Charles visibly tries to do the math in his head, so I take pity on him with a chuckle. “I was eighteen.”
“And how old was he?”
“Thirty-eight,” I answer in a whisper, for only his ears.
“Jesus Christ, Tucker.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters a lot!” Charles whispers furiously, and I flinch out of instinct. He seems to recognize my sudden discomfort, so softens his face when he whispers, “You were so young still. Why did you move to Boston?”
Ignoring Anthony, it’s a pretty great memory actually. “I attended Tufts University! I got this prestigious spot in their music program, for piano. I’d wanted to be in an orchestra.”
“And now?”
“Oh.” I lean back in the chair, letting my feet take their turn warming up by the fire. This time I do notice River watching us, a curious look on his face, so I stick out my tongue at him. “Orchestra days are behind me. It’s much more than I realized. I much rather prefer touring with musicians.”
“Why don’t you do it?”
“Anthony didn’t like me being gone for long periods of time,” I say, only now realizing how fucking stupid that sounds. I’m thirty-two, and half my life was derailed by Anthony’s wants. When will I find myself? How long will it take? “I was so stupid.”
“Not stupid.” Charles leans over to press his shoulder against mine. “You can still tour now, do whatever you want. Life doesn’t end, it just starts over.”
“Like you after football?”
Charles smiles shyly. “Touché. I think I want to start a charity or something, I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his hair, closing his eyes on a tired chuckle. “I haven’t known a life without football for many, many years.”
“You don’t have to know life without football just because you aren’t playing it professionally. I mean, I still play guitar and piano, even though it’s not my career anymore.”
Charles looks thoughtful, gaze boring into the fire like it contains all the answers to the universe. I take pity on him and place my hand over his arm. Without breaking his gaze from the fire, he covers my hand with his own, our fingers pressed together like I’d imagined just a few moments ago. His skin is tanner than mine, probably a mix of genetics and lots of sun exposure. My skin is pale, random freckles here and there, but when I look at our hands together, this feeling in the pit of my belly threatens to overwhelm me with its veryexistence. How does Charles make me feel things after only a few weeks that I never once felt in my past relationship?
“Hello,” River says loudly, making me tug my hand from where it rests over Charles’. “The locals are restless. They want some showtunes.”
“I came to relax,” I shoot back.
River raises one elegant eyebrow in question. “You brought your guitar, so you can’t pull that one on me.”
I sigh and start taking my guitar out of the case as everyone else settles in around the bonfire. Gilbert takes the seat beside River, earning him an absolutely murderous glare, but everyone else just chuckles at their well-known antics by now. Perhaps in another life they were lovers, but in this one they’re destined to take the piss out of each other. Kind of a beautiful thing, if you ask me.
Darkness falls over us as I strum the guitar, playing songs from the nineties that everyone knows and loves. I stay away from lovey-dovey songs because I’m not sure I can carry the weight of that right now. After ten or so songs, I’m tired and set the guitar aside.
Gilbert boos. I flick him off. Trish laughs her snort-laugh that takes me right back to high school. Charles stands and disappears toward the bucket full of beer. He returns a moment later with a beer for himself and what looks like a gluten-free cider for me. My gaze flicks to River, who is watching the exchange like a rattlesnake might watch their prey. I know that look. He’s in prime matchmaker mode right now, so I send him a glare before thankfully accepting the cider. The first sip is cold, but sharp, so I lean back in my chair and take another sip, doing my best to get used to the taste.
“I figured the beer was a no,” Charles remarks, becausesomehow he’s become the expert on celiac disease in just a few days. “Right?”
“Most of the time, yeah. I don’t like beer much anyway.”
“More of a liquor guy,” Charles says in a perfect imitation of my voice. I tilt my head against the back of the chair to send him a mild glare, which only makes him laugh enough to warm my bones up after the cold cider. “Couldn’t resist.”
“What was it like growing up in Nebraska?”
“Endless cornfields,” Charles says with a hint of fondness. “It was exactly as you’d expect, which also means they were exactly as welcoming to a queer kid as you’d expect. Not that I ever said anything, but I knew my only way out would be football, especially when college scouts started showing up at my games. Once I went to college, I never looked back.”
“Were your parents mean?”
“Nah.” Charles tips his head back, throat bobbing hard on a swallow. I wonder what his skin tastes like at the hollow of his throat. Would it taste like a lightning strike? A summer rainstorm that lights up the night sky? “My parents were your average conservative parents, owned a farm that stopped doing well over the years. The fact I haven’t heard from them despite my career says it all. Forcing your kid to go to church three times a week, then not loving them when you realize they’re queer… I’ve realized there’s a special hell for people like them. I don’t miss Nebraska or my family. Over the years a lot of teammates became family, inviting me to holiday dinners, including me when they didn’t have to include me. That’s real family.”
I lift my cider in silent invitation to cheers. Our bottles clink together and Charles’ grin is soft and happy, just the way it should always be. A shiver rolls through me. Charles was right and the flannel isn’t enough. Everyone’s quiet, allpensive and curious stares at the fire. A hand drops on my thigh, and I look over to find Charles closer than he was, his warmth bleeding into me. His thumb rubs the inseam of my jeans, not sexual, but something that is beyond friendly. I can feel the flush work across my cheeks and down my neck. At least the fire and cold is a good excuse for the flush, otherwise I’d get endless ribbing from River.
