Page 47 of Waiting on Life
Pete rushed over to me and threw his arms around my shoulders. “Oh, honey. I am so happy for you.”
“And he kissed me in the storeroom and told me how difficult it was for him to keep his hands off me.”
Pete frowned slightly. “Isn’t that weird?”
I went to the refrigerator and got a beer for me and one for Pete. He met me at the sofa, and we took a seat.
“Not for Toby. Tammy, his sister, says he has to process everything, but once he does, he moves at full speed.” I reached out and patted his knee. “This is a good thing, because it means he’s made up his mind about me. Us. Him. Well, whatever.”
“Hey, I like Toby. He’s a ton better than any other loser you’ve ever dated.”
At this point, I should have been offended, but I wasn’t. What Pete was saying wasn’t untrue. I had shitty luck with men. Too married. Too straight. Too not into anything more than a quick fuck. My longest relationship—if that’s what you could call it—was a month and a few days. He invited me to dinner at his place twice, and both times it was nothing more than canned soup and some crusty oven-baked rolls. Now, don’t get me wrong, I have no problem with that. I’m a diva, but not the kind who thinks you need to wine and dine me at restaurants with hundred-dollar price tags. Soup and buns would be great, as far as I’m concerned.
It was dessert I had the problem with. He figured because he went all-out and made me dinner, I owed him. So I did what any self-respecting gay man would do. I put out. And it was awful. He wasn’t bad-looking, but all he wanted was a place to stick his dick. Mouth. Ass. Whatever. He grunted and groaned, and tried to set the mood with cheesy dialogue from porn flicks, like “You like that big cock?” and “Take it, bitch!” the whole time. Sad thing was, he had like five inches hard.
And he was the longest relationship. The shortest weren’t even relationships. They were one-offs, quickies, and the like. Guys I’d blow, or would let fuck me, and then I’d never see them again. Yeah, I admit, my track record wasn’t the best.
Still, Toby wasn’t those guys. He treated me great, and he did something most of the others didn’t. He smiled at me.
“You got a goofy grin on your face.”
I was pulled back to the present by Pete’s teasing voice. “Thinking about Toby,” I admitted.
He smacked me on the thigh. “Well, get ready and go! Don’t make him wait for you to show up.”
That got me in gear. I hurried to the bathroom and started the shower. While it warmed, I went back into the kitchen and grabbed the popcorn salt and a few other things and put them in my overnight bag. Once I was certain I had everything I needed, I went back to the bathroom and stepped into the now not-quite-hot-but-no-longer-cold shower. The water cascading on my body was a feeling I always enjoyed. I cleaned everything, every nook and cranny. I wasn’t sure what would be happening with Toby tonight, but I wanted to make sure I couldn’t ruin the evening.
When I was done, I turned off the shower, then stepped out to dry off. As I ran the towel over my body, I slipped back into thinking about what we’d be doing. It was so weird, because even the idea of simply snuggling in bed with Toby made my knees weak.
“Kyle? Toby knocked and asked me to tell you he was ready when you were.”
I glanced at myself in the mirror, taking in the red hair, the brown eyes, the… ugh. I needed my hair back. The bald look was awesome on Toby, but not so much on me. I pulled open the drawer and took out the razor and shaving cream. I was, in layman’s terms, follicly challenged. The best I could manage was peach fuzz, and even that took a long while to grow in. I lathered up my face and ran the razor over it. When I was done, I thought maybe I didn’t look too bad.
At least I hoped Toby would see it that way.
I hustled to my room, yanked open the drawers, and dressed in a T-shirt and sweatpants. Yes, I know it wasn’t date material, but I wanted something that could be taken off easily, if we did move our relationship to the next level. When I came out of the bedroom, Pete was standing there, staring at me.
“You are so adorable,” he gushed. “Toby’s going to eat you up.”
“Well, here’s hoping to that,” I replied. I grabbed my bag. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As I made to move for the door, Pete reached out and caught me by the arm. “No matter what, remember that he obviously cares about you, okay?”
That seemed an odd thing to say, but I nodded. I leaned in and gave Pete a quick kiss on the cheek. “Love you.”
“You too. Now go.”
I gave a snappy salute, then marched out the door and across the hall. I took a steadying breath and knocked.
“Come in,” Toby called.
I stepped into his apartment, and the first thing I noticed was a subtle hint of vanilla scenting the air. On the kitchen counter, I spotted a candle, flame flickering in the dimmed lighting. My heart sped up. Toby’s place had been transformed. The dining table, normally a wooden one with more than a few dings and scratches, had been adorned by a spring bouquet of flowers—daisies, daffodils, and tulips with a baby’s breath spray—and what appeared to be some very nice china. Beside it sat a bottle of red wine, open and breathing.
“What did you do? This place looks amazing.”
“Thank you,” he said from behind me.
I turned around, and for a half-minute, I was confused as hell. “What thefuckdid you do?” I blurted out.
