Charlie drops his hand from his eyes and stands directly in front of Dev in a wordless display of their respective widths. And yeah, okay. Charlie is twice his size. He could cover Dev like a duvet.
And that thought—that thought right there—is why Dev needs to have sex tonight.
He goes to the armoire and begins rifling through Charlie’s expensive things. Charlie’s clothes are beautiful, but none of them really scream Dev. None of them really scream Charlie, either. Charlie’s fancy clothes are another protective layer he puts on every day. Except.
“Oh my Lord, is this a jean jacket? Why do you have a jean jacket? I’ve never even seen you in jeans. It’s glorious.”
Dev grabs one of Charlie’s hundred-dollar T-shirts and throws the jean jacket on over it. He swims in both. “Honest assessment: am I rocking this jean jacket, or does it make me look like a twelve-year-old trying to get into a bar while wearing his father’s suit?”
“You look really good.”
Dev punches his arm. “Thanks, man. Now get dressed!”
Dev goes to put on a pair of skinny jeans while Charlie gets up to brush his teeth. Charlie’s in the process of choosing from his many possible colored-shorts-and-short-sleeved-chambray combinations when there’s a double knock on the door, and Jules comes bursting in holding two mini bottles of vodka she pocketed from the plane. She’s released her hair from its usual topknot prison, and black curls spill down her back in beautiful waves. In place of her usual T-shirt, she’s wearing a jean skirt and crop top and mascara. “Shit, Jules! You look hot. Like a Chinese, ‘Sometimes’-era Britney Spears.”
She tosses him a mini bottle. “You look like an Indian, Growing Pains–era Leo.”
“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Charlie settles on periwinkle shorts and a cream-colored chambray with little flowers stitched into the fabric. Jules snorts. “Charles, you look like a stockbroker vacationing in Martha’s Vineyard, as always.”
“Well, you look very beautiful,” Charlie says with the same sincerity.
His earnestness seems to dissolve some of her usual cynicism. Jules shyly looks down at her feet. “Thanks, Charlie.”
Something unpleasant in Dev’s chest, but he swallows it down with vodka, puts on a smile. “Shall we?”
Charlie
There’s an undercurrent of panic beneath his skin—a tiny, nagging voice that says, Maybe this isn’t a good idea. Maybe don’t get drunk with Dev tonight. But the voice is buried beneath an overwhelming thrum of anticipation as Jules leads them out of the hotel and into the chaos of the French Quarter.
It’s all the things he usually hates: too many people, too many smells, too much noise. But for some reason, all Charlie can see and smell and hear is Dev. Dev laughing at something Jules says; the smell of hotel shampoo as Dev brushes against him, pulling them along toward the bar where they’re meeting Skylar; Dev strutting around, wearing Charlie’s clothes. The sight of Dev in his oversize jean jacket makes Charlie feel… something he can’t quite name.
It takes them an hour to walk three blocks because Jules wants to eat at every food stand, and Dev wants to talk to every stranger, and Charlie wants to read every historical plaque. When they finally meet up with Skylar outside a gay bar, she looks nothing like her usual high-strung-director self, and every bit like a happy fortysomething woman. She hugs Jules and Dev, shakes Charlie’s hand in greeting, and then they’re all stuffing themselves around a tiny table, knees banging together. “We are getting belligerent tonight, yes?” Skylar asks with a formal air.
“Indubitably,” Jules agrees.
Charlie doesn’t say anything. He watches Dev press the pad of his thumb against his bottom lip. Charlie imagines his thumb, Dev’s lip, and the gentle pressure it would take to coax his mouth open. He’s losing it a bit, and they haven’t even started drinking.