1 Chapter 1

1: Roommates

Chat up a telemarketer—that was one thing I’d rather do. Or engage in a conversation with someone handing out religious tracts on a street corner. Maybe ask that burly guy with the perpetual frown at the Express Lube to help me out with a little manscaping. I shuddered. No, maybe not that one.

Point being, there were plenty of things I’d rather do than face another roommate interviewee. I missed Amber already. I even missed the side-eyed squint she’d leveled in my direction whenever I’d left the toilet seat up.

I hit PLAY on the iPod attached to the stereo, and Paul Simon’s vocals rang out as he sang “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard.” My head bopped to the beat as I approached the sliding glass balcony door to stare down over the parking lot.

The immortal words of Thomas H. Palmer came to mind. “’Tis a lesson you should heed, try, try again. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.” I’d be willing to bet Mr. Palmer had never endured a new roommate search culminating with a guy who didn’t think anything of showing up to the interview stoned out of his mind, or tried to politely extricate himself from a non-stop chatterbox who either couldn’t or wouldn’t pick up on clues it was time to leave. At least the homophobe hadn’t wasted any time clearing out.

This next guy was starting his residency at University Hospital, so probably not a stoner. Bound to be intelligent, and less likely to be a bigot. He’d sounded pleasant enough on the phone.

I wasn’t that far removed from my student housing days, so I didn’t mind sharing my apartment if it was with the right person. I wasn’t asking for much. Friendly and affable would be great, pleasant would be nice, or at least unobtrusive would be acceptable. I knocked on the wood trim around the patio door. Not that I truly believed that would ward off jinxing myself; it was more of a mindless habit.

Taking in a roommate was worth it. I loved living in the city, both for its proximity to my work and for the nightlife. It’s where my friends were. I earned a decent salary now, but even so, rent in Austin was much higher than in the suburbs, and I wanted money left for fun as well as saving for emergencies, the future, or whatever. Supposedly, Benjamin Franklin had first coined the phrase “A penny saved is apenny earned,” and my dad had drilled it into me in my formative years. Besides, there’d been plenty of extra expenses my kickoff year as an official grownup out on my own, furnishing my first apartment.

My hand moved reflexively to my chest when a lavender Volkswagen Beetle pulled into the parking lot below. I’d recognize that car anywhere. Then I shook my head at my own stupidity, because obviously, there was more than one in the country, and the odds were…

I gasped. The odds were better than I’d thought. The owner of the distinctive vehicle from my university days’ name was Wes Shaw. I didn’t know my imminently expected interviewee’s last name, but I did know his first name was Wes. And my Wes had been in pre-med back when I’d known him at Brownsville University in Kansas.

“Known him” was a bit of an exaggeration. Other than a fleeting conversation at my freshman orientation, we’d never spoken. He’d been a sophomore manning an information table for the GSA, and I’d gotten up the nerve to grab a pamphlet.

That was the sum of our interactions. My family had lived—still did—in Brownsville, so I’d resided at home. A penny saved, etcetera. Nowadays, in every other aspect of my life, I was an out and proud gay man. But, as far as my family was concerned, still not so much. Back in my university days I’d been a total closet case.

I’d admired Wes Shaw from afar. He’d been visibly active in organizations promoting LGBT equality, and was friendly but not overbearing. His looks had been average, but I’d been so in awe—and perhaps envious—of his openness, that I’d built him up in my mind as if he’d been my own personal rock star. I’d forgotten about him in recent years, but back then he’d been the man I’d pictured when my hand and I wanted a little extra inspiration at night, and the man my dreams had often featured.

The door to the lavender Beetle opened, and I stepped back into the shadows behind the wall. I held my breath and craned my neck as a tall blond man stepped out of the car. He turned, and I gulped. It was him.

Wes closed the car door and turned in a slow circle, checking out the surroundings. The management company kept the grounds well-maintained, so I wasn’t concerned that he’d be put off by anything he saw. The crape myrtle trees planted around the building’s perimeter were nicely trimmed and full of attractive pink blooms. Beds full of colorful annuals edged the parking lot and walkway.