Page 45 of The Play

“Like you love him,” Micah added and Deacon made a face.

“—is only gonna look like . . .like maybe there’s another story, there, too,” Beck finished.

He hadn’t told them about the kiss. He hadn’t told anyone about the kiss. Even Jem.

How could he? He didn’t have a fucking clue what it meant when someone detailed all the reasons why they shouldn’t kiss you—why they wouldn’t be kissing you—and then kissed you, anyway.

“I don’t . . .” Deacon took a deep breath. He couldn’t say he didn’t love Grant. It might be a lie. The truth was somewhere nearer to: I don’t know what the fuck I do feel.

No, that wasn’t right either.

It was more like, I’m terrified of what I might feel.

“It’s okay,” Beck said, dislodging Micah from his side and stepping over to where Deacon was pacing. He put a hand on Deacon’s arm. “It’s really okay. We get it.”

Deacon could see the wildness—the utter panic—in his expression reflected in the concern in Beck’s eyes. “Do you?” he retorted.

“Well, yeah,” Beck said. “What did you tell me about Micah?”

Deacon laughed shortly. “I don’t remember what the hell I said to you. Whatever you needed to hear.”

“It’s okay to care about him,” Beck said carefully.

“Is it though?” Deacon heard how bitter he sounded. “It’s not like it’s going anywhere, no matter how I do feel.”

“How do you know that? Because I thought that,” Micah said.

Deacon didn’t roll his eyes but it was a close thing. “Just because you told yourself Beck wouldn’t forgive you. And because you didn’t think you could actually date a guy.”

“He might not have forgiven me,” Micah said bluntly. “And no, I didn’t think I could—though by the time I came here to Charleston, I was as ready as I’d ever be. But I thought it was too late. Too late for me. Too late for us.”

Beck glanced over at him, and Deacon ached at the look the two of them exchanged.

He wasn’t jealous of them.

It was something more than mere envy, something hard and painful lodged in his stomach.

“But you know what I didn’t do? I didn’t fucking give up,” Micah continued.

“It’s true,” Beck said. “He wouldn’t quit. He kept trying to talk to me. To hang out with me. To make it up to me.”

“And it worked,” Micah said.

“Yeah, yeah, we all know. You’re the most fucking married couple of all time,” Deacon grumbled.

“What we’re trying to say is that we weren’t, not at first. Not for a long time. And you know that.”

“What are you trying to say?” Deacon asked. “Like real concrete fucking advice.”

“You want him?” Micah’s face made it clear that the question was only hypothetical. Everyone knew he wanted him. Everyone knew they wanted each other.

Deacon pressed his lips together. Nodded. It was pointless continuing to deny it.

“Then go get him.”

“But—” Deacon argued.

“No,” Beck interrupted him. “Is he a genius or isn’t he?”

---