Chapter Six #2
“Yes and no.” Kian grinned. “I want to meet him. So instead of giving you some time alone, I’m going with you. I can do reconnaissance.”
“Reconnaissance?”
“You know,” Kian said impatiently, sounding higher by the second, or maybe just more manic, “reconnaissance to find out if he’s interested in guys.”
“Oh god,” Xander said. “No, you will not. You absolutely will not.”
Kian grinned wildly. “Oh, but it’ll be fun!”
Of course, the marshmallows were not amazing or incredible or even the tiniest bit transcendental.
Kian peered over the side of the pan and poked at the goopy mess with an offset spatula. “What’s wrong with them?”
“I don’t know,” Xander snapped. “God, Kian, it’s like you expect me to be Miles or something.”
“They were supposed to set up, right?” Kian asked.
“Of course they were.” Xander grabbed for his phone. “I’m calling Miles.”
“I’m going to go take a shower,” Kian announced lazily.
“Wrap your hand!” Xander called after him after dialing. He hoped that Miles wasn’t filming today, but it felt like Miles filmed a lot of days now.
“Wrap my hand?” Miles answered, voice puzzled. “Did I hurt my hand?”
“Oh, that was for Kian,” Xander said. “He cut his finger pretty badly today. Twenty-four-stitches badly.”
“That explains why he’s not at Terroir right now,” Miles said. “And I know you’re not there because you quit, you smug bastard. I’m still wondering why all I got was a text message to our group chat.”
“Because you’re a busy and important man and I like to respect your time?” Xander asked meekly.
Miles laughed. “No. I get it. The days after I quit all I wanted to do was sleep and constantly fist pump because the torture was finally over.”
“You barely spent any time with the Bastard,” Xander pointed out.
“And yet, my job still sucked.” Miles paused. “So what’s the emergency?”
“How did you know?”
“You always text. You never call. Wyatt’s the actual phone-conversation friend in our group. You just send terse texts.”
“They’re not terse, they’re to the point,” Xander grumbled.
“What’s the emergency?” Miles repeated. “Apparently we’re going to some fancy LA restaurant tonight and I need to look presentable. Evan’s picking out shirts and I’m going to end up in one that’s mandarin orange if I’m not careful.”
Awhile ago, Xander would have been unavoidably jealous of the casual affection and undeniable love in Miles’ voice as he talked about his boyfriend and producing partner.
Now, all Xander felt was relief that he’d never actually done anything about his crush on Miles. They were so much better as friends.
“I was making marshmallows and they didn’t set up.”
“You were . . . what?” Miles questioned. “Marshmallows? You’re not the pastry chef at this new restaurant, are you? Because I’m guessing that’s not going to work very well for anyone.”
Xander paced across the kitchen, not even bothering to glance over at his sad pan of marshmallows. “No. I’m not insane. I’m going to a bonfire tonight, it’s a new work thing, and I wanted to bring something fun. S’mores always seem fun.”
“Fun? Xander Bridges looking for something fun? You’ve got a crush.”
“Why do you have to make that sound so accusatory?” Xander objected. “What if I do have a crush? Why is that a problem?”
A year ago, he might have believed that Miles was jealous, but he knew better now. Miles was afraid he’d end up miserable and alone.
Sometimes Xander was worried about that too. Then he’d met Damon and then met him again a year later, and during the last week, that particular fear didn’t feel so pressing.
“It’s not a problem. It’s cute. You’re making marshmallows for a crush. Who is it? You said it was a work thing? Oh,” Miles said, realization clearly dawning, “it’s the Hess guy, isn’t it? Your new partner?”
“Did Kian tell you?”
“It was a lucky guess,” Miles said, but he was a terrible liar. Kian had totally texted him.
“So how do I fix them?”
“What happened to them?”
“They didn’t set up. They’re just . . . mush.”
“Sounds like you didn’t whip the sugar enough with the gelatin,” Miles speculated. “Especially if you’re using that pathetic little hand mixer I left you instead of my professional stand mixer.”
“Kian totally texted you,” Xander retorted, a little outraged and a little touched.
“Kian cares about you,” Miles argued. “Kian is worried you’re going to do the same thing with Damon as you did with all those other guys. You can’t just stand back on the sidelines forever, even if it means you’re protecting yourself.”
“Did Kian write that out for you?” Xander asked bitterly. “If I call Wyatt will I get a similar but different version of the same lecture?”
“Kian cares about you,” Miles repeated, a lot more gently this time. “And he’s right.”
“I don’t even know if he likes men. Or if he does, if he likes me.”
“Believe it or not,” Miles reminded him dryly, “you’re fairly likable. Plus you’ll never know if you do nothing. Relationships require a certain amount of fuck it to work. That means giving up control. And I know you’re not good at that.”
Xander leaned back against the counter. “I’m not.”
“If you called up Wyatt you’d probably get a similar version of this speech because he knows that just as well as I do,” Miles said. “You’ve got to take a chance.”
Xander was quiet for a long moment. “Sometimes I think I like unobtainable people because that means I never have to do that.”
That was what his crush on Miles had really been about. Someone safe he could like from a romantic distance, even as they’d become closer friends. An excuse to never actually do anything. An easy way to protect his heart.
“There’s nothing to be gained without the potential of loss,” Miles said.
“How did you get so damn smart?”
“It’s not me. It’s all Evan.” Miles’ voice grew a bit hushed, almost reverent. And Xander was jealous then—jealous because he’d never talked about anyone that way before, and all he wanted was the chance. He wanted it, and he definitely wanted it with Damon. Maybe even more than he was afraid.
“So I need to whip the marshmallows more.”
“I think so,” Miles said. “Let me know how they turn out. I’m going to do an orange-shirt intervention.”
“Good luck,” Xander said and hung up.
They both knew he was going to end up wearing the orange shirt and liking it.
“So what did Miles say?” Kian asked as they walked to the car a few hours later.
Xander rolled his eyes. “You already know what he said. You can rest easy, knowing you called your ringer in and he gave his best effort.”
“The real question is,” Kian said, “was he successful?”
“I guess you’ll have to see,” Xander said, but he was grinning, a little effervescent from the realization that he had every intention of letting his walls down. Maybe not tonight, necessarily, but soon.
“Are you telling me reconnaissance is no longer required?” Kian asked archly. “Because I was definitely looking forward to asking Damon all sorts of uncomfortable questions like, do you like cock? And how do you feel about dick?”
“Don’t you dare,” Xander said. His heart accelerated at the thought that Kian could and might and that Damon could say yes. And then he would have zero excuses left.
“I won’t need to, if you do your part,” Kian said, but he sounded so satisfied there was no question that he had already known how Xander would decide. Maybe he’d even known before Xander did.
Xander was still trying to figure out how people with the most troubled love lives were often the ones who saw other people’s the most clearly when they pulled up to Damon’s house.
Then he saw Damon’s face, smiling as he walked over to the car, and Xander realized knowing why was irrelevant. The only thing that mattered—just like the first awful batch of marshmallows buried in the trash at home and the second, perfect batch, bagged in the back seat of the car—was the result.