Page 117 of Carry On
“No.” He took a long sip of his beer. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay.” I could give him that.
Sitting in silence, we drank beer and just watched the city. One beer became two, and the drinks went down easily without a single word between us. My mind buzzed happily right up until my phone vibrated on the table between us.
“Ah, yes. Here we go.” I sighed as my uncle’s name lit up my phone. There was no avoiding this conversation. The minute Charlotte said she knew Beau, I knew this was coming. Apparently, gossip traveled fast in Pine Creek, even when it came all the way from fucking Seattle. Answering, I put him on speaker because Nash looked genuinely curious. “Hello,Uncle—”
“What’s this I hear you got married?” he demanded, cutting me off. Ah, yes, that good, old Beau Cassidy charm was high tonight. I glanced at Nash and rolled my eyes.
“Hello to you too,” I said instead.
“I get a call congratulating me about my nephew getting married,” Beau retorted, “and that’s how I find out you married a man!”
“That man is Nash Calhoun.”
“Yeah, I heard that too,” he snapped. “I told you to help that boy. I didn’t tell you to commit fraud!”
Nash’s eyes narrowed, but I waved him off. Beau didn’t have a clue about the fraud aspect. It was nothing more than spewing his disbelief that his nephew could be attracted to men.
“It’s not fraud,” I said. “I happen to like being married to him.”
No lie there.
”So, what?You’re gay now?”
“Well, the term is bisexual,” I informed him very matter-of-factly. “And I’ve liked dick ever since I dropped on my knees for Carter Higgins behind the bleachers freshman year.”
Nash choked on his drink, rushing to his feet and hurrying across the balcony in a coughing fit.
“You don’t have to be crude about it,” my uncle grumped.
“No, but you don’t have to be homophobic about it either,” I countered. To no surprise of mine, he hung up. I tossed my phone down and watched it slide right off the table. Whoops.
“Do you always talk to your uncle like that?” Nash rasped. Clearing his throat, he sat back down in his chair.
“Eh.” I drew out the word. “My uncle’s a dick. He’s got opinions, and I don’t agree with those opinions.”
“Fucking dick,” he muttered.
“Hear, hear,” I agreed and offered the neck of my beer in a sordid cheers. He clinked his to mine.
“So,” Nash began after a sip, “Carter Higgins behind the bleachers, huh?”
“To be fair,” I retorted, “he came so goddamn fast that I’m not sure it counts.”
He spat out his drink all over again as I caught him off guard. Making him laugh was by far my favorite thing.
“Come on, Lucky, you and I went to the same school.” A fact that some days still boggled me. How many times had our lives intersected and neither of us knew? “You can’t tell me you didn’t go behind the bleachers at least once.”
“I didn’t,” Nash said. “But I did use the janitor’s shed with Zach Westin.”
“Did the school even have a janitor’s shed?” I frowned.
“And Boone Conrad.”
“That’s a hell of a name.”
“Jake Harding.”
