“Anytime. I like having someone to fish with. He’s good company.”
“He is,” I said. The silence stretched between us and my face heated. “If you want, I can throw your wet stuff into the dryer.”
“That’d be great, thanks.”
I opened up my dresser again, and grabbed some shorts, boxers, and an old Eastchester hoodie. When I turned around Ethan had already pulled off his shirt. His golden skin had a hint of pink at the shoulders, and I wondered how long he and Jason had been out fishing today.
“Be right back,” I said, as he slipped on the t-shirt I’d given him.
I changed in the bathroom as fast as possible, leaving my wet clothes in the laundry basket, and headed back to my room. Ethan sat on the edge of my bed, and as I walked in, he stood. He ran his hand through his hair, another shy smile curling at the corner of his lips.
“Fit okay?” I asked when I realized I’d been staring at his mouth.
“Great, actually.”
The sweats were a little long, and I attempted to focus on that and not on the outline of his dick that was visible through the cotton material.
“Great,” I repeated, feeling like a pervert.
Ethan glanced around the room, eyeing the old angler-themed wallpaper and hunter green quilt. All things my parents had gotten for me as an early teen. All things I hated, but kept because if I was that son, the one who loved fishing and playing basketball, and dated girls, then maybe they’d never figure out I was gay.
I wanted to tell him this wasn’t me, that this room belonged to a man who didn’t exist, and that as much as I didn’t want to be, I was attracted to men, and that I liked the way he looked in those sweats.
Of course, I didn’t say any of those things.
Awkwardly rubbing at the back of my neck, I asked, “Ready for the best fucking chicken soup you’ll ever eat?”
I glanced at Ethan over my shoulder as I opened the refrigerator door. “Want a drink?”
“Nah, gotta drive home.”
I grabbed two cans of soda and handed him one with a chuckle. “I think you can handle one drink.”
He laughed as he set down the dish towel and took the soda from my hand.
“You didn’t have to clean up.” I popped open the can, the crisp sound echoing in the kitchen. “I would’ve done it after you left.”
“It’s the polite thing to do. Well, at least, that’s what my mom always says.”
“And she’s right,” my mom confirmed, her carefree tone making me smile. “Jason’s in the shower, and Ethan, sweetie, your clothes still have about twenty minutes in the dryer. I think it might be time to trade the old girl in. She don’t work like she used to.” Mom glanced at the back door. “Why don’t y’all go sit on the porch and watch the lightning.”
I huffed out a laugh and shook my head. “What she means to say is, get out of my kitchen so I can clean it the way I want to.”
“Jaxon Stettler, I mean no such thing.”
“Mm-hm.”
She waved her hands at us, basically shooing us toward the door like two toddlers.
Outside, the rain had settled down to a drizzle, the thunder a distant roll as we stepped out onto the back porch. It was covered, but the air was muggy and thick.
“I think our mommas would get along great,” Ethan teased.
He leaned against the railing next to me. Not too close, but close enough I could smell the faint scent of sunscreen and sweat.
“Probably.” I took a sip of my soda and set it on the wood rail. “My mom is… set in her ways.”
“Whose isn’t?” he asked, and I thought I might’ve heard a hint of irritation.
The shadow of the kitchen window disappeared as the light went out.
“Guess you did a good job. She’s usually up cleaning until after Jay has fallen asleep.”
“My momma would be proud.” He smirked and took a swig from his can.
“Do you live at home?”
“Moved out a few months ago. I got my own place down on Deer Pond Road. It’s not much, but it’s mine.” He set his drink down, and rested his elbows on the wood, staring straight out into the black void of my backyard. “It was time.”
“I know what you mean.”
He looked at me then. “Do you ever think of moving out?”
“Sometimes,” I admitted. “But I can’t leave them. It’d feel wrong.”
“Have you ever talked to your mom about it?”
“Why would I? I’d never want her to feel guilty.”
“Guilty?”
“Yeah, if I talked to her about the possibility of me moving out? She might think I feel trapped.”
“Do you… feel trapped?”
Ethan’s direct questions should’ve made me uneasy, poking around in the personal space I’d closed off to the rest of the world.
It was a lonely place.
I wanted to talk to someone, just one damn person, about real shit for once, and I’d gone and screwed everything up with Wild. The memory of him in that bathroom. His cheeks wet with tears, his eyes rimmed in red and smeared with black. I’d done that. I’d broken him again. I was tired of ruining everything I loved, tired of telling lies all the time.
“Sometimes,” I whispered, more to myself than to Ethan. “It’s difficult…” I swallowed, aware of his body heat, of how he leaned in a little to hear me speak, of the way his eyes had dropped to my mouth. “I want things for myself and it makes me feel selfish.”
“There’s nothing selfish about wanting to live a life that’s yours.”
It could have been unconscious or intentional, I had no way to gauge it as Ethan’s fingers brushed my hand.
“Ethan—”
His lips pressed against mine and I forgot what I was about to say. His lips were softer than I thought they’d be, and I was starving for something, for touch, anything to make me feel human, if only for a second. His hand slid into my hair, my heart pounded in my chest, feeling light and then heavy as I cupped the back of his neck, pulling him closer. My fingertips were numb as his tongue swept over my bottom lip and I opened for him, tasting him. I forgot I was supposed to be playing the role of the straight son. I forgot we were standing on my mother’s porch and not hiding in a dorm. I stopped thinking about the guilt and the shame, and how I’d ruined everything with Wild. I disconnected as he backed me into the railing, and aligned our bodies. He rutted against me, the friction making him moan. The sound of it was a cold wash of reality and I gasped for air, pushing him away.
“Oh fuck,” I breathed and took a step back. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled and wiped at my mouth, wiped away his taste. It didn’t belong on my lips.
“Jax.” He reached for my hand, his fingers grazing my arm, “Don’t be sorry.”
I shook my head over and over, backing myself toward the door.
“It’s okay,” he said in a calm whisper, like I was a wild horse about to run.
His hair was a mess from my hands, his lips swollen, his chin red. My throat narrowed and I reached for the door. “I’m sorry,” I said again, this time on the verge of a full-on panic attack.