He disappeared through a door behind the bar, leaving them more or less alone. There were two people sitting at the pub tables that populated the bar area, but they were engrossed in conversation.

  To the left was a lively dining area where a handful of parties were tucking into Café Luis’s amazing food. Brendon could smell the saffron and fresh-baked bread from here. Beyond that was a staircase that led to the secondary dining area, where Brendon hoped they would be escorted. It was supposed to be for overflow, but anyone who frequented Café Luis knew it was the most romantic area in the joint. It was private, had huge windows that let in the moonlight, and it was adjacent to the famous balcony.

  Matt sidled up next to him and whistled. “I didn’t know I was in the presence of a celebrity. You weren’t kidding when you said this place is your favorite.”

  A little wave of defensiveness swelled up in Brendon. “Why would I kid about that?”

  “You wouldn’t.” Matt eyed him. “I just wasn’t expecting you to know the staff by name.”

  “Right. Of course.” He faked a laugh and looked away. There was a teensy, tiny chance that the pressure of maintaining his ruse was getting to him. He needed to remember that his love for this place was genuine, and locate his chill while he was at it.

  George reappeared in the doorway to the main dining room with two menus in hand. He gestured for them to follow him. Brendon did, holding his breath the whole time. He didn’t let it out until George weaved through the sea of white tablecloths to the staircase on the other side. Thank God.

  Matt’s breath tickled his ear. “You really do have connections.”

  A brush of lips, and Brendon’s mind went blank. It was all he could do to keep walking, let alone reply. His dearth of words intensified when Matt put a hand on the small of his back. Any doubts he’d had about whether or not they had chemistry flew out of his brain, along with his mastery of the English language.

  George led them upstairs to a table for two. The handful of other tables were unoccupied. They had almost complete privacy. Each table was awash with candlelight, and the bay windows afforded a beautiful view of the city. George dropped off their menus and left them. The music and chatter from downstairs was muted but still loud enough to keep them from being drenched in silence.

  Brendon might have been content to sit there and look at Matt’s handsome face all night, but there were so many questions he wanted to ask. “You said you love this place too, right?”

  Matt nodde
d. “More than I should, if you asked my trainer.”

  “You have a trainer? Are you watching your girlish figure?”

  At that, Matt snorted. “No, but I would never go to the gym if Amanda didn’t scream at me. If left to my own devices, I would spend all my time obsessing over my old work and reading reviews. Life as a freelance writer isn’t as glamorous as you’d think.”

  “I believe that. But then I never thought it was glamorous.” Brendon hoped his teasing tone shined through. It might be a bit early in the relationship to break out the snark.

  Matt, to his delight, chuckled. “Oh? And what, may I ask, do you do for a living?”

  Brendon pressed his lips into a thin line. “I’m a student.”

  “A student of what?”

  “. . . Cosmetology.”

  “Hm. I can’t make fun of that. With hair as lovely as yours, I should have seen it coming.”

  Brendon glowed at the compliment. Before he could reply, Matt asked, “So, you go to school full-time?”

  “Uh, no, actually. I work and go to class around that.”

  Matt’s wicked smile returned, as if he sensed somehow that he was about to get his revenge. “Where do you work?”

  Brendon fidgeted and looked down at the table. “At the mall.”

  Matt had the decency not to laugh. “Now that is a glamorous job indeed. I think I’ll turn in my two weeks’ notice first thing tomorrow.”

  “Jerk.” Brendon couldn’t quite muster up the necessary acid to make his insult sting. “It pays the bills.”

  “I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t mean it. I know better than anyone that sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Can I tell you a horrifying secret?”

  Brendon was intrigued despite himself. “Sure.”

  “When I was in school, I worked at Starbucks.”

  Brendon’s lips twitched. “A student with a job at a coffee shop. That’s just about the biggest cliché ever.”

  “Oh, it was terrible. I swore I’d never go there again. That’s why I’m always at Jitters. You said you go there a lot, right?”

  “Right.” Brendon fidgeted. It wasn’t a lie, he reminded himself, though he’d been there more times these past two weeks than he had in the last year.

  “Do you suppose we’ve ever seen each other there?”

  Brendon gulped. “I don’t think so.”

  Matt looked him over. “You’re right. I would have remembered you.”

  Brendon fought down the heat that wanted to creep into his face, as natural as air rising on a hot day. He was supposed to be the one charming Matt, not the other way around. “It’s funny, isn’t it? We like the same bookstore, coffee shop, and restaurant. I suppose it was a matter of time before we bumped into each other.”

  “I, for one, am grateful. Though that makes me wonder if there are any other places we both frequent.”

  Perfect. That was precisely the setup Brendon needed to drop some of the knowledge he’d gleaned from Matt’s articles. “Well, when I’m not working, I like to go to the museum. They have this beautiful exhibit on Colonial—”

  “—fashion and embroidery! I must have gone to see it a dozen times. I even wrote an article about it for Extra.”

  “Wow, what a coincidence.” Brendon’s smile felt ironed on. “I thought it was fascinating. It’s amazing how long it used to take to make a single dress, between gathering wool and spinning thread and then the actual sewing.”

  Matt nodded. “That’s exactly what I wrote about. What did you think about the side exhibit?”

  Uh-oh. Brendon had no idea what he was referring to. It wasn’t mentioned in Matt’s article. “The, uh, side exhibit?”

  “Yeah. There was that whole controversy about it. What did you think?”

  Fuck. This is one of many reasons why lying is bad. His guts scrambled as he tried to think of something to say. His brain chose that moment to cut to white noise, and panic swelled in him like a balloon getting ready to burst.

  Brendon must have done something right in a past life, because a new waiter appeared just then. “Evening, gents. I’m Marcel, and I’ll be taking care of you this evening. Would you like to look at the wine menu?”

  Matt glanced at him. “Do you drink?”

  “I do, but I’m fine without it. I have an early morning.” And the bottles here start at thirty dollars. Brendon had no idea how they were going to split the bill—one of the staples of gay culture—and if they went Dutch, he could spend a day’s pay in one night.

  “I have work too, so that’s fine with me.” Matt turned his attention to Marcel. “No wine, thanks.”

  “Then would you like to start off with an appetizer?”

  “We honestly haven’t even looked at our menus.” Matt flashed Brendon a conspiratorial smile. “We were so busy talking.”

  Marcel smiled too. “I can give you a minute, if you’d like.”

  Brendon piped up. “I was thinking we could order the Spanish omelet to start, if that’s okay with you, Matt. It’s fantastic. And I don’t know if you like paella or not, but if you do, you should get their house specialty with shrimp. It’s muah.” He put three fingers to his lips and made a kissing sound as he brought them away.

  Matt stared at him. And not in a cute way.

  Brendon fought the urge to squirm. “What?”

  “Out of the whole menu, you just named my two favorite things on it. That’s . . . unbelievable.”

  Gulp. Brendon knew that, of course. He’d read the blog entry where Matt had talked about how much he loved both of those dishes. The hard look Matt was giving him could turn coal to diamond. Brendon had gone one step too far.

  “What a coincidence.” Brendon tried to sound natural. His voice came out tinny and high. “It seems we have the same taste in food.”

  “So it would appear.” Matt’s face was unreadable as he turned to the waiter. “The omelet it is, then. But, beyond that, I need a minute. Somehow, paella doesn’t sound appetizing right now.”

  Marcel left to put their order in. Brendon’s stomach acid churned. Matt had picked one of the menus off the table and was staring at it with such intensity, it had to be feigned. He was using it as an excuse to not look at him; Brendon was sure of it.

  Fuck. He must suspect something. Brendon never knew when to quit while he was ahead. He had to think of a way to fix this.

  For lack of anything better to do, he picked up his own menu and opened it. He didn’t read a single word of it, however, hyperfocused as he was on Matt. He almost didn’t notice the waiter when he returned with a plate of bread and oil for the table.

  Matt set down his menu and tore a chunk off, dipping it liberally in the oil before shoving the whole thing in his mouth in a manner that reminded Brendon of Animal Planet. All right. Maybe Matt wasn’t perfect after all. But Brendon still very much wanted this date to go well.

  Matt picked up the plate and offered it to Brendon.

  That gave him an idea. “I don’t actually eat bread.”

  Matt parroted his earlier words: “Watching your girlish figure?”

  “Nope. I just never cared for it.”

  Matt almost dropped the plate. “You don’t like bread?”

  “Nuh-uh. It’s dry and messy, and even when they stick all sorts of nuts and fruit in it, I’d rather just eat the nuts and fruit.”

  “You haven’t had good bread, then. I live for bread. I could eat it with every meal. Hell, I could live in a house of bread.”

  Brendon wrinkled his nose. “I’ve had it every way you can make it, including Café Luis’s fresh-baked pandesal, and even that I don’t like.”

  Matt whistled. “Wow. I guess that’s one thing we don’t have in common. So, what’s your carb of choice, then?”

  “Rice. Hence, I love the paella here.”

  “It is pretty good, but I like to think that’s in spite of the rice.”

  “No way. Rice is great. It’s cheap, it’s
fast, you can eat it with literally anything. I mean, you can even make it into a dessert.”

  Matt smirked. “Ever heard of bread pudding?”

  “Touché.” If Brendon could have high-fived himself, he would have. Mission accomplished. Matt was smiling again, and the tension between them had been dispelled.

  Marcel returned with their omelet, and for a few minutes, their conversations devolved into chewing, moaning, and variations of, “Jesus, this is good.” Matt ended up ordering a bread dish called hornazo just to tease him, and Brendon got the paella, which he graciously shared when Matt admitted that was what he’d really wanted.

  The conversation carried on throughout dinner, but despite his small victory, Brendon was still on edge. After pushing it too far before, he was afraid to bring up any of the topics he’d intended to dazzle Matt with. He kept the conversation neutral: hobbies, interests, and what movies they’d want to bring with them to a desert island. He nearly had a heart attack when Matt brought up politics, though. Luckily, they both fell into the same camp, which could only be termed “gay as fuck.”

  Brendon’s reticence didn’t make things stilted, per se, but there were some silent moments that dragged on just a little too long. And, of course, there were things they didn’t agree on at all.

  “I can’t wait to get out of this town,” Matt said, pausing to take a sip of water. “I want to live in one of the big writing hubs, like Chicago or Charleston. Hell, maybe I’ll take a trip down to Key West and see where Papa lived.”

  “Not New York?”

  “New York goes without saying. What about you?”

  Brendon lifted one shoulder and then dropped it. “I actually like it here. I suppose I don’t know any better. I’ve lived here my whole life.”

  “Same, but I’m sure that’s part of the reason I want to get out.” Matt’s eyes swept over his hair. “You know, you’d fit in better in a big city. Some place with street fashion.”

  “What”—Brendon batted his eyelashes—“I don’t look like I belong in a small town to you?”

  Matt didn’t dignify that with a response. “So, is your hair always like that?”

  “Like what? Straight?” Brendon touched it without thinking. “I curl it when the weather’s nice, and I have extra time in the morning. Which is almost never.”