All of the Above Page 3

  “Yeah, I guess.” Brendon stood up. The spring in his step had turned into a mangled knot of metal. “I should get to work. I’ll talk to you later.” He hesitated before grabbing the magazine and slinking back to his kiosk. Tossing Extra into the little cabinet trash can, he set himself on cleaning every display inside and out. While he worked, his mind drifted back to his problem.

  He should have known Sasha would rain on his parade. Not that she was wrong, per se. The more he thought about it, the more valid her point seemed. Why’d he let himself get so caught up in a silly romance quiz? Pathetic.

  And Sasha probably thought he was desperate. Hell, he kinda thought that now too. Maybe it was time to give up on love, adopt some animals, and start a cat circus or something.

  Even as he thought that, he opened the cabinet and grabbed Extra out of the trash. Not to read. Just . . . to have.

  The rest of his shift passed like molasses, no matter how many ways he found to keep busy. He read more magazines, curled one girl’s hair expertly with his favorite half-inch flat iron, and ate yet another questionable lunch from the food court. When he had the energy, he brought lunches from home, but between work and class, he always seemed to be exhausted. And he was sure all the salt-laden and fat-soaked meals weren’t helping his stamina. It was a vicious cycle he’d love to break out of.

  Maybe tomorrow, when I’m less tired, he told himself for the umpteenth time.

  Around three o’clock, Lindsay showed up to relieve him. By then, he was contemplating heading straight for a bar. But they didn’t get paid until Friday, and he’d just spent the seven dollars he had to his name on an order of bourbon chicken that had reeked of MSG.

  His dark mood must have been written on his face. Lindsay hefted her oversized purse onto the kiosk stool and looked him up and down. “What’s wrong, sug?”

  Everything. “Nothing. Long day.”

  “Sell anything?”

  “No, but I saw a cheerleading group pass through here on their way to the food court. If you catch them on their way out, you can clean house.”

  Lindsay giggled, which made her light-as-air blonde curls tremble. “Thanks for the tip, sug. You got class tonight?”

  “Yup. Wish me luck.”

  “Knock ’em dead.”

  Brendon shoved his things into his pockets—no easy feat, considering his jeans all felt like they were trying to suffocate his long legs—and headed out. The parking lot was teeming, but he had no trouble spotting his car. It could only be termed such in the loosest of definitions. It was a billboard for the importance of rust prevention, and it more served as a depository for all his crap than a mode of transportation.

  Everything that wouldn’t fit in his schoolbag ended up in there: extra outfits, hair products, empty bottles of water, and the entire floor of the backseat was layered with shoes. Usually shoes he was never going to wear again and intended to donate someday when he had some mythical “free time.” Brendon had gone through a metallic phase that had led to him owning several pairs of gold sneakers. He wasn’t proud.

  He drove to class, sputtering and backfiring all the way. After a day of working with real hair, however, his mannequin head failed to hold his attention. That was usually his problem with the styling classes. He already knew most of what the teacher had to say. His job afforded him a lot of time to work with real hair. He was willing to bet he’d clocked more field experience than the rest of the class combined.

  He lived for Thursdays, when they did makeup. That was where he shined. They got to practice on each other, which made it all the more hands-on. And he genuinely enjoyed it. He hadn’t been a good student in high school. Not because he was stupid, but because he struggled with learning from textbooks. But if he could get his hands on something, he could pick it up in a snap, no pun intended.

  Often, though, he felt like he was just getting through his day on his way to something else. Whether it was work or class, he spent most of his time telling himself to make it through one more hour . . . Sometimes he’d think that for an entire fifteen-hour shift. He understood that he had bills and responsibilities, but was he supposed to spend his life wishing it would pass by faster?

  He could only hope this was temporary, that one day he’d finish paying his dues, and he’d be comfortable and happy. If he let himself think anything else, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep going.

  He was still brooding by the time class ended and he drove home. His studio apartment, which was small to begin with, seemed downright claustrophobic today. But it was close to the mall and school, which saved on gas. Despite clocking in at just over four hundred square feet, rent made up half of his monthly budget.

  Of course, he’d put his Brendon spin on the joint. The walls were a cheerful blue color, the furniture was chic and modern, and cute knickknacks adorned every shelf. But there was only so much that string lights and throw pillows could do.

  Upon entering, he set his keys down in the little heart dish by the door, pulled his shoes off, and trudged through the living room. A Japanese screen he’d picked up at a thrift shop divided the second half of the space into a bedroom and gave him some semblance of privacy when he entertained. Which was, admittedly, not as often as he’d liked. He was always telling himself he was waiting until he moved into a bigger place. Whenever that would be.

  The kitchen was tiny, but it was easily his favorite room because it was where the coffee and wine lived. On the door of the refrigerator was a giant bottle of pinot he’d gotten for half price at the local discount mart. It tasted like old juice, but it did the trick. Avec soin, he pulled one of his rainbow wine glasses from a creaky cabinet, sloshed a generous amount into the glass, and settled on his futon for a movie night.

  He had a decent flat-screen that he’d bought secondhand, plus a Netflix account. He was convinced those were the only two things a man needed to be happy. And for eight bucks a month, even he could afford it.

  He punched a button on the remote and waited for the home screen to load. As he scrolled through the selection of movies that were available to stream, his mind drifted back to Sasha’s advice. It had stung, but she had a point. He did have a tendency to look outward for solutions to his problems.

  What else was he supposed to do, though? Look inward? What could he do that he wasn’t already doing? He worked his ass off, and went to school, and despite working in retail, he managed not to kill anyone. What more could the universe ask of him? He had to believe answers were out there. If he could find them, then maybe one day he wouldn’t be living just to pay bills and die.

  Ugh. That was a gloomy thought.

  Brendon found a selection of rom-coms and scrolled through them. This was what he needed. Some cheering up. He’d seen all the classics: Legally Blonde, Pretty Woman, and Clueless. And the newer classics, too. Films like Mean Girls, John Tucker Must Die, and Easy A.

  Nothing quite jumped out at him, though, until he spotted How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. Didn’t the leading lady write articles or something for a living? That was fitting. Maybe watching this would cement in his head how ridiculous he’d been.

  He queued up the movie, finished his wine, and poured another glass. About halfway through it, he broke out the popcorn. He wasn’t even hungry; he’d just needed an excuse to leave the room for the more cringe-worthy moments. Secondhand embarrassment was his Achilles’ heel, and when the leading lady started screaming about her dead love fern, he couldn’t handle it.

  The ending was satisfying, though, and as the credits rolled, he felt better. Plus, three glasses of wine had helped. He queued up another film. Following the ten theme, he picked 10 Things I Hate About You, a favorite of his. As he watched—and drank more wine—the gears in his brain started turning.

  These films all had one thing in common: they involved a plan. Cameron James couldn’t date the girl he liked unless her sister dated, so he made that happen. Andie Anderson needed a guy to dump her in ten days and ended up falling in love i
nstead. Elle Woods got dumped by her boyfriend, so she applied to Harvard to pursue him.

  The protagonists didn’t always get what they wanted, but usually they ended up with something, or someone, even better. Sasha had asked him earlier what his plan to woo the guy was. Maybe he’d given up too easily. The way he saw it, this could only end well: either he’d end up with a boyfriend, or he’d know once and for all that Matthew Kingston wasn’t the man for him. Hadn’t Sasha chastised him for not finishing what he started? Now was his chance to prove to her that he could follow through. And it could keep him from spending the rest of his life wondering if he’d let yet another opportunity slip by.

  That clinched it. He had half a bottle of wine in his stomach and determination beating in his heart. He would find Matthew Kingston if it was the last thing he did!

  But how?

  He could call the magazine. But there was no chance they’d give out employee information to a stranger. He could hunt through Matt’s blog for clues as to where he lived? Brendon shivered. No way. That was crossing a major line, and Sasha had already pointed out some creepy streaks in his recent behavior. He wasn’t trying to stalk the guy. He just wanted to meet him, see if sparks flew. If they didn’t, then that was that.

  Something clicked in Brendon’s brain. That was it! He needed to bump into Matt, as if they were meeting organically. The quiz had given him the names of a few places Matt might hang out. Like Café Luis, or the Dragonscale.

  But that presented as many problems as it solved. What was Brendon going to do, eat at a pricey restaurant every night in the hopes that Matt would show up? He couldn’t afford that, and for all he knew, Matt didn’t go there regularly. Or at all. Matt’s knowledge of the balcony suggested a certain level of familiarity, but it didn’t guarantee it. Brendon wasn’t even a hundred percent sure Café Luis was the right place.

  Okay, so that was out. That left the Dragonscale bookstore. He could hang out there without spending a dime. Plus, the quiz had mentioned Jitters, a coffee shop Brendon frequented already. It wouldn’t alter his schedule at all to stop in there before work and see if Matt was around. He could go about his business as per usual.

  If Brendon divided his time between all the places Matt might be, he was sure to run into him eventually. And then . . . And then, he would . . .

  “What?” Brendon asked himself, staring up at his ceiling. “What are you going to do? Walk up to the guy and say ‘Hey, I’m the obsessive freak who tracked you down based on your writing. I was just hanging out in all your favorite places on the off chance you might show up.’ I bet that would go over well.”

  It occurred to him that waiting for someone at places where they were known to be might very well be considered stalking. Shit. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and googled the definition.

  According to Wikipedia, Stalking is unwanted or obsessive attention by an individual or group towards another person. Stalking behaviors are related to harassment and intimidation and may include following the victim in person or monitoring them.

  Hm. That didn’t sound like what he was thinking of doing, but that didn’t make his idea right.

  He sighed. Every time he thought of an answer, a problem came with it. Would he even recognize Matt if he did see him? He’d only found a handful of pictures of him online. He might look totally different in person.

  The head full of steam Brendon had built up leaked out his ears with a teakettle screech. If this were a rom-com, he’d be sure to run into Matt, but this was real life. There was no script, no team of writers concocting the plot. He could waste hours of his time only to go home empty-handed. And time was one of the many things he couldn’t afford to spare.

  He sighed and drained the last of his fourth glass of wine. Despite mounting evidence that this was a giant waste of time, he didn’t want to admit defeat. He remembered the rush he’d gotten when he’d read the quiz. He’d been excited in a way he hadn’t experienced in a long time. When he’d googled Matt, and Matt had turned out to be both handsome and gay, it’d seemed like a sure sign. The universe was speaking to him. They couldn’t have all of this in common for nothing.

  Could they? Sasha had said he needed to stop looking “out there,” but truthfully he felt like he had no idea what he was even looking for.

  One of the questions from the quiz popped into his head: the one about the proposal. Brendon had never put much thought into how he wanted to be proposed to—or how he would do the proposing, as was equally likely—but ever since he’d read that one option, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. If someone asked him tomorrow how he’d like to get engaged, he was certain he’d parrot that answer back to them, right down to the joke about the blank check. It was like he hadn’t known that was his answer until he’d read it.

  He didn’t know Matthew Kingston, but what if being with him was like reading that quiz question? What if he met Matt, and suddenly, he knew what he’d been looking for all this time? If there was even the slightest chance of that—and in his heart, he believed there was—shouldn’t he go for it, no matter what?

  That settled it. Starting tomorrow, he would track down Matt, and their love story could begin.

  The plan got off to a rough start.

  Over the course of the next week, whenever Brendon had free time, he haunted potential Matthew Kingston hot spots like a fashionable but morally dubious ghost. He memorized the menu at Jitters, learned the names of all the employees at the Dragonscale, and ate so much of Café Luis’s flan, he had to start jogging in the morning to work it off.

  All to absolutely no avail.

  He was beginning to think, yet again, that this whole plan was a terrible idea, but giving up would mean admitting he’d wasted a week of his life, along with a crippling thirty-six dollars. And so, he persisted like a bad rash that just wouldn’t stop itching.

  That was how Brendon found himself sitting in Jitters one Tuesday morning, wearing a trench coat and heart-shaped sunglasses. Three empty espresso cups littered the table in front of him, along with a pile of crumbled napkins, empty sugar packets, and what he would swear were the shreds of his dignity.

  Two hours he’d been here, and not only had he not seen anyone who resembled Matt, but thanks to his ensemble, he was certain everyone in the shop thought he was a flasher. The only thing he’d gotten out of his trip was an Instagram shot of his coffee. Which was, of course, the most original social media post ever.

  He was calling it early. This trip was yet another waste of time.

  The heart-shaped sunglasses were an unwelcome surprise as well. He’d broken his usual pair in the Dragonscale when he’d caught sight of a muscular brunet. Like an oaf, he’d ducked behind a display to check him out, and his sunglasses had slipped right off his head. He could still hear the sickening crunch as he’d stepped on them. They were Gucci too. Well, knockoffs, anyway.

  He couldn’t afford to replace them—not after a week of coffee and dessert—and so he’d been forced to wear the novelty pair Lindsay had given him for his birthday. If he weren’t so damn devoted to his aesthetic, he would skip the spy getup, but alas. He never missed a chance to dress up. That, and he wanted to see Matt before Matt saw him. In his usual assortment of glittery clothes, that wouldn’t be possible. Plus, it was raining, and the trench coat kept the wind from blowing through him like he was the first house the little pigs built.

  But it seemed all his effort was in vain. He needed to make a decision soon. He had a violent need to pee, and a trio of college kids—or so he surmised, judging by their laptop bags and the aura of exhausted spite that clung to them—had been eyeing his table from the high-top bar for fifteen minutes now. If he got up, they’d snatch his spot in a second. He wouldn’t normally care, but from his seat by the front window, he had an unobstructed view of the whole shop and everyone who was walking past. It was the perfect vantage point.

  He checked his phone while he debated and caught a flash of his reflection. His hair had curled
at the ends from the damp, but in a cute way. Without thinking, he made a kissy face and snapped a selfie. He’d come up with a caption to explain the sunglasses. Heart eyes and gray skies. Something like that.

  In all the time he’d spent scrolling through filters and adding the perfect emojis to his social media posts, Matt probably could have come and gone. It added another tally to the “Giant Waste of Time” column.

  He sat back in his (wooden, uncomfortable) seat with a sigh. With the way he kept vacillating back and forth about the plan, he was making himself dizzy. One second he was pumped; the next, he felt like the biggest loser on the planet. He should pack it in for the day, before he got really depressed.

  Climbing to his sneakered feet, he checked to make sure his glasses were in place and his belongings were in his pockets. Just as he was fishing out his Chap Stick, he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. The college kids. They’d circled him and were eyeing his table like vultures around a fresh carcass. His temper flared.

  “Seriously?” Brendon snapped before he could stop himself. “You can’t even wait until I’m out the door?”

  There was a chance he was taking his lack of success harder than he’d thought.

  He pointedly ignored the stares he was getting from . . . well, just about everyone, and prepared to leave. Just as he did, he heard a few telltale plips against the window. The rain was starting up again. Great. Just what he needed. Grumbling to himself, he turned to the exit, and when he did, his heart almost pulled an Alien and burst out of his chest.

  Matthew Kingston was standing in the doorway.

  Brendon couldn’t believe he’d ever wondered if he might not recognize him. There was no mistaking him. Messy brunet hair. Big brown eyes. Shorter than Brendon, but broad. Like, worked-out broad. His-photo-didn’t-do-him-justice broad.

  Brendon salivated.

  Matt was looking outside, probably thanking his lucky stars that he’d ducked into Jitters before the rain returned in earnest. Brendon seized the opportunity to drink him in. His fashion sense could use some work. He looked like a frazzled college professor, with his green sweater-vest and white dress shirt untucked from his jeans. But hey, no one was perfect.