Page 10 of Summer Lessons
“Did you just hear me call him Schipperke?” Mason asked, half laughing but mostly despairing because he couldn’t seem to stop. “First time I talked to him on the phone, I teased him because his name’s Skipper Keith—”
Jefferson’s laughter was low from his stomach, like he meant it. “That’s fantastic! I can’t believe he didn’t tell us this!”
“Because every man wants to be known as a small fluffy dog,” Skipper said dryly, overhearing their conversation and holding out a tray with more cookies. Mason took one on autopilot and thanked Skipper with a hint of embarrassment.
“Skipper Keith,” Mason said with meaning. “I mean, if someone told you their name was Bison Friese, you’d take notice, right?”
“Is that a dog?” Skipper asked, looking puzzled.
“Oh my God, Skip!” Jefferson crowed. “Remember the little fluffy dog fromShrek?”
Mason’s heart stalled. He hadn’t been a kid when those movies came out, but Jefferson and Skip had.
“Yeah,” Skipper said, rolling his eyes. “Loved those frickin’ movies.”
“I, uh, haven’t seen them,” Mason said abashedly.
Jefferson’s grin caught him by surprise and socked him in the stomach. “We can watch them together sometime,” he said.
At that moment, a voice quavery with peevishness but not age seemed to slice right through the happy banter that Mason had been so enjoying.
“Terrence! Are you going to get me some hot chocolate or do I have to go fetch it myself? And try not to put too much whipped cream on it. Makes me gassy.”
Mason tried to catch Jefferson’s eyes to smile and let him know that parents were universally embarrassing, but then he saw Jefferson’s unguarded expression instead.
Terry Jefferson was mortified. And miserable. And suddenly Mason, who would have said he possessed no empathy, became acutely aware that a man who would bring his mother to a Christmas party very possibly lived with his mother day in, day out, and while this might be an okay thing for Mason and Dane, it was obviously not a picnic for Jefferson.
“Right on it, Mom,” Jefferson said. His eyes slid to Mason’s, and right when Mason was about to offer to join him, Carpenter asked Mason when they were going golfing again, and Jefferson was gone.
Until Dane called him up to Mason’s memory, and suddenly Mason was seeing signals he hadn’t noticed in that particular moment.
“He’s too young for me,” Mason said reflexively.
“I don’t see that as a problem,” Dane said, doing that thing with his lips that made them pop out from the cave of mustache and scruff.
“Really? Your brother dating a guy eleven years his junior. That doesn’t squick you out?”
“You assume that you’re actually eleven years more mature than this guy, and really? I don’t think that’s the case.”
Mason boldly refrained from rolling his eyes, partly because he didn’t want to wreck the car in the fog. Oi! The fog got worse and the streets got narrower near the river, and Sailor Bar was practically in Mason’s backyard.
“I don’t even know if this guy is gay,” Mason grumbled, because yeah. He’d made that mistake too.
“Jefferson might not either,” Dane said with a smugness Mason had never felt. “There’s that whole bisexual thing too—he might be bi and not know it yet. Think about that—you could be his older-man awakening. Doesn’t that do something for you?”
“Give me indigestion? Jesus, Dane, you arenotreassuring me about thi—”
“I think Carpenter’s bi,” Dane said out of the blue.
Mason’s breath caught in his chest. “He said very clearly he’s not gay.” Mason remembered that moment, because he’d seen the corners of Dane’s eyes droop in obvious disappointment. Well, Mason’s own eyes had been drooping that day, because he’d actually gotten tomeetthe Schipperke of his dreams, and it turned out he was everything Mason had envisioned. Tall, handsome, smart, kind… and taken. Don’t forget taken.
“Yes, he did,” Dane said, sounding complacent. “But he did not say he wasn’t bi.”
“Uh, Dane—” Oh God. Please don’t let Mason’s little brother get his heart broken by a big bear of a guy who wouldn’t hurt a flea but who couldn’t be expected to change his sexual orientation on the basis of Dane’s hopes.
“I’m not crazy,” Dane said mutinously. “Or I am, when I’m off my meds, but imagining a straight guy is gay has never been one of my problems. Now please, Carpenter and I are going to take months and months. I rely on you for entertainment. Entertain me and tell me you’re going to get his number from Skipper and call this guy.”
“No,” Mason said shortly, pulling into his driveway finally. The house on Eastwood Street wasn’t flashy, but it had a lovely arched patio and carport, two stories, and four bedrooms. That was one for Mason, one for Dane on the other side of the house, and two guest rooms that shared a bathroom in the middle. Unlike when they’d been growing up in their parents’ tiny home on the peninsula, they didn’t have to share a room, and they never had to pretend not to hear the other one masturbate for the rest of their lives.
