The time we’ve spent together has been so incredible.
I’m sure having a fuck buddy doesn’t mean much to him, but thisis closer than I’ve let myself get to a guy in a long time. Since I was in myearly twenties when I had screwed around with guys I’d catch on Grindr orScruff, working up their same schemes on other dumb kids. Guys who’d takeadvantage. Guys who are the reason why I’m so fucking guarded now.
I like waking up beside Reese, and I was sad when I woke thismorning and realized I was in my own bed. And even sadder knowing that Reesewas somewhere struggling on his own.
Today gave me hope, though. I figured he was going to let mewalk out of his office. Tell me that he needed some more space. But when heactually pushed through his discomfort to ask me over for dinner, that filledme with excitement. Not because it’ll be like any other night. I can tell fromwhat he said that it won’t be. That I’ll likely be there helping him throughhis pain. But considering how I feel about it, it seems like this is movingsomewhere beyond fuck buddies.
God, why am I even letting myself think like that?
I wasn’t joking when I called it a date. I was testing. I wantedto see where Reese stood with us. If he could even consider something more. ButI could tell by the way he tensed up about it that this is too soon. We’ve beenspending so much time together I guess it got screwy in my dumb brain. But eventhough we’re not at that place in our relationship, I want to be there for him.
The way he’s broken reminds me of how I’m broken. He wants tokeep to himself. Shut out the world. That’s a painful way to live, so I’m happyto be there if I can make it a little easier for him.
When I arrive at Reese’s house, I’m excited. This night feelsdifferent. More intimate because I know he’s letting me share something deeplypersonal with him.
I open the door and head through the living room.
He stands in the kitchen. I’ve seen him in there, making eggs orcereal for breakfast. Fixing me a cup of coffee. But he has a few grocery bagsspread out across the bar as he busily works at the adjacent kitchen counter.He glances over, his expression as serious as it was at work today, remindingme that as nice as it is that we’re sharing this moment, it’s not all light andplayful.
Reminding me of the dark reason he’s invited me over.
As I near the bar, I see he’s using a rolling pin to flatten outsome dough on the counter. “Pizza?” I ask as round the bar and approach him.
“Yeah. You said meat, so I was going to go for meat lover’s, ifthat’s what you want.”
“Well, you know me. I’m fine with sticking some meat in mymouth.”
He beams, seeming to forget, at least for a moment, the stressof his day. He turns from his work and offers me a tender kiss.
It’s different from the kisses we shared when we first startedfucking around. Something more sensual than reckless passion. Something moremeaningful. Something that promises more to come. There’s an ease about it thatmakes me feel confident in what we’re discovering together. It gives me hope.I’m so used to feeling on edge. Like I’m five seconds away from sprinting on tothe next place. But when I kiss him like this, I don’t want to run. I just wantto stay right here with him.
But this whole setup, dinner and all, makes me uneasy. As dateyas it looks, I need to remind myself that it’s not a date.
As he pulls away, I glance around at his various stations. Hehas bowls filled with vegetables and some filled with raw chicken, sausage,ground beef, and bacon.
“Mmm,” I say. “What do you need help with?”
“No, no. I got this.”
“Come on. I want to help. Don’t make me just sit around beinguseless.” He appears surprised by my offer.
“What?” I ask. “You thought I was no good in the kitchen?”
“If you want to cook some of the meat, I can take care ofcutting up the vegetables.”
“All over it.” I fish around the cabinets and stack a few panson the stovetop. Then I grab some wooden spoons and spatulas from the drawers.
I catch Reese looking at me instead of tending to the dough.“What?” I ask.
“I like watching you make yourself at home. It’s a good thing.”
And I like hearing him say that.
I get to work. I glance at him occasionally, noticing that heslips back into the same state he was in at work very quickly. I wonder if I’msupposed to talk to him to keep him from going there or if I need to give himspace. It reminds me of that day when I was there for his breakdown. When Iwasn’t sure how to react. What to do. If I was handling it totally the wrongway or if I was actually helping.
Don’t push, I remind myself. He’s been dealingwith this shit for a long time without me. He’s not helpless, and he wouldn’twant me to treat him like he is with the PTSD any more than he would about hisleg.
We work together. He covers the raw crust in sauce, cheese, andsliced vegetables. We pile on the meats I’ve been cooking before placing ourcreation into the oven.
