Page 28 of A Flighty Fake Boyfriend
I leaned back and studied Epic’s profile. He had patrician features, which I found odd because his actions were pure squirrelly California boy. Outgoing and approachable—maybe even a little frivolous—wasn’t Epic’s entire story. There was something distinctly noble about him in spite of his antics.
And I knew nobility. There was likely to be a lot of it around this weekend.
Luis carried himself in a way that made people respond with automatic deference. He drew the eye. He commanded attention. People naturally made way for him in social gatherings based on a subtle undercurrent of expectation that was probably several centuries in the making.
There was no comparing the two, and yet they were opposite sides of the same coin. They both felt things deeply. They were both willing to work for the things they believed in.
Apparently I gravitated toward a certain type of man.
I wondered what would happen if Epic was older.
Or if we were dating for real.
Could he ever be interested in someone like me, or was I simply an adventure to him?
He lifted his drink and sat back in his chair. “I really like port.”
“Me too.” In the glow of candlelight, we shared a quiet companionship that warmed my heart. Who knew? Epic understood when to fill a silence and when to let one linger for a bit.
When the waiter arrived, I signed the meal to the room.
I didn’t ask if there was somewhere I could smoke. Better to apologize and all that. Instead, Epic and I made our leisurely way along the convoluted pathways toward the beach. The landscape featured ground lights and up-lit trees and palms wound around with thousands of fairy lights. A slightly chilly breeze blew Epic’s thick dark hair all over, but it mostly fell back into place. Mine, of course, curled—especially in humid weather. There would be no controlling my slightly too-long mop this trip.
As we walked, I noticed Epic had wrapped his arms around himself.
“Cold?” I slipped out of my jacket. “Here. Take this.”
“I don’t want to take it from you.”
“You know I live in Canada, right?”
“Do you?” He stared at me blankly. “I guess I didn’t know that. How’d you end up there?”
“Oh, that’s right. I was going to tell you more about all that.” I shrugged. “Well, I had the languages and skill set to work in National Security, but it was 2008, and everyone was still paranoid about the Middle East specifically and Muslims in general. I didn’t like the direction the country had taken back then. I couldn’t see myself breaking codes or analyzing bits of information for the US’s war on terrorism.”
“I understand. Why work for HUD when you can build houses?”
“Right, well, HUD has its place, but I was very young and had wild ideas. Not all of them were good ones. I traveled in Southeast Asia for a while after grad school, and that’s where I first became aware of sex tourism.”
Epic winced. “Oh, man.”
“Sex tourism made me see a different way I could use my education. The University of British Columbia offers a doctorate in Gender, Race, Sexuality, and Social Justice, so I applied.”
“Did you get in?”
“No.” I laughed. “I was pissed off about that. Then I talked to the department chair and told her what I wanted to do. She referred me to StolenLives, an NGO whose purpose aligned with mine—that is, to stop human trafficking for sex or labor.”
“So you felt like you had a calling?”
“I guess I did.” At the seawall, we turned and followed the walkway to the very farthest edge of the property. Hopefully no one would throw me out if I was super discreet.
I lit a cigarette as we slipped into the shadows, where trampled ice plant gave up its familiar, sharp fragrance. A brisk wind whisked the smoke from my mouth almost before I had a chance to expel it. Epic hoisted himself onto the low wall.
“I wish I had a calling.” He pulled my jacket tighter around him.
“You’ll find one.” I had the urge to wrap my arms around him too. I had never talked with anyone like I’d talked with him. Never shared even half of what I’d let him see. But things were already complicated enough between us.
“Maybe my calling is waiting tables.”
