Marc Jillson & The Gazebo (Love Inscribed 2)

“It’s still not a hundred percent conclusive.” Although I had imagined two men while I read it.

“I’ve got a pretty decent gaydar.”

I lifted a brow. “That works on letters?”

He gave a lazy shrug. “I sense these things.”

“Is that how you figured out I’m gay?” Because I certainly hadn’t told him.

Hunter glared at me, lip curling. “I caught you checking me out last year.”

“Pfft. That’s . . . No way.” I sliced my gaze away, but a shivery zap shot through me, and I became ultra-aware of how close Hunter was. His soft soapy scent with a hint of olive, the careful way his large hands sorted through yellowed letters, his curious hums.

He passed me another letter.

Dec. 1972

Dearest V,

I’ve written letters to you every week. Failed to send them every week also.

I’ve run out of jokes, dear V.

I don’t know if I could laugh again if I tried.

I can’t sleep.

When I do, we are gathered up with all the boys at the bar, crouched before the TV watching the live broadcast of the lottery. My stomach is in knots. My whole body strung out on fear. I know your number better than my own. When they called it out . . . On my grave, V, I swear I begged the universe to trade places with you. My heart shattered that day. I never wanted to stop making love to you that night, and all the ones we had left.

I wish you hadn’t graduated so you could defer.

When you came over to kiss me goodbye that last time . . . I wish we hadn’t been caught.

I will never forgive myself for denying you in front of my mother. You should never forgive me for shoving you out in the cold.

I didn’t live up to my promise to be true to myself, no matter the obstacle.

I was scared.

Scared and stupid and oh so sorry.

“Fine. The clues add up.” I reread the letter with a sympathetic twist in my gut. I couldn’t imagine how frightening it must have been to be drafted. Jesus, they were probably our age. Barely beginning to navigate adulthood. “Seems like K fucked up his goodbye. Wonder if he was forgiven?”

Hunter finished perusing another letter. “There’s no answer in here. Just these dozen letters.”

“Think that means V died?” I speedread the letters, hoping for a happy ending where V forgave K for being an asshole and they lived happily ever after.

I sighed and dropped them into the broken tin on Hunter’s lap. I dropped my head back against the couch. “Well that was fun.”

Hunter mirrored me, smiling sadly. “Love is fleeting. At least they had it for a moment.”

And if I didn’t think the night could get more depressing . . .

“With that attitude, why do you even care to save Lover’s Loop gazebo? Did your parents separate? Are you clinging to some hope they’ll be reunited?”

“My parents are the only exception I know. They met at the gazebo.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Maybe saving it will ensure their love forever? Maybe it’ll help me find my own? I don’t know.”

“You don’t need help finding love. Not the way you sweet-talked Red Jeans.” Not with his massive amount of confidence.

“I have a lot of first, second, and third dates. Not many fourth.”

I palmed my nape. “I’ve never been on a proper date with a guy. Well, supposedly there was Tyler earlier, but it escaped my notice. Doubt he’ll go for a second.”

“Have you ever been intimate with a guy before?”

“Yeah.” I flushed. “Grindr.”

“I hope your partners were good to you.”

I shrugged. “It’s always to the point. You know, get dicked and get home.”

Hunter frowned.

Thankfully, a sharp knock sounded on the door that lead upstairs. I bolted to my feet and stuffed my hands in my pockets. “Yeah?”

Uncle Ben entered, took one look at my boiling face and Hunter on the couch. His face blasted with a smile. “Sorry for the interruption. I broke a glass. Can I use the vacuum?”

“Sure.” I eyed the closet and a frowning Hunter, who had a direct view of it. Ah, hell. “Maybe glass is better swept up? Little shards might ruin the vacuum interior . . . bits.”

Uncle Ben’s get-to-it-quick look had me reluctantly opening the closet.

Out tumbled the Cheetos bag, followed by the sprays. In my effort to stabilize the vacuum, I nudged the laundered heap and everything spewed out in a mound of messy.

I burned under Hunter’s gaze.

Uncle Ben winced with sympathy and hurried off with his vacuum. I debated stuffing my clothes back into the closet, or giving up and leaving them in their natural habitat.

I gathered an armful and tossed it back into the closet. “I’m a disgusting mess, okay?”

Hunter blinked at me.

“Fuck. Say something.”

Hunter snapped out of his glazed stare. “You live under Chief Benedict?”

Huh? Oh. “He’s my uncle. Ben.”