Page 19 of Finding Their Place

Garrett had never gone so far in his teasing, but maybe he lashed out because of the recent knowledge of what his ex had done. I hated to see him so down about his life, but what could I do to make things better?

Wyatt said he was in the market for another laborer, but Garrett didn’t seem the dirt and landscaping type.

But what if I could help him in other ways?

I nibbled my lower lip as ideas starting pinging around in my head all thanks to that comment about a goddamn strap on.

One bit of heartache wouldn’t truly turn a gay man off from sex for the rest of his life…I felt sure Garrett would get over his disinterest in dick and be back at the hookup apps in a matter of weeks.

Would he be interested in a poly relationship where the only sexual contact would be between him and another guy? He found Wyatt attractive—he’d grabbed a pillow and clutched it to his groin when I’d all but sat on his lap and had shown him Wyatt’s write-up and picture.

But would I be willing to share Wyatt with Garrett—sex with one and a platonic relationship with the other if the fake dick thing was just a joke? Any time I considered a triad, I saw me with two men bracketing my body. Always.

But…

I loved Garrett and wanted him happy. He might have teased about allowing me to peg the hell out of his ass, but maybe he and Wyatt would connect on a different level than I did with both of them. Perhaps Garrett needed a nice guy to get him get over Alec.

“You’re putting the cart before the horse, you moron,” I grumbled at myself and tore down my sloppy bun to re-twist my hair into a new updo.

Still messy but less strands falling into my face.

I needed to see how things went with Wyatt first.

Then, I would maybe consider opening another door that included one of my best friends in the equation.

I’d never had such a first good conversation with a potential date. Had I been focused on sex rather than connecting, I’d have been playing with myself while Wyatt spoke, getting off on just his smooth, deep voice alone.

Saturday night, and I once more sat on my bed in a long T-shirt sipping on chardonnay. A few candles lit around the room created an intimate vibe for what I’d hoped would be a telling chat. I didn’t want to waste either of our time if we didn’t click.

I’d messaged my cell number to him the night before, and he called right at seven o’clock p.m. on the dot.

He had that deep gravel that hardened nipples and dampened panties with a simple hello.

Or perhaps I just needed to get laid.

After a bit of small talk, Wyatt insisted I go first in telling my shitty life’s tale—my adjective, not his—and I agreed. I expected him to cut me off once he grew bored like anyone else did whenever I allowed myself to be vulnerable. Or, he would find the first excuse to hang up on a woman who was just too damn much for her own good.

Garrett had insisted I just open up and share, put all my issues out on the table with the blunt honesty he and Wyatt claimed to appreciate. Since I wasn’t about drama and had decided games were a thing of my past, I went with it, even though my stomach twisted as anxiety ate at my insides.

I fucking hated spilling my guts.

About being an only child to a psychotic cunt who lied and manipulated to get her own way and a chickenshit dad who’d done nothing about it. How I had been nothing more than a wall piece in the theatrics of my parent’s marriage. How their lack of parenting skills and selfishness had left me needy as fuck and clueless on how to build a life of my own.

Wyatt listened without interruption, not even offering his two cents or tossing out empathy tales from having any similar situations in his past.

“My mom is doing her second stint in a psych ward near Philly, and I haven’t spoken to my dad since the day he took off on both of us,” I told him without any embarrassment or regrets. My past existed, and nothing I said or did would change it. Sure, anger filled my voice, but that was how I’d survived the pain of my childhood trauma.

Wyatt went quiet when I finished.

“Well? What do you think of me now that I’ve just spewed the shit of my life’s foundation?” I asked, my tone still pissy as I readied to hear how Wyatt was going to take off from the psycho bitch from hell who had more issues than he could count.

“You like honesty?” he asked, his tone steady. Sure.

“Always,” I didn’t hesitate to answer, a bit of hope weaseling its way into my heart.

“You sound really angry and bitter. I’m not saying you shouldn’t be,” he hastened to add. “I would be if I were in your shoes.”

“Anger is my armor.” I went with the truth too. “It’s what I cling to when I start to spiral down in the dumps. It keeps me from depression. Probably not healthy.” I shrugged even though he couldn’t see me. “But it helps me stay afloat, so it can’t be a bad thing.”

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