Page 20 of Iron

I try to hold out for approximately four seconds before it all comes tumbling out, the ignoring me all week then giving me Stephen, the crossing at the turn, the smile, the nod, finding him at the bar afterward, the almost-something that ended the moment someone else clapped him on the shoulder. Caleb listens to the whole thing with his hand pressed dramatically over his heart, making small wounded noises at exactly the right moments. Damn, I love this guy.

“He said ‘because you needed him more than I did, and I could give that to you’“ I finish, flopping backward onto the pillows. “That's it. That’s all I got.”

“That man is a disaster,” Caleb says, with a sigh. “A hot, muscular, yummy, gray-eyed disaster.”

“I know,” I moan.

“You deserve better than a disaster who keeps almost-kissing you and then getting interrupted by golf dads.”

“I know that too.” I stare at the ceiling, moving a knee back and forth. “Doesn't change anything.”

Caleb’s quiet for a moment, which is rare enough that I actually turn my head to look at him. He’s got his thinking face on, the one he doesn’t wear very often, the serious one underneath all the glitter and the sparkly bits.

“You gonna say something to him next time? Like, actually say it, not just stare longingly across a fairway?”

“Like what? Hey Gavin, I've thought about you every single day since that golf course in Denver. Please stop giving me one perfect moment and then running away like your ass is on fire.”

“I mean, yeah, honestly, that works.” Caleb shrugs. “Might want to workshop the delivery, but the content’s solid.”

I throw a pillow at him. He catches it, laughing, and tucks it under his own head like he’s settling in for the night.

“I’m serious, though, babe,” he says, softer now. “You’re not gonna get anywhere just waiting for him to be brave. Trust me, I’ve dated enough disasters to know. Sometimes you gotta be the brave one first.”

“Well, what if I say something and he just,” I move my fingers like walking legs. “Walks away again.”

“Then he walks away again!” He throws his hands up dramatically. “And you know for sure instead of doing this thing where your heart keeps breaking over a maybe.” Caleb reaches over and squeezes my ankle. “But boo. That man looked at you like you hung the moon. I saw the recap on the golf channel app. They showed like two seconds of him watching you finish, and even the commentators noticed something.”

My stomach drops. “They what?” I squawk.

“Relax, babe, they just said something about ‘fellow competitors showing support,’ nothing juicy. But I noticed. I notice everything.” He grins, the mood lightening again on cue. “It’s my whole personality.”

“Your whole personality is chaos.”

“Chaos and noticing things. Very well-rounded. Like my booty.” He sits up, stretching, already reaching for the fallen room service menu. “Now. We are ordering an obscene amount of food, and you are telling me every single detail about your dad’s meltdown on the green, because I need the full performance, not the summary. He is so freaking adorable.”

I laugh, actually laugh, something in my chest finally loosening after a day that felt like it might crack me open. “He called me his boy like six times. In front of a live camera.”

“Iconic. I love him. Truly a gay icon in his own cute hetero way.”

Caleb’s phone rings, and I look over curiously. He glances at it, then silences the call.

“Not going to take it?” I ask.

“Just school. I’m on a break, not gonna worry about it.” Caleb hands me the menu. “Order your sad little grilled chicken. I’m getting the soup and double fries, and then you’re gonna sleep because tomorrow we celebrate properly, and I will not be told otherwise.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Damn right.”

I order the chicken. I don’t sleep much that night anyway, not really, my head too full of gray eyes and a smile that almost meant something. But it’s a good kind of sleepless. Hopeful instead of hollow.

Dad insists on taking us out properly Monday night, some steakhouse downtown with white tablecloths and a wine list longer than his Tour resume. Caleb is dressed like he’s attending the Met Gala instead of a celebratory dinner in Illinois: slinky, shiny black jeans, a heavily embroidered black vest over a floofy white shirt with enormous cuffs hanging around his hands and a many-layered collar.

“To my son,” Dad says, raising his glass for the third time before we’ve even gotten our appetizers, “Thirteenth place, Tour debut, and he did it with class.”

“Dad, we've toasted this already. Twice. How about to Caleb making a full recovery?”

“Alrighty, to Caleb not puking.” He clinks his glass against mine, then Caleb’s, beaming at both of us. “Heading to Miles Ferry after this?”