Page 59 of Ancient History

“That’s…” I bit down on my lip to hold back the wave of embarrassment quickly coloring my face. Even though I had privacy now, I couldn’t face myself in the mirror. “Nice try, Pop.”

“You’ve been spending an awful lot of time in there in the mornings. Just making an observation.”

“That means you have too much time on your hands.” I had to get Pop a hobby. Monitoring my bathroom activity and speculating on my love life didn’t count.

I checked my hair in the mirror, making sure the strands laid just right. My chin and cheeks were clear of any razor nicks. Teeth were pearly white. I was good to go.

“It’s all yours,” I said when I opened the door, ignoring the shit-eating grin stamped on his wrinkled, still lovable face. I stepped aside like a gentleman.

“Looking sharp.” He clapped me on the shoulder.

“Why do you talk like you’re in the Rat Pack? You’re not that old.”

Downstairs, I heated up two bowls of instant oatmeal in the microwave and cut up a pair of oranges into quarters. I laid out the breakfast on the table, two mirror images. Except one had pills and a glass of water on the corner of the plate.

Pop joined me in silence, still highly amused. Only the sounds of our spoons clanging against bowls filled the kitchen.

“It’s my job to look professional.” I shouldn’t have brought it up, but I didn’t want to give him the victory.

“You look very professional.” He bit into his orange. “Amos will be impressed.”

I dropped my spoon.

“Pop.”

“You never told me how the birthday party last week was.”

“We all wore those paper party hats, played duck duck goose, and ate birthday cake.”

“You came home late.” He raised his eyes, having the time of his freaking life this morning. He spooned oatmeal into his trap. “This tastes like paper.”

“I made it with water and no salt or butter. Oatmeal is high in fiber and helps to lower cholesterol.”

“I’d rather drink toilet water.” He reached for the salt shaker, but I moved it to my side with two meddlesome fingers.

At least we could both torture each other this morning.

“And take your pills.”

He stared me down as he gulped them back.

“I can stay out late if I want. I’m not on curfew anymore.”

“Fair enough.” His face softened, breaking this game of chicken we were playing. “Did you have a good time?”

A genuine question deserved a genuine answer. But the answer was, of course, complicated. Two guys knocking boots could never be simple. Fuck, I’d been thinking about that night nonstop. The hungry look in Amos’s eyes as he pushed me back. His exquisite moans of pleasure. Tasting him again.

I had a fucking time, that was for sure.

And we’d been having repeats in the Scoop’s parking lot this week. Three seventh period car naps that turned into hand jobs, that then turned into actual car naps. My gym towel desperately needed to be washed. I could crack it in half at this point.

I wasn’t sure what was going on between us, but my heart was fully involved. This was one of the best weeks I’d had in a long time, but I kept this sentiment to myself. Even though things were better between us, a part of Amos was still raw from how things ended last time. If I tried moving into more serious, romantic territory with him, I could trigger that hurt again and scare him off. It was better to stay in hookup limbo. For now, I’d just blow my load, not my chances.

“Yeah. It was fun times. It was good hanging out with people my own age. No offense.” I stood up, my chair squeaking on the chair. “Gotta get to school.”

I kissed him on the head before he could ask me more questions. “Love you, Pop. See you tonight.”

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