Page 9 of When Ben Loved Tim
My face is burning as we begin lurching toward our destination. Now that we’re on even ground, I’m painfully aware of everywhere our bodies connect. The bare skin of his bicep is pressed against the back of my neck. Tim’s shirt has pulled away from his waist, my pinky and ring finger touching warm naked flesh. I like the way he smells, and how his sweat is soaking into my clothes to join mine. I’m going to lock myself away after this and never show my face in public again, because I’m more of a monster than I realized, but for now, I can’t help but revel in being this close to him. Although when I glance over and see the grimace etched into his face, it’s enough of a cold shower for me to say, “I’m really sorry. I suck at skating. I haven’t got the whole stopping thing down yet.”
His silver eyes dart over to mine and away again. “I’ve noticed,” he says. “You’re a lethal weapon on those things.”
Right. This isn’t the first time I’ve run him off the path. And that means he remembers me from at least one of those night-time jogs. For better or worse.
“It really was an accident,” I say, wanting to assure him that I’m not completely insane. “I’ll wear sleigh bells while skating from now on, so people can hear me coming.”
Tim snorts in amusement, which delights me more than it should. “This way?” he asks when we reach a shallow row of trees.
“Yeah,” I say with a squirm. “Your street is the next one over.”
“Uh-huh,” he replies, tightening his grip on me as he hops across last year’s fallen leaves. “What else do you know about me?”
“Your name,” I admit. “Do you know mine?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “A version of it.”
That’s my confirmation. He’s definitely heard all about me from his new friends. I might as well run with it. “Most people call me ‘that gay guy’ or ‘what are you lookin’ at homo’ or on a good day, ‘hey, there goes the fag.’ Take your pick.”
He scowls as we maneuver around a tree. The expression remains. I bet he can’t wait to get away from me. “I thought your name was Benjamin,” he says at last.
“Almost,” I say, ignoring the pitter-patter of my heart. “Well, I mean, yeah, technically it is but—”
“Hey!” Tim interrupts. “You weren’t kidding!”
I glance up. The trees have thinned out enough to see the backyard of someone’s house.
“That’s our fence over there,” Tim says, hopping toward it so fast that I struggle to keep up. I regret suggesting the shortcut. A little more time with him would have been nice. Especially considering the steep price it’ll cost me. When his friends learn about this, I’ll never hear the end of it.
“Have you lived here long?” I ask, wanting to at least confirm my theories.
“You mean you don’t already know?” he teases.
I laugh. “I’ve never seen you around before so…”
“We moved here during the summer,” Tim says.
“From where?” I ask.
He glances at the horizon, orienting on the setting sun before he jerks his head to the right. “About a twelve-hour drive that way.”
“Oh. That’s far!”
“Yeah. But I could still make it there on my own.”
“Do you want to go back?”
“Sometimes,” he says. “But not really.”
Once in his driveway, we avoid the stairs leading up to the front door by circling around them through the yard.
“Your parents are going to adore me,” I say sarcastically.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “They’re out of town.”
“Really?” My guilt intensifies, because this type of situation is when I want my parents the most. My dad for the practical stuff, like bandaging up a booboo, and my mom for the love and comfort she always provides. They can play either role, and have, but that’s been my preference ever since I was little. “Both of them are gone?”
“Yup,” Tim says, pulling at a beaded chain around his neck. The really basic kind made up of linked balls, like what Army nametags usually hang from, except his has a key at the end. He attempts to brace himself against the front of the house before giving up and handing it to me. I unlock the door and push it open.
