Tom started snoring three minutes after they left the Shawnee Inn. One minute he was giving directions, the next he fell silent. Then a soft snuffle drifted over from his side of the car. Frank glanced over and then turned his attention back to the road. Where it would stay, damn it, lest he wreck his car again. Having it fixed this once had been a miracle—and his insurance record was forever shot.
Of course, if he changed his primary residence to Pennsylvania, his premium would decrease.
He glanced over once more, quickly admiring the line of Tom’s neck as he reclined back against the seat. His profile, turned slightly toward Frank. His sharp eyebrows, serious nose, and straight mouth. His skin was still darker than Frank’s—not that age would wash him out—but a pallor existed beneath the perpetual tan that hadn’t been there before. Had he not slept all week?
When he paid attention to the road again, Frank noted that he’d missed the turn off for East Stroudsburg and was about to pass under the interstate. A welcome center had been constructed on the left, enticing visitors who crossed the bridge into Pennsylvania to stop in for maps, refreshments, and a bathroom break. Frank drove past, following the river until he found himself in the small township of Delaware Water Gap.
Surprisingly, it hadn’t changed—much. The park was still there, the old trolley. The diner had a neighbor, a farm stand/restaurant arrangement advertising fresh pie daily. The road dipped through the village, past the two inns, both popular with hikers on the Appalachian Trail, and Frank took the next right, following another memory up the hill toward the country club. Halfway up the steep incline, he turned into the parking lot for Lenape Lake, and slowed his vehicle to a crawl to account for the uneven pavement.
Being a Saturday afternoon, the lot was full. Hikers were coming and going, sweaty from the trail, sweaty from the drive across the river. His car stood out and if he stepped outside, he’d clash with the scenery. He wasn’t dressed for this. Frank continued past the first lot and smiled as he noted the scrubby road angling away from the exit. It was still there. He drove past the Do Not Enter sign, following the ever-narrowing road until it started to feel like a bad idea. Just as he wondered if he’d have to reverse all the way to the first lot, the road widened into the circle of the overflow lot. A gate marked the continuation of the fire road, but Frank was content with the privacy he’d found.
He cut the engine and let his hands drop to his lap. Into the quiet floated warm air scented with birch and pine, encouraged through the open windows by a light breeze. The sweat on the back of his neck began to cool. Tom continued to snore.
Frank pulled out his phone. Surprised he had a signal, he dealt with a couple of messages, checked his social media accounts with less enthusiasm than he might muster for a colonoscopy, and began to question what he was doing. Parking in the middle of nature wasn’t really his thing. He’d liked the woods as a boy, but had never taken to hiking or any outdoor pursuit that didn’t include a pool bar as an adult. Yet here he was, parked at one of their old spots. He and Tom had been here a million times— Well, at least twenty if you counted each year of their friendship twice.
He indulged in another bout of Tom-gazing, feeling slightly guilty about his unabashed perving. Tom’s arms caught his attention this time. Folded loosely in his lap, wrists crossed, his arms had the definition of a man who did more than peck at a keyboard. Frank could easily imagine Tom lifting slate tiles up to the roof, hammering nails, patching things, repairing them. Performing the manly sort of tasks Frank had left somewhere between high school and college. Not that he didn’t know how to use a hammer, but he was sure he wouldn’t swing one with the same focus as Tom.
Did Tom chop wood as well? Frank could easily imagine him stripped to the waist, lean back and broad shoulders flexing as he swung an axe up and down with precise force. Tom would chop neatly. He might dress like a bum, but he did everything neatly and with intent, which was probably why he was such a good photographer.
Perhaps staying in the Poconos suited Tom in a way. Maybe it hadn’t been quite the sacrifice Frank had supposed it might.
Frank reached across the middle of the car and brushed his thumb over one of Tom’s small, perfect ears. If it were even just a little pointed, he could be an elf. Frank smiled as he sifted his fingers through Tom’s hair, moving it away from Tom’s face. Tom shifted into his touch and Frank massaged his way over Tom’s scalp.
Tom shifted again and opened his eyes. “What are you doing?”
Loving you.
Frank removed his hand, or tried to. Tom grabbed his wrist. Pressed their palms together and interlaced their fingers. Then he turned to look outside the car. “Where are we?”
“On the fire road behind Lenape Lake.”
“Because . . .”
“I missed the turn back to East Stroudsburg and then decided to follow the river for a while.”
Tom smiled. “I haven’t been over here in a while. How long was I asleep?”
“Maybe an hour.”
Covering a yawn, Tom said, “Sorry. It’s been a long week.”
“No trouble at all.”
“Want to go for a walk?”
“Not really.”
“Sunset is real pretty from Mount Minsi.”
“That’s a two-hour hike and we’d have to walk back in the dark. And I’m not wearing the right shoes.”
Tom laughed. “Do you have the right shoes at home?”
“Probably. I seem to remember buying a pair of Merrell walking shoes when they were popular.”
Tom lifted their hands and pressed his lips to Frank’s knuckles. “Ah, Frankie. Don’t ever change.”
Ignoring the fact that his knuckles had just received the blessing his lips hoped for, Frank said, “But I have. I’m not the same boy who left.” And never came back.
“Yes, you are. You’ve grown up is all.”
Before Frank could lean in, cozy up the atmosphere a little, Tom was tugging on his hand again. “Let’s go look at the lake, then. Be a shame to drive all the way out here and not at least do that.”
Frank didn’t want to look at the lake. He wanted to . . . not flirt, either. He wanted to move past that stage. He wanted to be inside Tom. His skin, his heart—every part of him. And his need made him awkward. He never had trouble talking to men. He was the life of every party. But every time he shared a quiet moment with Tom, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and his palms sweated. It was like being fifteen all over again.
Tom had let go and was climbing out of the car. He didn’t offer his hand again as they walked along the fire road.
Lenape Lake was more a pond than a lake. A green pond. Still, it was pretty in the late-afternoon light, lily pads outlined by discreet shadows extending end to end and overlapping the mossy shoreline. There was a small pebbled beach marked by two No Swimming signs. The green water wasn’t very inviting. Also, there was an abundance of frogs and they were making a lot of noise.
Tom led him past the beach and onto a narrow trail that followed the shoreline for a while before angling away into the trees. The trail turned back toward the lake and spilled out onto a private beach of packed mud. A lopsided wooden bench offered a view across the lake. Tom sat and Frank perched carefully beside him, only settling his weight when the bench didn’t sink beneath them.
The frogs weren’t as loud on this side of the lake, and the air was still, as though the slight breeze couldn’t be bothered reaching across the water. Frank sat and sweated and again questioned what he was doing. What they were doing. Then Tom took his hand, pulled it into his lap, and played with his fingers. Frank looked over to find Tom peeking up at him in a sort of sideways glance.
“What?” Frank prompted.
“Are you going to wait forever?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Us.”
“Tom—”
“It’s because of back then, isn’t it? And the kiss at the creek.”
Frank drew in a humid breath. “I think I made my position clear.”
“So you are waiting for me.”
Was Tom asking what he thought Tom was asking? “Y-yes.”
“Ah, Frankie.”
Tom closed his eyes and squeezed Frank’s hand, and Frank wondered if this was it, the moment when Tom took what was left of his heart and shredded it into unrecognizable pieces. He gazed down at their hands, at the white edging around Tom’s knuckles. At the lean arms he’d been admiring a short while ago. At the profile he’d never forgotten, the man he didn’t know how not to love . . . and waited. He should get up and walk away, but a part of him wanted to know whether if he stayed for this final moment, if he let his heart be wrecked beyond repair, then maybe he could stop.
Tom opened his eyes. Reached up with his other hand, laying his palm against the side of Frank’s face. Tears gathered behind Frank’s eyes. But he wouldn’t close them. He’d face this as he’d have to face every day after. He’d take it like a man and somehow figure out a way—
Reality blurred and Tom’s face was next to his, lips next to his, touching his. Frank breathed. Tom breathed. Then Tom kissed him. Sweetly, tentatively. He moved back and Frank wanted to cry out. How cruel was Tom going to be? But then Tom was leaning in to kiss him again.
Pulling his fingers free, Frank set both his hands against Tom’s shoulders and pushed him back. “Stop.” Tom stopped. Met his gaze. “What are you doing?”
“I’m giving you what you want.”
“What I . . . Don’t be an ass.”
“I’m not trying to be. I . . .” Tom flushed. “I want this too.”
“This isn’t a game, Tom. You can’t kiss me and then try to drown yourself in the lake. I can’t do that again. I can’t—”
Tom touched two fingers to Frank’s lips and shook his head. “I won’t.” He looked so damn sincere. Frightened too. And so much like his Tommy.
Frank didn’t breathe and it seemed as if Tom didn’t either. They remained locked in place, hands to shoulders, fingers to lips. Eye to eye. Perhaps a minute passed, Frank continued searching Tom’s gaze for truth and found only what he felt: a desperate loneliness and crushing need. He broke the impasse, pulling Tom forward, nearly catching his fingers between them, and kissed him—hard and with no finesse. Mashing his lips against Tom’s as though he had to seal them together, as though only fused like this could they withstand whatever might come next.
And he was crying. Could feel the ache of tears in his throat, the wetness of them against his cheeks. His chest heaved and his lips refused to move. His whole body was stiff, even the jerk of his shoulders as his lungs bellowed in and out with something that felt an awful lot like a sob.
Tom pulled away just enough to press his lips to Frank’s cheek. Frank’s eyes, closing each with a kiss. The other cheek, his temple, the side of his nose, his lips again. “Frankie,” he whispered between kisses. “Don’t cry.”
Frank couldn’t help it. He hated it, but couldn’t stop. It hurt. His throat burned and his chest felt like it might burst. “I’m sorry,” he croaked.
Tom shook his head. “Don’t. This is my fault. I’m so sorry, Frank. If I could take it back, I would. If we could redo that night . . .” His breath was a quiet rasp. “I’d probably do the same thing, but I’d answer your letters. Tell you what went wrong.”
“Tell me now.”
Tom shook his head.
“Please, Tommy.”
“It was so long ago and it doesn’t matter. Not anymore.”
Frank lifted his chin, defiance burning through this horrible combination of sorrow and hurt and love. He had to know, needed to know. He might not have wondered every day for the past thirty years, but he’d wondered often enough. That night had changed him. Kissing Tom and being rejected for that kiss had defined him for so long that letting the moment go felt impossible.
And yet . . .
Tom’s brown eyes communicated more than sorrow. Regret pinched his brow, and the shadow of everything Frank felt underlined all of it. Confusion and old pain.
They couldn’t undo the last thirty years. Time had marched on, folding over the hurt and turning it into scars. They couldn’t change it. Best thing to do would be to let it go.
Could he?