9
ELLIOTT
T he soft, honeyed glow of an April evening spilled through the expansive windows of Rivermere Bistro, bathing the room in a warm, golden radiance that danced over polished surfaces and rustic wooden accents alike. Every detail of the establishment exuded an air of refined yet effortless sophistication; dark wood and smooth marble blended with plush seating in a way that invited both quiet reflection and friendly conversation. Outside, delicate string lights crisscrossed the patio like celestial threads, their gentle luminescence framing an unobstructed view of Rivermere Creek, whose water meandered lazily as if whispering secrets to the night. In the background, soft jazz notes floated like murmurs in the air, mingling seamlessly with the subtle clink of glassware and the low hum of intimate chatter.
I was seated at a small table illuminated by the soft flicker of a single candle near the window, where I idly swirled the cubed ice in my water glass, watching it spin slowly as if measuring time in transient reflections. The memory of the previous evening, charged with an exhilarating and almost otherworldly lightness brought on by Jules, played over in my mind. His laugh, a sound that held both warmth and mischief, his extravagant but expressive gestures, and the way his voice had transformed my once quiet porch into a stage for possibility, all of it repeated on a continuous loop behind closed eyelids.
When I finally drifted off, my dreams betrayed my thoughts in vivid, carnal detail.
In the dream, Jules’ laugh had morphed into soft moans, his touch electric, his body pressed against mine in a way that felt too real. I woke up tangled in my sheets, my erection aching and persistent. The memory of the dream made my chest tighten with equal parts longing and shame. Should I be thinking this way about Jules? Should I want him this much? My dick certainly didn’t seem interested in waiting for answers, it pulsed insistently as I lay there, fighting the temptation to… relieve myself.
Not usually a morning sex guy, I let out a frustrated sigh and gave in to the need that had been building up inside me. My hand wrapped around my cock, feeling its warmth and hardness as I began to stroke it slowly. The thought of Jules' soft moans and electric touch flooded my mind, sending shivers down my spine and straight to my groin. I closed my eyes and let myself get lost in the fantasy, imagining what it would be like to have Jules' hands on me, his lips on mine.
As I jerked off, my mind wandered to all the things I wanted to do with Jules; the way I wanted to kiss him, touch him, feel him against me. My cock leaked precum while my strokes grew faster and more urgent as the images played out in my head. I gripped my cock tighter as I could almost smell Jules' scent, feel his warm breath on my skin. My cock throbbed in response, begging for release.
I bit back a groan as I came closer to climax, trying not to make too much noise as I worked myself over. But it was no use. The tension built up inside me until it finally burst free, spilling out first in a shot that hit my face then more onto my chest and stomach as I let out a stifled cry of pleasure. For a moment, all other thoughts disappeared, replaced by pure sensation and relief.
As the aftershocks subsided and reality began to creep back in, I felt a twinge of guilt for fantasizing so easily. But another part of me just lay there feeling spent but calm knowing that for now at least that need was taken care of. I got up and went to the bathroom to shower and begin my day.
The small mercy of spring break starting today when school ended was that I wouldn’t have to get up for work for a week. With just a couple of days left until Caleb arrives, I’d napped in the afternoon, hoping to clear my head, but now, sitting here at the bistro, waiting for Jules, the memory of that dream and my early morning lingered like an uninvited guest. I adjusted my glasses, taking a calming breath just as the front door swung open.
Jules’ presence filled the space with an unmistakable energy even before his face emerged from the twilight haze. He carried himself effortlessly in a breezy button-up shirt adorned with a bold, vibrant floral print that perfectly mirrored the spark of his personality. His eyes, playful and instantly inviting, scanned the room until they found mine. With a graceful wave and an apologetic grin that softened the impact of his tardiness, he glided through the maze of tables straight towards me.
“Sorry, sorry,” Jules mumbled, sliding seamlessly into the chair opposite me with the kind of casual ease that belied his evident haste. Thankful I didn’t have to stand up to greet him with my cock still at attention from my thoughts before his arrival. “Traffic on Rivermere Drive was a nightmare. I mean, who knew this many people craved overpriced cocktails on a Monday?” he continued, his tone light despite the familiar frustration in his eyes.
I met his apology with a soft smile that warmed the space between us. “No need to apologize,” I assured him, my words gentle as I allowed myself to absorb the sight of him in full, radiant presence. “I just arrived a little early.”
Jules’ gaze roamed appreciatively over the intimate interior, absorbing the interplay of warm lighting and rustic decor. “This place is gorgeous. Do they really think that the phrase ‘farm-to-table’ is some sort of incantation that magically elevates everything?” he remarked with an amused tilt of his head.
I chuckled, shaking my head lightly. “Possibly,” I teased, “but trust me, the food truly is out of this world.”
Leaning forward, Jules rested his chin casually on his hand as he perused the menu with genuine curiosity. “You’re really setting the bar, Teach. A candlelit dinner at a fancy bistro, it’s definitely a far cry from the Green Bean Cafe. Are you trying to impress me?” His question hung in the air, playful yet laced with an undercurrent of inquiry.
Caught slightly off guard by his candid tone, I managed a teasing smile. “Is it working?” I asked, my voice light even as my heart pounded a bit faster.
His smile deepened in response. “I'll let you know after dessert,” he replied, a promise of further intrigue lingering in his words.
It was at that moment that our waiter approached; a figure of impeccable service with an easy, professional smile that seemed to brighten even more the effervescent ambiance of the bistro. “Good evening,” he greeted in a crisp tone. “I’m Evan, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Have you had a chance to peer over the menu, or would you like a few extra moments?” His black uniform, pressed to perfection, and the white apron tied snugly at his waist, spoke of a meticulous professionalism that was as appealing as his neatly styled dark hair and warm, inviting smile.
Jules exchanged a glance with me, then set his menu aside with a confident air. “I think we’re ready. What would you recommend?” he inquired, his voice carrying the quiet ease of someone who enjoyed life’s well-planned surprises.
Evan’s eyes lit up as he launched into an engaging description of the night’s specials. His tone was equal parts conversational and refined as he spoke of salmon brushed with a delicate lemon and dill glaze, a summer salad brimming with heirloom tomatoes, and a cocktail artfully crafted from fresh basil and muddled strawberries. Jules ordered the salmon with an unmistakable gleam of anticipation, while I settled on the timeless comfort of a steak frites, classic, secure, and as dependable as the sunset.
As Evan retreated with promises of a seamless service, his confident stride and attentive demeanor left an indelible impression, a subtle dance of glances ensuring every guest felt valued. Jules leaned back, his eyes settling on me with an earnest warmth that sent delightful shivers along my skin. “Well, Evan is a real cutie, isn’t he?” I laughed, the comment light and genuine. “So, how excited are you for spring break?”
“You have no idea,” I replied, though the phrase carried a double meaning, mirroring not just the anticipated break from routine but also the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions that Jules stirred within me.
Jules, his fingers idly toying with the edge of his napkin, remarked thoughtfully, “Your garden is magical, Teach, like something plucked from a dream.” His words, imbued with tenderness, drew a rush of unwanted recollections of that steamy, vivid vision from my sleep. “Thank you,” I murmured softly, the compliment a fragile shield against the storm of conflicted feelings. “It’s my way of keeping everything grounded.”
He chuckled gently, his eyes flicking to mine. “You use that word so much, ‘grounded.’ Maybe it’s something I could use more of in my own chaotic life.”
His candid observation hung between us, a delicate bridge over our shared silences. My fingers absentmindedly adjusted my glasses as I inhaled deeply, the musty aroma of candle wax and the faint citrus of my water blending with the ambient perfume of the bistro. Just then, our drinks arrived. Jules’ cocktail shimmered like summer captured in a glass, a vivid red elixir kissed with basil, while my water, clear and unassuming, sat almost sorrowfully beside it.
“This,” Jules said, holding his glass aloft in a quiet toast, “is why I forgive all that pretentious farm-to-table marketing.” The clink of our glasses, water to cocktail, resonated warmly as Jules leaned in, his knee accidentally, or perhaps deliberately, brushing softly against mine under the table. The contact was subtle yet insistent, a quiet reminder of our decreasing distance that sent a spark cascading up my leg, tightening both my focus and my attire. I wondered, with a mix of bemusement and innocence, if I were regressing to that adolescent state when even the gentlest breeze had the power to awaken longing.
Jules’ gaze lingered on me, softening from a playful smirk into something tender and unguarded. “I’m truly glad you invited me tonight, Elliot,” he said sincerely.
“I'm glad you came,” I responded, my words earnest despite the lingering echoes of the earlier dream and physical desire. For just a moment, the tumult of the bistro fell away, leaving only our private bubble of intimacy.
Jules stirred his cocktail, the vivid red liquid swirling around the basil sprig that bobbed delicately at its surface. His wildflower-print shirt, usually bursting with restless energy, seemed to have adopted a more reflective tone against the warm hues of the evening. He rested his chin on one hand as he regarded me, his eyes making a quiet, teasing proposal. “You’ve got that contemplative look, Teach,” he observed, his tone playful yet imbued with a perceptive curiosity. “As if there’s a profound history lesson waiting to be unlocked in that head of yours. Spill.”
I couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking my head as I met his expectant gaze. “Not a history lesson,” I began, my voice dropping to a more confidential register, “more like something personal.”
His eyes softened further, and he leaned in just a fraction, the space between us charged with a silent promise of understanding. “I’m all ears,” he murmured, his voice a steady harbor in the sea of emotion.
I paused, gathering the scattered pieces of my narrative like carefully chosen words on a precipice. Earlier that evening, while Jules had visited my space, I had caught the way his eyes lingered on cherished family photos, one featuring Caleb’s infectious, gap-toothed grin alongside another of me and my ex-wife, both smiling with cautious hope. Jules’ quiet curiosity had spoken volumes without a single inquiry. Now, I felt compelled to unveil that part of my story. I lowered my eyes to the condensation gathering on my water glass and, with a steadying breath, began, “I didn’t come out until my late thirties. For most of my life, I lived as everyone expected, a dutiful husband to my college sweetheart, building a life that from the outside appeared flawless.”
Jules listened intently, his brow furrowing ever so slightly as if absorbing every weighty syllable without judgment. His presence in that moment made my confession feel less burdensome. “It wasn’t fair to her,” I continued, my voice tightening around the raw memories. “I thought I could become the person everyone wanted me to be. But as the days passed, my true self began to suffocate under the relentless pressure of expectations.”
The silence that followed was heavy and resonant with unspoken regret, a fragile tapestry woven from years of hidden truths. My fingers tightened their grip on the glass as I admitted, “When I finally told her the truth, it felt as if I was shattering both our worlds. The guilt still clings to me, and sometimes I wonder whether I waited too long, or if in trying to be someone else, I betrayed both of us.”
Jules reached out gently, his hand hovering above mine on the table, a warm, silent reassurance that bridged the space between our vulnerabilities. “Hey,” he said softly, his words a gentle caress, “you’re not a failure, Elliot. We’re all just pieces in the process of becoming who we’re meant to be.”
His affirmation soaked into me like a soothing balm. I locked eyes with him, his gaze reflecting understanding and an acceptance that mirrored my own fragility. “You did what you could with what you knew then,” Jules continued, “and now you’re here, brave enough to show up. That takes courage.”
With a slow nod, I swallowed the lump in my throat and whispered, “Thank you.” The intimacy of our shared honesty mingled with the evolving flavors of the evening, softening the edges of past regrets. After a measured pause, I ventured further, “One of the hardest parts wasn’t just ending my marriage. It was navigating the most important relationship of my life.”
Jules tilted his head, his voice gentle as he probed, “Who’s that?”
“My son, Caleb,” I said quietly, my tone brimming with both love and trepidation. “He’s twelve now, and he’s the greatest gift I’ve ever received. When I came out, I feared the changes it would bring, worried about the way it might alter the way he looked at me.”
Jules’ eyes widened slightly in recognition, his gaze softening as he pieced together the hints from the cherished photos. “The boy in the picture, with that infectious grin,” he remarked gently.
A tender smile crept onto my face as I affirmed, “That’s him. Caleb is full of life, his curiosity boundless, and he’s been my anchor through every storm. I see him one weekend a month during the school year, and we share daily conversations. With spring break around the corner, he’ll be joining me soon. The longer summer stretches when he stays with me… those moments truly make every sacrifice worthwhile.”
Jules’ expression glowed with admiration. “It sounds like you’ve cultivated something incredibly special,” he said. “An unbreakable bond.”
“I can only hope so,” I confessed softly. “Caleb’s happiness means everything to me. While I’m still traversing the uncertain terrain of my own life, being his dad is one certainty I’ll never regret.”
His hand still hovered close, and with comforting sincerity, Jules said, “You’re an amazing dad, Elliot.” The conviction in his voice struck a deep chord within me, easing some of the weight of my own self-doubt.
As our conversation deepened, the bustling bistro seemed to recede into a gentle blur until only the shared cadence of our words and the soft jazz in the background remained. Jules eventually shifted the focus back to his own journey. “So, what about you, Jules? What brought you back to Havenwood after all those years?” I inquired, my attention fully anchored in his vulnerability.
He took a moment, tracing his finger along the rim of his cocktail glass, the sound of its gentle clink blending with a quiet sigh. “I burned out in the relentless rhythm of the city,” he admitted softly. “The protests, the relentless organizing, the ceaseless battles, they were devouring me from within. I kept pushing, tormented by the belief that pausing meant betraying everyone counting on me.”
A pause stretched between us before he continued, “Then I hit a wall. One day, I awoke unable to rise from bed, gripped by a fear so raw it scared me to my core. I ran back here, to Havenwood, hoping to rediscover a version of myself I’d almost lost.”
I nodded in a palpable silence. “And?” I prompted gently.
A wry smile played on his lips as he confessed, “I’m still figuring it out. I’ve always been a whirlwind, leaping from one passion to the next. It’s part of my nature, but sometimes I wonder if it's merely a way to keep true intimacy at bay.”
“You’re afraid of losing who you are,” I said, the observation slipping out before I could refine it further.
“Yeah,” he replied quietly, a brief flash of vulnerability in his eyes. “Exactly.”
In that shared silence, the air between us thickened with our intertwined secrets and unspoken hopes. Jules broke the tension with a disarming laugh. “Well, that got deep fast,” he quipped, his smile returning with a spark of mischief. “Is there a tipping scale for emotional oversharing, or should I simply add it to the tab?”
I managed a smirk, replying, “Probably, but tonight feels like one of those rare nights where vulnerability is perfectly acceptable.”
His laughter filled the moment with warmth as he said, “Thanks for listening, Teach. And thanks for sharing. I think we’re both pretty good at this whole vulnerability thing.”
As our entrees arrived, our conversation flowed effortlessly between light-hearted banter and reflective musings, a delicate rhythm of connection that seemed to make the world around us recede into a gentle, comforting hum. After lingering over dessert and a few more drinks, the natural finale of the evening approached. Despite Jules’ playful protests against paying for everything, I insisted on taking care of the bill. Evan, our attentive waiter, wished us goodnight with a wink and promised that next time we’d be on his priority list.
Stepping out of the bistro into the velvety embrace of the night, we were greeted by a world transformed, the creek’s soft murmur intermingled with the distant hum of the town, each cobblestone path and string of fairy lights painting the scene with magic. “I think Evan might have been part of the family,” I remarked quietly.
Jules laughed, the sound light and teasing with sarcasm. “You think so?”
We ambled along the cobblestone pathways lining the riverfront district, our conversation softening as if the night itself encouraged a more measured pace. Occasional couples drifted by, their laughter mingling with the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze, as if sharing our private delight in the enchantment of the evening.
I found it hard to believe the night would surrender to its end, and by the way Jules kept naturally leaning closer as we walked side by side, it was clear he felt the same. Our voices fell into a comfortable cadence, a rhythmic blend of quiet observations and reflective silences. “This place feels utterly magical at night,” Jules murmured softly, his voice carrying an intimacy that made my heart flutter. Bathed in the warm glow of a nearby streetlamp, his profile took on an almost ethereal quality. “I’m really glad you invited me tonight, Teach.”
A genuine smile tugged at my lips as I slowly shoved my hands into my pockets. “Me too. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this relaxed, so unburdened.”
With a playful tilt of his head and a mischievous smirk, Jules teased, “You mean to say you don’t get a thrill from grading essays?”
I chuckled, shaking my head in amusement. “Not quite that kind of thrill.”
Our meandering eventually brought us to a small lookout where the river expanded gracefully, its surface mirroring the crescent moon and a scatter of twinkling stars overhead. Jules leaned against the railing, his arms folded loosely, his vibrant scarf fluttering lightly in the cool, nocturnal breeze. I stood beside him, close enough to share his warmth yet careful to respect the delicate balance of our space.
For a suspended moment, the world fell into stillness, and as if guided by an unspoken understanding, Jules turned towards me. His expression was open, his eyes filled with the sort of tender inquiry that made my pulse quicken. “Elliot,” he said softly, his voice carrying a weight both gentle and profound, “I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this better, but… tonight was really nice. You are really nice.”
I swallowed hard, meeting his searching gaze with equal vulnerability. “I feel the same,” I admitted, the quiet truth tumbling out in a whisper that vibrated with sincerity.
The charged silence thickened, making the air between us vibrate with unspoken possibilities. In a heartbeat, Jules closed the remaining distance between us, his hand brushing tenderly against my arm. His eyes searched mine, a momentary flash of hesitance mingling with desire. And then, in that incandescent moment, he kissed me.
It began as a soft, tentative meeting of lips, a gentle press that sent a shiver spiraling down my spine. I stood frozen for a heartbeat, overwhelmed by the delicate sweetness of his gesture, until instinct took over. My hand lifted to cradle his jaw as I returned the kiss, a deepening passion that transformed the gentle encounter into a more intense communion of desire. Jules leaned into me, his body melding close, the warmth radiating through our layers of clothing, igniting every fiber of my being. The mingling heat, the barely concealed arousal that pulsed between us, and the shared breath created an atmosphere densely charged with longing.
Then, with a sudden, deliberate inhale, I forced myself to pull back, the abrupt break punctuated by a sigh of both surprise and reflection. My hands rested softly on his shoulders as I gently reestablished a tentative distance. Jules blinked, his parted lips and quickening breath betraying the intensity of the moment.
“Jules,” I managed, my voice uneven as I gathered myself, “I…I…”
He stepped back slightly, his cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and desire. “I’m sorry,” he murmured quickly, regret tinting his tone. “I didn’t mean to…”
“No, don’t apologize,” I interjected, letting my hands fall to my sides as I steadied my racing thoughts. “I liked it. A lot. I just…” I ran a hand through my hair, pausing to look into his eyes, “I don’t want to rush this. I don’t want to screw something up by diving in headfirst.”
Jules’ expression softened into an understanding smile that radiated warmth. “You’re a good man, Elliot Brooks,” he said, his voice imbued with care and certainty. “I get it. Slow is good.”
I exhaled deeply, releasing the tension that had built up, and replied, “Thank you. And just so you know…” I hesitated just a moment longer before a small smile broke through the uncertainty. “That kiss was incredible.”
He laughed, a sound that melted away the lingering tension, his eyes twinkling with relief. “Good to know,” he replied, playfully readjusting his scarf as if to reassert the lightness of our banter.
We both subtly shifted, adjusting the tightness in our pants while avoiding eye contact, and the shared awkwardness brought a hint of levity back to the moment. We both laughed.
“I guess we should call it a night,” I mused, though the thought of parting from him was unexpectedly cruel.
Jules nodded, his face still holding that familiar gentle expression. “Yeah. But this was... something,” he said, his tone redolent with gratitude and hope.
“It was,” I agreed, the truth palpable between us.
As we eventually strolled back to the edge of the district, our hands brushed intermittently, a fleeting tactile conversation that hinted at closeness without overstepping boundaries. At the crossroads where our separate paths would diverge, Jules hesitated, then offered a warm, lingering smile. “Goodnight, Teach,” he said softly, his voice a gentle benediction in the cool night air.
“Goodnight, Jules,” I replied, watching his figure slowly meld into the night as his colorful scarf caught the silver gleam of the moonlight.
Walking home later, my lips still tingling with the memory of that kiss, a furtive storm of emotions churned within me, a delicate mixture of warmth, exhilaration, and a trembling undercurrent of fear. Something indefinable had shifted between us, a promise of something real and untamed that both thrilled and terrified me in equal measure. The prospect of surrendering to that possibility felt as daring as stepping onto a precarious bridge, uncertain whether it could bear the weight of my hopes. Part of me yearned to let go completely, to fall into the embrace of this burgeoning connection, while another part trembled at the thought of ruining what little magic had begun to blossom between us.