“Sully! Wake up!”
I jerked my eyes open. I found myself on top of Jules. I’d pinned him and was holding him down by the throat. In the dim light of the moon, I could see his eyes flashing in shock.
“It was a dream, Sully. Just a dream.”
I rolled off him quickly, sitting up and swinging my feet onto the floor. “Sorry,” I said. I felt confused and disoriented. It took me a moment to work out where I was.
“Go back to sleep,” he said, pulling me down gently by the shoulder. I lay on my back, chest still heaving. He kept his hand on my shoulder. The feeling of his skin on my skin seemed to soothe me. My breathing slowed and I fell into the first peaceful sleep I’d had since Storm blew into town, if not before then.
By the time I woke up, Jules had already made breakfast and was grinding beans for our coffee.
“Morning,” I said, stumbling out of bed and trying to pat my hair down into something that didn’t resemble the sort of look generally favored by cavemen.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, sorry about last night. Did I hurt you?”
“No, I’m fine, but it was intense. Does that happen often?”
“Yeah, almost every night.”
“Jesus. Is it always like that?”
I nodded.
“Whoa.”
“Don’t you have them that often?”
“I do, but they’re different. They’re not like that.”
“What do you mean?” I’d been worried about the dreams for a long time, but something about who I was and what I wanted in the dreams made me feel hesitant about talking about them.
“I told you. My dreams are . . . they’re like . . . you know.”
“I see.” I smiled. It was rare to see Jules even slightly resembling anything bashful. “Are you trying to say your dreams result innocturnal omissions, Julius? Is that what you’re saying?” I raised the pitch of my voice to sound as much like Mrs. Beauford as I possibly could.
“Ugh, fuck you, Sully Cleary,” he said, waving me off. I chuckled softly. “I know it’s weird, okay? I know it’s weird to be twenty-one and to be having wet dreams almost every night. I know. I don’t need you to tell me.” He eyed the bed we’d shared furtively.
“Wet dreams? Holy fuck! I was only kidding,” I exclaimed. “Are you trying to say you . . . last night?”
“No, you dork!” Jules looked intensely uncomfortable. His brows didn’t seem to know if they wanted to be up or down. “I fucking did not, okay? I was worried I would though, so I jerked off while you were off playing paw patrol.”
And just like that, I was the one who felt intensely uncomfortable. As soon as he said it, my mind went there. I pictured Jules in the bathroom, with his hand in his pants, stroking his cock. I imagined him in the shower. Naked. Wet. Hot. I’d seen the way he stroked himself to get ready when we were with women. I knew exactly how his hand clenched and his forearm flexed when he did it.
“Imma hit the shower,” I said, changing the subject.
“Good luck with that. That shower’s tiny. There’s no way you’ll fit in there.”
I gave it my best shot but Jules was right. The shower was so small I had to back all the way out just to turn around in the vestibule. I couldn’t raise my hands to my head without slamming my elbows into the tile or the faucets. As a result, I came out with red, stinging eyes, and even then, I wasn’t sure I’d gotten all the shampoo out.
“Refreshed?” he said brightly when I stepped out of the bathroom.
“Fuck no, that was a nightmare. Worst shower I’ve had in years. I seem to remember a river not too far from here. Might try to find it later today. No way I’m doing that again.” The summer I came up here with my parents, I remembered us taking our towels with us and the three of us bathing in the river. At the time, I loved it. I thought it was just a fun part of being on vacation, but since I’d tried that shower, I saw that little ritual in a much more perfunctory light.
After breakfast, we gave the cabin a once-over. I swept and mopped the floor, and Jules wiped down the surfaces. It took us less than an hour, but by the time we were done, the place felt like the sort of place that would no longer be an affront to Mrs. O’Malley. When we were done, we took a couple of fishing rods down from the wall racks and headed off in search of the river. I took a right at the bottom of the clearing, fighting my way through some overgrown brambles, and we found ourselves on a footpath of sorts. Before long, we could hear the cheerful gurgle of water crashing over river rocks.
We fished until evening. We caught enough trout to eat for dinner. When we got back to the cabin, we barbecued the fish and ate them straight off the sticks we’d skewered them on. Neither of us bothered with a plate, never mind a knife or fork. It felt good. It felt wild and free.
