“For another two years, at least. He calls once a month, asks if I’m keeping my grades up, and reminds me that discipline is the foundation of success.” Ryan’s mouth twists into something that’s not quite a smile. “Same conversation every time. I could probably record it and play it back to myself.”
“And Marvin?”
“He’s doing well. He’s in New York City, living the high life.”
I watch his fingers trace the rim of his cup, long and elegant. I absolutely do not think about those fingers doing anything else. Nope. Not going there. Not while I’m sitting three feet away from him in a public establishment where my coworkers could walk by at any moment.
“What about your parents? I remember your mom made the best lasagna.”
The mention of Mom’s cooking hits me with a wave of nostalgia that nearly knocks me sideways. “She still does. Dad claims he’s learned to cook since I left for college, but every time I call, Mom’s laughing in the background about whatever he’s burned that week.”
Ryan’s lips twitch. Another almost-smile. I want to frame it.
“They’re good,” I continue, leaning back in the booth. “Dad retired from the firm last year, so now he spends most of his time gardening and pretending he knows what he’s doing. Mom sends me care packages every month—cookies, socks, passive-aggressive notes about how I never call enough.”
“That sounds nice,” Ryan says wistfully. “Having parents who want to hear from you.”
I want to reach across the table and take his hand. Want to tell him that he deserves people who care, who check in, who send care packages. I want to be one of those people for him. Instead, I take a sip of my latte and try not to stare at the way the afternoon light catches the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes.
This is fine. I’m fine. I definitely did not spend an embarrassing amount of time this morning replaying every detail of last night’s fantasy while I was supposed to be showering. The fact that I got hard again and came on my feet thinking about Ryan is completely irrelevant.
“Oliver? You okay?”
I blink. Ryan’s eyebrows have drawn together, creating a small vertical crease between them as he tilts his head forward slightly, eyes searching mine. I’ve been silent for way too long. “Yeah, sorry. Just thinking.”About you. Naked underneath me. Making sounds that would put Gerard to shame.“About the archives. We made good progress this week.”Smooth, Jacoby.
Ryan’s concern melts into dry amusement. “We organized three boxes. Out of approximately three hundred.”
“Progress is progress.”
“At this rate, we’ll finish sometime around 2047.”
“Perfect. Gives us plenty of time to?—”
“RYAN ABRAMS!” The bellow comes from across the café, loud enough to make several customers jump, and one barista drops a stack of cups. Gerard Gunnarson barrels toward our booth with his arms outstretched and a grin threatening to split his face in half. Ryan barely has time to be alarmed before Gerard thrusts his massive hand out for a high-five. “Bestie! Hit me!”
Ryan stares at the offered palm as though it might bite him. “Gerard, we talked about this.”
“High-five, Ryan. Don’t leave me hanging.”
With a resigned sigh that I find unreasonably adorable, Ryan reaches up and slaps Gerard’s palm. The sound echoes through The Brew, and Gerard lets out a whoop of triumph.
“That’s my bestie! Learning already!” He slides into the booth next to me, forcing me to scoot over until I’m practically pressed against the window. “So, Ryan. Oliver. My two favorite people who aren’t Elliot.”
“I’m touched,” I droll.
“You should be. Now, listen up because I have incredible news.” Gerard leans forward conspiratorially, though his version of conspiratorial is still louder than most people’s normal speaking volume. “Tonight. The Grotto. Fifties night.”
Ryan blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”
“The Grotto! You know, that cool place downtown where you can eat, drink, and dance? They’re doing a fifties theme tonight. Poodle skirts, leather jackets, milkshakes, the whole deal.” Gerard’s eyes are practically sparkling. “And we’re going. The whole team. It’s going to be amazing.”
“Gerard,” I interject, “have you actually asked the team?”
“I’m asking now!” Gerard twists in his seat and cups his hands around his mouth. “HEY! HOCKEY TEAM! FIFTIES NIGHT AT THE GROTTO TONIGHT! WHO’S IN?”
The Brew goes momentarily silent. Then, from various corners of the café:
“HELL YEAH!” That’s Drew, sprawled in an armchair near the window with Jackson.
