Take It Outside (Trailhead #1)

11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Beau

T his is a terrible idea. It’s also wonderful in ways I won’t say, but it’s a terrible idea, and the only reason I haven’t put a stop to it is because Adrian’s nowhere near drunk enough to think it’s a good one. This isn’t about birthdays or erasing a decades old margarita memory or a friendship that’s never made any sense. It’s about both of us wanting a reason to taste and touch and smell and hear and see, and at least my hands won’t be scraped up by the time it’s all said and done.

I glance at my palms anyway, and then I get everything lined up again.

By the time I meet the unfathomably dark blue of Adrian’s eyes, I hold him there for as long as I can, but we’ve had our chance to walk away, and I already know neither of us will.

I think maybe his mind has been made up for longer than I could possibly imagine, and then I wonder how many of my own choices were settled in the dark outside Trailhead months ago.

“You can do this first part with the lime, too,” I tell him. “Might sound like less fun, but I’m not so sure.”

Without a word, he bares his neck to me and does his best to bite back a sound when one of my hands brackets his waist, my grip gentle but certain. The slow exhale over his skin must be warm, but it gives him goosebumps all the same, and there are things I want to ask, and so much that will be left unanswered. In the silence, I squeeze a lime wedge over Adrian’s skin as slowly as I’ve ever done anything in my life, then I drag it over him to catch the droplets and spread the juice everywhere, able to observe his reaction better than I might have if I’d had my mouth there instead.

Besides, I’ll get to do that, too.

I trade the lime for salt and watch it cover the goosebumps, and then I wink at Adrian because it feels like the only way to make this less than what it is. His eyes give me nothing back before they flutter closed, and I go back in to lick his neck clean, and I might suck just a little too, and then I nudge his jaw with the tip of my nose and pretend the scrape of my beard has had no effect on him at all. Maybe his eyes are still shut.

The split second it takes me to finish the shot—and another couple of moments with the lime—seems important, but we haven't gone anywhere, and it’s only when Adrian wiggles a little that I realize I still have a hand at his hip. I let my arm fall back to my side, and it’s worse than when my tongue returned to my mouth .

“Sorry, didn’t mean to hold on that long.”

“I’m not mad,” Adrian says. “But it’s my turn.”

“You know what you’re doin’ now?”

“Not at all.”

I smirk at that, and turn to set up one more shot, the last of my caution gone by now. Everything he needs is within reach, and if there’s any hesitation between us, Adrian is reckless enough to push past it. He presses his body against mine, angled just carefully enough to give none of his secrets away, and when I don’t tilt my head to make room for him, he’s content to force his way in, his mouth hot when he opens it at my shoulder and bites down.

The effect it has on me is sharp and soothing.

“Forgot you’re a biter,” I huff.

I feel his teeth again, but they’re gone before I can appreciate the pain, Adrian too tender when he cradles the side of my head until I lean into the touch, the stretch of my neck a temptation he doesn’t have to resist. He squeezes the lime with his other hand, so much more careless than I was, and then he pushes the wedge between my lips for later and takes a stupidly long time to smear the juice with his fingertips, everything sticky until he can suck them clean. The salt is next, and he doesn’t seem to think much before he chases it, flattening his tongue against my neck and leaving me wetter than before, backing away only when something like a growl vibrates from one of us to the other.

The tequila seems like the furthest thing from the point of whatever we’re doing, but Adrian tips it down his throat and then goes after the lime wedge, one hand still pressed to my head while the other slips under my shirt, likely there to steady himself and do absolutely nothing more. Neither of us moves right away, and I’m left to lick my lips and stare at his.

Adrian finally inches back and drops his hand from my head to pull the lime from where it ended up in his mouth. “Um, that was—”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Probably okay that I’ve never done that before.”

I get distracted by the stubborn lock of hair always hanging over Adrian’s forehead—the same one that had held me captive while he slept on Christmas morning—and I wonder whether I can get away with brushing it away when he’s wide awake. It’s another beat or two before I realize I’m staring and that I’ve curled my hand into a fist, and I remind myself to relax into another smile.

“Think you’ll do it again?”

“Nah, I’ll stick with my whiskey,” Adrian says. “Don’t need a partner for that.”

There’s an argument to be made—something about not really needing a partner for tequila until he suggested it become a game for two—but my self-control is fading fast, and I’m not sure standing in the kitchen with my friend’s hand still under my shirt is the best time to chitchat. I like Adrian more than I know I should, and maybe he’ll get there at some point too, but it doesn’t matter right now.

It probably won’t matter at all .

So, I let the whiskey comment go, and peel his fingers away, and wave a hand at the mess around us. “Listen, I should probably—”

“Yeah, no, it’s fine,” Adrian interrupts. “This is the part where you wish me a happy birthday one more time and send me on my way.”

“The hell it is. Maybe it’s the part where I wish you a happy birthday a dozen more times and keep you right here.”

“But you just said—”

“I didn’t say shit before you started makin’ assumptions,” I interrupt back, shifting until I’m dangerously close to pinning Adrian against the counter. “But I should probably clean up some of our dinner, and while I do that, you can get changed so you don’t have to sleep in jeans and lime juice. Is it safe for me to grab you some clothes, or are you gonna bolt as soon as I’m not lookin’?”

“Sleep?”

I do my best not to laugh and have no idea how much I succeed when I turn to the sink and wash my hands. “Stickin’ with whiskey will be a good idea for you. You’re far less loopy after a couple of those shots.”

“I’m not loopy,” he argues. “I’m tipsy. And not actually married, except that you seem to have made up your mind on that, so I’m not sure why you think it’s a good idea for me to spend the night here.”

Ignoring more of the arguing I’d been trying to avoid, I leave Adrian there and make my way to the opposite side of the apartment, listening as well as I can for an attempted escape while I dig through my dresser for something that might not fall from his smaller hips.

Thank god for drawstrings, I suppose.

I grab sweatpants and a t-shirt and stop halfway back to Adrian to open my oversized blue ottoman—the one that goes with my oversized blue couch because I was raised on the notion that everything is bigger in Texas and I wanted to steal a bit of it for California too—pulling a couple of pillows and an extra blanket or two from inside. I set those on top of the cushions and return to Adrian, still right where I’d left him, dropping the clothes into his waiting arms.

“The couch is ridiculously comfortable, but maybe I don’t have to sell you on that,” I shrug. “Either way, though—if you want the bed, that’s fine, too. I can take the couch.”

“Not kicking you out of bed, Beau.”

“Good.”

Adrian glares, or tries to, then shakes his head and pushes past me to get changed in the bathroom. In the few minutes that follow, I turn off the music I haven’t heard all night and hurry to take care of the small disaster we created without really trying, poorly rinsed dishes arranged in the dishwasher after I throw the leftover fajita fixings into a container for tomorrow’s lunch. Tequila and salt and limes get put away, the margarita pitcher goes back in the fridge—whether I’ll actually finish it is anyone’s guess—then I wipe the counter clean enough for the rest to wait until morning, stepping away from the kitchen in time to see Adrian shuffle toward the couch. It’s not all that late, but I feel slowed by a few things and can see the effect on him, too.

It makes me want to reach out and help with something, but I wouldn’t know where to begin.

“Is everything you own this soft?” Adrian asks, shaking out the folded blankets and tossing the pillows into place.

“You like it soft?”

He glances up and back down again. “Thanks for the clothes. And for letting me crash here.”

I nod before I gesture over my shoulder and walk away to change into my own pajamas—or the joggers I’ll throw on over my boxer briefs for as long as I have a houseguest—brushing my teeth and splashing cold water on my face before I return to the kitchen to dry swallow ibuprofen, the water bottle I’d left on my nightstand too far away for me to bother fetching it. It takes another second for me to realize I’ve got a friend who’d probably like to avoid a headache too, so I grab the bottle of pills and fill a glass.

Adrian’s so quiet, and for a moment I think maybe he’s already fallen asleep, but when I reach the couch, he’s curled comfortably on his side and he’s watching me with a curiosity that makes me want to respond in kind. I blink hard instead, and Adrian sits up just enough to help himself to everything in my hands.

“I might as well have one good idea, right?” I say.

“I mean, gifting me a bottle of whiskey was also pretty damn good of you.”

The corners of my mouth curve into a grin and I’ve lost count of how many times that’s happened tonight. Or over the past several weeks.

“I’ll remember to have some ready the next time you come over for dinner.”

Adrian lies back down and returns the smile. “Guess I should do something similar at my place.”

“Careful,” I warn. “That almost sounds like an invitation.”

“Not even close—just need to be well-stocked when all the other people I know out here show up at my door. I assume most of them will be wearing a shirt though,” he says, his eyes dropping to my bare chest.

“Maybe you need better visitors.”

“Maybe I do.”

I take the win and mumble a goodnight as I turn toward my bed, but whether I’m moving syrupy slow or whether Adrian has found a burst of tequila-fueled energy, I get nowhere at all, his long fingers wrapped around my wrist.

“Wait,” he whispers.

And it’s the whisper, actually, that has me frozen in place more than the grip that should feel like a thoughtless demand, and for a second or two, I miss the guy who isn’t supposed to like me. He could be back tomorrow—probably will be, if I know anything about Adrian at all—but there’s no sign of him tonight, tucked under too-soft blankets and left to rest until morning.

I try to keep my back turned to him, and fail before I can be bothered by it. “I’m waitin’.”

“Why do you think you fucked up? ”

“What do you mean?”

Adrian pulls me closer. Lower, too. And because I’m big and tired, I drop all the way down to the rug and lean against the couch, his hand gone when he can’t keep holding on. It makes it too easy for me to lift mine to his hair and finally brush it back from his forehead—for a second time or hundredth, depending on how I want to count—Adrian making such a small sound in response that I might’ve imagined it entirely.

“Earlier, when you were talking about grief and whatever, you said we fucked up,” he explains, my fingers gentle when they comb through his hair again and again. “But then you seemed like you were trying to correct yourself, and you said that you fucked up.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, but I was there that night, and maybe you were right the first time.”

I let my hand drop to my lap, shake my head, and give the room a chance to catch up. “I taunted you into fucking me against a wall right after your would-be fiancé died.”

“And I took the bait.”

“And felt so great about it that you figured out a way to make sure it would never happen again,” I say, reaching for the same hand that kept me from my bed a minute ago. I run a fingertip over the metal, then mindlessly play with it like it’s something I’m allowed to do. “You’ve been wearin’ this ever since because I didn’t just let you hate me and then leave. I should’ve let you leave. ”

“You’re giving yourself an awful lot of credit for my guilt.”

I sigh, and Adrian does, too. I don’t leave though, and he doesn’t seem to mind that I haven’t let go of him, his gaze sleepier now, but as ready to surrender as anything I’ve ever seen.

“You think you would’ve put this on that night if I’d let you walk away?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s the first thing you think when you glance down and see it there?”

Adrian tries to clear his throat and it does nothing. “That it’s not mine.”

There’s a riddle to be solved there, but I’m too tired to connect so few dots, and I really need to sleep off all the strange moments I couldn’t have predicted when I invited Adrian over for dinner. His mouth had been all over my neck. My fingers won’t stop spinning his wedding band. There’s so much happening and nothing happening, and when I push myself off the floor, the way I squeeze Adrian’s hand before I go is something I’ll deny if asked about it in the morning.

“The, um—the coffee’ll start on its own. If you’re up before I am, you’re welcome to shower. Towels are in there. And I can make breakfast if you want. Whatever is fine. Either way.”

Adrian nods against his pillow, still so relaxed in a place that isn’t his, and halfway to my bed, I get stopped for a second time, his voice wrapping around my chest as tightly as his fingers had held to my wrist.

“Beau? ”

“Did I forget something?” I ask.

“No, but I—that night—you should know that it wasn’t you I hated the most.”

I don’t turn around again—I’m not sure I’ll ever make it to my bed if I look at him one more time tonight—but I can’t bring myself to take another step either, simply letting my head fall forward where I stand, Adrian left to stare at my bare back and the tension I carry there despite knowing I need to let it go.

“That night,” I echo.

“I think it’s been easy to let us both believe that. When I went back to Trailhead, I think I wanted it to be true. I wanted to hate you because maybe I could make it a finite thing—like all my anger could get used up on you, and then there wouldn’t be anything left for us.”

“Us?”

“I hated myself, and I hated him,” Adrian breathes. “I hated Levi.”

There are a hundred things I need to say and none of them come out, caught in my throat because life isn’t fair, and death is worse. I only manage the beginning of something that never has a chance.

“Adrian—”

“No, not now. Goodnight, Beau.”

I sleep late the next morning, and it’s fine because my first appointment isn’t for another couple of hours. It becomes less fine when I stumble far enough away from my bed to see the carefully stacked blankets and pillows on an otherwise empty couch. There’s a perfect second when I think maybe Adrian is in the bathroom, but a quick glance proves me wrong, and I cross the apartment and step into the kitchen to find the coffee pot still full, and everything else exactly as I’d left it the night before.

Of course.

I growl or swear to myself, everything about Adrian’s disappearance predictable even if I hadn’t seen it coming. Coffee splashes over the rim of my mug when I pour it too carelessly, and I’m quick to growl or swear about that, too. I should shower, I think, before I attempt to be human in any other way, because I’m dizzier now than I had been last night, and I haven’t figured out whether Adrian and I had said too much or too little.

A splash of creamer gets added to my coffee before I wipe down the worst of the mess and then leave the mug behind, everything about my routine out of order. I head back toward the bathroom, in a bigger hurry to get there now, but I get distracted again when I notice a piece of paper on top of the folded blankets. A note. From him.

I really need to pee. I think I need to read the note more.

Thanks for the birthday dinner. I hope we can do coffee some other time. I’m leaving early this morning because last night it was a little too easy to stay, and I need to be back on my own couch again. But also, I was thinking about some of the stuff we talked about, and I have more to say. Maybe we can meet up at Trailhead? Just text me when you have a minute. Please. And sorry? I don’t know anymore.

Adrian’s printing is precise. Sharp. It might’ve left a mark, except for the way he signed his name with an elegance I should have expected, and the fact that I’m still lost somewhere around the invitation to talk at Trailhead. Continuing our conversation at the bar seems important and dangerous all at once, and I can’t wrap my head around it now. I need to shower and get dressed and go to work. And I still really, really need to pee.

I’ll text Adrian later.

Except that after back-to-back appointments, including when I skipped my lunch break and covered for a coworker who left with a migraine, I don’t have the energy for a conversation with Adrian—or even the texts that would help us plan one. Later that night, when I’m in bed and doing nothing but thinking about tequila and birthdays and wedding bands and hatred I can’t begin to understand, I leave my phone untouched on my nightstand until it chirps with a notification.

Sorry I didn’t stay for breakfast. Still want to talk

I swipe it away and go back to the foodie magazine that ended up in my mail by mistake.

The next morning, I march straight to the bathroom because I already know I’m alone, and I pour my coffee without spilling any of it. No new texts came in overnight, and other than a bunch of sales emails and bill reminders, there’s no reason to bother with my phone. I take my mug into the shower and waste as much time as possible there, and then I change into my scrubs and poke around in the kitchen long enough to throw a couple of frozen waffles into the toaster oven.

I don’t know why I’m not being nicer to myself, except that I also don’t know why I’m avoiding Adrian when I’d been so disappointed to find him gone the morning before. I should want to talk about what we did or what we said because it seems like something friends do, except that I have never felt less like a friend, and I can’t figure out whether he wants to go backward or forward from wherever we are.

I know what I want—it’s been true all along, if I’m honest for as long as it takes my waffles to brown—but Adrian couldn’t even stay long enough to say goodbye, his couch more important than whatever talk he thinks we need to have. But then there was what he had said about Levi, and the rare vulnerability in his eyes before that, and I remember offering to help him breathe.

Then my phone rings, and I ignore it. Seconds later, he tries something else.

Stop being weird and let me know when we can meet up

I ignore that, too. I’m not sure whether I’m being weird, but I’m definitely being a coward.

My waffles are done, and even with too much syrup, I don’t taste much. My coffee isn’t scalding enough to burn on the way down, and my apartment is warm enough that I’m not subjected to an uncomfortable chill. Everything is fine, or it will be as soon as I can get to work and lose myself in someone else’s relaxation, so I finish getting ready and hurry out, as busy as possible until I can return home .

It’s a great plan until I let myself back into my apartment hours later and pretend the sound of the door closing behind me doesn’t hurt. There’s a pizza in my freezer calling my name, because after starting my day with a questionable nutritional choice, I might as well end it with one, too. I play Candy Crush while the oven timer counts down, even though I’m pretty sure the rest of the world moved on from that craze a long time ago, and I grab a beer once I’m ready to sit down. My mouth is full when another text comes through.

I’ll be at trailhead with Darren in an hour

You live 4 mins away so you’ve got 56 mins to find your boots and hat

Come on I just want to help make shit right again

I think I can

I sigh and rub both hands over my face like it’ll erase anything I’m feeling, and then I finally respond with something that probably misses every possible point.

Darren’s off tonight

There’s a chance that Darren is picking up extra shifts, but I doubt that’s true tonight. Darren will leave for San Diego early tomorrow morning—a certainty alongside death and taxes—his mom’s birthday a quiet celebration he never misses. She’s a nurse, and an entire damn saint for loving a son who’s always been several good deeds shy of his own canonization, and for all his faults, Darren probably didn’t volunteer to work late before driving down there to spoil her for the day.

And I think you’re down to 55 mi n

He doesn’t send anything else after that, and I keep chewing like my stomach isn’t suddenly upside down. It’s not a big deal, going to Trailhead for a beer. I’ve done it a thousand other nights—and have followed Adrian there for a few—and there’s only so much he can say in a public place.

I snort, remembering exactly how much we’ve done in that public place, and I start to worry all over again.

I finish my pizza and wash it down with the last of my beer and clean the whole kitchen just because I can. I think about showering again and decide against it only because I shouldn’t be trying so hard, and when I pick out my best fitting jeans and a flannel I can hide in, I don’t dissect the contradiction of wanting to be seen and wanting nothing like it.

Darren is likely to clock both. I tell myself it doesn’t matter whether anyone else does.

Finding my boots and hat is easy, though the snark behind Adrian’s earlier suggestion makes my stubbornness flare, and I leave the cowboy hat on its hook and fix my hair into some kind of perfect mess instead.

Close to bed head, probably, if Adrian had cared to stick around for the comparison.

A glance at my phone shows me I haven’t missed any texts, and it’s the first time I consider trying to reach Darren to ask what the hell Adrian is up to, but it’s getting too late for it to matter. Instead, I take another long look in the mirror and find nothing, and then I tug my boots on and grab my wallet and keys, and when my deep breath stutters on the way out, I want to kick my own ass.

Or in another ten minutes, I’ll let Adrian do it for me.