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March 24th

I make my morning coffee and check my phone. There's a message from an unknown number on it.

Hey, it's Paul. How are you feeling? Text me.

I have no idea how he got my number, but I recall my shoes. There might have been a phone number in the sole. I can't help but laugh. Oh, how cheesy. When did this suddenly become a Cinderella story? I want to talk to someone who knows me. Someone I can talk to about serious matters. Someone who I can tell almost everything. I text Aiden and ask him to call me when he gets off work. He calls back pretty quickly.

"Spot!" He exclaims. "Good to hear from you again."

"Hey pip, aren't you at work?"

"Went home early today, I can talk. You better get talking, actually. Been worried about you."

I soothe the bump on my head with my finger, sitting by the kitchen table and sniff at the weak coffee I made.

"I have quite a story to tell, to be honest, and I want your input on something," I say.

Before I can let him reply with any questions, I go over the night's happenings, all the bits I remember at least. I can talk freely to him, and we don't usually keep secrets. But some things I leave out. Instead of telling him that I fell and hit my head while talking to Walt, which is going to sound like a lie, I tell him I got so drunk I couldn't take care of myself and went home with Paul, falling asleep on his couch. I have to assure him several times that I didn't sleep with the guy.

"What about Mr. Whyllis son?" Pip asks, breaking in before I can finish the story.

"Oh." I try to prevent his image from cropping up in my mind. "I don't think he's playing' for our team."

"No shit, Spot," Aiden's tinny voice comes from the other side of the line. "How did you even suspect that he was gay? Jesus, you dogs, honestly. I'm just glad you found out before you went and did something dumb." Pip chuckles to himself, but I can't join in his laugh.

"What I'm asking, Pip," I say, when I can finally finish my recounting of the last two nights' events, "is what would you do in that situation? Would you leave it, or would you try to make something happen?"

"Depends on what you want, doesn't it, Spot?"

"Pip. You know me," I tell him, because somehow, saying that I want a real, proper boyfriend out loud feels hopeless and pathetic, perhaps needy, after my poor luck in that field. I don't want to jinx it

"And this racing driver then? Is he a team player?"

"I'm not sure," I say, contemplating what I recall of him. Lives in a nice house with only his own smell in it. Clean, well selected furniture. Like, heartachingly charming. And he knows that I'm a guy who likes to dress up as a girl, which didn't seem to bother him at all. I chew on the words for a bit before telling Aiden.

"He acted like the perfect gentleman throughout," I tell him. "He is amazingly well groomed and eh... he smelled nice too. That's a plus." I have to fight to keep my tone level. I really ought not to get so attached to smells, but that's easier said than done. It'd be like saying I shouldn't get too attached to the concept of seeing colours or having a favourite taste. It's just this thing we canids have to deal with. "He's got a really nice, big apartment, which was really clean and well looked after. And-"

"Jesus, Spot, let me get a towel first, before you drool all over me," Aiden says and laughs at me. But his tone is still insistent when he speaks again. "What does he look like?"

I haven't told him Paul's name yet. I'm going to assume a public figure like him wouldn't want rumours to fly around, especially not among employees in work places who do business with his team. Aiden would know who I talked about if I mentioned anything about Paul's physical appearance.

"A Greek statue," I say shortly. "I can't say, really, just take it from me, dear. He takes care of himself. That's more than can be said about a lot of the guys you've introduced me to."

"If you would just get that stick out of your ass sometimes," Aiden laughs. "Fine. Fine. He sounds kind of nice, I'll admit. You think he swings?"

"I don't know," I say, thinking back to some of the words Paul had used which stuck out to me. He'd called Walt a bigot, and said I presented well, and rocked that outfit. And I think he called me 'darling' too. But that could be a quirk of his accent. "I think it's safer to find out about him though"

"Safer?" Aiden asks. "What do you mean, safer?"

"I mean," I hesitate, feeling the bulge on my head, which I'm not going to tell him about. "He seemed kind, unlike Walt, and there was something about him that hinted about a deeper understanding about certain things. I don't know how to describe it, but something felt different."

"Oh, our very own psychoanalyst, Reece Freud." Aiden tsks at the other end, then sighs and changes from his joyful tone. "Just be careful. Don't let yourself be stepped on, and don't rush into something without knowing what it's about. Take it slower this time, okay?"

"I'm done chasing random tails, Pip," I tell him. "I'm going to do my best this time."

"That's what you said about the last one," Aiden says.

It stings, but it's necessary, I guess. "I'll take it slower this time. Promise. I want to really get to know this guy. But failing that, I wouldn't mind his cock instead."

I smile as I hear his laughter at the other end. But I would mind. Somehow, during this talk, that wolf has grown on me. Even if Aiden was noncommittal as to whether I should make a thing out of this, I am not. I've decided.

We talk for a bit about all kinds of stuff, but I'm keen to get back to the text I just got, and eventually I manage to end the call. I can't help but smile when I type my reply sometime later.

I'm fine, a bit sore, but nothing I can't handle. I think you've got something of mine, there, isn't that right?

The message comes back almost instantly

Sure. I've got coffee.

Then, almost instantly after that message, another one arrives.

I mean, I have your shoes here. Would you like to exchange them for a cup of coffee? Or whatever, I mean it's cool if you don't want to, I totally understand. I can send them to you by mail or w/e

I quickly type out a reply.

Thursday, ok? Do you know Kelly's? I'd go sooner, but I've got school and stuff

I promised myself not to miss more classes, but man, if he says that he can't go on Thursday, I don't know if I can keep that promise. My phone vibrates again very shortly after.

OK, sure! I'll meet you at 5, sound good?

The response time is instant, minus however quickly it is physically possible for him to type out his replies. Even I struggle to respond that quickly, and I'd marry my phone for the time I spend with it. Must be a racing driver thing, I guess.

I contemplate whether or not I should put aside a nice outfit for him that day. Something summery, like a cute flowery dress. Canvas shoes this time, light and manageable. Even if he knows that I'm a boy, nobody else would. It'd be exciting, even more so because he would know, and it would be a way for him to get to know an important part of me. And he did say I presented well. Somehow, I manage to convince myself that dressing up for him isn't just a fun idea, it's the responsible, right thing to do. I refuse to let Walt get to me, to let my fear dictate what I can and can't do. With a mix of excitement and insecurity, I manage to haul myself towards class.

Professor Cale is a reasonably kind spaniel. He knows that there's a lot of worries on a student's mind, and don't usually make absence from his classes into a big deal. I can tell he has a lot of questions when I walk into his auditorium with a limp and a large bump on my head. At least I interpret that from his impatient stare. I excuse myself and find my place, but I can't focus on anything he says. It's not the bump, this time, but that white wolf. He's all over my mind. Thursday is a few days off still, but it can't come soon enough. After class I hang back for a minute.

"Hey, Professor, I need some help coming up with a theme for this assignment. I honestly don't know where to start, can you help?"

"It's not just another assignment, Reece, it serves as your qualification for next semester. Since you have been rather lax up to now, that assignment needs to be perfect. There won't be any other chances. Your grades are slipping."

I don't really care. I wished I did, but I just can't work up the energy to care. Not here, not for the last half a year or so, not really. I have no idea what to do with my degree anyways. Nobody cares how well their barista or McDonalds server can monologue between modernism and postmodernism. If things are going the way they feel like they're going, I'm not even going to have a degree to show for when I pull lattes at the local coffee place back home.

"I just don't know, Professor, I've been so focused on other tasks, I haven't had the time."

He scrutinizes me over his glasses. "This assignment should be a priority for you above pretty much anything else. It's your future, mr Thomson"

"That's a fair assessment, I suppose. But can't you at least point me in the right direction. I really want to get in next semester. I promise I'll do my best."

Against my better judgement, I let my puppy eyes work their magic.

He hands me a paper. "If you'd been here yesterday, you'd not be in this situation."

The paper is a copy of his own notes on yesterday's class.

"You need to read up on this material. This won't help you unless you know what you're looking for. Take some time off and really study this. Please." He studies my lump for a while, and he's got sympathy in his eyes. Us dogs usually can't stay mad at each other for long. "You look like you could need some rest. That thing doesn't look very good on you."

"I'll take care Professor, Thank you!" I call out over my shoulder as I'm heading for the door. I study the sheet of paper in my paw. I understand all the sentences clearly enough, but they don't resonate with me. I'll take that break he offered, rest up, and get this meeting with Paul out of the way so that I can go back to focusing on school.

March 26th

It's a nice sunny day, which is just what I hoped for, as I slip into my summer dress. A nice, flowery, and very light piece of clothing. It comes down just above my knees, and when it billows in the wind, it shows off some thigh as well, just enough to be risqué at a Sunday coffee and bake sale at the local church. As I study it in the mirror, I can feel the intrusive thoughts of Walt, but in order to push them away, I remind myself what Paul said. It was brave, what I did. I passed well. Rocked that look. Darling. I feel warm just thinking the words to myself in his cute Australian accent.

I frame the whole image with a pair of earrings, a cute little beaded heart bracelet, some low top canvas shoes and a small bow just over my ear, to hide the bump.

He meets me outside Kelly's, even though I'm a bit early. I can tell he's put on a bit of a show through his clothes. A subtle but precisely applied statement. Nothing flashy to draw the attention. Not quite like myself. He had not been prepared for my outfit. His expression is uneasy and worried at first. I wonder if perhaps he's worried about me, or my safety? I'm not worried, because I'm in public now. I've done this enough to know that public places are the safest ones. Perhaps he thinks I go around like this everywhere. Well even so, he was the one who asked me to come, and he's only ever seen me in a dress. So, I'll let him see me properly.

When nobody else pays me any mind, he calms down a bit, and we head inside after a brief exchange of greetings. He's carrying a bag containing my beloved shoes. They're unscathed. I'm even going to suspect they have been cleaned, but I can't remember how they looked at the end of that fateful night.

I get to enjoy his sense of style while he flounders for words, after we've put in our orders. It's really nice. Don't think I don't notice the subtle branding which turns his brown leather jacket from a hundred dollar one to a thousand dollar one. He's got a white t-shirt underneath, which almost blends completely into his fur, if it weren't for a pair of expensive sunglasses hanging from the neckline. We're not talking small fry Ray Bans here, these are made by Cartier. Not many people can tell, as they are designed to look subtle and restrained, but I can. His jeans are carefully distressed, and paint spattered, which means they're likely even more expensive than the jacket, and on his wrist, there's a leather strapped Bell & Ross. It's not just a show of money, it's how he wears it. He could dress himself in bargain basement stuff, and still look good. Perhaps that's just me vouching for him before I've gotten to know him. But tallying up his favourable points in my mind, I can't help but smile. Kind and gentlemanly. Check. Nice apartment. Check. Sense of fashion. Check. Clean and well groomed. Check. Not running away with his tail between his legs after I showed up in girls clothes. Check. I allow my tail to wag. But there's got to be something about him that isn't right? Nobody scores that high straight out of the gate.

"So, here we are," he says after a while. It's only one of the weakest starts to a conversation, but I'll let him take the lead as I enjoy his pleasant appearance. "How's your head?"

"Much better, thanks," I smile at him, but he keeps avoiding my eyes, looking out of the window at the street, occasionally looking back at me when he thinks I'm not looking. I know he's looking at my dress. My spots show very faintly through it when viewed in the right light.

"I see you decided to dress for the occasion," he whispers, although nobody else are within earshot. "Do you think that's a good idea?"

"Sure, it's warm and it doesn't look like rain today," I say, playing oblivious to counter his insinuation. "I figured you wouldn't mind. You don't mind, right?"

"No, no, it's okay. Free country and all that," he says, ears folded back. Though he clearly wants to say something more, he stops himself, and I'm left guessing at what he might have said. I try to switch the topic over.

"You know... I saw your race last Sunday," I recall. In a flash he lights up to an enthusiastic glow.

"You're a racing fan?" he erupts, almost jumping out of his chair. "I wouldn't have guessed. That's not to say you can't be into racing it's just... I don't often see many... eh... I wasn't sure so I didn't want to say anything."

"Woah, easy there, tiger," I smirk, and he manages to restrain himself, but he's still really enthusiastic. "It's okay. I guess there's probably not many racing fans who enjoys a nice dress. But you do, don't you?"

Woah, too strong. Way too strong. Back down, Reece.

"It's nice, I guess," he says, flicking his ears uneasily, but his enthusiasm takes over before he can comment any further. "Did you see the launch? Or how they carried speed through sector three? Can you believe those things? Last few seasons have been difficult, but I think we're onto something here!"

"Yeah, they seemed like pretty good cars."

I encourage him as he charges into a monologue about his new cars, his races and his father's company, who apparently used to work on those cars in Australia before he got here. Unlike Darren, he explains everything with a passionate enthusiasm which is contagious, and I think means he wants me to take part in the conversation. Only problem is that I'm not that knowledgeable about the technical aspects. He asks what I think of things, and he wants my opinion on the decisions made, and the people he races with. I want to talk, but I can't really say anything, and it's eating me up. But he doesn't seem to mind, he charges on, still including me in the conversation. His accent comes out stronger, and his tail starts batting, as he works up his excitement.

I know it's just a slight twang, but the accent sounds so exotic and different. His tail is brushing from side to side, tapping against the armrest of the chintzy chair. It's so endearing to see a serious, grown wolf go all cublike with enthusiastic glee, and I find myself smiling more often and broader as the conversation goes on. He's so driven. He knows what he wants, and he's good enough to do it. I envy him for that

Apparently, according to Paul, the whole race was a piece of cake. They now have all the points they needed to lock in the positions they held in the championship, which was why the party that night had been so grand. That gets us talking about that night, and well, I can't just leave it there. One coffee and one tea turn into several cups for both of us. We talk long into the evening before he finally stops to look at his watch.

"I wish I could hang around more, Reece, but I've got to get going," he says, with a finality I can't protest. "I've got a PT with a chip on his shoulder and a list of exercises a mile long, which I have to get out of the way today."

"Oh, sure. I didn't know you were busy," I say, just managing to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

"I'm not really busy, per say. This is one of the quietest days I've had in a while!" He laughs and gets up. "And I don't regret spending it here. This was fun, Reece. And really nice. I don't get to relax and just talk about shit very often. How about we do this again sometime?"

His tail is swishing still, it's been gently patting the furniture ever since we got onto the topic of racing. His comment gets my tail wagging before I know it, making a rhythmic tapping against my own chair, and billowing my dress. I don't know what to think, but I can't let a chance like that go away from me.

"How about a bite this weekend?" I ask. Moving it one step ahead so carefully that he might not notice.

Paul pulls up his phone's calendar app. "Let's see... Practice session, practice session, simulator session, media day, factory visit, practice session. How about this Saturday?"

"Sounds wonderful," I say, and give him a wink. I don't think he picks up on it, but he smiles at my reply even so.

"If you want to," he says, "You can come in guy clothes too."

"Oh, you'd rather-"

"No, not like that, please don't take it the wrong way. But you don't have to dress up for me."

"Well, I like it," I say, and stick my tongue out. "You did say it wasn't a problem."

"Yeah, well, of course, it doesn't bother me. Just wanted to let you know. You do you. I'm really sorry, I have to run, Reece."

We get up, and he reaches out a paw to shake, but I can't leave it at that. I give him a hug instead. Quick, but warm and soft. I finally get to feel how his close-cropped wolf's fur feels against my cheek. I could get used to it, let me tell you. It's smooth and subtle, like his scent, and his sense of style. His ears fold flat, but he hugs me back with some hesitation. I can tell he's scanning the street over my shoulder, looking out for something, or someone.

After he's gone, I sit down in the café again, and just stare out onto the street, which he'd been paying so much attention to. Not once during my talk did I feel my head or ankle ache. All that just vanished. Not once did I worry about saying something dumb, or fear that he'd be inappropriate about my sexuality or preference. I wasn't worried that he'd expose me. If anything, I was worried I'd expose him. Straight or not, a celebrity hanging out with a cross-dressing guy isn't something the media would overlook, I'm sure. With as little real info there is on Paul online, I'm sure they'd be on him like vultures if he hung out with a potential partner. I manage to pull out my phone, and open my calendar app. The 28th is open, and bursting with potential. I write: March 28th, date with Paul. Then I erase "Date" and write "Dinner". Don't want to jinx it just yet.

March 27th

The next two days after my date slash meeting with Paul slowly amble by. I find myself looking at my calendar more often. I wonder about the "dinner" scheduled for tomorrow. He'd clearly been uncomfortable in public, which is strange for a racing driver to be, and I'm almost certain it was because I was dressed up. It's not that I want to push him to accept that part of me. I guess I just wanted to know that he'd accept it. Which he did. And when we talked, I felt happier than I've felt for a long time. Then he invited me out a second time. I want to make it easier for him to be enthusiastic like that. It's time I did some studying.

I turn on the tv, and flick through the channels until I hear the sound of an Australian accent overlaid over the sound of engines. The commentators voice is deeper than Paul's, he's probably in his 40's or 50's. They talk about some Australian racing series. Apparently, there's new regulations for this season. I'm not sure what the old regulations were. I'll ask Paul if he knows more about this, it'll get him talking, I'm sure.

I spend the next few hours watching random last season races from the series, and after that, I go on a fact-finding mission in search of titbits of information which means I can keep him talking and keep him enthusiastic. Keep his tail wagging and his gorgeous smile gleaming. Almost all the racers are Australian, and I recognize a few of the names from other motorsport disciplines which I keep up with. When I catch myself googling random trivia about Australia to ask him, and find the time is far past midnight, I decide I've probably searched enough. My tail is sore from wagging, and face my hurts from smiling so much. I need some rest.

March 28th

I dive back into my schoolwork for a heroic last attempt that morning. I read the few words I've written on my assignment, half covering my eyes with a paw and groaning. It's a mess. I'm not sure I can use it. Scratch that, I know it can't be used. It's a pain to work on all this school stuff when I can't bring myself to focus on it. I force myself to type out another page, but it's slow and strained. Eventually, it takes shape and reaches some sort of conclusion. I rub my eyes and turn off the computer. One page is not enough, but this is hopeless.

I'm in my bathtub when I realize I should have looked for a birthday present last time I was in town. I know dad won't care much either way if he gets something or not, as long as I'm there to say happy birthday to him. But mom will be disappointed. She'd also be disappointed if I failed my classes. And she'd probably be disappointed if I came out to them and slashed her hopes of grandchildren. You can never win with mothers, but you have to try. I want to win with Dad at least.

My phone buzzes with a message from Paul. He's found a great restaurant which he claims would fit me perfectly, and wonders if I could put on something nice and semi-formal. He didn't specifically say girl nice or boy nice. I feel my heart beating faster. I'll show him nice. I've always dreamed about having a magical, romantic dinner with a... well... a dinner with someone in a fancy restaurant at least. I keep telling myself it's not a date. He's just being nice. And he only looked at me like that because I was dressed in girls' clothes. So why do I feel so giddy?

Perhaps, for his benefit, I might be his girlfriend tonight? The idea is tantalizing. But do I really want to set that tone? What if this is real? What if this isn't just a guy wanting to hang out with another guy and talk about racing. If that's the case, then I'd be setting the precedent with my outfits. If he asked me out because of that, I'd have to keep hiding under girls' clothes, pretending to be someone I'm not. That means I get to look cute more often, yes. But it also means heels. It means more time spent grooming and brushing. And worst of all, having to hide a part of me. That was never what I wanted. Aiden said I should be careful about letting myself be stepped on. I know I'm susceptible to it. It's so easy to just... go along with what the other part wants. Because it makes them happy. Sooner or later, they start to expect it, and I start to feel restricted and trapped. I need Paul to know that there is another side to me, even if I'm not confident he's interested in it. I can't just do what I perceive he wants. I hope I'm clear minded enough to make the right choices when the time comes. If the time comes.

I select a nice shirt and light pair of pants. Considering that the sun has gone down and it's still a bit chilly outside, I pull on a thin, blue, wool sweater over my shirt. Deep blue, not like my eyes, but it's the nearest colour I got to his. With a sigh, I put away the burgundy Alfred Sung satin dress I had in my mind and close my closet. It's gorgeous, but I can't make any excuses. I am a boy, and I am going on what could only be described as a date, I mean dinner, with someone who can only be described as another boy. Or a man, rather. I don't feel nearly as old as him. I'm flopping around in a dead-end education, while he's a celebrity through his own hard work. But his wiki page said he was only a few years older than me. God, please let him be gay. I'll do this right, God, I promise, I will. I'm not going to mess this one up, I swear.

The restaurant Paul found is indeed a great one. It's one of the places on the north side of town, a nicer, more upmarket district. I snicker to myself. Dalmatian cuisine, properly made, not that fast food crap. Brick and heavy woodwork, lots of old-world memorabilia and pictures of dalmatians on the walls. Very charming of him to recognize my heritage. All the tables have live candles and white tablecloths, and there's a pleasant undercurrent of classical folk music coming from the speakers dotted around the room.

The smell of the Dalmatian kitchen greets me as I step inside. It doesn't punch you in the face like in some restaurants and dives but draws you in like one of those magical scents from a cartoon, nearly pulling you off your feet. I might be biased. But it's not just any Dalmatian restaurant. This one is very close to the real deal. I'll admit, I've never been to the old country but I know when I'm in a restaurant which feels like it should. It feels like being in my grandpa's house. I can tell they too have a stone pizza oven with a real fire in it. My tail starts wagging gently. I manage to keep it in line as I walk between the tables looking for the wolf.

I find him seated with his back to me. It looks like he's not noticed me yet. I amble up to him and put a paw on his shoulder from behind before my scent catches up to him. Paul is tense, I can tell from his frankly massive shoulder muscles. They're hard as rocks. He nearly inhales his drink when I touch him.

"Hey, Paul," I call to him, and push my muzzle up against the side of his own before he can say anything. First left, then right, and then left again. It's a traditional greeting, to be expected in a dalmatian restaurant. That's my go-to excuse, at least, if he should ask. I'm not going to tell him I just wanted to touch him some more. Not yet, at least.

"Don't get up," I say, as he's about to push away from the table, and quickly seat myself. He was totally going to do the whole presenting-a-chair thing for me, but I stopped him. I wish I hadn't, because it would be very cute.

"Hey Reece, good to see you," he says. His voice is slightly tense, just a little bit stiffer than normal. I'm guessing he wasn't prepared for my outfit.

"Glad to be here," I say, looking around. "Very charming place you found here."

"You know, I figured," he hesitates, scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish look on his face. "I've always liked dalmatian. I mean their food, of course." He laughs uneasily. I smile and ignore his ham-fisted compliment. He's nervous. We sit and chat for a while, as the wine we've ordered starts to take effect, and the words come a bit more easily.

I apply some of that knowledge about the Australian racing series I saw on the TV, and he goes off again, beating his tail against the chair. Sometime in our conversation, our food arrives. But I'm so preoccupied, I can't even say for sure what kind of salad I've ordered.

"You look nice in that shirt, Paul," I say, as the mood reaches a peak. His shirt is a white, button up cotton shirt, with a patterned lining, and it looks tailored. "It looks very good on you, like... sculpted... it fits really nice, I mean."

"Oh, this old thing?" His eyes flick across the restaurant quickly. "Yeah, the dude in the shop says it was totally a girl magnet." He laughs, just a little bit forced, but he's probably not aware how intently I'm focused on everything he says. That laugh seals the deal. I know what I'm working with now, and in my excitement, I can barely contain myself.

"You're not the sort of guy who goes for that kind of sales trick, are you?" I smile back at him, with a cheeky little wink. "I mean, I like it well enough, so it's clearly not just girls, is it?" Careful now Reece, don't scare him away.

"I guess you could say that," he says, after a little pause, which he mostly spends coughing up the breadstick he choked on. "I mean... what do you mean?"

Alright, time to lay the cards on the table, and see if we're playing the same game.

"You took a boy to a fancy restaurant," I say slowly, smiling all the while with my most disarming smile, and adding some puppy eyes as well, for good measure. "A boy who had woken up in your apartment in girls' clothes, I don't need to remind you. You invite me out for coffee, and you invite me out for dinner almost immediately after," I say, tallying up his little inconsistencies on one paw. "Yeah, I'd say you made it pretty obvious, Paul."

"Sorry, I... I don't know what you're trying to say here," He mumbles, looking very uncomfortable. His ears are splayed and his muzzle is fixed towards his plate.

"What, that you were asking a gay guy out?" I tease, hoping to lighten his mood along with my own. I've never felt so elated. I'm really close now. "I refuse to believe you didn't know."

"Not so loud please..." He suddenly flinches, and his ears fall backwards. He drops to a whisper. "A lot of guys from work come here, and I really don't need that. Keep it down, please."

Though his reaction confirms the hope I had, it hurts a bit to see him so afraid. Of course, he's closeted, that's just to be expected. I can understand why. But there's not just worry there, but real fear. I want to change the subject, make him more comfortable. Perhaps get the wine flowing again.

"So," I whisper, leaning in closer to accommodate his needs. "There are two reasons for taking a gay guy out to a sweet, and charming dinner. Number one, you work in PR and wants to prey on the community for an inclusivity angle. Or, number two. You don't."

Paul is not a practiced liar. "Okay, you got me."

Score one for Reece.

"I'm glad we're agreed, then. Because that's why I came here."

"R-really?" he asks, checking the restaurant again to see if there are any familiar faces around. "I'm... I'm glad." His shoulders finally lower and he breathes out, almost extinguishing the candle between us. "God, you have no idea how difficult that was."

"Just so happens I do, Paul," I say, trying to keep the excitement out of my confident tone. It's really happening. "I know all too well how difficult it is to ask that question. Consider it a payback for saving me that night. So, what do you think then?"

I can't help myself, I twist my neck, giving him an artsy half-pose to accentuate the ridge of my muzzle and my ears, while giving him a big dose of puppy eyes. "Do you think I look nice as a boy?"

"You look... really pretty actually," He blurts out, before hurrying to empty his glass. He's getting drunk, and he moves in an exaggerated manner when he checks his surroundings again, but that doesn't mean his words aren't honest. He does actually mean that.

"Really?"

"It's not hard for you to believe, is it?" He asks, slurring a little, "I mean, look at yourself... heh... Jesus..."

"I don't think it's strange. But then again, it'd be stranger if I thought that was strange, wouldn't it?" I'm not sure he's following. I'm not sure I'm following. I can feel myself following him into that drunken bliss.

"I guess." His eyes are unfocused and somewhat glaze, not just from the alcohol. I think he's having thoughts that he's not prepared to have here, out in public.

"What's on your mind?" I ask casually, as he looks to be deep in concentration.

"I'm not sure," he mumbles.

"I think you could use some fresh air," I say.

I feel bad for him. I know what thoughts he's having. They're not easy thoughts to have. He's going to need my help. I ask a passing waiter to get us the bill.

Paul manages to pay for the meal, but I add a tip from my own pockets to make myself feel better. I help him out of the chair and lead him out of the restaurant by his arm. We walk down the empty streets of Safewell Springs' north district for a while, aimlessly, just letting our feet carry us around wherever. I don't think he notices, but we're walking arm in arm. I'm completely focused on this moment, and my tail is going crazy behind me. It's really hard to suppress with all that wine in my system. He seems to be somewhere else entirely. It's a dry night in late March and there is a gentle but spring breeze, but I can't feel the temperature for the warmth between us.

"How are you feeling?" I ask, after a while. He's starting to walk straight again.

"I'm fine, Reece," he says absently. "Actually. I'm not sure." He turns his head and our eyes meet. We stop under a lone streetlight alongside the park, and he spots a park bench, on which he sits down heavily, almost pinching his tail between the bench and his butt.

"Talk to me, Paul," I say softly, sitting down beside him.

He shrugs his shoulders, "I've known since I was a kid... but I always kept it hidden. Thought it'd go away if I just ignored it, and focused on my driving, you know? I never... met another one."

"Another gay guy, right?" I ask. "You know, statistically, you probably have, you just don't know it."

He gives me a tired look, and is about to say something, but keeps it to himself. I put a paw on his knee carefully. He's new to this. I have to keep my tongue in check. I miss that feeling. I wish I could go back and do it right my first time. Paul has that chance; I can give him that chance.

"I started racing in go-karts, back in Australia. My fellow racers were all dickheads really. Dumb kids. But I wanted to fit in more than I wanted anything else in my life, Reece. And when I started winning, people took notice of me. I was one of the guys. It was great. The best feeling I'd ever felt. I belonged somewhere, and I had people to be with."

His ears are flat, his tail is swishing out of habit rather than enthusiasm. "I'd already heard the horror stories about gay kids in America when we first moved here, ten or so years ago. I was definitely not going to become one of those who got thrown out of their homes for being gay. I could hide it from dad easily enough. He was almost never home."

"I know how you feel Paul, we're all trying to fit in with people. People who shouldn't deserve it. It gets better, they say."

It's not exactly lightened his mood, but he continues talking. "You're kind, Reece. I'm not sure what to do now."

"It's okay, there are no dumb questions or wrong answers here," I say, and I lean in close, almost losing my concentration as I catch his scent. "Tell me how you feel right now, for instance."

"Right now, I feel okay," he wispers, shakily at first. "I feel that this night went... not so bad, really."

I can feel the wine making me all cosy and warm, and let myself snuggle up to Paul on the park bench. I make sure that we're alone. No witnesses other than the night, because I know he's checking. I can feel him putting his arm around me, but it's timid, platonic, more for my benefit than his. I pull his paw around me like a blanket and squeeze it. He squeezes back

"When you do that, does it feel better, somehow?" I ask him, squeezing a little closer. "Holding around someone else, I mean?"

Paul nods. I put my own arm around his waist and hug him slightly. I can hear his rapid heartbeat. "How about now?"

He nods again.

"I think I know what you feel," I say after some time.

He nods for a third time and clears his throat.