Chapter 4
Chapter Four
I’ve always hated social media. It turns people into inauthentic jerks, obsessed with meaningless likes and follows. It’s full of unattainably perfect men, their faces and abs airbrushed into plastic perfection.
I don’t post anything, but I do have a secret Pixstagram account. I mostly use it to keep tabs on Maddie’s social media activity. The internet’s a dangerous place for teenage girls. There are far too many creeps out there.
Still, I constantly struggle with the balance between protecting her and letting her live her own life. I wish there were a one-size-fits-all rule book for raising teenage girls—something that explains how to do this right. I lie awake most nights worrying I’m screwing it all up.
My biggest fear? That she follows our parents’ footsteps and falls into a life of depression, drugs, and alcohol. I don’t enjoy being an overbearing brother, but I need to protect her. I have to make sure she’s safe. That she makes good choices. That she doesn’t repeat our family’s mistakes.
But right now, I’m not checking her page. I’m typing someone else’s name into the search bar: Hunter Davis.
It doesn’t take long for me to find him. His username is HunterTheGatherer, which makes me grin stupidly at my screen. The biography at the top of his page is short and sweet: a pride flag emoji and a link to a research article about protecting native pollinators.
His feed is exactly what I expected—aesthetic shots of trees, flowers, and golden-hour skies. The photos are high resolution and crisp, probably taken with an expensive camera. Judging by his car, he likely comes from a wealthy family.
His latest post is from three weeks ago: a yellow daffodil with a bee perched on one of the petals. The caption reads Signs of Spring. I actually roll my eyes.
But then I scroll a little further… and stop.
It’s a photo from a few years ago at a Pride festival.
Hunter’s wearing a pair of denim shorts and a rainbow tank top.
He’s standing with a group of friends, all wearing scantily-clad clothing, but all I can focus on is him.
I linger way too long on the photo, studying every detail.
My brain tells me to scroll past it, but my fingers don’t budge.
I don’t know why I’m even interested in Hunter’s social media activity. I barely know the guy.
Sighing, I close out of Pixstagram and stare blankly at my phone. To distract myself, I open my banking app, but I immediately regret it. My pathetic balance glares back at me, a row of tiny red numbers. I get paid in a few days, but the second that paycheck lands, it’ll go straight to rent.
I keep hoping Mom will go back to work soon. We could really use the money.
Mom’s depression comes and goes in waves. She has good days, and she has bad days, but lately it seems like all her days are bad. She sleeps for hours, barely eats, her body thinning out in a way that scares me.
I love my mom. I really do. While I sympathize with everything she’s been through, I wish she would get her act together. There are moments I imagine grabbing her by the shoulders, shaking her, screaming at her to wake up, to fight for Maddie’s sake.
But I know mental illness doesn’t work that way. Still, the resentment sits heavy in my chest.
My phone buzzes.
Aliyah: Any updates on operation GML?
Mason: wtf is operation GML?
Aliyah: Operation Get Mason Laid. Duh.
Mason: fuck u. my sad sex life is not a mission.
Aliyah: Ugh. You’re boring.
I frown at my phone. She’s not wrong. I honestly can’t remember the last time I had sex. Maybe six months ago? It was a guy I met on Rotica from another small town just south of Claremont Shores. The sex was vanilla and unremarkable. I don’t even remember his name. Jake? Josh?
As far as gay men are concerned, there are slim pickings in Claremont Shores and the surrounding rural areas. Aliyah once said beggars can’t be choosers, and honestly, she’s right about that. She’s right about most things, annoyingly enough.
Ugh. Great. Aliyah has me thinking about sex again, and now I’m officially horny.
I swallow my pride and text Aliyah.
Mason: u still down to go to that bar in Salwal?
Aliyah: OMG! Yes! I’ll pick you up in 15 min!
She follows that text with a series of eggplant emojis.
I sigh and toss my phone on my bed, hoping I don’t regret agreeing to this.
***
Salwal sits about forty miles east of Claremont Shores. It’s got a decent downtown center, a minor league baseball team, and—most importantly—a gay bar. The only one within an hour’s drive of home.
Inside, the bar buzzes with drunken laughter, clacking billiard balls, and pop music spilling from the jukebox. The air hangs heavy with stale cigarette smoke and a haze of weed.
My eyes catch on the rainbow flag tacked to the wood-paneled wall.
I’ve known I was gay for years, but I still feel out of place in spaces like this, like I don’t quite belong.
Like somehow, despite how much I’m attracted to men, I’m still not gay enough.
Buried deep inside of me, there’s a shame that gnaws at my ribs.
“He’s cute,” Aliyah says, nodding across the bar. “Red flannel.”
I follow her gaze. The guy is undeniably attractive—short, muscled, white, with shaggy blond hair and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. As he leans over the pool table, lining up his shot, I get a perfect view of his ass.
“Yeah,” I mutter, taking another sip of beer. “He’s hot.”
Aliyah elbows me with a grin. “His friend is my type, too. Let’s go say hi.”
The friend is a Latina woman with a pixie cut, broad shoulders, and inked arms flexing beneath her tank top. Aliyah’s bisexual, and she has a thing for buff women.
As we cross the room, my chest tightens with nerves. I’m terrible at flirting, especially sober. I know the way I come off to strangers: quiet, grouchy, closed-off. Aliyah often affectionately calls me “Grumpy Bear,” after the Care Bear.
I down the rest of my beer as she drags me to the pool table.
“Hey,” she says, flashing a dimpled smile. “Mind if we join?”
She’s always so effortlessly charming. It’s unfair, really—how easy it is for her to make friends and flirt with strangers. She could take one look at someone with her big brown eyes, bat her lashes, and they’d be instantly swooned.
“Sure,” the Latina woman says with a grin, handing us a pair of pool sticks. “I’m Camila, but you can call me Cam. This is my coworker, Ben.”
Ben’s eyes rake over me slowly, and heat crawls up my neck
“I’m Aliyah, and this is my bestie, Mason. We’re also coworkers—lifeguards in Claremont Shores,” Aliyah says, smoothing her hand over the pool stick. “What do you guys do for work?”
“Construction,” Ben answers. The sound of his gravelly voice makes my skin tingle. “We’re working on that new housing development down the road.”
Aliyah smirks. “Manual labor. That explains the arms.” She lets her gaze linger on Camila’s biceps without a hint of shame.
Cam laughs, clearly amused by her boldness. “You’re cute,” she says, rearranging the balls into the rack. “Alright, let’s break.”
As Aliyah leans over the table to take the opening shot, Ben shifts closer to me, his hip brushing mine. He smells faintly of sawdust and woodsy cologne. My eyes flick down to his hands—broad palms, callused fingers, rough from work. The kind of hands that could leave marks if I let them.
The cue cracks against the balls, sending them scattering across the table, but I can’t focus. Not with Ben’s fingers grazing my lower back, teasing the waistband of my jeans. Each touch sends electricity down my spine, leaving my thoughts scrambled.
Maybe Aliyah was right. Maybe this is exactly what I need.
***
Less than an hour later, I’m kissing Ben hungrily as we stumble through the dimly lit parking lot behind the bar. It’s been so long since I’ve kissed anyone that I feared I’d forgotten how—but judging by the rough, breathless noises spilling from him, I’m doing just fine.
My fingers tangle in his shaggy blond hair, pulling us closer. It’s dry and coarse, and I bet he’s the type of blue-collared man who uses those cheap three-in-one shampoos.
Cold metal hits my ass as Ben nudges me against a blue pickup. “This is mine,” he pants against my mouth. “We can go back to my place, if you want.”
I pull his lower lip between my teeth. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
I eagerly climb into the passenger seat of Ben’s truck. The floor’s a landfill of fast-food wrappers and empty cups. I nudge aside a greasy take-out bag with my shoe. A disgusted scowl starts to pull at my lips, but I quickly swallow it down.
Back in college, this would’ve been a dealbreaker. I had standards. Now? I’ll take what I can get.
“Sorry about the mess,” Ben says with a laugh.
“It’s fine.”
He turns the key in the ignition, and the engine roars loudly. I reach for my seatbelt—then freeze. My eyes land on a mustard yellow ballcap resting on the dash with Sawyer 2025 embroidered on the front.
You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. A sharp slash of dread rips through my stomach like a blade.
“Whose is this?” I ask wearily, nodding toward the hat.
Ben gives me a confused look. “Mine. Why?”
My stomach drops. “You support Franklin Sawyer?”
“Yeah,” he says, scoffing. “You got a problem with that?”
Instant boner killer.
Sawyer’s a geriatric, right-winged, prejudiced, racist piece of shit, currently running for state representative. His campaign signs are posted all over town, and his popularity is growing in the polls. He has tons of loyal supporters around here.
But I never thought one of them would be a queer man like Ben.
“He’s homophobic,” I say flatly.
Ben rolls his eyes. “He’s not homophobic. He just doesn’t want the agenda shoved down kids’ throats. I agree.”
My teeth clench. “The agenda?”
He lifts his hands defensively. “Listen, I’m gay and all, but I’m… normal.”
“Normal,” I repeat flatly. I hate that word.