Page 46 of Summer Lessons
They were at a light, so Terry glanced at him. “You say that like everybody thinks that,” he said quietly. “Life isn’t always as easy as just being there.”
Mason grunted. “God, no. Trust me. I’ve been there my entire life—I’ve just never been the right person in that spot.”
Terry made a wounded noise. “That’s bad,” he said unhappily. “If you’re not the right person, how am I even going to come close?”
And in spite of the crappy day, Mason’s heart twisted. “Come to my house, eat my brother’s lasagna, and sit next to me on the couch,” he said simply. “I swear to God, that’s all I need.”
Terry reached over and gently touched Mason’s thigh. “That much I can do,” he said.
Mason was so happy, his eyes burned. Or maybe his painkillers were wearing off—he was really too tired to tell.
THEY STOPPEDfor a soda and a snack, and then Mason got to sit in the recliner as master of the DVR while Dane recruited Terry to help in the kitchen. He pretended to watch a rerun ofHow I Met Your Motherwhen he was, in fact, listening to Dane try to tease some conversation out of Mason’s squirrely houseguest.
“So, you service PIN machines?” Dane asked after he’d put Terry to work ripping up lettuce for the salad.
“Yeah. It’s… well, boring. There’s not much to it, usually. You check if the network is up, you check if the machine is getting power, make sure the sensors aren’t gummed up. Biggest problem is that people are stupid.”
Dane chuckled. “Define stupid.”
“Like, ‘Help me, Mr. Jefferson, sir, my machine don’t work because it’s ten years old and nobody can read the numbers and it only has room for a four-digit PIN and most people have a longer one than that. And no, I don’t want to buy a new system, you must be working for the company, how many commissions do you get, boy, and gee, can you blow me while we’re bitching at you ’cause you look pretty cute in them jeans!’”
Mason grimaced from his throne, and he heard Dane making sympathetic noises in the kitchen.
“Yeah, you’re right. People are stupid. I work the emergency clinic two days a week now as part of my internship. We get these cats so infested with fleas they’re sick with it, and people yelling at us for putting pesticides on their animals and how it’s going to make them sicker. It’s like, ‘Well, you could have given your cat some flea treatment a month ago, but you didn’t, did you, so stop yelling at us now!’”
“Ugh,” Terry muttered. “Yeah, that’s irritating. I mean, most of the time when a doctor tells you something, it’s pretty important. I don’t know why people suddenly think they know better when it’s an animal.”
Dane grunted. “’Cause sometimes the doctor is an outdated idiot. Don’t trust all the people in the white coats, Jefferson—but don’t blow off someone who’s making sense either.”
Terry’s pained grunt came in loud and clear. “God, I hate it when people tell me that. I’m not that smart—sometimes I just need someone to tell me what to do!”
Mason’s eyes flew open, and he remembered with feverish clarity their time in bed, and how much he’d hungered to have someone direct him, tell him it would be okay, just trust.
“Don’t we all!” Dane laughed. “And it’s a good thing you’re dating my brother, then—he’s a bossy asshole on the best of days.”
It was on the tip of Mason’s tongue to holler “I amnot!” from the living room when he heard Terry stammer.
“Dating? We’re not… wait—we’re just playing sports together and… I mean, dating, don’t you have to go on…. What’s it called what we’re doing, anyway?”
Oh dear.
“Dating, Jefferson. You have chosen dates and times to meet and engage in both platonic and nonplatonic activities. That’s dating.”
Terry’s skeptical grunt echoed through the living room. “Why in the hell would your brother want to date me when he can fuck me for free?”
The sound of breaking glassware followed, and for a panicked moment Mason thought his brother had dropped the lasagna. He jerked upright, moved his swollen ankle injudiciously, and let out a sound like Snoopy getting hit in the balls.
“Alggghhh….”
“Just a glass!” Dane hollered. “Don’t panic, we still have food!”
“Good to know,” Mason gasped. “Could you maybe send Terry here with a glass of milk and my pain meds?” It was obviously time for another dose.
Terry came in, milk in hand, and put a Vicodin in his palm. Mason had recovered himself by then and curled his fingers around Terry’s, then looked up into that wide-eyed harlequin face. He still had smudges on his cheeks from the game, although his hands were clean down to the fingernails.
“It’s called dating when you want to spend time with someone,” he said, holding fast when Terry tried to pull away.
“Oh God,” Terry mumbled. “I didn’t know you could—”