I lie there in the dark, flat on my back and eyes open, thinking. There’s something wrong with me, and if I don’t figure it out, I’ll never have again what I had tonight with Nate. And Iwantthat. I want someone to talk to, and be with. Someone who wants me to spend the night with them, and kisses me just because they feel like it. I want to be someone who can receive that without feeling sick.
This summer, I’m going to talk to a doctor. And then, I’m going to talk to Max. It’s time he knows what it is I’ve been getting up to with his teammate.
7
Nate
I watchmy friend perform a sloppy box step, laughing and grazing his hand over the hip of his dance partner, and will myself to join. I need to snap out of it and go have some fun. I love going to bars like this—the ones with dirt and peanut shells on the floor, and the tables pushed against the wall so people can dance in front of a stage for live music. Spinning the soda I’ve been nursing, I scan the room. My eyes catch on a pair of guys standing against the far wall, bottles dangling from their fingers and heads leaned in together. They’re standing close—a lot closer than two pals would stand—and even as I watch, they get nearer.
They’re a couple, I realize, and feel a soft stab of jealousy. I shouldn’t be staring at them, but I can’t seem to make myself look away. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve seen a pair of men on a date, but it feels like a sign after I’ve spent the entire evening thinking about Marcos. Hell, I’ve spent the entire summer so far thinking about Marcos.
I’ve texted with him daily since I got here. Usually, it’s nonsense things like pictures of the mountains, or the puppies that were born a week ago. This morning I sent him a selfie with my uncle’s horse, Buster, and was shocked when he sent one back. Over a month and a half of texts and pictures from me, and today was the first time he’d sent a return selfie.
Tearing my eyes away from the guys across the room, I pull out my cellphone and bring up the photo, stomach clenching and fingers tingling as I look down at Marcos’ face. His black hair is sort of janky on one side, like he sleeps primarily on the left, and there is a soft, sleepy look on his face like he’d woken up and the first thing he did was send a picture to me. He’s holding a coffee cup awkwardly in the frame, and I can see the narrow line of his collarbone disappearing into the meat of his shoulder. I can practically feel the unease seeping through the picture, as though he’s not used to taking selfies.
The photo made me feel weird this morning, and it’s making me feel weird now. I’d thought distance would tamp down some of the raw desire, but if anything, I think it’s been worse. I’m at a fucking bar filled with beautiful men and women, and all I can think about is the way Marcos’ hip bones jutted out from his flat stomach when he’d stood naked in my bedroom.
The song changes, and I glance up when I hear one of my friends whoop his delight. I smile—the man loves Cody Johnson. Leaning back against the wall, I try to decide what I should do. Marcos and I aren’t together. There’s no reason for me to abstain from hooking up with someone else. Nothing but the swooping, empty sensation of wrong when I think about it. God, I wish I could justtalkto him. Maybe when Iget home tonight I’ll give him a call. Even if he doesn’t want to engage in another round of phone sex, I’d like to at least hear his voice, and maybe talk to him about all the things I’m confused about right now. Namely, him.
My buddy calls my name and windmills his arm in an attempt to get me to join them. Raising my drink in acknowledgment, I remain where I am. I’m just not in the mood. My phone distracts me for a second, when it buzzes and sends my heart lifting up into my throat. Maybe it’s Marcos.
It is not Marcos.
Micky
Hey, are you busy? I wanted to call you, but I’m sure you’re busy. It’s fine though, I can talk to you another time. I don’t want to bother you.
Grinning, I tip back the rest of my soda and leave it on the bar top as I walk outside. I don’t bother letting my friends know where I’m going—they’ll find me if and when they need me. It’s at least twenty degrees cooler outside than it is in the packed bar, and I take a moment to breathe deep of the fresh air before wandering over to my truck and opening the tailgate. Hopping up to take a seat, I call Micky.
“Hey, Nate, sorry,” he answers immediately, sounding stressed.
“I’m never too busy for you, pal, what’s up?”
“So, something crazy happened. I rented a room near campus for the summer, and I’ve been working at the local rink, right?” His voice is tense with excitement, like he’s been waiting all day to tell me something.
“Right. I remember you mentioning to me you were doing that.”
“Right,” he agrees, sounding a touch more eager and less nervous now. “So, the other day Coach Mackenzie called me, which, you know, freaked me out.”
I smile into the phone. “Naturally.”
“But guess what—he wanted to see if I was around for the summer because he wants to do some extra clinics with me and Carter Morgan!”
I whistle, long and low, kicking my feet into the open air beneath the truck bed. Micky sounds breathless with delight, and I feel a surge of affection for Coach Mackenzie. Micky rarely gets attention, and doesn’t think he deserves it. By offering him special treatment, Coach Mackenzie is showing him he’s worth the effort.
“Dude, that’s fucking great! Good for you. Carter Morgan is a fucking beast, you’re going to learn a lot.”
“We had our first session today, actually. It was really good. I did bad of course, but Carter seems okay. I wasn’t as nervous, like I get when Lawson comes to practice.”
“You didn’t do bad.” I roll my eyes. “Did you have fun?”
“Oh, yeah. A bit. Carter didn’t talk much, and Coach Mackenzie had us do some drills and stuff. Mostly, Coach just left us alone and it was me and Carter working together. He had some good suggestions for me.” Micky puffs out a hard breath, voice calmer now that he got his news out. “Maybe this next season I’ll actually be good.”
“Hey, you know what we should work on for next season? Not saying shit like that,” I admonish him crossly. I really hate it when he talks like that, as casual as anything, as though he’s not talking crap about himself. About my best friend.
“I’m not as good as?—”
“Micky, I swear to all that is holy.”
