Trevor juts his head toward Skyler’s cup. “Good thing you’re colorful and sweet enough for the both of us.”
“Wait, I didn’t mean—I wasn’t saying thatyou’re—”
“I’m kidding,” Trevor says with a fairlyhumorless laugh.
Skyler frowns. “No, seriously. I didn’t mean anything by that.” Why does he keep messing this up? He was doing a decent job of holding himself together at the park, but now his brain and senses are going haywire.
“I know. Relax.” Trevor offers him a small smile. “So what now? Are we going to stay parked here?”
The way he glances nervously out the window tells Skyler he’s worried about them being spotted. Skyler doesn’t really care if they are. He’s already come out. That means he doesn’t have to hide his personal life anymore. But he understands that Trevor is still hiding. Whether it’s his sexuality, specifically, or his entire life, he doesn’t want the media talking about him. And Skyler needs to respect that.
Like he couldn’t do when they were younger.
But he’s twenty-seven now. He’s more mature. He’s realized all his fucking mistakes. And he can’t take them back, but he can do better now.
“I’ll drive us somewhere we’ll be less noticeable.”
“Thanks.” Trevor takes a cautious sip of his drink and then holds it in his lap rather than setting it in the cupholder. “This isn’t your car, is it?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it’s not a million-dollar Ferrari.”
“You still know nothing about cars, do you?”
“Nope,” Trevor admits.
“I borrowed it from one of my security guys,” Skyler tells him.
The gray Hyundai Elantra is Mike’s personal vehicle, and this is probably only the third or fourth time Skyler’s been inside it. For anything official, a driver usually picks them up in a black SUV with tinted windows. For anything unofficial, he likes to drive himself in one of his own cars, and either Mike or Hal will tag along if it’s necessary.
“So I was right. Youdodrive a Ferrari.”
Skyler keeps his eyes on the road as he reluctantly nods. (Although he doesn’t actually drive one, so much as he has one in his garage.) And at Trevor’s vindicated, “Ha!” he fights back an embarrassed smile. He doesn’t want him to think having all this money and fame has gone to his head, because it hasn’t.
He was lucky enough to have Trevor to keep him grounded in Boys Will Be Boys. Now he has to make sure he keeps himself grounded. Or he can callhis mom and let her tell him off for something stupid like not tucking in his shirt at an awards show. That always works.
He brings them to the beach and parks at the far end of the lot. It’s crowded here, but everyone’s happily wandering along the boardwalk. No one’s paying attention to the parked cars.
The only problem is that there’s no shade, and he’s quickly melting like the ice in his plastic cup. “Okay, I have to take this off,” he says, yanking the oversized hoodie up and over his head.
His hair gets caught, loosening the bun a bit, and his tank top rides up underneath. He tugs it back down self-consciously. When he’s free of the hoodie, he tosses it into the backseat and pulls his hair all the way out of its tie before securing it neatly again.
It’s not until he’s resituated in his seat that he feels Trevor’s gaze on him. But when he turns, Trevor’s head darts forward toward the windshield.
Skyler watches him take a long drink of his coffee, and the way the column of Trevor’s throat tilts back has him feeling overheated again. He’s flashing to all those glorious moments when Trevor would tip his head back onto a pillow, baring his neck for Skyler to greedily suck marks into, claiming him, even though they’d need to be extra careful to make sure the marks were hidden later. Trevor used to get comments from interviewers about his interesting fashion choice of wearing turtlenecks in the spring and summer.
Skyler was lucky Trevor liked to suck marks onhimin places where they wouldn’t be visible to the public eye.
Oh hell.
He needs to stop thinking about stuff like that. A flush is creeping up his own neck as he takes a deep breath, trying to clear his head.
They attempt to make small talk—if small talk’s even possible for two people who were once as close as them—while they watch the beachgoers. Trevor tells him how he gives private guitar and voice lessons to kids and teenagers. Skyler tells Trevor about the philosophy books he’s been into reading lately, while Trevor pretends to be interested. And he tells Trevor about how his sister’s living in New York now, and how much she loves it despite working like a hundred hours a week at a hospital.
When they run out of easy topics, Skyler starts fidgeting, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel and knocking his leg against the center console, becausehe can never keep still. Especially his hands. He used to reach for Trevor all the time, and Trevor would let him play with his hair, his shirt, his fingers. An outlet for his excess energy. But he can’t do that now.
He forces himself to leave the wheel alone. And it’s fine. He’s fine. But then he starts playing with the straw of his drink in the cupholder, sliding it up and down through the hole in the lid, even though he’s aware of how irritating the squeaking sound is.
