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I redirected my anger. Our parents couldn’t control the external events that were part of some cosmic joke. It was pure luck I’d heard Mom shouting for us and switching that speaker off. George couldn’t be blamed for doing a quick fix on that bathroom leak and wanting to see his son and stepson sooner rather than later.
But Jordan…
Oh, Jordan. He could have made that move last night. He could have done it a year ago. Had he even winked at me at any point in the time of us knowing each other, I would have been his. He could have timed it any way he wanted.
So could you, something told me. And yet I hadn’t. I hadn’t known.
I hadn’t fucking known.
Neither did he, the annoying, treacherous voice of reason reminded me.
And I ran through millions of reasons why it was his job to give me a hint first. He knew I was gay and I had never suspected he was bi. He was older, was he not? How was he so meticulous about the way I wore my wristwatch but never thought to give me a clue that he wanted me?
I couldn’t find it in me to hate him the way I used to. He had opened his heart, even if for a minute only. More than that, he had spent days bringing us closer together. Games, dinners, wine, all those goddamn candles. How stupid was I? He’d been flirting!
If only you’d said something, I thought. If only you’d made it a little clearer for me. Even tonight, I wouldn’t have said a thing. I had feared wrestling with him, but the temptation to have our bodies so close together, to be roughed around by him, to be so irresistibly topless and coiling in the grass was too much to throw away. But I’d known what it would do to me.
And it was up to me to say it. Not him.
Tears stung my eyes and I squeezed them shut, holding a deep breath of air in my lungs. I shuddered. I was going to be sick. We could have been caught in a reckless act of animalistic lack of self-control. We could have lost everything. This family, however fucked up in that kitchen sink way, was the last refuge any of us had.
I couldn’t even look my mother in the eyes. Or George. God. He had always nudged us to act like brothers. Both of them had.
I gritted my teeth and pushed them all out of my mind. I was a fuckup. I had always been a twisted fuckup, jerking off with Jordan in front of my eyes like it vindicated me. I had never been able to look away from him when he sunbathed or swam or simply breathed near me. There hadn’t been a time in my life since meeting him when I hadn’t casually searched his crotch for some random, spontaneous hardon or the bulge of his balls. I needed help, the sick fuck that I was. And even as I told that to myself, the thing I wanted most was Jordan’s weight crushing me into the mattress the same way it had crushed me against the soft summer grass.
He was the center of every erotic awakening of my life, except the first one. He was the dream I had been holding in for years. And he was knocking.
The gentlest ticking of the tip of a fingernail against my balcony door made me want to scream.
What did he expect? That we would just pick up where we had left off? Or worse, would he tell me it had been a moment of weakness that could never happen again?
Maybe it was better to hear him out and get it over with, but I couldn’t make my limbs work.
The knocking stopped after a few moments and I knew he had given up.
The morning found me still dressed in a pair of grass-stained pants and a shirt I hadn’t correctly buttoned. My hair was rumpled by the pillow, my eyes were sandy with sleep, and my heart longed for death when I realized I had a day to face. I grumbled and murmured curses that last night had not been a nightmare and that there was evidence everywhere of what had happened.
I’d had an oddly restful night. Perhaps the wine had caught up with me. Perhaps my body was giving me the rest I needed to face the day. Or, maybe, I was a heartless bastard who didn’t actually care. Either way, I had slept through the night without moving a finger.
I changed into my shorts and a regular, sleeveless T-shirt, then paced my room. Breakfast smelled delicious from downstairs. The scent crawled under my door and lured me out, even though I wished I could stay locked in my room and never see anyone again. Jordan least of all. How could I look at him and not betray all I felt? How could I be in the same room as Jordan and not have the dam in my chest crack open and let the flood of feelings out?
Chances were, he would be away by now. If I knew him at all, I knew he steered clear of trouble. And a single night’s weakness — or delight, depending on how you looked at it — would be reason enough for Jordan to stalk away from me. He had mastered the craft of avoiding me so long ago.
When my stomach growled loudly, I scowled and went to brush my teeth. The scent of French toast was stronger in the hallway, so I rolled my eyes and went downstairs. George was in the kitchen, blasting Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon while flipping French toast in a large pan. “Morning,” he said with a dimpled smile. So much of him existed in Jordan, it was eerie. His round face, his brown eyes, and his deep voice. Jordan had inherited all of them, but there were also differences that separated them. George was a good-looking guy, straight as they come, and with a physique formed by hard work. Jordan’s features, on the other hand, were put together so that he was a museum-worthy sculpture. The guy I had had a crush on for years could be an athlete and a model in equal measure. George’s voice called me back to the present and I realized I had drifted to daydreaming about Jordan’s lips again. “…hungry, because I made plenty.”
“I’m starving,” I said. The kitchen island was stuffed with plates full of cold cuts, smoked and cottage cheeses, French toast, butter, jam, and so on. A glass pitcher of orange juice was dripping with condensation.
“You can start taking these to the porch,” George suggested and I got to work. The small terrace in the backyard could fit the four of us, but it felt crowded.
Mom was sitting at the table and three empty chairs surrounded it. She had her sunglasses on, face unreadable, and she greeted me. “How are you? Hungover?”
“No,” I said dryly. “I wasn’t that drunk.” My heart clenched as I glanced around. Jordan wasn’t here, but I knew which chair he had been sitting in last night. I knew where the grass was still a little trampled and flat from wrestling with him. I knew where he slammed me against the wall of the house to kiss the soul out of me.
My stomach cramped as I set the plates down. I returned to the kitchen, my mood souring with every heartbeat, and carried the rest of what George had prepared. He followed me with the pitcher and four glasses, but only three of us sat around the table. Jordan was predictably missing.
It was a poor relief. We couldn’t avoid each other for three or four weeks. Eventually, we would be in the same place at the same time. And how I would handle his proximity was a mystery. Just now, I trembled even thinking about him. Conflicting feelings battled for dominance in me as I ate my breakfast, but tasted little.
Mom was asking about college and I gave vague, generic responses about everything being alright. My gaze kept moving to the lawn where Jordan had crushed me under his weight, left me breathless, and made me hard. It was impossible not to think about it.
