Chapter Eight
Miles
I do not, in fact, name a better night. Instead, I end up sprawled on May’s too-small couch, two enormous burgers between us, a bottle of wine, well, two bottles, open on the coffee table, and the kind of Christmas movie that looks like it was made for six dollars and a coupon for spray snow playing in the background.
May’s legs are tangled with mine, his head pillowed on my chest, and I keep thinking it shouldn’t be possible to feel this easy with someone after all those years apart. But here we are.
We talk. We laugh so loud we miss whole chunks of the movie and have to rewind. May’s hands drift up and down my arm, always moving, the back of his knuckles brushing my skin like he can’t stand the idea of not touching me for even a second.
At some point, the credits roll, and the only thing I can think is how badly I want this to last. Not just tonight, but for as long as I can possibly have it.
I want to memorize every sound May makes when he laughs with his whole body, the way his eyes go glassy with pleasure when I kiss that spot under his jaw, the way he looks when he’s got both his walls and his makeup down and is just… himself, with me.
Not gonna lie, I definitely end up staying the night.
I’d like to say it was chaste, but let’s not get ridiculous.
We make out like teenagers, desperate and greedy, and if the rest of the queens downstairs weren’t already aware of his stamina, I sincerely apologize for the structural damage to the building.
By the time I finally drag myself home at sunrise, hair a mess, a hickey on my neck, a bruise on my hip I can’t account for but strongly suspect was caused by an overzealous couch arm and a competitive lap dance, I’m already counting the hours until I see him again.
Which brings us to now. Monday evening. Our first real date, maybe ever.
And I am pacing around the living room of my ridiculous, over-the-top rental cabin like a contestant on some queer version of The Bachelor, except instead of roses, I am holding a literal bouquet of wildflowers and a cheese board I am terrified I’m about to drop.
Why the hell am I holding the cheese board like a psychopath? Don’t ask stupid questions.
The cabin is…something. It looks like Martha Stewart and Willy Wonka tripped acid together and decided to co-sign on a rental property.
The outside is painted the exact shade of gingerbread brown you get from a tub of royal icing, complete with “frosting” piping around every window and gumdrop-colored shutters.
Inside, it’s a fever dream of red-and-white plaid, peppermint stripes, and so many fake candy canes I worry I’m going to develop a Pavlovian response to the smell of mint.
But for all its quirkiness, there is an undeniable cozy charm to the place I am reluctantly getting used to.
I glance around, taking in the “cozy” decor: a fireplace with a frankly obscene number of stockings, throw pillows shaped like sugar cookies, and a table runner embroidered with little gingerbread men.
There’s a matching set of mugs that read Daddy’s Cocoa and Santa’s Favorite Bottom, which I have thoughtfully left in the cabinet for tonight.
It’s not exactly the setting for a sultry, mature romance. But it is…well, it’s me. Or at least, the version of me that’s trying to be a little less afraid of big gestures and embarrassing declarations.
I want tonight to be fucking perfect.
Which is why, even though I am objectively a decent cook thanks to years of solo bachelor living and a deep mistrust of takeout, I called in backup.
Specifically, Hawk, who runs the kitchen at the B&B and is, frankly, a culinary genius, and Eva, pastry witch, general chaos agent, and unrepentant gossip.
“Pitched in,” in this case, means bullied me into letting them do most of the hard parts so I wouldn’t poison my date, then sent me home with a cooler full of carefully labeled containers and a literal spreadsheet of reheating instructions.
I’m not complaining. I’m not an idiot. I might have begged.
There may have been bribes. Hawk only agreed after I promised to help shovel the entire parking lot next time there’s a blizzard, and Eva demanded my undying loyalty in the Great Scone Debate.
Cherry almond, for the record, is the only correct answer.
We spent the afternoon in the B&B kitchen prepping, taste-testing, and occasionally getting waylaid by Mal, who insisted on taste-testing everything “for quality control.” At one point, Liam wandered in, looked at the spread, and declared it “domestic as fuck.” I’m pretty sure that was a compliment.
Now every surface in my tiny cabin kitchen is covered in steaming platters and fancy little touches that Hawk made me promise to plate “with care, not like a raccoon set loose at a potluck.” The air smells like fresh bread, roast chicken, and a hint of cinnamon from whatever dessert Eva slipped into the oven before escaping my kitchen with a parting wink and a not-so-subtle, “Good luck, lover boy.”
I take a deep breath, staring at the spread on the counter. This is it. First date. Second chance. All my chips on the table.
God, I want May to love it. I want him to see this and know I’m not the boy I was before.
That I’m here, I’m all in, and I want him.
Not some idealized version, not just the drag queen on stage or the careful, guarded man I left behind, but Mason.
My May. Mess and all. I want to be the one he comes home to.
I want to build something that lasts, even if we’re building it on a foundation of fake gingerbread and slightly too-sweet mulled wine.
Not that I’m nervous or anything.
I try to shake off the nerves. This is just dinner. With the man who got away. The man I’ve been in love with since the first time he let me hold his hand behind the old middle school gym. The man I would literally move mountains for if he asked. No big deal, right?
I check the table for the millionth time.
Plates, check. Cloth napkins folded, because Eva threatened my life if I didn’t do them just right, check.
Lights dimmed. Fireplace on. A playlist queued that walks the line between “sophisticated” and “I want to make out with you over dessert.” There’s a bottle of sparkling cider chilling, because for all our sins, neither of us can handle more than a glass of wine without getting handsy.
I may have also scattered a few tea lights around for atmosphere, which lands somewhere between romantic and trying too hard, but hopefully in a cute way.
I glance at my reflection in the dark glass of the window.
I look…decent. Maybe even good. I went with the classic.
Soft blue flannel, sleeves rolled up, dark jeans, boots, a little cologne, and a nervous smile I cannot seem to shake.
My hair is still a mess, but I’m told it’s endearing, and I spent entirely too long conditioning, oiling, and trimming my beard into the perfect shape.
Just this side of intentional mountain man, not “man lost in woods with no human contact.”
The wildflowers feel a little excessive, but I remember May mentioning he missed the ones that grow by the river in June.
Liam had a fresh batch on the front desk this morning, so I grabbed them.
Deciding that standing here holding both the flowers and the cheeseboard like a deranged butler is too creepy even for me, I quickly set the board down and shove the flowers into a mason jar on the table.
There. That’s more intentional. I think.
In the silence of the kitchen, I catch myself grinning like an idiot just thinking about him.
About how he looked on Saturday, all smooth skin, bold jewelry, bare scalp shining under the lamp while he curled up on his couch next to me.
The two of us tucked under a quilt, eating burgers and talking about everything we missed over the last twenty-five years.
He watched me all night, like he was trying to decide whether I was a dream or a very persistent house cat.
We talked about the old days, about the missed calls and the heartbreak, but underneath that, this wild, shaky hope that maybe, just maybe, we were right back where we wanted to be.
And after dinner, when the movie played, and the credits rolled, he crawled into my lap and kissed me so softly I thought I’d forgotten how to breathe.
I’ve lived in a lot of places since I left Sleighbell Springs.
I’ve slept on couches, in shitty apartments on the bad side of town, four-star hotels when my job paid for it, and even in a tent for a few months when I was “finding myself” in the wilds of Montana.
Spoiler, I found out I hate bugs and love indoor plumbing.
Life lessons. But nothing, not a single night in all those years, ever felt as much like home as the way May looked at me in the flicker of his TV.
Glitter still stuck to his cheek. Voice soft and sleepy as he leaned in for another kiss.
That’s what I want. Not just tonight. Not just once.
I want future nights like that, over and over, until I forget what it ever felt like to be lonely in a city that didn’t know my name.
The oven beeps, jerking me out of my daydream.
Shit. Bread. I scramble, yank it out before it burns, and set it on the cooling rack.
I pace the kitchen, double-checking everything.
As I fuss over the plates, my mind flickers, like it always does, back to the years I spent away from here.
I try to remember if I ever cared this much about a single night with anyone else.