I admit I try to steer the conversation a little. I mention something about an ex of mine who had a very tiny, fluffy white dog that had to sleep in bed with us. The dog was super cute, but the problem was that every time I moved in the night, the little shit tried to bite my face.
It gets a good chuckle out of Stuart and allows me to neatly segue into the question I’ve been dying to ask since this whole Daddy arrangement started.
“What about you?” My voice sounds funny when I say it, but not so much that I think he’ll notice. “What happened with your ex?”
“Damien.” He moves his lips carefully around the word as if it burns him to say it. It hurts me to see it. It hurts me way more than it should, given that he’s explicitly spelled out what our arrangement means and what it doesn’t. “It was one of those things that got very complicated because we made it complicated. We were together for a long time. Much longer than we should have been. We made a mess of it because neither of us wanted to face the simple truth.”
“Which was?”
“We weren’t compatible.” I’m not saying that makes me flat-out happy because the echo of sadness that sometimes clings to Stuart seems heavier and denser than usual, and I hate that, but it also definitely doesn’t upset me to hear it. Compatibility is one of those things you either have or don’t have. And if you don’t, there’s no fixing it.
“We both thought we could change each other.” He laughs softly, “Guess we showed each other.”
“I guess so,” I say.
I have a million more questions. A hundred things I want to know. I don’t ask, though, and I can’t tell if that’s out of respect for Stuart or if it’s an attempt to protect myself.
You know what, on second thought, protecting myself seems sensible, so it’s probably the other thing. I’m probably trying to respect Stuart and his feelings. I must be. I feel pleased with myself. I’m behaving my ass off right now. All in all, it’s been a good day. A very good day. It’s been a good week too. A good month, really.
Reason, respect, and protecting myself all make sense while the lights are on, but in the dark, they swirl around me and grind into each other until they’re nothing. Until they cease to exist. I can’t sleep. I’ve lain this way and that. I can’t find my comfortable spot. I’ve opened the window and closed it again. I’ve had water and taken a piss. I’ve made myself come twice. All of it has done exactly nothing to help.
Eventually, I fling the covers back and get out of bed. I take my phone with me and creep down the stairs as quietly as possible, heart clattering in terror that the next step I take will be the one that wakes Stuart. I slink into the study and use the flashlight on my phone to look closer at the photograph of the dark-haired man with Sadie. He’s wearing one of those Carrie Bradshaw name necklaces. It caught my eye earlier when Stuart and I were in the study. From where I was standing, all I could see was a glint of gold. Up close, I see it clearly.
Damien
I feel too hot and too cold as I throw myself back into bed. My stomach feels strange. Bad. My stomach feels bad. I can’t tell if it’s cramping or if I’m nauseous.
I mean, it’s hardly earth-shattering. You’d be hard-pressed to call it a surprise. Stuart told me upfront he has an ex he’s not over. It isn’t a secret. He couldn’t have made it any clearer.
Why wouldn’t he have a photograph of him in his house?
And why wouldn’t the guy be so fucking beautiful it makes me want to punch something?
12
Stuart
Elliotisinthekitchen when I get downstairs. He’s washing a few things that didn’t come out of the dishwasher clean. He’s putting his back into it. His hips too. And his ass. Ample rounds of flesh quake gently from side to side as he does it. His ass is what kids are calling thick. Or juicy.
Hmm, are we saying juicy or thick nowadays?
God, I need someone to help me keep on top of this shit.
He’s wearing pajama pants and no shirt. His skin is creamy and smooth, with a few freckles sprinkled over his shoulders. His pajama pants are sky blue with little clouds on them. When I get closer, I see that each cloud has a funny face.
Wait?
What?
“Are those clouds pulling sex faces?” I ask before I have time to stop myself.
He turns and hits me with a dark look that borders on a glare. It’s been a few weeks since I saw that look on him, so I’m taken aback. Can’t say I’ve missed it. He shakes it off quickly, but it’s not all he shakes. He arches his back, causing a deep rivulet to dip along his spine as he gives a deliberate shake of his ass.
“Yeah, cute, huh?” He smiles, not even bothering to look innocent.
It takes me a second to collect myself. When I do, I say, “Smoothie?”
I don’t wait for him to answer. I’ve put my foot down on the matter of smoothies, and I’m glad I did it. The boy’s smoothie habit is out of control. Usually, I have a few recipes I follow when I make them. It’s important to get the balance of fruit and veggies right, or the taste suffers. Today, I just grab a few bags of frozen fruit and greens from the smoothie drawer in the freezer and toss the contents into the blender with a healthy scoop of yogurt and several glugs of milk.
