Page 68 of These Secret Years

fuck you winters

The way I really like him is almost as well-kept of a secret as how gay I am. There are a few times I know he’s caught me looking at him after we’re both sweaty and post-orgasmic where it’s probably written all the way across my face, but in general, I play the horny slut who knows the clock is ticking on this summer and needs as much dick in the ass as possible before it’s over, and he plays the dude who humors me.

“So listen,” he says, once we’ve brought everything inside from both our cars—his instruments, my overnight supplies.

We’re in the empty living room with its vaulted ceiling and gigantic fireplace. The view of the lake is perfection.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“I have to leave this weekend. I won’t be back before school.”

A weird pit forms in my stomach. “Oh. Did something come up?”

“Not exactly. I thought I might have another week or so, but it turns out…” He trails off, looking down at my bags.

“New move-in date, or…?”

He shakes his head.

Do I want him to elaborate?

This is a question I’ve been asking myself a lot. How much do I really want to know about Sullivan Scott? What I already know about him has me in knots. I like him so much, it’s ridiculous. Stupid. Like, it’s honestly good he doesn’t seem to be all that into me because if I thought he was, I’m not sure how I’d cope with not being able to be with him in our real life. I guess I’m lucky he’s so emotionally unavailable, because if he were to show me any real affection, I might have to take a good look at what I want for my future. No, I prefer it stays like this. Less to worry about.

“Sorry to spring it on you this way,” he says.

“No, it’s all right. I only have two weeks before training starts anyway, so it’s cool. And you don’t have to tell me what’s up, but if you wanted to talk about it…”

He gives me a sidelong glance. “Yeah, no. I don’t think so.”

“Fine, then help me blow this mattress up.”

“Or we could check out the house,” he says.

“Yeah. Sure.”

On our way upstairs, with the way he’s slumped and dragging his feet, I realize I won’t be able to not at least ask about it. “Does this have something to do with Chelsea?”

He groans. “No.”

“Your dad?” I press.

“Dude.” He sighs, stopping on the first landing and turning toward me. “It’s kinda like—I have another relative I have to visit before I go back to school. Does that help?”

“Kind of like a relative? Is that new slang or something?”

“It’s the person who pays for my school. Pays for everything.”

“Like an uncle?” I ask.

“Yeah. He’s my uncle.”

“Oh. Why didn’t you just say that? My uncle’s been in town for a week. You know, despite all our supposed differences, we all have annoying families that expect shit from us. I get it.”

“Yeah, all right.” He starts up the stairs again.

I scowl. “You’re not a fan of the guy?”

“Not really.”