The people here though, now they’rereallydifferent. And, again, I could be seeing it differently because I am an outsider, or maybe because it’s Pride weekend here, but no one seems to care that I am walking down the street with Brooks beside me, my arm slung over his shoulder and his body close to my side. I’ve not heard a single off-color remark about two men walking down the street together, acting very much like a couple.
In Ternbay, old geezers sit on their worn-out lawn-chairs in their garages—no fucking joke, just for something to do—a stale beer in one hand, waving at passers-by with the other. You’d have to know ‘em real well to know that they’ll wave like they’re being polite, but they’re also talking shit about you at the dinner table later on. Just this action,me walking in such close proximity to another man, this would have the grapevine chattering.
It makes me wish that seventeen-year-old me would have been brave enough to experience this level of acceptance as I am here. It makes me wonder if I would have been met with as much humiliation and shame as I’ve played up in my head, or if this has just been me making a mountain out of a molehill all along. All these coulda, woulda, shoulda’s keep bouncing around in my head, but there’s one thing I seem to be forgetting, as I’m soaking this all in…
If I hadn't been petrified of being discovered, I never would have asked Miranda out. We never would have had Colton. If I hadn’t stuck around and tried to make it work, to make her happy, I likely would not have even experienced his younger years. Years when we used to have so much fun together—going fishing, taking cruises down the coast on the Harley, pushing him so high on the tire swing at our old house that his toes nearly brushed the leaves.
He was my little shadow, until he wasn’t. I feel like the day Miranda passed, I lost not just her, but Colton too, and it shatters me. I may have a reputation of being a man of few words, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel deeply. Losing my wife and having my son regard me with such contempt in the aftermath, little by little, it drives a knife through my heart.
I do feel deeply. So much so, it overwhelms me into silence most days, because I’ve been way too fuckin’ scared of coming off as someone who cares too much. That’s not what ‘real men’ do.
But if it’s anything I’ve learned from yesterday, I need to let go of what I thoughtreal mendo, and just accept that I am a man, and I do have emotions. A fuckton of them, that I’ve just been keeping bottled up. Ones that I’ve been just yearning to pop the cork on and set free.
Brooks and I make our way in and out of all the little shops on Main Street, and I hardly let him peel his hand away from mine. It’s giving me a feeling of security, our fingers threaded together. Occasionally, he’ll look back and give me another of his coy grins.
When we get moments of seclusion, I take advantage of them by pressing my lips to his, surprising him every single time. I feel like a teenager again, sneaking around and stealing kisses and copping feels whenever I can. Can’t help it, Idofeel like a teenager again, this feeling of newness has me all excited like a kid at Christmas.
He doesn’t realize it yet, but this silk sheet set I just bought isn’t for my bed. They’re forhis. He mentioned something about liking the feel of them against his smooth legs, and that memory is all it took to have me making the purchase.
Now we’re weaving our way down the crowded sidewalk as folks start to gather to watch the parade. Brooks continues to get stopped, like he’s a local celebrity that’s just come out of hiding. I suppose he is, really. I keep hearing everyone brag him up about what a good person he is, how much of a sweet girl Morgan has grown up to be, and about how nice it was to see the happy campers out with their families today.
Finally, Brooks spins back to me, his eyes glinting with excitement. “Oh! You’ve got to try the mini-pies here, they’re made from scratch every morning, and they are amazing,” Brooks gushes, tugging me into a bakery called Sweetie Pies. “I haven’t had one in aaages,” he drawls. “Let’s split one! What kind do you want?”
He’s fucking adorable, bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet.
“Whatever you’re having,” I smile and tell him.
“There must be a kind that you like,” he insists, browsing the options in the case.
“Pick whichever one is your favorite,” I persist. “Stop being such a people pleaser.”
“Well hey there, stranger!” The man behind the counter greets Brooks. “Look who finally crawled out of the woods to socialize! Cripes, it’s been, what, over a year now, I’d figure.”
“Hey, Pete!” Brooks meets him around the counter for a giant hug and some hearty back slaps from the older gentleman. “Good to see you! You’re probably right, I’ve been busy.”
“What can I get you folks today?” Pete, apparently, asks us both.
I hike a thumb at Brooks. “What’s his favorite?”
“Healwaysgoes for the strawberry rhubarb,” my new friend tells me.
“I’ll take one of those, please,” I tell him. “Do you also have some frozen ones?”
“I do.” He nods.
“I’ll take a dozen of those please, too, if you have them.”
“Sure thing, I’ll get ‘em packed right up in a cooler for ya, bub.”
While Pete takes off to go do that, Brooks gives me a confused look. “I was buying, you know,” he huffs.
“No, you’re not. My treat. And you’re going to take them home, put them in the freezer, and indulge yourself more than once a year. Then, surprise, you’re going to enjoyyournew sheets. Jesus, Brooks, stop putting everyone else over yourself.”
He rolls his eyes. “Stop doing nice things for me, just because you insist we’re dating. When I said practice, I just meant practice exploring your sexuality. Use methatway,” he whisper-hisses.
“That’s not how this is going to work, Reckless. I don’t operate like that. I don’t use people.”
“Ugh, fine, but you’re letting me repay yousomehow.”
