Page 35 of What We Had

Reflex moved me before I could think otherwise. My body seemed to know what came next before my brain did. My hands slid easily into my back pockets and I pushed my back against the inside of the front door, waiting. Bennett smiled, eyes falling.

“You’re already pretty good at this,” he said.

“I plan to be the best. Believe that.”

His body pressed into mine as we kissed. His hands went to my shoulders, mine stayed in my back pockets. I finagled my lower half away as my cock shot right to attention. That had been part of my googling earlier, the trigger of something like that. But Bennett didn’t let me move, kept his waist pinned to mine. That was his choice to feel what was there and I had absolutely no problem with it.

We must have made out for a good five minutes. His lips turned cherry red, wet and swollen. I needed badly to adjust my dick; the angle of it was not the most comfortable. Bennett kissed me with a careful ferocity and his hands even slipped down to cup mine over the pockets. Quick, rapid moans escaped his mouth in between breaths. Beyond the wine, I could taste lemon and honey.

When he finally pulled out of the kiss, he gave one final, quick peck and looked up at me. God, that view, him directly below me like that and having to tilt his head back.

“Well, all right,” he said quietly. “Can you drive?”

“I’m not sure my jeans will let me sit right now, but I can try.”

Braying laughter, followed by a slug to my shoulder. A quick peck, maybe two or three, and we were out the door.

We held hands during the walk to the car. Our fingers interlaced over the center console, thumbs rubbing each other like two coiling snakes. It felt as though we held the seed of our relationship between our hands. Safe, secure, willing to grow. So long as we never let go.

?

Bennettshuffled into his father’s house first and gave him a quick hug. “Ben-boy, good to see you,” he said. His voice was as rough as gravel and yet carried a joviality behind every word, as if he was in on a joke that no one else got.

“Dad. You remember Connor?”

Bennett stepped aside. Walt Dubois stood at the same height as his son. He had a cleanly shaven head, eyes as blue as tropical waters, and a pronounced cupid’s bow that had wrinkled over time. He wore loose-fitting jeans, suspenders, and a white button-down. His arms went wide as he gestured for me to come forward.

“Connor!” he exclaimed. “I’m so happy you could join us tonight.” He went in for a hug before I could say anything. Squeezed my back tightly.

“My pleasure, sir.” I presented the bottle of wine. Just like Bennett did when he saw my mother’s remodeled kitchen, Walt whistled low. He extracted a pair of readers from the pocket of his shirt and held them up to read the label.

“Gol-ly, Connor.” He looked up and wiggled the bottle. “Ol’ Tinsel Town didn’t make youtoofancy, eh?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. Telling him the wine came from my mother’s cellar felt like it would ruin an otherwise funny moment. “No, Mr. Dubois,” I said, then leaned in. “It made meworse.”

Walt barked out a chortle and slapped me on the back. “Let’s get this open. Ben?” He handed the bottle off. Walt named Bennett after Walt’s younger brother, who passed before Bennett’s birth. From what I remember Bennett telling me, Walt and his brother Ben were the best of friends and his death weighed greatly on the man. In the time I knew him, I had never heard Walt refer to his son by his full name.

Walt guided me deeper into the house while Bennett vanished to find a corkscrew. Walt’s home was a single story with old wood floors that creaked with every step. It smelled faintly of Old Spice and cigars, the decor a hodgepodge of selections through the decades. Walt led us into the kitchen, where a round table and four chairs sat next to a kitchen counter. He said for me to sit while he went into the kitchen along the peninsula that overlooked the table.

“Ben, there’s a casserole in the oven when you’re done with pouring.” He picked up a knife beside a cutting board and chopped at a carrot. “So, Connor. How’s your mother? I am so sorry to hear about everything, son. I can’t imagine what you must be going through.”

I watched them in the kitchen together. Two five-foot-nine men with strikingly similar faces, milling about a narrow galley kitchen as though they choreographed each movement. The same expression played across their faces, depending on what I said. Hard won smiles, or stern looks of consternation to express concern. Walt provided effortless direction to Bennett with each step he needed to take to prepare the rest of dinner. The son gave no attitude, obeying his father like it was the only thing that mattered.

Bennett had brought over a glass of wine for me as I sat at the table. Our hands touched and his brow dimmed a fraction. “You all right?”

“I’m perfect. This is perfect.”You’re perfect. I want all of you, in time. But for now, I’ll take what you can give me.

Bennett returned to the kitchen. He and Walt had dinner ready fifteen minutes later. I insisted on helping, and so Walt put me to task fetching plates and silverware to set the table.

The casserole was cheesy, starchy, and delicious. Didn’t exactly pair with a red wine, but I had been too focused on spending time with Bennett and Walt that I could have been drinking turpentine. Walt had to stand up twice during the meal to stretch out his back. My eyes shot to Bennett and I could see his own sympathetic pain play across his face. On the way there, Bennett had explained how Walt slept in a recliner rather than a bed.

I knew they made specialized beds for people with severe backache like Walt’s. Expensive as hell. I wasn’t fabulously wealthy as most people thought, but had enough to get by for the rest of my life and make sure others were comfortable. I made a mental note to look into buying Walt a special bed.

Homemade blueberry pie graced the dinner table for dessert. I helped myself to two servings, as did Bennett. Walt was content in watching us dig in, calling us young and healthy, then warning us not to get old like him.

Walt couldn’t sit any longer, so I helped him with dishes while Bennett poured the rest of the wine. At one point, while I had my hands plunged in scalding hot water, Walt asked Bennett to collect the linen napkins and run them down to the basement and start the wash. As he vanished downstairs, Walt fixed a blue-eyed gaze on me.

“You doing okay, son?” he asked me.

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