36. Pass The Fruit Crisp #3
“No, I’m not letting you forget that you could make even coming out into a school musical and upstage everyone forever.”
They wouldn’t hear the barn owl unless they shut up, which Connor knew wasn’t his sister’s skill set. Or his, truthfully.
“Instead of The Music Man, we could call it The Gay Man, and we could sing, like, Trouble with a capital T and that rhymes with G and that stands for gay and you’re just born that way, and I’ll never get my day.”
“You want one of Dad’s beers from the garage fridge? Because after hearing that stuff you said—sang?—and those weird gestures, I want alcohol. But I don’t want to go back inside.”
He unfolded himself from the bench and headed for the triple-garage where they kept the person-cars, rather than the big barn where they kept equipment.
Gravel crunched as Jess hustled behind him. “It was bad, wasn’t it?”
“That song thing, so bad. And me coming out is in fact supposed to be about me. That’s how it works.” Moths and unnamed flying things clustered around the light over the door.
Jonathan didn’t like bugs much, so would he want to come to the ranch?
“Also, musicals? Not this gay dude.” He pointed at himself. “I like baseball. And sometimes cooking shows. But no singing. I don’t sing.”
“Hear me out, what about Damn Yankees?“ The back door light illuminated her finger guns. “Or You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown?”
“I don’t even understand what you’re asking.
” The door was, as always, unlocked. He found the light switch and saw the old side-by-side white panel front fridge his parents had moved out here about six years ago.
The thing was small, maybe from the early nineties, and he was pretty certain it would be chugging along in its boring way after civilization ended.
“Those are musicals about baseball.”
“How do you know this? How?” There were a satisfactory number of choices in the garage fridge, same as last night when he and his father had grabbed two cans and stood by the fence talking about not much.
His parents weren’t letting him down in any form tonight, and definitely not forcing him to drink the type of beer that slugs took death plunges in.
“I know things.”
“I know beer. Here.” He handed her a can of IPA brewed in Hood River.
They went back to the picnic table and talked about horses, teaching, and Jonathan.
By the time Connor was finally alone, he’d had a long day, a lot of emotions, and two beers. Should have stopped after one, like Jess did, but she was drinking slower than he was, so he’d started (and finished, he could admit that) a second.
Because they didn’t really have separate data service out here, he couldn’t get too far from the house Wi-Fi if he wanted to have good video quality with Jonathan, so he stood in the dark shadows of the back of the house with his spine pressed against the siding.
This particular wall was the spot where no one but him had an open bedroom window and he could, if he kept his voice low enough, not be overhead.
“Hey,” he said to the screen.
“Hey you.” Jonathan sounded sleepy.
Connor could see the black straps of a tank top skimming across his shoulders and pictured how it would frame his arms and chest. Thought about tangling his hands in the ribbed fabric—in his imagination it was softly ribbed black cotton, he liked ribbed cotton a lot—and pushing it up Jonathan’s torso and dipping his mouth to Jonathan’s stomach.
“I told them.”
“Oh. Oh.” The man he loved scrambled to sit up, then the screen changed from the vague sense of Jonathan in the pale illumination the phone had thrown, to the warm golden tones cast by the bedside lamp.
Faint lines showed where the pillow had pressed against his face.
His hair was a mess, sort of like Connor’s insides, and all Connor wanted to do was rake his fingers deep into it and hold Jonathan’s face while he kissed him.
Then he’d pull Jonathan on top of him and let the weight settle his heart, chest to chest, thighs between thighs, Jonathan pinning him in place while they talked.
Jonathan knew how to be still, maybe because of years of training to hold a pose on the ice, whereas Connor’s sports had all been bouncing around in ready position.
He needed Jonathan’s stillness pressing into him, but video was all he had tonight.
“How did it go?”
“It was good.” He laughed quietly. “It was, yeah, it’s been a long day, but it was really good. My sister kind of did all the work, actually.”
He thrust his hand through his hair. Cool air from the river was spreading up the banks and the temperature had dropped enough to be perfect. No humidity out here in the arid eastern mountains.
“A couple months ago she made them switch churches to one that’s not all love the sinner, hate the sin, and if I had a guess, I bet she’s been talking rainbow love is love shit.”
“Is she…?”
“No, I told you she found the softball team championship photo online. But I think maybe she guessed before? Or something. And my parents were pretty good. Awkward, but like, regular awkward. Nice.”
He should have nursed that first beer longer instead of getting a second. Then he’d be able to tell Jonathan all about how his Mom had been coaching his Dad, and how his sister was like a snarky sidekick, and make it all clear and funny.
He’d be able to come up with movie references and they’d laugh, but the extra drink had made him blurry. The connection between his mouth and his head was sub-optimus prime right now. Sub-optimum prime. Subprime. “Suboptimal!”
“What was?”
“Oh, nothing, it was all good. That was just a word in my head.” He missed Jonathan so much. “I had two beers. With Jess.”
“Thank you for that information. That clarifies several things.”
“I miss you.”
“I’m so happy for you.”
He snorted at Jonathan’s response.
“Happy about your parents, I mean. Not happy about you missing me. Although, honestly, that does make me feel good. I wouldn’t want to be alone in the feeling-alone category.”
“Now it’s out of control gay support in this house, and she’s expecting me to understand musical theatre, and no, just, no.”
“Your mother?”
“No, my sister. I didn’t even know she liked musicals? Or theatre?”
Jonathan held up a blinking kitten face toward the camera. “Pawsley is so sorry for your challenges.”
“I can tell.” He couldn’t decide whether the eyes had started to change color, but the kitten blinked at him and its tiny pink nose twitched. “Has he been on my pillow?”
Jonathan ducked his chin, and Connor watched his lips curve. “Would I do that?”
“My pillow? Yes.” His breath slowed as he watched Jonathan and Pawsley. He wanted to put his finger on the soft fur behind the kitten’s ears, he wanted to hear the rumble-rumble that somehow emerged from that tiny, tiny body.
He cleared his throat. “I also told them I was seeing someone.”
Jonathan coughed into the phone, and Pawsley puffed up his fur. “What? What did you say?”
“What do you think? In case you can’t see, because I’m standing in the dark and this is a tiny screen, I am rolling my eyes. I said I have a boyfriend. I used that big, scary word and then I showed them photos. Of you.”
He knew Jonathan had never had a real, honest boyfriend or even a relationship role model. Despite saying they loved each other, sometimes he still acted oddly about calling themselves boyfriends, but he hadn’t realized talking Jonathan through self-performing a Heimlich maneuver might be required.
He sighed. “Jonathan, we’ve been over this.”
“Yes. I know. It’s just no one’s ever—”
He reached off screen and Connor saw the side of his body, his arm, and the place where the black ribbed shirt pulled up from his waist. He’d guessed the shirt right. And his skin looked so smooth in the lamplight.
Then a mug filled much of the screen in front of Jonathan’s face. An instant after he registered its familiarity, he realized it was his own ugly tutu-wearing anteater mug.
Jonathan stared into the camera while he sipped.
“Wait, are you at my place?”
“Of course not.”
“But that’s my mug.”
Jonathan stuck out his lower lip just far enough that Connor wanted to nip it, but not so far that Connor worried about laughing. “It’s the one you make me use, so I took it.”
“You took my mug.”
That smile was definitely deliberate, because Connor’s cock knew that particular smile quite well, and fully approved.
His cock unfortunately didn’t understand that there was a five-hour drive between it and the man giving him come-here signals.
Connor’s poor cock was a simple thing, unable to do higher math like driving distances, and only able to calculate that it had been two and a half days since it had woken up snuggled against Jonathan’s cute round peach butt.
His boyfriend reached off screen again, and this time he came back with Connor’s fuzzy blue couch blanket.
“I don’t understand. You’re taking my stuff.”
“What don’t you understand? I miss you, so I totally abused your trust, took the key you left and snatched things to make myself feel better.” He paused and stared at the screen. Hard. For a long time. “Connor. This is where you say you miss me back.”
It’s not too soon. We both want this. Jonathan must want this as much as I do.
Connor took a deep breath. “Or, what if this is where I say come to the ranch.”