“Go on, Jacko. Get some sleep.”
“Okay. If you’re sure? I can sleep here, Desmond, really. Sleeping on the floor doesn’t bother me.”
A strange, shuttered expression passes over his face, and he shakes his head. I don’t say anything else to try and convince him. I’m a terrible arguer, and this is about as far as I can push it.
“Have a good sleep, Jacko. I’ll see you in the morning.” Desmond smiles, long fingers making their way down his chest, opening buttons and further baring the white shirt underneath. Before I do something truly mortifying like getting hard, I nod and retreat.
It’s not until I’m standing in the bedroom—Desmond’s fucking bedroom—that I realize I left both my phoneandmy laundry bag behind. So, not only do I not have anything to distract me from my current situation, but I also have no clothes to change into. No pajamas, and no clean underwear.
Ignoring the rumpled, half-made bed, I head into the bathroom to splash some water on my face. Not havinganticipated babysitting or spending the night, I didn’t bring a toothbrush. Desmond didn’t even brush his own teeth, nor change into pajamas, apparently tired enough to say fuck it and just go to sleep. Channeling that energy, I snap off the bathroom light and approach the bed.
It’s just a bed, stop making it weird,I tell myself, pulling back the crumpled sheets. Desmond is apparently a half-asser when it comes to making the bed—it looks like all he did was toss the comforter toward the headboard and call it a day. Deciding that climbing in fully dressed in the clothing I’ve worn all day is a little gross, I strip off down to my boxers and carefully slide under the sheets. It will truly be a miracle if I’m able to sleep at all tonight.
I click off the lamp, and settle on my back like a vampire—legs straight, hands clutching the blanket and pulling it up to my chin. I stare at the ceiling for what feels like an eternity, before I decide to say fuck it and sniff the pillow. It’s not like anyone but me will know, anyway.
Rolling to the side, I scrunch the pillow up underneath my head and turn my face into the fabric. I pretend Desmond is there beside me, on the other side of the bed and just out of reach. Sleep tugs me down moments later. It’s the best I can remember having in my life, with the smell of him surrounding me and the dream of him beside me.
16
Desmond
I wouldn’t have suspectedthirty to be too old to sleep on the couch, but it apparently is. My back wakes me up a mere four hours after I fell asleep, and a quick inventory of my body shows cramped legs, a kinked neck, and an arm that no longer feels as though it’s an arm. Groaning, I roll over and shake out the sleepy arm, coaxing blood flow to return. I don’t even have to check my phone to know it’s far too early to get up—it’s dark as hell, and my eyes are dry with exhaustion.
Pressing myself against the back of the couch, I adjust the pillow under my cheek in an effort to save my neck. I think longingly of my nice big, comfy bed down the hallway, and right on the tail end of that comes a yearning for the man currently occupying said bed.
As uninterested as I am in dating and sex as a whole, I do seem to spend a lot of time thinking about Jack. More time, certainly, than I’ve ever spent thinking about mates in thepast. I’m not blind, or celibate, and can recognize attraction both in myself and when it’s aimed my direction. I know Jack looks at me and likes what he sees. I’ve known since that first day in the locker room.
And now—thanks to a simple, offhand comment by Parker—my own attraction to Jack is pressing more than ever at the boundaries I erected. I’ve always thought he was handsome, with that unique coloring and strong body. I like the way he’s sweet and shy; the way he blushes, and embarrasses easily. But those things were easy to push to the side, because he was a player on my hockey team and pursuing an intimate relationship with him would have been crossing all sorts of professional and personal boundaries.
Of course, he’s no longer a member of my hockey team. No, now he’s just Jack who comes over every Saturday under the guise of using my washer and dryer. Jack, who patiently plays boring video games with my nephew, and stands shoulder to shoulder with me in the kitchen, making lunch. He helps clean the apartment he doesn’t live in, and has now spent a night in my bed. I trust him, and I find that I like the way the apartment feels with him in it. Somehow, it feels like he belongs.
He’s folded himself so seamlessly into my and Parker’s lives, it feels as though we’re steps ahead of where we really are. I think back to Parker’s birthday, remembering how I’d automatically reached for Jack; wanted to slide an arm around his waist simply for the pleasure of being able to touch. I wasn’t allowed to then, but now…now, I could. I could bend over and blow away that line in the sand with nothing more than a puff of air. Reaching up, I press my fingers into my eyes. Now is not the time to think about this. I need to go to sleep, not let my thoughts spiral around redheaded men and what it might be like to cuddle in my sheets.
The second time I wake up, I crack open gritty eyes to pale morning light filtering through the slats of the cheap plastic blinds. Yawning, I listen for sounds of life from Parker’s room, and am unsurprised when I don’t hear any. Last night was definitely a late night for him; add in the slight emotional turmoil and I imagine he’ll be sleeping in until at least ten.
Pushing myself to sitting, I rub my face and reach for my phone. No messages from Nico or the team, and my email is empty of any communication from my lawyer. I expel a relieved breath, acknowledging as I do how sad it is that the threat of an email from my lawyer hangs over my head. I would give any amount of money, right now, to settle this and not ever have to talk to my parents again.
Standing, I grab the dress pants I’d discarded onto the floor last night and tug them on. The shirt gets tossed to the couch, pooling with the blankets. I’ll deal with it later.
After starting the coffee, I walk quietly down the hall and crack open Parker’s door. His messy brown hair is fanned over the pillow, mouth open, and limbs star-fished. One arm is dangling off the edge of the bed. Carefully, I approach and tuck it back in, pinching my mouth together when he doesn’t even move. The kid is the heaviest sleeper I’ve ever encountered.
I check on Jack, too, just in case he’s sitting in the bedroom hiding, unsure of whether he’s allowed to come out into the main room yet. Unlike Parker, he’s curled up on his side in the fetal position, pillow clenched tight to his face and knees pulled into his chest. He’s breathing softly, a tiny snore punctuating the sound every couple of breaths. I want toslide in behind him and feel the rumble of those snores against my cheek. Closing the door, I head back to the kitchen in search of coffee and sanity.
I’m on to cup number two, eggs cooking on the stovetop, when Jack shuffles awkwardly down the hall, cheeks rosy and hair spiky. I smile at him, because really. How adorable could someone be?
“Morning, Jacko. Coffee?” I reach for a mug, keeping my eyes on him as he steps closer. Like me, he’s wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday, because, also like me, sleep had been more important than the nightly routine yesterday.
“Uhm”—he hesitates, biting his lip—“do you have creamer, or…?”
“I don’t,” I admit, but mentally add it to the shopping list that lives rent-free in my mind these days. “The only other morning drink option would be Parker’s hot chocolate, but?—”
“Can I have that?” he asks, perking up visibly.
“Oh, sure. Of course.”
He smiles, and takes my place at the stove as I go to grab the container from the pantry. Handing the powered hot chocolate off to him, I grab the milk from the fridge as well. I usually just use hot water for Parker, but since Jack isn’t ten, I’m assuming he’s got a slightly more refined palate.
“Parker still asleep?” he asks, dumping two massive spoonfuls of powder into the mug.
