Peter Cabot Gets Lost (The Cabots, #2)

by Cat Sebastian

This would all be easier if he weren’t so—handsome wasn’t quite the word. He was interesting to look at, in a way that made Peter never want to look away.

His lips were, at this moment, pressed together in an impatient line, but Peter knew that when he was interested in something, like a history lecture, he parted them slightly, and sometimes his tongue would dart out to wet his lower lip. This would all be so much easier if Peter hadn’t spent quite so much time watching this man.

But Peter Cabot was the sort of person you were always passively aware of, like it or not.

“Where is home?” Peter had been wondering about that since the Intro to Philosophy class they both took freshman year. The distinct lilt in Caleb’s accent left no room to doubt that he from someplace in the South, but Peter wanted to know more.

“Do you always blame yourself for other people’s fuck ups?”

Now Caleb smiled outright. It was a weary smile, but it reached his eyes, and Peter felt absurdly pleased with himself. He wished he wasn’t like this—so eager to make things right, so pitifully eager to please but so hopelessly bad at it most of the time.

The sight of Caleb Murphy in his undershirt and a thin pair of pajama pants slung low on his hips shouldn’t have done much for him—Caleb was, objectively, too thin, not to mention perpetually cross, more than a little arrogant, and just a lot of work to be around. Peter shouldn’t have been attracted to him at all, not for any reason, and yet he was, and he had been almost from the start. He caught himself leaning forward to hear what the whip smart blond kid had to say in the classes they shared, found himself trying to tune his ears to the exact frequency of Caleb’s voice in crowded dining halls.

That was the first time Caleb had said his name, and Peter felt his cheeks heat with stupid, exaggerated pleasure.

Caleb raised an eyebrow, but his eyes were warm and unfocused and Peter felt caught in them.

“I think you lied to me yesterday,” Caleb said a minute later. “What?” Peter tried to think of what Caleb could be talking about. It rarely even occurred to him to lie, let alone actually go through with it. “When you said it was a new thing. Not being an asshole, I mean.”

He had long ago learned that it was better for everyone if he did what other people wanted rather than actually decide what he wanted to do. And he really, really did not want to think about whether sitting next to Caleb—on a bed, on a hotel bed—was something he wanted.

Caleb probably should have been annoyed that Peter answered his thanks with a running tally of expenses but instead he was relieved and reluctantly impressed that this man to whom money plainly meant nothing understood that it meant a great deal to Caleb. Maybe he didn’t understand precisely what it meant, but he understood that Caleb needed to pay his way, and for some reason that was enough for Peter to go along with it.

When he looked over, he saw Peter biting his lip to suppress a smile, so, like an idiot, he kept going.

“I’m sorry,” Caleb said. “For what?” “For being rude to you yesterday.” Peter looked like he was trying not to smile. “And the day before?” Caleb laughed. “Yes, Peter, and the day before.”

That would make anybody cranky.” “Still, I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” “True. But I didn’t mind.” “You should.” “Maybe I’m used to it.” Caleb studied Peter’s profile—strong jaw, straight nose, broad shoulders, and solid frame. But he looked vulnerable, and at that moment Caleb wanted nothing more than to prove to Peter that he deserved better than whatever he was used to getting.

Will there be consequences other than your father being upset with you?” Peter was momentarily stumped by the question. He wasn’t sure how to explain that his family’s disappointment was bad enough, however much he ought to be used to it by now.

He was an adult. He didn’t need to be afraid of his father’s anger. His father didn’t have any control over him. His father didn’t have to matter to him one bit. And yet, all of that did matter—not to his freedom or safety, but to something deep within him. If he weren’t a Cabot, then who the hell was he? And what kind of idiot was he to throw it away?

Peter said, reaching out a hand to flick Caleb on the shoulder, as he would do to any of his friends who were being smart asses. But as he was about to do it, he hesitated. Maybe Caleb didn’t like that sort of playful horsing around. Maybe, also, Peter didn’t want to touch Caleb in the way he’d touch any old friend.

Only he must have miscalculated, because now his hand was on the back of Caleb’s neck, touching the fine short hairs there, his fingers wrapping around to the soft skin of the other side, feeling the pulse beneath his fingertips. He went totally still in some combination of horror and embarrassment and weird, misplaced arousal, and he felt Caleb go equally still. He wanted to look over and see what Caleb’s face was doing, but he needed to keep his eyes on the road, so he let himself imagine how confused and disdainful Caleb must look. But then Caleb relaxed under Peter’s hand, sort of softened into the touch, until Peter’s arm was almost around Caleb’s shoulders. It felt so right to be touching him like that, while also somehow feeling new and strange and terrifying. When Peter finally pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant, he was reluctant to take his arm away.

“Do you ever get homesick?” Peter asked. Caleb chewed and swallowed. “I feel homesick for the way I wish things were,” he said. “I miss my mother and my sister and even my stepfather, and I’ll send them whatever they need, but I’m not going back.” “Any reason in particular?” Caleb huffed out a laugh and looked down at the table. “It’s hard work pretending to be the person they think I am.”

Caleb held up his pop bottle for Peter to clink his own against it. “Here’s to being secret disappointments to our families.” “Speak for yourself. I’m an open disappointment.” Caleb’s eyes lit with something Peter was pretty sure was anger. It made Peter feel positively cheerful. “Because of the, er, thing we have in common, or something else?” “I just generally pale in comparison to my brother and cousins.” “I bet they’re assholes.”

Peter had the most distressing habit of shucking layers of clothing as the day heated up.

He seemed so competent, so sure of himself, that Caleb was content to believe that he was in safe hands. It was an enormous and unexpected relief not to have to worry about every detail of life, for once.

Peter laughed. “Jesus, don’t strain yourself, Murphy.” That was the first time Peter had called him by his last name and Caleb didn’t care for it one bit. That was probably how he spoke to his friends and teammates and it felt unnecessarily…platonic, maybe. But it wasn’t as if there was any real possibility of there being anything else between them, was there?

I’m grateful that you’re driving.” Peter was silent for a moment. “I’m grateful that you gave me an excuse to go AWOL. We’re even.” “That’s not how it works.” “It is for me.”

He knew he should have returned the compliment. Caleb had been determinedly ungracious and stingy with kindness, not just with Peter but in general. It was getting to be a habit. It was getting to be a part of him.

When Caleb noticed the newspaper on his side of the bed, he stilled. “I didn’t see you buy that.” “At the gas station,” Peter said. It was three cents. He couldn’t decide whether to tell Caleb that he owed Peter a penny and a half. “You like taking care of people,” Caleb said, and it wasn’t a question. Peter sucked in a breath. “I haven’t thought about it. I guess so?” “It isn’t a bad thing.” Caleb knelt on the bed. “Why do you look like I’ve insulted you?” “I just—it sounds weak, doesn’t it?” Peter asked, not meeting Caleb’s eyes. “What it sounds like is that your father’s an asshole,” Caleb said.

“It’s nice that you bought me this paper. You are nice. I actually like you, despite being dead set on not liking you, just on principle.” “You like me?” “Don’t let it get to your head.” “Too late.”

They smiled stupidly at one another, then Caleb dropped his hand and arranged himself so he was sitting on his own side of the bed. Peter found himself touching the spot on his jaw where Caleb’s fingers had been.

“Are you telling me you didn’t even get a brand-new Cadillac convertible?” Caleb asked, and then paused. “If you had told me a week ago that this would make me genuinely upset, I’d have laughed in your face.” Peter laughed and turned onto his side, facing Caleb but only able to see his profile in the darkness. “I’m very fond of my secondhand car, so you can save your tears.” Caleb sighed dramatically. “All it takes is three days, a couple newspapers, and a handsome face, and I lose my principles.”

One thing about having your destiny mapped out for you was that it was really hard to steer off the route you were supposed to take.

“There’s no getting around the fact that first and foremost I’m a Cabot.” Caleb remembered the note of bleakness that had crept into Peter’s voice the previous night when they had talked about the future. That bleakness was there again on Peter’s last words, as if he wished he could imagine a future for himself as someone other than a Cabot.

No, it wasn’t diplomacy, and it wasn’t just putting people at ease. There was nothing smooth or practiced about what Peter did, only an earnest effort to do right, to be kind. Peter Cabot was good. He was a good man, but that didn’t stop him from trying to be an even better one, and Caleb didn’t know what to do with that information. It wasn’t just that Caleb’s preconceived notions were being turned on their head—he had gotten over that the previous day. But now there was something else, something worse. Peter was good, and he liked to make Caleb happy—no, he liked to take care of Caleb. And it had been so long since anyone had taken care of Caleb.

It made Peter so transparently happy to do these little favors for Caleb, though. When he slid that last pancake onto Caleb’s plate, he was almost pink with happiness, so obviously pleased with himself that Caleb couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you,” Caleb said, and Peter looked at him, faintly startled. Caleb realized that might have been the first time he properly, ungrudgingly, thanked Peter. “It’s just a pancake,” Peter said, voice gruff, eyes averted. “I know,” Caleb said, and under the table nudged Peter’s foot with his own.

He had spent his entire life knowing that to be a Cabot was to put the family first, and in one impulsive move he had broken that cardinal rule. If he cut himself free from his family, then he wasn’t only free—he was adrift, alone in a world that suddenly seemed much too large.

“You might feel better if you let go,” Caleb said, peeling Peter’s fingers off the wheel, one by one. “You’ll ruin the leather.” Peter let Caleb pry his hand from the wheel, but instead of letting go, Caleb held Peter’s hand in his own. There was nothing suggestive about the touch, except for the fact that they were touching in the first place. None of Peter’s friends would have held his hand to comfort him, but then again Peter probably wouldn’t have let himself fall apart in front of any of his friends. The fact that Caleb’s hand was touching his was proof that Peter was in an unfamiliar place.

“See, I can be soothing and put people at their ease too,” Caleb said, grinning crookedly. “Is that what you’re doing?” Peter asked, his eyes straying to where their hands were still joined. “I mean”—Peter’s mouth went dry, but he had done one reckless thing this week and he could do another. “Is that all you’re doing?” Caleb looked at him for a long minute, as if searching for something in Peter’s eyes. Whatever he was looking for, Peter really hoped he found it. “No,” Caleb finally said. “Not really.” “Good.”

Peter couldn’t imagine where Caleb had gotten hold of the idea that Peter was competent at anything, and he’d tell him exactly how wrong he was if he weren’t worried about scaring the man off.

“Want me to make this easy for us?” Caleb asked, voice low and soft. “Please,” Peter said. “Please.” Caleb slid along the bench seat, one hand coming up to touch Peter’s jaw. His fingers were cool and sure as he leaned in. “I really hope that by touching you meant kissing,” he said, so close Peter could feel his breath on his own cheek. “Yeah,” Peter managed, and Caleb closed the last few inches between them, brushing their lips together.

He had never kissed anyone like this. He had never kissed anyone he had actually wanted to kiss, and he had never wanted to kiss anyone the way he wanted to kiss Caleb. This kiss was made of want. It was made of all the things Peter wasn’t supposed to be but was anyway.

And that meant Caleb wanted him. The fact of that want—given and received, shared, equal—settled over Peter until he felt almost blanketed in it, wrapped up in it. “Later,” he said, and he didn’t know whether it was a question or an answer. “Later,” Caleb said, lifting himself up to press a last, relatively chaste, kiss to the corner of Peter’s mouth.

Over the roof of the car, Peter grinned at him, a smile warm and guileless and just for Caleb. It occurred to Caleb that his bank account wasn’t the only thing that was going to get damaged this trip. Caleb didn’t have any business kissing the likes of Peter Cabot.

He had a sinking feeling that if he spent the next three or four days or however long it took to get to California messing around with Peter, he wouldn’t be able to keep things casual. He liked Peter, liked him a lot, far more than he had thought possible.

Caleb might not be sure exactly how a man went about getting his heart broken, but he thought that a few days of fooling around with someone he was uncomfortably fond of but who ordinarily wouldn’t give him the time of day was a damned good start.

He’d have to hide who he was in order to please people who would never be pleased by him.

These past few days, he hadn’t felt doomed. Part of it was simply the thrill of escaping a future that he had accepted as inevitable. Years of enduring his family’s disappointment had eaten away like acid at Peter’s own sense of self, and now he finally had hope that he could make it stop. He was starting to imagine a future in which he was enough, just the way he was.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Peter said turning his attention away from Caleb and back to the road. He clenched the room key in his hand, the metal teeth digging into his palm. “I’m sorry.” “What on earth are you talking about?” “I shouldn’t have kissed you,” Peter said, quiet enough that nobody could overhear, “or walked around half naked.” Caleb had leaned in to hear Peter but now stood up straight and took a step away. “All right. We’ll pretend it never happened.”

Caleb was aware that at some point he had thought Peter was a lackluster copy of his more charismatic family members, but now that notion seemed laughably wrong, obsolete, a relic of some embarrassing old way of thinking, like believing in a flat earth. He was going to spend the rest of his life seeing pictures of various Cabots and knowing that they were just poor imitations of Peter.

Caleb put his fork down and took a long drink of water. “You are an idiot. A preposterous fool. Bless your heart. I don’t know what I see in you,” he hissed.

“So, if you think I’m going to fuck you out of gratitude,” Caleb whispered, “or to pay my way, or whatever is going through that pretty head of yours, just forget it. I kissed you. I made the first move. Me.” “I remember,” Peter said, seeming to recover some of his usual easy affability. “I was there.” “So while your concern is admirable and this conversation, however much I hate to admit it, was probably a good idea, your worries are unfounded, and you are very dumb.”