Page 30 of One Hot Summer
“I’m sure you’re exhausted,” I said placatingly. Guilt swirled in my belly. If my best friend only knew just how well his dad and I had actually gotten along.
We finished eating in a not-quite-uncomfortable silence. I was hyper-aware of every move Griffin made, every glance he sent my way. I could tell he was struggling to play it cool, and I didn’t blame him. I was too. Dalton was smart as a whip and naturally observant. Griffin and I were going to have to do better if we didn’t want him to discover what we’d been up to.
Dalton stood up first and stretched. “Damn, I need a nap.” He ruffled my hair as he passed, then turned to Griffin. “Thanks for letting me crash, Dad. I promise not to wreck the place.”
Griffin smiled, all warmth and affection, and for a second, I remembered exactly why I’d fallen for this family in the first place. “You’re always welcome, Dalton. You know that.”
Dalton nodded and disappeared up the stairs, duffel slung over his back. We sat there in the aftermath, coffee cooling, plates half-eaten. Griffin looked at me, eyes searching. “What do we do now?” he whispered, just loud enough for me to hear.
I shook my head, heart pounding. “I don’t know. We don’t have to do anything, not right away.”
He reached for my knee under the table, squeezed it hard, then let go. “We’ll figure it out,” he said, and I hoped to God he was right.
Dalton had crashed hard after his flight, sleeping straight through lunch, so when he woke up he was ravenous again and wanted to know what we were making. We settled on a quick pasta and salad, the kind of meal that was more about the carbs than the flavor. Griffin tried to make conversation, but his mind was clearly elsewhere, and every time our eyes met across the table, I could feel the weight of what we weren’t saying.
Dalton, to his credit, tried to liven things up. He shared more stories about the trip, about his teammates and the village they’d been helping, about his epic failure with a chainsaw that resulted in minor injury and major humiliation. But after a while, he stopped talking and just looked between the two of us. “Okay, what the fuck is going on?”
Griffin put his fork down. “What do you mean?”
Dalton arched an eyebrow, deadpan. “Don’t play dumb. The last time I saw you this wound up, you were about to tell me you and Mom were splitting up.”
Griffin snorted but didn’t deny it.
Dalton turned to me. “And you—you look like you’re expecting someone to slap a ‘kick me’ sign on your back at any second.” He leaned forward, voice suddenly serious. “Did you guys get in a fight or something? You’re both acting like you’re sitting on a live grenade.”
I laughed, but it came out thin and brittle. “No fights. Promise.” Griffin opened his mouth, maybe to agree or maybe to actually say something real, but I beat him to it. “Your dad’s been very… nice,” I blurted.
I felt my face burning at how lame that sounded and prayed he’d let it go. He didn’t. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he pressed, looking at his dad with a new kind of scrutiny.
Griffin cleared his throat. “I’ve just been trying to make sure Adam feels at home here, that’s all.”
Dalton stared at him, then at me, and then the wheels really started turning. “You guys are being weird,” he said, and stabbed a meatball with unnecessary force.
We finished the meal in awkward silence. Every time Dalton asked a question, I answered in monosyllables, and Griffin was no better. When the last plate was cleared, Dalton stood up, tossed his napkin onto the table, and announced, “I’m going to watch some TV in my room. Maybe you two can sort out whatever it is you need to sort out by morning.”
He disappeared up the stairs, door shutting hard behind him. I waited until I heard the muffled sound of the television through the ceiling, then let out a breath I’d been holding since the moment he arrived.
Griffin ran a hand through his hair. “Well, that went great.”
“It could’ve been worse,” I said, but neither of us believed it.
We cleared the table in silence, the scrape of plates and silverware the only sound. I could feel Griffin’s tension, the way his hands shook just a little when he dried the last glass. When the kitchen was clean, he didn’t move, just stood there staring out the window at the dark.
I wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come. After a minute, he turned to me. “Come sit with me?” he said, nodding toward the deck.
I followed him into the night. The air was cool, and the sky was streaked with clouds, the moon glowing behind them. He sat down on the wide bench and patted the space beside him. I sat. We listened to the woods for a while—the drone of insects, the occasional call of a night bird, the low, the rustle of leavesas something scampered through the woods. He was the first to break, letting out a deep breath. “I can’t do this.”
Panic rose in my chest. “What—what do you mean?”
He shook his head, jaw set. “I can’t pretend like I don’t want you. I can’t sit across the table from you and act like nothing’s happened between us.” His hands twisted together, knuckles white. “I tried. God, I tried. But it’s killing me. It took everything I had to keep my hands off of you today.” He turned to look at me, and the rawness in his eyes nearly knocked me sideways. “I want you, Adam. I haven’t wanted anything this badly in years.”
Relief flooded through me, wild and dizzying. “I want you too,” I said, barely more than a whisper.
He laughed, shaky and broken. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
I shifted closer, until our thighs touched. “If it’s any consolation, you’re killing me too.”
He reached for my hand, pulled it into his lap, held it tight. “What do we do?”
