Page 66 of Break the Rule
“He’s twenty, Annie.”
“Yes, he is.”
“I’m too old for him.”
“You’re the one always telling me that age is just a number.”
“He ran away,” Charlie sighs. “Do you know why?”
“You should ask him that.”
“What if he doesn’t want to tell me?”
“He’s here, Charlie. That should tell you everything you need to know. The other stuff, well—you might have to be patient.”
“Fuck, I’m not patient.”
“You’ll have to be, with him, if you think it’s worth it—if you think a chance with him is worth it.”
Charlie swallows around a rush of emotions. How the fuck would he know? He’s never seriously dated anyone. Even the significant others he brought home in college only lasted a fewweeks. The only reason his family thought they were serious was because he brought them home. He’d only done it because both times they had no family to visit, and Charlie hated the idea of someone being lonely. Charlie never bothered to correct them. He and Andrew knew the truth, and he didn’t much care what anyone else thought.
In all the years since he came out as queer and started sleeping around, he’s never wanted to date anyone. Until now.
“I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t date, Annie.”
“Neither does he.”
“What the fuck are we doing?”
“How the hell should I know? I’m not part of whatever the hell you two have going on. I just got him here.”
Charlie groans, unsure how the first person he might maybe want to date is the one person who doesn’t want to.
“Get out of the fucking car, Charlie. He’s going to think you don’t want to see him.”
“I do,” Charlie half-whines, “but I don’t know what to say.”
“That’s a first for you. Should I write it down in my calendar—Charlie King lost for words.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“Gladly, if you’ll get your ass out of my car so I can go home.”
“Yes, sir,” Charlie intones, flinging his car door open. He has one foot out the door before he flings himself across the center console, wrapping Andrew in a hug. “I love you, Annie.”
“I love you too, now go,” Andrew whispers, kissing the side of his head before ruffling his hair. “Oh, and Charlie?”
“Yeah?”
“I sent him all your naked baby photos.”
“Fuck off,” Charlie grumbles, slamming the door harder than necessary and ignoring Andrew’s echoing laughter as he departs. When he turns around, it’s to find Eden watching him with cautious eyes. He rises from the front steps, tugging on his skirtthat hits him a few inches above the knee. It’s black again, with ruffles, and his band t-shirt is so oversized, his upper body is barely visible except for where the hem of it is tucked into the waistband of his skirt.
Both his arms are lined in friendship bracelets, his colorful array of tattoos peeking out between the beads and continuing up his elbows to beneath his shirt. It occurs to Charlie that he never got to see Eden without a shirt, and has no idea just how many tattoos he has or even where they all are.
As usual, he’s got on his pink Converse, his bare ankles and knobby knees on full display. The sight of them in person after painting half a dozen iterations of them is oddly gratifying, like seeing a work of art for the first time, only—Eden isn’t just a work of art. He’s a piece of living, breathing art.
Eden is sopretty. Charlie knows he’s not allowed to say it, but fuck does he think it. From the delicate slope of his nose to his full lips and high cheekbones. His face is perfectly symmetrical, aesthetically pleasing and delicate in a way that demands it be memorized and adored.
