Page 3 of New Year in Kentbury
At first, it was harmless banter, the kind of playful flirtation you could brush off with a laugh. But she wasn’t the type to be brushed off. Her teasing grew bolder, her gaze moving between Paul and me like she was testing just how far she could push. Either figuring out who’d fuck her for the night or wanting a threesome.
When she suggested we take things somewhere private, his eyes burned with something I hadn’t seen before. Curiosity, yes, but also a hunger that felt almost primal, like he was daring me to say yes, daring us both to cross the line we’d been skirting for weeks.
And I did. Without thinking too hard about it, I said yes.
That night was electric—a haze of heat, hands, and breathless abandon. The stranger, with her easy laughter and playful touches, was the spark that started it all. But what stayed with me—the thing that shifted something fundamental between Paul and me—was him.
It was the way his touch lingered, hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure this was okay, wasn’t sure if we were okay. Then it grew bolder, more certain, as if he’d been holding back for too long. The way his lips found mine, tentative but insistent, like he’d been waiting for this moment but couldn’t bring himself to admit it out loud.
The woman became background noise long before the night ended. She was just the excuse, the opening. What mattered—what had always mattered to me—was Paul. The way he looked at me, as if he were discovering something he hadn’t expected to want but suddenly couldn’t let go of.
And I let him. Knowing it was dangerous. Knowing it would only make me crave something he might never give. I mean, this wasn’t the first straight guy who wanted to experiment. So many do, but then they realize sex with a guy is more complicated than just a one time fuck.
With Paul though, it was different. After that, there were more nights like that. A few more women, a few more excuses to cross lines we never talked about during the day. But somewhere along the way, it was just us.
Paul wanted to do more, experiment. He wanted more than only touches or sucking each other while pretending we enjoyed the woman we chose that night. I was too far gone to say no. So, we skipped the third person. It was just him and me.
Teaching him was . . . special in a way I never thought possible until . . . now.
Now? We’re friends with benefits. Actually, if we had to slap a label on whatever the fuck this is between us, it’d be:closeted friends with benefits. He’s not sure how to tell his friends and family. I . . . I’m the oldest of the last Kentbury, and everyone expects me to marry a nice woman and have children.
No one can know I’m gay. Do I sometimes have sex with women? Only so the town believes I’m who they want me to be. How pathetic is that? So fucking pathetic.
Paul and I have rules.
We don’t talk about feelings. We don’t talk about what’ll happen when he leaves town. I just take what I can, when I can, pretending it’s enough.
It’ll never be enough.
If life were different—if I were different—I wouldn’t be standing here, pretending to barely like him while my heart pounds like a fucking drum. I’d cross the distance between us, grab him by the collar, and kiss him so hard. I’d claim him, right here in this fishbowl of a room.
But instead of saying any of the hundred things clawing at my throat, I grit my teeth and turn back to my coffee, gripping the mug like it might somehow save me from the mess of emotions threatening to spill over.
“Don’t hold your breath,” I manage to spit out, though the slight tremor in my voice betrays me, leaving just enough room for him to notice.
“I won’t need to,” he says, his voice low and smooth, wrapping around me like a goddamn vice. “You’ll come running. You always do.”
I scoff, though it sounds weak even to my own ears. “Sure, because we’ll have time. First it’s your brother, then your other brother, and let’s not forget it’s the holidays. Nothing’s happening, Paul. Not until?—”
“Is this your way of telling me you miss me, babe?” he interrupts, his tone laced with sarcasm and just enough heat to make my chest tighten. “Try therapy. It might help with your underlying issues.”
“Why are you here?” I counter, my words louder than I intend, though I don’t bother softening them. I mean why keep torturing each other when he can just tell me what he needs and leave.
“You skipped Christmas with our family,” he says, his smirk slipping into something more serious, something almost accusing.
“Instead of the McFolleys I decided to spend it with the Millers,” I reply flatly, not offering more. “Knightly insisted. You know, little sister trumps younger brother. Bishop doesn’t give to shits if I’m there or not.”
“Bishop cared, I cared, and the McFolleys would’ve been glad to have you there,” he shoots back, like my brother’s presence is a good enough reason to subject myself to his family.
As if.
But the words hit a nerve anyway, because deep down, it all comes back to the same thing. I’m always the fucking uncle, the good brother, the dependable guy who shows up for everyoneelse’s holidays. Never my own. I don’t have a family of my own therefore, we can’t celebrate at my house.
That’s not in the cards for me—not with who I am, not with the expectations this town has piled on my shoulders since the day I was born.
I’ve tried, though. Fuck, if I haven’t tried to be the version of myself they want me to be. I tried to meet a nice girl, settle down, play the part. But no. That’s not me.
It never was.
