Chapter 9 Dakota
DAKOTA
“So how was trivia?” I guess I’m just totally giving up on not engaging with the handsome landscaper.
Oh well.
I tried.
“Eh.” He shrugs. “I didn’t go, and boy, did I hear about it from Shelly.” He shakes his head, but he doesn’t sound all that annoyed by his ex-wife. I’m semi-convinced there has to be more to the story.
Who is so fond of their ex? And who doesn’t mind their ex meddling in their love life? He has to still be in love with her.
Maybe that’s why I keep chatting away with him. I always did love a mystery.
“She’s really trying to get you laid, huh?” I blurt out, and he only chuckles. We finished the outside of the greenhouse yesterday and have moved inside already. I say we, but mostly I’ve just been standing around, handing him things, here and there, and talking to him.
I don’t want to think about how out of character all this is for me.
“It seems that way,” he says ominously as he works to build a shelf for plants.
He showed me the plans for several shelves and even a couple of beds inside this morning.
And while it makes me giddy, thinking about the project being done, I can’t deny the feeling of dread too.
But I push forward with the whole talking thing instead of dwelling on that fact. “You don’t want to date?”
“I don’t know.” He hammers a nail into place and aptly moves to the next one, fully securing a sturdy-looking shelf. “Sometimes I do.”
“How long has it been?” And again, why the hell am I so chatty?
So full of questions. I should be inside my house, just waiting for him to wrap it up and get off my property.
But no matter how hard I try to stay inside when he arrives, there’s this magnetic pull to him, and I wind up outside with him.
“I’ve only ever dated my wife, and I was a teenager then.”
My jaw drops. I don’t mean to show my shock, but he zeroes in on it instantly, smirking at me. Just waiting for the next question to fall from my mouth. And out it tumbles. “You’ve only ever been with one person?”
If he’s surprised by my blunt, kind of rude question, he doesn’t show it. “Yup.” I see that look of mischief on his face before his mouth opens, and I already know it’s going to be trouble. “How many people have you been with?”
He’s not angry that I’m being so nosey. And the question is said in a teasing manner, like he knows I won’t answer him.
For some reason, that irritates me, and I shrug.
“More than one.” I also don’t miss that he said people and not women.
My back straightens, and I meet his eyes, testing him.
“I’ve been with more than one man, for the record.
No women. I’m gay.” I put my hands on my hips, resisting the urge to squirm when he offers no reaction as I just keep talking.
“And I’m sure you’ve already figured that out. I’ve been told I act gay.”
Bitter resentment drips from my tone as I scowl in his direction, just waiting for him to laugh at me. Or agree. Or something. But instead, he looks like he’s confused, his head tilting to the side. “There’s a way to act gay?”
“I don’t know,” I bite out and then drop one hand from my hip and wave it in front of my self, between our bodies. “You tell me.”
I swear his head tilts even more to the right as he studies me, like some sort of museum exhibit.
I huff and drop my hand to the side, waiting for him to speak.
I’m not used to being the one who talks so much, but the silence is making me squirmy.
“You do know that most of Oakley’s Crew is queer as fuck, right?
Like all of them. Like the owners are both men and are married.
Crazy in love. If you walk into the front shop—you’ll walk right past a huge Pride flag and might catch those two owners sucking face unapologetically on any given day. ”
Now it’s my turn to cock my head to the side, my mouth suddenly dry.
Normally hearing the phrase queer as fuck, especially coming from a straight person, I’d absolutely lose my shit and be fully on guard, but it wasn’t said with any hatred.
There’s no uncomfortableness to his tone.
No hatred. No malice whatsoever. It’s like he’s actually very proud to work there and very fond of his bosses—though it sounds like he’s seen his fair share of PDA from his bosses.
“That doesn’t bother you?” I ask him carefully, still ready for a fight.
“Hell no,” he answers immediately. “Why would it bother me? I work with amazing people every day, and the job is fantastic. They’re all my best friends who would be there in a second’s notice if I needed them.”
“Well, I didn’t see the Pride flag because I didn’t go into the office,” I say, folding my arms, my whole body rigid—still ready to defend. What, exactly? I don’t know. It seems like Gabe might be an ally at the very least, not the opposition.
“I forgot about that,” he says with a grin, that same easy smile falling back over his lips and lighting up his face.
“Everyone there is queer? Even you?” I shouldn’t have asked that. I don’t know why I did. Something prickles at the back of my brain, but I won’t allow my stupid brain to actually form the thought. I won’t go there.
It doesn’t matter if he’s bi or pan or anything else that may mean he likes men too. It doesn’t. It’s not like we . . .
Nope.
This is why I wouldn’t let my brain go there.
“I don’t really know what I am,” he says quietly, and I find myself waiting for him to say more.
Waiting anxiously, if I’m being honest. Thankfully, I don’t say anything out loud—asking him what that means.
Or if he’s considered being with a man before.
I’m quiet. Thank. Fuck. And he does go on.
“I’ve only ever been with one person, and I married her.
I guess I never really thought much about my sexuality. ”
Is this real life? Am I really standing here with a gorgeous—actually starting to think kind—human while he contemplates really big aspects of his life?
“Well, I didn’t think much about my sexuality either.
” I try to pull off a laugh, but it’s self-deprecating and bitter.
“The jocks at my school decided I was gay even before I realized I thought guys were hot.”
I see a flash of anger in his eyes I was not expecting and actually start to take a step back, but I’m struck stupid when he reaches a strong hand out to grip my shoulder in a kind, comforting squeeze. “That’s so far from okay. I’m sorry.”
I try to shrug it off, trying my best to ignore the feeling of his hand on my arm.
I can feel his warmth through the short sleeve of my T-shirt.
I lick my dry lips and look into his eyes.
“It’s fine. People can be cruel, but I survived it.
And they weren’t wrong, apparently. I’m gay as fuck,” I try to joke—even forcing a small smile.
But Gabe doesn’t smile back at me for once.
Instead, his expression is still grim and a little sad as he gives my arm another gentle squeeze, then drops his hand. “They bullied you?” It’s phrased as a question, but he’s not looking for an answer. He knows. I’m sure he can see it all over my face.
Bullied isn’t even close. They tortured me. But I don’t want him to see me as that skinny, weak kid who they tormented. I stand up as tall as I can, my shoulders square and my back straight. “I know you think I’m a recluse. That I don’t go out,” I say defensively. “But I do. I go out plenty.”
Some.
I go out when I absolutely have to. And I know he’s not buying my bullshit, but I stand firm. For all of thirty seconds before my shoulders slump slightly, and I sigh deeply. “I just don’t trust people.”
“I get that after what you’ve been through. People can be total pricks.”
This time I actually do smile, and he returns it. “I wanted the greenhouse so I could grow my own fruits and vegetables. Maybe go to the grocery store less.”
If he’s judging me for that, I can’t tell. “Well, you can grow a hell of a lot of fruits and vegetables in here,” he says, his long arms sweeping around the room to show off how large the greenhouse is. And well-built.
“I’m kind of afraid I’ll never leave now,” I say, voicing a pretty significant fear I have. I’ve gotten comfortable here over the years, only leaving for necessities. And when I decided to have the greenhouse built, I was excited about never having to leave.
But a part of me is afraid of that very real possibility.
Of never having any human interaction again. I told myself that would be fine with me, but I know it’s not true. I don’t want those assholes to steal my entire life away from me.
“That would be a shame,” he says softly, his voice a sweet caress.
My eyes meet his, and I see how genuine he is. At least, I think so. There’s still a large part of me that thinks this could still be a trap. That he’s luring me into false kindness before he does something cruel to me.
But I know it’s not true.
“Maybe I’ll go to the next trivia night with you.”
His eyes light up. “Yeah?”
The urge to pull back and tell him absolutely not is right there on the edge, but I don’t do it. Nerves skitter through me, but I remain stubborn. “Maybe.”
His smile is enough to make me realize how much I mean that.
It may only be a maybe, and it may scare the hell out of me, but for the first time in a really long time, it makes me want to try.