Page 134 of Gym Bros
“Like…?”
“Did you like Christmas in the summer?” I ask.
“You want to go to Australia?”
“Hawaii?” I offer.
His legs move along my sides, and it feels really, really good. Warm and delicious. So fucking comfortable. “I like Hawaii,” he says.
“It’s not the Maldives…”
“But it’s really nice and pretty and the beaches are good there, too. Flight’s way shorter.”
“I’m already convinced,” I say.
“Your family wouldn’t miss you?”
“I’ll give ‘em a couple of days, but they have three sons. They can spare me.” What I don’t say is that the idea of Calyx being alone on Christmas while I’m down in LA being fed three meals a day and getting lots of mom hugs breaks my heart.
I could invite him to come with me, but I don’t want my dad hounding him about fucking fashion week or something the whole time. Also, there’s the small matter of not having told my parents I’m in a relationship with him. Ora himin general.
There’s also the possibility of my dad coming to my fight in a couple of weeks and there might be an opportunity to have the conversation then, but I’d really like to get that I love you first. Those are the two main reasons I didn’t want my dad to know he was in my bed when he showed up out of nowhere a few weeks ago. He’s Calyx’s manager—and I want to lock this in before I involve my parents in it.
“Maybe they can spare you, but I agree, I shouldn’t have to,” he says, which is probably the nicest thing he’s said to me since I got home.
I turn over and wrap my arms around him, resting my cheek on his stomach. His heart speeds up. I can feel it. Hear it. He tucks his feet between my thighs and rubs my head.
“I—” he takes a deep breath, and I hold mine. “I can’t believe you have a black eye. We have a party tomorrow night.”
I turn my face into his stomach, rubbing my nose against hisabs, knowing it’ll tickle, and he squirms, laughing as he tries to hold my head still. I give up on the love confession, surrendering to his warmth and his sounds. Maybe next time.
When Calyxand I opened up our relationship a week ago, I was not prepared for the amount of invitations we’d be getting.
Calyx doesn’t like it when I say it that way, although it’s totally what it feels like. I only mean he came out to his friends about us. Which apparentlyalsoisn’t the right way to put it, but whatever. To say he’s loosened up isn’t untrue, but it only applies to when we’re alone together.
He’s buzzing around this birthday party like a mosquito on meth. The party is for one of his friends Bailey. It’s my first time meeting her, but she’s connected with his gym bro Ryan—the guy with the good tattoos who doesn’t like me, so he’s here along with his boyfriend and a bunch of other people who work in finance.
Rachel and Priya are also inexplicably here, and they’re keeping me company while Calyx flutters around the rented out bar. He’s dressed in ivory tonight. His over-sized sweater refuses to stay on his right shoulder, and the front of it is tucked into matching, tailored slacks that are made of silk. His “going out” clothes are unlike anything I’ve ever seen humans wear in real life.
If I’d met him in a place like this—seen him from across a room, I would have pegged him as a model right off the bat. Granted, I have some experience identifying models in the wild, having grown up with my dad. They can’t help but stand out. Even if their looks aren’t what I’d consider conventionally attractive, either their height or their wardrobe will set them apart.They’re also sort of always posing. They have this way of finding the light sources and using them to their advantage. The good ones anyway.
Calyx is not an exception. Even his party prep consisted of a week of clean eating and only drinking a particular brand of water because he claims it’s the only kind that won’t give him pimples. I’ve never seen so much as a clogged pore on his face, so I can’t argue his methods.
His gaze flicks to me again. When he notices I’m still sitting with his girlfriends, he continues his conversation with Ryan’s boyfriend Malcolm, talking with his hands and smiling extra hard.
“He needs a blow job,” I mutter.
Rachel sputters into her drink. “This is just what he’s like,” she says. “When he’s happy.”
“Yeah?”
She rubs my back. “Good job. It’s been awhile.”
“He looks like a confetti cannon about to go off,” I say.
“Take him for a spin on the dance floor. Maybe that’ll settle him down.”
We’re standing by the bar, watching the room. Rachel and Priya are selecting their prey, and I’m wondering if I can get the bartender to turn the TV on. There’s a big UFC fight tonight. I’m recording it, but in a room full of mostly strangers, I’m not feeling my most settled.
