CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
J ason
I am kissing Cal.
I didn’t plan to kiss him.
But I’ve been thinking about him for days, and now that my lips are on his, I don’t want to let go.
So instead, I focus on the feel of Cal’s lips against mine, and the way his hands touch me tentatively, and then with force, so I sigh, relieved, concentrating only on the feel of him against me.
I focus on how his body feels pressed against mine, and the way his tongue swirls.
He has the sort of stubble that comes from being stranded on a tropical island for days with no razor in sight. I do too.
It’s not a turn off.
The kiss is good.
I’ve kissed my share of women. Bar hookups are my thing.
But this is an excellent kiss, like in all my memories.
Cal chuckles against my mouth.
Does he think this is amusing? I mean, I guess this is amusing. Maybe cliched in its own way.
I stop the kiss.
Cal tightens his arms around me. “Sorry. I-I didn’t mean—”
“Didn’t mean what...?”
“You don’t have to give me mouth-to-mouth to keep me warm.”
I drop my arms.
I want to stomp away. I hate the rush of emotions.
I want to tell him I’m not that way and I’m some dumb jock who thought the best way to keep someone warm was by sticking his fucking tongue in the other person’s mouth.
But I don’t want to do that to Cal. And the thing is, even though I super hope we’ll wake up to the sound of rescue helicopters, I don’t know it for sure.
I have to live with him and I like living with him, even if it’s out in the open and we don’t have a bed or blankets or anything separating us from the stars thousands of light-years above us.
“Sorry,” he says again. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m so dorky sometimes.”
My lips swerve up. “I can’t deny that.”
His laugh turns strangled. “You weren’t supposed to say that.”
He doesn’t ask me what this is, but maybe he realizes how frail I am.
How much I’m thinking about taking up camp on the other beach, or at least, the other side of this beach.
I’m not prepared for the awkwardness. The are-you-maybe-not-so-straight-after-all conversation.
Then there’s the why-am-I-investigating-you-for-homophobia conversation.
I don’t have answers for him. And thankfully, he doesn’t ask me the questions I know he must have.
“Turn around,” Cal says.
“Why?” I ask, my voice sharp, because I hate not being in control.
“Because you’re freezing,” he says, already opening his arms. “Let me do something useful.”
I hesitate. But then I turn.
He wraps around me like a human blanket, and for a second I can’t breathe—because I’ve never felt this safe before.
I reach down and clutch his hands in mine, pulling them to my chest. “Is this okay?”
“Yeah. It’s okay, Jason.”
I consider pressing a kiss to his hands, but that’s too sentimental.
We’re not dating or anything.
We’re here together by accident.
But right now, I can feel him warm me. My eyes flick up to the stars, so different from the ones I’m used to, and the next thing I know, it’s morning.
Sunbeams warm my skin, and I’m conscious someone is holding me in their arms.
Cal’s salt-and-coconut scent wafts around me, as familiar and comforting as the enthusiastic cookie creations of my mother, before Dad realized my diet had to be immaculate to achieve NHL readiness.
A faint murmur, the chatter of waking birds and the less musical buzz of insects, echoes as the sun begins to rise, a soft peach light spilling across the beach.
Usually, my hookups don’t last through the night. Usually, I can explain that it’s team curfew or that I have an early practice, and I don’t get many questions, just awed glances.
But Cal is right beside me.
Like, completely beside me.
He’s still sleeping, his breath even and his skin hot.
Now would be the perfect time to shrug from his arms. I don’t need to wait for him to wake up or anything.
Even if he didn’t get his absolute optimal number of hours of sleep, it’s not like he can’t take naps or something later on.
The island isn’t the most riveting place for activities.
Then Cal stirs, bringing me back to awareness. How long have I been in his arms?
He’s awake. I can feel the second he stiffens. I can sense his mind rushing, as if I can hear every thought tumbling one after another.
I drop my arms. I pull myself away. And when he sits up to look at me, I pull my knees up quickly, because Jesus Christ, I’m hard. He probably doesn’t need to see my boner early in the morning.
Though probably last night’s kiss gave him a sign I’m not hundred percent straight.
Finn and Luke and Dmitri went their whole lives without being plagued by thoughts.
I envy them. They fell in love with men but hadn’t been tormented by decades-old self-hatred.
They could be out and proud as easily as if they’d put on a Stetson.
They were able to confidently say, ‘This is me, I’m worthy of respect, it’s no big deal, and love is love. ’
They never had to push parts of themselves into tiny boxes and pretend they weren’t hiding parts of their soul.
Cal’s back is still turned to me. Does he know I’m hard? Did he feel it? Is he giving me privacy, conscious that I’m probably panicking, like I did a decade ago?
Or is he... I hesitate. Is it possible that he’s hard too?
I consider his bulge in those tiny briefs that turn sheer in the water.
My cock jerks.
That was my mistake. I shouldn’t have been thinking about precisely that. I force myself to think about the fact Cal and I are stranded on a tropical island, and no one has come for us yet.
My cock softens.
I clear my throat. “I’m going to get breakfast.”
And then I run away.
Cal wanted a fire, and I move on to that. I’m not convinced rubbing twigs together is enough to start a fire, no matter what Cal’s Social Studies teacher maybe taught him. I remove my Ray Bans and direct it on a dry leaf. Then I wait.
Finally, a fire sparks. Smoke circles my nostrils.
A happy whoop escapes me, but just as quickly, the leaf shrivels in my fingers.
Shit.
I go to gather more dried leaves and hope Cal didn’t hear me. Excessive enthusiasm isn’t cool. Dad always tells me people don’t take happy people seriously, confining the good-natured to the jobs no one else wants to do.
I remove my sunglasses again and hold it in front of a new, even more dried leaf.
Finally, the leaf explodes in flames. I shield it from the breeze, then move it carefully to the other leaves. The fire spreads. I hold my breath until the twigs glow red, crackling and humming in the fire pit Cal built—then they leap onto the larger pieces of wood.
It’s a fire.
I did it.
“Cal!” I shout.
But he’s already running toward me, his stocky figure rippling. He’s still wearing his pink polo shirt, but he’s abandoned his khakis entirely and his hair is mussed, his feet bare.
My mouth goes dry, and I will my own cock to act slightly less athletic.
“You made fire!” he exclaims.
I beam at him. “Uh-huh.”