AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The bags under his eyes have faded.
It’s not magic by any means. He still struggles to sleep, refusing to take meds in case he’s ever needed for an emergency. He still avoids Dr. Singh until the man tells him time is up and drags him into his office, then goes back to avoiding him all over again. He still winces with pain when he moves his body certain ways. He still goes strangely quiet sometimes when Jake is around, his gaze suddenly distant until he manages to snap out of it. He still works too hard and takes on too much and blames himself for every failure along the way.
But it’s progress. As he buys the house a set of sign language books, as he spends four hours reading the pool manual to figure out how to get the water warmer for the next time Casey comes to visit, as he tentatively befriends Bryce and offers to order him some books in the next supply shipment, as he approaches Travis early one morning and simply says, “I’m sorry,”—it’s progress.
I can’t say the same for me.
It seems as everyone around me starts to get better, I slide backward. Carter is in college now. He has a job at a bar. Sure, Casey is struggling more than Carter is, but Casey is still living in that apartment with him. They’re out there living their lives, getting back to normal. I know Matt thinks they’re fucking insane, but I can tell Bryce is a little jealous.
Moving on. That’s what they’re all doing. Mica is dead. Loose strings are mostly tied. They’re getting closer to finding that little boy, Elliot. It’s time to move on.
What does that look like for someone like me? Someone who now has had that fucked up cabin dream every night for a week. Someone who has started walking circles outside to see if he can recognize the operative that probably doesn’t even exist. Someone who wishes for things he shouldn’t wish for.
I try not to think about it.
Spending time with Maison helps. Well, until it doesn’t. Until those emotions from that morning in the gym start to become unavoidable. Until I find myself not just wishing for things I shouldn’t, but wishing for things I shouldn’t with Maison. Until he infiltrates my dreams, becoming the man who steals me away to give me everything I need.
Until I wake up three mornings in a row with my cock spilling in my pants, Maison’s face on my mind, and sir gasped from my lips.
If I was smart, I’d stop spending so much time with him.
I never claimed to be smart.
“I think we’re getting better at this whole spending time together thing,” Maison declares, looking over at me with a bright smile. We’re sitting on the porch swing looking out at the river, bundled up in separate blankets and sipping hot cocoa. He has a little bit of chocolate on his upper lip. My stomach tugs with desire.
Shit.
I look away.
“I mean, nothing is on fire this time, so we’re definitely improving,” I say in agreement.
“No emotional breakdowns either.”
“The night is young,” I point out.
Maison laughs, the sound low and husky and fucking dangerous. “Our standards are appallingly low.”
“I thrive on low standards,” I joke, shooting him a wink. “How else do you think I get laid?”
It’s something the old Nolan would have said. A comment for locker rooms. It’s not my fault that my mind has been pretty much consumed with sex lately. How can it not be with this asshole filling out his body again from all his food and rest? With his chocolate lip and husky laugh and blue eyes that always light up the minute they land on me?
Still, my cheeks warm at the realization that I just made a sex quip to him. Before I can stumble my way through an apology, his gaze locks onto mine. There’s a storm brewing inside of them, a storm I’ve noticed more and more lately, a storm that makes me feel hot wherever that gaze touches my skin. “You know, for how often sex comes up considering… everything, we’ve never actually talked about that.”
“Talked about what?” I ask, feigning confusion.
He rolls his eyes. “Sex. You know… consensual sex.”
I clear my throat. “What about it?”
“I don’t know.” He looks away, a crease developing between his eyebrows. “We don’t have to, if you don’t want to. I just thought maybe—I don’t know. Never mind.”
It feels like something too big to let go. Like the possibility of a moment, something that could change things for the better or the worse depending on how it ends. I can’t let it end like this.
“I’m gay,” I tell him. “I’ve pretty much always known. Can’t grow up in locker rooms and not figure it out pretty quickly. At least, I couldn’t. It was obvious once we all started hitting puberty.”
“I’m pansexual,” he says in return, looking back over at me. “I figured it out pretty young too. My mom was—well, she was fucking great about it, really. I grew up in a place where that kind of thing wasn’t really openly talked about, and the media wasn’t like it’s been these past few years, you know? No good representation. I was confused about liking more than one kind of person. She told me she loved me no matter what and that it would all work itself out. The next day, she had pamphlets and printouts and a book with highlighted passages, and we looked everything over and agreed on bisexual. It felt good to have a label for it, you know? Some people don’t like the labels, but I needed that. Think it made me feel less alone. When I stumbled upon pansexual a little while ago, that fit even better, so I use that one now.”
“I already knew this from other stories you’ve told me about her, but your mom sounds fucking awesome.”
