Streak - 10. Chapter 10

September 15, 2002

Boston

 

JJ

 

I heard a knock on my door, and that pulled me out of a dead sleep. I liked to sleep in, and most people knew better than to interrupt me. I glanced at the clock and saw that it was 10am, which wasn’t early for most people, but it was really early for me on a Sunday morning. I wondered briefly who would be bold enough to risk my wrath. My father, Stef, and Grand had flown back to California last night. Will and Darius had gone back the night before. “Come in!” I said loudly. Might as well find out who the culprit was, so I could begin to think of ways to hurt him or her.

The door opened and Alex walked in. “Good morning, JJ,” he said cheerfully, and then looked concerned. “I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

My plans to be bitchy were totally thwarted by Alex and his total hotness. “Not at all,” I lied, forcing myself to sound like I’d been awake. “I was just lounging around in bed, checking on some e-mails.” That would have made more sense if I had my computer out, but he was too polite to point out that I didn’t.

“I’m glad,” he said, and walked over and sat on the bed next to me. I had to adjust my body, pulling my knees up, so he couldn’t see as my erection forced the sheet to rise up. “I have been in Boston for a bit now, but I have yet to take in some of the tourist attractions. I was of a mind to do that today, but it would be much more fun if I had company. Would you care to join me?”

“I’d love to,” I said, probably too enthusiastically.

“Brilliant!” he said. “I’m going to finish getting ready, and then I’ll go downstairs and meet you in the kitchen.”

“I’ll get ready as quickly as I can,” I promised. He smiled, got up, and started walking out of my room. I almost jumped out of bed immediately, but fortunately I remembered to wait until he left.

I usually take a while to get ready. I’m lucky in that I have thick blond hair, and it looks fine if I don’t do much to it, but it looks amazing when I do. I took a quick shower, taking time to beat off, and then while I cleaned off my body, I planned my wardrobe out for the day. I rushed through my normal routine, lucky that everything pretty much fell into place, and then hurriedly put on the clothes I’d mentally selected. As I walked to the door of my room, I glanced at the clock and saw that it was 10:30. That had to be a record for me. The prospect of spending time with Alex was pretty motivating. I went downstairs and joined him in the kitchen for a light breakfast, and then we decided to start our tour.

“What shall we do today?” Alex asked me, as we walked out of the house. It was a windy day, but the temperature was around 70 degrees, so it was pleasant enough.

“You’re in charge,” I told him. I didn’t care. I was just happy to spend time with him. We took a cab downtown and walked along the riverfront to this old ship, the USS Constitution. “What is this?” I asked.

“This is a frigate, and quite a large one,” Alex noted. “I have an ancestor who was one of Britain’s best frigate captains.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Indeed,” he said, sounding like a much older guy. “This is probably the equivalent of a modern day cruiser. If you want to see a battleship from this era, you must come to England and go to Portsmouth. The HMS Victory is there.”

“Is the Victory a lot bigger than this?” I asked. I really wasn’t into naval history, but I acted interested to humor Alex.

“It’s not longer, but it is taller. You can see that this ship has one main gun deck. Victory has three.”

“Wow,” I said, acting like I gave a shit.

“Let’s go aboard.” We went on the ship, and browsed around, until we came upon a sailor talking about the ship.

“This was the first American frigate to beat another British frigate, in a single ship action, in the war of 1812,” the sailor was saying to a group of tourists. “In a battle of two equals, the Constitution captured, and then sank, the HMS Guerriere. That’s where she got her nickname of ‘Old Ironsides’, when the Guerriere’s cannon balls bounced right off her.”

It was hilarious to see how that irritated Alex, to the point that he spoke up and addressed the sailor. “As a point of fact, the two ships were not equal. This ship carried some 450 men, while the Guerriere only had a crew of 250. In addition, this ship displaces some 1500 tons as compared to Guerriere’s 1000 tons, so is a third again larger. Finally, the weight of this ship’s broadside was some 750 pounds, in comparison to Guerriere’s 500 pounds.” The sailor and the tourists just stared at Alex. “This ship was built of live oak, a timber that was unavailable in Britain, especially after years of war. That is why her hull is so strong. You’ll also find, upon investigation, that Guerriere was French built, and thus of lower quality than the standard British frigate, and was desperately in need of a refit.”

“That’s just sour grapes,” the sailor said.

“There are no grapes involved,” Alex said coldly. “Only facts.” The sailor gave Alex a dour look, but he didn’t care. We explored the ship for a bit, and then decided to go grab a quick lunch before we went to see something else.

“I’m sorry that sailor pissed you off,” I said, making sure not to talk with my mouth full.

“He did not anger me,” Alex said. “I was irritated that he was using incorrect facts. History is the story of a nation, and I find it particularly galling when people re-write it to suit their needs, especially if those needs involve funneling money into a tourist attraction.” I looked at him as I ate, trying to figure out if he was really pissed off and just lying about it, but he seemed sincere.

For some reason, Alex wanted to explore the Freedom Trail. I mean, if I was in a foreign country and they were constantly slamming the ‘tyrannical United States’, I’d probably tell them to go fuck themselves and do something else. While that surprised me, Alex’s attitude as we went along was even more shocking. I figured he’d be bitter and insulted, but instead, he just seemed amused.

We went to the Boston Commons, where we found a monument commemorating the Boston Massacre, where British troops had fired on rioting Americans. The word ‘massacre’ made Alex smile in a patronizing kind of way. “I am mindful that, were we living back in 1770, these men who rioted would most likely be labeled as terrorists,” Alex observed. “Then again, anyone who is anti-government nowadays is labeled as a terrorist.” I didn’t really get his political pontificating, but it sounded pretty profound, especially when mixed with his accent.

“Grand always reminds us that the victor gets to write the history,” I said. “He trained us to take this stuff with a grain of salt.”

“Wise advice,” Alex said. We went to the Old North Church, where lanterns had been hung to warn against the attacks on Lexington and Concord by the dastardly British, and which prompted Paul Revere’s famous ride. Alex’s expression was similar to how he’d looked when we were at the commons: humorous disdain. After that, we went to see the memorial for the Battle of Bunker Hill, located on Breed’s Hill. It was actually pretty somber, especially for Alex, because even though the British had won the battle, half of their soldiers who fought in it ended up as casualties.

We finished up there and went to the Boston Tea Party museum. We walked through the exhibits, reading the description of the history of this event, while Alex grimaced. Up until that point, he’d largely had a bemused expression on his face, as if smirking at these blatant patriotic tributes and how they slammed Britain. I figured he’d be upset, but he wasn’t. But this exhibit seemed to annoy him more than the others. “How can a country that is such a firm advocate of property rights, and is all but run by corporations, celebrate such vandalism?” he asked, although he was probably talking more to himself.

“Americans love corporations and hate taxes,” I joked. “So I guess it depends on our mood on any given day.”

He chuckled at that. “I am perhaps more sensitive to this display since my ancestors were major shareholders in the Honorable East India Company, whose tea was so obnoxiously thrown into the harbor.”

“How about if I brew you some tea and we’ll use Boston harbor water to make it,” I teased him. “You can walk down memory lane.”

“I think I will skip that,” he said, as he pondered how nasty Boston harbor water would be. We went on to look at exhibits about the battles at Lexington and Concord.

“I thought this would bother you more,” I said. He looked at me, wondering what I was talking about. “I mean, most of these exhibits aren’t exactly pro-British.”

“They are not,” he said, chuckling. “Part of this is disturbing, because the history has been so twisted and skewed, and then fed to the populace,” he said. I shrugged. Things like that didn’t bother me.

“Maybe it just doesn’t matter anymore,” I said. He gave me an odd look. “People are pretty nice to you, even though you are obviously English.”

“You’re suggesting that because they haven’t tarred and feathered me, that is proof that this errant propaganda is acceptable?” he asked. It was so funny how he could go from talking like a guy my age, to talking like Grand, from sentence to sentence.

“That is what I’m suggesting,” I said. “Smart people know what really happened. Don’t worry about the stupid people.” I spent most of my time trying to avoid stupid people, so this didn’t seem unusual at all. The world was full of morons.

“Queen Victoria once referred to George III's loss of the colonies as ‘a marvelous exercise in serendipity’,” he said.

“What does that mean?” I asked, even as I tried to remember what the fuck serendipity was.

“It means that while at the time, losing the American colonies seemed like a disaster, it has since turned out to be a very lucky event on our part. Both countries are much better off with the way things turned out.”

I didn’t really know what he was referring to, but I nodded and pretended like he’d uttered some amazing words of wisdom. We left that museum, and then stopped off at Faneuil Hall.

“I have worked up an appetite. All these attacks on my heritage have made me hungry,” he joked.

“Let’s eat,” I said. “My treat.”

“You are taking me out to dinner?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I am,” I said, almost flirting with him. “You don’t think that’s too forward of me, do you?”

“That depends on your intentions,” he joked.

“I’m sure they’re not very pure,” I said, surprising myself with how relaxed I was around him.

“Good,” he said with a grin. “Where are we going?”

“Pigalle,” I responded. I said that impulsively, because Victoria had taken Tiffany there and Tiffany had raved about it. She said it was romantic, and the food was fantastic.

“I have heard that is quite good,” he noted. I wondered if he’d heard Tiffany talk about it too. I wondered if he’d heard it was romantic. I wondered if he thought I was an idiot for taking him there. But the die was cast. We hopped in a cab for the short trip to the restaurant.

When we got there, it was pretty crowded, which made sense for an early Sunday evening. We walked up to a rather stuffy looking man, who was taking down names. “Do you have a reservation?” he asked haughtily. He had an English accent too, only not as refined as Alex’s. I thought that was rather odd for a French restaurant.

Before I could say anything, Alex answered him. “We do not,” he said, and handed the man one of his ornate calling cards, along with a $50 bill.

The man’s eyes bulged. “If you will wait just a moment, my lord, I will see what I can find for you.”

“I would be most appreciative,” Alex said with a smile. The man whispered a bit energetically to the other person working the hostess station, and then led us back to a very nice table. It was a booth of dark brown leather, with candles for lighting.

“That was pretty impressive,” I said to him.

“I suspect that happens to you quite often,” he noted.

“It did when we were in LA,” I said. “Robbie was a real power in Hollywood, so they pretty much rolled out the red carpet for him when we went out. If I’m with Stef that happens quite a bit, because people recognize him. But I’m not sure that it works here if I’m by myself. This is like a foreign land to me too.”

“Surely they must recognize you,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was serious, or just trying to flatter me.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I haven’t really been out on the town since we got here.”

We paused to look at the menus, to decide what we wanted to eat. The waitress came over and introduced herself, and seemed to think it was vital that we knew her name was Amy. She was about to take our drink order when her eyes really focused on me. “You look familiar. Are you on television?”

“Sometimes. I’m an ice skater,” I said.

“That’s right,” she said. “That’s where I’ve seen you! You’re really good!”

“Thank you,” I said, shooting my ‘celebrity smile’ at her, the one I used when I was dealing with fans. I chatted with her about my silver medal in Nebelhorn, until I was finally able to get her to do her job and take our drink order.

“I’ll have a beer,” Alex said, and ended up getting a Samuel Adams, which was pretty ironic after all the revolutionary crap we’d seen today. I just ordered a Coke.

“You see, I told you people would recognize you,” he said supportively as soon as Amy left us alone.

“Yeah, but I’m not the one who got us the table,” I joked.

“You don’t drink?” he asked me.

“Not really,” I said. “I drink wine at dinner, but that’s pretty much it.”

“We could have gotten a bottle of wine,” he said. “I’d be happy to buy one for us.”

“I’m not allowed to drink,” I told him. He looked at me funny. “The drinking age in the US, pretty much everywhere as far as I know, is twenty-one.”

“You must be twenty-one to consume alcohol?” he asked, stunned by that.

I nodded. “How old do you have to be in England?”

“Sixteen if you’re drinking wine with dinner, eighteen if you want to go out to a bar,” he said.

I shrugged. “Here you can get sent off to fight wars when you’re eighteen, you can vote when you’re eighteen, but you can’t drink until you’re twenty-one.”

“That seems to be a bit unfair,” he said. “To die for one’s country, and not be able to have a drink before you go into battle and get shot.”

“It’s pretty stupid,” I agreed, “but I have to be careful anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because the USFSA is really uptight about its skaters being all prim and proper. We have to be pure as the driven snow,” I said sarcastically.

“USFSA?”

“The United States Figure Skating Association,” I explained. “They control the sport in this country, and there are a lot of assholes who work there. If I got drunk and made an ass of myself, it could get me in a lot of trouble, especially since I’m underage.”

“That’s a lot of pressure to put on you,” he said. “You can’t really cut loose at all.”

“Not really,” I said. “It doesn’t really bother me all that much. I’m not a big party animal like my brothers.”

He looked at me quizzically. “Will was able to go to bars and drink, yet he is younger than you are.”

“He has a fake ID that says he’s over twenty-one,” I explained. “You can get them pretty easily, but the good ones cost some bucks.”

“But you don’t have one of those?”

I shook my head. “My brothers give me shit about it, about being all uptight. I don’t drink more than a glass or two of wine with dinner, and I don’t do drugs. I don’t even smoke pot.” Most guys seemed pretty turned off by how big of a puritan I had to be, but Alex seemed fine with it.

“I’m sure that’s good for your body, not polluting it with all those toxic chemicals,” he said. I damned my sex drive yet again, because just he referencing my body gave me an erection.

“Sometimes I feel like a freak,” I admitted, opening up to him for some idiotic reason. “I really don’t do anything wrong. I don’t drink, I don’t party, and I don’t break the law.”

“That’s not something to be ashamed of,” he insisted.

“It makes me seem like a dork,” I grumbled. “I guess I am.”

“I think you are forgetting all the talent contained in your body,” he said. “Those who are wanton partiers probably can’t do a triple Lutz, and even if they could, they certainly can’t do it as elegantly, and with as much style, as you do.”

“Thanks,” I said, as I grinned and blushed.

“And you carry yourself with that same elegance and style even when you are off the ice,” he said, continuing to compliment me. “It is visible not just in your exceptional wardrobe, but in the way you walk and comport yourself.”

“That’s a really nice thing to say,” I said, beaming at him. He’d hit on the key things I tried to accomplish with my appearance: to be classy and tasteful.

“I would not have said it if it weren’t true,” he said, then must have sensed that I was a little uncomfortable with such fulsome praise, so he changed the subject. “Your next competition is here?”

I nodded. “The New England Regionals are in early October. If I do well here, then I go on to the Eastern Sectionals. They’re near Philadelphia this year.”

“I hope that I’ll be able to get away from school for that one,” he said.

“I’ll make sure we fly you out there,” I said, like it was no big deal, even though it was. When I skated for Alex, I was amazing. When I skated for the crowd, I was less confident. “You’re my good luck charm.”

“Then I will do my best to be there,” he said.

“I’d really appreciate that,” I said. “If you help me out with my competitions, I’ll try to think of something to make it up to you.” I said the words, then looked at him, horrified, thinking that I sounded incredibly slutty.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said. “Just watching you skate is reward enough.”

“That’s really nice of you to say,” I said, and had to be as red as a fire truck. We had an easy conversation after that. Amy brought me the bill, even as I was wondering what to do next. It was still early, but I couldn’t go to a bar, so that pretty much meant we’d have to go home. Then we’d both vanish into our own rooms, I imagined, and I didn’t want that to happen. I wanted to spend more time with Alex.

I went to pull out my wallet and pulled out one of the brochures from the Tea Party museum as well. On the back of it was an ad for the Blue Man Group. “Want to go see a show?”

He looked at me, a bit confused. “A show?”

“The Blue Man Group,” I said, showing him the ad.

“They look a bit odd,” he said.

“Well that’s because they’re all dressed in blue,” I joked. “Come on. It will be fun. They’re good. It’s a lot of percussion.”

“Why not,” he said. We went to the Charles Theater and got tickets, then wandered around for a bit until the show started. We got excellent seats, and the performance was pretty good, although I’d seen them in New York, and I think they were better there.

We sat there in the theater next to each other, and I had my hand on the armrest between us. The Blue Men were pounding on their pipes, and I was pretty focused on that, so I almost jumped when I felt Alex’s hand on mine, so that his palm was resting on the back of my hand. I looked at him and smiled, and he smiled back. We lifted our hands up to clap, and when I put my hand back down on the armrest; I put it so my palm was facing up. He put his hand back in the same position, only now we were palm to palm. In what was probably one of my smoother moves, our fingers seemed to simultaneously move forward and intertwine with each other, locking our hands together.

I looked sideways at him, and saw him looking at me. He raised an eyebrow, and that made me grin. I held his hand for the rest of the performance, then when it was done, we went back home and went to our own rooms, just as I’d feared. I tried not to let that disappoint me, and instead focused on how much I’d enjoyed being with him, and how much I’d enjoyed his simple touch when we’d held hands.

                 

September 17, 2002

Redwood City, CA

 

Brad

 

“Thanks Pedro. I should be fine,” I said, as the limo pulled up in front of the Porsche dealer.

“You are sure you do not want me to wait?” he asked. I could see why Will liked him; he was a very nice guy, very thoughtful and very cute.

“No, that’s alright,” I said. Before he could get out and open the door for me, I hurriedly did it myself. I could let myself out of a car, and I didn’t need to make more of an impression than I already had by arriving in Stef’s armored Escalade limousine. I strode confidently up to the showroom, projecting power and wealth, which was probably not a bad thing to do when going to a Porsche dealer.

A salesman intercepted me rather quickly. “Good morning, sir. Can I help you?” His eyes scanned me, taking in my perfectly tailored Savile Row suit, my flawlessly polished Gucci shoes, and my Rolex watch. He didn’t seem to notice the most expensive accessory I was wearing: my emerald cufflinks. I smiled when I remembered how Robbie had bought them for me, and how he’d said they perfectly matched my eyes. He was right; they did.

“I’m here to see Gary Myers,” I said. The guy looked a little disappointed at that, but guided me into the showroom, where Gary was waiting for me.

“Good morning, Mr. Schluter!” he said enthusiastically. He was probably about 32 years old, and pretty handsome. I’d bought a number of cars from him, and so had Stef and JP.

“Good morning,” I said. “Is everything ready?” I didn’t mean to be brusque, but I was in a hurry, and I’d already worked out all the details on my new car with this guy.

“It is,” he said. “Right this way.” He led me out to a beautiful new Porsche 911 Turbo S Cabriolet. It was the same model that JP had just bought, only his was black, and this one was white. “Do you want to take it for a test drive?”

“Not necessary,” I said in a clipped way. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“You usually are,” he said, smiling at me. He led me back into his office, had me sign a few pieces of paper, and then handed me the keys. I’d already wired the money over to pay for it. “Enjoy.”

“Thanks,” I said, smiling at him. I’d been there less than fifteen minutes. He knew that I didn’t like to dick around, and he made the process as easy as possible. He did that with Stef and JP, and he’d done that with Jack when he’d bought his. Being sensitive to our desire for urgency and no nonsense had gotten him a lot of repeat business.

I got in the car, started it, put the top down, and drove off the lot. My mood was temporarily ruined when I remembered that the last time I’d done this, bought a Porsche, it had been the Boxster I’d given to Kevin. That funk was short lived, though. It vanished as soon as I got to the freeway onramp and punched the accelerator.

I loved Porsches, I always had. The Ferrari was nice, but it didn’t have the same feel, the same Teutonic solidness that the Porsche had. I’d thought about getting one of these for a while now, but the Ferrari had been fun to drive, and I’d been too busy and too fucked up to worry about it. But yesterday when Will had passed his exam and gotten his license, he’d officially taken over that car, and that gave me the opportunity to score this new one. I motored north on 101, screwing around with the radio as I did.

It was 10:30am, a good time to head up to the City. Any earlier and I’d have gotten mired in the morning traffic. I got some pretty intense looks in my new car, but not as many as I’d gotten when I’d driven the Ferrari. It was a beautiful day, sunny and warm enough to enjoy the convertible, yet not so hot as to make me sweat. I smiled when the San Francisco skyline came into view. I’d been to a lot of cities, but San Francisco was still my favorite. I let my mind space out as I enjoyed the weather, the ride, and the views. It wasn’t until I pulled into the parking garage that I got my mind back onto business.

The elevator soared up the building, but somehow, being high up in a building in San Francisco didn’t bother me like it did when I was in New York. I guess that was understandable. The elevator doors opened up onto a reception area for Brown & Hardwicke, the law firm Sean worked for. The views beyond the secretary were spectacular, with floor to ceiling windows providing a stunning view of the bay. Alcatraz Island was pretty prominent in the vista, and I thought that was a humorous sight to see when visiting an attorney.

“Welcome, Mr. Schluter,” the receptionist said with a smile. I was impressed that she knew my name without my giving it to her. “Mr. Massey will be right with you.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Just some water,” I said. I sat down and continued to take in the view, while she brought me water in a beautiful crystal glass. I took a drink, put the glass down, and when I looked back up, there was Sean, looking as handsome as he always did.

“It’s good to see you,” I said as I stood up and shook his hand.

“I think that’s my line,” he said, sounding incredibly sexy. He led me back to a conference room with equally spectacular views, only these looked out over the City. “I figured we could go over this trust, and then take a break for lunch.”

I nodded, even as I walked up to him, getting closer and closer. He didn’t move, but he swallowed a bit, because he was nervous. That faded when I put my hand behind his neck and pulled him toward me, and it vanished completely when we kissed. “I missed you,” I told him. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get up here.”

“I’m sure you’ve been busy,” he said, but I could tell it had frustrated and upset him that, after our intense experience at the Bastille Day party, that I hadn’t managed to go out with him until now, two months later.

“I have been, but I’m worried that I hurt your feelings,” I told him.

“I’m a lawyer,” he joked. “I don’t have feelings.”

I laughed, and then kissed him again. “I’ll bet you do.”

He smiled back at me. “Really Brad, it’s alright.”

“Do you have anything else on your schedule today?” I asked.

“I cleared my afternoon,” he said. “I’m an optimist.”

“Good. Let’s get this trust out of the way, and then we’ll have lunch and spend some time together.” He raised an eyebrow at that, at how in charge I was being, but those lessons Chris had engineered in New York had instilled in me the need for me to be an alpha male when I was with other guys. It was who I was, and if I didn’t flaunt it, I’d end up with some guy who wanted me to be his bitch.

“I’ll make it quick,” he said, and then we took our seats at the big conference room table. “I got the changes you made to it done,” he said, handing me a final copy.

I went through it, reading everything carefully, asking him questions as I got to something that stymied me, but there weren’t many of those. “Looks good to me.”

“Excellent,” he said. He summoned in a notary and a few witnesses, and I dutifully signed off on the thing. They left us when we’d finished, and took a copy of the trust to go make photocopies.

“I’ve got some assets that have appreciated considerably;” I told him, “along with some that I think will do really well. I’ll gift those into the trust.”

“You’ll probably have some gift taxes to pay,” he said ruefully. That was the price for success. I’d built up a sizeable net worth, but to transfer it to my heirs, it would take a pretty big hit in estate or gift taxes. I shrugged to myself. I would still be able to leave my family more than enough money.

“I’ll plan to cover it,” I said, since it was my responsibility anyway. “I’ve already worked through the details with my accountants.”

“Sounds good,” he said.

“Let’s eat,” I said. He got copies together for me and I put them in my portfolio, then went down and put that in my car.

“Nice,” he said, ogling my new Porsche.

“Just got it this morning,” I told him.

“Where do you want to go eat?”

“I want to go back to that Chinese restaurant,” I said. “The food was good, even if my luck wasn’t.”

We walked out of the building and started heading to Chinatown. “I don’t know. Things seemed to work out just fine, if you ask me.”

I smiled at him. “I think so too.”

“So we’re officially done with business?”

“We are,” I confirmed, wondering why he asked me that.

“Were you really that busy, or were you just avoiding me?” he asked. I wasn’t really expecting a blunt question like that from him, so I walked on, saying nothing as I thought about it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“You’re not being rude. I’m just thinking about your question,” I said. “I think it was a little bit of both. I have been really busy. I spent some time with Stef in Malibu, then in Paris. After that, there was some drama that absorbed my time.”

“I heard about some of that,” he said. He was Wade’s attorney too, and a good friend of his. “It seems like the world just keeps throwing shit at you.”

“Or my family does,” I said.

“How did you handle New York?” he asked referring to the 9-11 memorials.

“Pretty well,” I said honestly. “I resolved to put my grieving behind me, and I think I’ve done that. I can think about Robbie now, and smile.”

“That’s good,” he said, and I was touched by his sincerity.

“I put these cufflinks on this morning,” I said, showing them to him.

“These are beautiful! Are these real emeralds?”

“They are,” I confirmed. “Robbie bought them for me. A couple of months ago, just looking at them would have turned me into a blob. Now I just think about what a great guy he was, and how lucky I was to have him in my life.”

“That’s so healthy it’s scary,” he joked. We walked on for a bit. “You were avoiding me?”

“I was avoiding you,” I admitted. “It’s not because I didn’t have fun with you. I really did.”

He seemed relieved, and it dawned on me that he must have thought sex was the reason I’d dodged coming up to see him. “I had fun too.”

I sighed before going on. “I’m not in a place to get into another serious relationship. My sons have explained to me that I need to approach the dating scene with a little more trepidation so I don’t lead someone on. I think I was subconsciously doing that with you.”

“I wasn’t trying to pressure you,” he objected.

“Sean, you didn’t do a damn thing wrong,” I said emphatically. “In fact, you did everything right. The connection between us was pretty intense. Didn’t you feel it?”

“I felt it,” he said, then grinned. “Boy did I feel it.” He chuckled at me when I blushed.

“It scared me a bit, because it was so intense, and so much fun, so I backed off,” I admitted honestly.

“I’ll tell you what I’d like,” he said forcefully. “I’d like to go out with you as often as we can, and I’d like to enjoy you. I’d like to continue to consider you a friend. Anything else beyond that, we’ll just leave that alone. It will be off limits.”

“Feelings are hard to control.”

“I’d rather control my emotions than be lonely,” he said, and even though he kept his tone even, the sadness beneath it was evident.

“I can work with that,” I said, as we walked into the Chinese restaurant. He made that sound a lot easier than it was, and I wondered which one of us would develop more romantic feelings first. No matter which one of us it was, it would be tough.