Chapter Seven
Over the following several days, Elliott had to keep reminding himself he was thirty-six, not fifteen. Grown men were supposed to be more confident in their relationship-building skills. They were supposed to go forth and conquer with charm and wit. They were not supposed to dither around the house, wishing someone could pass Simon a note reading Do you like like Elliott? With yes and no checkboxes.
But in high school, Elliott hadn’t attempted to date anyone. There had been a few out gay kids, but they were way cooler than Elliott, who was still hesitating at the threshold of his closet. He might have daydreamed about Cesar Guzman, who wore a fauxhawk and had the world’s dreamiest eyes, but Cesar had never looked twice at Elliott.
Elliott had dated in college, but rarely, and mostly guys from the campus LGBT club or, on a couple of occasions, friends of a friend. Then in grad school he’d met John.
So he’d never really gotten the hang of this whole relationship business, which explained why he spent the week mired in self-doubt.
Okay, yes, Simon clearly liked him well enough to hang out and have a few beers, exposing a bit of his soul in the process. Simon had agreed to a date readily enough. But given what he’d said about his history, he probably didn’t have many gay friends. So maybe he was simply viewing this as a chance for friendly social interaction—possibly with some sex thrown in.
Wait. Wasn’t that exactly what Elliott had just told himself he wanted with Kyle? He’d been satisfied with that idea, pleased with himself for coming up with it, even. But friends with benefits didn’t sound so satisfying now that Simon was in the picture, however tentatively . . . Shit. Elliott needed to grow up and get his head straight.
He needed to get some sleep too. But instead he’d spent every night tossing and turning in bed, mummy-wrapping himself in the bedding while he agonized over Simon. Over what Simon thought of him and what would happen on their date and oh God would they have sex and then what would happen the morning after . . .
Elliott agonized during the days too. He ran a lot and was both disappointed and relieved he didn’t see Simon. He tried to do his work, but the students’ answers seemed more nonsensical than ever, the misspellings and twisted grammar spinning around on his screen until nothing made sense at all.
Somehow he and Simon had agreed that Saturday would be their date night. Elliott wasn’t sure why—he didn’t work a traditional schedule and Simon wasn’t working at all, so they could have gone out any night. Yet on Saturday night, there Elliott was, parking in front of Simon’s address. The house was in the same subdivision as Elliott’s, but Simon had a two-story model. It was too dark to see much of his front yard, but elaborate landscaping didn’t appear to be his priority. Of course, his knee injury likely meant he couldn’t do much in the way of gardening even if he wanted to.
Simon must have been watching through a window, because he came out his front door before Elliott had a chance to turn off the engine. Hurrying as fast as his bum leg and cane likely allowed, Simon grinned as he approached Elliott’s car.
“Hi,” he said when he dropped into the passenger’s seat. He balanced the cane over his lap. “The inside of my house looks like an EPA Superfund site. I don’t want you to see it.”
“A little mess wouldn’t traumatize me.”
“Big mess. Superfund, Elliott. I saw your place, remember?”
Elliott snorted. “Books everywhere.”
“Yeah, but they’re neat. Orderly. My house . . . Nope. And that’s just the downstairs. I haven’t been going upstairs hardly at all since I fucked up my knee. For all I know, it’s become a wildlife habitat.”
“Pigeons? Mice?” Elliott grinned.
“Elk. Bears. Mountain lions. Could be anything.”
Simon was belted in by then, so Elliott backed out of the driveway. “Housecleaning isn’t your favorite chore?”
“No. When I lived with my parents, my mom wouldn’t let me do any of it. She has these old-fashioned ideas about gender roles, and I wasn’t about to argue with her. I mean, what kind of kid demands to be allowed to vacuum and dust? I did make a stab at learning basic skills when I got my own place, but with the knee, I’ve let things slide big-time.” He sighed. “Now it’s like I don’t even know where to start.”
“You could hire a housecleaning service. Not permanently, necessarily, but they could come in and get your place back in shape.” Elliott was glad they were having this conversation. In part because it reminded him that Simon was as human as he was. And in part because it provided a welcome distraction from Simon’s close physical presence: his tidy beard, his nicely tamed hair, and the light scent of a woodsy cologne. He was dressed simply—in jeans, a white button-down, and a brown leather jacket. And God, he looked good.
“You don’t think housecleaners would run screaming from my mess?” Simon asked.
“Well, I haven’t seen it, so I can’t judge. But I bet the experienced ones have seen a lot.”
“Yeah, probably. I once had a call where this guy had been squatting in an empty house. He’d OD’d but nobody was around to notice, and it was summer. No electricity in the house, so no AC, and by the time we got there, he’d just kind of melted into the couch. It was—” Simon stopped abruptly. “Shit. Sorry. This isn’t really a good first-date discussion, is it?”
Elliott laughed. “I think it’s a little unorthodox, but that’s okay.”
“My point is that some poor souls had to clean that house. I should find out who and hire them. At least I don’t have any corpses in my place.”
“Just wildlife.”
“Yeah. Just that.”
Elliott and Simon lived in the northeast corner of town, which meant there was no particularly great way to get downtown. Elliott took Standiford to McHenry before heading south, which was direct but heavy with traffic. “I bet this is a lot easier to do with lights and sirens,” he commented.
“Yeah, except you have no idea how fucking oblivious a lot of drivers are, even with sirens blaring. Sometimes I needed to get somewhere fast, right? I used to wish I had one of those monster trucks and could just run right over the roofs of the assholes who didn’t get out of my way. Like this one time— Crap. I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Shop talk. You probably don’t want to hear it.”
They were stopped at a light, so Elliott glanced at Simon. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Simon didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know. You’re a college professor. Cop stuff must seem . . . stupid. All I have is an associate degree.”
Genuinely puzzled, Elliott shook his head. “Cop stuff’s interesting. Think of how many TV shows and movies are made about police. A lot more than they make about history professors, that’s for sure. Even when I had a tenure-track job, well, it wasn’t Hollywood material. My big excitement was when I got an article published or caught a student plagiarizing.”
“Cops spend a lot more time doing paperwork than doing high-speed chases or slapping cuffs on bad guys.”
“Professors do almost nothing but paperwork. But we rarely get shot at.”
They’d reached downtown by then, and they were silent as they neared the restaurant. One of the nice things about living in Modesto was that parking was easy, even on a Saturday night. Elliott found a spot only a block from their destination.
The specific restaurant had been Elliott’s suggestion. It was only a few months old, and he’d never been there before, but Anna had recently raved about it. Simon had been agreeable. “As long as we don’t go to my parents’ kebab place, anywhere is fine,” he’d said with a smile.
As they walked into Il Piatto, Elliott hoped it wasn’t too pretentious for a first date. The restaurant was small, the décor elegant but very simple. No trace remained of the antique store that had been the previous resident of this storefront. Now there were brick walls, unadorned wood floors, and slightly artsy light fixtures, including the colored glass pendant lampshades above each table. Wine bottles in wood-and-steel racks lined most of the back wall.
A cute young guy with sleeve tattoos greeted Elliott and Simon when they walked in, then led them to the only empty table, which was near the front window. He handed them menus—typewritten, with the day’s date at the top—and a wine list.
“Nice,” Simon said after the host left.
“Is it okay?”
“Yeah, it’s great. I wonder what the kitchen looks like. My parents’ place was a dump when they bought it. I was just a little kid, but I remember. They’ve sunk a lot of money into it over the years, and now the kitchen is . . .” He smoothed his beard. “You don’t care.”
“Sure I do.”
“Why? Are you planning a culinary career now?” Simon looked stricken and added quickly, “Not that you should. You’re a great prof, and I’m sure you’ll find a good job soon, somewhere they won’t give a shit about your asshole ex.” He looked at the table and, when no drink mysteriously appeared, searched for a waiter.
Elliott wished he had a drink too.
Fortunately, the waiter appeared within seconds. He was a blonder version of the host, with surfer-dude hair, a shell necklace, and more tattoos. “Hey,” he said. “I’m Zach and I’m gonna take care of you tonight. Something to drink? We’ve got a couple of killer brews on tap if you’re more into that than the vino.”
Elliott and Simon glanced at each other. “Just water for me,” Elliott said, feeling unbearably prim. Simon ordered a beer. Then Zach gave a five-minute speech about the menu, including the provenance of all the meats and most of the veggies. Apparently, Il Piatto’s theme was small plates, which meant customers were expected to order several items apiece. Simon asked a few questions, but Elliott mostly just nodded.
“Do you know what you’re going to have?” asked Simon after Zach went away.
“Not a clue.” Honestly, Elliott hadn’t made much sense of what Zach had been saying, not because it’d been complicated but because it’d been a whole lot of words. And Simon was sitting right there across the table, his tongue sometimes darting out as he’d listened to the details.
They both stared at the menus for what felt like a century, but Elliott was too distracted to read his. “Everything sounds good,” he finally said to excuse his indecision.
“Yeah. I can order for us both if you want. Not that you can’t do it yourself, and I’m not such a huge expert or anything—just an ex-cop who used to make kebabs and stuff—but I have some ideas. Or we can go with whatever you want. Or just order separately.” He mashed his lips together and looked away, but his fingers tapped on the table.
“You can order. That’d be great.”
Simon stared at the menu with a degree of concentration usually reserved for students taking final exams, while Elliott played with his napkin and wondered whether Simon could tell how much he was sweating. Simon probably could; he was a police officer, after all, trained to notice things. What else was he noticing? Did he think Elliott was a crappy driver? Was he pleased Elliott was abstaining from alcohol since he was driving? Or did Simon think it was just a ruse to fool him into believing Elliott was a good guy?
Elliott was relieved when Zach arrived with their drinks. Simon rattled off several dishes, glancing at Elliott as if for confirmation. Elliott nodded, although none of those food words were making any sense to him tonight. For all he knew, Simon had ordered pickled sheep eyeballs with sriracha sauce.
“Was that too much?” Simon asked as soon as Zach was gone. “I kind of ordered a lot.”
Elliott smiled at him. “No, it was fine.”
“Good. I get hungry when I’m—” Simon patted his belly. “I get hungry a lot, actually. As you can tell.”
Elliott had no idea how to respond to that. He liked Simon’s substantial body—liked it a lot—but he wasn’t about to blurt that out. So instead he nodded like an idiot and reached for his water. Which he promptly knocked over, sending a flood of icy liquid over the paper tablecloth and onto his lap.
“Shit!” Elliott jumped up, sending his chair scooting back against the one behind him. The woman sitting there made a startled noise, but Elliott was too busy dabbing a napkin frantically and ineffectually over his crotch to deal with her.
Simon jumped up too and managed not to ram his chair into anyone. But he must have put too much weight on his bad leg, because he yelped, swore, and staggered back into his seat.
As everyone in the restaurant watched, Zach, the host, and a pretty waitress rushed over with handfuls of towels. While the waitress and host dealt with the puddle on the floor and the disaster on the table, Zach tried to wipe some of the water off Elliott, who grabbed the towel and did it himself. The worst part was that Zach kept apologizing, as if the spill was somehow his fault.
Eventually the flood was absorbed, the tableware replaced, and Elliott seated on his newly dried chair. Zach brought him a fresh glass of water.
“Maybe I should have a lid,” Elliott said. “Or a sippy cup.” His lap was still wet and cold, but there wasn’t anything he could do except spread a napkin over it.
“Hey, it’s no biggie, man. People do it all the time.”
Elliott doubted that. But he smiled, first at Zach and then, when Zach was gone, at Simon. “Are you okay? Your leg’s all right?”
Simon grimaced. “Yeah. I forget about the fucker sometimes. Sorry I wasn’t much help during your emergency.”
“I don’t think it was quite 911-worthy.” Although judging from the glares of the lady he’d played bumper chairs with, he’d come close to being assaulted.
“Not quite,” Simon agreed, then took a long drink of his beer, which had survived all the upset. Elliott drank his water—using two hands to hold the glass—and they stared at each other.
Simon began to tap on the table again. The rhythm seemed as if it might be a tune, but Elliott couldn’t identify it. “I’m not good with music,” he blurted.
Simon blinked. “What?”
“Music. I can’t sing or play any instruments, and I never really pay much attention to it. And John said I had bad taste.”
“Me and two of my cousins had a band when I was in high school. We sucked. I played, like, three chords.”
Elliott wondered what Simon had been like in high school. A lot cooler than Elliott, that was a given. “I was on the debate team,” Elliott admitted.
“Did you win?”
“Sometimes.”
“I couldn’t do that. Speaking in front of people freaks me out. In college, I had to do an oral presentation for one of my classes, and I got so nervous I had to go barf in the bathroom first. But then I was still nervous. I was afraid I was going to piss myself in front of the entire class.”
“I’d think—you know, policeman—you’d kind of have to be good at public speaking.”
Simon shrugged. “Not really. If I’m in uniform? With a badge and a gun? People sort of have to listen to me, so it’s not as bad. Jesus, I don’t know how you do it.”
“Do what?”
“Teach. You have to talk in front of people all the time. When you’re teaching in person, I mean, and not online. Not that there’s anything wrong with teaching online but . . . Christ.” He wiped his forehead and took another drink.
“When I’m teaching a class, people sort of have to listen to me,” Elliott pointed out with a grin. “If they want to pass, anyway.”
Zach brought them bread and butter—placing the dishes closer to Simon, which was probably safer—and told them their first plates would be arriving soon. But the loaf wasn’t sliced the whole way through, and when Elliott went to tear off a piece, he wrenched a little too hard and sent a chunk of crust flying. At least he didn’t hit the lady behind him.
He managed to butter his bread without incident.
“See?” He held up the slice. “I’m capable of eating and drinking without mayhem.”
Simon laughed. Unfortunately, he’d just taken a big bite of bread, and now he started to choke. Elliott looked on, alarmed, and wondered if he should try the Heimlich maneuver. But then Simon swigged his beer and washed the bread down.
“Sorry. I’m not very good in a crisis,” Elliott muttered.
A man and woman in their forties sat at the next table, both of them smartly dressed. Maybe on their way to a show at the Gallo Center after their meal. They were speaking softly, smiling a lot, and laughing. When Zach refilled their wineglasses, the couple clinked them together in a toast. Married? Maybe. They certainly seemed happy with each other.
Zach brought Simon another beer and refilled Elliott’s water. Then he returned with his arms laden with dishes, which he arrayed over the tabletop, naming each one as he set it down. “Enjoy your meal!” he said. “I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes.”
Simon and Elliott eyed the assortment of food. There was a lot of it. Enough to feed them, the twinkly couple next to them, the angry lady behind Elliott, plus her friend. “I ordered way too much,” Simon said mournfully.
“We can taste everything and bring the leftovers home.” Wait. Did that sound weird, as if they lived together, or at least as if Elliott was imagining them living together? Moving with extreme care, he took a few forkfuls from the nearest dishes and transferred them to his own plate. Nothing resembled sheep eyeballs.
Simon was hesitating, fork in hand. “Um . . . Shit. I’ve never done this before. Well, I’ve eaten before. Obviously. That’s not what I meant. But I’ve never done this before, and I’m not sure how it’s supposed to work.”
“How what’s supposed to work?”
Simon sighed. “A date.”
“You’ve . . . never been on a date?”
“No, I have.” As Elliott watched, Simon chose several dishes—seemingly at random—moved samples to his plate, and ate them steadily. His plate emptied almost at once, and he refilled it.
Elliott hadn’t yet eaten anything but the bread. He nibbled at his food. Pasta with squash in it. Tiny meatballs that tasted like lamb. A salad with cranberries and goat cheese. Some kind of mushy potato thing with green speckles. It was all probably delicious, but he was too focused on Simon to notice.
And Simon continued to shovel food into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten for days. Not that he was rude about it; his table manners were perfect, and he kept asking Elliott if it was okay to take more. He just ate a lot. After a while, Elliott settled back and watched. It was entertaining, both for the quantity consumed but also because Simon was so nice to look at. His mouth was generous, as if it was meant to be used often and with enthusiasm, and his brown eyes were as soft as suede. He was good with his hands too, wielding cutlery and glassware with a surprising amount of grace.
Zach came by a couple of times to check on them and refill Elliott’s glass. On the third visit, the dishes were all empty. “Can I get you anything else?”
Elliott would have said no, but Simon was still toying absently with his fork. “How about dessert?” Elliott said.
Il Piatto had three options that night: chocolate cake, tiramisu, and a poached pear thing. Elliott ordered one of each, plus espresso. If Zach felt judgmental, he hid it behind an easy grin. Probably looking forward to a hefty tip.
“I can’t believe I ate all that,” Simon said after Zach zoomed away.
“It was all really good.”
“Yeah. But Jesus. It was a lot. Um . . . I have no idea how to ask this without being completely awkward . . .”
Although that introduction made Elliott nervous, he forced a smile. “My pants are still wet. I don’t think you have to worry about being awkward.”
Simon scratched his beard. “Yeah, well, I can sure as hell try.” He huffed out a breath. “Who’s supposed to pay for dinner? I mean, we could go dutch, and that’s fine, but I don’t know if maybe it’s weird for a first date. Or I can pay for everything—I’m totally cool with that especially since I ate about ten times as much as you. And you drove. But maybe that would offend you? I don’t know.”
“It’s a date.”
“Right. But . . . I’ve never done this with a guy. Just girls. So I don’t know if the rules are the same.”
While Simon was blushing, Elliott felt himself pale. “Um . . . never?”
“No.”
“So you’re . . . uh . . . inexperienced?” Elliott had never been anyone’s first, and he had no desire to be. Way too much responsibility.
“Oh, I’ve fucked men,” Simon said. Loudly. Which not only caught the attention of the couple at the next table but was also overheard by Zach as he approached with their desserts. He dropped the plates, which landed with a tremendous clatter on the floor. And he didn’t even scramble to pick up the mess—he was too busy holding his knees and laughing hysterically.
Simon hid his face in his hands.
Eventually Zach and his colleagues cleaned up the mess, and Zach delivered replacement desserts as he tried very hard to keep a straight face.
“Oh God,” Simon said. Then he picked up his fork and gobbled half of the tiramisu. He reached for the chocolate cake next. “I am so sorry.”
Elliott hadn’t been particularly embarrassed by the scene—his own thing with the water had probably exhausted his mortification points for the evening. So he just grinned and shrugged, then snagged a bite of the pear. It was good, but watching Simon scarf it down was more enjoyable than eating it himself. He imagined kissing Simon right now. His mouth would taste so sweet.
As Simon was swallowing, an epiphany hit Elliott—one that should have occurred to him much earlier. Simon—handsome ex-cop Simon—was nervous. About Elliott. About their date. And somehow that realization relaxed him. He no longer felt like such a fool for all the lost sleep and panicky running he’d experienced over the week.
“I’m really honored to be your first male date,” Elliott finally said. “Thank you.”
“I’m such a moron.”
“You’re not. And dinner tonight is completely on me because I’m the one who asked you out—and because I’d really like to pay.”
“Even though I ate enough for an army?”
“Especially because of that,” Elliott replied with a smile.
“I eat when I’m nervous. Hell, I eat all the time. But extra then.”
“And I spill things.”
That made Simon chuckle, which was a good thing. “But you’ve dated men before. The ex, at least.”
“Sure. Although to be honest, he didn’t want us to be seen together in public, so we hardly ever went out. Anyway, how about if we stop worrying about what we’re supposed to do on a date and just . . . let things happen?”
Simon cocked his head a bit. “Complete with spills and gorging?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. But I still want to polish off that tiramisu.”
Elliott gestured at the plate. “By all means.”
Simon ate more slowly now, which was fine. Elliott didn’t feel hurried. The couple next to them paid and stood up, then flashed grins in Elliott and Simon’s direction before leaving. They’d had a memorable meal, at least.
“Do you want to explain the no-dating thing?” Elliott asked.
“Not much to explain, really. Like I told you before, I didn’t realize I was gay until a couple of years ago. I mean . . . I knew, but I didn’t know know. Like this one time I had a really bad toothache, and I sort of acted like if I pretended it wasn’t there, it would go away. It didn’t. I ended up needing a root canal.”
“I’m the root canal?” Elliott stared into his empty espresso cup.
“No! Jesus, I didn’t mean it that way. It was just a lot easier for me not to be gay, so I kind of went with that for a while. Until I couldn’t anymore. Then I hooked up with some guys, but that was just sex.”
“Apps?”
Simon snorted a laugh. “Sometimes. Or this bar in Oakland. It’s a dive, but at least none of the guys there are real picky.”
Although Elliott wondered why Simon thought a lack of standards was necessary for him to be found desirable, he didn’t ask. Another question was more important. “So what made you decide to go out with me?”
“The trouble with my leg, it’s given me a lot of time to mull things over. All those hours sitting around in hospitals and shit. I’m not like you, Prof—never was much of a thinker. But with nothing much else to do, I decided I didn’t really want to be a cop anymore. And . . . I decided that pretending I wasn’t gay maybe wasn’t as easy as I thought.”
Elliott nodded. He knew a life crisis could lead to a lot of introspection and reexamining of priorities.
“Then I found your books,” Simon continued. “And I’d never read anything like them before. Got me thinking about who I am in a new way. ’Cause it’s not just the sex, right? I haven’t gotten laid since I got shot, but that doesn’t make me any straighter. I could be a monk but I’d still be gay.”
“So . . . you’re getting to know yourself.”
“Exactly!”
Elliott knew this was an excellent idea. Since ancient Egyptian times, philosophers have said Know thyself. And Elliott was firmly convinced that unless a person was comfortable and confident in his own self-identity, he’d never have a meaningful relationship with anyone else. But that led to sticky questions. What did Simon want from him? Mentoring? Was Simon even attracted to him?
Maybe asking him would be best. Clear the air. Avoid misunderstandings. Elliott opened his mouth, but before he could find a tactful way to word the question, someone tapped on the outside of their window. Elliott didn’t recognize the man, but Simon blanched. “Shit.”
“Someone you know?”
“My cousin.” Simon glanced around quickly, as if searching for an escape route, but his cousin was already walking to the front door. The restaurant’s back door wasn’t visible; it was probably around the corner, past the bathrooms.
“Do you want me—” Elliott began.
Simon shook his head. “Too late. But thanks.”
The cousin bore a close resemblance to Simon, but he wasn’t as sexy. He was thinner and a few years younger. He wore jeans and, beneath an unzipped hoodie, a T-shirt emblazoned with the logo for Pita Palace. His confident strides brought him quickly to their table, where he clapped a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “Hey, Si! What’re you doing here? Scoping out the competition?”
Simon looked as if he might have swallowed his tongue. “I’m having dinner with a friend,” he managed to choke out. “We just finished, actually.”
The cousin raised his eyebrows and turned to Elliott with his hand held out. “Hi, I’m Ashur Odisho. Si’s cousin.”
Elliott shook his hand. “Elliott Thompson.”
“Are you one of Si’s cop buddies?”
“No.” Elliott wanted to laugh at the idea of anyone mistaking him for a cop. “I’m a history professor.”
“Not Si’s usual crowd.” Ashur turned to Simon. “How come you didn’t eat at the Palace?”
“Because maybe once in a while I feel like eating something different.”
“But we haven’t seen you around in a while. Are you trying to avoid us or something?”
“We’re just having a nice dinner.”
Ashur looked back and forth between Simon and Elliott, the gears obviously turning in his brain. But Elliott maintained a poker face and Simon didn’t say a word, and finally Ashur grunted. “Okay. I guess I’ll let you get back to it.” He patted Simon again, exchanged a final brief pleasantry with Elliott, and left.
Simon was still pale. “Fuck,” he groaned.
“Is he going to out you to your parents?”
“I don’t know. I mean . . . there’s nothing really to out. We’re having dinner together, not fucking on the table. But they’ll speculate.”
Elliott wanted to offer his sympathy but was afraid that would only make things worse. “I should have picked a less visible restaurant.”
“Not your fault. I should have known one of my relatives would walk by. The Palace is only a few blocks away, and my family members pop up everywhere. Like dandelions. Or maybe thistles.” Although Simon attempted a smile, he was clearly miserable.
Zach brought the bill a few moments later, but Elliott noted all of the desserts and a few of the other dishes were missing. He waved at the bill. “You left a bunch of stuff off.”
“Comped it, dude. ’Cause I’m really sorry about dropping everything. That was, like, really unprofessional of me.”
Soon afterward, Elliott and Simon walked to the car. It was a short walk, yet Elliott half expected something to explode in front of them or the sidewalk to collapse into an enormous sinkhole. Or maybe another Odisho would pop out from behind some bushes. But no disasters befell them. The car even started right away, and traffic on the way home was light. Simon and Elliott remained silent for the short drive.
Then they were in Simon’s driveway, still not speaking but with the engine humming smoothly. “Thanks for the date,” Simon finally said, his voice quiet yet rumbly.
“Not all dates are like that.” Thank God.
“Well, it was interesting. Good food.” Simon placed his hand on Elliott’s thigh. “Good company.”
Oh no. That one little bit of contact—that broad palm and those wide fingers lying heavy on his jeans—was enough to send Elliott’s libido into emergency overdrive. His heart sped, his throat constricted, his face flushed, and his dick woke up and remembered how it used to have fun. Elliott froze, unsure what to do next.
But then Simon shifted in his seat and leaned toward Elliott, and Elliott leaned toward him, and despite the interloping emergency brake and Simon’s cane, they kissed.
It was a surprisingly good kiss, considering it was their first. As predicted, Simon tasted delicious, and his warm, plush lips and soft beard felt wonderful against Elliott’s skin. Simon tightened his grip on Elliott’s leg slightly while Elliott reached over and grasped one of Simon’s strong shoulders.
“That was nice,” Simon said when they moved apart. He briefly traced his finger along Elliott’s cheek and then across Elliott’s lips—a touch perhaps even more erotic than the kiss.
“Yes.”
Elliott wanted a lot more kisses like that, hopefully accompanied by lots of bare skin. Reality intruded, however, as it had the unfortunate tendency to do. “What do you want from me?” Elliott whispered. He wasn’t demanding, but he needed to know.
Simon sighed. “I don’t know. You’re . . . you’re something special. But you saw me tonight. I’m a goddamn mess, and I don’t mean the leg.”
“I don’t think you’re a mess. Or if you are, well, I’m an even bigger one.”
“It’s not a contest,” Simon said with a gentle smile.
Trying to block the arousal still coursing through his body, Elliott shook his head. “I spent a lot of years . . . skulking with John. I totally understand that you’re not comfortable being out, but I can’t skulk anymore.”
“I get it. Fuck, that wouldn’t be fair to you at all. But I don’t know if I have the balls . . .”
“You need to be comfortable with what you’re doing.” Elliott wasn’t really as charitable and understanding as he sounded. He simply realized from hard experience that if his partner had doubts about the relationship, the entire enterprise was doomed. Better not to drag them both through the agony, especially since Simon—unlike John—was a genuinely nice human being.
“I’m still gonna read your books, okay?”
“Good. And if you want to stop by, I’m almost always home. I’ve got a lot more books inside.”
“I know.”
They kissed again, but this time it was just a quick peck on the lips. Elliott watched as Simon hobbled up the driveway. Simon turned to wave before he closed the door, and Elliott waved back.
At home, Elliott changed out of his still-damp jeans and into sweats and a T-shirt, and he seriously considered going for a run. But although his appetite hadn’t matched Simon’s, he’d had a lot of water. He’d probably end up getting only a few blocks before he’d have to pee. He booted up his laptop instead, intending to check on his students. Somehow, though, he found himself browsing that familiar website, scrolling though the Recommended for You sections. The algorithms were on point tonight, sending him a slew of tempting titles. He added a half-dozen books to his shopping cart.
Just as his cursor hovered over the Place Your Order button, the doorbell rang.