Marcus Lopés

Author

Short Stories

Stay with Me

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“Goddammit, move!” Damien slammed his fist into the steering wheel. Traffic on the eastbound QEW hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. The worst part was that he could see the exit for Islington Avenue, and that meant he was almost home. He turned on the radio and, searching for news, kept switching channels. No one talked about an accident, just the usual heavy rush hour gridlock. “Fuck!”

He’d been staying with Shane for almost a month, and waking up to those mesmerizing coffee-brown eyes made him smile. But the forty minutes added to his commute — most of that time spent parked on the highway — had him rethinking his decision. Well, not really. He wouldn’t abandon Shane, not when he needed him the most.

“Hey, Siri, call Shane’s mobile.”

“Calling Shane Wright … mobile,” the robotic voice said.

Like his three previous calls, Shane’s voicemail cut in right away. Damien didn’t want to admit it, but something was wrong. He knew as much by the way Shane, over the past few days, wouldn’t look at him. And when he went to touch Shane — kiss him goodbye in the morning, reach for his hand, hug him when he came home — there was always resistance. More than that. Avoidance. The silence made his stomach churn. Shane, lost in his labyrinth, wouldn’t let him in. Damien swallowed hard. When he thought about the past few weeks, and Shane being back on his meds, he wasn’t sure that anything had changed.

Traffic began to move again. Fifteen minutes later, Damien pulled up next to Shane’s black Matrix and scrambled out of the car. He jammed the key into the lock of the grey-brick house on Lake Crescent and opened the door. He roamed from room to room on the lower level, immured in a silence that had a metallic taste swirling in his mouth.

“Shane,” Damien called out, mounting the stairs. “We don’t have a lot of time if you want to get something to eat before the game.” It took a lot of convincing, perhaps even begging, but Damien had finally persuaded Shane to go to a Raptors’ game with him. It wasn’t necessarily the date night he imagined, but he’d have done anything to get Shane out of the house.

Damien, at the end of the hall, pushed on the bedroom door that had been left ajar and entered the room. “Come on, sleepyhead,” he said as he sat down on the bed and gently shook Shane. “You agreed to go, so there’s no backing…” His voice trailed off when he saw the empty pill bottle on the nightstand. His mouth went dry as he placed his fingers on Shane’s neck. He found a pulse … barely. He yanked his phone from his inside jacket pocket and dialled 9-1-1.

“Don’t you die on me,” he said, tears banking in his eyes. “I still need you.”

He heard the sirens growing louder and, when it sounded like they were wailing inside the house, raced downstairs to open the front door. He led the paramedics upstairs and, back in the bedroom, watched as they worked on Shane. Damien couldn’t stop crying because Shane never responded, never opened his eyes, never twitched.

The next thing he knew, Damien was climbing into the back of the ambulance, never taking his eyes off Shane. He found himself smiling and crying as he thought about the day they’d met and the rocky debut to their romance.

It’d happened two years ago at Mikey’s, one of the less popular hangouts on Church Street. Damien, seated at the bar, didn’t seem to blink as he watched the Penguins take on the Lightning in the Eastern Conference Final. At a commercial break, he drained his beer stein and that was when he saw the man at the other end of the bar. Something about him — the smooth caramel skin, the way he nursed his drink, his focus on the book he held in his hand — everything had Damien swooning. He slid off his barstool and walked over to the guy who he’d already decided would be his future husband.

“What’s that you’re reading?” Damien asked, his voice cracking.

“A book,” was the curt reply.

“Right.” Damien held out his hand. “I’m Damien.”

“Good for you.”

Damien started to walk away, then spun around. “Fuck you. I’m just trying to talk to you. You could say, ‘Hey, not interested,’ instead of being a world-class prick.”

“You’re right,” the guy said, putting down his book. “I’ve had a crap day, but that’s no reason to take it out on you. Shane.” He extended his hand and, after a quick handshake, added, “Let me buy you a drink.”

“I think a better apology would be dinner.” Damien winked. And when Shane flashed him a broad, life-affirming smile, that was the moment he knew he was hooked.

The rapid beeping of the heart rate monitor made Damien look up. His gaze latched onto the flat line streaming across the screen.

“No shock advised,” was the audible prompt. “Begin CPR.”

Damien let go of Shane’s hand and felt himself gasping for air as the paramedic began vigorous chest compressions.

“Stay with me,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Please, stay with me.”

As they sped through the city streets, Damien thought about God, salvation and eternal life. Now, he wasn’t sure about any of them.

The Flowers Need Watering: A Novel

When Mateo’s present and past collide, he’s questioning everything he knows about family, friendship, and love. The biggest test is this: is he willing to forgive? Read The Flowers Need Watering today and find out! Available on Amazon.

Let Me Go

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Do it, Shane thought, limping into the dark living room and collapsing onto the sofa. And this time … get it right.

In the silence, all he heard was the ticking of the clock hanging above the fireplace. His stomach gurgled and, suddenly, it felt like the room was spinning. He thrust himself forward until his head was between his knees and took in several deep breaths, pushing them out forcefully through his nose. When he calmed down, he could barely hear the whistle of his breath. Just the tick-tock of the clock that had him remembering the moment that had set him on the path to madness.

Tick. Shane was nine years old again, wearing his Spider-Man pyjamas and standing at the top of the staircase with his hands over his ears to block out the yelling. Tock. The light over the staircase came on and, seeing his mother sprint towards him, his hands fell to his sides. Tick. She swept him up in her arms and carried him downstairs and out of the house. Tock. She set him down on the front porch, cupped his face in her hands and then leaned forward to kiss his forehead. Tick. “Go next door to Mrs. Dodd’s,” she’d said, tears streaming down her face. “Have her call the police. And don’t come back. Go!” Tock. Shane took off running in his bare feet. Tick. Before he made it to the end of the walk, he heard a popping sound, followed by a high-pitched shriek. Tock. He tripped and fell to the ground. Tick. He stood and, when he heard two more pops, bolted towards his neighbour’s house.

The doorbell sounded. Shane, his heart thumping, didn’t move. A year ago, on a night like this, he’d decided to lay his burdens down. He’d just swallowed ten of his Tegretol pills when his phone rang, Damien Miller’s name on the call display. Damien, a scruffy Robert Downey Jr. lookalike, came into his life when he needed an anchor and became his hope, his joy, his everything. At that moment, Shane felt a presence, something — maybe that still, small voice — that made him answer the call. He tried to speak, but no words came as he cried. Through his sobs he heard Damien’s reassuring voice, “I’m on my way.”

The repeated pounding on the door brought Shane back to the present. He rose slowly and made his way into the foyer.

“I’ve been trying to reach you all evening,” Damien said as he stepped into the house. He closed the door, then reached for the light switch to his left and flipped it on. His eyes went wide. “Jesus! You look like shit.”

“Thanks.” Shane slinked back into the living room and collapsed onto the sofa.

Damien, following behind, turned on a lamp before sitting down next to Shane. “Did you have that dream again?”

“It’s not a dream,” Shane said. “I lived it, remember?” Even now he could still smell the hint of sage as Mrs. Dodd held him as they watched his parents’ bodies, each draped in a white cloth, being rolled away on gurneys.

Damian reached for Shane’s hand. “I know. I just meant —”

“I know what you meant.” Shane, locking his gaze onto those cinnamon-brown eyes that somehow made him smile through the pain, pulled his hand away. “I’m tired, Damien.”

Damien wrapped his arm around Shane’s shoulders and drew him in close. They sat in silence for a moment, then he kissed the top of Shane’s shaved head. “You’re taking your meds, right?”

Shane squirmed out of the hold and rubbed his eyes. “I ran out.”

“When?” Damien asked, almost shouting. “I’m sorry. But you can’t just go off your meds and not expect —”

“You don’t know what it’s like.” Shane rose and crossed the room, standing in front of the fireplace with his back to Damien. “My head hurts all the time. I can’t eat. I don’t feel like being with you even when I want to.” He spun around, tears pooling in his eyes. “I can’t fucking concentrate. I haven’t worked in almost a month. What the hell am I still doing here?”

Damien bounced off the sofa and rushed to Shane, taking him into his arms again. “You’re still here because I need you.”

Shane twisted away and returned to the sofa. “You don’t need a pathetic —”

“You’re not pathetic.” Damien moved to the sturdy wooden coffee table, sat down on its edge and took Shane’s hands in his. “Tell me how I can help.”

“Let me go,” Shane pleaded. “For Christ’s sake, let me go. Fuck, I’m going to end up just like my father anyway.”

At fifteen, Shane was diagnosed with bipolar depression. That was when his grandmother, who’d taken him in after his parents’ deaths, told him how his father was schizophrenic. “Your mother loved your father very much,” his grandmother had said with a hint of guilt, or shame, or maybe both. “They were soul mates. That’s why she stayed. But your father … he tried to self-medicate. He didn’t want her help, or anybody else’s. And I really don’t think that it could have ended differently.”

Maybe that was what hurt the most … that his mother had given her life for his.

“You’re not your father,” Damien said, matter-of-fact, and glanced at his watch. “The pharmacy’s closed by now. I’m crashing here tonight. Hey, it’s not up for debate. We’ll go get your meds first thing in the morning.”

“Why?” Shane blinked rapidly, but the tears still flowed.

Damien shrugged. “Why, what?”

“Why do you stay?”

“You haven’t figured that out yet?” Damien, smiling, squeezed Shane’s hands. “Because I love you. That’s the only why I need.”

The App: Love’s Surprise

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Parker’s stomach flipped when he entered Balzac’s. Between the animated voices and the pounding, grinding and gurgling coming from behind the counter, he couldn’t hear himself think. He edged his way around the tables and people standing in line, his heart thumping in his chest as he scrutinized the crowd. No Blue Jays cap. Surprised? Not really. Yet he couldn’t get that familiar metallic taste out of his mouth. Should he have known better? Absolutely. But deep down, he still believed in love and, despite his past, that he deserved to be happy.

After one more sweep of the coffee shop, Parker retraced his footsteps towards the entrance. He kept his head down, like a man walking to the execution chamber and finally ready to admit his guilt. He couldn’t bear the shame of it. Why had he thought that Jay would be any different? “God, I’m an idiot!”

Nearing the entrance, Parker stepped aside as a group of burly young men barrelled inside. When he took a step forward, that was when a warm hand grabbed his wrist. He spun around. The Blue Jays cap! And below the bill were those ocean blue eyes that probed and sometimes terrified him. “You!”

“Parker —”

“I can’t believe you did this,” Parker said, his voice pitching high. He couldn’t stop the tears pooling in his eyes and, swallowing his shock, rushed outside. He walked quickly, almost running, along the dark sidewalk through the mist-like drizzle. He heard the patter of feet behind him and picked up his pace. But it was too late. The hand on his shoulder pressed down and brought him to a stop. He could not — would not — look into those eyes again.

“Give me a chance to explain,” Jacob Harding said in a whisper. When there was no response, he slid his hand down Parker’s arm and led him into the deserted Liberty Village Park. They stopped near the large Perpetual Motion sculpture, Jacob unable to catch Parker’s eye. “Please, Parker … look at me.”

Parker jerked his arm free. “I can’t,” he said, strained. “I don’t … know who … you are.”

“I’m your friend.”

“Friend?” Parker lifted his head, his eyes roaming the unshaved, rugged face before him. “Friends don’t —”

“Calm down, Parker,” Jacob cut in, raising his voice to match Parker’s. “Just let me —”

“Explain?” Parker took a step back when Jacob went to touch his arm. “You called yourself Jay. And don’t tell me to fucking calm down.”

Jacob removed his ball cap long enough to run his hand through his hair. “Jay’s a family nickname.”

Parker bristled. “The deception. The duplicity. The lies.”

“Fine, I lied,” Jacob spat. He bit down on his lip and adjusted his hat. “I just … I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“This is sick.” Parker’s voice cracked with disgust. “And mean.”

Jacob made another unsuccessful play for Parker’s arm. “I never meant to…”

“I don’t understand this.” Parker rubbed his eyes. “I mean, you score all the time with guys, jocks —”

“Big talk. I’m a flirt. I like the attention.” Jacob pursed his lips and rolled them. “I’m a one-man kind of guy. Silly or not, I believe that my soul mate’s out there.”

“And you think that’s me?” Parker swooned, and before he could gather up his strength, Jacob stepped forward and drew him close, so close he could smell the bacon Jacob had had for breakfast. “You could have any guy.”

“So you say.” Jacob tightened his hold, their waists and stomachs pressed firmly together. “I’d still like to have that coffee with you.”

Parker, his eyes narrowing, twisted out of the embrace. “Like a date?”

Jacob chuckled and readjusted his cap. “That’s kind of how it works. Dating, that is. Two people do something together so they can get to know each other.”

“I know what dating is.” Parker sucked his teeth. “But I don’t…”

Jacob went over and took Parker’s face in his hands. He hesitated just a moment, then drew Parker to him until their mouths met. Being there, like that, with their lips pressed together, said more than words ever could. They stayed like that for about thirty seconds, then he pulled out of the kiss and smiled. “Let’s talk over coffee.”

Parker backed away. “What? And let the world hear how much of a fool I am?”

“You’re not a fool.” Jacob tugged on the sleeve of Parker’s grey jacket. “Let’s go to my place. We’ll have privacy.”

“I’m not sure about that, either.”

Jacob rolled his eyes. “We’re just going to talk. I don’t sleep with a guy on the first date. Or we can go to your place.”

Parker shook his head. “Let’s just walk.”

They walked in silence, Parker catching Jacob’s sidelong glances but never letting their eyes meet. The shock lingered, and he wondered if this was some type of practical joke. It wasn’t funny, or maybe it was in a twisted, macabre way. Or maybe this was about his pride, now wounded and bleeding, because he hadn’t seen the signs. He never thought of himself as Jacob’s type. And a frantic search through his memories revealed that there had never been any awkward moments between them, moments that could have paved the way for a season of love. Like a hand accidentally brushing against an arse. Like seeing each other naked in the locker room when they worked out together. Like… Jesus! He tried to tell me at Octavo yesterday.

Waiting for the light to change at the King and Bathurst intersection, Jacob bumped into Parker. “You okay?”

Parker turned, his gaze levelled at those magnetic eyes, and opened his mouth to speak. No words came. He just didn’t know what to say. Then it happened — the sudden bulge in his pants that made him look away. Christ, what am I supposed to do?

The answer surprised him.

Delete the app.

The App: Taking Up the Dare

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Ding!

Parker, stretched out on the sofa, dropped the remote as he sat up. His gaze landed on his phone and the alert on the screen: “You have 1 new message!” One time, just once, he wanted the courage to ignore those damn push notifications, but this wasn’t it. He snatched his phone off the coffee table, swiping and tapping with a sniper’s precision.

Hi, Sexy!

He fell back into the sofa and groaned. He still hadn’t answered the message he’d received as he walked home from Octavo earlier in the day. As much as Parker wanted to hit the Delete button, he couldn’t. This time, though, he wasn’t trying to ‘guard his manners.’ On a night when he chose to stay home instead of dancing the night away at FLY, his faceless admirer was a comfort — an unexpected companion on his lonely planet.

Hi, Parker finally sent. I thought you were partying it up tonight.

LOL.

LOL? Parker scrunched his eyebrows. Is that some new type of Morse code?

Laughing out loud, was the quick reply. Flattered that you remember me, or my plans.

Your plans, Parker shot back.

Ouch!

Parker picked up the remote, flipped through a few channels, then turned off the TV. When he looked at his phone again, a barrage of questions lit up the screen.

What part of the city? What do you do? Any plans for tomorrow? Are you still there?

Parker, feeling a knot tighten in his stomach, didn’t know how to respond.

Sorry … didn’t mean to overwhelm. Just interested.

In what? Parker asked.

In getting to know you.

Parker burst out laughing, but it wasn’t funny. Jacob, who’d been on Cuddlr longer, had warned him about the ‘stalkers’ — the guys who wanted to get married after five minutes of texting. His best plan was to shut this down. Now! It’s getting late.

Ah … so, you’re not interested.

It’s hard to… Parker bit down on his lip. Would you be excited about chatting with a picture of the CN Tower?

Because it’s all about looks.

Parker typed a response, but erased it and opted for, Given the app we’re using…

I didn’t say I was looking for sex.

Didn’t say you weren’t. Parker cringed. That wasn’t what he wanted to send, it was just a reflex.

You’re right. It’s getting late.

Enjoy the rest of the weekend, Parker texted before he could change his mind.

I was just trying to be friendly. Sorry if I offended you.

Parker felt his chest tightening. Why couldn’t he be ruthless? Why did he feel like he had to be the guy who was nice to everyone? Sorry. This app makes me suspicious, more than usual.

Especially of guys with no clear face pic, right?

Exactly.

There was a pause that made Parker’s heart race. Had he just crossed a line?

I may not share a face pic right off the bat, but that doesn’t make me a loser, a troll, or any less human.

At that moment, something happened that had Parker wincing at the metallic taste in his mouth. He was the guy the pretty boys ignored, which made him doubt his worth and feel almost unlovable. Now, he was doing the same thing and being a prick.

I’m the loser, Parker replied.

His response had them exchanging messages like Andy Murray and Milos Raonic battling it out on the courts of Wimbledon, yet neither of them tried for match point. They talked about the upcoming provincial election, Madonna’s fall at the Brit Awards and, to Parker’s surprise, family. At work was a will far greater than his own that chipped away at the walls around him, let him get personal. Then he saw the time. 1:18 a.m.

I guess you didn’t make it out tonight, Parker wrote. Or maybe you’ve been at the bar all this time?

LOL.

Thanks for chatting.

Coffee?

White. Toned. Single. That limited profile description had Parker recalling Jacob’s other warning about faceless profiles. “They’re old or absolute trolls,” Jacob had said bitterly. “Don’t expect a Liam Hemsworth lookalike.” Even after three hours of chatting, he wasn’t sure he was ready to move from the virtual world into the real one.

I didn’t mean tonight. Another long pause. Still there?

Yes.

Then came, Six-two with dark-brown hair, fit, cute and young at heart.

Young … at … heart. Parker weighed that up, again remembering his friend’s blunt counsel: “Young at heart equals old.” It shouldn’t have made a difference, but the next message he sent was, I don’t even know your name.

Jay.

Parker.

So, Parker … coffee tomorrow? Say, eleven?

It stunned Parker to find himself typing, Where?

Balzac’s in Liberty Village.

How will I recognize you?

Light-blue polo shirt, white and blue striped shorts, and a Blue Jays hat.

Parker surprised himself again with his reply. All right. Eleven. Balzac’s. Goodnight.

Night, Sexy!

Parker returned his phone to the coffee table and tucked his legs under his body. He felt nauseous.

This was crazy, wasn’t it? It couldn’t possibly lead to something meaningful, right? No, not when Parker couldn’t imagine falling in love like this. And, really, what it came down to was pride. He didn’t want to look like a fool if the guy stood him up or was old enough to be his father. Then he’d cut himself off again.

Parker drew in several deep breaths. That made him feel better. For a brief moment he thought about cancelling, but he wouldn’t do that. That was something weak men did. He’d show up and let it play out because he had low expectations.

Or so he thought.

The App: Avoiding Temptation

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Don’t do it. Be strong. But Parker, seated at the corner table that provided cover, couldn’t stop himself. He picked up his phone and, liked he’d done not even two minutes ago, opened Cuddlr. No new messages. He chucked it back on the table and bit down on the inside of his mouth. God, I’m pathetic.

It was hard to resist an app like Cuddlr that packaged love into the essentials — height, weight, age, race, scene and position. Fields on a screen that didn’t say much about a guy’s personality or reveal, in a meaningful way, anything about him. And frighteningly addictive, the app had thrown him a lifeline. It gave him a way to connect to a world he felt stood against him. That was what had Parker hooked, had him always reaching for his phone. Now he was trying to pull back, moderate its use.

“Morning,” the alto voice boomed.

Parker looked up, stared into the probing ocean blue eyes that sometimes terrified him and smirked. “Jacob Harding in the flesh!”

“Ha-ha.” Jacob hung his blue military-style jacket on the back of the chair. “You didn’t think I’d show?”

“Thought you would’ve gone out partying and had company this morning.”

“I’m not a ho.”

Parker raised an eyebrow. “Debatable.”

Jacob flinched. Then, after a moment, they laughed.

“Latte?” Parker asked, rising slightly.

“I’ll get it.” Jacob headed for the counter.

Parker found himself, one more time, with his phone in his hand. This time he shut it down to ward off temptation. Then his gaze landed on Jacob’s round bubble butt that had him feeling the heat burn in his cheeks. He’d never done that before … check out his friend. Now I’m just desperate.

“So, this is your spot,” Jacob said, settling into his chair.

“Yes.” Parker picked up his mug. “The coffee’s good, and so is the food.” He’d been telling Jacob about Octavo since it opened eight months ago. The cosy café-diner on Front Street West was where he stopped for an Americano on the way to work.

Parker and Jacob, junior lawyers at a prominent Toronto firm, had both just graduated with a master’s degree in international criminal law. They’d met on the first day of articling, their cubicles side-by-side. That made for an easy, if not accidental, alliance. Neither one of them could remember when it happened, but discovering that the other was gay shored up their bond. Their friendship, five years on, was anchored, real and deep.

Jacob sipped his latte. “That’s good coffee.” Then he pointed at Parker’s phone. “Make any progress on the manhunt?”

Parker bristled. “It’s not a manhunt. I’m not like you. I’m not always on the prowl.”

“And that’s why you’re not getting laid.”

“Says who?”

“Really?” Jacob ran his hand through his dark hair. “That’s hard to imagine when you find something wrong with every guy who messages you. Who are you saving yourself for?”

“The guy who won’t give me Chlamydia or gonorrhea,” Parker said cheekily. “Besides, I’m not the type to fall in love with a headless torso.”

“Not even for an hour?” Jacob smiled.

There it was, in that grin, something that softened the harshness in Jacob’s rugged face. Maybe that was why Parker now found himself doing what most men and women did in Jacob’s presence. His eyes were glued to his friend’s ripped chest that seemed set to burst through the snug-fitting shirt. He has the GQ looks and style all the guys are after. He’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. The gurgling of the coffee machine made him look up. “You can certainly do better than that,” he said with an edge.

Jacob shrugged. “The app makes it easy when you’re horny, short on time and need a quick fix. I’m not talking about love or —”

“It’s just so…” Parker’s voice trailed off. Dirty. But he’s right. It’s the Quik Mart of sex, as if you can walk right into the store and grab sex off the shelf, whatever the fetish.

“This is how it’s done now.” Jacob drummed his fingers on the table. “So, if you’re getting laid, dish.”

“No,” Parker said firmly and reached for his mug. “You might be my best friend, but there are certain things about me you don’t need to know. And vice versa.”

“Oh, come on. I tell you everything.”

Parker choked on his coffee and coughed. “I know. Without me asking!”

They laughed. Parker only half-listened as Jacob talked about what had happened in the office while he was away. He was more concerned with why Jacob seemed so interested in knowing the details of his love life. It felt like the beginning of a deposition, but he didn’t know what Jacob hoped to discover or why. But he had no interest in turning their Cuddlr experiences into a competition. And, really, how was he supposed to compete with Jacob-the-heartthrob-Harding?

With their drinks done, they stood and put on their coats as they made for the exit.

“Have you changed your mind about tonight?” Jacob asked as they stood on the sidewalk. “The DJ’s from New York. He’s supposed to be amazing.”

“Every weekend you ask me to go to FLY,” Parker said askance. “Every weekend I say no. It’s not my scene. Why do you keep asking?”

“Because I think you might have fun if you’ll let yourself,” Jacob spat.

“I’m going to the Warhol exhibit,” Parker said.

“That’s this afternoon. You could go anytime. And the AGO…” Jacob sucked his teeth. “Now there’s a great place to meet men.”

“It could happen,” Parker said.

“And God could tap me for the next Immaculate Conception,” Jacob shot back.

“You’re no virgin.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

They stood in silence, their eyes roving the street. It was as if they were afraid that making eye contact would spark another confrontation. Why were they now on edge?

Parker found Jacob’s gaze and held it. “Have a good weekend. See you Monday.”

“Tuesday,” Jacob corrected. “I have a couple of medical appointments Monday. Taking the day off.”

“Is everything all right?” Parker asked.

“It’s just that time of year. Cleaning at the dentist. Annual physical and testing for Chlamydia … I’m kidding.” Jacob shook his head at Parker’s harsh glare. “You think I’m a cheap ho, but I’m not. I’m actually quite expensive.” It didn’t take long for Parker to crack a smile. That was when Jacob stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him. The hug was brief, Jacob tightening his hold just before letting go. “See you soon.”

Parker staggered when Jacob released him. He didn’t know what to say and watched his friend move off, disappearing a short time later around the corner. What the fuck was that? The only time Jacob had ever hugged him was at his mother’s funeral, and that felt strange. But this was different, almost … intimate. He shrugged it off and made his way towards his condo building on the lakeshore. He whipped out his phone and waited for it to power on. The first thing he did was open Cuddlr.

“You have 1 new message!”

His heart raced as he tapped View Message. The excitement didn’t last long.

Christ, not him again!