6. Grant

I've been weighing options for the last two songs, considering variables and solutions, and I'm damn close to figuring out the answer to the math problem of tonight.

As I bump and grind against Declan, though, it seems the only answer is that I'm an asshole.

To say Declan isn't into this is an understatement. Not only is he not into this, he's having a terrible time, and he's faking fine for me.

That could be a good thing in some cases, but it's a big fucking problem here.

As the purple and electric blue lights swivel across the floor, I spin around, catching my boyfriend off-guard. His eyes flicker with questions. "C'mere," I mouth, then tug his hand. I lead him off the dance floor, past the lounge area with its chaises and divans, and the bottle-service servers in slinky clothes, all the way to the hallway near the restrooms.

The music fades to less eardrum-splitting levels, and I pull him into a quieter corner. "You okay?"

"Sure," he says with a light shrug, like ‘why wouldn't I be?'" Like it would be impossible for him to be anything other than okay.

I arch a dubious brow. "Seriously?"

Declan swallows, eyes shifting for a second, then moving back to me. "Yes. Why are you asking?"

My heart squeezes—it's a pang I've never felt with Declan before.

He's lying to me.

I stare at him like I can coax the truth out of him with my gaze. Time to be direct. "You don't seem happy."

Dragging a hand through his thick hair, Declan flashes a smile that feels plastic. "It's just hot," he says. But his hair isn't even damp with sweat, and he still smells like the shower he took thirty minutes ago. We've only been here for twenty minutes since the club is close to our house.

My chest twinges. Why the hell won't he tell me what's wrong? "You want to get some air?" I ask.

"Do you?" His voice pitches up with hope.

I wince. He's not going to admit he's unhappy. I'll have to take the lead and get us out of here. "Actually, I do." Now we're both lying because I don't give a fuck about getting air. But he does, and I don't know why he won't just be honest with me.

"Okay then," he says, with a sliver of a smile that reads like relief. Reads like a neon billboard on the highway at night, beckoning the driver to take the exit.

I metaphorically flick on the turn signal and cruise off the highway because Declan needs that but for some reason won't ask for it.

I lace my fingers through his. He threads his through mine and squeezes back. It seems he's thanking me without words, like his touch is telling me what his lips won't.

I lead us along the hall, back through the club, weaving through the crowd. Spotting Reese at the bar, I make a beeline for her. She's laughing with Holden, then looping her hands around his waist.

Nodding to the exit, I cup a hand over her ear. "Need to get some air. We're gonna step outside."

She flashes a smile, then winks. "Right."

I wish we were leaving to bang. I wish Declan and I were on the same wavelength.

We make our way to the heavy gray double doors and finally spill out into the San Francisco night. The doors close with a thunk, sealing the pulse of music behind us. Only faint traces of bass seep under the door, through the seams.

The street teems with groups of friends dressed for clubbing and click-clacking down the sidewalk. Declan takes a deep breath, drags his hands through his hair again, then blows out a long stream of air. "You feel better?" he asks, as if I were the one freaking out inside.

My jaw ticks. "I'd feel better if you'd tell me what's wrong," I say as I grab my phone from my back pocket, open my Lyft app, and order a ride.

His brow knits. "What are you doing?"

"We're going home, and you know why."

"I do?" he counters. His voice isn't cool and calm, like usual. There's worry in it.

The scene is full of too many people.

Too many faces.

Too many cameras.

I'm not going to argue with my boyfriend in public. No way will I give any passersby, potential paps, or too-curious onlookers the satisfaction of capturing the city's All-Star Cougars catcher having words with the city's All-Star Dragons shortstop.

Lovers Spat!

That's what the captions would say.

Or, more likely, Gay Lovers Spat!

I'm not going to give anyone the satisfaction of telling our story. Not when we aren't seeing eye-to-eye.

Instead, I tug on his hand, testing to see if he'll step closer to me. He does, closing the distance and moving into my space. He studies me curiously, trying to figure me out. But he says nothing.

I try to speak with my eyes, to let him know I won't say anything more now, out on the street. He gives the subtlest nod, then presses his lips to my cheek in the softest kiss.

It reassures me for a few seconds, the way he knows that's what I need. Tonight is rattling my too-good-to-be-true world, knocking it out of its honeymoon orbit.

"Let's talk in the car," he says.

A minute later, the Lyft arrives, and we get in the backseat.

"How you guys doing?" the bearded driver asks, then his eyes light up in the rearview mirror. "Number Eighteen! I'm a huge fan of the Dragons. The biggest!"

Declan turns on his media charm as the guy jerks the car into traffic. "That's awesome, man. Happy to hear that."

He shakes his head, bemused. "Can't believe you're in my car. Declan Steele. Star shortstop with the .321 batting average. My kid plays Little League. He looks up to you. Wants to be just like you."

"That's great," Declan says warmly. "What position does your son play?"

"Shortstop, like you," the man says. Then he tosses a glance my way in the mirror. "Sorry. But I'm a diehard Dragons fan all the way."

"No worries. It's all good," I say, in my best chatting-with-the-fans voice.

I let Declan and the driver gab the whole way home as I slump against the back seat, wishing traffic would disappear and we could teleport to my house.

Whoa.

What the hell did my brain just say?

My house?

No, idiot. It's our house.

I haven't thought of it as only mine in months. Not since I asked him to move in. Not since he said yes to living together.

But the thought—my house—is like a vise, clutching me too tightly.

Nothing feels worse than that.