Eighteen
EIGHTEEN
TAYLOR
T aylor hadn’t meant to spend the night in Ethan’s bed. It just sorta happened.
They were making out, stroking each other’s hard-ons under the covers as they talked about their best sexual experiences (each other notwithstanding) and at some point, they both dozed off. In each other’s arms.
Taylor wakes up absolutely roasting. Ethan’s body hair is like a third blanket against his skin. It physically pains him to extricate himself from the warmest bed he’s ever slept in, but it’s already eight-thirty, he has to leave for the airport by one and he conveniently remembers that he never did the walk-through he promised Amy he’d do.
Oh, and he needs to move everything he brought with him back to the Snow White cottage, stat. That includes the ample articles of clothing that are carelessly strewn across Ethan’s bedroom floor. For what it’s worth, he’d love to leave them there, slip on a robe and come back to this bed tonight. But he’s got a career he’s not keen to torch and a boss he’s terrified of upsetting, so he throws open the hunter green curtains across the way and allows sunshine to tiptoe across the carpet.
“Good morning,” Taylor says when Ethan groggily rolls onto his back and blinks awake. “I hate to wake you because you looked so peaceful, but we never got around to the walk-through, and I need you to, uh, walk through with me.”
“Right,” he says sleepily. “Right. Give me twenty?”
“I’ll go make coffee.” Taylor’s feet protest any effort to leave the crackling embrace of this room. Morning Ethan is rumpled, languid and handsome beyond reason. That curl of hair that always falls across his forehead at random times has made friends with others that hang limply, giving him the appearance of ill-advised bangs on a middle school girl. But Taylor is charmed by them. Utterly charmed.
Ethan sits up and stretches on a yawn. The sight of Ethan’s masculine armpits, his impressive wingspan and the roundness of his belly hanging over the hem of the comforter are almost enough to send Taylor soaring back into bed. It takes all of his resolve to turn on his internal fans and see himself to the kitchen.
Nana follows him and nudges at her food bowl with her paw as the coffee brews. Taylor grabs her kibble and doesn’t have to ask how many scoops to give her. He’s carved out a space for himself in this cottage, garnered a familiarity. Is he really ready to give all this up?
Thirty minutes later, they’re walking side by side along the path, holding to-go thermoses of coffee with oat milk creamer and laughing about the way Nana pouted when they left without her. “She’s the best girl, but she’s got an attitude. There’s no doubt about it.”
First, they come upon the picnic area. Taylor pulls his work tablet from his bag, the smart pen out of its holder, and starts his inspection. Of course, he’s only half paying attention to his work because Ethan has a story for every stop they make, and Ethan’s stories are more riveting and interesting than any responsibilities.
At The Thirsty Goat, Ethan talks about a wild thirty-third birthday party where he got so drunk he danced on one of the tables and it broke underneath him. He had to pay five hundred dollars for a replacement table and Gabriel twenty bucks to delete the resulting video and not send it in to one of those funny home movie shows.
Over by the pond, at the boathouse, Ethan skips stones across the surface as Taylor jots down notes. Aloud, Ethan reminisces upon when Samara befriended one of the ducks that made a home in the lake during springtime. She named him Donny Ducko. She was far too young to have seen the movie she was referencing, but it’s one of Amy’s favorites so she’d heard the name a hundred times before. They’d come out daily to say hello and feed him and his duck buddies oats and rice.
Ethan’s winding trips down memory lane raise the tide of Taylor’s feelings until he’s deep in over his head. The more he learns about Ethan, the more he wants to scribe a biography of him on his heart, not fill out this silly inspection sheet that means little in the grand scheme of things.
Their stroll brushes up to lunchtime and the two of them return to the cottage for a quick meal of sandwiches and fresh fruit before Taylor has to drive to the airport.
“Got everything you need?” Ethan asks, offering Taylor the crusts on his sandwich. Taylor gobbles them up, then is hit with a pang of sadness. Is he really growing wistful over four strips of bread? It’s not like he’ll never talk with Ethan again after this.
“I think so,” he says once he’s swallowed. The report is not his best work, but the place is in good shape. At least, he thinks it is. He might’ve borrowed Ethan’s rose-colored glasses a time or two, but for the most part he was objective.
“Except, shit. I forgot about moving my stuff.” The clock on the microwave reads 12:45 p.m. He needs to get on the road. Amy hates to be kept waiting.
Ethan waves off his worry. “I can handle that.”
“Are you sure?” Taylor asks. “Because that would be really helpful.”
“I’m all over it. Don’t worry,” Ethan says.
If only he knew that Taylor’s stomach was a bottomless pit of worry. What happens now? What are they to each other? Twelve hours ago, it was simple to declare they’d wash their hands of one another once Amy and Samara arrived. Now Taylor feels like that glitter he spilled on the carpet while making the baskets: embedded in this cottage forever.
He attempts to swallow the golf-ball-sized lump in his throat. “Guess this is it, then.”
Ethan solemnly nods.
“And of course, we’ll see each other throughout the week.”
“Of course.”
Standing there with the rental car keys in hand, Taylor exhales out as much resentment over the situation as he can. As much as he wishes he could stop the inevitable arrival—a delayed flight caused by a freak snowstorm would be a godsend—he has no power to contort the universe or its weather patterns. “I better head out.”
“You’d better,” Ethan says, glancing down at his watch. Ethan’s gaze was the only thing keeping Taylor here, stilled like stone. Every second those eyes aren’t on him, Taylor dies a little inside, but the marble casing around his body crumbles, reminding him what his limbs are meant for.
Taylor waits for Ethan to glance back up. One second. Two. But that large head stays tilted down toward the floor, eyes obscured by fallen hairs, and perhaps that’s for the best. It makes Taylor’s exit easier at least.
Taylor’s just about through the door when Ethan surprisingly tugs him back in by the wrist, slams the door shut with a huge hand and kisses Taylor firmly on the mouth. “One more for the road,” he says softly. Sweetly.
Taylor could drop to pieces bracketed in by this man. This gorgeous, strong, caring man. But he’s already running late. “Thank you,” he says. At first, it’s for the kiss, but then he says it again and it’s for everything. Everything up until this point. The food and the conversation and the sex—oh, God, the sex.
As he walks away from the cottage and Ethan, he can’t help but go misty-eyed. He’s got to let it out now because tonight, it’ll be too late. There will be no time for tears or longing. No space to reflect. Too many responsibilities and eyes on him to fall apart.
He marches toward the parking lot with his feelings hanging heavy around his neck, knowing he’s got three full hours of driving ahead of him, a new playlist from Samara in his text messages and a lot— a lot —of processing to do.
Grrrrr-pfft. Grrr-pfft.
“Nononononononono,” Taylor shouts, sitting in the driver’s seat of the rented Honda as he pushes the start button repeatedly. The engine won’t turn over. Glancing up, Taylor’s displeased to note the pull-down mirror above him is cracked open enough that the lights would’ve stayed on. “Shit.”
The last time he’d driven, he’d checked his hair, checked his teeth and pinched his cheeks to bring some color to them—all in the name of looking presentable when he walked through the door of Ethan’s cottage. He preened. He shared. He fell. Deeply. How had he let that happen?
Similarly, how had he let this happen?
He’s already running late, and now he’s running at full tilt all the way back to the cottage to see what can be done to salvage this. Amy refuses to ride with unknown drivers. She’s sensitive to radio volumes and smells.
Speaking of smells, Taylor stops short in the entryway to Ethan’s bedroom. Ethan must not have heard him come in, nor heard Nana’s tag clanging as she trotted behind him. Because Ethan’s standing in the center of the room holding Taylor’s tie-dyed sweatshirt up to his nose. Taking a long hit of Taylor’s scent. Eyes closed. Bliss crossing his round features.
Does he feel the way I do?
“Eherm,” Taylor clears his throat. Ethan drops the sweatshirt like he’s been caught shoplifting. “Sorry I—”
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I—”
Their conversation ping-pongs like that for seconds. They’re too busy trying to be polite. As if Taylor’s heart isn’t prancing a mile a minute. Nobody’s ever missed him so much that they’d sniff his clothes before. He’s only been gone for minutes.
The dead battery situation presses down on him once more, and he’s yammering the way he did the night of the storm.
Ethan’s as calm as the surface of the pond they circumvented earlier. He grabs jumper cables from the garage and loads them into his cherry-red Toyota Land Cruiser.
“Vintage, huh? Are you into cars?” Taylor asks to combat the anxiety-induced rumbling in his stomach. Amy’s going to spend the whole ride to the resort with a pinched expression on her face, unspeaking. As if the ride weren’t already going to be painful for Taylor.
“Just this car,” Ethan clarifies. “It was my dad’s. I couldn’t let him sell it to some collector. This car is my childhood.” He reaches in front of Taylor and pulls down the visor. Tucked inside is a photo of three boys and an older man, all wearing shorts, high socks with red stripes and sneakers. They stand in front of a camping tent. Taylor doesn’t need to ask to figure out which one is Ethan. He towers above his brothers. On closer inspection, Ethan appears to be about fourteen. Already, Taylor spots stubble growing in along his prominent jawline.
“Must come with a lot of upkeep,” Taylor says as they turn into the parking lot where the rental car is. Ethan skillfully shifts manual gears.
“I run a resort. My whole life is upkeep. What’s one more thing to add to the list?” Taylor has been around the cottage enough to know that this isn’t just a turn of phrase for Ethan. He keeps lists. Tons of them. There are lime-green sticky notes with them all over. Stuck to the fridge. On the coffee table. Taped inside the medicine cabinet.
Taylor gets out and pops the hood on the Honda. Ethan capably hooks it all up. As they wait the standard fifteen minutes—-fifteen of the longest minutes of Taylor’s life—they fall into distracting, companionable conversation about their respective histories with camping trips.
“All my outdoorsy gifts I got from my dad,” Ethan says, a shadow falling over his expression. Despite not idolizing his own father, Taylor’s sensitive enough to understand how hard it must be to look up to someone and then watch them physically deteriorate.
Taylor gives a small smile. “Your father must be really proud of you for carrying the torch for him.”
“Perhaps,” he says sullenly. “What about you? Did your family camp at all outside Boy Scouts?”
“Sometimes. We owned a powder-blue VW van. It was the one car that could fit the entire brood. My parents loved to travel, so anywhere we could go in that clunker, they took us. State parks, campgrounds, beaches. We’d pitch tents and pack our sleeping bags or get a nearby motel. We’d fit five people into two rooms and four beds. It was always chaos, but we had some good times,” he recollects. “My parents weren’t very reliable. Flitting off for new jobs, new places. But on those trips, they were present. They’d watch the younger ones while I went down to the surf shack to rent a board and flirt my way into a lesson.”
“Flirt your way, huh?” Ethan asks with a chuckle.
“Yeah, the first guy I ever hooked up with was an instructor at one of the surf clubs I wandered to on a beach trip in San Diego. He was this broad, burly-chested, suntanned guy with long blond hair. I mean, this guy filled out a wet suit like you wouldn’t believe,” Taylor says, calling to mind the overwhelming sight of this man. M-A-N . Man. That’s what he was. The kind of sturdy, rugged guy Taylor wanted attention from most of all. “I’d seen guys out in the surf all weekend. The proximal adrenaline rush was out of this world. I wanted to get out there, so I got cash out of the ATM, but only had enough for the board rental. Not much you can do with a board and no skills, so this guy who was just getting off his shift overheard and agreed to take me out.”
“In more ways than one,” Ethan says, shifting so he’s leaning against his truck, one boot crossed over the other. He exudes an unmatched confidence that Taylor never wants to miss.
“After a few hours in the waves, he did take me behind the lifeguard tower and teach me a few other things,” he says, heat cresting across his cheeks. “It was only kissing. I was seventeen. He was in his midtwenties. He was a perfect gentleman in that regard.”
“In that regard? Guess you’ve always had a thing for sleeping with older guys, then.” Shock skulks across Ethan’s expression after the words leave his mouth.
Had a thing for… Taylor’s attractions aren’t fetishes. A major ick crawls under his skin. He bristles; the hum of the car beside him infects his chest. “Are you insinuating something?”
“Oh, no…” Ethan stammers for a second.
“Because it sounded like you were.”
“I wasn’t suggesting—”
“Because if that’s the only reason you were into me…” Taylor’s been down this road before with men Ethan’s age. They think being with Taylor is like drinking from the fountain of youth; they’ll stay young by proximity. Lord some sort of authority over him by virtue of having spent more years on earth. That’s bullshit. Taylor likes what he likes: secure men, stable men, men with maturity. Something Ethan is severely lacking in this present moment.
Ethan goes rigid. “It’s—”
A click from the car startles them both. Taylor stomps back to the driver’s side and tries the ignition. Still nothing. Instead of cursing, he slams his hands on the wheel in frustration. Everything is going sideways suddenly.
“Take mine,” Ethan says, shoving his key ring through the open window.
“I can’t just—”
“I won’t need it,” Ethan ensures.
“It’s not that. I don’t know how to drive stick.” Admitting that feels like proving Ethan right in some way. That he’s just a silly kid who wants protecting, to be taken care of. Adults want that shit, too!
Ethan’s voice drops. “It’s automatic. I just prefer the manual mode. I filled up the tank yesterday. If you leave now, you’ll still make good time.”
At a loss for better options, Taylor accepts the offer with muddled thanks. As he backs out of the spot and drives toward the exit, he’s tempted to look back at Ethan through the rearview mirror. But he doesn’t. Bad enough Ethan’s bergamot scent lingers in the air here. He’s going to be smelling that man all the way to the airport.
After that conversation, maybe it’s for the best their connection ends now. If Ethan was only using him to feel young, then you can’t build a relationship on that.
Relationship! Ha!
As if he could ever have a relationship with his boss’s ex-husband. Especially when his boss’s ex-husband is a man he’s been told is so stuck in his ways.
Taylor’s been entertaining a fool’s vacation this whole time. Running off on a whim that could never last. This break is exactly what they both need to cool off whatever chemistry they explored. No more dalliances. No more distractions.
With that, he pulls over quickly at a gas station to queue up Samara’s playlist, which he knows will be full of emo bangers to get Ethan off his mind, only to realize Ethan’s car doesn’t have an aux cord or Bluetooth hookup.
“Radio it is then,” he mumbles to himself, speeding off and away.