It’s still something I’m getting used to—that he’s mine. That I get to have this. That I deserve it. My therapist likes to talk about it often, but it makes me feel all sorts of annoyingthings, so just as often, I try to change the subject.
“But I like celebrating you, Lucas. Isla likes celebrating you. Not to mention, Oakley and Des will be here tonight, and I know how much you enjoy watching them get under each other’s skin.”
I perk up. I do, in fact, like watching them rattle each other. Desmond’s better at it, but either way, it’s always good entertainment. “Well, at least that’s a plus.”
It had been an interesting end to last season. The media and anyone who pays any attention to sports have been able to tell there’s a rift between my father and Hunter now, but every time Hunter is asked about it, he gives a diplomatic response. Even though he hasn’t come out and said anything specifically pointed or honest, my father is a lot worse at hiding his true feelings. The man really feels betrayed by Hunter, like Hunter really owed him something, but he doesn’t seem to care much about me. That too is something my therapist likes to talk about.
I can’t pretend it’s always easy. There are nasty headlines and jokes made about Hunter being with me, stuff about brothers and fetishes, and then there are the people who, like my father, believe Hunter betrayed him or Ellis or somehow used my family. People are cruel, especially on the internet, but we just take it day by day. Hunter is better at handling it than I thought. He’s better at it than me.
The Pulse were taken out in the first round of the playoffs. Kansas City lost their wildcard game. As luck would have it, Desmond was in free agency and demanded a trade, even though KC offered him a contract. I’m sure my father wasn’t on board, but the owners and management know what a loss it is. We were all surprised when Des landed on the Inferno, LA’s second professional team, so now Des and Oakley will have a bit of a different kind of rivalry going on.I’m happy for Hunter, though. I know how much he likes having Des close.
“You look perfect,” I tell him, patting his chest when I finish buttoning his shirt.
“Not as good as you.”
“I’m not even dressed yet.”
He pumps his brows. “Exactly,” Hunter says, reaching around me and grabbing my ass.
“Be good. Don’t start anything we don’t have time to finish. You’re the one who said we must go,” I tease him, slipping out of his embrace.
“We’re celebrating you!” he says again.
“So you told me.”
I force myself to get dressed in something other than my boxer briefs because if we must go, I should at least wear some clothes.
I can’t help but notice the changes in the house as we head to the garage, as if I don’t know they’re there—bits and pieces of me, of my art, things of mine that were in my condo in WeHo but are now here since I moved in with Hunter. It might seem soon, but when you’ve loved someone since you were a kid and you know how quickly life can change, you don’t want to wait.
We take Hunter’s SUV to the gallery, arriving fashionably late. Mom and Michelle had wanted to come, but neither had been able to make it. Mom and I are doing well, though. She left my father, and despite her excitement to do things on her own, Hunter and I wonder if eventually she’ll move to LA to be close to us. For now, she and Michelle have gotten closer again, working together on projects for single women in Kansas City.
Despite how full the gallery is, Isla spots us the second we step inside and immediately stalks over. “You’re late,” shecomplains.
“I’m always late. You should know that by now.”
She turns to Hunter. “You’re supposed to be a good influence on him.”
He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just the boyfriend. He’s the star.”
I roll my eyes but can’t deny how my heart rate picks up. We all know Hunter King is the real star, but it’s nice that he thinks I am. “If that’s the case, then shouldn’t we have listened to the star when he didn’t want to come?”
Isla catches my gaze. “Babe?”
I wave off her concern. “I’m fine. I obviously wanted to come. I just enjoy being contrary.” Which they both know is true.
“Excuse me. You’re Lucas Blake, right?” a gentleman asks, telling me it’s game time.
“I am. What’s your name?”
“Tim.” We shake hands.
“It’s nice to meet you, Tim.”
“I’m a big fan of your work. I’m really interested in your use of light and exposure,” he starts, and we continue conversing about my photographs. He shows me one he’s fond of. It was taken at night, Hunter and me up in Big Bear. It was still cold as shit up there, and we were lying on the ground, looking at the stars. He pointed upward, drawing pictures in them the way we do sometimes, and I snapped a photo of just his arm and hand against the starry sky.
There are quite a few photos of Hunter here tonight, though none of them show his face—just moments in time that I’m willing to share pieces of, but not the full picture. For now, those are mine.
The biggest crowd by far has been around my little flower, which I entitledStrength. It’s the one from the trail on my firsthike with Hunter, and one we’ve already chosen a spot for in our house after the showing.
