Page 57 of Smoky Mountain Dreams
“I’ve had that happen before in the mountains,” Christophersaid. “The GPS insisted I needed to go down a Hut Drive in Asheville once, butthere is no such place.”
He looked a little nervous as he swirled the wine,self-consciously examined the legs—obviously he had no idea what he was lookingfor—and then took a sip. His lips puckered, and then the gorgeous smile Jessealready liked too well slid over his face.
“It’s nice. I like it,” he said.
I should teach him about wine.Jesse reached out to smooth a small curl of hair from Christopher’s temple. Aspark of want coupled with unexpected tenderness burned in his chest and groinat just the simple touch.I should teach him a lot ofthings.
Christopher’s breath caught, and his cheeks went evenredder. His pupils dilated. “So, um, did you say your kids are still awake?”
Jesse laughed. “I thought that was so passé? Andconversation was all the rage?”
“Can you blame me for wanting to double check?”
“Hell no. But, unfortunately, I’ve got three little girls inthe basement and two boys upstairs.”
Christopher grinned. “I’m good with talking. Or hanging out.Whatever.”
“Let’s head into the living room. It’s more comfortable inthere. We can watch the game.”
“There’s a game?”
“Not the Vols. Last Sunday’s Steelers game. I missed it andwanted to catch a few plays in context. But it’s not a big deal, I’m not payingthat close attention.”
“Ah. I was confused. I couldn’t figure out how Shannon hadthrown such a successful party on a game night without losing half the crowd tothe TV.”
Jesse chuckled as Christopher trailed behind him into theliving room. He could feel the space between them, and he wanted to close it.Christopher looked so warm and tempting. A kiss would be okay, wouldn’t it?Maybe not now, but later? Definitely before Christopher left for the night.There was nothing wrong with kissing a man in his own home. It was different,though. He knew that. More intimate. He’d never asked a man he’d had sex withinto the house he’d shared with Marcy. He was encouraged by Christopher’spresence here tonight—with no sex on the horizon—to think it was about morethan that for him too.
Christopher took a seat at one end of the sofa, and Jessesat at the other end. He couldn’t help but notice how good Christopher lookedthere, his hair slightly tousled by his nervous fingers running through it, andhis softly lean body filling a space that had been empty for far too long. Thenthere was his face—and his eyes—which did something to Jesse’s stomach,something pleasant and awful, and something that hadn’t happened in so longthat he didn’t know if it ever had.
Even when he’d fallen for Marcy it’d felt like a slow-motiondescent that he hadn’t even felt until he’d smashed into love, hard andshocked. This was like the ascent up the tallest peak of a rollercoaster. Hecould see the drop coming and it was scary and good—and made him want to vomit.
“So, how’d you become a Steelers fan?” Christopher askedwhen Jesse tore his eyes away, found the remote, and turned down the volume onthe game.
“My Aunt Marge was a big fan. Her ‘roommate’ Delia—and,yeah, you heard the air quotes—was originally from Pittsburgh. She’d movedsouth to attend U.T., met Aunt Marge and never went home. They taught me thegame when I was a kid. My dad didn’t have time for crap like that.”
“Did your parents care that she was…a lesbian?”
Jesse considered the question. “My dad thought Aunt Margewas disgusting, but she was my mom’s only sister, and they were…not close, butmy aunt was willing to take care of me and Amanda while my folks did theircorporate party circuit and ignored their parenting responsibilities.” Jesseplaced the remote control on the coffee table and picked up his wine glassagain. “She lived down in Knoxville, though, so we didn’t see her that often.Most of the time my folks hired babysitters. Or left us alone. Times weredifferent back then.”
“Yeah. I hear you. My sister Jackie was taking care of me bythe time she was twelve. She’d cook me dinner and make sure I had my homeworkdone. My mom and dad were divorcing then and didn’t have time for kids whenthey could scream at each other about who was the biggest shit bag and throwout pointed Bible verses like rounds of live ammunition.”
“Wow.”
Christopher shrugged, his eyes flashing with old hurt. Jessefelt it in his own soul too. Parents that didn’t do their job. Life that didn’tcare that it wasn’t going to plan. A past that ached like a bad toothsometimes.
Christopher turned to the TV and took another sip of winebefore asking, “Who’s ahead? I mean, I know who won, but at this point in thegame who’s winning?”
Jesse glanced to the screen where the score showed at thebottom. “Steelers. 12–6. You like football?”
“It’s all right. I think I absorbed the rules by osmosis orsomething, though. No one taught me,” Christopher said. “And God knows I wasn’tany good at it. I tried, but I wasn’t an athlete.”
“You’re a musician.”
Christopher smiled at him but continued to talk aboutfootball. “Vols fanaticism is a given in this state, isn’t it? And one of theonly things consistent between my dad’s house and my mom’s once the divorcewent through was that if there was a game, the TV was on and everyone’sattention was on the screen.” He smiled. “It was easy for me to disappear. Beinvisible.”
Jesse looked at the screen—the jerseys, the fans, the greenof the field—and then back at Christopher. “Was that important?”
“Huh? Oh! Being invisible? Well, it depended. I guess so, yeah.”
