Silent Is The Heart

CHAPTER 21

Aaron

“No! Don’t do it!” I cringe watching the actor on the horror flick that Easton chose make terrible life choices. “Oh, God…he did it. He opened the damn door. You’re dead! You know that, right? Ugh.”

Groaning, I pinch my eyes closed and shake my head, unable to watch the predictability that I know is coming, but a noise next to me draws me from my revulsion of poor cinema.

Easton. Belly laughing.

Is there a better sound in existence? I don’t even care that it’s at my expense.

Jason always looked mildly annoyed watching movies like this with me. He’d change the channel, thinking it would solve my crisis, when really being vexed by the film was more preferable than not discovering if my predictions would be proven right.

Watching Easton’s body shake as he tries to contain his laughter where we’re lounging on my couch like pod people, I want to hug him for the simple act of not changing the channel. I want to thank him for enjoying one more of my idiosyncrasies. And I kind of want to kiss him for a million other little reasons that have happened over the last two months since he showed up on my doorstep with tacos and a rubber chicken puzzle.

Last weekend, he took me to his secret swimming spot on the opposite side of the lake near an abandoned water pump shed. I’m only guessing it’s a secret because he coyly said, ‘If no one knows where to find me, I’m probably here, so don’t tell anybody.’

The water was so cold, I don’t know how we didn’t get hypothermia, but I’d do it again in a heartbeat to relive one particular moment.

I slipped on a rock under the surface and nearly submerged until he caught me, or so I thought. As soon as he helped me get my footing, the sneak dunked me. I came up sputtering, shoving him for payback, but it ended with us in each other’s arms. The frigidness of the water died away and there was this pull between us making me warm all over. I wish I could play the memory back from the outside looking in so I could see if I moved in closer, he did, or both of us. Whatever happened, he turned abruptly and swam away like it was forgotten, nothing.

He had said he comes there to think. Did I ruin that sacred place for him by reading the moment wrong? Regardless, there are other moments I don’t think I’ve read wrong.

It feels like something is happening between us. When he took me to Pulse two weeks ago, I thought maybe it would be a replay of the first time I was there–minus me running out into the alley in tears. This time, I was prepared. Excited even. He was sweet, and playful, and open, but then…nothing. He helped me to the door when Wolf dropped me off, but unlike at the club, there wasn’t a kiss goodnight on the cheek. Was I foolish to hope for one?

It wasn’t the first time he’s done something like that. More and more, there are little touches. Grazes of his hand. Sweet pecks on my head when he walks by like he’s sneaking them in while he’s on the move. He never pauses long enough for something more.

The thing is, though…I want more. I’ve decided I want his mouth on mine again with no regrets or doubts this time. No guilt. I’m sure of it.

Laughter tamped down to a snicker now, he reaches into the popcorn bowl on his lap. Does he know how many times I’ve snuck peeks at the way his long legs are stretched out, stocking clad feet resting on the coffee table? I like how comfortable he looks sitting on this couch next to me. I like the idea of it becoming permanent.

The skin at the base of my neck tingles, and I have to steady my breathing when I realize why. It’s his fingertips, tracing little circles over my Tshirt at the base of my neck.

Sometimes the way we joke around makes me forget that I’m the older man. Maybe Easton’s waiting for me to give him a few more green lights, just…not in his secret thinking place. Jason was seven years older than me, and he’s the one who made all the first moves. I’m so hapless that I’d have had no clue what to have said to him and probably wouldn’t have ended up married if he hadn’t initiated.

I’ve never had a friend who’s drawn imaginary circles on my body like this. The way he kissed me at Pulse that first night–there was so much passion there. Granted, it kind of felt like I was being devoured, and I don’t exactly remember all of it since I was so out of my damn mind, but I kept telling myself he only did it thinking I’d be a fling.

A guy who shows up regularly for movies, stay-at-home dinners, and puzzle nights isn’t just looking for a fling, though. No. Something has definitely changed between us, and I know I’m not the only one feeling it.

Slowly, I ease further down into the cushions, slumping into him as I go so my head is practically resting on his shoulder. “I’m glad my cinema hostility amuses you.”

Snorting, he gives my hair a playful tug. “I had no idea you had it in you to be so aggressive.”

“ Aggressive? I’m just stating the obvious. It’s frustrating that every horror movie ever made has the same red flags.” The killer pops out of the bushes at that exact moment, and it’s all downhill for the supporting actor. “Do you see?” I shout, pointing at the television. “He’s dead! Why? Because he went outside . Alone! I fucking called it. How? Because they’re all the damn same. Ugh. What a dumbass.”

His body jostles mine on another round of belly laughter. “Oh, my gosh. You are out of control. Excuse me! Now hear this! Aaron Manicki just used swear words!” he exclaims holding his hands outward like he’s making an announcement.

“You swear all the time!”

“ I do.” He nods, his tone sage as he bops me on the nose, “ not Aaron Manicki. If you start throwing popcorn, we’re signing you up for anger management.”

“Oh, brother,” I sputter, swatting his hand away. “You make it sound like I have a problem. I cannot be the only person who gets aggravated by ridiculous plots.”

Squeezing my shoulder, he leans closer and whispers, “I know this will be difficult for you, but if you can make something nice come out of your mouth for the next five minutes, I might believe you.”

Watching his lips move, I picture something so nice it steals my breath. I’m ready. I know I am. I’m sure there are parts of me that aren’t fully healed from losing Jason and from the mystery of his spending habits that I’ve discovered since his death, but maybe we’re not meant to fully heal. Maybe scars form and we grow from them.

Closing the distance, I go for it. His soft peach fuzz tickles my upper lip. His lips are soft and still. It’s a chaste thing, so different from our first. It’s the way a first kiss should be—a moment so wonderful it’s frozen in time. Little tingles of electricity ping through my entire body. When I pull back, his stunned face looks back at me. He…seems almost conflicted. The amused sound he makes next has me even more baffled, especially when he gets up from the couch and heads to the kitchen.

“You need another drink?” he calls.

“N-no. I’m good.”

What the heck was that? Shit. Am I that bad of a kisser?

Returning with a bottle of water, he drops back down into his same spot as before, but sitting upright. Resting his elbows on his knees, he hunkers over his popcorn bowl, gaze fixed on the movie. And now…he’s eating popcorn.

Did I just commit an error of epic proportions? He was caressing the back of my neck and bopping me on the nose a moment ago. Now, it’s like I’m not even in the room.

I don’t understand. The way he looks at me sometimes—it makes me think he’s fallen as deep into this thing that’s built between us as I have.

“I…hope that was okay. I guess I should have asked first,” I hedge.

Turning his head for a second without looking at me, he smirks. I am officially violated. Shame on you, he signs teasingly before reaching for more popcorn.

Signing. Sarcasm. They’re Easton Bennick defense mechanisms. I’ve always respected his invisible walls, but right now they feel like weapons drawn unnecessarily. Does he have nothing else to say? What is so wrong about a little honest communication?

Glancing around my cottage in a daze, I don’t think his avoidance of the subject is a question of sparing my feelings. The furniture and use of his car are one thing. I get it. Some people are givers when others are down on their luck, but two months of hanging out at least four nights a week is well beyond a giving kink.

The last two weeks, I’ve seen him every single night and spent most of the day with him each weekend, even being invited to watch him work. He acts more domestic than Jason ever did, easily moving in tandem with me when we cook dinner in my kitchen together.

The other night, he dragged my feet into his lap and rubbed them. Those are things that couples do. He’s quickly become my world, and I don’t see how I haven’t become his.

Inhaling, he arches back, stretching and checking the time of his phone. I should get going.

With that, he gives me a brotherly squeeze on the knee and gets up.

Wow. He’s actually walking to the door to put his boots on. Unbelievable. I know I’m terrible at this sort of thing, but…that’s it? How can he not have some kind of reaction?

Defense mechanisms or not, I’m suddenly salty. There’s no other way to explain it–I’m being ignored. Jason did that to me all the time whenever I voiced protests about not wanting to go out to another dinner to schmooze with people. When I’d suggest going away to camp or drive down the coast for the weekend, he’d laugh like it was a silly idea and not take me seriously. I can handle not clicking with someone—I learned plenty about that—but being ignored is like being invisible. I don’t want to be invisible ever again.

Getting up, I inch my way over, watching him finish the laces on his boots. Straightening up, he flashes me a polite smile. I officially hate that kind of smile on him.

When he heads toward the credenza by an old mirror that George had in the place when I moved in, I realize he’s going to fetch his keys. He really was planning to leave without a word.

“What is your deal? I don’t understand you sometimes,” I mumble glumly, my thoughts airing themselves like dirty laundry.

When he replies by pantomiming me with an amused quirk of his brow, frustration wins over my sheepishness. Shaking my head, I throw my hands up.

“You kissed me at Pulse,” I explain, but since we’ve never mentioned it, it feels like I need more evidence. “You’re always kissing me some way. You touch me. You look at me like…”

Kicking one leg out as though it’s taking patience to endure my inquisition, he hooks a thumb in the pocket of his jeans and signs with his other hand, Like what?

“Like…maybe you’re feeling something.”

Snickering, he shakes his head. Don’t get sentimental on me. I’m not the marrying type.

And then he heads toward the kitchen where his black leather jacket is slung over one of the chairs. My heart probably has no business breaking into a million pieces. Mostly it’s for him, though, not me. It feels traitorous to realize things about him now based on memories from years ago, but I’m grateful for it.

He’s a runner.

If his leg hadn’t been in traction when he was at Hampton Hills, he’d have no doubt been gone like the wind. It explains why he was so hostile toward me when I first contacted him. Some people shut down when they’re uncomfortable. Easton shuts down by fleeing the scene. Fleeing on foot, or motorcycle, or by stealing away the sound of his voice.

“Damn it, Easton, don’t do that.”

Coat in hand, he turns around with a stony expression. Do what?

“Close up.”

Scoffing, he shrugs into his coat, forcing him to finally use his words. “Are you fucking shrinking me because I turned you down? Get over yourself.”

The fact that they’re ugly words makes me sad for him. I don’t deserve them, and I know he doesn’t mean them. How many times has he isolated himself in his life to avoid facing things that are difficult for him? You can’t live in a bathtub, proverbial or real.

When he waltzes toward me like he’s intent on heading out the door, I see a window closing. Jumping forward, I grab ahold of his arm to stop him, but he whirls back around.

“What the fuck?” he laughs a bitter sound.

“Stop it,” I demand, even though it comes out shaky over my bold move. “I know I’m not wrong. You want me just as much as I want you.”

“What?” he laughs breathlessly, shirking my hand off. “Get the fuck off me. You’re delusional.”

“I’m not,” I soothe, placing my palms on his shoulders as gently as I can. “Talk to me. What’s the problem?”

“There’s no problem . You want to play rough? I can play rougher than you,” he says testily, swatting my hands away. “Don’t test me.”

My arms fall easily showing just how not rough I was playing. The glower on his face is all posturing, but apparently I’m the only one in the room who knows it.

I’m ashamed to admit it, but I forgot him once. I won’t forget him again and that includes ignoring whatever he’s running from. When he spins on his heel like he’s going to storm out, I panic.

You’re not supposed to keep people who want to leave from leaving, but Easton walking out that door is more than just someone fleeing an argument. It’s a sentence, a nail in a coffin that tells me I’ll never see him again. It’s a ticker tape repeating that he’ll continue to run for the rest of his life whenever someone scratches whatever old wound I just did.

Throwing my arms around him from behind, I steer him away from that opening that’ll take him away from me. “Bullshit!” I scold, holding him against the credenza. “You blow hot and cold, and then tell me I’m delusional? I’m not buying your tough guy act anymore. I lived with lies for years, Easton. I’m not doing it anymore. I need the truth.”

“What truth is that?” he scoffs, his fingers pulling at my wrist like he’s trying to worm free of my grip.

He could if he wanted to. We’re the same height and although I’m a little thicker, his muscles get more active use than mine ever do. His feeble attempt tells me he doesn’t want to hurt me, and that …is all I need to know.

“You’re scared,” I whisper aloud, the realization softening every fiber in my body. “Just admit it.”

The hardness in him evaporates like he transformed from a solid to a liquid, and he goes completely still against me. Gaze fixed on the surface of the credenza, he lets out an unconvincing laugh. “What the fuck would I be scared of?”

His heartbeat is pounding under my palm. He might as well have been a child uttering that he isn’t afraid of monsters while cowering underneath a blanket with a flashlight for all the weight that held. Peering over his shoulder, I watch the rise and fall of his chest in the mirror. As self-conscious as I was a moment ago about latching onto him, now I never want to let him go.

“ Us ,” I tell him softly. “ This . Me… yourself .”

For a second, I stop breathing right along with him. It’s like watching dominoes tumble, staring at the reflection of his lost gaze. I want to comfort him so badly, want to reward him for this quiet moment of facing his truth, a truth that I’m humbled to be a part of.

Bringing my mouth to his neck cautiously, I press a delicate kiss there. He trembles at the touch of my lips. His gaze flicks to mine in the mirror. There’s a new kind of terror in his eyes, that of a thief who’s just been caught red handed. Cheeks tinted pink, his heart still hammering under my touch, I watch him swallow, staring back at me with a look I haven’t seen in eight years. Except, it registers so much differently this time.

My God…

“ This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” The disbelieving words tumble from my lips. “All those years ago?”

His face blooms, and he looks away. I can feel him stiffen in my arms again.

Shit. No. I can’t let him go like this.

“Don’t,” I caution, reaching up to his jaw, urging him to look back at the mirror so he can see me. The shame on his beautiful face chokes me up. It’s such a compliment and yet so painful to witness. I had no idea. I know there’s no way it would have been possible back then to reciprocate what I’m seeing in his eyes as he lowers them again, but my heart shatters for leaving him the way I did now that I know.

“Let me see,” I plead. “Please?”

His feet shift like an anxious rodeo bull in a cage. With a labored breath, he looks slowly back up. It’s proud, and stubborn, and gorgeous, as if he’s confessing to a crime. I’ve never been more honored in my life by a single look.

“I…didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

It’s barely a whisper. “Well…now you know.”

He looks like I just lanced him. How do I tell him that he doesn’t have a damn thing to be embarrassed over?

I remember that day I came to his apartment above the shop. Regarding his voice, he said, ‘I use it when I have to and give it a rest when I need to.’ It’s sound advice. I struggled to figure out what I could do to make up for leaving without a goodbye and then dropping back into his life uninvited. Now that I know I’m what I could have given him to ease his pain, I welcome the end of the struggle with open arms. I don’t need words to show him he can have what he wants.

Sighing, I lean my head against the back of his and take in a hit of his familiar scent. I give his waist a squeeze, hoping he receives it as an extension of what now feels like an embrace rather than a stockade to keep him from leaving. The wavy curls of the ends of his hair tickle my nose as I trail my mouth lower to reunite with his skin, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck.

All the while, he trembles in my arms.

Don’t be afraid , I want to tell him. Don’t be ashamed .

Trailing my hand slowly down his chest, I move my lips to his ear. I’m shivering with nerves myself. He has to feel it. He’s not alone in this.

“Let me give it to you,” I whisper, watching his throat undulate when I place a kiss there.

His stomach flexes under my touch, and he finally looks back at me. The transformation is astounding—completely open and vulnerable.

I’m not practiced at taking charge. I was under the mistaken impression that Easton grabs what he wants from life by the horns, but I can see that’s not the case where little old awkward me is concerned. Maybe for a moment that night at Pulse he did, yet I realize now that was him trying to teach me a lesson, but it wasn’t the real Easton. Not the one laid bare before me.

Stepping back, I slide his jacket off and toss it to the floor. Gripping the hem of his shirt, I draw it carefully upward, thanking the stars when he raises his arms. He’s still with me.

A scene of colorful designs from his neck to his navel reveals itself–a serpentine dragon threaded all across his upper body, at war with a demon of the sea that refuses to be drowned. I want to tell him he’ll never drown, not with me.

I tug my own shirt over my head and let it fall, baring myself in equal measure. I stand still, letting him take a look, feeling giddy at the way his eyes travel curiously over my flesh. He turns, still gaping like I’m made of something more fascinating than other human beings.

When he catches me watching him watch me, he makes a nervous sound. Be bold, I tell myself, stepping forward and cupping his face. It’s no longer difficult to manage when my lips meet his again.

One brush of our mouths isn’t enough. It opens a floodgate of need. His lips part for the tip of my tongue and I taste. Gripping my arms, he moans, meeting my enthusiasm, and then I’m lost. He kisses like he’s been studying a map of my mouth his entire life. How have I kept my hands off him for two months?

We take a step forward, a step back. We’re two starving people who’ve been denied the thing they want the most. When he palms my back and his hand slides to the base of my spine, pulling me closer, my head goes light.

Coming up for air, I have to force myself to move away. Before that confused look of his can take over the rest of his face, I grab his hand and tug.

“Come to my room?” I venture not caring how out of breath I sound. “I’d like to see what you look like in that bed you bought me.”

Smirking, he follows, sidling up behind me as we walk. Bumping pleasantly into me with each step with his hands on my waist, he peppers a few kisses across the back of my shoulders, letting me know exactly what I want to do next. I want to know every inch of Easton Bennick until he’s imprinted on my soul.