Page 28 of From the Ashes

There. The implication is clear that we’re being friendly, but I’m not inviting him to stay all evening or offering to make him dinner or anything like that.

I’m also trying not to show the near aneurysm I’m having working out if I should offer him any underwear with the sweatpants. Saying that outright seems too personal, but I’ve realized that either way his junk will be rubbing all over something of mine.

Whatever. That’s what laundry detergent is for. I just need to not dwell on it, starting with not mentioning it in the first place.

“All good?” I ask.

“Thanks, man,” he says, pausing outside the bathroom. “I really appreciate this. I feel so stupid thinking I could go to the beach and not get messy.”

Oh, this is messy, all right. And I don’t just mean the sand and saltwater.

“Don’t mention it,” I say, trying not to look like I’m backing away when I am, in fact, backing away. “I’ll just get the, um, your clothes. My clothes. Uh…”

“Thanks,” he says again.

He leans on the doorframe, the beer bottle dangling from his thick, strong fingers as he smiles at me. I see that dopey teenager I used to think of as being mine again, and I have to spin onto my heels and head into the bedroom before I do something truly regrettable.

For a few seconds, I just grip the side of my dresser and take a few deep breaths to center myself. It would be pointless to deny that my body is insanely attracted to Colt, possibly even more than when we were younger. Sure, we were both riddled withhormones back then and made out every second we could. But there’s no beating the allure of maturity and wisdom.

And washboard abs and bulging biceps and…

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble quietly to my dick that’s twitching in my shorts. “I got the memo. He’shawt.”

Rolling my eyes as I mimic Yara’s silly pronunciation, I put my beer down and start rummaging for clothes that I think will fit him but also that don’t have any sentimental value.

Part of me wants to give him my vintage pattern Honolulu tee. We used to always talk about taking a trip and going surfing somewhere exotic after we graduated, but obviously we never got the chance. I have to be in the right mood to wear that shirt, because for better or worse, it never fails to remind me of our time together.

I decide that’s probably not the one to lend him.

Pausing in front of my dresser, my hand drifts upward to gently press my fingers against my lips, chasing the ghost of that first kiss. Senior year had been almost over, and the whole summer seemed to stretch out infinitely before us. I remember how terrified I’d been of losing Colt, but it never felt like a possibility I could tell him how I really felt. I’d been brave enough to come out to him after an obscene amount of rum one night several weeks previously. When he hadn’t immediately dumped me as his best friend, that seemed like the greatest possible outcome I could hope for.

Except in my dreams, he was secretly gay, too. I’d had countless fantasies of him leaning in to kiss me like a prince in a fairy tale. But I knew better than to think that could ever be real.

And then one magical night after graduation, when we’d been surfing all day then taken pizzas and a six-pack to a secluded spot on the beach, we’d been lying in the sand next to one another, he’d turned his head to look at me and…

It was as if time stopped. My heart certainly did when he’d gotten just a fraction closer. Then he’d whispered my name like a prayer, then…

I close my eyes in the here and now, a lump rising in my throat and goose bumps shivering across my skin. No fireworks display could ever match the explosion I felt the moment his lips touched mine. Like he’d been waiting longer than I had for just the right opportunity to make his move. He’d seemed so confident, although afterward he confessed he’d been scared shitless that he was about to ruin everything between us.

I’d assured him there hadn’t been anything I wanted more in the entire world than to be with him. We’d made love clumsily on that beach in the dark, then spent the next several weeks exploring each other in every single way we could think of. He already had my heart and soul as my best friend for nearly four years. In those short couple of months, I gave him my body unconditionally, and he had worshiped me as I did him.

Then he was gone. Just like that.

I inhale sharply and blink my eyes back open. My pulse is racing and my cock is throbbing, recalling all those beautiful, joyful, sensual firsts we’d shared together.

“Get it together,” I tell myself firmly.

I was fully aware that inviting him into my home was always going to make things complicated and stir up old feelings. There’s no need to make this fragile détente of ours unstable because I tripped and fell down memory lane.

After a couple of deep breaths, I feel like I’m on solid ground once more. “You’re okay,” I mutter to myself. “He’s not going to hurt you like that again. He can’t.”

Not if I don’t let him.

If we’re going to be civil and exist in the same town, possibly even be friends, I cannot let the past keep dragging me backward. But perhaps now I’ve had this first serious wobbleafter letting him into my home, my body won’t get so confused by all those memories so easily next time.

He doesn’t have that power over me anymore. I refuse to allow it.

This is my life. He only gets to come back into it if I say so.

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