by May Archer
I did. I really did. Except… not as it applied to me.
“Well, the thing is, he doesn’t know exactly how to label himself. What if it turns out that his feelings go away, and he needs to take it back? Imagine if he goes around saying, ‘Oh, hey, I’m bisexual.’ Except then he realizes it was just a fluke?” I swallowed. “A mistake.”
“Except, if it’s the way he’s feeling now, it’s not a mistake because, again, sexuality evolves. It’s complex and not black and white. And you know this.” He paused, and I could picture him trying to peer through the phone. “Mason, are you okay?”
“Yes, peachy! Just thinking how you lose credibility when you keep changing your mind about things, though, you know? How do you respect a person who doesn’t recognize something integral like that? It’s probably best for him to be… cautious… since coming out might be useless.”
“Mmmmkay. I mean, it’s true that no one can tell you when it’s the right time—”
“You mean him. My patient. Edgar.”
Toby sighed. “Yes, obviously. I meant Edgar. If Edgar chooses to come out, it should be a thing he does for himself, and other people’s opinions have fuck all to do with it.”
I snorted. “I mean, it’s easy to say that—”
“Mason, do you hear yourself? It is not easy to say that. At all.” Toby laughed a little bitterly. “You remember my coming out, right?”
I felt instantly ashamed. “Yeah, I remember.”
“But coming out might be empowering for, ah… Eddie.”
“Edgar.”
“Right. Because coming out’s not a one-shot deal anyway. It’s not like sending an ‘I’ve Moved!’ card to your friends and neighbors to let them know they can now find you amongst the Super Queers. It’s hard doing it over and over, especially since there will be negative reactions. It’s easier knowing there are a whole bunch of people who get you.”
“That’s not a concern for Edgar. The… the acceptance.”
“It’s the idea that he might be wrong?”
I cleared my throat. “Yeah.”
“Jesus H. Christ on a gondola. I don’t suppose Eddie—”
“Edgar!”
Toby nearly growled. “Right,” he said impatiently. “I don’t suppose he recently rescued himself from indentured servitude to a blonde who exploited his perfectionism and never deserved his noble, self-sacrificing ass?”
“Wha—”
“Maybe Edgar is totes fine accepting he’s gay, but he needs to come out as an actual, fallible, evolving human being, not a perfect Instagram image.”
“I don’t—”
“Oh, by the wigs of Lovey Bricknell. What’s his name, sweetness?”
I clenched the shower curtain in my fist. “Whose?” I asked faintly.
“The guy Edgar’s hot for.”
I made a noise that was half laugh, half sob. The guy I was hot for. It should have sounded weirder than it did.
“It’s Fenn,” I admitted miserably. “He’s fucking gorgeous, Toby. And so completely wrong for… Edgar.”
“Wrong because he’s a dude.”
“No! No, even aside from that.” I took a deep breath, and everything I’d been feeling and not saying tumbled out of me in a rush. “Fenn’s sarcastic—you would love him—and when you give him shit, he dishes it right back. And he makes nonviolent people want to do violent, violent things, because he gets this smirk and this look in his eyes that… gah.”
“Oh, boy.”
“And he wears these horrible flip-flops literally everywhere—the thin, plastic kind that make those rude, slappy noises. Any sane person would want to chuck them into the Gulf, no matter how environmentally irresponsible that would be, they’re that annoying—except somehow, after walking beside him for a minute, you become really aware of how silent your steps are when he’s not there. And then you realize you’re having fond thoughts about dollar-store footwear and you start to get concerned about your own mental state.”
“Mason.”
“And he’s sometimes insulting or eye-rolly when you tell him things, like there’s something inherently wrong with having your future planned out, but… he also makes you feel like he gets it, even if he doesn’t get it get it, and like you could tell him any random, insane thought or doubt or worry that jumps into your brain and it wouldn’t even faze him. And he makes you laugh about things you didn’t think would ever be funny.”
“Sweetness.”
“And he… he has this soap-clean smell. A stomach-flipping manly smell.” I sighed. “And he has a scruffy chin that’s softer than you’d think and makes you wanna rub your face against it. And… he’s like poison ivy and a weighted blanket all rolled into one.”
“Motherfucker. Where is Yiannis when I need him?”
I snorted. “And he… he has a real aversion to dating anyone who’s not out. He’s been someone’s experiment before, and I think he got hurt.”
“Ohhhh.” Toby was silent for a second. “That can’t be your… Edgar’s problem. You know that, right? Edgar can’t come out for Perfect Fenn.”
“Fenn’s not perfect. And I know you’re right. Edgar knows. Fenn knows, too. He said that himself, earlier tonight. After he and Edgar, um…”
“Um? Finish that sentence immediately.”
“I can’t! I don’t have the vocabulary for what it was! Hands and rocking and kissing and… rocking.”
“Hhhhngh.”
“You okay?”
“The vocabulary word you’re searching for is frotting,” Toby said in a strangled voice. “And if your Fenn doesn’t get off on having you be all innocent and untutored, he’s a fucking idiot.”
“He’s not my Fenn.”
“Jesus fucking Christ. Edgar’s Fenn, then.”
“That’s not what I meant! I mean, Fenn wants to be friends. No more… hooking up. Because he wants someone he can date, and I…” I took a deep breath. “I’m not out. I don’t know what I am.” I swallowed and curled up on the cold bathroom floor. “And it’s better that way. I’m not an idiot. There’s no future for me on Whispering Key. I’m leaving as soon as possible. This island is a tiny blip on my path. I’m not getting tied down here or anywhere.”
Why, why did that simple, obvious truth make me want to cry, and/or rush down the balcony to Fenn’s door and force him to hug me until I felt less shitty?
“Mason, I have total faith that you’ll get where you need to be eventually.”
“Yeah? Well. That makes one of us.”
“What does Micah say?”
“Micah? Please. He’d fly down here and wouldn’t leave until he’d sorted me out. And if I thought he could do it, I’d let him, but he can’t, so I’m not telling him shit.” I pushed a hand through my hair. “I hate feeling this way, you know? Like I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing. Tell me what to do.”
“You’re gonna hate this advice,” Toby said gleefully. “You ready? You need to give it time. Stop spiraling on this. Let your lizard brain catch up to your frontal lobe, or vice versa. Live your life. Let the seeds you planted germinate. Let Fenn’s caveman instincts overwhelm his reason. Then we’ll see.”
“Then we’ll see? That’s the worst advice ever,” I grumbled. That was the exact opposite of what I was trying to do with my life. “I want a plan, Tobias. I want steps. I want to take action. ‘Seeing what happens’ is what fucked things up with Victoria.”
“No, sweetness, that was not the issue. Settling was the issue. So, you want to take action? Don’t settle. Be honest with yourself about what you want. Be honest with Fenn. But don’t overthink your way into a tiny box and pretend that’s you taking control of your life.”
“I take it back. That is the worst advice ever.” If I were honest with Fenn about the things I was feeling, I was pretty sure he’d take out a restraining order against me. With good reason.
But once Toby laughed and said goodbye, I was left staring at the picture of Fenn and me again.
Was Toby right? Was I really so scared of making a mistake that I couldn’t be honest about who I was and what I wanted right in this moment? I’d decided, back in my New York loft, that I wanted a life that was truly mine… and being real about myself was part of that. Even if Fenn and I were never together again, that moment on the beach earlier had been the truest, most honest experience of my entire life. Something I’d made happen. Something that was, therefore, inherently mine, even if it never happened again. Even if I never wanted it to.
I stared at that picture for an hour before opening my Instagram, then another hour trying to think up a caption, before I realized I didn’t have to. Fenn had already given me the perfect one.
“I dare you, Mason Bloom,” I whispered to myself from the tile floor of the tiny bathroom.
I hit Post, and immediately fell asleep with the phone in my hands.
Chapter Eleven
Fenn
Factually speaking, my room at the Five Star was the same size it ever was. Same industrial carpet, same sand-colored walls, same artwork I’d hung haphazardly over the years. At some point last night, though, during the hour or so when the thunder had been loud enough to shake the world, I’d lain on my bed in the dark and thought about Mason, who couldn’t sleep in the thunder, and the walls had seemed to close in on me.
Which, yeah, was fucking pathetic.
I’d finally drifted off to sleep, and when I’d blinked my gritty eyes open to the sound of my stupid alarm at 5:00 a.m., the room had been klieg-light bright again in the Florida sun, but I’d felt weirdly dissatisfied. The room had gotten bigger while I’d slept. Too big. Too sterile and impersonal. Too empty.
Which was arguably more pathetic.
So, before I could trace those lonely thoughts back to their source, I’d jumped in the shower. For the first time in a while, I was actually eager to get to work, because in the grand scheme of bullshit ways to spend my time, running Rafe’s boat ranked somewhere above pining for the straight guy down the hall when I’d fucking sworn I would never do that again.
I was so pissed at myself, I wasn’t paying attention when I passed Mason’s door… which was how I came to find myself with two arms full of stammering, shower-damp, sexy-as-fuck man.
“Whoa!” I grabbed Mason by his upper arms to steady him before he hit his head on the doorjamb. He smelled like salt and woodsmoke and everything cozy. I wanted to cuddle him, so I pushed him away. And it took effort.
But we were friends. So.
“Shit, sorry!” He took one look at my face and moved back another half step as he removed his earbuds. “Sorry, Fenn, I didn’t—”
“Have psychic powers to detect that I’d be walking by just now?” I said, forcing an unconcerned smile. “It’s fine. My fault, too.”
It was absolutely not fine. His wet hair curled on his forehead and waved around his ears. He was wearing a thin cotton T-shirt that highlighted his lean muscles and the dip of his collarbone, a body part that had never before and would never again be as sexy as it was in that frustrated moment.
Just friends. Whose fucked-up idea was this?
Oh. Right.
Mason chuckled and looked down at the sandy sneakers I’d noticed in his closet when I was playing super-stalker the day before. “Yeah, no. No psychic powers. I’ll leave that to Beale.” He smiled and it looked pained.
My own smile faltered. “Beale told you about that?” I didn’t know he talked much about his portents and shit outside the family.
“What? Oh. Yeah. He’s been driving me to work. Gave me a crystal to cleanse the air in my room.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Supposed to help me sleep.”
“Did it work?”
He shook his head and gave me a look that so clearly said, What the hell do you think, dumbass? that I could almost hear his voice in my head. “But it was sweet of him.”
There were a lot of directions my brain could have gone from there. Like, pondering how Mason hadn’t slept any better than I had. Like, forcing my feet to keep walking down the balcony to the stairs and then out to my car. Instead, it snagged on the word sweet and hung there.
Beale thought Mason was sweet. Mason thought Beale was sweet.
Nobody thought I was sweet, and all the sugar in the air was a little nauseating.
I set my jaw.
On paper, Beale would be a much better choice for Mason. He didn’t have the same baggage I did. He might be more than open to a little experimentation with the cute and friendly doctor for as long as he was stranded on Whispering Key.
Nauseous-er and nauseous-er.
“Yeah, well. Beale…” I hesitated. I hated lying. I especially hated people who lied for their own gain. Was I really going to lie about Beale of all people? Just because I was jealous?
No. I’d hate myself.
“I don’t know anything about auras,” Mason continued, a little smile playing on his lips, “but whatever color means adorable and honorable, that’s Beale’s color.” He beamed. “And he’s been so patient with me this week, too, helping me get acclimated to the island. Poor guy can’t remember how to stretch his shoulder to save his life, but I don’t mind showing him—”
“He’s in love with someone,” I blurted.
Mason and I stared at each other, both wide-eyed with shock.
“Please forget you heard that.” I closed my eyes and rubbed at the spot between my brows. “That’s… not a thing I should be talking about.”
“No, of course.” Mason mimed zipping his lips together. “But… who?”
My mouth opened and closed like the world’s largest, most dishonest fish.
“Fenn… we’re friends, right? Isn’t that what we decided?”
I nodded woodenly. We’d decided. Or possibly Beale’s Universe had decided for us, because it was capricious as fuck and loved to taunt me with things I couldn’t have. One or the other.
“So you know I’m not going to say a word. You can tell me.” He stepped closer like he was worried about being overheard. Of course he wanted to know.
My punishment for lying was immediate and totally disproportionate to my crime. Having Mason in my space, close enough that his scent filled my lungs and his green eyes filled my vision, felt like being on fire.
“I… I can’t say,” I croaked. “Jesus, I shouldn’t have said even that much. It’s a, um… complicated situation.”
Mason sank his teeth into his lower lip, looking so sexy I nearly groaned. “The poor guy.”
Beale was going to kill me. And at this rate, it would be a mercy killing.
“Loafers, stick to doctoring. Don’t worry about Beale.”
“Right.” Mason pursed his lips and gave me a knowing look. “Say no more.”
“I’m serious.”
Mason stepped away and blinked in feigned innocence. “Of course you are. Me too!” He grabbed his doorknob and pulled his door closed, which was when I put together exactly how he was dressed, in a plain T-shirt and shorts that didn’t even look ironed.
“Fenn! Get your ass down here!” Beale yelled good-naturedly. “Dad wants us.”
Mason and I both stepped forward to peer over the railing, our shoulders brushing.
We looked at each other guiltily and each took a step away.
“Yeah, coming,” I called down.
“Doc!” Beale’s smile was like the sun emerging from a cloud. “Hey! How’s your Saturday going?”
“It’s about an hour old, but so far so good. Just going for a walk on the beach now,” he called down to Beale.
Beale grinned, eager as a fucking puppy. “Nice! I just finished a run, myself!”
I rolled my eyes.
“Fenn and I are working today, but I should be back around lunchtime, if you want me to drive you anywhere,” Beale offered.
Mason shot me a look I couldn’t decipher. “Nah, I can walk myself down to town if I need to go. That’s fine. But thanks.”
“Let me know if you change your mind!�
� Beale’s good cheer was disgusting, and absolutely sincere. I should have felt worse about lying.
“Seriously, he’s so sweet,” Mason cooed, too low for Beale to hear.
Okay, yup, now I felt worse. But not about lying.
“Anyway. I guess I’ll run into you later. Hopefully not literally. Ha.” Mason aimed a smile somewhere over my shoulder.
It was all I could do not to answer the same happy-puppy way Beale had, tongue hanging out of my mouth and all.
“Loafers, we can’t seem to help it,” I said wryly.
Mason’s smile turned rueful, and he shook his head as he walked away, clearly taking it as a joke, but as he disappeared around the side of the building, I was uncomfortably sure I’d spoken nothing less than the truth.
Saturdays on the boat were the ultimate distraction—the water was packed with boats, the boats were packed with tourists, and there were a thousand and one tiny tasks that required my attention, even during the parts of the tour I wasn’t narrating. Nothing like salt air, sunshine, and hard work to keep my mind off… anything I’d rather not think about. Right?
Yeah, not so much.
“Let me tell you a story about the Esmerelda,” I’d said into my microphone as we rounded the southern end of Whispering Key—an action I performed literally six times a week—but this time, I’d remembered Mason’s excited face when he thought he was the first guy to wonder if Resolute Goodman had hidden his half of the treasure near the rocks.
After the tour was over, a lady in a pink visor and sensible shoes had passed me a folded-up twenty, patted my hand as she disembarked, and said, “You have a gift for storytelling, young man. And such youthful enthusiasm!” and I fought the sudden urge to text Loafers that I was youthfully enthusiastic, not childlike or ridiculous, just because I knew he’d roll his eyes at me.
“Do you do private parties?” a middle-aged man in a cute polo shirt and boat shoes had asked, handing me a business card, and I’d smiled hard and tried not to think about when and how I’d begun finding polo shirts cute.
The wind kicked up and caught the flag above the cockpit, twisting it around the pole, and I’d pictured wavy brown hair blowing around laughing green eyes.
