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“Is that why you’re so angry sometimes? Like when you first got here?”
I suck in a sharp breath at his question. I’m not…well…maybe I am a little angry. Maybe it does have something to do with the fact that my parents—perfect pious members of our privileged society—only had me because they needed to. I won’t lie. I grew up with everything I could ever want but there were strings. Strings tied to my limbs that they pulled like effortless puppeteers.
“I guess anger came naturally,” I say calmly, already feeling the stirrings of rage bubbling when I think of my parents. The bitter resentment of my strict upbringing boiling inside me. But then I look at Jarred. Patient, sweet, timid Jarred and I smile. “I’m not angry anymore, though.”
His lips twitch as he scoots closer to me, shyly blushing as he bites his bottom lip. “No?”
“No,” I whisper back softly, and then because I can’t help it— “Not when I have such a wise presence to guide me.”
He glares at me. “The jokes are getting old.”
“Like you.”
“Shithead,” he laughs, shoving at my arm playfully. I bask in his unfiltered joy, and I can’t control myself as I link my hand with his.
“You cursed. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“I curse plenty.” He rolls his eyes dramatically as he squeezes my fingers. He doesn’t even look around. He doesn’t even care, and it just makes me even happier.
So, I take a risk. I lean into him, my lips brushing lightly against his ear. “Yeah, when I make you come you do.”
Jarred chuckles and that beautiful blush coats his tan cheeks. He turns his head slightly, our lips mere inches away. His eyes flicker from mine to my lips but then something changes. His eyes widen and he yanks himself away from me, fumbling with his club, and dropping it on the ground. I cock my head to the side at his sudden change and then glance behind me where his eyes are locked.
I feel like punching something when I see a younger couple with their kids, their faces pinched in disgust as they usher their children away from us. Fuckers. Can’t mind their own fucking business.
“Hey,” I say to Jarred, placing a hand on his heated cheek. “Don’t let them bother you.”
He pulls away from me quickly, picking up his club. He doesn’t look at me as he fiddles with it in his hands. “Can we go? I think we’ve left the camp alone long enough.”
I hate this. I hate that the amazing day we were having is ruined. I hate that the progress we’ve made has been recessed again. All because of a couple of homophobes that don’t matter at all.
I recognize the look on Jarred’s face. Fear. Shame. Guilt. All those ugly emotions that we had been slowly moving past. All crumbled and destroyed.
But I don’t push him. I can’t push him. He’s wormed his way inside of me, made a home in all the dark spots, and made me more patient.
“Yeah, babe. We can go.”
CHAPTER19
JARRED
The next two weeks pass by in a blur of sex and sweat and sweetness.
After that disastrous time at the mini-golf course, Noah made sure to comfort me. Although the lingering feeling of guilt and shame still bubbles in my stomach at the thought of those parents’ faces, Noah takes it all away with his sweet touches and gentle tone.
Noah and I can’t seem to keep our hands off each other. Every spare minute, we’re trading secrets and promises in the dark. Every day, I promise myself that next time will be the last time, the only time, but I break that every time his lips hit mine.
There’s something scandalizing about sitting in the church pews this Sunday, my ass sore and tender as I try to pay attention to today’s gospel. I’m usually really good at keeping myself checked into the Holy Words, but I can’t stop looking at Noah. He’s holding his Bible up to his face—more than likely not even reading it—but his eyes are looking at me through those thick dark lashes.
All I can see when I look at him is the moment we shared yesterday afternoon. Noah had been on van duty, and I made an excuse to go into town so I could spend some time with him. He told me about what he does at UNC, his friends, and even his pet dog that his friend is watching over the summer. I told him about the time I broke my arm when I was eight because I wasn’t paying attention to the sidewalk in front of me and hit a rock. He surprised me with his ability to sing along to top hits from the sixties. He laughed and cringed when I showed him I was double-jointed.
Those little moments, these tiny tidbits all make him so much more endearing. He’s not just a body that I’ve been losing myself in, ignoring all the obvious reasons why I shouldn’t. He’s a real person—kind, funny, sarcastic, loyal—and I’m starting to like all those little pieces of him.
Oh, and I also can’t forget the way he forced my legs up to my shoulders and fucked me on the hood of the van in a forest road. Hence my very sore and very happy ass.
I tear my gaze away from him just as the camper reading the gospel finishes and recites the parting lines.
“Praise to you Lord Jesus Christ,” I say, bowing my head as we all take a seat. I manage to find a way to not sneak another look at Noah and focus instead on Father Matteo.
