When Eric carried me to the bedroom, I checked over his shoulder and Ty mouthed something to me. I couldn’t make out what, and it was definitely more words than were probably necessary, but he was obviously asking me not to say anything to Eric. I shook my head to indicate I wouldn’t out him, hoping that would help him get some sleep. However, I can’t tell if the bags under his eyes are from how late we were out or if he spent the night lying awake, worrying about the secret he managed to keep from me all theseyears.
“Morning,” I offer as I approach and slide onto the stool besidehim.
His lips twist upward as he seems to force a smile. “Morning.”
Eric shifts sausage around the skillet as he turns to me, his smile coming effortlessly, as though he’s excited to see me. “Hey,sleepyhead.”
“Thanks for the Tylenol.” I’d woken to a bottle and some water on the nightstand, ready for me to down so I could subdue this throbbing headache, which isn’t all that bad considering how much I drank. Although, at least part of the pain is coming from the intensifying stress as my brain escorts me through flashes of images of Ty with the guy in thebar.
“What do you want on your omelette, Jesse?” Eric asks. “Bacon and someGouda?”
“Uh…yeah.”
“And, Ty, cheddar andham?”
“Yes,please.”
“Don’t forget, you both need to hydrate,” Eric warns. He sets the skillet down before retrieving bottles of water from the fridge. As he sets them before us, he continues, “I was gonna go for a jog. When I head back, you want to hit the beach? We can hang there so you guys can spend the dayrecovering.”
“That sounds like a good plan,” Ty spits out, and I wonder if he’s just glad that Eric’s leaving us alone so we canchat.
“I’ll get these omelettes good to go, and we’ll get to it,” Eric says, and he whips up our omelettes as well as his own, chipper as can be. It’s nice seeing him on cloud nine, oblivious to our discomfort. Better he be that way than freaking out about why we’re so onedge.
I remind myself of what he told me last night:“You can’t be with me and be his friend if you guys can’t at least have some things between the two ofyou.”
Those words give me some peace ofmind.
When Eric finishes his own omelette, he plates it with some sausage and hash browns he made before, and sits beside me at the kitchen island, downing someOJ.
“So I guess you remember last night pretty well?” Tyasks.
“I have a pretty decent memory ofeverything.”
If only he knew just how vivid the memories are… I see his shorts around his ankles, his lips locked with a guy who’s jerking on his cock. He turned to me, his face possibly mirroring my own wide-eyed, jaw-droppedexpression.
Eric sets his hand on my leg. “I’m glad you had a good time, Jesse. Next time, you don’t have to drink and throw up like a frat kid outside the bar, but we’ve all had nights likethat.”
He’s all bright teeth and eager eyes, and I’m sure he’s more than a little proud of himself for playing my personalhero.
Like with trying to unzip my pants and remove my belt, it seems as though it takes forever before Eric is finally out the door for his run. Not that I am eager for him to leave, but Ty and I need to have this discussion. The more time I spend with all these unanswered questions, the more questions arise as I try to sort through the details. We both tell Eric goodbye at the door, practically on top of oneanother.
Once I close the door, I turn to Ty, and he twists his lips into a frown. We stare at each other for a moment, both of us seeming to work to figure out where the fuck webegin.
“You know what we need right now?” Ty says. “Some coming-outmimosas.”
“Coming-outmimosas?”
“Yeah, they’re like regular mimosas, but you make ’em when you’re coming out tosomeone.”
Damned if that doesn’t get me laughing. “Jesus Christ, Ty.” And then we’re both laughing, surely not because of some fucking coming-out mimosas, but at the absurdity of everything that’s happened in the past twelve hours…hell, the past twelvemonths.
Ty heads into the kitchen and grabs a bottle of champagne and some OJ from thefridge.
I settle on a stool at the kitchen island, watching as he opens the bottle and pours us two mimosas in champagne flutes. He takes his time. I want to skip right to the important shit, but there’s this calm knowing within me. This is Ty’s story, his right to share this with me as he chooses. I’ll bombard him with questions whenhe’sready.
Ty passes me my glass and raises his own, moving like he’s about to tap them together before saying, “To thetruth.”
He clinks them, but the silencereturns.
