Page 8 of Julian Shared
I turn my attention back to Cameron.
"You have to be more careful,” I tell him. “If you don't start showing up at things, you'll be stuck on the no-bake tier for every charity event and you don’t want to be there when Christmas rolls around.”
Horrific. I shudder at the very idea of it.
"I'm really sorry, Julian." Cameron frowns and rubs the back of his neck. "I got…distracted this morning."
"It's fine,” I tell him. “Soon, the housewives with kids will be way too busy with the PTA and extracurriculars. We'll be able to pick up the slack. Back-to-school season is when we child-free gays really shine."
I smile at Cameron.
“You’ve really been nailing that cheesecake recipe lately. I think you’re ready for me to start teaching you cakes next.” After Cameron moved in next door earlier this summer, I took him under my culinary wing.
“Fuck, yeah, Cameron. Your cheesecake is real tasty,” Buddy agrees and that just brings on more questions than answers.
I try to take a discreet, but deep breath as Buddy takes the final drag of his cigarette and snuffs it out on the bottom of his boot. Even after all these years, the smell of smoke brings on a wave of yearning rather than disgust. I miss it. My fingers are already twitching with the muscle memory of holding a cigarette poised between them.
I look back at Cameron. His face is about as pink as my prized drift roses. What's wrong with him? He's being odd. And awkward. More so than usual.
Cameron flashes me his puppy-dog eyes. "I'm sorry about today, Julian. I promise I'll help you out with the next charity thing, okay? I gotta go though.”
“Yeah,” Buddy nods. “Cam forgot to set his alarm, so Trevor sent me over to get him ready for lunch.”
I look between them. “How nice.”
Cameron’s cheeks turn an even darker shade of pink. Right on cue, Trevor's truck rolls down our lane and pulls up to the curb.
"Don't forget to put on sunscreen,” I remind Cameron.
“Right, thanks. And your roses look really pretty,” Cameron says over his shoulder as Buddy steers him toward the truck. Trevor leans out the driver's window to wave at me and I wave back at my neighbor. And so does someone else. Trevor's notalone. There's another someone in the passenger seat. Cameron clamors into the backseat along with Buddy and then they take off.
Well. Seems like everyone but me has been invited out for a late lunch.
That’s fine, I’m busy today anyway.
Wielding my gardening shears, I turn to my perfectly tended roses. I cut off a singular stem with a vibrant bloom and bring it inside to keep me company.
Chapter 3
Joel
From the western seaboard to the sun belt, soldiers call this post the Big Prick.
The commander has tried to squash out the nickname and get everyone to call it by its proper government-mandated designation of Fort Cactus, but that there’s the problem with nicknames in the military: the more you let folks know you hate it, the more joy they’ll take in saying it.
Big Prick is as enduring as it is endearing.
One part juvenile humor and one part sarcastic glee. You’d think a post with a nickname like that would mean it’s a pain in the ass being assigned here as your duty station, but it’s the exact opposite.
Big Prick is a cushy job.
About as good as it gets when it comes to military installations in the southwest.
Sure, we’re smack-dab in the middle of nowhere with only a small town next door. For anything cosmopolitan, you’re in for a full day trip to someplace like Las Vegas or Canyon City.
But with Big Prick’s focus on research and development, the army’s strong arm here doesn’t do much flexing.
Mostly, we’re here to provide security to all the scientists doing their nerd shit.
