Jilted Page 2

  Carter trails his fingers along the intricate pattern of the wrought iron gate. “Ooh, filigree,” he says, joining Link. “Nice.”

  The flower pinned to Link’s jacket has completely lost its petals. “Carter Jacob,” Link says, steadying Carter as he stumbles into the car, “are you this cute all the time?”

  Carter frowns. Did Matthew ever think he was cute? “I don’t know,” Carter answers. Right now, he’s no longer sure of anything.

  Two

  Carter opens his eyes to a strange hotel room. The sound of knocking on the door reverberates painfully through his skull. His entire body throbs. The sun blasts cruelly from behind a lace curtain. Carter closes his eyes. He sits up slowly when the knocking starts again. He is wearing someone else’s clothes: a black T-shirt and teeny-tiny shorts. Someone else is sleeping next to him. He has no idea how he got here.

  Link.

  Link’s hair is done up in a French braid. Carter has no recollection of that happening. He twists out of the covers, groans, stands slowly, and presses a hand against the wall. The room spins, and sickly heat crawls up Carter’s spine. He recalls a different bar; there were shots. And then, somehow, they were here. He opens the door.

  “Sorry to wake you, Mr. Kline.”

  Carter tries to say who? or what? but it comes out as a mumbled, “Whnuf?”

  The concierge’s eyes slip to Carter’s too-tight borrowed T-shirt; it’s no doubt perfectly snug on Link’s long body, but on Carter it bunches unattractively. He struggles to tug it straight, getting a glimpse of the bold white lettering on its front: QUEER AS IN FUCK U. The concierge’s eyes widen, and their cheeks redden.

  Carter clears his throat.

  “Ah. Yes. An en suite breakfast is part of your honeymoon package, if you remember.” The concierge gestures to a cart loaded with covered trays of food. Carter’s stomach growls, then lurches. He quickly presses a hand over his mouth; he’s too confused and hungover to stop the concierge from pushing the cart inside, then handing Carter a receipt. “If you could just sign at the bottom.”

  The food has been pre-charged to the room; the card belongs to Jamie Kline. Jamie… Matthew’s Jamie… Link’s former Jamie…

  The events of yesterday slot back into place. Carter’s stomach sours even further. He wants to crawl under the covers and slip back into blissfully ignorant unconsciousness, but the concierge stands there with an expectant look on their face for a long, uncomfortable moment until Carter realizes that he’s supposed to offer a tip.

  “Right.” Carter searches for his pants, where he hopes his wallet is still tucked into the front right pocket. Clothes and bedding are strewn everywhere; an empty champagne bottle sits in the center of the room. It looks exactly as though he and Link had a very celebratory, very naked honeymoon night. Carter is not entirely sure they didn’t.

  He locates his pants, draped over a floor lamp, and his wallet. Also tucked into his pockets are hints of what happened the night before: a cocktail napkin from a bar, a pot of glittery something, a tarot card, and a matchbook from a place called “Ye Olde Absinthe House.”

  No wonder he can’t remember anything.

  Carter tips the concierge, then stumbles into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. In the mirror, his skin is glittery and strange. Gold eyeshadow is painted over his eyes and across his cheeks; blotches of pink linger at the corners of his lips. His fingernails are painted pink. Carter has a sudden flash of sitting at a bar and having a very earnest conversation about the depressing restrictions of the gender binary. Then he and Link decided to get makeovers, he remembers, but isn’t sure if that was before or after the absinthe bar. Carter rubs at his throbbing head and turns on the shower. Under the stream of hot water, the nausea and thumping headache ease. As he washes off the night before with the plain bar of hotel soap, glitter twirls festively down the drain. He wanted the quintessential New Orleans experience and he got it. Unfortunately, he does not remember much of it.

  Carter is wrapping a fluffy white towel around his waist when the door bangs open and Link stumbles into the steamy bathroom with both hands pressed over their mouth, then stops with wide, shocked eyes to take in Carter’s bare torso and only partly covered groin. Carter squeaks and flaps the towel closed. Link hunches over the toilet.

  He’s had some less-than-enthusiastic intimate partners over the years, but this is a first.

  “Sorry,” Link says later, sweet-smelling and still damp from a shower.

  “No, it’s…” He trails off, because nothing is okay in the unflinching bright light of day. “Um. Thanks for letting me crash here.” Carter is fully dressed now, in his clothes from yesterday that smell like a frat house plus absinthe and nail polish. He’ll need to change before getting on a plane to go home.

  “Yeah. No problem.” Link attempts a pleasant smile, but winces instead. They’re so much softer this morning in wide, loose pants and a snug cotton T-shirt, hair tied back and barefoot, curled up against the headboard of the king-sized bed. “Are you hungry? I don’t think I can eat.” Link gestures at the food cart.

  Carter is a little hungry, despite the clench of nausea still holding fast. He hasn’t had anything solid in his stomach since lunch at the airport in Chicago. Matthew was being so strange then, so irritable and distant. No wonder. Carter picks up the trays of food that Link and his fiancée probably picked out together for their first morning as a married couple. Sadness creeps into the room like heavy fog. Carter nibbles on dry toast and searches for flights while his phone charges with Link’s charging cord.

  “Do you mind if I have them bring up my suitcase so I can change before I go?”

  Link stares blankly at a wall and makes a brief noise of agreement.

  There’s quick rap on the door almost immediately after Carter hangs up. “Wow, that was fast. Impressive.” It’s too bad Matthew didn’t actually book them a room; he’d love to stay longer. It’s a very nice, beautifully historic hotel, but he also really, really doesn’t want to go home and face everyone yet.

  The concierge doesn’t hand him his suitcase, however, but a picnic basket and checkered blanket. Blinking in bafflement, Carter takes them. There has been some serious miscommunication with the front desk. “Uhhh,” he says.

  “Your chariot awaits.” The concierge bows.

  “Er,” Carter replies.

  “The horse-drawn carriage ride and picnic at City Park,” Link says in a flat voice from the bed, their face etched with sadness. Link will have to face this chipper concierge and tell them that the wedding is off, the marriage is off. That it’s just Link, all alone and left behind, just as Carter is. And Carter can’t allow that. He can’t stand to see Link so sad and lifeless, to stand by and let them relive that humiliation and heartbreak. He can’t remember exactly what happened last night, but he feels bonded to Link, protective of Link’s broken heart as if it’s now connected permanently with his own. What happened to both of them is not right, and it’s not fair.

  “Of course! Our romantic carriage ride. That we planned. The two of us. Together. Yes, thank you! We’ll be right down!” Carter slams the door closed.

  Link stares at him, unblinking. Carter shifts awkwardly with the picnic basket and blanket piled in his arms. Maybe he was completely out of line. Maybe Link wishes Carter would go away and leave them alone. Maybe Carter’s suggestion that he would go on a romantic horse-drawn carriage ride intended for someone else’s honeymoon was the worst choice he’s made on this trip. Then Link’s lovely mouth curves into a soft, sweet smile.

  “Thank you. You totally saved me.”

  Carter’s head dips; his heart flutters strangely. Maybe, just a little bit, in this awful and strange situation, they’ve saved each other.

  Three

  “So how long were you two together?” Link is stretched out on one side, a hand propping up their head, the other tracing the gin
gham pattern of the picnic blanket. The picnic is spread beneath a massive, old-growth oak tree, and a grassy green field stretches all around, stopping where a lake ripples gray and placid against the blue skyline.

  “Seven years,” Carter says, spreading brie on a thin slice of baguette. He’s leaning against the huge trunk of the tree between two gnarled and knotted roots that rise from the ground beside him like armrests.

  “Wow,” Link says. They’ve been nibbling on chocolate-covered strawberries, and a collection of green stems are scattered around the blanket. “That’s a long time.”

  Carter chews and nods. “You know, when he proposed, we laughed and said something about it being ‘about that time.’ Which may have been a red flag, looking back on it.”

  Link reaches for another strawberry. “Jamie and I were only together for eight months. We were hell-bent on fast-tracking everything, and I never stopped to think about why that might be.” After nibbling one more strawberry, Link lifts their glass of sparkling water—they’d both decided it was best to forgo the champagne today—and toasts, “Here’s to ignoring red flags!”

  Carter leans forward to tip his glass against Link’s. Wind chimes of all sizes and types are strung throughout the branches, and, when the wind is strong enough, it stirs a lilting, soft melody that matches the undulation of the water nearby. In any other circumstance, it would have made for a very romantic picnic, but for Carter and Link it’s a soundtrack of melancholy as they discuss their exes and how everything went so wrong. Could he have stopped it? Should he have? Spared Link, if not himself?

  “We should talk about something else,” Carter says, opening a container of gourmet French pastries. Link scoots a little closer and takes a cream-filled mille-feuille.

  “Okay. What do you do back in Aurora, Illinois, Carter Jacob?”

  Carter smiles; he likes the way Link says his name. “I’m an architect.”

  “Wait. That’s a real thing that people do?” Link says with a teasing grin.

  “Yes. It is a real thing.” Carter pulls the container of pastries out of Link’s reach as payback for the ribbing. “I work for a big company that designs large suburban houses. And actually, I’m a production architect, which means…” He trails off. This is usually the part when his conversation partner’s eyes glaze over. “It’s boring. Never mind.”

  Link gazes up, eyes challenging. “Do you think it’s boring?”

  “No.” Why does Link make him feel compelled to share his emotional truths? He doesn’t even like to tell himself his true feelings. “I don’t find it boring. I mean it is, because I mostly deal with practicalities and inputting data, double-checking building codes and measurements, and emailing back and forth with contractors. Someone has to take everyone’s wild dreams and make them a reality.” Carter pokes at the cream escaping one end of an éclair, licks it off his fingertip, and says, “Practicality isn’t exactly sexy.”

  Link glances from the éclair, to Carter’s mouth, then back to hold Carter’s eyes. “No?”

  Carter struggles to swallow the bit of cream. His voice is too high when he asks, “So. What, uh, what do you do?”

  “I’m an artist, mostly sculptures welded from recycled scrap metal,” Link says. “Statues and furniture and stuff.”

  Carter lifts his eyebrows. “And that’s a real thing?”

  Link’s responding laugh mixes with the sound of the wind chimes. Flopping over onto their back, Link’s tight T-shirt rides up, revealing the smooth curves of their stomach and soft-looking skin. Carter lies back beside them, his body stretched out opposite, with his head at Link’s purple-sneakered feet, resting side by side. He picks a matching purple wildflower near his shoulder and cheekily puts it into Link’s inverted belly button. The sun has mellowed, and the shadow of the oak tree is pleasantly chilly. The wind chimes and rustling leaves and lapping of the lake create a lazy, hypnotic melody.

  “This is kind of nice,” Link murmurs, and Carter repeats it in agreement. He could fall asleep and stay here forever. He can’t, of course.

  “I am not looking forward to going home and facing everyone,” Carter says with a sigh. He has no idea who knows and how much they know. Matthew was the social media junkie, not Carter, so he never bothered to keep anyone in the loop on his own. And, for all Carter knows, he’s now the talk of Twitter or whatever.

  “Ugh, me either,” Link groans. “You have no idea how much artists like to gossip.”

  Carter takes a moment to imagine that and then imagines the “I told you so” lecture he’ll get from his sister. She never liked Matthew and she loves being right even more than she loves gossip. “Hey, by the way.” Carter tips his head to the side and squints at Link close-up. “Did we hook up last night?”

  Link’s relaxed expression doesn’t budge. “Nah.”

  “Oh,” Carter says, unsure of how he feels about that. “Do you remember?”

  “No, but my chastity belt is still securely locked,” Link says, deadpan. “Yes, I remember.”

  Carter looks back up at the tree. “Okay. That’s… good.”

  “Oh, really? Not disappointed you missed out on all of this, hmm?” From the corner of his eye, Carter can see Link gesture to their body and face. “That hurts, Carter Jacob.”

  It’s not that Carter doesn’t find Link attractive; he finds a wide variety of people attractive, generally, and Link specifically. “I just prefer to remember sleeping with someone is all.” Carter blinks and reconsiders that statement. “Well, I guess I wouldn’t mind forgetting some of them.” Matthew, for a start. “Do you remember anything else?” Carter asks, changing the subject. Best not to dwell too long on any attraction he has to Link; it’s not appropriate for the situation, and he’ll be gone soon anyway.

  “Let’s see…” Link hums. “We went to a fortune teller.” That explains the tarot card. “And,” Link continues, “karaoke?”

  “Damn. I’d prided myself on never singing drunken karaoke.” He is really checking off a bucket list he never wanted to make.

  Link turns to face Carter with a smirk. “Well, if it helps, I think it was less drunken karaoke and more you standing on a table randomly singing, actually.”

  Carter purses his lips. “That’s definitely worse.”

  Link snorts with laughter, which makes Carter laugh despite his embarrassment. Perhaps his behavior last night was good for him, getting out of his comfort zone, doing something different and unexpected. For too long he’s been stifled, ignoring the many warning signs of his own obvious unhappiness. It would have been nice if he and Matthew could have settled it quietly about eight months ago, but, as they might say in New Orleans, c’est la vie.

  “Stop me if this sounds crazy,” Link says, breaking Carter from his spiraling regrets, “but I have a whole week of these activities and meals bought and paid for. We get along okay; we’re stuck dealing with the same crappy situation. I, for one, think we deserve daily room service after being dumped so very epically.”

  It’s not the healthiest way of dealing with the fallout: delaying the inevitable, pretending things are fine when they aren’t, and pretending to be the new husband of someone he met yesterday, someone whose fiancée has run off with his fiancé. Yet, when he turns to Link to say this, none of it seems to matter. Somehow, this unexpected adventure makes more sense than anything Carter has done in a long, long time. “You know what, we absolutely do. I’m in.”

  Four

  As Carter waits in the line at the hotel’s front desk, his phone lights up. He ignores it. He called work with a fake illness for the first time, and he’s afraid someone will call him out. When he glances at the missed-call notification, he finds something much worse. The family in front of him finally finishes checking in. “A single, please. Or, whatever is available first.” The clerk clacks away at the computer, and Carter hits decline on his phone a second time. He and Link are
going out for the evening soon, so Carter decided to book a room first. Drunk and heartbroken Carter may be fine with crashing in the bed of a virtual stranger, but regular Carter is a little uncomfortable with it.

  “All right, I have a double available on the seventeenth or a single on the eighteenth.” The clerk looks up with fingers poised over the keyboard.

  “Oh, uh. No, I need something tonight.” Carter smiles pleasantly.

  A lightning-quick look of annoyance flashes across the clerk’s face before they reaffix their pleasant, helpful customer-service face. “Sir, it’s two weeks before Mardi Gras. This is our most popular time. I have a double on the seventeenth or a single on the eighteenth.”

  Carter shakes his head and mutters, “No, thank you,” as his phone rings for a third time. He steps to a quiet corner in the lobby and answers with a sigh.

  “I hate to say I told you so…”

  Carter rolls his eyes. “Paige, come on. No, you don’t.” His sister loves to be right even more than she loves Snapchat filters, which is a lot. “So everyone knows, then.”

  “Yes, and we’re all wondering why you haven’t come home yet,” Paige says, then barrels on without giving him a chance to reply. “You know mom is thrilled. She’s telling everyone that she knew you’d come to your senses.”

  Carter works his jaw and glares at the wallpaper. It’s a green and gold fabric toile with intricate patterns of peacocks and flowers and arching vines. She has to ask why he hasn’t come home yet? The better question is, why would he ever?