Page 64 of Beautiful Trauma
Ezra snorted. “Have you forgotten your confession about losing your virginity to Geoff at church camp?”
“No, but it didn’t happen in a cabin we shared with ten other boys.”
“Then how do you know about the squeaky sounds the beds made when boys climbed into bed with other boys? And where did Geoffrey debauch you?”
“Debauch?” I asked. “Have you helped yourself to Jess’s historical romance novels?”
“Are you avoiding my questions by asking your own?” Ezra challenged.
“I don’t want you to think poorly of me,” I said.
“Never going to happen, baby,” Ezra said with a confidence I didn’t feel.
“We used the guest pastor’s office, which happened to be Geoff’s dad during our week at camp.”
“Whoa,” Ezra said. “That’s an interesting form of lashing out against tyrannical parents.”
“Pastor Daily would kill us both if he ever found out,” I said, sheepishly.
“He won’t touch a hair on either of your heads,” Ezra replied fiercely. “Jesus, I can’t imagine growing up in the kinds of homes you did.”
“We didn’t know there was another world out there,” I said with a shrug. “We were homeschooled and were only allowed to socialize with other kids from our church. No cable television, video games, cell phones, or internet were permitted in our homes. When I finally found some freedom after I went to bible college, I went a little wild. My act of rebellion is something I’ll have to manage for the rest of my life.” It amazed me how far I’d come in a year. I could think and even speak about having HIV without self-loathing following, and none of it would be possible without the remarkable people around me, including the guy gripping my hand as if I might float away. “That’s enough heavy talk,” I said. “I’m looking forward to camping up on the ridge with you tonight. I noticed you only packed one sleeping bag.”
“Busted,” Ezra said sheepishly. “I can borrow an extra sleeping bag from my parents if sharing one with me is too much cuddling for you.”
I chuckled. “I practically sleep on top of you as it is.”
“I like it that way,” Ezra purred.
The Meyers’ farm was every bit as beautiful during my second visit, maybe more so because I’d seen the true beauty of the people residing inside it. It was dinnertime when we arrived, so we shared a meal of delicious smoked beef brisket with all the trimmings with Ezra’s parents before he led me to the barn and taught me how to saddle Bourbon Baby.
Ezra kissed my cheek when we finished and said, “Grip the saddle horn with your left hand, put your left foot in the stirrup, then pull yourself up and swing your right leg over the saddle.”
“Where’s your horse?” I asked.
“I thought we’d ride Bourbon Baby together since you’re new to horseback riding.”
“Oh, how Kip and Clarissa of you,” I said, batting my eyelashes playfully.
“I bet I can make you scream up on that ridge in ways good ole Kipster can only dream about,” Ezra said smugly.
“He’s mostly talk,” I agreed. “You’re a man of action.”
“You got that right. Ready?” Ezra asked.
“I hope I don’t make a fool of myself,” I said nervously.
“No one will laugh at you here, Henry. I promise.”
I replayed his instructions in my head then awkwardly seated myself on the saddle. Bourbon Baby took a couple of steps, and I tensed up. “What’s she doing?”
“She’s responding to your nervousness, baby. Relax and breathe. I still have the reins. Bourbon Baby isn’t going to bolt with you on her back.”
“She’s a retired racehorse,” I pointed out. “Bolting is what she does best.”
“She wasn’t a very good racehorse if that helps.” Bourbon Baby nickered like she understood what Ezra said.
“Way to piss off our horse, Ezra.”