We used to joke about how we have the exact same color eyes. Tate would say mine werecopyinghis, and we’d both laugh about it.
I miss that. I would take the friendly teasing and laughter in a heartbeat over the hostility he’s now shooting me through those similar dark brown eyes.
Tate peeks at Lou, then back up to me, cocking his head. “I’m surprised you’re here.”
“Why’s that?” I ask him, quietly, hoping my tone isn’t giving away all the hidden stuff between us.
“I didn’t know pastors came to gay parties.” His gaze narrows, lips curved into one of his smirks that I’m sure everyone else would see as friendly or playful.
But I know him better than that. This one in particular has a bite to it.
My mind scoots around his accusatory tone, though, and focuses on his words. If he knows I’m working at the church, that must mean he’s been keeping tabs on me as well…
Interesting.
“Ido.” I shrug. “And… maybe more should.”
Tate blinks at me, giving me that look again; the one that makes me feel like I’m withholding information.
“They totally should!” Lou cheers, sipping his beer. “So Tate, I hear you’re almost as rich as Kennan now,” he teases, grinning.
Tate’s smirk grows a little less strained. “Please. I’mwayricher than that queen.”
Lou laughs, and my lips twist into a tiny grin. But when Tate’s eyes land on my face once more, and it slips away.
“How’s your wife?” He asks me, the question alone popping my pulse, not to mention the knowing way he’s staring at me.
“She’s um… she’s good.” I clear my throat.
He purses his lips. “Mhm…”
Someone calls out Lou’s name, and he taps me on the shoulder. “Be right back.”
He staggers away, leaving Tate and me just standing here, staring at each other, radiating all kinds of awkwardness.
This is already not going well.
“Look, Tate, I wanted to apolog—“
“I need a drink,” he cuts me off, turning and darting away.
Naturally, I follow him. Something I tend to do without even noticing I’m doing it.
Tate grabs a cup off the table and pours brown liquor into it. Tilting his chin upward, he raises a brow at me, like he already knew I followed him without even having to check first.
“Are pastors allowed to drink?” He asks in an almost scoffing tone.
“Yea, but I don’t really… drink much,” I tell him.
He turns to face me fully, sipping from his cup. “You’ve changed a lot.”
My head slants. “Not alot…”
“Yea. A lot.” He keeps the cup up by his lips, eyes locked on my face over the rim.
I can’t help but shift on my feet. It feels like he’s assessing me.Studyingme, and all the little differences between the man standing before him and the kid he used to watch movies and play games with.
“You’ve changed too,” I murmur.
