Page 33 of Shots on Net

At the top of the stairs, I pause and poke my head into Carter’s room. He emerges from the bathroom with a towel slung across his hips, arms raised as he uses another to vigorously dry his hair. When he sees me standing in the doorway, the corners of his mouth curve up the tiniest bit. I try not to stare at his naked torso, but it’s not easy. The play of muscle beneath skin is fascinating; I want to walk over and press my hand to him to see how it feels.

“Hi, Zeke.” There is a strange undercurrent of nervousness to his tone, like he’s fighting back tension. I lean against the doorway and smile at him, trying to put him at ease. He’s been acting strange all week, looking away swiftly when I catch him watching me and forgetting to scowl. It’s starting to make me nervous. “I’m just going to change and then I’ll be ready, okay?”

“Okay,” I stand up straight. “I’ll go shower and change, and then meet you downstairs.”

Leaving him to it, I go to my room and toss Carter’s hoodie onto the bed. I probably don’t need to shower since I’ve done nothing but sit in class all day, but I might as well. I linger in the shower, too, cranking the heat and steaming up the bathroom. I’m actually looking forward to this party—its been a long time since I’ve gone to one, and it’ll be fun having Carter tag along.

Putting on a clean pair of jeans and a faded black t-shirt, I head downstairs. It took me a lot longer than expected to get ready; Carter is standing at the kitchen island, waiting for me. I stop dead in the doorway and stare at him. Unlike me, he’s obviously gone to some lengths with his appearance tonight: fitted dark wash jeans and a long-sleeve Henley in a dark olive-green color. His hair looks freshly cut and is shining gold in the kitchen light. Even from across the room I can smell something masculine and earthy, like he put on cologne or aftershave. Probably feeling the weight of my eyes on him, he looks over and smiles. It’s the same smile I saw in the picture he showed me with Anthony Lawson, but the first time I’ve seen it in real life. It makes me want to wrap my arms around him and squeeze.

Realizing that I’ve done nothing but stand here and stare at him, I clear my throat. “Hey, so question for you. Do you think we could adjust our plan for the night a bit? There’s a party Jefferson wants me to go to, and I thought we could check it out. It might be fun. Something different than what we usually do, anyway.”

The smile fades slowly. There is a deep indent between his brows where they are scrunched together in confusion. “Oh. Well, yeah, that’s…is that what you want to do?”

He looks away from me and glances down at something he’s got pulled up on his phone. I can’t place his tone, but it sounds too close to hurt for comfort. Butterflies erupt in my stomach, and my scalp itches uncomfortably.

“We don’t have to stay long. We could just stop by after dinner, maybe? Or…”

I trail off, wanting him to fill in the blanks for me. When his eyes meet mine again, they are carefully blank. His voice is wary, like he’s working hard to modulate his tone. “If you want to go, then we’ll go. What time were you going to meet your friend?”

“He said around eight, but we could get there whenever. After dinner. We can do both.” I am desperately trying to figure out where I went wrong here. Carter’s smile is gone, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to get it back.

“Yeah.” He looks down at his phone again, which is lying flat on the island and has a webpage up. “I just need to make a quick call, and then we can go.”

He snatches up his phone and steps carefully around me, not meeting my eyes. I want to grab his arm and apologize; I’m unsure exactly what went wrong, but sometime between my arrival home and now, I’ve clearly fucked up. But his back is rigid and I’m not brave enough to touch him without permission. I let him pass, watching as he steps out into the backyard and brings his phone to his ear. It’s quick, and barely a minute passes before he’s coming back inside.

“Alright,” he says. “Ready to go?”

“Sure. Yeah. And hey, we don’t have to go to the party, okay? Let’s just do whatever you had planned. Let’s just do dinner.”

I’m trailing behind him as we walk toward the garage. He holds the door open for me—gently, which sends another bout of nerves scurrying down my spine—and then steps around me to open the car door for me as well. He doesn’t answer until we’re inside the vehicle.

“It’s okay, Zeke. We’ll go grab something to eat and then go hang out with your friends.” He doesn’t look at me when he says this, as he’s concentrating on backing down the driveway, but he doesn’t sound angry. My nerves calm, slightly.

“Alright.” I clench my hands together on my lap and look unseeing out the windshield. Thank god Jefferson will be at this party; I need to talk to someone who understands social cues better than I do.

He takes us to one of our favorite Mexican restaurants. It’s a little hole in the wall joint, where the floor is sticky and the silverware is tarnished, but the food is phenomenal. The old woman who leads us to a table fawns over Carter. Usually, when we come here, he’s just come from practice and is dressed accordingly. Today, he looks like an Abercrombie model.

“Oh, Mr. Carter you look so nice! So handsome.” She’s holding his hand, tugging him along to one of the many empty tables. “You are such good boy. I introduce you to my granddaughter.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing at the look on Carter’s face. She pulls out our chairs for us and pats his shoulder as he sits down, mumbling something in rapid Spanish.

“Thank you,” I tell her, as she pats my hand on her way to the kitchen.

“I bring you something good to eat,” she calls back, not bothering to take our order. Turning and grinning at Carter, I nudge his foot beneath the table to get his attention. He’s got his Carter-mask in place, frowning at me over the table.

“You do look nice,” I tell him. The v at the neck of the shirt keeps drawing my eyes; I can see part of his collarbone.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, looking uncomfortable.

“How was class, today?” I ask, and he shrugs. Carter hates class.

“Fine. You?”

“Good!” Leaning forward, I launch into an in-depth description of one of my lectures. Carter also hates talking about himself—the best way to get him to relax is to fill the silence for him, so that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I can’t get over the feeling that I’ve done something wrong.

“I don’t understand a single word you just said,” he tells me, when I come up for air. I laugh.

Our food arrives and we lapse into silence as we eat. I sneak glances up at him every now and then, trying to gauge his facial expression. Maybe I should just ask him what was wrong, back in the kitchen. I’ll never be able to figure it out on my own. Opening my mouth to do just that, I’m interrupted by Carter’s phone ringing. He glances at the caller ID before declining the call.

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