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I wonder what it’d feel like to be a firework. Would it hurt? Or would it be worth it to see all the smiling faces below?
“I think, maybe, we become stars.” “Yeah?” I like that idea, that we could stay up in the sky forever, able to watch down over our loved ones. “Yeah,” he says. “Hopefully, we’ll be part of the same constellation.” I like that idea a lot, too.
“Well, damn, Easton.” Wyatt slaps me on the shoulder as he kicks the swing into motion again. “Your best friend and your best horse have the same name. Seems like fate to me.” Wyatt James Montgomery. Monty. Maybe it is fate. The thought makes me smile.
“I would always choose him. Over and over again, no matter how it ends. In any world where there’s a Wyatt and an Easton, that Wyatt would find his Easton and fall in love. And maybe that’s just my story, to be the brokenhearted. Maybe I’m okay with that.”
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I don’t know how to explain it to her. How the moment I stepped back inside this house and brushed past my friend, it felt like a piece of myself that had been untethered snapped back into place. Like my very atoms recognized Easton’s and settled back into my skin and bones.
Easton is my soulmate. He’s part of me, and even if there’s never more than what we have now—and let’s face it, I’ve already accepted there never will be—it doesn’t matter. It’ll never matter. When I look at it like that, I guess the answer is easy. “Because my fool heart has, and always will, love that man. I would do anythin’ for him, and right now, he’s broken and alone. If I can help him feel that a little less, it’s what I’m gonna do.”
“Good job, Papa,” he says, tucking his son more firmly against his body. I swear my heart plain stops. Papa. I watch Easton, the man of my dreams, walk back inside with the little boy that’s quickly stealing my heart. I want to be Papa.
“Nuh-uh,” Will says, turning to look at me with that fire back in his eyes. “It’s not your fault. It’s theirs. It shouldn’t ever matter who we love or how we do it. You, Daddy, and me, we love each other. That’s family, and there ain’t ever anythin’ wrong with that.”
Maybe I won’t ever find a person better than Easton, but don’t I deserve someone for myself?
In one instant, life is as it always has been. And, in the next, my friend’s lips are against mine, and everything—everything—has changed.
“Should we be concerned that our twelve-year-old son just gave us privacy to have sex?” Wyatt asks.
Easton’s cock is right in front of me, waiting, and I want it something fierce.
“What is frotting?” he asks, fingers still moving inside of me.
“You were jackin’ yourself, too? Damn, stud, shoulda turned the light on. I could’ve gotten a free show.”
“That whole I am in love with you, Wyatt James Montgomery thing. I’m a fan of that part.”
“I’m madly in love with you, and I want nothin’ more than to be yours, and for you to be mine, until we’re dead and buried in the ground.” “You do,” Easton says around a sigh of relief, not quite a question. “Got a little morbid at the end there, though,” he jokes, tucking his arms around my waist.
“I love you.” A kiss to his nose. “I love you.” The corner of his mouth. “I love you.” The edge of his jaw. The pulse point in his neck. “Baby, I love you. So much,” I say, nuzzling against his skin.
“Thank you for lovin’ me,” I tell him again. “Easiest thing I ever did,” he replies, voice hoarse but true.
The way I love you,” he shakes his head slightly, “it’s just a part of me, of my very makeup. You’re in my atoms. My bones. My head and my heart. I wish I could show you. I wish I could hold it in my hands, so you could see just how brightly that love shines. But I can’t do that. What I can do is promise that my love for you will never go away. It won’t fade. It won’t falter. It won’t die. I will love you, Easton William Moore, for all my days and on into the night sky.”
“Christ,” I mutter, back bowing. “Y’know what that song says, somethin’ about savin’ a horse and ridin’ a cowboy.” Wyatt’s voice is breathy with his exertion. “What horse we savin’?” I ask.
“What’s that smile for?” “You,” I say simply. “Just thinkin’ ’bout you.” “Well, Easton William Moore,” Wyatt says, humor dancing in his golden brown eyes. “You look like a fool.” “A fool in love,” I tell him. Wyatt lifts his hand, tracing my lower lip, before he rests his palm over my heart, right where he belongs. “Makes two of us.”
