2. Ian
CHAPTER 2
IAN
I cut my eyes over at Mike and his dad. Mike is laughing at something Henry just said, and Henry is trying and failing to hold back a smirk. Their easy comradery is easy to envy.
I don't have much of a relationship with my folks, never really did. They had too many damn kids to pay attention to me, aside from shoving me in front of the preacher when I told them I like boys. Not that the preacher could do much about it. At thirteen years old, I was just aware of myself enough to know that there wasn't anything wrong with me. I learned to keep my mouth shut about my sexuality, and focused instead on trying to make them proud in other ways—Perfect grades, captain of the swim team, full ride scholarship offers to just about any school I applied to. And when I chose to take one for a school all the way on the East Coast, no one batted an eye.
I still love them, of course, and I know they love me. But being the middle child out of seven brothers and sisters is a recipe for obscurity. It's always just been Michael and his dad, and their relationship makes sense considering his mom left when he was so young. I don’t envy that. Still, I'd give a lot to sit down and share a beer with my dad, laugh like they do, or have him tell me he's proud of me.
Focusing back on my sketch pad, I shade in the spot where Henry's dimple appears when he smirks. Then I go back to staring at him for a beat too long, thinking about how lucky I am that Michael apparently favors his mother. Because if he looked anything like his daddy, there's no way we could be friends. It'd get way too awkward.
Henry Benton is F-I-N-E— fine . With a capital F.
He's tall, only an inch or so shorter than my six-foot-three frame, but much broader across the chest and shoulders. Whereas I'm lean, he's muscular, but has a slightly softer middle that makes me want to melt into a puddle for some reason. I’ve seen him without his shirt exactly one time, when he’d just gotten home from his early morning run, and I just about drooled. He's got this delicious smattering of chest hair that matches the same dark brown of his happy trail, and I want to rub my face in it like a cat.
"You alright?"
My head snaps up, startled to see Mike standing so close to me. He's looking over my shoulder at my sketchbook, which is thankfully just an innocent drawing of him and his dad shooting the shit. If he notices that there's a lot more detail on his father's figure than his, he doesn't say so. I pull a joint out of my pocket and hold it up. He shakes his head. He rarely partakes, legal or not. He says it makes him think too much.
"Yo, Daddy B! You want?" I call out, offering to share, because it would be impolite not to.
"Dude," Mike groans.
"What?"
We both look over at his dad, who glares at me before walking inside, slamming the door shut behind him. I look at Mike as I light the end of my joint.
"You need to stop."
"Stop what?"
"I don't know… being yourself, I guess." He laughs because he knows better.
He knows how I spent my entire life squashing myself into a box to please others. I told him on day one of our friendship that I came all this way from Mormon Town, USA and I'm done being anyone other than myself. Sure, I still get great grades and keep up with my extracurriculars, but those I do for me. And while I've sold some art here and there to help pad my savings account and buy necessities, I needed to keep up my scholarships to get through college.
"Meh, he'll come around. I wear everyone down eventually," I say with a wink.
"Go easy on him. He's too straight-laced. Can't have you giving the old man a heart attack."
He claps me on the shoulder with a chuckle, and I watch him in my peripheral as he reclines back in a pool chair. Shorter by a few inches, Mike has his dad's stocky build, but the similarities end there. Where Mike's skin is fair, with freckles that pop after he's spent much time in the sun, his father's skin is more olive toned, with a facial structure that could have been chiseled from granite. Mike's hair is slightly wavy, sandy brown with a tint of red, and he has hazel eyes that look green or brown depending on the light. Henry's close-cropped hair is dark and curly, with grey-green eyes that pierce into your soul. Or maybe it just seems that way because he's usually glaring at me.
"How old is he, though? Because he doesn't even have grey hair. He should model for Just For Men."
"Dude," Mike groans again. It's a pretty regular occurrence. "Don't start with my dad. It’s gross ." I’ve made more than my fair share of jokes about how hot his dad is over the years.
"Is it though, because I would?—"
"Nope. Not happening. Aside from the fact that my dad can't stand you, he's straight. But more importantly, he's my dad ."
I take one look at the horrified expression on his face and bust out laughing. He holds out for a beat or two before he joins me, laughing off my joke.
My very funny joke.