Page 22

Marcos

Nate has texted me no less than fourteen times today, and I’m becoming alarmed. I responded to the first before getting caught up in school. Now, checking my phone after class reveals a string of messages from him that become increasingly unhinged the more I read.

Nate

Hey! Good morning

Marcos

Morning.

Nate

How are you?

Are you busy this weekend?

Saturday, specifically. At 10:30 in the morning.

And actually, I already checked the baseball schedule and you don’t have a game.

And I heard Max talking about going out with Luke so I know you don’t have plans with him either.

So hopefully you’re free to have plans with me.

Please.

Come on, I promise you’ll have fun.

Please say yes.

You can’t see me, but I am down on bended knee begging you to go on a date with me.

You can’t ignore me forever, I am very tenacious.

I know where you live.

Okay, I don’t really. Sorry.

If I did know where you lived though, I would come and find you on Saturday at 10:30.

Marcos

Dude.

Nate

HE LIVES.

Marcos

I was in class. Glad I was able to witness that stream of consciousness though.

Nate

I live to serve. So is it a yes to Saturday? Do I need to beg again or will the last three hours of messages suffice?

Marcos

What would we be doing?

Nate

I cannot tell you that. It’s a surprise. But I PROMISE you’ll like it. I would bet my left testicle that you’ll love it.

“Ay dios mío,” I mumble down at my phone as I head toward the parking lot. Glancing up, I make sure I’m not about to run myself into any trees or people, before turning my attention back to Nate.

Marcos

Okay.

Nate

Okay??? Okay!!!

I’ll pick you up at 10:30, what’s your address?

This is a date, by the way. We’re not hanging out as friends, or doing a quicky in the truck.

D-A-T-E.

Prepare yourself.

Marcos

Can you just tell me what we’re doing?

Nate

Nope. Wear boardshorts and a T-shirt. Super chill.

Marcos

I don’t like swimming. We’re not swimming, are we?

Nate? No ocean activities, please. I can’t swim well.

Nate

Staying on land, I promise. Trust me, lovely.

Biting my lip, I slide into the driver’s seat of my car and drop my phone into the cup holder.

Saturday. Three days away. As if on cue, my imagination conjures up images of Nate trying to hold my hand or kiss me goodbye.

As always, my brain likes to supply the worst-case scenario—me having a panic attack, or pulling away and hurting his feelings.

Instead of letting the anxiety spiral, though, I do what Dr. Rosen instructed me to do: control the narrative.

Driving home, I picture Nate touching my arm.

His hands are callused and a little rough—strong, working hands.

It doesn’t bother me that he’s touching me, because I want him to.

I kiss him because I want to, and that doesn’t bother me either.

Good job, imaginary Marcos , I applaud myself. Now, we just have to make sure that’s how it actually goes in real life.

Kicking off my shoes in the direction of the hall closet, I let the door slam behind me and yell for Max.

A muffled thump comes from his room before he pulls open the door, one leg in a pair of pants as though he were midway through getting dressed.

His hair is a copper halo of frizz around his head, probably having just yanked his shirt over his head. He looks so ridiculous, I laugh.

“Sorry,” I apologize. “Didn’t mean to startle you. You can get dressed.”

Huffing, he shoves his door wide and finishes pulling his pants up. “Jesus, Marcos. You scared the shit out of me. What’s up? ”

I follow him as he steps back into his room, resting a shoulder against his doorframe. He pats his hair, as though any amount of finger combing will help get it in the right spot.

“So, I’ve got a date on Saturday,” I tell him.

“Oh?” he asks, and I smirk when a faint blush colors his cheeks.

“With Nate. Apparently, I’m to wear boardshorts, but we aren’t swimming. Oh, and he somehow knew I had no plans with you this weekend.”

“Okay, so I told him,” Max blurts, abandoning his hair and looking at me sheepishly. “He asked about you, and I gave him a few ideas. What’s your favorite flower, by the way?”

Diverted by this question, I stare at him. “I don’t…I don’t know?”

“Yeah, me either,” Max agrees. “Nate asked.”

Shaking my head at that little nugget of information, I pull out my phone and hand it to Max. He types in my password, and the screen lights up on Nate’s and my open text conversation. He snorts, using his thumb to scroll through the messages.

“So, you going to clue me in to what we’re doing on this date?” I ask him.

“Nope,” he replies, popping the P and grinning. “You’ll like it, though.”

Nodding, I idly run my heel up and down the opposite calf.

I didn’t actually expect him to tell me, and I don’t really mind that it’ll be a surprise.

It’s been a long time since Nate and I have interacted face to face, though, and the few times we have in the past were quick encounters.

What if he doesn’t actually like me when he’s forced to spend time with me that doesn’t include sucking dick?

“It’s been getting better, hasn’t it?” Max interrupts my thoughts softly. I look up at him. “Are you worried about him trying to?—”

“Touch me?” Max nods. “Actually, no. I told him not to in the past and he was fine. And yeah, it has been getting better. I’ve been practicing.”

Max nods again, probably thinking about all the times over the summer I practiced on him.

I’ve never been so affectionate in my life, but the past couple months I’ve done my best to touch Max and Luke as often as possible, even if it was just a quick press of my fingers to an arm.

Each time I did it without any problems I got a little thrill, feeling like I’d conquered something far more monumental than a minor touch aversion.

“I don’t know. Not really sure why he’s trying so hard to go out with me anyway.”

Max scrunches up his nose like he smells something rotten. “Uhm, because you’re fucking great? Why wouldn’t he try hard—you’re a catch.”

“Okay, Max.” I snort, shaking my head and straightening up. “You headed out to see Luke?”

“Don’t change the subject,” he admonishes, pointing a finger at me. I raise my hands in surrender. “You do want to go out with him, right?”

“Yeah,” I tell him, voice low. I really want to go out with him. It’s all I’ve been thinking about all damn summer—his pretty green eyes and scarred brown skin; the way he so obviously wants me, and isn’t shy about showing it. I repeat more confidently, “Yeah, I want to go out with him. ”

“Well, good! You’ll have fun. Nate is, like, the life of the fucking party. You won’t be bored, trust me.”

“I wasn’t worried about that. I’m more concerned about him being bored with me .”

“Impossible.” Max scoffs. “If you run out of things to talk about, just bring up horses, or…llamas or something.”

I laugh. “Good call, Max. When in doubt, talk about llamas.”

“Shut up, he’s a rancher. It makes sense! Stop laughing.” He huffs, grinning and shoving me as he walks past and out the door. Bending over to tug on his shoes, he glances up at me. “Do you want to come to the diner with me? Luke’s working.”

“No, I’m all right. You’re driving, though, right?” I clarify. “Not walking?”

“Driving,” he confirms. “But I’ll still share my location with you.”

I nod, grateful that I didn’t have to ask. “All right. Thanks. Have fun at the diner.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Maybe some planks or sit-ups on my bedroom floor, because apparently I’m going to be wearing boardshorts on Saturday.”

Max tips his head back and laughs. When he walks out the door, he flicks the back of his hand against my stomach.

“I don’t know, Marcos. Washboard abs before Saturday seems like a tall order to me.”

Despite my best efforts, I do not manage a six-pack nor even a two-pack.

Tugging a shirt down over my dismally ab- less stomach, I step back enough that I can see most of my body in the bathroom mirror.

Black swim trunks and a white T-shirt. Nothing special, but hopefully Nate won’t expect more of me.

Frowning, I card my fingers through my hair a couple times, trying to manage the cool messy look that Luke favors.

After a few seconds of trying, I give up with an annoyed huff at myself.

We’re going to be outside, the wind will fuck my hair up anyway.

Leaving my bedroom, I’m glad that Max and Luke aren’t here to give me a hard time when Nate picks me up.

I feel so out of sorts, it’s got me on edge.

The practice of dating has been off my radar for a long time—a mixture of trepidation and excitement sits in my stomach, the cocktail making me feel slightly nauseas.

A knock at the door has me wiping my clammy palms on my boardshorts, and squaring my shoulders as I go to answer it.

If I thought seeing Nate would somehow make me less nervous, I’m quickly disappointed.

He looks devastating, standing there wearing a dark green shirt that makes his eyes glow like emeralds. He seems taller than I remember—limbs long, body lean and strong. It’s like the David stepped off his plinth in Florence and decided to stroll around South Carolina.

“Finally,” he says on an exhale, smiling at me. I’m so distracted by the sight of him, the word doesn’t register right away.

“What?”

“Finally,” he repeats. “You’re a hard man to nail down. I started to think I might have imagined you.”

Stepping out and pulling the door closed behind me, I wonder what the hell I’m supposed to do. Hug him? Kiss him? Drop to my knees and bury my face in his crotch? This is why dating is overrated. Who the hell needs this kind of stress?

“Well, your imagination could use some work, if that’s the case,” I joke, but he doesn’t laugh. Instead, he reaches a hand out and touches my hair, right above my ear.