36
ISAAC
Evan and Deacon are both tense until I get two glasses of wine into each of them. And even after that, they’re still tense, but Evan occasionally smiles at one of my jokes, and Deacon’s clearly hornier.
While Evan talks, Deacon runs his hand up and down my thigh beneath the table, ensuring that with each pass, his knuckles brush either my cock or balls. Needless to say, I’m very, very hard.
Evan eats about half his food and only one of the Brussels sprouts even though I think they came out great.
Deacon quietly praises the meal, calling the steak perfect. It hasn’t escaped me that neither of them is speaking to each other, but they do speak to me, which gives the illusion we’re having a conversation. It could be worse?
If someone were to ask me which of the two of them was more upset, though, I wouldn’t be able to answer. They’re not despondent or anything. It’s just—tense.
And I’ve got an erection that’s all dressed up with no place to go. I rise to clear the dishes, and Deacon is right behind me. “You want to borrow some more comfortable clothes?” he asks.
“I’m all right.”
“Are you staying?”
“Are you two gonna start speaking to each other?” I ask loudly enough for both of them to hear.
“We already spoke,” Evan says.
Deacon makes a frustrated noise and drops a plate into the sink with a clank. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he turns on the water. “Talk,” he insists. “I thought we were good, but you’re right. You’re acting like you’ve got something to say.”
I glance in Evan’s direction, but he doesn’t look like he’s trying to say anything. He looks shocked. “What’s going on?” I ask.
It’s an open question, but neither of them answer.
“Someone needs to start talking.”
“When are you guys gonna get I don’t liketalking? Every time we try, something like this happens, so I’m gonna call it overrated,” Deacon says.
I put my hand on his lower back. “Something like what?”
“I start feeling like shit,” he says. “I don’t know how to do this either, but I was the only one people thought was single Saturday night—so I can’t be the only one fucking it up.”
Evan looks completely called out. A huge part of me wants to step in and take some of the blame for that, but I don’t know what started this, and I’m hesitant to get in the middle of it. All I say is, “No one’s fucking anything up.”
Evan looks like he’s about two seconds from walking out the door, but I’ve never seen Deacon like this either, so whether it’s the right call or not, I keep my hand on him.
“This shouldn’t feel so forced,” Deacon says.
“Who’s forcing anything?” I ask, searching his face but finding nothing there.
Deacon gestures at Evan. “Look, I can’t just grow a relationship with someone overnight. I’m not as good at this as you are.”
“I’m sorry,” Evan says. “How many times do I have to say it?”
“No—wait,” I say, “Let’s take a second, and we can talk about this. Do you need a minute?” I ask Deacon.
“We have talked about it. But also,conversationisn’t my love language,” Deacon says with a slight note of derision, but I catch the defensiveness in it, too. While I’ve never had trouble communicating with him, I understand it’s something he struggles with. I don’t have the same issues he does, but I do have difficulty talking about how I feel. My reasons might be different, but I can relate. I have to make myself do it, and it’s usually only when my back is against the wall, or it’s already too late.
Telling Evan how I felt about him that morning in the park was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Putting myself out there emotionally has rarely gotten me anything other than kicked in the nuts.
Evan is visibly paler than he was a minute ago. “I don’t think I should be here right now,” he says quietly.
“Great. Make me look like the asshole.”
