21. Graham
GRAHAM
NOW
Miguel pats his belly while admiring the remnants of alfredo sauce on his plate. “I can’t believe you made this yourself.”
Making sauce is surprisingly easy when it’s poured straight from a jar. What’s not surprising is how I’m incapable of taking my eyes off him. Since he stepped through the door, the house has felt like our private haven again.
We would’ve eaten outside, but chilly rain infringed on the remake of our first date. The Thai restaurant going out business was another unexpected roadblock, hence the detour to homemade chicken alfredo and salad.
“Maisy talked me through it. Did you know she could cook? Like, really well. With vegetables and everything.” I gather as many dishes as I can carry and haul them to the sink.
Spinning in the chair, his body tracks my movements. “Our Maisy? The Maisy who thinks donuts are the sixth food group?”
“The very one. Apparently, she’s been keeping secrets from us.”
“What?! She lived next door and watched us barely survive on almond butter and cereal for years. I’m never speaking to her again.” He whips out his phone, thumbs pounding on the screen, then slams it down with force. “There. That should teach her a lesson about withholding information from me.”
My fingers tighten around the scrub brush. “Did you block her number?”
He shrugs. “Maybe.”
While his self-righteousness is adorable, his flippant attitude about blocking someone, even in jest, rankles me. I’ve often wondered if his decision to cut me off was an easy or hard one to make, but now I’m afraid I may not like the answer.
He blows out the candle and gathers the remaining dishes before joining me at the sink, eyeing my jerky arms while I scrub sauce off a plate.
“Are you upset that I blocked her?” he asks.
“I know how it feels to be cut off without warning, that’s all.”
The running faucet fills the silence before Miguel nods once and opens the dishwasher. “Okay. I’ll fix it.”
As I clean the plates and utensils, he loads them. Since I’d rather focus on the present than the past, I change the subject. “How’s the collective doing?”
“It’s doing good. We submitted designs for an apartment building in Long Beach for permitting. Now we’re on to the next project. It’s nice pooling resources. More productivity, less work hours.”
With a huff of laughter, I shake my head and shut off the water. “You’re lucky. I’m giving eighty hours, minimum. But I’m doing what I love, so I have no complaints.”
“You never do.”
The wet fork caught between our fingertips drips into the sink. Each droplet reverberates on the stainless steel like a gong. For a few tense heartbeats, neither of us moves, until Miguel releases the fork with a heavy sigh.
He hops onto the counter, feet dangling while he dries his hands with a towel. The gloomy weather outside has infected our good mood, and the raindrops trailing down the glass keep his gaze from me when he speaks.
“I used to wish you’d complain about something so I wouldn’t feel like the only nag in our relationship.”
I place the fork in the dishwasher and take the towel from him. “If there was anything to complain about, I would have.”
There’s pity in his half smile. “No, you wouldn’t.
You’re a peacekeeper, Graham. If you could write a script for the world to follow, all the characters would get along.
There wouldn’t be a lick of drama. Any problems could be resolved with a kind word and a hug.
But real people do have problems. Life is messy, and it hurts.
That’s why you keep your mouth shut when something bothers you.
You can’t stand causing anyone discomfort or pain. ”
“I try not to let things get to me.”
“I know.” He also knows this conversation bothers me, but there’s no sense in stating the obvious.
I witnessed a lifetime’s worth of disagreements while living with my parents, and none ended in a peaceful resolution.
If an unhappy couple can’t work through their differences, they should cut their losses and go separate ways.
Otherwise, everyone around them continues to lose, especially their children.
Wiping down the countertops will hopefully send a signal to Miguel that I’m ready to move on from this topic. This is First Date 2.0, and I refuse to spend what’s left of our evening dredging up the pain points from my past.
He offers no reprieve. “There had to be something I did that drove you nuts. I’m not perfect, despite what you say, so be honest. Tell me one thing that got under your skin.”
“Fine.” I toss the towel aside and plant my hands on my hips, but the words won’t come on command.
My tongue feels thick like it does any time I try airing the grievances I’ve grown accustomed to swallowing.
Complaining never got me anywhere as a kid.
It only made matters worse because my parents would argue about which one of them upset me.
And while they were busy fighting over who made me cry, I was left alone to console and hug myself.
Drawing in a fortifying breath, I force out one of my biggest issues with our relationship. “You never gave me a nickname. You’d call me ‘baby’ during sex, but that doesn’t count.”
His teeth scrape his bottom lip, but the deeper divots appearing in his cheeks betray his amusement. “Do you want a nickname?”
“No? I don’t know. Not having one made me feel less special than everyone else.”
I lean against the opposite counter and fold my arms over my chest. Now that I’ve voiced my complaint, it sounds silly even to me. At least he’s not straight up laughing, even if his eyes are.
“The chances I’ll remember anyone’s real name are low, so I assign placeholders. I can’t help that some nicknames are perfect and stick forever, like with my angel.”
I toss my hands in the air. “See? You gave Maisy a nickname as soon as you met her, but you’ve always called me by my real name.”
“Exactly, Graham. You’re the exception, which makes you the special one.”
His logic sends a pitter-patter through my heart. My special heart. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from showing how much his explanation pleases me.
“Come here.” He beckons me with two fingers, and my submissive, compliant feet drag the rest of my body forward until I’m standing between his knees. His hands find my waist, and mine find his thighs. “What else bothers you?”
“I lied before, about hoping you meet someone who can offer what you need. Every time I picture you having dinner with another man, giving him your smile, I die a little inside.”
The smile in question makes a bold appearance. “None of them have seen me smile.”
“Good.” The tips of our noses brush. “Don’t date other people.”
“Okay.”
The pitter-patter in my chest does the long jump, and I inch closer. “Yeah?”
“There’s one more coming up, a favor for Carmen, but he has zero chance with me. After that, I’m all yours.” His legs spread wider, allowing me to settle in. “Anything else?”
Now my nose is buried in his neck, breathing in his sweet and spicy cologne. “I can’t think of anything, and I’m feeling much better.”
His fingers slide into the hair at my nape. “Then my destiny is complete, Graham.”
“You’re such a brat.” I lift my head to capture his heated gaze and shallow breaths, our mouths millimeters apart. “Can I kiss you?”
“Maybe once,” he whispers, all raspy and sexy and mine.
The kiss is forceful, a collision of lips, tongues, and frantic hands.
Kneading his ass, I swallow his moans and drag him closer until his legs lock around my hips.
Blood rushes to my cock, and I grind, needing friction.
He unbuttons my shirt halfway, and I silently curse clothing for ever being invented.
Miguel yanks a high-pitched gasp out of me when he pinches my nipples, sweeping his thumbs over them to soothe the ache. His head tips to one side, inviting me to worship his jaw and neck with my tongue and teeth. Tasting him. Begging him.
“Please, darling. It’s been too long. I want to feel you.”
He turns his head and nips at my ear. “No sex.”
“I’ll get on my knees or give you a handy.”
“That’s still sex,” he says. A playful whine masks my frustration, and he tugs my earlobe harder with his teeth. “Are you needy for me, baby?”
I groan, rubbing his thick, swollen cock through his pants. “Always. Now quit being mean, and let me have a taste. I’ll lick the tip and be done.”
His staccato laughter is music to my ears. “No, you won’t. We’ll be here all night because you can’t get enough of me.”
Grabbing his chin, I tilt his head back. “Have you seen yourself lately? You only get more handsome with age.”
Fine lines decorate the corners of his eyes, and tiny strands of silver peek through his dark sideburns. He’ll look distinguished later in life, with salt-and-pepper hair and skin marked by happy memories.
“Sometimes, I think you need to be committed,” he says.
“If you’re asking me to marry you, my answer is and always will be yes.”
With my firm hold on his jaw, he can’t turn away when his gaze slides to the window. “The rain stopped. I should go before it starts up again.”
I bring his face closer and steal a chaste kiss. “We haven’t had our cocktails. I bought the cherries you like.”
“Save them for next time.”
The promise of a next time earns him a more thorough kiss, one that speaks volumes. One that says he won’t regret giving us another chance.
As the kiss goes on, he buttons my shirt, then pulls back to run his hands down my chest, smoothing out the wrinkles. Delaying his departure. I know him, avoidance tactics and all.
“I’ll text you in the morning before my flight leaves,” I say.
His throat bobs with a hard swallow while he stares at my chest. “Don’t forget.”
Those two words mean everything to me. Miguel hates flying, and while he’s never said it out loud, he worries when I travel by plane.
He’d insist that I text an “I love you” in case the last message we exchanged turned out to be our final one.
But he has nothing to fear. Regardless of how or when I leave this earth, he’ll be the only thing on my mind.
Sunday, February 5th
I bang a fist on the door five seconds after ringing the bell. Between knocks, I ring the bell again and again. The door jerks open. Jonathan’s sparse grey hair stands at all angles, and the straps of his CPAP mask left lines on his ruddy face.
“Do you know what time it is?” he asks, squinting into the darkness behind me.
“It’s noon in other parts of the world.” Dropping my backpack on the floor, I slip past him and head for the espresso machine, the only appliance in his kitchen made after the turn of the millennium.
“I’m getting engaged. For real, this time.
” The tiny labels beneath the multitude of buttons are hard to read, so I bend down for a closer look.
“Scratch that. Miguel and I are getting married.”
He flicks on the overhead light. “Am I invited to the wedding?”
“This is serious, Jonathan. I’m done hiding our relationship.” Nothing happens when I push the largest button. “How does this thing work?”
He shoulders me out of the way and ties the flannel bathrobe around his protruding belly. “First, you plug it in.”
As he goes about preparing the elixir of life, grinding beans and adding water, I swivel on a bar stool and gaze through the window at the canal.
I rub my lips, remembering Miguel’s kiss last night and his vow not to date anyone but me.
I’m high on the promise of our future, and nothing could bring me down.
The machine hums while filling Jonathan’s miniature mug.
He leans against the counter near the sink, gripping the peeling edge.
“The last time you stormed my house at the ass crack of dawn was after Miguel’s first trip to Costa Rica.
You made this same announcement. I told you to marry him.
Be happy. To hell with the media and the money men, as long as you’re ready for the fallout. You decided to wait.”
When I first arrived in Hollywood, I was young and eager to make a name for myself.
Based on my looks, the term heartthrob was thrown around at every interview and audition.
I embraced it. My agent at the time said I could be the guy women fantasized about and men emulated, not the other way around.
As long as I kept my sexuality locked down with airtight NDAs, my career would be on the fast track.
I listened to his advice, and it paid off.
Now, a hetero image is the uncomfortable bed I’m chained to.
Jonathan is the only person in the industry I’ve entrusted with my secret since that agent.
He’s a straight shooter who commands respect, but he returns it tenfold by fighting for and protecting his clients.
If he had been on my team in the early days, I may have done things differently, like fight to stay true to myself.
Planting my elbows on the counter, I take off my cap and ruffle my hair. “Why does there have to be a fallout?”
“Because you’re a liar, and he’s a nobody.”
I rear back as blood rushes to my face. “What the hell, Jonathan?”
“That was a test. The haters will say much worse, Graham. You and Miguel need to prepare for the worst of the worst.”
The erratic pounding in my chest might be a clue I’m not impervious to harsh criticism, but I’ve expected this day to come. As long as our support system remains intact, Miguel and I will survive whatever the media throws at us.
“We’re prepared,” I declare.
Jonathan takes the longest, loudest sip of espresso from his tiny cup. “Are you sure about that?”
I’m feeling less certain about everything than I was five minutes ago. “No. We’re not exactly together again, but we’re getting there.”
He sets the cup in the sink, and his expression softens as he leans on the island I’m hunched over.
“Everything will change for Miguel. You’ll both be put on trial, but you’re equipped to handle it.
He’s not. If we plan ahead, and you don’t do anything foolish or rash, we can drive the narrative.
Just tell me what you need, and I’ll make it happen. ”
I need to run the idea by Miguel. He ended our relationship because I made decisions without consulting him.
Igniting an uncontainable media firestorm is a major decision.
Chances are, we’ll have to put our lives on hold and stay locked down after the news breaks.
Look at Tatum. She embarrassed herself on stage one too many times, and the media forced her into hiding for months.
A public announcement will have to wait until after filming. I may be a good multitasker, but even I have limits and can only juggle so many things at once.
A delirious giggle bubbles out of me. I forgot I’m making a movie. The lack of sleep could be to blame for all my blunders, like also forgetting to ask my driver to wait for me.
Looking up at Jonathan, I flutter my lashes. “Right now, I could use a ride to the airport.”