Chapter 14 Callum #2
Ian takes one glance at me and snickers. “Yup. I’m stealing your vibe.” He presses his lips together, thinking. “Tell you what, though. You should change into that blue flannel. You always look so good in that.”
I manage not to outwardly flinch at his compliment, even though it still makes my heart skip. “Okay.”
I head into the living room and shut the door behind me, slipping out of my sweater and fishing the flannel out of the laundry pile.
My fingers skim the fabric as I shake the wrinkles out—this is my nicer button-up, not that it’s new or anything, but I agree with Ian. I think I do look good in this shirt.
“Is this okay?” I ask, going back into the dining room. I probably didn’t even need to ask, given that I didn’t change anything but the shirt, and it’s the one he told me to wear in the first place.
Ian narrows his eyes at me, scanning me from top to bottom in a way that I’d interpret as judgmental if it wasn’t him doing that.
“Almost.” He doesn’t elaborate and runs into the bathroom instead, returning with a blue tub. “I offered before, and you didn’t take me up, so I’ll have to do this myself. Do you mind if I do your hair?”
“Yeah, sure.”
His face melts into a charming smile, making my ears warm up, and I sit down at the dining table to give him easy access.
He walks over, rubbing a small amount of paste in his hands, and he plunges his fingers into my hair, raking them through the strands with quick, practiced movements.
Ian is so close, enough for me to feel his body heat on my face, and I hold my breath to prevent his signature scent from frazzling my poor, overloaded brain.
I don’t even think it’s cologne at this point—it’s so subtle, it has to just be him.
Pure, debilitating perfection.
Every single brush of his fingertips along the sides of my head sends an amazing, sensual burst of tingles down my spine, no matter how fleeting the contact is. He’s being careful, biting his tongue in concentration, which firms up his attractive face.
Finally, he takes a step back, surveying his work.
“Fucking perfect,” he says, smirking at me.
I head to the hallway mirror, and while I don’t concur with his assessment of perfection, how nice my hair is absolutely isn’t lost on me. Ian mussed up the top, grouping locks together and dragging them to the front in a way that looks deliberate.
“Any thoughts?” he asks.
I turn to face him “Yeah, I like the style. It’s decent.”
He raises his eyebrows, scoffing. “Decent? Give yourself some credit, man. Hell, if I didn’t know you so well, you’d be my first straight crush in five years.”
I—oh. Crap. He definitely wouldn’t be making those jokes if he knew.
I really have to tell him.
As usual, Ian plies me with alcohol. The two of us shared a six pack of some kind of beer while the group shot the shit, and eventually, the other four decided to start some game called King’s Cup.
In short, it’s a card game where every card carries a different alcohol-related action. I’m not gonna complain, at least until Questionmaster Sabrina trips me up and has me downing my drink as some kind of sick punishment.
But hey, that gets Ian laughing. God, he sounds so cute and graceful and confident and—
Oh, awesome. Nick draws an ace.
Laura turns to her girlfriend. “You better not get me messed up.”
Nick scoffs. “Yo, chill. You’re drinking wine.”
“Bro, this is fucking port!” Laura replies, thrusting the bottle into Nick’s face.
“Laura, why did you bring port to a house party?” Ian asks. “Don’t tell me those pompous business students are influencing you.”
Sabrina waves her hands. “Guys, shut up. It’s time to waterfall.”
The room quiets, and she presses her bottle of regular wine to her lips and tips it perpendicular to the ground, the rest of us dutifully doing the same with our own drinks. One by one, Nick, then Sabrina, then Laura, put their drinks down and tap out, and then it’s only me, with Ian to my right.
I don’t know what it is, but something compels me to have a little fun with him. It seems like a friendly thing to do.
So, with my lips still pressed to my seltzer, I continue taking the shallowest, slowest sips I can muster. Ian’s screwing his face into an exasperated expression, and when I don’t let up, he gives me the finger.
That does it for me, and I pull the can away, smiling.
“Jesus fuck, man, are you trying to kill me?” Ian groans, punching my shoulder and snickering.
I punch him back and smile, my three-ish drinks warming my core and lowering my walls. “Nah, I’m kind of used to someone baking for me all the time.”
Ian gasps, placing a hand on his chest. “Is that all I am to you?”
No, you’re my deep-seated crush, too.
“Anyway, Cal, it’s your turn,” says my deep-seated crush.
Ooh, distraction. I need one of those.
I draw a card, and I release a snort as soon as I see what it is.
Nick stretches across the table to peek at the card. “Oh, shit, did Callum get the last king?”
I sure did. I reach for the cup at the center of the card pile and inspect its contents, trying to remember what exactly went into it. With four pairs of eyes focused expectantly on me, I take a sip.
It’s vile.
“Holy crap, what the hell is in this?” I ask, sputtering.
“Beer, whiskey, and vodka,” Laura supplies.
“And pickle juice.” Ian’s confession makes me snort.
Still, I’m not one to back down from anything, so I hold my nose and continue to chug. The group cheers when I empty the cup, and Ian hands me a can of pop to wash the taste down.
“Want any more?” Ian teases, shaking the almost-empty jar of pickles at me.
“Keep your pickle far, far away from me,” I warn, shooting him a glare.
That makes the group burst into laughter, and it takes me far too long to realize that I made a sex joke without even trying.
Ian doesn’t need reminding to keep his pickle away from me.
Smiling and rolling my eyes to deflect, I finish my pop and go to the kitchen to toss it in recycling, and Ian follows me in.
“Are you tired?” he asks, filling up a glass of water at the faucet. He takes a slow drink, and my eyes catch on his prominent Adam’s apple jumping every time he swallows.
Attraction is so weird. Before, I’d notice the obvious on other guys, like their face, smile, body, whatnot. With Ian, I’m drawn to all that and the most random things. The hair on his arms. His throat. The way he scratches the back of his head when he’s nervous.
“Yeah,” I say. “I can head home myself if you want to stay.”
He waves me off. “Nah, let’s leave together. I’m tired, too.”
Ian brushes a hand on my shoulder as he walks past me, and I stay in the kitchen for a few seconds.
I’d better savor those friendly touches, because I don’t think he would want to keep those up once he knows that I could, or actually do, read into them more than I should.
Sighing, I throw my pop can away, finally, before joining Ian at the door to put my jacket on.
I’ll tell him on the walk home. I’ll have to. I can dress it up as something casual, if I can bring myself to be nonchalant about the whole being gay thing with the guy I have unreciprocated feelings for.
Oh, yeah, by the way, I’m gay. Just letting you know that all the bro flirting and friendly touching went straight to my hyperactive dick.
I shudder, and Ian makes it worse by guiding me out of the door with a hand on my back. Unlike my spiraling thought from a second ago, that touch doesn’t travel down. It lingers in my core and makes my chest bloom.
I grit my teeth. It’d be one thing if it was simply physical—I could maintain my old repression and keep my feelings under wraps. I like Ian for Ian, though, and that makes my situation messier, if a little less depraved.
“Holy fucking asscracking shitballs, it’s cold!” he yelps as soon as we step out of Nick’s building. It’s a little windy, but it’s well above freezing. Ian, as usual, is bundled up, but his scarf is all twisted, exposing his neck.
“Maybe it’ll help if you wear your clothes properly,” I tease, reaching over to straighten out the fabric. My fingers brush the back of his neck, so I pull them away before I make things weird. “Sorry if I made us leave early.”
He steps toward me and bumps his shoulder against my arm. “Dude, don’t worry about it. We stayed for hours, and besides, we can keep the night alive back at ours.”
“Yeah?” What do I even say to that?
“For sure. I fucking love hanging out with you.”
I think my heart stops, but Ian straightens up and keeps talking before I can process that.
“And I can assure you, it’s not like that—”
Ian stressing that point over and over again would be reassuring if I was actually straight. Since I’m very much not, all it does is reaffirm the fact that my inconvenient feelings can never be reciprocated beyond us being friends.
“—but I feel like you and I really click. Like, as friends.”
Yeah, okay. Just twist the knife even more, why don’t you?
I shouldn’t complain. Hell, not even two months ago, I was nervous, shy, and alone. Now I have Ian and his friends—I would have been happy with anyone even talking to me, let alone wanting to spend time with me.
“I feel that too,” I reply. “I appreciate you.”
Ian tilts his head, stopping short of resting it on my shoulder. “Aww, you’re the best.”
That line. Again. Holy crap, it digs into my eardrums and spreads like warm honey under my skin. My heart skips a beat, and when it makes up for that skipped beat by racing in double-speed, I stop walking.
No matter what, Ian, for whatever reason, likes me as a friend. As complicated as my attraction to him has gotten, I can still credit myself for not acting on it. He can’t fault me for being who I am. He’s bi himself, so maybe, maybe, he’ll understand me.
And even though he won’t like me back, it’ll be good to have a friend who understands me like that, and what it’s like to like guys.
He could help me with the whole being gay thing. With guys. Eventually.
I try to ignore the sharp pang of pain that slices through my chest when I contemplate liking a guy who isn’t Ian. A guy who wouldn’t care about me half as much as he does, because I can’t imagine anyone else being capable of such pure goodness.
It only takes a few steps for Ian to realize I’m no longer next to him, and he turns around.
“What’s up?” he asks, walking back to me.
My pulse is still elevated, pounding in my chest and through my ears, down to my fingertips. It’s the same as what I felt when I got on the first bus to Chicago two months ago, when I bolted from home. It’s what I felt when I stepped off the fourth bus here in Graniton after thirty hours.
Not trepidation, as I’d initially thought. Just nerves, mixed with excitement.
A bit of hope, too.
“Do you mind if we stay here for a bit?” I ask. “I have to tell you something.”
“Of course.” Ian looks up at me, his light, messy hair poking out of his beanie. “I’m all ears.”
The wind isn’t as biting as it was earlier in the year, but it still braces against us and makes his face pinken. He’s so endearing and sweet, and I can’t help but feel safe when I’m near him.
No matter what happens, I’ll be fine.
Here goes nothing. I suck in a breath.
“I’m gay.”