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I’d spent the past three days building a burn pile for the dead branches and leaves that had accumulated around the shack after the storm. He was feeling much better and had been showering on his own, unfortunately. He made meals for us from the limited supplies I had, with Spam being his new favorite source of protein. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I didn’t know if Spam qualified as protein.
He came outside in a pair of my tattered sweat-pant gym shorts, no shirt and barefoot, causing my breath to hitch. For the past few days, he’d raided my limited wardrobe and began wearing clothing of mine he could fit. Both of us had narrow waists so elastic-waisted shorts weren’t the issue. My tanks and T-shirts were too big for him but he often didn’t bother wearing a shirt. His usual choice was simply any shorts he could find and flip-flops which also belonged to me. I admitted to myself that I liked seeing him in my clothes. I felt closer to him knowing he was comfortable enough to help himself, plus it tickled him to make fun of me when he rummaged through my clothing.
He’d hold something up and do a running monologue about the fashion qualities of each piece. He had a natural sense of humor that wasn’t hurtful, always delivered with boyish charm. We didn’t know his name but I knew whoever he was, he must be loved for his wonderful appreciation of life. If he was married or involved with someone, they had to know how lucky they were to have him in their life. I knew I was. To say he was charming would have been the world’s largest understatement.
“Here you go, Mr. Handyman,” he said, handing me a bottle of lukewarm water. “Now back to work.”
I took a big drink and then tapped him on the chest. “Looks like you’re feeling well enough to start working for your meals, mister.”
He stepped forward and placed his hand on my chest. “I’m not exactly sure who I am, Bo, but something tells me I’m not accustomed to hard work,” he began. “I mean look at these nails.”
I shook my head and laughed. He was fucking adorable. Being four inches shorter and maybe thirty pounds lighter than me, he was a perfect stack of handsomeness. He kept his hair combed to the side with a part on the left. The cut was tight above the ears and neck with longer bangs he kept neatly combed back. He had a professional appearance.
“I bet you’re a politician,” I teased. “Perhaps one of those MAGA types. And by the way, in case you believe in their crap, the earth isn’t flat.”
He pinched his lips and his brow furrowed. “Interesting,” he mumbled. “I actually know what MAGA is. Isn’t that odd I can recall mundane items but have no clue what my own name is?” His eyes filled and what had been in innocent observation must have reminded him of the horrors he was experiencing. “I don’t know who I am,” he whispered, lifting his long lashes toward me as a tear traveled down the side of his nose.
I pulled him toward me and encircled him in my embrace. My skin ignited from the connection of our bare chests. P laid his head against my shoulder, neatly fitting under my chin. The need to keep him there scared me. I was falling in love with this stranger and feared someone else already had.
“We’ll figure it out, P,” I said, combing my fingers through his soft hair.
Neither of us had broached the topic of our sexuality but our preferences were loud and clear. Our connection felt organic. Our bodies molded into each other’s and the surge of emotion firing all of my senses spoke volumes.
If he was straight, our ability to be held in each other’s arms wouldn’t have seemed so natural. I had just pulled him into me and he made no hesitant move or voiced any reluctance at being held by a man. Holding him so close sent messages to my brain and heart. My brain said,“Be careful”,but my heart said,“Screw it! Too late now.”
“How about we don’t call me P anymore,” he suddenly said. “Something about the initial doesn’t feel right to me.”
“Are you remembering something or someone?”
“Not really, but for some unknown reason I feel sad when you call me that,” he stated.
“We need to make a plan,” I said. “I want to help you regain your memory.”
As soon as I finished speaking we simultaneously looked up to see if we could locate the helicopter that we could both hear. Ten seconds went by before the whooshing noise of helicopter blades and the machine itself flew into view. The aircraft hovered over the river a few hundred yards down the shoreline, while two men leaned out of open doors.
He and I were still locked in an embrace when I leaned into his ear. “They’re looking for survivors,” I yelled. “Or bodies,” I added.
The copter hovered for fifteen seconds and then swooped away, lifting higher and banking over us. Neither of us raised our arms or made an attempt to get their attention. Our inaction spoke the words we hadn’t discussed. I could’ve easily taken him to Beaufort on my boat and contacted emergency services, but he never asked me to and I hadn’t offered.
The noise abated but we hadn’t disconnected. I knew he was thinking the same thing I was. He moved his face from my chest and looked up to me. “I don’t want to go, Bo.”
“I don’t want you to go.”
He closed his eyes and I tilted my head down, our mouths connecting in a feverish passion. He opened his mouth, inviting me in. I was hungry for this man and he must feel the same because we pressed our lips together like we couldn’t get close enough. I searched his mouth with my tongue, his hand behind my head guiding me. Salt from the perspiration on my upper lip mixed with his taste. The kiss easily exposed the risk I was willing to take in regards to falling in love with him. My hands went to his lower back while he wrapped his arms around my neck, our connection never breaking.So this was adult desire.
I guided him away from me so I could stare into his eyes. We’d barely known each other for a week but I searched his eyes for confirmation of what we’d just done and the words that were not spoken.
He smiled and nodded his head. “Yes, Bo. I feel exactly the same,” he whispered.
“I’m afraid,” I admitted. “What if . . .”
His finger came to my mouth, cutting me off. “But what if we didn’t try? Wouldn’t that be worse?” he asked.
“I guess I better tell you that I fall hard,” I said, wiping the corner of his eye. “I’m not good at applying the brakes.”
“I’m not sure what I normally do, but I can tell you what I want to do now,” he stated, placing his hands on my hips.
His touch felt like home. He felt familiar, like he belonged with me. “I’ve experienced a broken heart and the feeling wasn’t fun,” I confessed. “Can you be careful with me?”
