I don't know what to do.
Jay slows the bike as we reach a turnoff, a narrow dirt road that climbs even higher into the hills. He navigates it carefully, the bike bumping over rocks and ruts, and I tighten my grip on his waist, my hands splayed across his stomach. I can feel the muscles there tense and relax with each movement.
Then we round a final curve and suddenly the world opens up before us like a revelation.
"Wow," I breathe.
We're on a ridge overlooking a valley. The view stretches for miles—rolling hills covered in green and gold, patches of dark forest, a river winding through the landscape like a silver thread, glinting in the afternoon sun. The sky is huge and impossibly blue above us, scattered with white clouds. It's achingly beautiful.
Jay cuts the engine and we sit there for a moment in sudden silence, looking out at the view. The quiet is almost shocking after the rumbleof the motorcycle. I can hear birds calling, and the sound of my own breathing loud in my ears.
I don't let go of him. I should—we've stopped, there's no reason to hold on anymore—but I don't. My arms stay wrapped around his waist, my chest stays pressed to his back. I rest my chin on his shoulder and just breathe him in.
"This is my spot," Jay says quietly. "I come here when things get bad. When I need to think, or not think. Just get away from everything. Escape."
"I can see why."
I feel the deep breath he takes, feel his ribs expand against my arms. "I've never brought anyone here before."
He's sharing something private, something that's just his, something sacred. And he's giving it to me.
"Thank you," I say into his neck.
Slowly, reluctantly, I loosen my arms and climb off the bike. My legs are shaky, from the ride, I tell myself, just from the ride and the adrenaline, and I walk to the edge of the ridge, looking out at the valley. The world feels bigger up here. Cleaner. Like all the complications fall away and there's just us.
Jay comes to stand beside me. Close, but not quite touching. The space between us feels charged, electric. I'm hyperaware of it, of how easy it would be to close that gap, to reach out and—
And what? What the fuck am I thinking? Grab his hand? Slide my arm around his waist?
"I used to imagine what your life was like," I say, still looking at the view because I can't look at him right now. "During all those years when I was searching. I'd make up stories in my head to fill the silence. Maybe you were happy. You had a good job, a nice apartment, maybe even a girlfriend." The word feels strange in my mouth and I don't like it. "People who cared about you. A life that made sense."
"Sorry to disappoint."
"That's not what I meant." I turn to look at him, to make him understand. "I mean—I imagined your life, but I couldn't imagine you in it. The real you.I just had this idea, this image in my head of who you might be, but it wasn't—"
"What?"
"Wasn't this. You alone on a motorcycle here." I gesture at the view, at the ridge, at him. "You're different than I imagined. And yet the same. And I can't—" I stop, frustrated with my inability to articulate what I'm feeling. "I can't reconcile the boy I remember with the man standing in front of me."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"No. It's just—" I take a breath. "I can't stop looking at you."
The words come out before I can think about how they sound. Jay goes very still beside me, every muscle in his body tensing.
"I mean—" I try to recover, but I don't know how. How do I explain this without explaining everything? "It's just been so long. You're here, and you're real, and I keep expecting to wake up and find out it was a dream. That I'm still in my room at the Reyes house, still searching, still hoping."
"It's not a dream. I'm right here."
"I know you are." I turn back to the view because I can't look at him anymore, not without saying something I shouldn't, not without reaching out and touching him the way I want to. "It's just a lot. That's all. Finding you after all this time. Being here with you. Seeing you as—" I stop myself before I say it.
As a man.
We stand in silence for a while. The wind ruffles our hair. It's peaceful here. Quiet. The kind of place where secrets feel safe, where you could say anything and the wind would carry it away before it became real.
"I'm glad you have this place," I say.
"Did you—I mean, back then, when we were kids—" He stops, starts again. "Did you ever think about what would happen? When we found each other again? Did you imagine it?"
