8. Gideon #2
I was getting better at messaging, though slowly. I started asking questions back instead of waiting for him to carry the whole conversation. Yesterday morning, I sent him a picture of the sunrise from the rink parking lot because it was orange and pink and I thought he’d like it.
He sent back six red hearts, then:
RYAN: Those colors would make a GORGEOUS eyeshadow palette.
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I sent him a thumbs-up, and he sent me a crying-laughing face.
RYAN: You are actually cracking me up right now.
By Thursday afternoon, we were back at The Shared Bowl because Ryan said he’d been thinking about the shio ramen all week.
I had too. The ramen, mostly. And Ryan, if I was honest. We shared the same ramen we’d had the first time, and we ordered extra chicken because neither of us wanted to go hunting around the bottom of the bowl for the last piece again.
Ryan insisted on both strawberry and chocolate mochi because choosing one flavor was, according to him, a crime against dessert.
“You know what I’ve been thinking about?” he asked.
I picked up some noodles. “Uhm, no?”
He rolled his eyes. There was a thin line of coppery eyeliner around them today, subtle enough that I probably wouldn’t have noticed it a month ago. Now I noticed every time he wore something different.
“Your nickname.”
“What about it?”
“It’s terrible.”
“Taft?”
“Exactly.”
I was confused, which was easy enough. “That’s my name.”
“No, someone looked at Taftwell, removed four letters, and decided their work was done.”
“That’s generally how hockey nicknames work.”
“Bob doesn’t have a nickname.”
I shrugged. “No one shortens Bob’s last name to anything. He’s just Bob.”
“Nicknames should have imagination.”
“Ry is short for Ryan. Should I call you that?”
He fake-gasped. “My name doesn’t require improvement.”
I stared at him. He stared back.
“You’re ridiculous,” I said, and his mouth twitched.
“Thank you.” He collected some chicken with his chopsticks. “So, we need something better.”
“We really don’t.”
“We do. Let me think.” His gaze moved slowly over me. “Giant.”
“No.”
“Stretch.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Tree.”
“Ryan.”
“Redwood?”
“Why am I a tree?”
“You’re huge.”
“I’m six-four.”
“Exactly. Freakishly enormous compared to little ol’ me.” He fluttered his eyelashes, and my cock plumped up, which was some weird Pavlovian response to everything he did that was remotely cute. Ryan chewed thoughtfully, studying me with narrowed eyes. “Tufty.” His face lit up. “Oh, my God. Tufty.”
I nearly choked on a noodle. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No one is calling me Tufty.”
“I am absolutely calling you Tufty.”
“I won’t answer.”
“You will.”
“I won’t.”
He said it again, then a third time, and when I didn’t look up, he kept saying it until I finally lifted my head.
“Stop.”
He grinned. “See? You answered.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
I really didn’t.
Ryan sat back, pleased with himself. “Or I could shorten Gideon?”
I shrugged.
“Giddy?”
“That’s worse than Tufty.”
“Gidlington?”
“Not even a name.”
“Gids?”
Everything inside me went still, and Ryan knew immediately there was something wrong, his expression sliding from teasing to worried.
“Shit. What did I say?”
I stared into the bowl between us.
Gids. Wait up, Gids, Ethan ran down the stairs after me. Dad says dinner, Gids, his fist banging on my bedroom door. Ethan on the ice, cheeks red from the cold, laughing as he chased me down. You cheated, Gids.
“My brother used to call me that.”
“Oh.” Ryan went pale. “Gideon, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“How would you know? It’s fine—”
“I won’t call you that. Ever. Forget I said it.”
I looked up at him. He looked wrecked about it, and that pulled me out of the memory before I sank too far into it.
“It’s okay.”
“No, I—”
“It’s okay, Ryan.”
He stopped. I waited for the pain to come properly, for that familiar pressure to settle behind my ribs and turn Ethan into ice and water and screaming.
It didn’t. There was sadness, but there was Ryan sitting across from me with a piece of chicken halfway to his mouth, looking devastated because he’d accidentally called me something he couldn’t possibly have known belonged to my brother, and maybe it really was okay.
“You can call me Gids,” I said.
His eyes widened. “I absolutely do not have to.”
“I know.”
“Then why would I?”
I thought about it. Because Ethan was dead. Because Ryan wasn’t. Because maybe one name didn’t have to belong to one memory forever. “I think I’d like it.”
Ryan watched me carefully. “Are you sure?”
“No.” That startled a laugh out of him. “But I think so.”
He nodded. “Okay. Just not around the team because Tufty is your new hockey nickname.”
I kicked him under the table, and we ate in silence until I couldn’t hold back my laughter.
Yesterday, I saw Dr. Ellison. I told her about Ethan’s anniversary, though there wasn’t much about that day she didn’t already know.
I told her about sitting in the arena with Sable, about the game, about getting hit hard enough to end up on my back with my skates in the air.
She found that considerably funnier than I thought a mental health professional should.
Then I told her about Ryan, and that took up most of the session.
I told her we’d been spending time together.
That we texted. That we ate together. That I’d asked him to the fundraiser and, after making a complete mess of it, had eventually managed to establish that I was asking him on an actual date.
She asked me how that made me feel.
I hated that question and told her so. She asked it again.
“Lighter,” I eventually said. It was the only word I could find.
Ryan made me feel lighter. He didn’t fix anything.
Ethan was gone. Noah hated me. Dad and I talked around everything that mattered.
And worse, I still woke up each morning this week with the black dog sitting on my chest before I even opened my eyes.
None of that had changed. But when Ryan texted me something stupid, I forgot about hockey and smiled.
When I saw him at the rink, I looked for the glitter around his eyes.
When he sat across me, eating noodles and talking about makeup or clothes or some reality show I’d never watched, the noise in my head quieted.
I wanted to spend time with Ryan, wanted his texts, his noodles, and his opinions on my suits. I was attracted to someone for the first time since… forever, I suppose.
I’d always noticed men, but hockey had come first, followed closely by grief, guilt, depression, and surviving.
Dating had never made the list of things I needed to figure out.
There had been women, not many, a couple of dates, sex a few times, nothing that lasted long enough to become anything.
Men had been different, something I noticed and then ignored.
Until Ryan.
I didn’t need a label before the fundraiser. I didn’t need to decide whether I was gay or bi or somewhere else entirely. I had a date with Ryan. For now, that was enough.
My phone buzzed, and I pulled it out.
RYAN: Important question.
I waited.
RYAN: Oxblood suit. White shirt. Are you emotionally prepared for me to make you wear a pocket square?
I stared at the message, typed “yes,” deleted it, and tried again.
GIDEON: I trust you. Do whatever you want with me.
I hit send.
Three seconds later, my phone buzzed twice.
RYAN: Gids.
RYAN: PLEASE reread what you just sent me.
I did.
Fuck.
I could practically hear him laughing from the other side of Rochester.
GIDEON: You know what I mean.
The three dots appeared immediately.
RYAN: I absolutely do, Tufty.
I smiled at my phone.
Asshole.