Between the Shadow and the Soul - 11. Flirtations Both Gross and Subtle

September 4, 2016

Keigan flagged me down as I entered Starbucks. He was nursing a venti coffee at a table nestled against the shop's front windows.

"Care to join me?" he asked cheerfully.

"Of course! Let me grab my go juice," I replied with a smile. And it did sound good.

Since that first morning encounter a month before, we'd met for coffee two or three times each week, sometimes more and sometimes less if our schedules didn't mesh. All it came down to was whether or not he arrived early enough to catch me there.

As I settled into the other seat at the table, my first four-shot venti latte in hand, Keigan said, "I don't usually see you here on the weekends."

"I tend to come through at the same time."

"Oh dark thirty?" he asked with faux horror.

"You got it."

"You're kind of a morning person seven out of seven, huh?"

"You're two for two. Though I'm also a night owl, which makes me early to rise and late to bed most of the time."

After a sip from his cup he asked, "So why so late today? Or is that your second—or third or fourth—of the day?"

With a chuckle I shook my head, held up my cup and explained, "No, it's my first of the day, thank you very much. I worked until late last night—well, really it was early this morning—so I woke late. And since I don't have the energy or interest to whip up a latte at home..."

"You have a cappuccino machine?"

I shrugged apologetically, as though the answer made me ostentatious, but still responded with a brief nod and a "Yeah."

He looked momentarily confused before asking, "If you're in here all the time, why have a cappuccino machine at home?"

"Good question. Mostly it just looks good."

He snickered then sarcastically inquired, "Makes you look civilized when guests come over?"

"That or pretentious, take your pick." I took a sip then added, "In all seriousness, I drink coffee pretty much whenever since caffeine doesn't affect me. Sometimes I'll whip up a latte or an espresso after dinner, in the middle of the night, or anytime I'm in the mood."

"Convenient."

"Pretty much. Except the ones I make never taste as good as they do from here."

"That's because somebody else did the work."

"True that," I responded, and we both chuckled. Then I asked, "Why are you in here so late? Did you just get out of the gym?"

"I don't go to the gym on Sundays. It's my rest day. Well, rest from the gym anyway." He waved dismissively at his own rambling. "I just needed a break."

Cocking my head to the side after glancing at my watch, I told him, "But it's only ten in the morning."

"Thank you so much, Greg," he said sarcastically, "because I've been waiting all morning for someone to come along who could tell me the time."

"Alright, smartass, so I can tell time and I'm proud of it. Seriously, has it been that long a day already?"

He gave a quick shake of his head. "No, not in a temporal sense. I had a late night."

My eyebrows made a dash for my hairline. "Hot date?"

Two short, simple words. Just two. That's all it took, though, to shine a bit more light into that shadowy realm in my head. Because the question carried with it the barest hint of green-eyed undertones while still conveying affable curiosity.

Where the hell did that come from?

I'm crossing a line here. Shut up and let me take this step.

Keigan shrugged, looking disappointed, and answered, "No, not a hot date. I was updating my business plan."

"Are you seeing anyone?"

"I'm not involved at the moment."

My sigh was eloquent.

His raised eyebrows preceded a breathy chuckle. "Are you?"

"No," I answered too quickly, almost dismissively, so I immediately added in a gentler tone, "I'm untethered, as they say. What with working too much, I've not had a great deal of time for dating."

He looked satisfied with the answer. Given he was familiar with the hours I'd been putting in at the office, Keigan probably expected something along those lines.

But I lied. And if there's any hope for something... Mentally gesturing between the two of us, I thought, If there's any hope for this to be something more, I can't start out with lies and deceptions.

"I'm sorry, K," I apologized with the utmost sincerity. "That wasn't entirely honest."

His look asked what his mouth didn't.

"I am working a lot. You already know that. But it's—" Don't say complicated, damn it! You're wearing out that word, hiding behind it. After a quick inhale I continued, "I haven't had a lot of luck with relationships. Hell, I haven't had many relationships, and the few I've had were... well... they were unpleasant."

Unpleasant? Unpleasant? Holy shit, Greg, that's like saying the Nazis were just unfriendly. Talk about downplaying...

Keigan sat up a bit straighter, concern on his face. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Waving away the idea that I was fishing for sympathy, I said, "Listen, K,—"

Are you really going to do this? Can you do this?

I'm gonna give it my fucking best. If I break, so be it. Uncle Farid says I have to start somewhere and I know he's right. So why not here? Why not now?

"—a long time ago something happened, something... hurtful." There's the understatement of the century! "I'm working through it," I said with a disarming grin that was surprisingly real, "but it's kinda controlled me for a while. It made me scared to reach out to guys. Because of that, I attracted the dregs of humanity. As sediment goes, they were awfully good looking, but they were still residue from the bottom of the pool."

He nodded but held his tongue.

"Would I be correct in saying we're friends?"

"We're friends, Greg. Of course we're friends." He seemed almost desperate to make sure I believed him. Which I did.

With a grateful—relieved?—grin I said, "Thanks. I thought that was a safe assumption." Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, I mustered the wherewithal to do something I'd never done before. Then: "I'd like to let that friendship grow."

Keep going! Don't stop! Damn it, Greg, you're so close. Quit flirting with it already.

After a brief pause he prompted with obvious worry, "But...?"

His voice shook me loose from the mental snare I'd encountered, so I hurried forward lest I stumble into another one. "Nothing bad, I promise." I gave my best disarming smile. "I want us to be friends, good friends in fact. But... I'd like to think we could be more."

A giant weight fell from my shoulders even as overpowering fear settled upon me. I was actually shaking, my cup rattling against the tabletop. It took all the internal strength I had to gain control over my rebellious body.

His mouth opened to say something, his dimples blossoming as a grin bloomed, but I didn't let him speak; I couldn't, because an interruption now would push me back into my shell, would allow the barriers I was holding down to rise once again.

"I can't make promises. There's stuff I need to figure out, stuff I need to fix. I'm not exactly in pristine condition. Still, I want us to be friends and I want—" I gulped air, struggling. "—and I'd like to see what else might develop."

Keigan settled back in his seat, staring at me with a sort of subdued thrill he tried to reign in with contemplation. Then his expression flipped to something completely overflowing with inquisitive humor.

"Why, Mr. Beaumont, is it your intention to court me?" His tone was light and facetious, but his eyes were locked on mine.

Damn it all to hell, Greg, stop with the guppy impression!

Slowly, not wanting to startle myself with the clack of my own teeth, I closed my mouth. Then I filled it with a healthy dose of latte as I considered the situation I'd just created. And all the while, I felt the blood draining from my face.

When his features softened with concern and his lips parted in anticipation of words to follow, I held up a finger to hush him, to ask for a moment, to give us pause.

Setting my cup back on the table, I leaned forward a bit and met his gaze as I offered the best I had to offer at that moment: "I can't make promises, K. I really can't. I see potential, I think, and I'm pretty sure I see mutual interest—"

"'Pretty sure'? I thought I was being more obvious than that."

We both laughed, soft and genuine and relaxing. The tension had broken.

Before I could say more, he saved me from prattling ad nauseam about nothing and everything as he grew a bit more serious while he told me, "I'd like that, Greg. I want us to be friends. Like you, though, I'm also interested in seeing if we can be something else. Hell, I was interested the moment Mom introduced us. Getting to know you over the last month just made the interest stronger."

He held up a hand to stop me from saying the words that leaped to mind. He continued: "I'm not the kind of guy that does hookups and quickies. That's not my thing. If you're interested in feeling out something long-term between us, exploring that possibility, then you've come to the right guy."

He's scared. Fucking hell, look at the worry on his face. And where'd all his blood go? It's like he expects me to kick him to the curb because we're not already on our way to bed.

Speaking quietly I said, "Honestly, all I've ever been good at are hookups and quickies because the few times I've had more, it was bad. I've been too scared—No, it wasn't fear. Well, it wasn't all fear. I was scared, sure, but more than that I just wouldn't let myself consider more. And I sure as hell wouldn't let myself hope for more.

"This is different," I said, gesturing between us, "or at least I hope it is... will be... can be." I let out a huff of frustration at my own blathering before I added, "Well, whatever I mean."

Keigan chuckled in a sweet way, in an understanding way, then he leaned closer and whispered, "We're on the same page, Greg. No worries there."

Sitting back and letting out a heavy sigh, as though I'd just survived battle with an implacable enemy—Isn't that precisely what just happened?—I smiled. And I blinked back tears.

I'm terrified. I'm thrilled. I'm nervous. I'm worried. Is this survivable?

"Usually my friends have my phone number," he continued, interrupting my meandering thoughts, "so maybe I should give it to you."

Fumbling in his pockets didn't yield what he was looking for, but he did come up with his coffee receipt. Giving me a sheepish grin he stood.

"I'll be right back," he offered.

As he wandered a path through the bustling coffee shop toward the counter, I let my eyes caress every inch of him as I considered the situation.

He stood about five foot ten and weighed maybe a hundred sixty pounds, give or take, with a narrow waist. His physique was tight and muscular, great build without looking like he'd been cut from stone, slightly larger and better defined than most dancers. I'd yet to see any indication of fat anywhere on his body, though admittedly there was quite a bit of it I hadn't seen yet.

Yet?

A healthy fantasy life is a good thing.

He had Nordic features—close-cropped blond hair and sky blue eyes. And he had a perpetual tan, rich and glowing all year, a gift from Cherokee blood in his ancestry. His cheeks dimpled in the most intoxicating way when he smiled.

He's phenomenally personable. Nice, quick-witted, intelligent, cordial, gracious, polite... Honestly, Greg, he's a damn nice guy who'd be a damn good catch.

He's like the Norse version of Nate, at least so far as personality goes. Very compatible.

Also like Nate, he's very easy on the eyes. Let's not forget that.

Except for the usual suspects—arms, legs, head, face and armpits—I hadn't seen an indication that he had body hair anywhere else. I knew his chest and shoulders and back were smooth, having caught glimpses of them from time to time, although—if I remember correctly—I'd swear he has a nice little happy trail that I caught a peek of that first morning he found me in Starbucks. Every bit of hair I did see was golden blond, the color of straw. He always looked mussed, like he just got out of bed, and it fit him perfectly.

We've never talked about relationships, past loves, romantic interests, or anything along those lines. Is he avoiding it?

Duh! You're avoiding it, you idiot! You take the first conversational exit when it looks like the discussion is veering in that direction.

Most notably, he had a youthful face with classically rugged features, often highlighted with a perfect bit of blond scruff, making him exceptionally cute, like a young cowboy fresh from the roundup. Which was a pleasant visual once I thought about it, what with Keigan riding—

Oh never mind.

Given how hot and sensual he is and his youth and nearly perfect personality, I don't understand why someone hasn't already snatched him up since he moved back from UCLA. Anyone with working eyes, ears and libido can see he's a stunner, a real catch, someone you don't want to get away from you.

Um, hello? Is this thing on? Did you just say 'anyone'? Like they'd be a fool not to see what's right there for the right person? What's right there in front of their face? What's right there several times a week being flirtatious and showing sincere interest? Hello?

I shook my head to clear my thoughts, but it didn't work. Watching him from across the coffee shop as he borrowed a pen from the cashier and wrote on his old receipt, I realized I was living on the edge because of this sexy guy who happened to own a restaurant I liked, whose parents I liked.

But who'd want to put up with my mess of emotions and all the baggage I carry?

I sucked down the last of my latte as he wove through the crowd of patrons before dropping back in his seat.

Dimples on full display as he smiled, Keigan slid the receipt across the table, adding, "Sorry. That's the only thing I had to write on."

"It's all good. As long as it works..."

After I pulled my wallet from the side pocket of my cargo shorts, I retrieved one of my business cards and slid it across the table. "My personal cell number's on the back."

He placed his hand atop the card and pulled it to him, picking it up and giving both sides a cursory look before setting it back down, held in place by his palm.

"Feels like a move in the right direction," he said with mischief in his eyes. It looked a lot like the mischief I often saw in his mother's eyes.

I had the distinct impression that, although he'd said it with lighthearted amusement, he was conveying a more sober point, one kith and kin to hope.

Before I could stop myself I said, "Listen, K, there's a movie coming out on the tenth that I'd like to see. It's called Lion and it's based on a book I really liked."

"What book?" he asked, interested in the answer as well as where this sudden change in the conversation might be going.

"A Long Way Home."

"I've read that!" he gushed, his face lighting up. "I loved it. I didn't realize they'd made a movie from it."

"Nate mentioned it. He watches the boob tube more than I do, so he saw the trailer. Knowing I liked the book, he told me about the movie. It comes out next week. If you're not busy, would you like to go see it with me?"

Before I knew what hit me, that mischievous smirk was back on his face as he asked, "Are you asking me out on a date, Greg?"

His words were like a punch to the gut. All the air rushed out of my lungs, all thought vanished from my mind. Fear, palpable and potent, enveloped me.

Always a date. That's what they want. Let's date then let's fuck, or better yet let's fuck then let's spend your money. It always starts with going out.

I fought the urge to stand, the urge to run.

"Progress means overcoming the obstacles that have always stood in your way," Uncle Farid had said. "You have to be ready to face down your own fears. You have to be ready to take chances."

"Are you okay?" Keigan asked in a worried tone.

Realizing the blood had drained from my face and I probably looked like a deer caught in headlights, I took several deep breaths, slow and relaxing. Then: "No. Yeah. I mean I'm fine. It's all good. Yeah, I'm okay."

Fuck, Greg, it's just English. You know this language.

Using a deep inhale and slow exhale to clear my thoughts and steady my nerves, I stood, pushed my chair in, then froze.

Goodness gracious, you jackass, what the fuck's wrong with you? He was being facetious. Besides, you did ask him out. Just clarify the invite, dude, that's all, then we're back to being five-by-five.

"Sorry. Dates haven't been my cup of tea for a while. They almost always go off the rails in a bad way."

"I was just joking, Greg. Really. I'm sorry I upset you."

"No apology necessary. It's all me. It was the word, the idea, that freaked me out. I'm working on it." Squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin I continued, "I'm asking one friend to the other if he'd like to go see a movie with me, specifically Lion, this Saturday evening. And this friend is hoping the other friend will go, even if we don't call it a date."

The corner of his mouth turned up, revealing the dimple on that side, and his eyes twinkled. "Yeah. This friend wants the other friend to know he'd love to go on a friendly excursion to the movies this Saturday evening."

"Thank fuck," I muttered, which caused him to burst into laughter, deep, soulful laughter that lifted my spirits.

"I have to get back to the shop," he explained as he grabbed his cup and stood, pushing his chair in quietly, "so let's work out the details during the week."

"That sounds good."

* * * * *

I'd bought a second four-shot latte after Keigan walked out of Starbucks. He'd left me rattled at every level. Our encounters over the past month, especially today's—really, mostly today's—made me consider what I could have had over the last fifteen years—happiness, family, love, lust, all of it built around friendship—if I'd had my shit together.

"Damn it," I muttered.

Why'd I have to freak out when he asked if it was a date? He was joking—mostly—but even that doesn't matter. I asked. Hell, the first time in fifteen years I did the asking because I wanted to ask, and what happens? I crumble.

"Damn it," I muttered. Again.

Before this they've all come after me, done the asking, filled my vision so I couldn't see any other options. But this time I'm doing the pursuing. I went back to Fat Daddy's and told him how best to stalk me. I asked him to go to a movie with me.

"And then I almost fucked it up!" I shouted, banging my open-palmed hand on the steering wheel for emphasis.

Nevertheless, I hadn't totally screwed up, I hadn't completely ruined whatever chance we might have for a meaningful friendship, if not more.

I'm scared. But I'm always scared when it comes to guys. For fifteen years I've been scared of guys, scared of letting them in, scared of pursuing the wrong one again, scared of what they might do to me, scared of the potential hurt.

Other than family members, Nate's the only guy I've ever fully trusted, the only guy who's never scared me.

He's always been inside your defenses, you nitwit.

Oh. Right. I knew that.

I felt something else inside, though, something other than fear. It was there with the fear, beside it, along with it. And it frightened me as much as the fear frightened me.

It was hope.

* * * * *

After I parked in the garage, I set my coffee on the roof of the car so I could strip off the wife beater I was wearing. As soon as the white cotton cloth slid over my head, I saw Kyle walking up the driveway. Dressed in black basketball shorts and a sleeveless black-and-white jersey and a pair of black-and-white Nikes, he looked like he'd just stepped from between the pages of a catalog.

Even if he turns out to be straight, he certainly has gay fashion sense.

They call that metrosexual nowadays.

That's because they don't want to admit it's their gay genes expressing themselves.

That gleaming smile when he saw me, the deliciously warm skin tone, the blue eyes, the clear muscular definition that had already responded to months of our workouts, the narrow face, even the slightly crooked teeth...

He's gonna be a heartbreaker some day.

"Yo, dude," I greeted with a wave.

"Hey, man."

"Got a new woman yet?" I asked facetiously.

Of course he doesn't. And, were I to be completely honest here, I suspect he won't, at least not soon. If ever. But he needs some prodding, something to push him to talk about what's going on in his head.

Nate usually saw when someone needed a push, but this time even I could see it.

Basketball Boy gave me a confused scowl, like he couldn't decide if the question was a serious one.

Finally, as he reached the garage door, he replied, "Nope."

I waited a moment, thinking there might be more. When silence prevailed, I decided he needed another push.

"So a month after your breakup with Traci, you're still doing the bachelor thing? What gives, Kyle?"

As I gave his shoulder a friendly shake to ease the pain of my poking, he blushed, the tops of his ears even getting in on the act.

Ducking his head he mumbled, "Nothing. Just..." He gave a shrug. "You know. Not looking for a girlfriend right now."

I could press my advantage by switching genders. He's not ready, though, possibly not even sure.

Blush fading, Kyle reasserted himself as he looked at me and said, "I got some friends coming over. I was waiting for them in the garage. When you drove by, I figured I'd come over for a minute."

He was in his garage and I didn't notice? I'm making progress!

"Dude, I've had kind of an up-and-down day already, and it's not even noon yet. Care to burn one with me before your friends get here?"

Gods, I'm promoting the delinquency of a minor and encouraging him to do drugs. Okay, maybe not so much encouraging as providing opportunity, because he's going to do it anyway. At least with me his parents know where he is and that he's safe.

"Always, man!"

I wrapped an arm around his shoulders, almost stopped when I felt him shiver, then pulled him against me as I dragged him toward the kitchen door.

"Let's see what kind of damage we can do," I quipped.

* * * * *

While I rolled a joint, he stood to my right leaning against the bar, watching. He'd told me before that he wanted to learn to roll like I do. Only this time I realized he was standing close enough to lean his shoulder against mine.

I'd always been a tactile person, especially with my friends and family, though pretty much with everyone. A touch to a shoulder or hand, an arm, the back, a hug, leaning against each other, whatever. To me, physical contact soothed in both directions, communicating a great deal without words, giving and receiving nothing more complicated than understanding and affection, reassurance and support.

Stepping away from the bar, grabbing my coffee on the way, I said, "Let's go the living room. I just want to sit and relax."

"Okay." Pulling his jersey off over his head and tossing it on the bar, Kyle added, "I hate going home smelling like smoke."

"I hear you."

He'd explained it before. He rarely had a shirt on when he was in the house. Weather permitting, I was the same way, as was Nate. Though with our neighbor kid there was a different dynamic—not wanting to go home to his parents with the stink of weed clinging to him.

They're not idiots. Teresa proved that the first time you talked to her. Shirt or no shirt, I doubt she's fooled.

That doesn't mean he has to rub it in her face.

True that.

I took the joint to the living room and slumped down on the couch, then lit it and took a deep hit. Then I took a sip of my still-fresh Starbucks coffee.

"Coffee and weed?" He scowled as he took the joint from me while settling on the floor in front of me. "Seems weird."

"Hadn't honestly thought about it. I doubt it'll kill me and I enjoy both, so clearly a winning combination."

His grin was humored and genuine, his eyes crinkling as he held back a chuckle lest he ruin the hit he just took.

As I slowly inhaled a lungful, he leaned back a bit and looked down along his torso. Then his right hand came up and began tracing lazy patterns up and down, from pecs to the waistband of his shorts then back to his pecs, primarily along the midline.

That's new. What the hell?

It seemed like an unconscious form of self-admiration either from appreciation for the changes he focused on making to his body or from desiring to direct the attention of others to said changes. Perhaps even both.

I squinted my eyes and watched him closely, not his hands or his bare torso where he touched, but instead his face, downcast though it was. For the life of me I couldn't figure out what he was doing or why he was doing it.

Or perhaps I was over-thinking things. Which was likely. Maybe it's just an unconscious thing, something I've never seen him do before. Or maybe not.

What the hell do I know? I don't know all his personal habits.

Handing him the joint distracted him. It also forced both of us to lean forward.

"I should move," he said as he stood and came around the coffee table so he could drop on the couch next to me.

Right next to me. Shoulder to shoulder. Leg to leg. Skin to skin.

Confusion bloomed inside my head. It wasn't a sexual confusion regarding Basketball Boy, but rather it was confusion about why I was suddenly uncomfortable and why he was making my blind spot seem so tempting, so necessary.

After he took a hit, he pivoted his arm so his hand came to rest against my bare chest. Innocently offering me the joint, I knew. So I took it.

His arm pivoted back and came to rest on his leg until it was time to pass the joint back. I intercepted him, making the handoff directly between us.

When my phone dinged a new text message, I turned my attention there as Kyle took his next hit. My head was turned away from him as I typed out a reply.

The next thing I knew his hand rested against my chest again. Holding the joint, of course. Not moving, just leaning against my skin.

Nausea enveloped me, a shiver ran up my spine, and suddenly I could smell my own fear, pungent and real.

My breathing stuttered, so to cover it I stupidly said, "Nate's coming home early." I took the joint and hoped his hand would go away. Quickly.

"Why?" he breathed out as he exhaled.

"The other guy came in after all," I continued—still stupidly. I couldn't think. I was trying to distract myself from this situation because my discomfort kept growing by leaps and bounds. All my internal alarms had sounded, but not one of them could tell me what the problem was.

It's innocent, dude! Chill. Just keep your wits about you or you'll freak him the shit out. He's not doing anything weird.

* * * * *

Standing in the garage, me sipping my coffee, Basketball Boy turned to look at me, but before he could say anything his eyes fell to my bare chest. His gaze seemed to ask questions.

As I watched, his eyes began a circuit from my chest to the phoenix tattoo by my left hip to my eyes and back to my chest, repeating the trip three or four times before he locked on my chest.

His eyes narrowed a bit and he cocked his head slightly, his face taking on that blank expression, a tell on his part that usually indicated he was giving serious thought to something. From the angle of his head and the direction of his eyes, my right hand came up of its own volition and slowly traced over part of the tattoo that stretched from my right shoulder down around the inside curve of my right pec.

Even as my hand moved lazily along the inked skin, my own eyes narrowed when I realized Kyle's expression had become less contemplative and more... more something. His eyes followed my fingers like a hawk, searing my skin with his unflinching stare.

It's almost as though... Like he's fascinated with my fingers touching my skin. Almost like... No, it's not that.

Suddenly the coffee sat like a dead weight in my stomach. My nerves fired haphazardly and my skin erupted with goosebumps and a cold sweat broke out on my forehead, my face, my chest, my back... Shit, it was everywhere.

I didn't have enough time to consider the profusion of crossed signals I was dealing with and the fear that was growing in the pit of my stomach at a geometric rate, because Basketball Boy interrupted all of that by asking, "Is that just a tiger?"

"It's a stylized fire tiger from the Chinese calendar," I explained. "I was born in the year of the fire tiger." With a shrug I added, "I've always been fascinated with ancient Chinese culture, just like with ancient Egyptian culture."

"It's really cool," he whispered, then louder, "Yeah, it's really cool. All your tattoos are. I can't wait to get some."

"If you ever do, give it a lot of thought. Don't just throw the first neat design on there. Remember, they're permanent, so make sure it's something you want for the rest of your life."

"Do all yours mean something?"

His eyes flicked to the phoenix tattoo, back to my gaze, then back to the dragon.

"Every single one of them."

"Nothing about them is random, right?"

Kyle took a longer look at the phoenix tattoo before returning his stare to the dragon on my chest.

"Nope."

Then it hit me.

Oh shit... Don't ask about the phoenix. Don't ask. Please don't ask. I'm not ready for that yet.

"Then why is the tiger's mouth ready to bite your nipple?"

Yeah, well, don't ask that question either.

My breathing hitched as a massive blush spread like wildfire across my face, down my neck, and—yes, of course—even onto my chest. I felt like I'd been doused in boiling water, the heat of it was so extreme.

He better stop smirking before I smack him into next week.

I inhaled deeply and let it out slowly, buying time, thinking, wondering what to do with that question.

Always impressing me with his knowing and his observing, however, he added, "It means something, right?" His smirk turned into a devious grin. "So why is it getting ready to bite your nipple?"

I ducked my head as I admitted, "It's personal."

Lame!

"It's like directions, isn't it?"

Get out of my head, you brat!

The blush, only just subsiding, bloomed to full strength again. "Yeah, you could say that."

"Huh..." He'd donned that blank expression again. I wasn't sure if I'd sidestepped the awkwardness or if I'd simply postponed it.

Stoned and feeling confused and uncomfortable and wondering if something was wrong with me or if I was picking up nonverbal cues that hearkened back fifteen years to my undoing, I stood silently and wished his friends would arrive and drag his teen ass away from me so I could think.

"When did you know?" he asked, an abrupt shift in the conversation, though not a surprising one. At least not anymore.

"Know what?"

Give me something I can work with, kid. Please...

"That you were gay."

Well huh. I guess it was bound to happen. I think Teresa, Nate and I expected this conversation at some point.

After a deep breath I said, "I suppose I knew pretty early. I didn't know what I was feeling or why, but I knew I was more interested in guys than girls. Like looking through a shopping catalog, I'd find myself looking at the guys, whether in underwear or suits didn't matter.

"There was a time when I was six, when my parents were getting a divorce and my dad had some friends over to help him pack his stuff. One of his friends—hell, I don't even know the guy's name—using my adult eyes and looking back, one of his friends was young—early twenties maybe—and cute and really hot. I didn't think that then, but I do now. Anyway, my dad and his two friends were moving boxes and a few pieces of furniture and tools and the like, and this one guy took his shirt off. He had a great build, not cut or ripped but like he worked on a farm, like he came by it honestly and naturally. He had a light dusting of hair across his chest, then nothing else except this line running from his navel down to the waistband of his jeans. He had dark hair on his head, his face, his chest, his arms and his legs.

"Back then I was just six, as I said, and all I knew was that I couldn't stop looking at him. He fascinated me. I couldn't have said why if you'd asked. Looking back, I'm not even sure what I was feeling. It sure wasn't sexual since I had no idea what sex was at that point, aside from some nebulous idea you whispered about and snickered about with your friends to try to seem older and more mature.

"The point being, even at six, it was there. I didn't know it, but Mom and Dad have told me they noticed it. And as I aged, it finally became apparent to me, probably when I was about eleven, because I'd started thinking I'd like to see this guy without his shirt on, I'd like to touch that guy, I'd like to kiss some other guy maybe. By the time I was twelve I had my first full crush going—"

His eyes had fallen to the phoenix tattoo. It was only that sudden movement of his gaze that made me realize my left hand was worrying the scar beneath the tattoo. With a huff I pushed my hand into my pocket.

"Uh, so, yeah, by the time I was twelve I had my first real crush going on this doctor we knew. He was hot and handsome and smart and very much a man. I couldn't exactly deny it at that point. It helped that Nate had already noticed. He basically knew I was gay before I did. So when I started to realize it, to question myself about it, he was way ahead of me. He helped me, guided me into accepting myself you might say, showed me that it didn't change who I was and didn't change our friendship."

Kyle was watching me closely, his face contemplative, thoughtful. He asked, "How did your parents take it?"

I chuckled. Then: "I came out when I was thirteen. Mom and Dad basically said, 'Well, no duh,' then we all moved on. Oh, we had talks about bigotry and homophobia and hate, about being safe with sex and with people in general, but we also talked about being who we are, being loved and accepted, being just as normal as anyone else."

An unexpected giggle burst out of me a I shook my head, smiling, my shoulders twitching with mirth.

"What's funny?" Basketball Boy asked.

"Just... Just remembering back then, I suddenly remembered my parents telling me I had to keep my bedroom door open if I had a boy up there with me. Except Nate, of course. But it just struck me as funny because usually that conversation's about having a girl in your room—obviously boy if you're a girl. It just struck me as humorous that they didn't skip a beat on raising their son. They incorporated my sexuality into parenthood without any trouble, at least as far as I remember."

"So they were supportive?"

"Very much so. My parents love me and being gay makes no difference to them. They still want to see me married with a family and all that jazz; they just accept that nobody saying vows will be wearing a dress."

We both chuckled, though Basketball Boy cut his short as he stared at me, another question brewing. But the time for questions had come and gone. He noticed his friends coming down the street and switched gears immediately.

Kyle didn't have to say anything to them. They'd already noticed us standing in the garage.

"What's up?" Kyle asked in that ridiculously thuggish tone he seldom used anymore.

"Just heading to yours," the Hispanic kid replied. He was slightly taller than Kyle, slim but not thin, with a wee bit of an acne problem. Okay, more than a wee bit, but at least it didn't look some kind of plague has taken up residence on his face. Almost but not quite.

"We still on for video games?" the black kid asked. He was about Kyle's height and clearly didn't miss any meals. I wouldn't have called him obese, but he definitely had extra insulation for winter.

"I was just heading back." Then turning to me Kyle added, "Guys, this is my friend, Greg."

Both kids gave me the jutted chin greeting, but they also looked like they had both just found a lost puzzle piece.

"Hey, guys," I greeted them.

The black kid said, "Hey, man. I'm Tony."

"I'm Mat. Heard you're cool, man."

"I do what I can."

They grinned, but both looked ready to get the hell out of Dodge. Shooting the shit with an old guy like me probably wasn't in their plans for the day.

Turning to me, Kyle reached out as if to touch my arm, but instead of the casual tap to get my attention or the amiable touch to let me know he had something to say, the back of his hand came to rest on my chest. Again.

We're standing too close. The thought came quickly and without warning. I was left wondering why I thought it. And why I thought it was absolutely correct.

He didn't move his hand or flinch away, but instead kept in contact with me as he told me, "We're going to my place for a while. Gonna play video games and shit. I can come back later, right?"

I don't know if that's a good idea. I have a bad feeling about this. Something's gone wrong, haywire, whatever.

Realizing I had no reason other than impressions and emotions with which to deny him, I said, "I think we'll be around. If we are, feel free."

I watched as Basketball Boy and his two friends walked away. Without realizing it, my hand had come to rest on my chest where Kyle touched me. My fingertips were gently wiping at the spot, as if trying to rub away some dirt. Or a bad impression.

"Oh fuck..." I suddenly muttered.

I turned and ran inside, barely making it to the half-bath beneath the stairs before my morning's coffee gave its impersonation of a projectile weapon. Apparently my mind took a few moments longer than my stomach to figure out why this encounter with Kyle had made me so uncomfortable, because, as I sat on the bathroom floor with my back against the wall waiting for my guts to settle, I began to shake, tears streaming down my cheeks, sweat dowsing me from head to toe.

Oh no...