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Trading my thumb for my cock, I push my way in, reveling in the squeeze of Rowan’s tight muscles around me. So tight I can hardly move, but I pump and pump, and gradually loosen him enough to fuck him right.

Rowan clamps his mouth over his forearm, muffling all the sounds his body yearns to project. The firm muscles along his back flex under my roaming palms.My man,I think as I beat my dick into him. Firm flicks of my hips have Rowan mewling into his arm, then into my pillow when he bunches it up under his chest.

As crazed as my lust is, I last much longer than Rowan’s one minute. I stay fucking him until we’re both sweating and panting by the time I finish—when I fill him like he filled me, and I jerk his cock until he’s painting the top sheet in his climax.

I tug the sheet onto the floor then pull Rowan’s spent body against me to cuddle among the warm breeze of the whirring box fans. I trace his placid bottom lip with my thumb, and he purses a kiss to it.

“Imagine,” I murmur, “doing that every night for the rest of our lives.”

A dazed chuckle rocks Rowan’s chest as he tightens his arms around me, picking his leg up over my hip again. “Fucking gay boy,” he rasps.

“One-hundred percent.” Not even one percentage point of doubt left over.

34

Rowan

We travel to Oakland in Tommy’s truck, adding miles and memories to the old Tacoma. It’s been a week since the funeral, and though Tommy will mourn for a long while, I feel his depression lifting with every day that passes.

My brave boy.

It’s hard for me to keep my hands off him, needing to soothe him constantly, just in case the hurt grows overwhelming. In the car, I keep my hand on his leg, or his shoulder, or holding the back of his neck. While we’re stretching our legs and shopping for road snacks at the gas station, I hold his hand and don’t let go. Only time I leave Tommy’s side is when we reach Paul’s building in Oakland, and I offer to haul Mav’s things from the parking garage while Tommy escorts Maverick to the third floor.

The condo is spacious for this side of the city. Probably the same size as Tommy’s house in Sacramento, but with humongous windows, an open floor plan, and a TV that screams Super Bowl watch party. Mav has his own room, already painted his favorite color—lavender—and already fixed up with new kid-sized furniture and toys from the list Tommy had texted Paul. The rug is a big soccer ball, and the framed promotional posters on the walls are all from the NCAA championship match.

“It’s Uncle Tommy!” Mav cheers, hopping and pointing at the poster showcasing Tommy’s picture perfect babyface, trying to look hard in his Hornet’s jersey.

“Thought he’d appreciate that,” Paul chuckles, proud of himself but not smug about it. Dude already has that dad vibe going. Dorky, slightly disheveled and adorably uncool. Reminds me of Matt, and I hope that’s a sign Mav is in good hands.

I’m holding one-third of Erica’s ashes in a wooden box the size of a watch box with a small latch and lock on it. While Mav is distracted rummaging through all his new toys, I trade the box into Tommy’s hands, and he trades it into Paul’s.

“It’s my sister,” he says, low voice turning lower. “For Mav, in case he wants it. You can give it to him now or when he’s older, but it’s for him.”

Paul nods with a sympathetic look. “I’ll keep it safe.”

I chime in, telling Paul there’s some of Erica’s things in the blue storage bin I left in the living room. Some things Tommy and his mom thought Mav might like one day as keepsakes.

We spend a few hours here, helping Mav get acquainted with his new home, and we all have lunch together at the table. Tommy leaves Mav his switch and makes sure it’s hooked up to the massive TV before we say our goodbyes. But it’s not really goodbye. We’ll visit often, and our second bedroom in San Jose can become a room for Mav in a pinch.

The day after Erica passed, when Tommy could hardly get out of bed, he asked me if I could help him raise Maverick if that was what Erica had wanted. It felt like a trap when he asked. While I knew it was grief and guilt provoking the question, I feared that saying the wrong thing during such a tender time would set a fissure in our relationship. I neededto support Tommy in any way I could, but I also promised to always be honest with him.

“I don’t know,” I had answered, lying with him on our sides in the middle of his bed. There were tears in my eyes, because there were tears in his, and because I was scared he’d be upset with me. “I love him, but…I don’t think I’m capable of raising a child right now. Maybe one day. Maybe never. I think I have a lot of work to do before I can be a good parent.”

He’d set his palm on the side of my face, stroking away my tears as if he was there to comfort me and not the other way around. “I understand,” he’d whispered. “Honestly, I don’t think I could do it either. I would try if I had to, but I’m glad I don’t have to. Does that make me a bad uncle?”

“Absolutely not,” I had implored. “You’re an incredible uncle, Tommy, but you’re also twenty-one. You’re still in school. Your life and your future are just as important as Mav’s. Paul is the one who’s meant to raise Mav now, and I’m gonna raise you.”

He’d huffed a quick chuckle that morphed into a sob as he’d crashed his face against my chest so my shirt could soak up his tears.

Now he hugs Mav fiercely, lifting the munchkin off his feet and swinging him around until he’s dizzy. Tommy smooches Mav’s cheek about a million times before letting him go and shaking Paul’s hand goodbye.

When Mav runs into my own arms, my heart melts a little. Makes me wonder if Tommy was this sweet when he was seven, and I think the answer is pretty obvious.

It’s wild to think that if I’d grown up different, and I hadn’t been so broken, maybe Tommy and I could have been friends most of our lives. By the time he started soccer, I was ten. I would have gone up and talked to him after the first ever matchwhere our teams went head to head, and I would have asked to be his friend. I would have beaten the everfucking snot out of those kids who jumped him for being gay. I would have told him I was gay, and we could figure it out together. We could have been together all this time.Childhood sweethearts.

Instead, I feared his beauty and his perfection, and I called him a terrible word because I hated myself too much to allow myself a friend.

It still hurts to think about. It hurts a hell of a lot. More than I ever let on to Tommy, because I don’t want him to have to keep proclaiming his forgiveness. Regret doesn’t go away just because there’s forgiveness, and regret is one of the many things I’m learning to cope with in therapy.