His laugh turns strangled. “You weren’t supposed to say that.”
He doesn’t ask me what this is, but maybe he realizes how frail I am. How much I’m thinking about taking up camp on the other beach, or at least, the other side of this beach. I’m not prepared for the awkwardness. The are-you-maybe-not-so-straight-after-all conversation. Then there’s the why-am-I-investigating-you-for-homophobia conversation.
I don’t have answers for him. And thankfully, he doesn’t ask me the questions I know he must have.
“Turn around,” Cal says.
“Why?” I ask, my voice sharp, because I hate not being in control.
“Because you’re freezing,” he says, already opening his arms. “Let me do something useful.”
I hesitate. But then I turn.
He wraps around me like a human blanket, and for a second I can’t breathe—because I’ve never felt this safe before.
I reach down and clutch his hands in mine, pulling them to my chest. “Is this okay?”
“Yeah. It’s okay, Jason.”
I consider pressing a kiss to his hands, but that’s too sentimental.
We’re not dating or anything.
We’re here together by accident.
But right now, I can feel him warm me. My eyes flick up to the stars, so different from the ones I’m used to, and the next thing I know, it’s morning.
Sunbeams warm my skin, and I’m conscious someone is holding me in their arms.
Cal’s salt-and-coconut scent wafts around me, as familiar and comforting as the enthusiastic cookie creations of my mother, before Dad realized my diet had to be immaculate to achieve NHL readiness.
A faint murmur, the chatter of waking birds and the less musical buzz of insects, echoes as the sun begins to rise, a soft peach light spilling across the beach.
Usually, my hookups don’t last through the night. Usually, I can explain that it’s team curfew or that I have an early practice, and I don’t get many questions, just awed glances.
But Cal is right beside me.
Like, completely beside me.
He’s still sleeping, his breath even and his skin hot. Now would be the perfect time to shrug from his arms. I don’t need to wait for him to wake up or anything. Even if he didn’t get his absolute optimal number of hours of sleep, it’s not like he can’t take naps or something later on. The island isn’t the most riveting place for activities.
Then Cal stirs, bringing me back to awareness. How long have I been in his arms?
He’s awake. I can feel the second he stiffens. I can sense his mind rushing, as if I can hear every thought tumbling one after another.
I drop my arms. I pull myself away. And when he sits up to look at me, I pull my knees up quickly, because Jesus Christ, I’m hard. He probably doesn’t need to see my boner early in the morning.
Though probably last night’s kiss gave him a sign I’m not hundred percent straight.
Finn and Luke and Dmitri went their whole lives without being plagued by thoughts. I envy them. They fell in love with men but hadn’t been tormented by decades-old self-hatred. They could be out and proud as easily as if they’d put on a Stetson. They were able to confidently say, ‘This is me, I’m worthy of respect, it’s no big deal, and love is love.’
They never had to push parts of themselves into tiny boxes and pretend they weren’t hiding parts of their soul.
Cal’s back is still turned to me. Does he know I’m hard? Did he feel it? Is he giving me privacy, conscious that I’m probably panicking, like I did a decade ago?
Or is he... I hesitate. Is it possible that he’s hard too?
I consider his bulge in those tiny briefs that turn sheer in the water.
