Chapter Text
Culinary school was by no means cheap. Even with the scholarships Antonio Higgins had been awarded, he would still be paying thousands of dollars a year and he would be doing it completely alone. His family was still back in Italy. They had been for the past eight years of his life. Race was the only Higgins to live ‘the American Dream,’ which currently meant working as a part time cashier for a grocery store.
That was where he stood now, at 10:50 at night, waiting the next hour until close. Customers milled about the aisles. The time passed slowly. Race was rather bored.
The only saving grace was his coworker, Albert, his bagger for the evening. When Race first started they mainly talked about school, he found out that Albert was attending Julliard for theater and dance. He had seen some of his work and, damn, could that boy dance.
It was just about Race’s sixth week in, and it was safe to say that Albert was no longer a coworker, but also a friend. He was the first one Race would call when he needed someone to taste test a recipe and soon integrated into hanging out with with Race’s closest friends: Elmer, Finch and Specs.
Davey was also working tonight. He was around 23 years old, only 2 years older than Race, and quite possibly the only reason he got this job. Jack would always tease him about it, after all, how often was it that his best friend’s boyfriend got him work that he would end up falling in love with?
Race genuinely did enjoy his job, even though it was only as a part-time cashier. He did not mind standing from 3pm – 12:15am every day after hours of school. He did not mind the customers that cursed him out when he denied them a coupon or repeating the rewards number spiel every five minutes. He did not mind that his late hours meant no one ever came in after nine; there was ample time for him to finish homework.
Let Jack make fun of him. Race was making money, making friends, and completing schoolwork all in one place. He was happy, after a long while of being trapped in that dark place in his mind, and he couldn’t ask for anything more.
The automatic doors slid open with a soft hiss. Race groaned, lifting his gaze from his algebra to crane his neck and see what asshole needed to go shopping ten minutes before closing. “Hey, Dave?” He called out, hoping the male could hear him from the backroom. “Can you close the doors? I would like to leave before twelve-thirty tonight.”
His response was drowned out by Albert screeching the lyrics to “Tainted Love.” His sing was something to be desired, but he was trying to improve, figuring a decent voice paired with his exceptional dancing would land him a role on Broadway. Race supported him, in every moment except for the current one. “Albert, for the love of all that is holy, shut yer trap.” He whined, closing his textbook to go and lock the automatic doors leading in.
Albert was indignant at the reaction, ready to start a brawl, but Davey came out and interrupted. “Sorry, I had to make sure everything was all set to go.” He already had his hat and coat on. “Once this last customer leaves I can count your drawer and we should all be out in ten minutes tops.”
Said customer, placed their singular item on the belt. Race made his way back to his register, opening his mouth to greet them but was stunned into silence. It was rare for him to see Jack with his eyes open this late at night, let alone with the most gorgeous stranger he had ever seen.
“Jack?” Race composed himself and decided that focusing solely on Jack was the only thing keeping him from spontaneously combusting in the presence of this attractive stranger, “Since when are you awake past ten?”
Jack’s companion (acquaintance? Race honestly couldn’t tell) in line snorted while Jack let out an embellished gasp. “You wound me.” He cried, dramatically throwing his hand to his head and groaning. “Davey, babe, are you going to let him talk to me that way?”
Davey simply rolled his eyes, muttering something to Albert about how he should have just walked home. The two laughed, only fueling Jack’s melodramatic façade. “Even my lover turns on me, what have I done to deserve such abuse? Oh, cruel world-”
“Aye, Jackie, you should’a majored in actin’ ‘stead of art with all these overreactions,” said the stranger. Race turned to him with grin, it was rare someone could match his wit. He quickly typed in his password and scanned the single item: a can of sardines. Weird, but hey Race had seen a lot crazier things in retail, so he wasn’t one to judge.
“Jack aren’t ya gonna introduce me to your friend over here or am I going to have to rely on my charm?” Race cooed, winking at the male. He was short, 5’4” at the tallest, but his build made up for it. He could probably lift a car without breaking a sweat based off the size of his biceps.
Jack rolled his eyes, too busy pouting at being outnumbered to answer. The stranger sighed, sticking his hand out around the register to properly introduce himself, “Spot, Spot Conlon, friend o’ Jack’s.”
Race grin would have widened if it could and he eagerly shook Spot’s hand. “You can call me Racetrack Higgins. I am Jack’s official best friend,” He said so quickly it was surprising Spot could even follow along. Somehow, he did, going as far to raise his eyebrow at the title Race had bestowed upon himself.
“Offical ya say?” He let out a low whistle. “That’s an impressive label.” There was a glint in his eye, Race could have sworn it. Whether it was love or jealousy was yet to be determined; there was also a strong possibility that glint was simply the florescent lights of the store, but Race was a romantic.
Davey let out a loud laugh. “Race is anything but impressive,” He teased. Race let out an offended gasp, but Albert was quick to come to his rescue. “Are you implying that him teacher poker to a nine-year-old was not impressive or when he single-handedly orchestrated a city wide shut down for 34 hours or that time he got Beyoncé – Beyoncé, Davey – to retweet him and then-”
Jack’s boyfriend threw his hands in the air crying out, “Ok! Ok, I get it. Race is the greatest person to walk the planet.” Before Race could even plaster on the mischievous grin Davey had a pointed glare aimed at him, “Don’t you grow a big head. That nine-year-old was my brother and I kicked your ass.”
Spot let out a bark of laughter, “No way, the walkin’ Mouth kicked yer ass?” Race reddened, this was not the first impression he was expecting to leave on Spot.
“Paper or plastic?” He blurted out, in attempt to switch the topic of conversation literally anywhere else. Everyone stared at him like he had three heads. “What? I’m just doing my job.”
“Racer, he’s got one thing and it’s a small ass can of sardines,” Jack laughed as Davey punched him in the arm in an attempt to shush him once he noticed the embarrassed blush across Race’s cheeks had only deepened. There was some hushed whispering between the two, along the lines of ‘be nice he’s got a crush’ and ‘no I will not apologize for speaking the truth.’ Eventually, Jack looked back at Race and muttered a small, “I am sorry for calling you out on your own stupidity.”
Davey pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. At least he apologized, no matter how half-assed it may have been. Race took it in stride and salvaged what little dignity he had left, “I forgive you, Cowboy. After all, someone needs to relieve you for your role of dumbass every once in a while.”
Race wasn’t religious, but if he was he would have thanked the gods above because Spot laughed at that shitty joke. It was midnight now, closing time. Davey was antsy, bouncing about and tugging on Jack, so Race figured it was best to finish up the order and let Davey close up. He handed Spot his can of sardines, not in a bag, and pulled out his drawer for Davey to count out in the back.
“So, why are you getting a single can of sardines?” Albert asked. Race made a mental note to take him out to lunch for being such a good wing man.
Spot looked down at his purchase and laughed, “Yeah, I guess it’s a little weird for a midnight shopping run. They’re for my cat. She’s been good this week, so I’s decided I would reward her.”
Race arched an eyebrow. Hot and he had a pet, this may have just been the man of his dreams. “You’re a cat person?” He asked in shock, quickly adding, “and you’re treating her like you would a dog. Rewarding her for good behavior, love, she’s only going to see the treat and keep doing whatever the hell she wants.”
Albert died at that comment, laughing so hard he had tears running down his face. Race knew that his boyfriend, Finch, had three cats and had spent two years trying to train them to sit like a dog would, it was a huge waste of time. Spot didn’t lose his smile, “Laugh all you want, but she hasn’t pushed anythin’ off the counter all week, so she’s getting’ a reward. Plus, I wanted a dog, but my roommate’s allergic.”
Race smiled, packing his homework into his bag and following Davey, Jack, and Albert out the door. Spot fell into step next to him. “If you could have a dog, what kind would you get?” He asked, gently hip checking the shorter fellow.
“A pitbull, they’s good dog’s, just ‘ave a bad rap.” He said after a moment’s deliberation. Jack made a small scoff, “I can’t believe you didn’t say Crutchie. You are always talking about how you want to steal my dog.”
Spot let out a small chuckle and shrugged, “I’s would be too scared ta fight you’s for him, ya would probably kill me.” Everyone knew that Jack loved his rescue lab. The poor thing was found hurt and abused so badly they were forced to amputate his front leg. No one wanted to support the puppy, claiming it was too much work, but Jack stepped up and took him.
Race nodded in agreement, “Both would have been a good choice, if you had said something like Chihuahua I would have been forced to never talk to you again.”
At that comment Spot grinned and nudged him, “That’s all it would ‘ave taken? You’s should ‘ave told me that before I answered.” Albert let out a loud “Ohhhh burn” before saying a loud goodbye and heading off towards his car.
Jack checked his watch and sighed, it was 12:15. “Yeah, we should be heading out too. Sure, you’re okay walking home Racer?” He asked, voice laced with worry. Race had been mugged once, maybe two, times on his walk home and ever since then Jack practically went into cardiac arrest every time Race’s shift ended.
“Jack, I have walked home for three months without an incident. I will be perfectly fine, it’s only four blocks.” Race reassured him with a dramatic eyeroll that caused Spot’s eyebrow to arch. Davey was quick to shut down any further conversation by complaining about his legs hurting and his desperate need for a warm bed.
“See ya ‘round, Racer.” Spot winked, and Race laughed.
“We both know you’ll be counting down the seconds until you see me again,” Race teased. “Night everybody, get home safe.”
Jack dragged him into a small hug, “Call me if you see anyone suspicious.” Race sighed but nodded when Jack pulled back to look him in the eye, muttering a small, “Please?”
He waved them off before starting home. Part of him wished he had asked for Spot’s number, but it would have been weird coming onto one of Jack’s friends in front of him. They didn’t do that. Even when Race and Specs had that weird thing they never did it around their friends; no one did unless they were officially a couple. Less drama that way. Plus, it wasn’t like Race would ever see him again.
It turned out that Race would be graced with Spot’s presence once more. A little over a week later, Davey and he were closing with a new bagger – Race was already having a bad day and the fact that Albert was not there to talk his ear off just added to his sour mood. The automatic doors slid open with the same annoying hiss and Race let out a small cry. His bagger looked at him with concern but stayed silent, he hadn’t said anything since Race yelled at him for bagging frozen items with soup from the hot bar. Even Albert wasn’t that bad of a bagger and Davey almost fired him twice because of customer complaints.
Once more they were ten minutes to close. Race had failed to start any homework; the store was unusually busy for a Wednesday night plus he had to instill some common sense into the new kid. The last thing he wanted was to help another customer. With the way today was going they would end up taking half an hour, meaning Race wouldn’t get home until one and only get a few hours of sleep to be up for is 8 am class tomorrow.
Davey came out of the backroom, doing last minute checks to make sure the other registers were empty and going to lock the doors going in. He winked at Race on his way by, just as the customer placed their items on the belt. Race, as confused as he was, simply plastered his best customer service smile on and turned.
“Hi, you found everything okay- oh. Hiya, Spotty.” The fake smile fell, but he quickly recovered and winked. “You missed me that bad, huh?” Race laughed, reaching over to scan his items. There were two this time: sardines and ice cream.
Spot blushed, at least, Race thought he had blushed but that could have been due to his overly active imagination, then he let out a loud laugh. “First of all, my name ain’t Spotty. Second, I was sitting in class this mornin’ drooling over the freeze-frame memory I ‘ave of you and just thought ta myself, ‘Golly gee, I’s should go in an’ spend my money just to see him in person.’” Spot deadpanned, the corners of his lips threatening to twitch up into a small grin.
Race wheezed with laughter at the story, but the “golly gee” coming out in his monotone voice was the cherry on top. Once more Spot’s face went pink, but this time he allowed a shy smile to make its way onto his face. “You are something else. . . Spotty,” Race said, a sly smirk spreading over his features. Spot raised his eyebrow, scoffing slightly at the use of the name, leaning forward slightly as if to say something. They stared at each other, Race’s eyes darting from deep brown eyes, to the freckles scattered across his nose, and to his slightly chapped lips before bouncing back up to meet his challenging gaze.
The new bagger gasped, having somehow managed to rip the bag filled with just two small items. Race leaned back, giving a tired smile and a loud sigh. “How in the hell were you able to do that?” he snapped, the kid nervously shoving Spot’s items into a new bag before scampering off to clock out.
“Aye, go easy on the kid. He’s ‘bout as smart as you are,” Spot snorted softly, eyes trailing over Race’s tired features. He only earned a breathy chuckle in response. “Hey, you’s ok there Race?” Spot asked, leaning against the register, head cocked to the side.
Race blushed, avoiding his eyes and shrugging. There was no way he would be able to respond to that with an intelligible sentence. Luckily, Davey returned with a smug grin on his face and grabbed Race’s till. “Hello, Spot. How are you doing today?” He asked, using his award-winning customer service voice. The voice was truly award-winning, Davey had earned employee of the month for the past six months. The customers absolutely adored him.
The bag was held up in response, “Oh you know, my boyfriend dumped me on Monday and I’m still not over it, so I got’s myself some ice cream,” Spot said with a bitter laugh, “Little does the bastard know, I still got his Netflix password.”
“Aw, that’s too bad. I know how close you and Tommy Boy were,” Davey said, sympathetically placing a hand on his shoulder with a reassuring squeeze. “You’ll find the right person, someone who deserves you. I know you will.”
Race nodded, biting back a smile. Last week he had texted Jack almost as soon as he had gotten home. He demanded to know everything about Spot, especially why the two had never met until now. Jack, always one for drama, told Race the bare minimum: Spot had lived with Jack for two years in Medda’s foster home but had been adopted by his birth father, only to show up a few years later, he mainly kept to himself (Jack was honestly shocked that he even joked around with Race), and he was in a happy, queer relationship.
Not anymore , Race allowed himself the selfish thought, quickly jumping into the conversation with a, “Yeah, Spot. Davey is right, anyone would be fool to turn you away,” before karma could bite him in the ass.
The conversation ended there, with Spot muttering about how they were just being nice, and Davey finishing in closing up the store. The three fell into a comfortable silence as they made their way outside. It was April, the weather was just being to warm up and the sky, though bright and sunny, always seemed to have a raincloud in the sky. A soft drizzle fell in the darkness, Race let out a small groan, “Why does it always rain when I’m working? It’s like mother nature knows I walk home.”
Spot and Davey laughed at his expense, tilting their heads upwards to watch the rain fall. “I can give you a ride if you want,” Davey offered, but Race shook his head.
“Nah, you live all the way across town it would just be an inconvenience,” Race sighed, fumbling around in his bag for an umbrella. Davey knew better than to argue, he could be just as stubborn as Jack sometimes, plus he was tired and ready to go home. He said his goodbye then rushed to his car. Spot made no move to go to his car.
It seemed that the umbrella, which Race had just used earlier that same day, was not in the bottom of his backpack where he had remembered putting it. Instead, it was sitting on his kitchen table with a sticky note on it that read ‘Don’t forget me!’ How ironic. “Fuck, I don’t have my umbrella,” Race whined, in the most unbecoming manner he could manage.
“I can give you a ride home, I ‘ave ta head that direction anyways,” Spot offered, grinning sheepishly. If it was Albert or Jack, Race would have immediately agreed; however, this was Spot and if there was one thing Race hated more than walking home in the rain, it was being an inconvenience.
He have a hesitant nod. “If it’s not too much of a trouble,” Race muttered, zipping his bag back up as Spot laughed.
“I wouldn’t ‘ave offered if it was too much of a trouble, dork,” he teased, nudging Race softly with his shoulder. “Move quick when you’s goin’ ta the car. I don’t want my seats ta be soaked.”
Of course, Race took this as a challenge. He set down his backpack and grabbed his foot, stretching out his quad out. Spot watched with a curious stare, waiting until the fourth variation of stretch to comment. “What the actual hell,” he emphasized the ‘actual’ with his thick Brooklyn accent, “are you doin’ strechin’ at 12:30 at night?”
This observation broke Race out of his concentrated stupor. “Clearly, I’m getting ready to tell you that the last one to the car is a rotten egg,” he said matter-of-factly, as though that was the most obvious thing ever. The tall blonde looked down at Spot and the two burst out laughing. That didn’t last long because Spot screamed “go!” while Race was distracted and took off.
“Hey, that’s no fair!” Race shouted, fumbling to grab his bag before taking off after him. There were many reasons Antonio Higgins had gotten his nickname: he liked to bet on the horse races, he had once fallen into one and almost drowned, and he was the fastest runner back in high school. So, it wasn’t much of a surprise to him that he passed Spot with ease, even after the head start.
The rain was comfortable but coming down faster as the two ran. Race slipped, slamming into the side of Spot’s 2010 Chevy Colorado. “Be careful with her!” Spot laughed, reaching the truck moments later. The two of them stood in the steady downpour, hunched over for a moment as they caught their breaths then Spot leaned over and opened the passenger door, waiting until Race was stowed safely inside before closing it.
“Thank you,” Race panted, brushing wet curls from his forehead. “I just have one question.”
Spot hummed in response, still too tired to speak, as he slammed his door. He glanced over at his passenger, waiting until he had buckled up to stick the key in the ignition. The engine spluttered for a moment. For a moment, neither were sure it would turn over, but as the suspense peaked the truck roared to life. Spot’s cheerful whoop brought a blush to Race’s cheeks and he couldn’t help but giggle at the childish way his face lit up.
“Why the hell did you park so far away? All the front spaces are wide open,” Race asked, staring at Spot with a bemused grin. They stared at one another, wheezing and damp.
Spot shrugged, responding with a simple “I honestly have no clue.” There was a beat of silence then he broke down into a fit of infectious laughter that Race couldn’t help but join in on. It was 12:45 and Race was pretty sure he had met the love of his life.
The car pulled out of its spot and started down the empty roads towards Race’s apartment. Typically, Race loved to be in the midst New York’s wild lifestyle, the ones that could only be seen in movies. Something changed in him, maybe it was the way the streetlights reflected the rain or the way a lazy car drifted down the street every once in a while. Maybe, just maybe, it was sharing this tranquil realization with Spot. He stared out the window with a small smile, listening to the shitty pop music Spot had put on and was desperately trying not to belt along to. It was definitely the latter.
The few block drive went faster than expected and it wasn’t long before Spot pulled up a little ways down the street from Race’s apartment. “This is me,” He let out a long sigh but made no move to leave.
It was common knowledge that Race developed attractions easily. He was a generally outgoing person, the type that could be friends with anyone, which often meant he fell into crushes often. There was one time a kid in his baking class went out of her way to hold the door open for him and Race was convinced she was his soulmate. His tired eyes glanced over at Spot, studying his profile: the freckles littered across his face, the strong bridge of his nose, the slope of his forehead pushing his brows forward to form his hooded eyes. He didn’t want Spot to be just another crush.
“Thanks for giving me the ride,” Race gave a lopsided grin, hand on the door handle. Just as he was about to push it open, he was interrupted.
“Wait!” Spot sounded a little too enthusiastic, but Race didn’t mind. It meant he was not overthinking their encounters, the part of him that was convinced Spot enjoyed his presence was at least partly correct. He cleared his throat before continuing. “I’s, um, wanted ta know if you’s is really ok? I know earlier, you’s. . . well quite honestly, you’s looked like crap and I know’s you has been havin’ a tough day,” Spot stumbled over his words, a hand reaching up to rub sheepishly at the back of his neck. His face was turning red with every word and his gaze flickered everywhere but at Race. “I just wanted ya ta know that I’s is here if you need ta talk.”
Race bit back a smile, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he thought this over. Spot, someone whom he was currently on his second encounter with, had no clue what his favorite color was, and did not have his phone number, was telling Race that it was ok to talk to him. He let out a shaky exhale, the burning urge to laugh dissolved in his throat. Instead, he asked, “What’s your favorite color?’
There was a lapse in the conversation. Spot cocked his head in confusion, hesitantly answering with ‘red.’ Race nodded along as if that was the best color to have ever been created, even though he was partial to sky blue himself. “Sorry, I just make it a rule that I at least know the favorite color of the people I unload my problems to,” He laughed nervously, praying that Spot didn’t notice.
To his surprise, Spot accepted the random question with no complaints and listened patiently as Race recounted the details of his day. He had worked till close the night before, almost got hit by a drunk driver on his walk home and collapsed in bed after three hours of homework. The next morning his alarm failed to go off because he had forgotten to charge his phone, which meant Race was sprinting to his 8 a.m. class in his pajama’s. When he burst into the classroom, sweaty and out of breath he realized that there was no alarm set because he did not have an 8 a.m. class Wednesday morning.
It only got worse. He ran into his ex on the way back to his apartment, she gave him a disgusted look but felt the need to stop and talk to him anyway. The conversation was anything but pleasant, her mentioning how much happier she was with her new man. He walked away mid-conversation and had a caramel vanilla iced coffee with almond milk and a shot of espresso dumped onto him. His ex proceeded to call him a dick and stomped away, empty Starbucks cup in hand. (Spot had some choice words to say about her.) It took him half an hour to walk home. Race’s favorite sweatshirt was ruined as was his favorite pair of flannel pajama pants. When he got in the shower, the water pressure was so low he couldn’t even get the coffee out of his hair properly.
Race ended up washing his hair in the sink and wiping the rest of his body down with a wet wipe. His clothes would have to wait until laundry day. That meant his bathroom would smell like overpriced coffee for the rest of the week.
Somehow it got even worse. He got a text from his mom saying they couldn’t come visit over Spring Break and the plane to visit them was all booked up well up into May. Race spent the next two hours crying his eyes out. All he wanted was to see his family, hug his mom, play tag with his little siblings; he wanted to not be alone in America anymore. Sure, he had Jack and his other friends, but it wasn’t the same.
The exhaustion of crying had caused him to fall asleep once more and he woke up late for his 1 p.m. class. Not even bothering to run, Race emailed his professor to say that he was sick, and they sent him fifteen pages of math problems to complete for tomorrow. No get well soon, nothing.
Then he went to work, still smelling slightly of Starbucks and found out he had to help train the new kid. Without Albert to bitch to, all the anger of the day was slowly building up inside of Race, which meant that poor new bagger was taking the heat on every small mistake.
“I’m going to have to apologize to him next time we work together,” Race said with a small sigh. His entire monologue lasted about half an hour.
“If he hasn’t quit by now,” Spot teased and the two fell into easy laughter. Getting it all off his chest left Race feeling lighter, laughing was easier.
It was about 1:15 in the morning, neither of them wanted to go back to their normal lives. This late night, car rant session was solely their own; that isn’t just something one can walk away from. Race made the first move to break the silence, part of him wanted to say goodnight then go home and crawl into bed, but his lack of impulse control had his asking another question instead.
“Are you buying sardines because your cat was good again?” The question was innocent enough, despite the teasing nature hidden below the surface.
“No, you were right about her. I’s gave her the sardines an’ not even an hour after she had pushed a bowl offa the counter an’ shattered it,” Spot followed his explanation with a hearty laugh. “These sardines are just because I can’t say no to her when she curls up on my chest afterwards and meows like she actually feels bad.”
It was odd, Race realized, that under all those muscles and tank tops that Spot would be such a softie. He would have expected there to be part of him that was closed and cold to the world, like Jack had told him, but he just couldn’t see it. All Race could see was a college kid buying sardines for his cat because he loved her. All he could see was a man trying his hardest not to embarrass himself by screaming the lyrics to “7 Rings” at the top of his lungs with a cute boy in the car. All Race could see was Spot for who he truly was, right off the bat.
“What’s her name?” Race asked, tilting his head the way Spot does when he’s curious, like a dog. It fit him, the scrappy bulldog image. Maybe one day they could adopt a bulldog together- no, he was thinking too far ahead of himself. Live in the moment, that’s what his mother always said.
Spot grinned and spoke with the utmost importance in his voice, “Is I glad you asked. Her name is Pickles and she is one year old.” Race couldn’t have said he was expecting such an odd name from Spot. He had assumed it would be rather unoriginal, like Whiskers or Stormy, but Spot was full of surprises.
“Before you’s judge me,” Spot quickly followed up, and Race couldn’t help but laugh. “Her name is Pickles ‘cause the first week I’s brought her home I’s couldn’t tink of a name for her. For some reason, she got used to the house very quickly- like, I’m talkin’ freaky fast - and had already figured out how ta hop up onto the counter and survey the entire livin’ room and kitchen like she owned the place.
“My roommate, Henry, was makin’ his lunch: pastrami on rye with a sour pickle. Don’t ask, it reminds him of his childhood or some shit. Anyway, Pickles hops up by him ta watch and sees the jar o’ pickles out on the counter; the edge of the counter, might I’s add. So, she does what any sensible cat would do and swats at it until the entire jar falls ta the floor an’ my whole house smells like pickle juice for the rest of the day.”
The urge to crack up is too much to bear and soon the two of them are roaring with laughter. Tears rush down Race’s cheeks, there’s a tightening in his sides from laughing for so long, but he doesn’t mind it too much. Hearing Spot laugh along with him with the rain tapering off was well worth the discomfort.
“I think I’m gonna have to meet her one day,” Race says, crinkling his nose in delight. The thought felt entirely domestic: Spot and him sitting on the couch, playing with Pickles. He was never one to settle down with one person, those types of relationships had always ended poorly, but with Spot in the picture it didn’t seem half bad.
He was definitely going to have to call Davey later, someone needed to talk some sense into him. Race could not fall too far in too fast, it had been months since his last relationship and it all fell apart because of that exact reason. His phone buzzed with a text from Davey, speak of the devil, asking if he got home safe. It was only then that he realized it was already 1:37 a.m. and both of them probably needed sleep at some point in the night.
“Thanks for giving me a ride home.” Race smiled, making the impulse decision to lean over and press a kiss to Spot’s freckled cheek. Before he could hear any response, he was out the door and hurrying down the sidewalk cursing himself for being so foolish. Spot’s truck rolled slowly alongside him, shitty pop music blaring. “Race,” Spot called out from his window, “I’ll see you ‘round.”
Race waved to him, rushing up the steps to his building with a large grin on his face. God, he hoped he would.
True to his word, Spot kept popping up in Race’s life. A few times a week he would come in. At least one of those times he would always have a can of sardines. There were days where he would come in during the busiest time of the day, which meant they couldn’t talk, but the two would smile and wave; that could hold them over for a few days.
Other days Spot would come in when there were no customers. Typically, it was an hour or two before close, giving he and Race plenty of time to talk. Race learned a lot, for instance, Spot was at NYU obtaining a financial degree. It wasn’t his passion, but the jobs he got would pay well enough to make up for that.
Spot was left-handed, his favorite meal was a corned beef on rye sandwich (he and Race argued for weeks about whether or not that constituted as a meal; Spot won, naturally), he got his nickname. not for his freckles, but because of the dark hickies he would leave on people in high school, he hated watching the animals hurt each other on Animal Planet, he could not stand the taste of coffee even though his favorite flavor of ice cream was java chip. The list went on and on.
If Spot was nervous, he would fidget; it didn’t matter with what, he just had to release the anxiety somehow. When he heard something funny he would bite his bottom lip, trying to hide a smile, but end up breaking into a loud laugh anyway. If there was something bothering him Spot’s face would settle into a poker face almost as good as Race’s. Few things, Race being one of them, could break it.
They still hadn’t exchanged numbers, neither one of them wanted to make the first move. Davey kept trying to convince Race to just ask. Watching the two flirt over the past two months was causing the 23-year-old to implode.
“The sexual tension is too much to bear!” Davey had cried out one night after Spot had left. The two had been sitting onto of one of the belts, shoulders and hands brushing, whispering about their hopes and dreams. Albert was quick to agree, “Yeah, Racer, make a move already! He makes you so happy and you two are already so close. There is no way even you could mess it up.”
Race wasn’t convinced. There were so many things that could go wrong. After three months of Spot’s nightly visits, even Jack had begun to egg the two on. “C’mon, Racer,” He whined, Crutchie hobbling over to slobber all over Race’s lap. “He talks about you all the time. Just ask him out already.”
Jack’s attempts were futile, they had this discussion at least once a week. The grocery talks were special. The most real relationship Race had ever had, and it wasn’t even a genuine relationship. “I dunno, Cowboy. What if he finds something he doesn’t like about me?” It was an excuse he used all the time. The look Jack shot him as he pet Crutchie said that he was not taking it this time.
“Look, I’m havin’ a fourth of July party this weekend. Invite him,” Jack reached over to scratch his dog behind the ears. “And you will make it clear that you want to show up together, not just the lame ass excuse where you tell him that I’m throwing a party and want to know if he’s going. Spot knows I would text him if I wanted him to come solo.”
“Fine. Fine,” Race groaned, throwing his arms around the one-legged pup and burying his face in his fur. “I’ll ask him tomorrow.”
The next day came faster than Race had expected, maybe it was just the nerves. His entire shift was a jumbled mess. Race couldn’t concentrate to save his life. All the usual times Spot would come in came and went. Odd, considering he promised to come in Tuesday night.
“It is Tuesday, right?” Race asked his register, even though it was clearly displaying 12:50, July 1st in bright white letters.
He sighed, going to grab the keys from Davey to lock up for the night, when the familiar hiss of the automatic doors sounded loudly throughout the store.