34. The Truth About Mashed Potatoes
34
THE TRUTH ABOUT MASHED POTATOES
Jason
I stop by my dad’s after practice the next day, and we take Snickerdoodle for a walk around Russian Hill.
As he tells me about a new cookie his chief baker wants to roll out—imagine if a chocolate chip cookie and a habanero pepper had a baby—I hunt for just the right moment to tell my dad about Beck.
I don’t want him to be disappointed in me. I also don’t want him to tell me what a bad idea it is to get involved with my rival. I already know, and I hope he doesn’t judge me for it.
I buy some more time by asking him if he has a name for the new recipe. “Cookie Pepper? Papri-cookie? Sweet and Hot Cookie?” I suggest.
He laughs to humor me. “We’re going to call it... wait for it... the Habanero Cookie.”
“Simple. Direct,” I say as we reach the corner and Snickerdoodle decides to get acquainted with a fire hydrant. “When can I try it?” I ask, still stalling.
“Probably next month. But maybe I can snag an early batch.”
“I’d love that,” I say as the pooch sniffs a tree. I stop delaying. “Dad?”
“Yes?”
“That guy I’m seeing?” I begin, my stomach doing a loop-the-loop.
“Yes? It is going okay?” He sounds so concerned, the way he’s always been for me.
I glance up and down the street like I’m assessing the secondary’s coverage on the field. I lower my voice. “It’s Beck Cafferty,” I admit, a little embarrassed. Not about Beck. About my own poor judgment. About the fact that I didn’t stop it. That I embraced this rule-breaking.
My dad’s eyes widen in surprise before he tactfully rearranges his features. “Oh. And it’s going well?” He’s so diplomatic.
“Yes. I mean, it’s a secret, of course. Right now. But yeah, he’s...” I sigh happily. I can’t hide my feelings. “He’s great.” My stomach swoops for a whole new reason. “I really like him.”
My dad smiles. “I can tell.”
“Yeah?” I ask, grinning too.
He rolls his eyes, then stage whispers, “It’s a little obvious.”
“Are you going to tell me this is foolish? That our fans will hate us? That Nadia will be pissed?”
“Do you want me to tell you that?” he asks earnestly.
I shake my head. “No. I tell myself that every day.” Though, lately, not as much. Lately, I keep thinking we can make it work somehow.
He gives me a sad but sympathetic smile. “Then I won’t.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I say.
We resume walking the pup, but I’m not done. “I want you to meet him when you come over for Thanksgiving like you usually do. He’ll be there. He’s a great cook.”
“Want me to bring anything?”
That’s all. It’s that easy. He understands. “Just those cookies if you can snag an early batch.”
“To impress your guy?”
“Maybe,” I say as he reads between the lines.
He drapes an arm around me. “I’m always here for you. You know that.”
“I know,” I whisper, emotions crawling up my throat. “Do you think you’re this cool to make up for Mom?”
He laughs, a little confused. “What do you mean?”
“Like, did you feel as if you had to give us double the love to make up for her leaving?”
He stops, and the dog stops too, sitting perfectly at his feet. “No. This is how I feel for you.”
And I’m this close to crying. “I love you, Dad.”
“I love you so much. And I can’t wait to meet your beau.”
I can’t wait either. The prospect of spending the holiday with my family and my guy makes me feel like anything is possible.
Next Wednesday afternoon, the world slows down. Traffic thins. Phones ping less. Social media takes a day off.
Around three, a guy rings the bell to deliver groceries. I wish Beck didn’t have to wait in the kitchen, out of sight, but maybe someday soon, he won’t have to hide.
I thank the delivery guy, tip him extra on the app, then shut the door and call out: “Coast is clear, sexy beast. Get your ass out here and lift this turkey.”
Smiling, Beck joins me in the foyer, grabbing bags of groceries and hauling them to the kitchen.
We unpack them together, me stopping to sneak kisses on his cheek, his earlobe, his jaw. We move around the kitchen, but I’m no good at keeping my hands off him. “You’re going to make it tough for me to prep,” he warns as I circle my arms around his waist and bite his neck. Who could blame me? He’s wearing that outdoorsy aftershave.
“I can go upstairs,” I offer playfully.
He grabs the waistband of my jeans and tugs me against him. “No, just behave for a few hours.”
I kiss his nose, then shrug. “I make no promises.”
We get to work, prepping the turkey, making the stuffing, and quartering the potatoes.
A few hours later, I’m slap-happy from all the cooking and horny from all the not sexing, so I slather a dollop of cranberry sauce on his cheek. I lick it off, but a drop slides into his hair.
“Bummer,” I murmur. “Guess we need to shower.”
Ten minutes later, we’re under the stream, his wet, warm naked body pressed against mine. “I’ve got an idea for tonight,” I say.
“Tell me.”
“How about I show you?”
“Knew this would be a great idea,” I moan as he presses his hands on my thighs and spreads me wider.
Fucking love seeing Beck’s face between my legs. My guy has become an expert at giving me head. He can work me over in the most fantastic long, slow tease ever.
But he works me over in other ways too. Right now, he’s driving me wild with his tongue.
Inside me.
I grab the sheets and claw at them. “Fuck, baby. You have to stop or...”
He eases out, flicks his tongue against me, then lifts his head to ask ever so innocently, “Or you’ll come all over my face like the last time I did this to you?”
“I like rim jobs,” I say defensively. “Giving and receiving.”
He licks me one more time, making me shudder. “Not true, Jay. You love them. Giving and receiving,” he says, and I smile as I heat up more from the way he knows me so well.
Beck rises, grabs the lube and gets me ready. When I’m amped up, I throw him down on his back, so I can climb over him and slick up his hard shaft.
The second I touch him, he’s cursing. “Fuck yes,” he groans. “Get on me.”
“You love it when I ride your dick.”
“I fucking do,” he says.
We ditched condoms a few weeks ago; we’re both negative and exclusive. I sink onto his gorgeous shaft with no barriers, reveling in him stretching my body. “Gonna fuck your cock like I own it,” I tell him.
“You do,” he says, curling his hands tight around my hips.
I ride him like a cowboy, treating his dick like it was made for my pleasure.
“Jesus, you’re so big. So fucking strong,” he mutters as he stares at me. He’s not talking about my cock. He means all of me, and I feel the same way about him. I can push his body to the limits in bed just like I push mine to the limits on the field. We know how far we can go, how hard we can ride, how hot we can fuck.
And we know when to switch.
A few minutes into a fantastic, sweaty trip up and down his shaft, I’m damn ready to bury my cock inside him.
“There’s this other idea I have,” I say in a rasp.
“Do it. Fuck me now,” he begs.
Soon, he’s on all fours, and I’m working him open with my fingers. When he’s thrusting his ass against my hand, I’m sure he’s ready, and I notch the head of my cock against him and slide home.
Beck reaches back his arm, grabs at my hip, and mutters, “Give it to me.”
“Take it,” I say, hitting a relentless pace. He’s moaning, urging me on.
I’m on the verge of coming, but I always take care of my man.
I cover his back with my body, reach for his cock, and jerk him till he’s shooting all over the bed. He goes boneless, collapsing under me. I ease out quickly, finishing myself off in my hand with two long, tight strokes before I unload on his back, marking him with an orgasm that annihilates all my senses.
Then I sink down against him, my own climax smearing all over my stomach, and I don’t care one bit. I kiss his neck.
He hums.
Then hums a few more bars.
That sounds familiar. “What are you humming, baby?”
“Beethoven’s Fifth.”
“Only you would hum a workout song after sex.”
“You did work me over,” he says. “And besides, it reminds me of you.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s my favorite,” he says, and my heart flies away into his hands.
I was the tiniest bit worried Beck might be sad around Nolan and me. But he’s been laughing and talking a good portion of the day. At first, when my family arrived, he was quiet and polite, making standard small talk, but letting them do most of the chatting.
Now, as I scoop a third helping of mashed potatoes, he gives me a sly smirk. But it’s not just for me. It’s for the whole table. “Are you secretly in love with mashed potatoes, Jason?”
I plop the tasty treat onto my plate. “Nothing secret about it. Mashed potatoes and I are out in the open,” I say, then wince slightly over my faux pas.
I wish Beck and I were in the open.
But no one notices my mistake since Nolan nudges Beck’s shoulder. “Has he enlisted you to make him shishito peppers yet?”
Beck grins like he’s been admitted to the secret society of my food fetishes. “Only ten times.”
I scoff. “Ha. I wish. More like once.”
“Aww, do you want Beck to make you peppers again?” Emerson chimes in, joining the teasing.
“Yes,” I say, intensely serious. “I really do.”
My dad just smiles as he eats, as if this is his proudest moment as a father. His two sons happily enjoying Thanksgiving with their...
I stop that thought. Nolan is with his girlfriend, and they’ll leave my house together, hand in hand.
My stomach curdles, and I set down my fork. I won’t do that with Beck. I can’t hold his hand in public.
My dad can’t really be proud of me for being with a good guy who gets me. This isn’t why I came out at seventeen, having to hide who I love.
Because, as I look at Beck, at ease, relaxed, and so damn happy with my family, the full weight of my heart registers on the scale.
I’m in love with him.
And yet I’m not truly with him.
I try to enjoy this almost perfect moment, but I can’t quite embrace the rest of the holiday, even when my dad breaks out the habanero cookies. But I do my best to fake my enthusiasm for everything and hope no one notices.
Later, when everyone is gone, I straighten up with Beck. We load the dishwasher and clean the counter. We pack up leftovers in Tupperware.
It’s so domestic, and it’s like my eggs and breakfast potatoes fantasy all over again. But so much better because I know him better, and I know what I want too.
I want this life with him, here in my house and out on the street.
This secret romance isn’t enough. I’m going to do whatever I have to do to make that happen.
I move past him by the sink, stopping to kiss the back of his neck, savoring today.
And vowing to make a plan tomorrow.
The next morning, after Beck leaves to hit the gym early, I shower, and as I towel off, I check my phone on the bathroom counter, where it charged. An email flashes at me. It’s from Nadia, and it’s titled: You and Beck .
The floor falls out from under me.