I squeeze his hand lightly. “You okay over there?”
“I’m good, no complaints over here.” The smile he offers me is sincere, his hand returning with a firm squeeze. I’m more and more enamored with him every moment we’re together.
We make it to the rage room in North Charlotte with time to spare, taking a seat and making small talk in the waiting area. Our hands find their way back to each other, and it doesn’t go unnoticed the way his body shudders the moment we touch.
“Kyle? Is that you?” I look up and see a guy around our age walking up to us, staring at Ender—why is he calling him by a different name? When I turn to Ender, his eyes are wide with recognition, but he makes no attempt to correct him. When seconds go by and Ender still doesn’t respond, I decide to intervene.
“Hey, no offense but I think you have the wrong guy. His name isn’t Kyle.”
He looks at me, his forehead crinkles and then turns back to Ender. “Kyle Matthews. C’mon man, you don’t remember me? Scottsdale High?” Ender just keeps staring straight ahead, jaw clenching, and I see his Adam’s apple move. “Matt Rogers. We were in back-to-back calculus classes senior year. We crammed for every exam together.”
I give the guy one more chance for Ender to acknowledge him before politely telling him, again, that he’s mistaken. Once Matt leaves with confusion written all over his face, I address the still-stunned man next to me. “Ender, are you okay? Did you know that guy?”
I barely get out my questions before he’s on the move, walking briskly toward the exit. I don’t know whatever Ender is running from, but whatever it is, I can tell it’s deep. Deeper than what most people faced at his age, I’m sure. And I don’t think it’s his fault.
The white locks of his low hung head whisp around in the breezy afternoon as I follow him toward the car. He keeps his head hung low, his shoulders tense in a way that mirrors my own anxiety—even as I force calm into my steps. As much as I want to ask him all the questions swirling through my mind, I know I need to give him a chance to gather himself. This isn't about me.
“Can you take me home?” he says softly without looking up at me. “If it’s a problem, I can call an Uber.”
I lift his chin, leaning into him but still keeping my distance—I’ll give him the space if he needs it. “When you’re ready to talk about it, we can. Until then, don’t assume how I will react. I know what you’re doing up here…” My palm caresses his face with an index finger tapping on his temple. “Don’t do that—not with me at least.”
He ends my attempt to soothe him when he pulls away, and his eyes wander everywhere except me. “You’ll leave once you find out how much baggage I come with, so you might as well go now.” With a grimace, his eyes finally find mine.
“Yeah, we’re not doing that either.” My jaw ticks in frustration, but I can only imagine why he feels this way. “I can make my own decision on what I can and can’t handle.”
I don’t give him a chance to look away this time. His skin is warm in my palms, but when I lean in to kiss him, his lips resist mine. Around clenched lids, his lashes dampen with the emotions I’ve seen him trying to hide since we met.
“Ender,” I say softly, brushing up against his cheek. “Can I take you home with me?”
From the way his body stiffens, I’m worried he’ll say no. Then his lips brush across my neck and he responds with a whispered, “Okay.”
The car ride home was quiet—the air thick with silent emotions. Ender stared out his window while I held his hand, to the point I feared I might cut off circulation. I needed him to know he wasn’t alone.
We walk into the house, and I lead him directly to the bedroom, delicately undressing him down to his boxer briefs before I help him under the covers. When I climb in next to him, his heated skin against mine sends tingling sensations all over my body, raising the hair on my arms.
Ender’s light snoring comes quickly, leaving me alone with my thoughts, while still trying to figure out why Matt thought Ender’s name was Kyle. After hours of contemplating scenarios, Ender begins to stir, and the only logical answer I’ve come up with is that he changed his name since high school. This also explains why I couldn’t find anything on the internet about him before college. All of this leads to the even bigger question—Why did he change his name?
“Have you been creepily watching me the whole time I’ve been asleep?” Ender says, his face still buried in the crook of my neck.
“Possibly.”
“I’m fine. You can stop worrying about me.” He sounds adamant about shutting me out.
“I’m just trying to get to know you better, Ender.” I sigh in frustration. “I’ve been trying for weeks now.”
Ender tenses beneath my arm, and his hand, which had been resting quietly against my hip, locks onto me. It's like he's fighting a war within himself, desperate to keep his guard up, but determined to hold on.
“There’s no rush to tell me what happened. When you’re ready, I’ll be here.” I pull him tighter against me and mumble against his head, “Just don’t push me away.”
“Can we just hangout and not talk about any of this? Please.”
“That sounds like a great idea. Can I finally cook dinner for you, or should I just grab you a bag of candy?” That earns me a slight chuckle.
Tapping his ass to get us moving, I grasp his hand and lead him to the bathroom. I hand him a toothbrush before I start the shower and say, “Scalding or room temp?”
I’m thankful when he responds with, “Scalding, please.”
As the steam starts to rise, Ender rids himself of his boxers and steps under the water. Grabbing a fresh washcloth from the cabinet before following him in, I step up from behind and begin washing his shoulders and back. He starts rotating his neck, trying to loosen his muscles while I massage him.
