Upside Down Page 4

  Hmmm. “Fine.” I ended the call, determined once I got home I’d do some social-network stalking. How many guys living in Sydney called Hennessy could there possibly be?

  Chapter Four

  Hennessy

  He knew who Daniel Keyes was. He knew the author and title of one of my favourite books in the world. Nobody knew who Daniel Keyes was. Well, not guys I’d dated anyway. Some were lucky to know which end of a book to hold. I had nothing against guys who didn’t read, per se, but most of them couldn’t even pretend to act interested when I told them about books I loved.

  But I only had to mention the title and Jordan knew who the author was. And his eyes when I admitted it wasn’t music I was listening to… well, his grey-coloured eyes melted like silver, warm amber with hints of blue and green. And he smelt really good, and his nervous rambling was kinda cute.

  At the meeting the night before, I thought he’d looked familiar and I wondered where I’d seen him before. And I’d wondered where the hell he’d seen me. What did he call me the other night? He called me Headphones Guy, so it was either to or from work, or maybe the gym. And then I recognised him on the bus. Of course I’d seen him get on the bus before, always at the same stop on Crown Street, but I didn’t reconcile him with the guy at the meeting the other night. But now it kind of clicked.

  I had to admit, I was intrigued.

  I’d been intrigued after the meeting, when he’d broken down the defensive walls he’d put up around his acceptance of being somewhere on the asexual spectrum. He talked a mile a minute, and it was kind of hard to follow at first, but he was clearly very smart and articulate, and he was funny as hell. But he was also vulnerable, and he was there for help on understanding and coming to terms with who he was. Being intrigued by him in a romantic way wasn’t on the cards at all. I couldn’t and wouldn’t abuse his trust in me as a support group leader.

  But then he had to go and know who Daniel Keyes was, and he just had to look at me in a way that made my heart squeeze. Eye contact was such a big thing for me, and there was no way he could even know that.

  So there I was at work the next day, distracted enough for Michael to notice. “You want to talk about what’s got your mind a million miles from home?”

  Michael and I had known each other forever—since primary school, then high school, and later on at university where we both studied fields of computer sciences. We were never overly close as kids or at high school, but at uni we had social circles that overlapped like a Venn diagram, with him and me in the middle common element, and we just clicked.

  Even before uni was over, he’d put down the foundations of an interactive computer engineering company and needed a network architect, which was my area of expertise, and over the last five years, we’d become inseparable mates. He had black hair, dark eyes and eyelashes that people paid a fortune for, a smile that won contracts, a jaw that could cut glass, and a stare so intense, it made a competitor fold like a pack of cards.

  And while I’d initially helped him set up his business, technically he was my boss, and I was perfectly okay with that. Actually, seeing him stress over corporate taxes and dividends and margins and a tonne of other business-related bullshit, I was more than okay with him being the boss. He paid me well, and sure, we talked business and he asked me for my professional opinion on some business deals, but I was happy without the added responsibilities he had.

  And, somehow, we’d managed to maintain our friendship over the course of our careers. Which would explain why he put a fresh coffee in front of me and looked at me with that expectant gaze. I took a sip of the coffee, and it was good. “Thanks. And yeah, I don’t even know what I’m thinking about.”

  He snorted. “So, what’s his name?”

  I tried not to laugh but rolled my eyes. He knew me too well. “Jordan. But before you say anything, it’s not like that. He came to my support meeting last Friday night and he was a bit upset. We spoke afterwards for a while, but then I saw him again yesterday. On the bus,” I added before he could assume anything.

  “And?”

  “And he’s funny. He does this flustered, awkward thing, which is cute.”

  “And he went to your support meeting? So he’s…”

  “Gay, yes. Asexual, maybe. He’s pretty sure it’s a fit. But it’s early days. I think he needs time to get used to the idea.”

  “So why are you even thinking about him?” Michael asked, and it was a fair question. “Is that not a conflict of interest? I don’t want to see you get hurt, that’s all.”

  I smiled at him. “I know, and thank you. I do appreciate that. It’s just…

  He narrowed his gaze at me. “It’s just what?”

  “He knows who Daniel Keyes is.”

  “One of your book guys?”

  “They actually have names for them now. They’re called authors,” I said with a grin. “And yes. But he didn’t just know. I said the title, and he knew the author without blinking, and he knew the tone of the book and he did this excited gasping thing when I mentioned it.”

  Michael stared at me over his coffee cup, mid-sip. “Oh shit.”

  I pressed my lips together tight, then let out a long sigh. “Crazy, huh?”

  “That you found another book-loving asexual gay man under sixty living in Sydney?”

  I chuckled. “Well, yes. But I don’t know. I’ve spoken to him twice. The second time for all five seconds on the bus. And like you said, it’s a conflict of interest, and he came to the meeting for help. The last thing he needs right now is me messing that up.”

  Michael shook his head slowly. “All this could have been avoided if you just bought a bloody car.”

  I snorted at that. “The bus literally takes me from my front door to here, then here to home again. It’s less hassle, cheaper, and it’s better for the environment.”

  He rolled his eyes, like he always did when we had this conversation. Then he brightened. “Oh shit, I almost forgot. Vee invited you to come over for dinner on Saturday night.” Vee, or Veronica, was Michael’s wife, and by association, a dear friend of mine. Since I’d split with Rob, she’d been trying her hand at matchmaking.

  “She’s not trying to set me up again, is she?”

  “She worries about you.”

  “Worries? What for? I’m doing fine. Happily single.”

  “I told her you’re doing fine. Actually, I told her you’re much happier now.”

  “I am, thanks.” I took another sip of coffee. “If it’s not a blind date disguised as a dinner date, then yes, I’d love to come over.”

  “I don’t know who she’s invited,” he replied, hiding that twisted-lip thing he did behind his coffee cup.

  “God, you can’t lie for shit.” I conceded defeat. No, I didn’t want a blind date with anyone, but dinner with my best friend and his wife and not another weekend alone sounded pretty bloody good. “Ask her if I need to bring anything.”

  “I will,” he said. Then his smile faded before he added, “So, if this Jordan guy catches your bus, you’ll be seeing him again this afternoon…”

  “Possibly. But I might not get to speak to him if the bus is crowded or whatever.”

  Michael nodded slowly. “Right.”

  I sighed. “It’s not like that. It can’t be.”

  “I feel a qualifier coming on. It can’t be like that until… it can’t be like that while… it can’t be like—”

  “Oh shut up,” I grumbled, turning back to my screen, trying not to smile. “Piss off and let me get back to work.” He smiled and left me to it, thankfully, without another word.

  But the truth was, in my mind, I was adding a qualifier. Which wasn’t good.

  My priority as a support group leader was to offer support, information, and pathways to resources if required, not to abuse his trust in my hopes of a possible date prospect.

  For the rest of the day, I tried not to think about it. I tried not to think about Jordan, and I tried not to think about how
he’d looked at me on the bus when I stood up and we were standing almost nose-to-nose, or how he’d blushed, and how he’d smelt. And I told myself I wasn’t ready for another failed attempt at a relationship, and I had to keep reminding myself that it was stupid and foolish to be thinking anything about a guy I’d only just met.

  But later that day on the bus, I smiled when I saw him waiting to get on. His friend Merry was waiting with him and I saw her look into the bus and she smiled when she saw me, so I could only assume they’d been talking about me, and that made me happier than it should have. But the bus was kind of full and he got bustled up toward the back. He was flustered and he almost tripped, and he mumbled, “Motherfu—” before he caught himself and didn’t actually swear, but it made me smile.

  I resisted turning around to see if he’d found a seat or to see if he was looking at me, but when it was my stop, I looked up toward the back of the bus without really meaning to. He was sitting second from the back with his nose in a book, and he glanced up just as I was stepping off.

  I smiled at him; he smiled right back. I waved and he grinned and blushed and held the book up to hide his face. I stepped off the bus, sorry I didn’t get to speak to him, but our wordless exchange was perhaps even better. It was shy and almost sweet, which said more than maybe what a full conversation might have, and that was ridiculous.

  I was still smiling when I opened the door to my townhouse. I threw my coat onto my couch and tried not to overthink anything. I said hi to my two Siamese fighting fish, Ali and Bruce, and asked Spike how his day was. Spike was a cactus I’d had for years, but I still spoke to him. He sat on the windowsill, ever silent. When Rob and I split, he remarked on the irony of me having two fish who lived in separate tanks, never allowed to touch, and a prickly—very untouchable—cactus. I didn’t care what it said about me. It made me love Ali, Bruce, and Spike a little bit more. I sprayed Spike with the water bottle. “Cheer up. It’ll be summer soon enough,” I told him.

  I threw dinner in the oven, pulled on my running gear, and hit the pavement for half an hour while my roast for one cooked, but I couldn’t get something out of my head. The book he was reading… It had an unusual cover: red and some vine-looking thing. It was distinctive, and for some strange reason, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So later on, as I sat at the table and ate my dinner, I opened up my laptop and began a search. It took a while, but I was almost certain I’d found it. Well, I found the cover, but the book made no sense.

  It was an old book, mid-eighteenth century to be exact, by French Revolutionist author George Sand. It was called Mauprat, had won literary acclaim for its time, and was considered a great from anyone who knew anything about French literature.

  Was that really what he was reading?

  I stared at the cover, and I pictured him smiling and blushing, hiding behind his book, bookmark in hand. This book. This book by some old French author almost two hundred years ago.

  It was definitely the same. Obviously the book had had dozens of different covers over the years, but this one was distinct and unusual.

  And I was distinctly, unusually, very much intrigued.

  Most guys I knew didn’t read much. Well, they read about keto diets and shredding, or the financial review or sports pages of the paper, but never literature. Let alone literature in a different language from a different century.

  Yes, I was intrigued.

  The next day, the bus was full again. The weather was drizzly and the wind was cold, and someone had already taken the seat next to me. When Jordan got on the bus, he appeared hopeful and he smiled as soon as he saw me, but when he realised the bus was full, he let out a visible sigh and trudged up the back.

  When it was my stop, I stood up, edged out of my seat, and when I was standing at my full height in the aisle, I pulled my headphones off. I turned to say something, but he had his book open, though he was frowning out the window. Only when he seemed to realise where we were, he glanced up, and finding me looking right at him, his smile was instantaneous and he clutched his book to his chest and watched me as I got off the bus.

  It made me so happy, I didn’t even try to hide my smile as the bus pulled away.

  I went for my usual jog, ate my usual dinner for one, and the next day I went to work with my smile still in place.

  Michael took one look at me. “You spoke to him again,” he said, not a question at all. “To that book guy.”

  I chuckled. “No.” My grin widened. “But I’m going to.”

  Michael had nodded slowly and frowned. It was a look I knew well. He had something to bring up but he wasn’t quite sure how. “Just ask,” I said, pushing away from my desk and giving him my full attention.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” he said dismissively, but from the look on his face, it was clearly something. “It’s stupid and I’m probably speaking out of turn, but can I ask you something?”

  I’d always been very honest with Michael, and I had no problem in answering any questions he might have about what asexuality meant for me. But this felt different, and I tried not to be defensive. “Yeah?”

  “It’s just.” He laughed and shook his head at himself, then stared out at the Sydney city view from my window. For a moment I didn’t think he was going to say anything else, but then, still without looking at me, he frowned again. “Do you think it’s possible to love two people?”

  Wait. What? “Michael, what are you saying?” I whispered. “Are you cheating on Vee? Because that’s not cool, and that’s not like you. Man, I thought you were happy? I thought you were both so happy it was vomit-inducing.”

  He laughed. “No, it’s not like that. Of course I’m not cheating on Vee. I would never…”

  “Then what is it?”

  He shook it off with a bit of a laugh. “Nah, it’s nothing. I’m just thinking about something else.” He grinned at me and laughed it off again. “So, how’s working with Rob?”

  If his change in subject was a distraction, it worked. Because yes, one of the biggest contracts we had right now was with my ex-live-in boyfriend, Rob. He’d wanted a new website for his fire-safety company, which was growing exponentially. Sure, he was successful, but he was also a jerk. And he wanted the best corporate website engineer company, which was us. “Ugh. Getting there. The port parameters need work but, it’s just time consuming.”

  “We have a month till the relaunch,” Michael said.

  “Easy.” And so began a more in-depth conversation about the job, and I didn’t give Michael’s question about loving two people any more thought.

  Later that afternoon, I snagged an empty double seat and sat in the aisle, giving my messenger bag the window. I felt bad for hogging a seat, and truthfully if someone needed it, I would have gladly given it to them. Or mine, if needed. But thankfully the bus wasn’t completely full, and when Jordan stepped on and swiped his Opal card, he looked up and saw me. I lifted my bag and slid over and he grinned, then totally tried to rein it in, but failed.

  He sat beside me, his messenger bag on his lap. “Uh, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I replied. “I thought you might need a seat.”

  “Oh yeah, I really did. The other day, I sat next to a lady who was like, I don’t know, eighty something, and of course I said motherfucker—” He froze. “I didn’t call her that. I just said it in general, but she heard it and I’m convinced she thinks I’m possessed by Satan. Pretty sure there was a string of Hail Marys mumbled under her breath. You know, to save my soul. Or whatever people pray for. I wouldn’t know. I’m not inclined to pray. Unless it’s to the bean god, Java.”

  “Java?”

  “Yeah, you know coffee,” he said without missing a beat. “But thank you for the seat. Were you waiting for me? I mean, it’s totally cool if it was just a coincidence and all, I appreciate it at any rate.”

  “I uh, I did save it for you,” I said. “If that’s okay…”

  “Oh sure. But if someone else needed it, you should have
absolutely given it to them.” He looked around behind us and made a face. “Except for the lady three rows back. She’s the one who prayed for me.”

  That made me laugh.

  “Was there any reason?” he asked. “That is, for saving me a seat. I’m glad you did, don’t get me wrong.”

  “Actually, I wanted to ask you about your book.”

  “My book?”

  “The one you were reading, with the red cover.”

  “Oh.” He opened his bag and took out the book in question. “This?”

  There it was. He was definitely reading old French literature. The jolting of the bus made me look up and I realised we were almost at my stop. “Shit.” I stood up, holding my bag, and Jordan had to move his legs so I could get out. Once in the aisle, I stopped to say goodbye but noticed he was frowning.

  “Is there something wrong with my book?” he asked, looking up at me from his seat.

  I grinned and shook my head. “Absolutely not. It’s perfect.”

  He blinked and smiled slowly. “Oh.”

  Then the doors beeped to signal they were about to close, and I realised that everyone who had been waiting to get on were taking their seats, and I had to dash off the bus. I looked up as the bus pulled away and saw him grinning.

  The next day I saved him a seat again, and I slid my headphones off so they were around my neck as he sat down. Today’s scarf was green to match his shoes. “This is becoming a habit,” he said shyly. His cheeks were slightly pink. If it was from the cold or if he was blushing, I wasn’t sure.

  “If you’d rather I didn’t,” I hedged.

  “Oh no,” he shot back quickly. “It’s fine. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.”

  “You didn’t sound ungrateful.” I pulled my headphones off from around my neck and shoved them into my messenger bag.

  “Which audiobook are you listening to now?” he asked.

  “Oh, it’s called Death’s End. It’s um…”

  “It’s good, apparently. I haven’t read the trilogy myself, but I’ve heard good things.”