Page 12 of The Cubby Hole

Ben shrugged as if to say the timing and the circumstances may have been unfortunate, but he held no grudge. We were both silent for a long moment and then he said, “Thirty was too young.”

I forced another laugh. “Only a couple of twenty-two-year-olds would think thirty was too late to find love.”

“Takes some of us a little longer to figure shit out.” Ben cleared his throat and wiped his forehead with his palm. “We should’ve made it forty.”

He was putting the option back in play… in the future. Our very near future.

It had been a while since I’d experienced a surge of adrenaline. I’d forgotten how it could take my breath away and steal my ability to speak.

I gaped at him.

Ben suddenly heaved himself out of the water.

There was his cock, right in front of my face, heavy and thick along his thigh. “Eric…”

There was no differentiating between panic and excitement. All I managed was a rapid blinking.

Ben’s chest heaved and he blew out a huge breath, pinching sweat from his eyes. “If I don’t get out of this hot tub and cool off, I’m literally going to have a heart attack.”

5

10:44 P.M.

We wrapped towels around our waists, grabbed our clothes, and hurried back inside.

Ben lifted folded clothes from his bag and set them on the floor next to the sofa. He carefully removed a soft gray sweatshirt and held it out to me.

It smelled like him. Like the dryer sheets he used by the handful and Acqua di Gio. I gratefully dragged it over my head and climbed onto the sofa, knees pulled up, tucking the ends of my towel around my feet.

Ben continued neatly unpacking clothes until he came to a small, clear plastic box. “Speaking of pics,” he said as if we’d never left that conversation. “I have a birthday present for you.” He placed it on the coffee table.

“What happened to no presents?”

“You got me the whiskey.”

“That was for both of us.”

“So is this, really.”

I unfolded myself and perched on the edge of the sofa in front of the box. I knew the pictures he was talking about. Some of them used to reside with me in a gallon-size Ziploc freezer bag. I’d carted it around through all my moves until three months ago when I’d almost accidentally thrown it out during the hasty exodus from Bradley’s. Ironically, I’d insisted the shitty transparent bag made the precious items difficult to overlook or misplace in a spare closet of crap.

Ben had rescued them from my neglect, vowing to keep them with his own.

I was curious about the motivation behind these sudden, heavy-handed invitations to go down memory lane, but I wasn’t about to spoil it. I loved it—needed it—more than I wanted to admit. I smiled at him. “I haven’t seen these for a hot minute.”

“I’ve made some improvements.”

In the center of the lid was a simple sticker printed in all caps—THE ARCHIVES OF ERIC & BEN, 2001–PRESENT. A twin label repeated the information on the box’s front.

“Dude.” I arched an eyebrow. “How many label makers have you been through?”

I unlatched and removed the lid. All the contents were arranged vertically in individual cellophane envelopes like the kind used by baseball card collectors, except for one item.

A naked square of folded-up paper tucked in at the end.

My eyes and fingers went right to it.

It was mostly dark gray, the corners and edges rubbed white, probably from being handled a lot.