Page 5 of Summer of the Boy

Chapter Two

The carnival had been constructed along the boardwalk in a pitchfork design. The boardwalk we walk down, one of the two outer prongs jutting up to a dead end chain link fence, leaving the innermost prong to hold the front and back entrances to the carnival, along with the employee only trailers and offices.

Mrs. McAllister stands out front of the main office to the front entrance, hugging her arms tightly around her waist.

She’s lean, has Ridley’s sandy blonde hair and looks far too young from a distance to be the mother of an over-eighteen-year-old. “Rid. Rid, you okay?” She asks, and sounds like she’s worried, but addressing a child at the same time. What is with these people? It’s no wonder he doesn’t look his mother in the eye.

Although, he introduces me.

“This is Leif. He’s my friend.” Mrs. McAllister turns from her son to me to him again, eyes widening as if she hadn’t heard him correctly. Is it really so odd for the beautiful man-boy to have a friend?

Well since my presence throws her enough to negate any form of proper meeting your son’s friend for the first time manners, I step closer, holding out my hand. “Nice to meet you,” I offer, this time noticing the fine worry wrinkles around her eyes and across her brow.

Definitely younger than the average mom, but she’s clearly lived through a lot, probably because of Ridley. After hesitating only briefly, she shakes my hand.

“Nice to meet you, Leaf.”

“It’s pronounced Layf.” Ridley corrects before I have the chance. “Not Leaf, mom.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, not that she sounds sorry at all.

“It’s fine,” I return in my I’m speaking to a parent voice. Then turning to Rid, as his mother called him, “You’re going to wait for me, yeah? We’ll hang. Have lunch tomorrow?” And God help me if I don’t almost swoon on the spot when that great, beautiful smile graces me again.

Staying around this guy can only mean trouble for me. I mean,swooning?I’ve never even thought of the word in conjunction with me and a hot guy before. Even as that realization sets in, my feet refuse to move. My feet, for their part, know I don’t want to be the first to walk away.

I watchhimwalk away, amazed at how cruel the universe could be giving that backside—which I know I shouldn’t be looking at, but a backside like his surely inspired the renaissance movement. Pair that with his face, that body—with the mind and soul of an autistic boy, well, man now.

There’s no denying that I’ve missed the company of a man, or the touch of a man, the scrape of morning stubble against my cheek when we’re lip locked before either of us leaves the bed to start our day. And maybe that’s the reason behind my reaction to Ridley. I have to shake that image out of my head, crossing and uncrossing my arms over my chest because I seriously don’t know what to do with them.

The douche canoe Trucker and I watch mom and son leave us behind, his glare fixed uncomfortably on Mrs. McAllister’s ass. When they’ve cleared our sight he turns to me. “If there’s nothing else, you should be going.”

It’s as clear as I’m standing here that he doesn’t give two shits about Ridley. Trucker has the hots for Mama McAllister.

Not cool man. Not cool.

Trucker certainly knows how to ruin a moment. And I was definitely having a moment.

And dammit if Gabe Cera isn’t staring right at me when I break away from Ridley’s boss. Standing alone, with people moving around him. If this were a movie, they’d be fuzzy white noise while he stayed in crisp focus shooting me one of those dissecting, you shouldn’t have come back to town and I’m going to figure out how to take you down, stares. He’d aimed such a look on many a poor sucker in high school.

No responsibilities for a couple of months, the sun sits high and warm in the clear, blue sky making this a beautiful day, and I just met a seriously hot guy. Whatever, Gabe Cera can suck my dick…again.

I refuse to be the first one to turn away, and then out for nothing, I take it one step further and blow him a kiss with a wink. He turns away from me fuming.Three months Leif. Three months and you’re back at school. On that thought, I slip out the exit and walk the boardwalk—the breeze picks up from the ocean only a hundred feet away to stay just short of annoying the way it blows my bangs in my face—until I reach where my car sits parked between the beach and street. Two minutes left on the meter. Tomorrow I’ll find free parking.

***

“Hey, Sweetheart.” My mom catches me bent head-first in the refrigerator searching for I don’t know what, just searching for something to take my mind off Ridley and our encounter yesterday. That and I’ve mostly been avoiding my family since getting home.

My parents have been so cool about everything. My sisters too. But they knew me as the jock who loved baseball and dated girls. I’d sat them down, spilled my guts and left the next day for college. Made excuse after excuse not to come home. Even over Christmas, I told them I was going skiing with friends because my friends only knew me as Leif, the guy who happens to date other guys. Not a disappointment or an embarrassment or any of the other things they’ve probably been thinking, but in the end, love me too much to say it out loud.

“I’ve missed you,” she says. Great. Mom guilt. There’s no way to counteract the effects of mom guilt, especially on a guy who spent the better part of a year avoiding her. I straighten, tagging the jug of orange juice as I do, taking a huge swig, leaning with my back to the cool refrigerated air, arm resting on the open door. “We haven’t talked, kiddo. And by the way you’re avoiding me, I think we have a lot to talk about.”

Anybody up for waterboarding? Maybe pulling teeth sans anesthesia? I thought if I waited her out by not leaving the safety of the refrigerator, she’d turn to walk into the dining room allowing me to slip away uncomfortable-conversation free. Yeah, I should have known that wouldn’t work. Not with my mom. She stays planted in front of me, eyebrow cocked, until I relent.

And I sigh, slumping my shoulders. “Fine. Okay, let’s talk.”

She pulls me over into her thin arms, shutting the refrigerator door and hugs me good and hard. “You gave up baseball, died your hair purple and pierced your face,” She starts on me through the hug. I tense, ready to pull back, to bolt. But mom leans her forehead against my ear. “I think the purple and piercings look great. Not so glad you gave up ball. You loved ball. But you’re an adult, it’s your decision.”

Shocked, I ask, “You like the purple?”

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