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FORTY-THREE

Jethro

After I hang up with Clay, I put the phone down and turn off the light. I close my eyes, imagining him somewhere in this same building, doing exactly the same thing. I can picture him lying in bed so clearly, one arm curved around his head on the pillow. It’s hard to believe that was once my nightly view.

Near the end of our doomed relationship in Busker, we finally started sharing a bed. I think it happened by accident the first time—like he was too sexually satisfied to get up and cross the room to his own bed.

Or maybe it was me. I can’t even remember anymore. All I know is that I liked it, but I tried not to think too much about it. I didn’t want it to mean anything.

Still, I’d wake up in the night and listen to him breathing slowly beside me. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was the sound of peace and acceptance. It’s taken me all this time to understand that I loved him. I loved him as much as I was capable of loving anyone.

He loved, me, too. And his brand of love was a purer sort than I’d ever experienced before. His love didn’t come with a price tag.

My family has always been more complicated. And it never lets up.

Earlier tonight, when my father had called me after the game, I’d assumed it was to say something consoling. Or at a minimum, to bitch about the ref’s bad call.

But nope. He hadn’t mentioned the game at all. “Guess what? Your sister is up for parole,” he’d said with obvious excitement. “I need you to write a letter in support of her progress. We’re all writing letters.”

“Wait,” I’d said, panicking. “Not Toby. You can’t tell him about the parole hearing. She’s not getting out, Dad.”

“She might. I have a good feeling.”

“Dad,” I’d groaned. “Don’t tell him.”

But I knew my request had come too late. Now my anger is keeping me awake. Shelby’s lawyer had warned us that parole is a very erratic process. It’s not fair for Toby to dream about his mom getting out when the odds are so low.

My father blew it, and I’m not even around to handle the damage. And now I’m supposed to write a letter? Dear parole board. I love my sister, but literally anything can happen if she gets out. Please let her out anyway because there are drugs inside your prison. And even your rehab facility. What the hell are you even doing?

Okay, not that version. I’ll have to workshop it.

I roll over and push my face into the pillow. If Clay were here, I wouldn’t be thinking about hockey or prisons. I’d be face down on him. I wouldn’t squander his attention, either, like I did when I was young.

It’s been hard dredging up the past, and realizing all the ways my younger self was stupid.

It’s been hard realizing that I still love him but can’t have him.

Meanwhile, it’s been hard in my boxer shorts. I slip a hand beneath my body and past the waistband of my underwear. I close my hand around my hardening cock and sigh into the sheets.

Clay . I just told him to stop thinking about me. But the only way I’m going to be able to fall asleep is if I get off to the image of his hands on my dick.

I stroke myself in earnest. I bring myself right to the edge.

But what brings me over in the end is the memory of his smile.