Would it be easier to just come out? To tell the world and let the chips fall where they may? Yeah. But there’s a caveat. It’d be easier forme. Not for Ryker. He’d take the brunt of those chips falling, and that’s not happening.
Not on my watch.
LAKE
Ryk comeshome with a bunch of flowers in his hand, like it’s his fault it snowed in Philadelphia. He drops his duffel and backs me against the wall. His eyelashes are impossibly dark in the early morning sunshine, and he looks tired as hell, but he’s here, so everything’s better.
He makes love to me on a pile of clean laundry I did in a fit of restless boredom early this morning.
“At least fifty percent of this pile has to go straight back to the washer.” Ryk yawns and stretches out.
I find a stray sock and throw it at his head haphazardly.
He laughs, his warm breath moving over the skin of my neck. My spent cock gives a valiant twitch.
“You smell good,” he says, the tip of his nose pressing into the hollow of my throat as he inhales. He nips at my neck before moving upward until his lips are only a hairsbreadth away from mine.
Our eyes meet, his shining with laughter.
“Good morning,” he says.
“Hi,” I reply.
Everything is so right in the world. More right than it’s ever been. The rightest of rights.
I slide my fingers through his hair over and over again while he kisses me. He bites my lower lip, and I smile into the kiss.
Eventually, we manage to leave the bed. The fridge is empty because I forgot to order the food.
We go to the grocery store. I stand on the end of the cart, and he pushes me around while I randomly throw stuff in—whatever I’m in the mood for. After depositing the groceries at home, we get coffee from a nearby café and walk down the streets with no real destination in mind while we drink.
We get lunch at a sports bar with highlights of last night’s football game playing on screens above our heads. I try to throw peanuts into Ryk’s mouth, but my aim is terrible, so the closest I get is that one peanut that bounces off his forehead.
He makes me laugh until my stomach hurts.
We’re still cautious. Aware. But when we sit on opposite sides of the booth, he moves his foot so it’s pressing against the side of mine. He drinks from my glass and when he hands it back to me, he lets his hand linger so it touches mine. He showers me with small, light touches. They’re quick and casual, only not really. I keep blushing, and he keeps looking at me like we have a secret. I suppose we do, but right now, the secret doesn’t make me feel insecure and unsure.
It’s me and him.
Us against the world.
I can do it all when he’s mine and I’m his.
It’s impossibly sappy to feel this way.
I do anyway.
I won’t tell.
But I do.
And everything feels good for now.
Ryker getsme tickets to all his home games. Always at least two. “Bring a friend,” he keeps telling me.
I realize here’s another chance for me to make friends. To offer somebody the extra ticket. Be all, ‘Hey, you want to come to the game with me?’
I never do.