Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 10

came to mind. It must have been the right thing to say, because Riley beamed, took the violin out of its case and played for him, the bow sliding across the strings to coax out notes that were so sweet it made West's throat ache. West didn't know what was more beautiful, the music or the bliss on Riley's face.
    ****
    West was with a patient on Friday when his phone vibrated, and once the appointment was done he checked the message. It was Riley, wanting to know if they were still on for Saturday. West called him back at once, standing in the hallway outside the student counseling department. "Riley, it's me. Sure, we're on. What time do you want to come?"
    "Is morning okay? We've got a performance tomorrow night. Hey, would you want to come to that?"
    "Yes and yes," said West with a laugh. "I'm usually up by eight. Come by any time after that. When's the performance?"
    "It starts at seven. I'll tell you more tomorrow, I need to get back."
    "Good lu— wait, do you say 'break a leg' to a musician?"
    "No!" Riley exclaimed, horrified, and West giggled as he hung up. He spent Friday night straightening up the place and making sugar cookies so it would smell good, and on Saturday morning woke up earlier than usual because he was so excited.
    His doorbell rang at nine. Riley looked sleepy as he slouched in the doorway, solid and handsome in his T-shirt and jeans and denim jacket, his dark hair falling over his lively eyes. "Sorry," he said, yawning. "Up late."
    "No problem," said West. "Come on in. I made coffee."
    "And cookies," said Riley, sniffing the air. "Or your mom did. It smells like your mom's."
    "My mom's recipe," said West. "It's the orange zest in the dough."
    "Awesome," said Riley as he went to the table where West had arranged the cookies on a plate. "I haven't had breakfast." He picked up one and looked around. "Nice."
    "Yeah," said West, though he felt "nice" was only the beginning. The apartment wasn't big, but the floors were hardwood, the windows were tall, the kitchen was gleaming and there were potted plants in the bathroom to take advantage of the humidity. "This would be your room," he said, opening the door to the unclaimed room, and Riley smiled again as he looked around. The view from the back wasn't as pretty as from the front, but at least they were looking at other people's back yards instead of a grungy alley. West said, "You know how Father Jackson was always going on about safe places? The minute I walked in here I knew this was a safe place. Everything about it said it was home. I walked in here and I— I could breathe."
    "It's got a good atmosphere," Riley said. He hesitated. "Westie—"
    "I'm seeing someone," West blurted. "If you're worried about me making a pass at you again, it's not going to happen. I mean, it wouldn't happen even if I weren't seeing anyone—"
    "Oh," said Riley, and then the smile came back. "It's okay. I wasn't even thinking about that."
    "Good," West said. "What do you think of the apartment?"
    "I love this place. I get what you mean, you walk in and you can just—" He exhaled, like words alone weren't enough. "I can be out of my lease by the first."
    "Excellent," West said. "Perfect. Do you want some coffee?"
    "I'm meeting someone for breakfast at ten," said Riley and looked at his watch. "I should be on my way. Lots to do today if I'm moving in two weeks." He started for the door, and said on the way out, "Hey, bring your boyfriend to the symphony tonight. I'll leave two tickets at the box office." He added with a wink, "Dress up," and let himself out.
    "Thanks," said West to the closed door and sighed. Once again, 'boyfriend' was too generous a term for the man he was seeing now, but Paul cleaned up well and would probably like the symphony, so West called him with the invitation. If Riley wanted proof that West was well and truly over him, seeing him with another man would probably do it.
    ****
    The audience was filing into the symphony hall and talking amongst themselves when West's phone buzzed with a text message from Riley: Just checkin on u.
    We're here, West typed. Row 10, middle. He sent the message, and then sent another: Next time I'll bring roses.
    LOL u better, Riley responded. West was smiling as he put his phone away.
    It was a Mostly Mozart type of evening, and West recognized a few of the other names on the program. Riley was easy to spot among the rest of the strings section, even though his tuxedo was exactly the same as theirs— West