Chapter 10.
Chase
I’m not Chase Holt.
I’m just Austin, a guy who used to pine after his crushes in the back of a classroom, scribbling super bad poetry on the back pages of algebra books.
Young Austin used to dream of kisses like this.
He didn’t have a career or a following or crowds of screaming admirers. He had a backpack lined with sewn-on patches, a jacket two sizes too big, and an old hand-me-down pickup to get him to and from school that broke down more times than it didn’t.
And he’d walk the halls of his school with a lonely heart no one ever paid any mind to, keeping so many dreams inside it that it kept him awake night after night, aching with longing.
And that young Austin dreamed of kisses like this.
Kisses he thought he would never know.
Surely not in the back of a movie theater in a town he’d never stepped foot in until tonight.
With a guy as special, as caring, and as unfathomably perfect as Timothy.
Someone I might’ve needed back then.
Someone I didn’t realize I need now.
These are just the tip of my iceberg brain as I feel Timothy’s soft lips playing against mine, kissing me with just the right force, hungry enough, yet careful, not wanting to spook me.
He can’t spook me.
Not even if he tried to devour me.
If that isn’t, in some way, what he’s already doing.
He pulls away first, like something scared him. And when my eyes pop open, I find him staring back with a thousand questions in his eyes.
I want to tell him. So fucking badly, I want to tell him.
I’m Chase Holt. I’m the guy on the stage you never saw. I’m who you ran into in that hallway. I’m who you just kissed.
I want him to know all of that.
But isn’t it also kind of a lie?
Aren’t I, in so many ways, not Chase Holt?
I can sing a dozen love songs a night, but if I’m not living it, if I’m not feeling it like I am right here in this creaky movie theater seat with this guy I can’t peel my eyes off of, then how dare I sing a single fucking lyric about love?
I think I’m more the real me right now than I’ve ever been.
With the snake skin of Chase Holt shed off.
“Can I …?” Timothy starts to ask, then stops himself, like he’s too afraid to ask.
“Yes, please,” I answer for him.
Our lips reunite.
This time, the passion grows. He stirs in his seat, restless.
I do, too, turning my legs to get better leverage.
Our big tub of popcorn goes all over the floor.
Neither of us care. My hands rise to caress his face, to keep it in front of mine.
He puts his hands on me, too, on my chest and one of my shoulders, holding me there.
I tilt my head for better purchase as the kiss deepens.
It’s incredible, how encouraging the sound of mere breath is.
You’re doing this right, it seems to whisper at me. More, it goes on, pulling and pushing. You can never take too much from me, just keep going, don’t stop, it goes on, waves crashing against the shore, pulling back in. That’s him pulling me in, deeper and deeper.
One second, it’s not enough and will never be enough.
The very next, it’s too much, and I have my hands on his chest and retreat from his lips. “Timothy …” I gasp.
“Sorry,” he hisses, out of breath. “I got too … I-I was too …”
“No, no,” I quickly hush him. “You’re perfect. There is …” I let out a sudden tension-breaking laugh, beside myself. Is this really my life right now? I’ve never felt more happy. “There is nothing at all on God’s green earth to apologize for.”
“Really?”
“I want more of that. I do,” I insist, meeting his eyes, catching my breath even still. “I just … I just don’t want to take … uh …”
“Take advantage?” he finishes for me. “You’re not. I promise. You are so, so, so not.”
“I figured.”
“But I … I get it.” He nods quickly, eyes glowing in the light off the screen. “I don’t want to rush this.”
“Me neither.”
“So, uh …” He glances over at the screen, then squints. “Is that guy getting his earlobes nibbled on by an alien?”
I look, too. Even looking at the screen, I’m clueless. “Should’ve paid attention to the ticket lady, huh.”
“I guess.”
We turn back to each other. For half a second, I literally want to dive in for another sweet kiss with the natural ease of drawing a breath.
But I hold back. For whatever insane reason, I hold back and just keep my hands on his face, where they still are.
His hands are also still on me—my chest and shoulder.
Slowly, as if deciding it without words, our hands slide down, settling into place on the shared armrest between us. He leans his body toward my seat. I lean my body toward his. Side-by-side, our shoulders together, we stare ahead at the movie, breathing deeply as we return to ourselves.
Neither of us are watching the damned movie.
And we know it.
The sides of our feet touch in a bubbly field of spilled popcorn around our shoes.
He gently moves his hand, fingers stroking idly over mine.
I return the gesture so he knows I felt it, and for whatever’s left of whatever earlobe-sucking movie is pouring senselessly over our faces, this becomes our new language: fingers playing, feet touching, and our shoulders pressing together determinedly.
And our hearts, never daring to calm.
By the time we’re out of the theater, the town is dead quiet. The bowling alley is closed, only a scattering of cars left in its lot. Timothy’s and mine are surprisingly close, right across the lane, noses pointing at each other’s.
“It’s late,” I note after checking my phone. We’re standing in the lane between our vehicles. Everything feels so different now that we’ve kissed. Our wall, ripped right down. Every door, busted open. “I’m, uh, sorry for keepin’ you out so long.”
“You kidding?” He laughs. “I had such a great night.”
I smile, relieved. “Me too.”
He looks off to one side, then the other, as if noticing how far away everything feels suddenly, how alone we’ve become. “I, um, was thinking …”
“Yeah?”
He meets my eyes. I can see sparks of eagerness in his, as if even the tips of his eyelashes are charged.
“Well, I mean … it’s so … it’s so late …
and …” He clears his throat, quickly crosses his arms. “Look, I don’t want to sound like I’m suggesting anything.
I’m not. It’s totally a … a simple, innocent, practical idea. ”
“Very practical,” I agree with no idea what he’s getting at.
“An innocent and practical idea about … being practical.” He takes a quick breath.
“But because it’s a bit of a drive for you.
And for me. Especially at this hour. I was thinking, um …
for our safety … if maybe we … want … to …
” He closes his eyes, nearly mortified, as the words comes out. “… maybe stay here for the night?”
I’ll admit, I didn’t expect Timothy to be so bold.
And also, I trust his intention. He doesn’t want to go home so late.
I’d rather not drive back to the hotel in wherever-the-fuck.
It’s sensible to stay here overnight. He isn’t suggesting anything.
We can just talk more. Eat yummy vending machine snacks.
Watch TV. Laugh at stupid shows. Get to know each other even better.
And sneak glances when the other’s not looking.
And totally … not do things.
Because we’re adults who can behave ourselves, right?
So why don’t I instantly answer him? Why don’t I say hell yes? Why don’t I leap on this chance like it’s the only one I’ll get, and if I don’t say yes, I’ll fucking die?
Are Wily’s words still living rent-free in my ear?
Ian’s warnings? His critical eyes? Beads of sweat gathering on his forehead?
And then Timothy, right here, trying so hard to play it cool, like the question he just asked isn’t eating him alive the longer I stand here without an answer.
“Or I can just—” he starts, patience snapping at last.
“That sounds great to me,” I cut him right off.
His eyes flap open.
“It gives us more time,” I go on. “To chat. Hang out. And … be ourselves. Except without judging tween-aged eyes on us. No eyes on us.”
“No eyes,” he agrees in a release of anxious breath.
“No eyes,” I repeat again for some reason.
Then we stare silently at each other for ten long seconds in a dark bowling alley parking lot.
In the blink of an eye, I’m running a plastic keycard over a lock, and we enter Room 420.
Honestly, I wasn’t expecting such a nice room.
Smooth hardwood flooring. Clean double queen beds.
Big-ass TV on the wall. Wide painting of a field of wheat under a sunrise above.
Mini-fridge and coffeemaker with an assortment of free pods and individually-packaged cups.
Nice table by the wide window, two chairs, a lamp, drapes drawn open showing a view of the town.
Microwave with two complementary popcorn packages and a room service menu.
I have to chuckle at the popcorn. We hardly ate five kernels of the overpriced tub back at the theater.
“Smells nice,” says Timothy, having done his own little survey and stopping by the window.
“Except for maybe a hint of … something herbal?” I mutter.
“It is room 420,” he points out.
I come to the other side of the window, but find myself drawn more to the sight of him than the town. “Is there a reason you go by Timothy instead of TJ?”
“Oh, you remembered.” He’s clasping his hands in front of him, leaning against the opened drapes.
He chuckles. “Honestly, it started as a petty reaction to no one at home taking me seriously. I went by Timothy at school. Felt like I could become a new person that way. A proper ‘adult’,” he says with a playful straightening of his back.
He slouches. “Habit hasn’t quite caught on at home yet. ”
“They’ll catch on,” I assure him.
He smiles, appreciating that, I guess.
We hear a distant police siren. I come closer to the window to get a look, for a second drawn to the noise, but the cop car must be out of sight. I don’t even see the red and blue lights.
He came closer, too, apparently.
We’re touching shoulders again.