Hot.
Shane
January 1999
I hear the shower cut on and my heart aches in my chest.
Ethan’s words still hang in the air. They hurt only because they’re true.
We shouldn’t have done anything. I should’ve stopped it. I should’ve insisted that we talk first, and this is why. No matterwhat, there’s always going to be hurt between us, it seems. I don’t know if I’ll be able to stand it.
But despite all my doubts, I still go into the bathroom, pull aside the curtain, and step into the tub.
Ethan turns around in the spray of water. He doesn’t even look surprised. His eyeliner has run down his face and down his neck past that lock-chain necklace. He looks mostly just defeated.
Before I can say anything, he wraps his arms around me, holds me tight, and his head lays heavy on my shoulder. These days the only people who hug me are Gina and Mikayla. It’s different being hugged by a man. It’s different when that man is Ethan Sawyer.
I close my eyes and tentatively slide one arm around his back. And then another. I’m surprised to feel tears sting my eyes. At some point we hugged for the last time; there was one five years ago that I can’t remember because I had no reason to believe there wouldn’t be any more.
Ethan whispers, “I miss him.”
“I miss him too,” I whisper back and hug Ethan closer to me. Tears spring up in my eyes. “He was my best friend.”
This seems like a strange time to properly mourn Everett, standing naked in a shower with his brother after we’ve just had sex. Something that would have angered Everett five years ago. I don’t know if he’d feel that way now. People grow up, and people change. Ev grew up, and maybe he changed, but he won’t be able to grow or change anymore. That part hurts the most. You really only get one chance in life, don’t you? And if you don’t learn from your mistakes, one day it won’t matter because it’ll be too late for learning. And it’ll be too late for making mistakes.
“I missed you, Ethan,” I whisper to him. “I missed you more than him. More than anybody. You were more than a friend to me. You meant everything to me. Maybe you don’t care now, but I swear to god, you did. And you still do.”
He pulls away slightly, and his mouth, wet and warm, is against mine before I can say another word.
I remember kissing Ethan. I remember it vividly. There was a rhythm and a process to the way we kissed. Lips only first, then we added tongues, then back to lips only, then tongues again but for longer and deeper than the first round. It was automatic, something we just did, an unspoken understanding between us. I’d touch his hair and his neck. One of his hands would find a home on the small of my back. Sometimes he’d grind his hard-on against me through his jeans. Sometimes I’d grind right back. And every single time I’d end the kiss because a nagging, unsexy voice in my head would psyche me out over getting caught.
It was predictable and stable and hot all at the same time. And we would emerge from it with messy hair, glassy eyes, and throbbing dicks.
But it’s different now. Not just because of the long span of time or because we’re kissing in a shower, but because he doesn’t kiss the same way. I can tell by how smooth and sensual he is about it, by the subtle and incredibly arousing way he drags his teeth over my bottom lip that he’s picked up some new things over the last few years; he’s added some new punctuation.
He’s changed. He’s grown and made mistakes.
And he’s done this with other guys.
I don’t want the pang of jealousy to ruin this because he doesn’t have to kiss me the same way. He can kiss me however he wants.
I completely forget about the shower until the water turns cold and we break apart. I shut the water off and keep my eyes on his face.
“Should we talk?” I ask him.
He wipes a hand over his forehead and reaches out of the shower for a towel. He presses it to his face, to his chest. “I don’t want to talk.”
“Okay.”
He gets out and I follow him, catching a glimpse of his bare ass before he wraps the towel around it and walks out of the bathroom.
I grab a towel and do the same, following him over to the bed, where he sits down on the edge and leans back on his elbows like a display. Scattered all over the bed behind him are the pictures. I kind of want to take a picture of the entire scene.
I stand in front of him. He looks up at me, almost like he expects me to do something.
“Did you notice,” I say, “that there’s a picture missing?”
He stares up at me.
