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When Charlie liked something Rye played, Rye would ask him what he liked about it and try to spin those qualities into recommendations for other bands Charlie might like. He’d created a Charlie Matheson playlist that he added to, song by song.
At dinner, Charlie went into what he jokingly called “date mode,” and what Rye unjokingly called interrogation mode. This consisted of questions like, What were you for Halloween when you were ten? (A cowboy; a zombie golfer who eats golf balls); What did you want to be when you grew up? (A football player; a rock star); and Which is scarier, deep sea or outer space? (Outer space because space is terrifying; outer space because space is fucking terrifying!)
But, while Rye teased Charlie for his questions, he enjoyed talking to Charlie so much that his grumbling was mostly for show. That Charlie wanted to know things about his childhood birthday cakes and the weirdest place he’d ever been made him feel seen and valued. Like Charlie was building his only kind of playlist—The Greatest (and Also Not Great at All) Hits of Rye Gregory Janssen. (See, Charlie also knew his middle name, and he knew Charlie’s was Wallace, which was his mother’s family name.)
“Wait, wait,” Rye laughed. “You got a fishhook lodged in your own back? You...caught yourself?”
Charlie laughed with him.
“Fucking hurt.”
This had been Charlie’s answer to What was a time you hurt yourself in an embarrassing way?
“Your turn,” Charlie said.
“Oh, god, mine’s real bad.” Rye pushed his chair back and pulled one knee up. “So I was dating this woman, Suzanne, and she took me to some ridiculous... I don’t know, like, themed outdoor brunch. And there were living statues dressed like, uh, statues. You know, togas and shit. And there was a big buffet where all the food was, so people were milling around on the lawn, eating their food.”
Charlie’d raised his eyes at togas and they’d stayed raised.
“So, we got our food and coffee and some mimosas and Suzanne saw her friends who had organized the thing, so she heads over to them. And I’m following her, just trying not to drop my plate or spill all my shit.”
“You are very clumsy when you’re holding dishes,” Charlie confirmed. He was looking at Rye so fondly that Rye felt utterly possessed—like Charlie knowing this about him made Rye belong to him.
“Seriously. Um, so, I’m looking at where I’m walking so I don’t trip over anything. And I’m concentrating so hard on the not spilling anything part that I walk directly into...?”
“You didn’t.”
“Yeah. Right into a fucking human statue—which, why?—and we both go down in this cacophony of plates and cups and toga and elbows, and, jeez, this poor lady. My hot coffee spilled all over her and her hand landed on my spleen, I swear, and I had her gray body paint smeared all over me.”
Charlie was laughing into his hand.
“So, but Suzanne didn’t notice I wasn’t still behind her, so she’s talking to her friends, all ‘Hey, guys, great event, I’d love you to meet my date,’ and her friends are watching this happen behind her, like, ‘Who’s this utter train wreck of a person who full-body tackled a statue?’ and Suzanne turns around to present me and...”
Charlie was laughing deep belly laughs.
“There I was, in a heap. But when I tried to get up and to help the statue get up I kind of, um, knelt on my plate and it shattered and cut me, so then I stagger to my feet and there’s blood and mimosa and eggs all over everything.”
“Stop,” Charlie wheezed. “Stop.” He collected himself. “You made that up, right?”
“No! Hand to god, I have a scar!”
“Show me.”
Rye narrowed his eyes but Charlie sat, arms crossed, waiting.
“Fine.”
He pulled down his sweats and put his foot on Charlie’s thick thigh.
“See?” He pointed to a fine web of scars on the outside of his right kneecap. “Wounded by brunch-time human statue.”
“Wow. Did you get a second date, though?”
“That was the second date,” Rye said. “But we didn’t have a third.”
“I’m terribly sorry about that,” Charlie said, clearly not in the least bit sorry.
But when Rye went to pull his leg back, Charlie caught his calf in a warm hand and leaned down to place a soft kiss on Rye’s knee.
Rye’s cheeks warmed. With any other partner, Rye would’ve assumed it was the prelude to sex. Hell, he already had his pants down. But that wasn’t Charlie.
Rye just waited. After a moment, Charlie pulled Rye onto his lap.
“I didn’t know you had dated women as well,” he said.
“I’m pan,” Rye said.
Charlie nodded.
Was this going to be something that made Charlie feel his lack of experience even more acutely? But, no. Charlie said, “I guess technically I did too.”
“You did?” Rye felt a flash of hurt that Charlie had lied to him about never dating anyone. Then he saw the humorous curve to Charlie’s mouth. “Oh my god. Don’t say it. I know what you’re gonna say and you can’t say it. Don’t tell me you dated cheerleaders while you were on the football team because I simply can’t deal with that level of Friday Night Lights-ness. Or whatever the Wyoming version of Friday Night Lights is.”
