“So,” I said, resting my elbows on the armrest and staring at Chris. “What brings you all the way from . . . well, wherever the hell you came from.”
His grin never left his face, but it did seem to slip just a little bit. I knew that look; guess I wasn’t the only one hiding from something. Unlike Ethan and me, Chris had transferred in just this year. A lot of people did, but I always felt like they didn’t get the full experience. It sure as hell took me the first year to finally understand what this place actually was.
“Well,” he said, “my parents worked in tech development back in Seattle. They were transferred out here to help set up a new branch for the company.”
“But there’s nothing out here,” I said.
Chris’s smile definitely slipped off then. He sighed and looked out the window.
“Yeah, well, that’s the thing. They moved to Detroit. I was looking into schools in the area and found Islington. I think my parents were actually sort of relieved when I told them about it. Meant they could focus on their job. Not like that’s any different from life before.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “But, on the plus side, you got in. So there’s that.”
He grinned. “Yeah. I’m still just hoping they admitted me for my portfolio and not because my parents bribed them.”
Ethan glanced over. “Don’t worry—lots of rich celebs try to send their kids here to no avail. Money doesn’t mean anything to the admissions panel, at least not on the faculty side. Though I’m sure charitable donations never go amiss.”
“Thanks, I think. I believe that was comforting.”
“That’s Ethan,” I said, patting Ethan on the shoulder. “Our man’s good at emotional support.”
“I thought gay men were supposed to be the comforting types,” Chris said.
Ethan shook his head. “I do not know where you guys are getting that idea.”
I just grinned and kissed Ethan on the cheek, then sat back and tightened my seatbelt again.
We didn’t really talk after that, but we didn’t turn the music back up, either. There was a comfortable sort of silence as we drove the rest of the way into town, watching trees thin out and become houses and gas stations and, eventually, the lakefront downtown. The lake was slate gray and stormy—it never froze, not fully, though chunks of ice floated like scattered shipwrecks. Whitecaps rode the waves, and the shore was thick with debris and tide. Above, the sky was just as tossed and frigid as the water.
“Looks like another storm,” Chris muttered.
“Yeah,” Ethan said. “Luckily this thing has four-wheel drive. Oh wait, it doesn’t.”
He parked in the lot beside the restaurant, and I was pleased to note that there weren’t many cars. Wind swept around us as we made our way into the swank sushi bar.
326 was one of those upscale restaurants that charged extra because they had a lake view and giant glass windows from which to enjoy it. In the summer, apparently, the place was always crammed with tourists. During the fall and winter, though, when no one in their right mind wanted to venture to the upper wilds of Michigan for cold fish, the place was dead. Especially on a Tuesday.
“You could have warned me,” Chris whispered when we stepped inside, waiting beside a perfectly pruned bonsai on a black marble stand. “I would have dressed up.”
I shrugged and unzipped my coat, half-flashing him my paint-splattered T-shirt so he could see that I wasn’t classy by any stretch of the imagination.
“Don’t worry, they’re used to us by now.”
By “us” I might have meant Ethan and me, who came here practically every week, or Islington kids in general. Not many high-schoolers went out for sushi on weekday afternoons, and even less did so while covered in whatever art they’d just pried themselves away from. We were easy to tell from the crowd, especially in a place like this: long sleek leather benches and shiny black granite table tops, everything black and crisp white, from the white linens and snowy orchids on every table to the mirrorlike ebony tile floor.
Save for two couples seated near the back bar, the place was entirely empty. Looks like we were the few dumb enough to brave the upcoming blizzard.
A waiter came out from behind the back curtain, saw us, and smiled. It was Jason, a local college kid who worked here pretty much every weekday. He was gorgeous in that high fashion cover model sort of way: short brown hair slicked back, black pants and white shirt, and tight black vest. You could tell he worked out from the way his sleeves caught on his arms, and a hint of tattoos peeked out from under his cuffs.
“Hey guys,” he said, stepping up to us. “How’s it going? Day off?”