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They’re calling this vacation their final play
Ollie leans in and mutters under his breath. “If you think you’re getting away with that boy band knowledge scot-free, you’re mistaken.” So close.
“I want you to find someone who will love you for the guy I know. The one who fanboyed over his first fanboy. Or fanman in your words.” I chuckled. “That guy deserves someone as awesome as he is. So, go out and do stupid shit, but do it with someone special. Okay?” Why? Why did he have to come tonight and fuck up my memory of him with logic? “You’re perfect, Jet.” Right. That was why he was rejecting me. “Yeah. Perfect for someone else. Got it.”
All the love in the air is making me choke. I can deep throat like a champ, but love and romance? That I gag on.
gayer than RuPaul’s wig collection.
Not being able to be with the person you love is not romantic. It’s painful.
There’s an ugly truth no one really thinks about anymore. Some people still need to move countries to be with the person they love.
Extreme sex sports. It should be a thing.
“Do you think Taylor Swift pays any of her ex-boyfriends for being her muse?”
“Good boy.” He pats my head like I’m a golden retriever, and I don’t even care. I lower my voice. “I would say isn’t that my line, but then all the Daddy jokes will start again.”
Harley whines. “Damn it. Why’d your boyfriend have to be nice?” “He’s Canadian. He can’t help it.” “Sorry.” Soren shrugs.
Realization hits him. “He’s ‘Someone Else’s Perfect’?” “I’m going to start charging people every time someone calls me that,” Soren says.
I really need to work out how to turn those off. I’d ask Jet but then he’d mock me about being an old guy who doesn’t know how technology works.
It’s not the sexiest thing in the world—even the word stability makes me cringe—but fuck knows I need it.
If Soren has taught me anything, it’s that love shouldn’t be messy. Sex, yes, definitely messy. Love? It should be selfless and compromising. It shouldn’t leave you cold.
the thought of letting Jet be with someone else makes me want to both vomit and hurl things across the room. Maybe beat the shit out of my pillow with a hockey stick. Not being a caveman or anything.
“Yeah, well, anyone with eyes would be able to tell that I’m in love with you now, you … you … I’ll use language your Canadian ass will understand, you big, dumb hoser!”
