Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 2

supposed to bring it back to him," Connor says, mentally wincing before the words are out.
    Rafe studies him. Connor wonders what he sees: a twenty-four-year-old with dark hair in need of a cut, fit enough if not exceptional. Just another college grad with too little experience and a vast number of internship credits to fill. No wonder he's unimpressed.
    But Rafe must find pity from somewhere. "Go ahead and leave it. I'll talk to him. It's not your problem."
    Connor places the folder on the corner of Rafe's desk before turning to leave, not sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed.
    "I've seen you out running sometimes," Rafe says.
    Connor freezes, a flush creeping up his neck. "Oh."
    "Thanks, Connor," Rafe says, and it's so clearly a dismissal that Connor's halfway down the stairs before he can think about the horrifying inadequacy of that oh .
    Back at his desk, half of his notes on the Edgewood project have found their way to the floor. His hand is surprisingly steady when he leans down to pick them up.
    ****
    "So get another job," Janey says when he talks to her that night.
    "Like they're in such abundance," Connor says. It's a familiar argument. Janey takes his lack of direction as a serious flaw. Easy enough when she's always known what she wanted to do, though Connor likes to point out that architecture is infinitely more practical than a graduate degree in English. At least he has a job.
    He hears a voice in the background, high and plaintive and carefully enunciated. He smiles when Janey says, "Yes, that is a beautiful picture, honey. It looks exactly like Grizz." Into the phone, she says, "Are you going to Mom and Dad's Sunday? You know Mom gets itchy if she hasn't seen you in a while."
    "I guess I am now."
    "Bringing anyone?" He can hear how hard she's trying to sound casual.
    "If I did have someone, I certainly wouldn't inflict that on him."
    "You know they're never going to believe you're gay until you do."
    Connor's not sure they would even if he did. They're good parents, and Connor loves them, but coming out mostly just confused them. It's not like he's been able to offer up any tangible proof of it.
    "Gotta go," he says. "See you Sunday."
    "See you, kiddo," she says and rings off. Connor tosses the phone on the couch.
    The apartment's quiet around him. Sometimes he's sorry not to have roommates anymore, and then he remembers those first few weeks of bliss when he moved here, the lack of noise and the way the kitchen looked exactly the same each morning as he left it the night before, including dirty dishes. He can barely afford the place on his own, though it's only a one-bedroom third-story flat in a Spring Garden rowhouse, but most days the extra chunk out of his paycheck is worth it.
    Just not on nights like this, when his place is too quiet and his mind is restless. He takes his dishes from dinner into the kitchen then grabs his phone to check email, scrolling through with only half his attention.
    An unknown address snags his eye, and it's not until he reads Hi Connor, Zach gave me your email that he remembers. Zach's been threatening to do this forever. He brings it up every weekend they meet up to kick the ball around. Connor never should have come out to him, though after a few awkward weeks of Zach eyeing him like he sprouted another head, they settled back into the same easy friendship they had as college roommates and on the field. Except Zach now seems determined to set him up.
    The email's short and cautiously friendly. Zach might be a careless jerk at times, but Connor doesn't think he'd set him up with a serial killer or anything. Part of him would like to pretend he never saw the email, but it's not like the guy— Lewis, he notes— deserves his rudeness. And, well. What else is he waiting on?
    He writes a quick note back, throwing out a few suggestions, then sends it before he can rethink it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. He thinks about Rafe looking out over the city, the picture of unattainability, but he can't reconcile that with friendly emails and after-work dinners. The image strains and fades.
    ****
    The folder's back on his desk the next day.
    This time there's a Post-It note attached: Meet me in the garage when you get in. - R . Connor glances at the clock on his desk. It's nine. He's been coming in at nine every day now. Either Rafe knows that, or else doesn't mind waiting for an errant employee to show.
    Connor lives close enough to walk or bike to work most