I don’t like swimming. We’re not swimming,are we?
Nate? No ocean activities, please. I can’t swim well.
Nate
Staying on land, I promise. Trust me, lovely.
Biting my lip, I slide into the driver’s seat of my car and drop my phone into the cup holder. Saturday. Three days away. As if on cue, my imagination conjures up images of Nate trying to hold my hand or kiss me goodbye. As always, my brain likes to supply the worst-case scenario—me having a panic attack, or pulling away and hurting his feelings.
Instead of letting the anxiety spiral, though, I do what Dr. Rosen instructed me to do: control the narrative. Driving home, I picture Nate touching my arm. His hands are callused and a little rough—strong, working hands. It doesn’t bother me that he’s touching me, because Iwanthim to. I kiss him because I want to, and that doesn’t bother me either.
Good job, imaginary Marcos, I applaud myself.Now, we just have to make sure that’s how it actually goes in real life.
Kicking off my shoes in the direction of the hall closet, I let the door slam behind me and yell for Max. A muffled thump comes from his room before he pulls open the door, one leg in a pair of pants as though he were midway through getting dressed. His hair is a copper halo of frizz around his head, probably having just yanked his shirt over his head. He looks so ridiculous, I laugh.
“Sorry,” I apologize. “Didn’t mean to startle you. You can get dressed.”
Huffing, he shoves his door wide and finishes pulling his pants up. “Jesus, Marcos. You scared the shit out of me. What’s up?”
I follow him as he steps back into his room, resting a shoulder against his doorframe. He pats his hair, as though any amount of finger combing will help get it in the right spot.
“So, I’ve got a date on Saturday,” I tell him.
“Oh?” he asks, and I smirk when a faint blush colors his cheeks.
“With Nate. Apparently, I’m to wear boardshorts, but we aren’t swimming. Oh, and he somehow knew I had no plans with you this weekend.”
“Okay, so I told him,” Max blurts, abandoning his hair and looking at me sheepishly. “He asked about you, and I gave him a few ideas. What’s your favorite flower, by the way?”
Diverted by this question, I stare at him. “I don’t…I don’t know?”
“Yeah, me either,” Max agrees. “Nate asked.”
Shaking my head at that little nugget of information, I pull out my phone and hand it to Max. He types in my password, and the screen lights up on Nate’s and my open text conversation. He snorts, using his thumb to scroll through the messages.
“So, you going to clue me in to what we’re doing on this date?” I ask him.
“Nope,” he replies, popping the P and grinning. “You’ll like it, though.”
Nodding, I idly run my heel up and down the opposite calf. I didn’t actually expect him to tell me, and I don’t really mind that it’ll be a surprise. It’s been a long time since Nate and I have interacted face to face, though, and the few times we have in the past were quick encounters. What if he doesn’tactually like me when he’s forced to spend time with me that doesn’t include sucking dick?
“It’s been getting better, hasn’t it?” Max interrupts my thoughts softly. I look up at him. “Are you worried about him trying to?—”
“Touch me?” Max nods. “Actually, no. I told him not to in the past and he was fine. And yeah, it has been getting better. I’ve been practicing.”
Max nods again, probably thinking about all the times over the summer I practiced on him. I’ve never been so affectionate in my life, but the past couple months I’ve done my best to touch Max and Luke as often as possible, even if it was just a quick press of my fingers to an arm. Each time I did it without any problems I got a little thrill, feeling like I’d conquered something far more monumental than a minor touch aversion.
“I don’t know. Not really sure why he’s trying so hard to go out with me anyway.”
Max scrunches up his nose like he smells something rotten. “Uhm, because you’re fucking great? Why wouldn’t he try hard—you’re a catch.”
“Okay, Max.” I snort, shaking my head and straightening up. “You headed out to see Luke?”
“Don’t change the subject,” he admonishes, pointing a finger at me. I raise my hands in surrender. “You dowantto go out with him, right?”
“Yeah,” I tell him, voice low. Ireallywant to go out with him. It’s all I’ve been thinking about all damn summer—his pretty green eyes and scarred brown skin; the way he so obviously wants me, and isn’t shy about showing it. I repeat more confidently, “Yeah, I want to go out with him.”
“Well, good! You’ll have fun. Nate is, like, the life of the fucking party. You won’t be bored, trust me.”
