Chapter 21
Milo
“You look nice.” Beau is spread out on the couch, one of my books in his hands. He has these slutty little glasses on, and I internally groan.
He’s shirtless, gray sweatpants slung low. His belly button ring is in, and it glints in the low light of the lamp on the side table, as do those slutty nipple piercings.
He sparkles.
He’s going to look so mad when I tell him where I’m going.
It’s been a week since the truck sexcapades, and Beau has been especially quiet. I assume I stressed him out with my questions. Now it’s time to amp things back up and get him back on track.
My heart clenches up as I think about just telling him. About maybe being honest with him about this whole thing. About telling him how I feel and how I want him to feel about me.
About how I know he feels about me.
Because after that night in his truck, the way he held me as he fucked me, I know he feels something for me.
He has to.
And then I think about what we’ve talked about. About his rules. About his fear of connection, and I decide to stand tall and continue with my plan. I know he’ll be upset, but I know this is the push he needs.
“I, uh … I matched with someone.” Despite my desire to be resolute, my voice is barely above a whisper. I guess I’m a bit more chicken shit than I realized. I stare down at my toes, watching them shuffle absently.
“You what?” His brows shoot to his hairline. My eyes meet his, and I swear I see hurt in them. But I blink, and it’s gone, replaced by rage. The anger takes over his whole face, and I barely recognize him.
“I… I have a date.” I flinch at my own words, suddenly hyper-aware of how I might be hurting him. Am I hurting him?
I don’t want to hurt him.
“A date?” he asks. The hurt mixes in with the anger.
“A date.” I nod, almost solemnly.
“A date.” The question is gone, and all that’s left is quiet indifference.
Fuck.
Okay, fuck.
That actually hurts.
I knew he would be upset, but for him to act like he doesn’t care? That stings so much more.
I turn and rush from the room, not wanting to look at him anymore. Not wanting to see him hurt. And worse, not wanting to see him not care.
“You don’t drink?”
Wilder looks at me, his green eyes large and expressive and confused.
“I would have picked a different place if I knew.”
I wave off his concern.
“This is great. Don’t worry about it.” I gesture around us at the bar we’re in. Mara is bustling around us, filled with the tangy and spicy smell of Mediterranean food and delicious drinks. Wilder laughs a little, the sound deep and warm, like a hug.
“I mean, thank god for their mocktail menu, but I figured based on the club we met at that a bar was a safe bet.” He picks up the menu again, and I take a moment to admire him.
He’s good-looking in an easy, unstudied way, with his messy auburn hair, a sheared short beard, and broad shoulders filling out a faded shirt. He stands out, hair wind-tousled and green eyes sharp. Handsome in a textbook way, but definitely not my type.
No, my type is dark curls and amber eyes, warm skin and smiles.
But despite what I told Beau before I left, this isn’t a real date, and everyone here is aware of that.
Wilder is the guy who tried to dance with me at the club. He’s “poked” me on Grindr, whatever that is supposed to mean, and I recognized him. We chatted, and it turns out we have quite a few things in common.
We talked at length about our older siblings.
His brother, fifteen years his senior, acted for him as Violet did for me.
He made all the mistakes growing up and told little Wilder about them.
What Wilder learned was very different and ended up not being as big a lesson for the young and very gay man.
Though, I suppose “be careful about having unprotected sex” is a universal truth.
The only difference is that Wilder won’t have to worry much about knocking anyone up, since he’s a big ol’ beefy bottom.
Still, he got a really cute niece out of the deal, so not the worst lesson to come out of that.
It was when we started talking about our parents that things got a little too uncomfortably similar.
“Coming out to my parents was a disaster.” He laughs, clearly not too traumatized by it. “My mother cried.”
“My mom cried too!” I exclaim excitedly, maybe a little too loudly. The people at the table next to ours side-eye us, but the woman smiles, so I can’t have been too disruptive. “My dad was all stoic and disappointed.”
“Yeah, my parents are kind of a piece of work.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “But obviously you understand the woes of unsupportive parents.”
“My parents aren’t necessarily unsupportive.” I laugh nervously, thinking about the phone call I had with my mom earlier today. She laid into me when I accidentally let the gay-friendly club incident slip.
“You seriously want to come out that way?” she asked me. Like I could be clocked immediately going to a bar that’s queer-friendly. I still haven’t even told them about Beau, so as far as she’s concerned, I went alone, but I guess somehow that’s worse in her eyes.
“They would think you’re going to pick someone up,” she whispered, as if Dad hearing would be the worst thing in the world. When I pointed that out to her, she scoffed. “You really want your dad embarrassed?”
The “more” in that sentence was implied.
But was that how I wanted to come out to the world? After all this time hiding in the closet? Was that how I wanted to be outed, to be thrust into the light like that?
No, I thought. No, I want to come out on my terms. I want to come out because I want to come out.
I want to call a press conference or post a statement, give an interview with a magazine, I don’t know.
I just want to be able to live my life. I want to be able to fall in love and not have my mom freak out on every phone call.
I want to tell my family about Beau, even if there’s nothing to tell about. I just want to share with my parents that I might be falling in love. And more importantly, I want them to be happy for me.
“So.” Wilder smiles at me mischievously. “Obviously this isn’t a date because of a certain someone.” He winks at me, and I can feel myself blush furiously. “What does he think you’re doing tonight?” He tucks into the meal that’s just been placed in front of us.
“Uh…” How do I explain this? I think to myself, suddenly realizing I might be kind of an asshole.
Wilder stops with his fork inches from his mouth, staring at me.
“What does he think?” he asks again, putting down the food. His brow is up in his hairline, and his lips are quirked in question.
“Um…” I start again, schooling my features and playing with my plate. “He maybe thinks I’m on a date,” I say, my words barely above a whisper.
“Milo Hall, he does not.” His words aren’t loud, but damn, they are stern.
I lift my hands in panic, trying desperately to shush him.
“Did you really tell him that?” he asks again in complete exasperation.
I explain the whole plan to him, starting from the Grindr setup and every subsequent idea. Although, I’m starting to think of them as bad ideas from the way Wilder is rolling his eyes at me and shaking his head.
“Milo, no!” Wilder stares at the ceiling, his head thrown back in exasperation. “Milo, I understand that the situation you both are in is not ideal, but you have to be honest with him about how you feel.”
“But what if he—”
“Good point, yes, but also what if he doesn’t?” He crosses his arms and stares at me, drilling the point in through sheer will.
Well, he has me there.
I sit back and ponder his words. Am I being unfair by automatically assuming that Beau can’t change, that he can’t grow? Maybe, this past week, he was waiting on me just as much as I was waiting on him.
I have to tell him how I feel.
The drive home is blue. All I can think about is his face when I said the word "date". The hurt I caused. The hurt I felt when he didn’t seem to care.
I push through the front door slowly, suddenly nervous about what I’m gonna find. I can hear him pacing, the shuffle of his slippered feet against the hardwood. I’m suddenly a lot more nervous than I was.
“Beau…?” I call out, unsure if I have any other words for him beyond his name. What do I do? Do I beg for his forgiveness? Do I tell him everything first?
I’ve never felt so nervous in my life. Not before my first game as starting goalie. Not before the day he moved in.
Then I think about the moment we met. I think about turning around to amber eyes and dark curls. I think about that thousand-watt smile. Will I get to be on the receiving end of that smile ever again? Will he forgive me?
Do I forgive myself?
I won’t if I lose him over this.
He’s starkly quiet from the living room, and I’m stuck stagnant in the entryway.
Fuck, I can do this. I can do this.
I can tell him.
“Beau?” I call again, my voice a little surer.
The shuffling has stopped, he’s gone quiet and I’m sure I can feel his anger radiating throughout the house, bouncing off the walls.
It bounces around and around, circling my head as I take a step forward until finally it hits true, smacking me in the face, and I blanch.
I’m standing in the entrance to the living room, and there he is. He’s standing there, and he’s staring at me. His jaw is clenched, and his eyes are narrow. And he doesn’t even know yet. This is just… this is just because he thinks I was on a date.
There’s this part of me, a super teeny-tiny, small part, that’s kind of relieved that he feels like this because he thought it was a date.
Fuck, the relief is so tiny, I swear.
“Beau,” I say again, and his eyes close. His eyes close, and he sighs, like my words are a balm.
“Milo,” he says slowly, carefully. My name is a whisper on his tongue, a balm to my own burning heart. “How was your date?”
The word "date" is filled with so much contempt, so much anger, that it feels like ice has been poured over my head.
I stand there, absolutely doused, my emotions flaring. I notice that Beau is swaying a little, and then I notice a half-empty glass sitting on my side table. Fuck, is he drunk?
I take a stuttered step toward him, reaching out a little with my hand, wanting desperately to feel him.
To feel the warmth of his skin. I wonder if he was drinking.
He’s angry, and I want desperately to fix it.
I want to make him feel whole and happy and, honestly, sober.
I want to take away the pain he needed to drown in a drink.
Why did I do this? Why did I mess with his feelings like this?
“So how was it?” he asks again, his voice still contentious. I hate hearing him like this, the sound of his voice grating on my nerves. Fuck, this hurts.
“It … um …” Fuck. I can do this. “It wasn’t a, uh, a date,” I kind of whisper, my voice low and anxious. “I … um… It was just a friend.”
Beau is just… standing there, just staring at me. I swear I see his brow twitch a little.
“It wasn’t a date.” He says the words slowly, as if he’s trying to feel them out as he says them. As if he maybe doesn’t believe them. As if he doesn’t believe me?
But maybe that’s me making it about my lying. Maybe I should…
But before I can make any staggering confessions, Beau takes a deep breath and walks toward me. He’s walking toward me, and he grabs me.
He’s grabbing me … and he’s…
He’s kissing me.