Page 11 of Breaking the Ice
“I did,” Gavin said softly. “Iamsorry that it hurt you. Me doing what I needed to do.”
“It didn’t . . .” Zach cleared his throat.
“Itdid, and I’d probably be mad, somewhere inside, if you didn’t give a shit,” Gavin said, trying to laugh, because it was easier than the alternative.
And this is why he didn’t do this. Because that comfortable numbness was impossible to find right now, but he figured Jon, his therapist, whom he hadn’t seen in at least six months now, would probably tell him that was a good thing, thebestthing. That was why he’d stopped seeing him. He kept pushing Gavin and Gavin didn’twantto be pushed.
“Well, I give a shit,” Zach said, laughing too, now.
“Then stay for dinner. We can watch . . .” God, suddenly Gavin didn’t know what theycouldwatch. Definitely not hockey. Except hockey had been the one thing connecting them, all those years ago, and now hockey was . . .well, hockey was difficult for Gavin.
He craved it, still.
Couldn’t let himself have it.
But for one night, you could.
Zach gestured towards the TV. “Whatdoyou watch?” he asked, because he was clearly assuming it wasn’t hockey. Itwasn’t.
“Uh, stupid reality TV. Brainless movies. Lots of explosions.” Gavin made aboomnoise under his breath and Zach laughed again, and it was easy. Well,easier.
“I can get behind that,” Zach said.
It felt natural then, to head to the fridge, find the chicken he’d defrosted. There was plenty for both of them, because Gavin hated cooking for just himself and often made enough leftovers he could skate by for a couple of days.
He pulled out two more beers, and he told himself that it was easier that way, to deal with Zach, with this new grownup, thishandsomeZach, when there was a layer of booze sanding down all their newly sharp edges.
Zach agreed to chop veggies for a salad, and it felt way too normal, marinating the chicken and then taking it out onto the back patio to grill.
They ate at the counter, Zach’s leg brushing against Gavin’s once, then twice. Not on purpose, he didn’t think, but accidentally. Like he was just loose now, from the beer and the food and the company.
After, with more beer, they retreated to the couch.
Zach had hesitated when Gavin had handed him a new bottle. “I shouldn’t,” he said apologetically. “I’m driving and—”
“Stay. Couch is comfortable,” Gavin said, before he could think better of it. For a split second, he almost considered saying,so is my bed. But that wasinsane. And Gavin had been working very diligently for the last four years tonotbe insane.
Zachwouldbe leaving in the morning. He wasn’t going to maroon himself out here, not like Gavin. He had no reason to do it. But it was already too soon, and the morning felt safer, like he’d have adjusted to this new reality by then.
“Sure,” Zach said, like it was easy. Like it was nothing to stay on Gavin’s couch.
Like that wasn’t its own kind of insanity.
Maybe Jon would tell him he was losing it, finally. Or maybe Jon would tell him this was the sanest he’d been in awhile.
In four fucking years.
They watched one of Gavin’s stupid explosion movies. Then another. Gavin’s shoulder brushing up against Zach’s big one.
God, hehadgotten big. And tall. Taller even than Gavin.
Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was the darkness falling around them.
But it felt right to press his thigh against Zach’s and keep it there. To absorb all that warmth that he’d been living without forever.
When the credits of the movie rolled, Zach didn’t move and Gavin sure as fuck didn’t move. He was comfortable, lulled into a sense of total complacency by the beer and the food and the actual physical touch.
“Hey,” Zach said and turned his head. God, was he reallythatclose to Gavin? He shouldreallymove back. Put another few inches between them.
