Page 24 of The Rest is History

I touch his arm. He looks at me and smiles. “I’ll clean up and join you in a minute.”

“Okay.”

In the bathroom, I place my hands on the sink, dropping my chin to my chest. This isn’t weird. This isn’t weird. How many times do I need to say it before I finally believe myself?

But it isn’t the weirdness of the situation that sets me on edge. It’s the fact that Asher never said how truly attractive Reece Carter really is. It’s how soft he seems. How . . . non-threatening.

I give myself a shake. No. I’m not . . . what? Not taken aback by how handsome he is? Not a little blindsided by how that soft aura surrounding him makes me more curious about him than jealous?

No. This is just a weird situation, and it will last only as long as dinner. An hour or two, and then it’ll be over.

Tomorrow, everything will go back to normal, to the way things have been for the last six years.

Chapter 10

Reece

I don’t think I thought through the intricacies of standing in Asher’s home with him and his husband. As a concept, it sounded perfectly fine. In reality, it’s like I’ve landed myself in a German fairytale, and I’m the lone traveler seeking food and shelter from an old married couple who have eyes only for each other.

Rightfully, I feel out of place. An intruder. I find myself pulling at the sleeves of my jersey, unsure of where to place myself while they get on with preparing for dinner. I do my best not to stare at Asher, but it’s nearly impossible.

He’s still so beautiful. If God created him, then he’s God’s favorite. He is magnificent to look at, as far as magnificent men went: tall and broad. Strong features coming together attractively on his perfectly symmetrical face – a prominent nose, square chin, well-cut jaw and intelligent eyes. He still has his baseball cap on that he had when I arrived, and now, as Sawyer passes him, he reaches up and turns that cap backwards. They share a moment, laughing lightly, and Asher shakes his head, removing the cap altogether. As always, Asher’s dark brown hair is cut neatly and styled away from his face

To distract myself, I focus on the small dwelling, admiring the simplicity of it all. I doubt there are more than two bedrooms in this cottage. It appears to have an upstairs. It feels cozy and safe. Like his house back home when we were kids, only here, everything is made of wood.

On the kitchen counter is a large bowl with odds and ends in it: keys, yarn, a nail clipper, and other things I can’t make out. A very lived-in thing to have. Asher’s mom used to have one of those bowls on her kitchen counter too.

On the mantle above the fireplace are three framed pictures. One of Sawyer and Asher – presumably the day they got married. Next to it, a picture of a set of twin girls. Teenagers. Sawyer’s family? The resemblance is there. And the third picture is of a baby. Newborn. I’ve avoided looking at that photo since I arrived. I’ve come up with several reasons for why that baby can’t be Asher and Sawyer’s, starting with the fact that he’d have mentioned something by now. Or the fact that you can’t see any other evidence in the immediate vicinity that a baby lives here. I don’t know why the thought of Asher having a baby hurts so much.

When Sawyer returns, he’s changed into a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt, and he’s got an armful of logs pressed against his chest.

His hair is wet and some strands stick to his forehead. The effort it takes to take my eyes off him surprises me. If someone were to point me and Sawyer out as two men Asher has loved, they wouldn’t be able to pinpoint his type.

Sawyer and I are polar opposites.

He’s, maybe, an inch shorter than Asher, but bigger. Where I’m lean and hardly muscled with a clean-shaven face, Sawyer has broad shoulders, thick arms. Rough hands. And the scruff on his face is . . . attractive. His black hair is a little misbehaved. My hair is long too, but, well, I brushed mine.

Sawyer makes quick work of getting the fireplace going and I’m grateful because it’s fucking cold in here. His back is to me and when he reaches forward his t-shirt rides up, exposing the bare skin of his lower back. They must have the best sex.

Oh my God. What the f—?

If they ask, I’ll say the redness in my face is because of the fire.

I remove my scarf and remaining glove just as Sawyer straightens up and turns around. He looks at the items in my hand. “Better?” he asks with a smile.

My heart stutters. He started the fire for me? No. I don’t think so. “Uh, yes. Thank you.”

When he passes me to go to the kitchen, I have to turn in the direction he’s walking to follow the scent he’s left in the air.

He smells like . . . He smells like Asher. Asher must have not changed his body wash. And of course they must share things.

Involuntarily, I inhale deeper. I could never forget Asher’s scent. I used to rub myself all over him so I could take his smell home with me after seeing him so when I slept, I would have him in my bed with me. We were only seventeen but we loved each other like we had lived lifetimes already. And now, inhaling Asher’s scent as it radiates from another man makes me—

What am I thinking? It’s not sexy smelling Asher on someone else. I put my unsettling thoughts away and step toward the counter. I should ask if they need help.

Watching them, my stomach is sick with feelings I can’t yet make sense of. I knew what coming here entailed. None of this is something I haven’t thought about and expected. Still, the familiarity with which they move about their home rips into me like giant claws. I’m bleeding on the inside, watching someone else move in such close proximity to the man I still consider my best friend, if not something more.

It’s cringe-worthy to think I would come here and not feel like dragging Asher away from his husband and telling this Sawyer that he’s my best friend. Sawyer didn’t know Asher the way I did.

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