Page 22 of The Heartstrings of Harry
My attempt to fake a complete disregard for how I looked worked. Andy nodded again. “Who the fuck gives a shit about your hair anyway?”
I rolled with it. “Who the fuck, right?”
“You betcha. Just bring it on in and give me a hug. I owe you a birthday hug, buddy.” He waved me into his arms. I put the beers down, and when we embraced, we both did the heterosexual slap—one, two, three—that had somehow become a signal between straight men that it was okay to hug, so long as they slapped each other on the back three times while doing it.
While everybody still thought I was straight, I was more than willing to keep up the ritual.
Hell, most days—when I wasn’t fantasizing about Dean—evenIthought I was straight.
Being straight is the starting point, right? Society teaches us that’s the bar, that’s who we are, until some of us figure out we’re not. I guess you’re always something… until you’re something else, right? I mean, there was no evidence that Iwasn’tstraight… and there wouldn’t be until I actuallydidsomething thatwasn’tstraight. And until now, I’d never so much as set foot on the yellow brick road with Dorothy and her friends. So I guess I was just gonna keep slapping men on the back until…
“Harry!”
I turned, and there in the hallway stood Dean.
His eyes lit up when he saw me, and my heart instantly started racing and I had to break my hug with Andy in case he felt the sudden booming in my chest.
Dean looked good.
He looked fucking great.
His hair was longer, thicker, and so was his torso, but not so much that he’d lost his boyish looks.
Immediately I sounded like someone’s grandfather and said, “Well look at you. Haven’t you grown.”
Dean scoffed. “Like, an inch, maybe. But not really. I’m still not as tall as you.”
“Nobody in Mulligan’s Mill will get as tall as Harry,” Andy chimed in. “He’s like a bear in human form. Now get your butt over here and give him a hug,” he said to Dean. “It was his birthday yesterday. You ain’t forgotten how to hug while you’ve been away, have you?”
“Of course not.”
Dean came up to me with arms open wide, and I realized we’d never actually embraced before. There had never been a reason to, except for maybe when he left for LA, but his departure was such a whirlwind that he was gone before I barely had a chance to say goodbye.
Now, as he came toward me, I gulped but tried not to let my anxiety—or the growing bulge in my crotch—show.
Just before he wrapped his arms around me, I was sure I caught a glimpse of nervousness in his eye. His arms were uncertain where to go, one going over one shoulder, one looping around my side, while I tried to figure out where to put my own arms. It was awkward, and embarrassing, and we both ended it quickly with aone-two-threeclap on the back.
“Happy Birthday, Harry,” he said.
“Welcome home, Dean,” I smiled.
“It’s good to be back. Things are… quiet here. Nice and quiet.”
“I guess life in the Mill is a little different to life in LA, huh?”
He laughed. “I guess you could say that.”
It was a stilted conversation that trailed off into nothingness.
Andy smacked his hands together and rubbed them, as though he was about to conjure something up, which he was. “Drinks? Who’s thirsty? I know I could use a hair of the dog, that’s for sure.” I held up my six-pack and Andy took it from me, heading to the back room. “Come on, fellas. Let’s celebrate!”
Dean looked at me. “You’re gonna have to forgive Dad’s decorations. He kinda had to make do with whatever he could find around the house.”
“I can’t wait to see.” I gestured for him to follow his dad first. “After you.”
Dean walked ahead of me.
His scent drifted behind him, a fragrance I hadn’t smelled on him before.
