Chapter 15
15
Jonathan’s apartment is exactly like Ezra pictured it, during the few moments he let himself wonder about the rooms behind his door.
It’s a quiet, calm space, all warm neutrals and soft fabrics and clean lines. But there’s something empty about it, too, a consciously unfilled space, like the spots of darker paint left behind when you move a picture frame from one wall to another. He doesn’t have to ask what’s missing. It’s obvious in the photos still clustered across the mantel, in the historical fiction novels crammed into the overflowing bookcases when Ezra knows that Jonathan prefers fantasy, in the winter coat hanging on the rack by the door even though it’s spring.
“This is nice,” Ezra offers, slipping out of his shoes.
“Thanks.” Jonathan locks the door behind them. “I should probably be humble and say I can’t take all the credit, but I absolutely should. If Ben had had his way, we’d never have bought a bed frame.”
“Yikes,” Ezra says, but it eases something in him that he hadn’t realized was tense, to hear Jonathan reference Ben like that, simply and without pain. It’s been over a year, he knows, but it’s not like it’s the kind of wound that just heals.
He does another quick, hopefully subtle scan of the room, in case the sudden mention of his name somehow summons Ben’s ghost from wherever the shades go when they’re not making Ezra’s life miserable. Ezra’s not about to take it for granted that Ben’s going to follow the rules.
Rules like Don’t hang out alone with the cute guy you’re failing to talk yourself out of trying to kiss, which Ezra’s also breaking.
I’m going to hell, Ezra thinks, and looks up at Jonathan before he can let that train of thought go any further. “So, since we ditched the wine upstairs—”
“Way ahead of you,” Jonathan says, just a touch too quickly, and slips past him to head into the kitchen, his fingers brushing over Ezra’s waist as he passes. The touch sends a spark up Ezra’s spine.
Going right to hell, Ezra thinks, and follows him into the kitchen.
The wine turns out to be a sauvignon blanc that looks several shelves nicer than the chardonnay Ezra bought earlier. They settle themselves at the little breakfast nook in the corner of the kitchen—a safer alternative, probably, than the cozy-looking sectional in the living room—and Jonathan opens the bottle.
“I wondered how much you’d had before I got there,” he says, sliding a glass across the table to Ezra. “Max usually has to be pretty tipsy before she calls me in.”
“I didn’t realize you used to hang out with them,” Ezra says. “They never said anything about it.”
Jonathan shakes his head. “Not a lot,” he says. “But from time to time. Max and I got off on the wrong foot when she moved in—I don’t even remember why, honestly—but she always got about twenty times friendlier when she’d had a few glasses of wine, which I only ever found out because she used to show up at my door and demand that I play video games with her.”
Ezra considers that as he takes a sip, playing it out against everything he’s learned about Max over the past few weeks. “That sounds about right.”
Jonathan looks like he’s trying to bite back a smile as he nods at Ezra’s glass. “Any good?”
“No clue,” Ezra admits. “You’ve got the wrong sibling if you want real insights into wine. My standards are ‘under fifteen dollars’ and ‘doesn’t taste like vinegar.’?”
Jonathan grins. “Okay, one for two,” he says. “But before you think I’m shelling out major income on wine, I should probably say this was a gift.”
Ezra had been wondering, mostly because any bottle of wine that looks like it might cost more than twelve dollars is a splurge in his book. “I’ll give you credit for hanging on to it, unless your birthday was, like, five minutes ago,” he says instead. “If I get a bottle of wine as a gift, it’s gone in twenty-four hours. Less, if I share.”
“Which you always do, I’m sure,” Jonathan says. He runs a thumb through the condensation on the side of his glass, a probably absent-minded motion that draws Ezra’s attention all the same. “No, I was just sort of…not saving it for a special occasion, I guess, but…” He shrugs. “Like I said, I’m getting used to living alone. Progressing to drinking alone seemed like something I should avoid.”
Can’t relate, Ezra thinks. “I know you probably get this all the time,” he says. “And I’m like a year late. But I really am sorry about Ben.”
Jonathan’s smile fades, his right hand shifting to cover his left. “Thank you.”
“And I’m also sorry that I shot you down when you first asked me out for coffee.” He might as well get the awkwardness over with, right? “I just thought, you know—there was so much going on with my family, and I know you’ve probably figured this out but I’m kind of a mess even at, like, baseline? So I just kind of thought that if I was the first person you were flirting with since Ben died that you deserved someone who had their shit together, at least a little bit, and I didn’t want to—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Jonathan says, alarmed, and yeah, okay, so much for that filter. Ezra snaps his mouth shut, hoping he doesn’t look as red as he feels, but Jonathan just shakes his head, the look on his face caught somewhere between amusement and chagrin. “Look, you’re right, you are the first person I’ve—thought about, like that, since Ben, and I guess I haven’t been as subtle as I hoped I was. But I didn’t mean to make you think that I was just…trying to use you to rip off a Band-Aid, or something.”
Ezra winces. “Ouch,” he says. “I wasn’t thinking that, but now I almost feel like I should.”
“Oh.” Jonathan ducks his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. In my defense, I’m out of practice.”
It’s the first time Ezra’s seen him look embarrassed, and it’s such a novelty to not be the only red-faced person in a room. “You’re not doing so bad.”
They sit in silence for a few moments, the room quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator.
“Speaking of me asking you out, though,” Jonathan says.
Ezra chokes on his drink.
Jonathan bursts out laughing. He gets to his feet and goes to the fridge while Ezra sputters and coughs, filling a glass of water and bringing it back. Ezra gives him a bleary-eyed glare—which probably loses a lot of impact from the fact that he’s still wheezing around a lungful of white wine—and chugs it. “I’m so sorry.”
“That was a murder attempt,” Ezra rasps, setting the empty glass down. After a moment, he refills his wineglass instead.
“I said I was sorry!” Not that he looks at all apologetic. Horrible man, Ezra thinks, and is a little alarmed to realize that even the thought feels affectionate. “I just wanted to apologize if it made you uncomfortable. I haven’t actually…” He starts systematically taking apart a napkin, tearing it into confetti with fidgeting hands. “Like I said. It’s been a long time since I flirted with someone.”
“I get it,” Ezra says. “And look, you’re not— It’s not like you’re not, um. Effective.” Is he red again? He’s red again. “I’ve been getting shit from Aaron all week for being a disaster around you.”
Jonathan brightens. “Want me to get him off your back?”
“Are you kidding? It’s basically the only thing he’s calm about these days.” Ezra thumbs a tiny chip in the base of his glass. “He’s spending all day every day in triage mode, but if he can embarrass me about something, then all bets are off and we’re back to normal.”
Jonathan raises his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
They do.
All the promises Ezra made to himself about not flirting with the married guy—and then not flirting with the not-married-but-probably-still-off-limits guy—seem suddenly less important, and the importance dwindles even more when Jonathan gathers up their glasses and they move to the couch. The soft lamplight paints Jonathan’s brown eyes in dappled gold, and Ezra can’t stop looking at his hands, at the way his long fingers toy with the fringe of the throw blanket tossed over the back of the couch and slide over the stem of his wineglass in a way that can’t possibly be absent-minded anymore, and would be so much worse if it was.
It would be so much easier, Ezra thinks, if he was still properly drunk. He could lean over and kiss Jonathan’s stupid, soft-looking lips, and if Jonathan told him he was out of his mind then Ezra could blame it on the wine and drag himself back upstairs and never speak to him again out of shame, but at least he wouldn’t have to wonder anymore. And if Jonathan didn’t tell him he was out of his mind, then Ezra would know that Jonathan was definitely out of his .
But he’d get to kiss him, to see what it felt like to kiss him, and that would be—
“Hey,” Jonathan says. “You okay?”
“ Mm- hmm,” Ezra says, blinking himself away from Jonathan’s collarbone—he’d ditched his hoodie at some point, revealing a deep V-neck shirt underneath, and it was a very nice collarbone—and back to the couch, and the warm golden light of the lamps, and the cold wine, and fucking reality, and maybe he’s still a little drunk after all. Jonathan is watching him with a small smile that doesn’t have any business looking as enticing as it does. “What?”
“Nothing,” Jonathan says. He props his chin in one hand, leaning his elbow on the back of the couch. “You just— You’re really cute.”
“Oh my God,” Ezra says. “Thank you for that. Cute. Kiss of death. Wow.”
Jonathan laughs. He has such a good laugh. Ezra can’t believe people used to make fun of it. “No, no, I meant it in a good way, really—” Ezra scowls at him, and that just makes Jonathan laugh harder. “No, really, I— You do this thing, do you know? You just look so focused but like you’re trying not to look focused, and then when someone gets you out of your head you do this little shake, it’s so—”
Fuck it, Ezra thinks. He’s only human. He puts his wine down and reaches over to cup Jonathan’s face in his hands. He waits just long enough to be sure Jonathan isn’t going to push him off, and leans in to kiss him.
And it’s—
It’s a really good kiss.
Jonathan’s mouth is as soft as it looks, and it’s so sweet, so gentle. Ezra hears the click of crystal on wood as Jonathan sets his glass on the coffee table, and then his hands are on Ezra’s hips, pulling him closer, and that shouldn’t work either, not so smoothly. None of this is the sloppy, awkward fumbling Ezra had already half rehearsed in his head, and that, more than anything else, makes him pull back.
“Sorry,” he says. He feels dizzy and knows he can’t blame it all on the wine. “I— Sorry.”
Jonathan blinks at him. “For what?”
Ezra bites his lip, and Jonathan’s gaze flickers down to it. Ezra wants to groan, wants to fling himself off Jonathan’s lap, wants to kiss him again and never stop. “You told me I’m the first person you’ve flirted with in a year.”
“Yes,” Jonathan says.
“And we’ve been drinking.”
“A bit,” Jonathan agrees.
“And—” Ezra gropes for another and . It seems like there should be at least one more.
“Ezra.” Jonathan sits up straighter, and Ezra realizes, too late, that he’s still straddling his lap. “You’re not taking advantage of me. And I’d really like to kiss you again. If that’s okay with you.”
“Oh.” Ezra feels—not dizzy, not drunk, but something very close. “Yes. I…yes.”
Jonathan’s hands move over his hips, warm and steady. Sure. The sureness of someone who knows what they want and is willing to reach for it, without second-guessing or spiraling, without worrying he’ll say the wrong thing and mess it all up. What was that like ? “If I’m being honest,” Jonathan says, and Ezra flushes under the heat in his eyes, “I’d really like to do more than kiss you. If that’s okay.”
Ezra’s tongue is heavy in his mouth, but not so heavy he can’t manage the only word that matters. “Yes,” he says. This one yes. “Please.”
Jonathan smiles like the sun and pulls him back in.
—
Ezra wakes in darkness, in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, and for the space of a breath, he isn’t sure what woke him.
Jonathan is still asleep, curled around Ezra’s back. His breathing is slow and even, warm against the nape of Ezra’s neck. Ezra can feel his heartbeat, steady as a metronome.
He almost misses the figure in the dark.
Ezra pulls away slowly. Carefully. He manages to sit up against the headboard without waking Jonathan, and meets the eyes of a dead man.
Ben sits cross-legged on the dresser, his chin propped in his hands. He’s in a sweater and slacks, his dark hair tousled. His gaze is locked on Jonathan, heavy with longing.
He looks impossibly real. Impossibly alive.
Ezra waits for him to disappear, the way he always has before. But this time, he doesn’t.
He inclines his head.
And then he says, quiet and kind and clear as any living voice, “I think it’s time we talked.”