20
STEFAN
There’s nothing quite like kicking back in my truck with the windows down, arm hanging out the door, and steering lazily with a hand over the top of the wheel.
Especially when Ryan’s with me in the passenger seat.
Yes, I got my way, and he called in to work. I got to hear the whole glorious conversation, and while he was on the phone with whoever it was he needed to call, he kept sneaking looks at me and trying not to smile.
I’m witnessing straight-laced Ryan playing hooky for the first time.
The look on Ryan’s face is exactly what it should be: relaxed and completely liberated. He needed this day off. No one likes a Wednesday at school, anyway; it’s the middle of the week, full of crap behind you and crap ahead of you before the weekend. It was the hardest day of practice and the most susceptible to teachers giving pop quizzes and mid-week assignments.
Not sure how that translates for a school counselor, but from the look of it, he’s plenty satisfied to join me in being a bad boy for a day.
He doesn’t even ask where we’re going. He just threw on an orange t-shirt that fits him snug on the arms and shoulders, some leg-hugging above-the-knee denim shorts, and a pair of sneakers that barely look like they’ve been worn more than twice. Then he hopped in the truck with me, turned on my radio, and kicked back while we burned the road.
I pull into the parking space and cut off the engine. Ryan is already staring out his window. “Terry Park,” he reads quietly off a nearby sign. “Holy shit.”
“You totally remember this place.”
“I totally fucking remember this place. After practice. And that one guy’s birthday party.”
I slap on my white cap, flip it backwards, then hop out of the truck. “It has the best paths. Fucking beautiful this time of day, don’t you think?” I ask while grabbing a backpack from the backseat, tossing my phone and keys into it, then slinging it over my shoulder.
“Perfect,” Ryan agrees.
We start heading down the path that cuts over a field toward the woods. Two weed-riddled soccer goals are set out on either end of the field, though there’s no kids playing with them. Ahead of us, the path disappears into the trees where it starts to trace the bank of a winding creek.
Ryan peers over his shoulder. “There’s no one here.”
“It’s the middle of the week. Everyone’s at school or work.”
“Except us.” He snickers nervously. “I hope no one catches us here. I’m supposed to be sick, remember?”
“And what better cure than the great outdoors? Watch out for snakes, by the way. Oh, and giant flesh-eating mosquitos, and also maybe alligators.”
“You’re a punk, Stefan.”
“I’m serious about the snakes.”
The old familiar scent of the woods fills me right up. Though we’re walking on the path, there’s still weeds and branches in the way, crunching and snapping beneath our feet. Our pace is slow, taking our time to enjoy the scenery. The path runs along the creek, which is not ideal for swimming, as it’s murky and shallow, its surface peppered with leaves and an occasional frog.
“So was it totally necessary for you to leave your shirt in the truck?” Ryan asks me randomly.
I smirk at him. “It’s hot as balls. Besides, I needed some sun. Don’t you?”
“Sure, but …” He eyes my chest once, then shrugs. “I guess it’s alright.”
I have to laugh at him. “What’s gotten you so damned uptight over the years? You used to be loose with me.”
“Loose,” he echoes with a roll of his eyes.
“Yeah. We’d fuck off every weekend. We’d lie to our parents and do shit with some of the other teammates, like hit up a movie or meet them at the mall. Remember that time we almost got caught by the security guard in that R-rated horror movie with Jessica what’s-her-name in that topless scene?”
His eyes light up. “Shit, I do remember that. We gotta hit up a movie after this.”
“Hell yeah. You realize I brought us a picnic, right?” I ask, giving the backpack I brought a pat. “I got plans.”
“Plans.” Ryan chuckles. “You were a bad influence on me back then, Stefan, and still are. Making me skip out on work.”
“Shut up. I was the best.”
“Even at school, we both used to skip seventh period—”
“It was our home period, anyway.”
“And we’d go to that arcade on the corner,” he finishes with a wistful look in his eyes, “where we’d always make sure to hit up the Ms. Pac-Man before we left. Except that one time when it was broken down.”
“Damn. That was one of the last times we went.”
I study the side of his face. I love when he gets all excited and red-cheeked.
Ryan stops in the middle of a short bridge that goes over the creek. He leans against the worn, wooden railing, which creaks against the little bit of weight he puts on it. “It was nice having home period as the last one of the day so we could skip out like we did. Except for my senior year when seventh period was calculus. That class was a bitch.”
“I wouldn’t know much about that,” I remind him.
He’s about to say something, then realizes my point. “Right. We … weren’t talking then.”
“Hey, no big deal.” I lean on the railing next to him, drop the backpack by my feet, and give him a nudge. “Here we are, making up for lost time. Doesn’t matter what happened then.”
“We’re just not teens anymore.”
“Tell that to my piece-of-shit leg,” I retort.
“Whatever. You could probably still beat me at a race. You always beat me.”
“I’m just a competitive motherfucker.”
He lets out a tiny breath that might be a chuckle, then meets my eyes. “Y’know, I don’t believe people ever really grow up. Not truly. You’re always the same person you were when you were a kid, except you’re older now. We’re all just … older children.”
“We’re big ol’ kids.” I nod. “Sounds about right.”
“You just have new tools in your toolbox.” Ryan taps his head for emphasis. “And when you get angry, you don’t throw tantrums like you did when you were an immature little child. You don’t throw a toy at someone’s head.”
“Or a catcher’s mitt,” I put in.
A look of fondness twisted up with anxiety enters his eyes. He smiles despite the memory I clearly just triggered for him. “That was … a shitty day.”
“Best day,” I correct him. “When your dad forced your sorry ass to come over and apologize to me.”
“You started it, punk. Throwing that mitt at my head.”
“We both started it. We also started … this.” I gesture between us. “Best day, if you ask me.”
His lips curl up subtly at the sound of that. “Best day.”
I smile back.
“Of course,” he adds, his eyes detaching, “sometimes when we get angry … we forget about all the new brain-tools we have. We aren’t mature anymore. Even at twenty-something, we’ll turn into a kid again, and we do throw that toy at someone’s head. Except … it isn’t a toy anymore,” he murmurs, staring listlessly at the creek. “It’s a toaster. Or a bat. Or whatever your hands can grab off the mantle of the fireplace, and you’re throwing it at your husband’s head and screaming.”
“Shit. You just went all dark.”
Ryan shrugs. “My parents didn’t always get along.”
That seems like news to me. I always thought Ryan came from the perfect, model family. “Well, I guess all families sort of have their dark underbellies no one sees.”
“Sure. I’m not going to claim that I had it hard or anything. I didn’t. My sister and I turned out fine. Partly because I always told myself that I was like everyone else. ‘Everyone’s family is like this,’ I’d say. ‘Everyone’s parents fight and have really loud arguments. Everyone’s home is hostile.’ It’s the same reasoning I’d give myself for why I never thought I was gay. ‘All guys feel this way.’ On and on. I just kept feeding my denial and … in the end, I was blind by my own desperation to be just like everyone else.”
“Dude, I could’ve put you out of your misery and told you that you’re nothing like everyone else.” I throw a lazy arm over his shoulders. “And that’s the reason I wanted you as my friend.”
His face tightens. Then, with a twitch of his jaw, he asks, “So what are we now, then?”
I’ve had tons of time to think things over, yet still I feel myself dancing around inside at this subject. It’s one thing to think it; it’s another entirely to say it. “Does it really need a name?” I posit.
“Kinda.”
“You sure?” I keep my arm over his shoulder, but now I’m starting to feel trickles of sweat all over. Maybe I should’ve worn a shirt. “I mean, can’t it just be whatever it is?”
“Yeah,” mutters Ryan. “And it’s gay.”
The word alone hits me in the jaw. “I didn’t say that. And it doesn’t have to be that.”
“You like me. You get excited around me. You wanted my hands all over you a couple nights ago.”
“Ryan.” I’m suddenly very conscious of whether there could be anyone in the park near us, where I didn’t care a second ago.
“And when I had my tongue halfway up your ass,” he goes on, uncaring, “you were squirming and moaning like my little bitch.”
I squeeze him against me. I don’t know if I’m trying to shut him up or cuddle him. Everything is very confusing suddenly. “Fuck you,” I mumble with half a smile on my reddening face.
“You wish.”
“I’m not gay.”
“Yeah, you are.”
My squeeze on him tightens more. “I have no problem with you being gay. I never did. And I like you because you’re my bro. You get me better than anyone else. And—”
“I do get you better,” Ryan agrees. “And you’re fuckin’ gay.”
“You want me to tackle you to the ground right now?” I warn him, my voice low.
“You are literally just proving my point,” he sasses me right back, a superior look on his face. “Your next threat is going to be something like, ‘Bro, I’m not gay. And I’m gonna suck your dick to prove it.’”
Just when I’m about to put my money where my mouth is to tackle him to the ground, the rickety railing does it for us. At once, the sad old thing snaps, giving to our weight and falling over.
And it takes us with it.
The fall is so fast that I can’t even manage to keep any footing on the bridge whatsoever. Ryan and I seem to cling to each other, each thinking the other one still had their balance, and then we splash into the shallow, mucky creek below—which turns out not to be nearly as shallow as I’d previously thought.
Completely submerged, I kick and shove until my head breaks the surface. When I open my eyes, Ryan has just come up, too. I’m clinging to his shirt, and he’s gripping my arms so tight, I feel his fingers digging into my muscles.
Water drips down his face, his eyes glimmering and his hair black as ink. I can’t seem to do anything except stare at his sexy face, drenched and panting.
Sexy face. I just said that.
I break eye contact with him, overwhelmed suddenly by the way my heart’s racing, and catch sight of the broken railing as it floats along the creek, disappearing in the small shadow beneath the bridge.
And then I see something else.
“Ryan, run.”
“What?”
“Get out. Go. GO!”
I scramble onto the bank, grasping and yanking Ryan behind me like a wet sack of shoes. He looks totally confused, throwing quick glances of worry over his shoulder as we clamber out of the water and race from the creek.
“What the fuck?” cries Ryan. “What’s going on?”
We both turn and see it.
Ryan makes one quick, unintelligible yelp before leaping for the nearest tree. That wasn’t my first plan of escape, but I’m right behind him, climbing up the tree limb-for-limb in a hurry. The tree has thick branches, perfect for climbing, but with our current panic, I’m pretty sure we could scale curtains like cats if we tried.
Even in mortal peril, I hear the way he pants and grunts as he climbs, and it takes me right back to baseball practice, to long days in the sun, to times when Ryan and I would just lie in the grass, tired as shit and panting from a long run or training session, and bake in the afternoon sun.
Ryan settles on a high enough, thick branch. I do the same, taking the one right next to his. The pair of us lean against each other, panting from our efforts, and staring down at the bank of the creek.
“I … I didn’t realize … that you were serious …” hisses Ryan between his breaths.
“I wasn’t. I was kidding. I didn’t know.”
“That’s a fucking water moccasin.”
I’m staring at the snake right now as it sits at the edge of the bank by the bridge, half-submerged. It isn’t moving.
We listen to each other pant for a while longer before Ryan whispers, “It is alive, right …?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper back.
We continue to stare at it. The snake continues to … not stare back. I don’t think it even moved to attack us or anything when we were in the water near it. I just saw its slithery form, panicked, and yanked Ryan out of the water as fast as humanly possible.
“Can’t they move up trees?” he whispers.
“Fuck if I know.”
“I think they can.”
“Then what the fuck are we doing up here??”
“I panicked.”
He looks over at me, and our eyes connect. I’m drenched from head to toe. Water drips from Ryan’s messy black hair, making his hazel eyes sparkle. We must stare at each other for a solid minute, neither of us saying anything at all.
Then our faces come together at once, and I consume his lips with another furious kiss.
Everything ignites inside me all at once. My fears. My desires. My frustrations. My excitement.
When his tongue comes out, I’m done for. I grip the back of his wet head, fingers tangled in his hair, and pull his face against mine so powerfully that it aches.
Twice, he almost slips off his branch—even as big and sturdy as it is—but I hold him in place. I’m not letting Ryan go anywhere until I’m done having my way with his mouth.
And from the gasping sounds of our breaths whenever we pull apart, we are far from finished.
I can’t catch my breath as I discover a dozen different ways to lock our lips together, and a dozen more ways to entwine our wet, aggressive tongues.
Ryan Caulfield’s got me twisted around his finger, and with every wet, breathy kiss, I twist around him a little more.
I don’t think I’m ever getting free from Ryan.
He’s got me.
We pull apart at the same time, all out of air, our eyes locked to one another’s and our lips red and slick. Neither of us say a thing, letting whatever explosion of energy between us just now settle.
“Our backpack of food’s still sitting on the bridge,” murmurs Ryan. “And a damn good thing I left my phone in the truck. It’s not waterproof.”
I chuckle. His worrywart mind is everywhere. “I know.”
So I decide to put his mind right back where I want it. Chasing an impulse, I let go of his head and reach down to grab his crotch. His eyes flash. He’s so hard, I’m surprised he isn’t busting out of those tight denim shorts.
“In … In retrospect,” he murmurs suddenly, “you could be bi.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “I got a hand on your crotch halfway up a tree in the middle of Terry Park, and that’s your observation?”
“I’m just saying. Could be.”
“Maybe it doesn’t matter. Like I said.” My face draws close to his, so close I can feel the warmth coming off of his skin. I sneak a kiss on his soft lips.
It feels so fucking good … so fucking right.
“No labels?” he asks. “That’s what you want?”
“You’re my bro. I’m yours. That’s all the labels we need.”
“Homo.”
I growl at him.
“What? You really that afraid of the word?” he taunts me.
“Ryan,” I warn him, my voice low.
“Homo,” he says again.
“You want me to push your ass out of this tree?”
He gives it a second of thought, then returns my soft kiss, pulls back to look into my eyes, and mutters, “Dare you … bromo.”
Bromo. I catch myself grinning. Pushing you out of this tree is a dare I’ll proudly chicken out of.