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What’s your favorite flower, by the way?” Diverted by this question, I stare at him. “I don’t…I don’t know?” “Yeah, me either,” Max agrees. “Nate asked.”
Shaking my head at that little nugget of information, I pull out my phone and hand it to Max. He types in my password, and the screen lights up on Nate’s and my open text conversation. He snorts, using his thumb to scroll through the messages.
“It’s been getting better, hasn’t it?” Max interrupts my thoughts softly. I look up at him. “Are you worried about him trying to—” “Touch me?” Max nods. “Actually, no. I told him not to in the past and he was fine. And yeah, it has been getting better. I’ve been practicing.” Max nods again, probably thinking about all the times over the summer I practiced on him. I’ve never been so affectionate in my life, but the past couple months I’ve done my best to touch Max and Luke as often as possible, even if it was just a quick press of my fingers to an arm.
“I don’t know. Not really sure why he’s trying so hard to go out with me anyway.” Max scrunches up his nose like he smells something rotten. “Uhm, because you’re fucking great? Why wouldn’t he try hard—you’re a catch.” “Okay, Max.”
“You do want to go out with him, right?” “Yeah,” I tell him, voice low. I really want to go out with him. It’s all I’ve been thinking about all damn summer—his pretty green eyes and scarred brown skin; the way he so obviously wants me, and isn’t shy about showing it. I repeat more confidently, “Yeah, I want to go out with him.”
He looks devastating, standing there wearing a dark green shirt that makes his eyes glow like emeralds. He seems taller than I remember—limbs long, body lean and strong.
“Finally,” he says on an exhale, smiling at me. I’m so distracted by the sight of him, the word doesn’t register right away. “What?” “Finally,” he repeats. “You’re a hard man to nail down. I started to think I might have imagined you.”
It doesn’t even qualify as touching. He’s carefully not touching me, in fact—his fingertips brushing lightly through my hair without even reaching my scalp. Reaching up, I wrap my own fingers around his wrist and meet his gaze. His eyes light up at the contact, so I tug him forward and tip my chin up. I’m done overthinking this. I want to kiss him. Nate leans down and presses his smiling mouth to mine, gentle and barely there. A proper first-date hello kiss, and not the kiss I really wanted. When I scowl, he laughs and comes back for another, lingering this time around. God, had I really
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Gently extracting his arm from my grip, he slides his palm against mine and squeezes my hand. I answer the question in his eyes before he can voice it. “Yeah, that’s fine.” He positively beams, tugging on my hand to pull me into motion.
When we reach his truck, he uses our hands to pull me behind him so he can open my door for me. I roll my eyes, pretending not to find this as charming as I do.
He’s painfully and unfairly lovely. A voice meant for radio, and a face meant for the big screen.
“Nate…” “Trust me,” he requests, unclicking his seat belt with a smile and leaning across the center console. He stops midway, but the desire behind the gesture is clear. Pulling off my own seat belt, I lean forward and meet him the rest of the way. He huffs in surprise when I kiss him, but wastes no time in grabbing my face and keeping me there. My skin tingles at the press of his palms against my cheeks, but it’s not unpleasant.
Shifting his load, he frees up his right hand and holds it out to me, palm facing upward. I stare at it for a minute, once more thinking about the possibility of his skin being too warm; too clammy with the heat of the day and the humidity on the coast. But then I think of my therapy sessions over the summer, and the way Nate kissed me in the car. I like the way it feels when he touches me—am I really going to miss out on that on the off chance he might be a little sweaty? Inhaling, I slide my hand into his and thread our fingers together. He squeezes my hand and aims a smile my way that feels
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I am feral for Marcos.
I have the nearly unquenchable desire to hug him. To squeeze the shit out of him, and tell him I missed him. And I did. I really did. I missed him with the fervor reserved for a long-lost love coming back from war. I missed him way more than I should have, given we barely know one another and the sum total of our relationship can be filtered down to blowjobs and text messages.
I want what I want. I want Marcos.
The sun is shining, it’s a beautiful day, and he’s here.
I’m honestly floored he let me hold his hand at all.
“Please.” I scoff. “Did you really think I’d leave today up to chance? I interrogated Max about you.” He laughs. A short, somewhat harsh sound that has a smile breaking out over my face in response. He looks at me, dark eyes crinkled at the corners with delight. “I wasn’t expecting you to admit that,” he confesses.
How could anyone care about catching fish when Marcos has a happy trail and it’s staring them right in the face?
Let him come to you, I reproach myself firmly, even though my fingers itch for him.
“Want to split that?” he asks, but I shake my head. “Nope. I’m wooing you, which means I’m paying.” He laughs—the same quick, startled sound as earlier. This time, when I hold my hand out to him, it takes him a couple seconds to slide his fingers through mine, as though he needed to think about it first. He sighs in relief, and squeezes my hand a little tighter. “Wooing,” he repeats.
“I missed out on the flowers, since Max didn’t know and I didn’t want to get the wrong thing.” He snorts. “I don’t need flowers.” “Of course not. But the point isn’t that you need them. The point is that it’s romantic as fuck. Wooing, remember?” “Ah, yes, right. Sorry.”
It makes my head hurt a little bit—looking at him.
It’s strange to want someone so fucking much. Strange and a little alarming. What the hell am I supposed to do if he decides he doesn’t want me back?
When the owner leaves, he meets my eye a touch sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you out of that conversation.” I raise my eyebrows. “Sorry? Christ. That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard. Please, leave me out of any and all conversations as long as I can listen to you speak Spanish.”
“You can’t woo me by pilfering my food,” he points out. “In fact, that’s the opposite of wooing. Anti-woo.” I do it again, just to see the scowl on his face again. Cute. Everything about him is fucking cute. “I like my chances,” I respond stoutly, and am gratified when I catch the smile on his mouth before he ducks his face to take a bite.
They’re obsessed with each other. Throw a rock at one of them, you’ll hit them both.”
“Must be something in the air,” I muse. “I’m pretty obsessed with you, to be honest.”
What other word to describe the unexpected and intense attraction, or the way I am constantly and inexplicably thinking about him, regardless of what I’m doing.
“Have sex. I know it probably seemed like I was inviting you in for that, but I don’t think I can. Sorry.” “Okay.” I’m not really sure what to say, and I feel a little bad even though I’m not entirely sure why. “It’s not you,” he continues, still looking at the wall and not me. He’s running his palms back and forth over his boardshorts as though nervous. “I just…” “Aren’t into it,” I fill in, and watch as his shoulders slump. “That’s okay. Do you…do you want me to leave?”
I don’t want you to leave. I just don’t… I just need a break from all the—” He lifts a hand off his leg and waggles his fingers a little bit. Ah. No more touching, then. “Okay,” I agree brightly, even though I can admit to myself I’m a little disappointed.
“Okay?” Marcos repeats cautiously, eyes bouncing back and forth between mine. “Of course. I can stay, though?” He fiddles with his Coke can, eyes trailing down from mine and making a very obvious path down my chest. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “You can stay.”
Every time I feel like I’m getting better—getting back to normal—I set myself back by worrying about someone touching me. The fact that I wanted Nate to touch me made the whole thing even more infuriating.
I try a smile on for size again, and find it comes a little easier now that he’s here. He’s just so perfect. It seems incredible that eyes could come in that color; even more incredible to be paired with those cheekbones and that lovely brown hair. And as if he wasn’t already blessed enough, he’s patient and generous and accepting. He shouldn’t even be real.
My body itches with the desire to touch him, and be touched in return. My brain, on the other hand, only seems to function in the realm of what might go wrong.
Nate reaches out, and I yank my arm away before he can make contact. Long sleeves or no, I can’t today. The hurt that flashes across his face before he’s able to disguise it makes my chest burn with shame. I don’t want to be like this anymore. “You sure?” he asks. I sigh and try to unknot my muscles a little bit. I’m too edgy, and there is no fucking reason for it. It’s Nate.
Why should I get a chance to be happy when I’ve caused so much unhappiness to someone I love?
“You’ll answer when I call, right?” he presses, smiling like it’s a joke but unable to make it wholly convincing. “I’ll answer,” I promise.
I don’t know how Max managed to trust Luke enough to let him in. He’s a lot braver of a person than I am.
Luke just waits, stretching his other arm and watching me. I frown. He’s been spending way too much time with Max, and now he knows me way better than I would like him to. “I’m just annoyed, because apparently today is the day my anxiety medication decided to not treat anxiety.”
“I’m going to assume you don’t want to hear my joke about the correlation between the size of the man’s hockey stick and his—” “I cannot fucking talk to you.”
“You’re not so bad,” I tell him grudgingly as we walk together toward our cars. He gasps theatrically. “I love this for us,” he says, bumping his shoulder against mine and earning another scowl. He laughs. “It’s funny that half of Max’s friends are so fucking grouchy.” “I’m not grouchy,” I argue, even though I am.
Luke and Max have both gotten in the habit of referring to our apartment as “home,” even though Luke doesn’t technically live with us. At this point, we might as well add him to the lease and move him into Max’s room. It’s not as though he spends any time at his actual home anyway. His roommates have likely forgotten what he looks like.
Marcos I just finished practice, on the way home now. Is it cool if I call you in about an hour? Nate For you, lovely, I’m available any time.
“Nicknames are a sign of friendship and love.” “I’m definitely feeling the friendship and love,” I deadpan, which makes him laugh again. “Max here?” “Yeah! Didn’t he tell you he was coming?” “He did, but I couldn’t find him in the stands. He’s usually to the right of home.”
“You talked to Max about this?” “Yeah, a little bit.” Luke rolls his eyes fondly. “He asked if I might want to go with him. As if there was a chance I wouldn’t. Idiot.”
A fission of energy goes through my body, like I just put my hand on a live wire and electrocuted myself. He looks beautiful in his jeans and dark blue V-neck. His skin is practically glowing in the light, as though even the sun is happy to have the opportunity to kiss him.
“Damn, Marcos,” he says in an impressed sort of voice. “Good work.” “Shut up,” I mumble as we approach the pair.
Squaring my shoulders, I reach for him. As always, there’s that little bit of fear when I make initial contact, but my skin doesn’t crawl and there’s no vertigo. Relaxing, I give his arm a little tug to bring him into my personal space. “Hi. I hope this is okay,” Nate manages to get out, a second before I kiss him. He gasps against my mouth. Clamping a hand on my hip, he tries to pull me closer but I lean away, not wanting to take this further with an audience. “Hi,” Nate repeats. This close, his eyes shine like chips of jade in the sunlight. I’ve truly never seen a more beautiful eye color.
