by Amy Lane
“Yeah?” Richie grinned at him, and for a moment they could pretend like they hadn’t almost gotten busted having ass sex in the bedroom of Skip’s tiny house. “I’ll remember that.”
“You need to come home right now,” Ike snarled, and Richie’s happy little bounce deflated.
“No,” he said quietly. “Sorry, Dad. I mean, I don’t have any family stuff, and my time is my own, right?”
“Not to spend it doing….” Ike glared at them both, as though daring them to find the right words.
“Doing what?” Skip asked, voice husky but firm. “What is it you think we’re doing, sir? Richie and I have been friends for years—what are you seeing here that’s bad?”
“Don’t bullshit with me, young man,” he snarled. “You two—this ain’t right. You can’t get away with what you’re doing—someone’ll stop you!”
He turned away then and stalked toward his car, leaving Richie and Skip shaking as they closed the door behind him.
“Oh Jesus,” Skip said, leaning against the door. “Did Hazel get out?”
“No. She’s hiding under the bed. Skip, did you hear him?” Richie was leaning against the door too, their arms touching.
“Yeah—I just don’t know who he thinks is going to stop us,” Skip muttered, looking at Richie with wide eyes. “I mean… he’s not going to do anything, is he?”
“You mean like sabotage your car or burn down your house?” Richie asked seriously.
“The fact that’s where your mind goes is really frightening. Will he?”
Richie shook his head. “No. No, I don’t think so. But… but Rob and Paul might not be so smart. Jesus, Skip. I should go—”
“No,” Skip said, his eyes suddenly burning. “No. What’s going to happen? You go home and say, ‘Sorry, Dad, you’re right, I won’t go play at Skip’s again?’ What happens to soccer? What happens to us? Are you ready to walk away from that yet?”
Richie grabbed his hand and clung. “No,” he said softly. “No. You’re right. We’ll go shopping like we planned. Buy some of those eucalyptus arrangements for your table so we don’t have to dump menthol all over the bedroom. God, I can’t believe that doesn’t bother you.”
“Best my head’s felt in a week,” Skip confirmed. “But we should probably get out of here anyway.” Skipper straightened up and felt his junk flopping around in his sweats and the cold air hitting his stomach. “But first….”
“Yeah. We totally need to change.”
RICHIE LEFT Monday morning again, and this time they kissed at the door for as long as they possibly could before both of them would be late.
When they broke it off, Richie was mashed up against the door and Skip was holding his thighs as he wrapped his legs around Skip’s waist. They paused for a moment, leaning foreheads together, and gulped air.
“What do I tell my dad?” Richie asked.
“Tell him you’re in love.”
“I’m so in love with you,” Richie told him, burying his face in Skip’s shoulder. Skip held him one more second, then another, then let him go.
Thankful
THE NEXT week seemed so blessedly normal.
Work was fine—the fruit basket from Mr. Gentleman Caller was much appreciated, and Skip and Carpenter got a lot of use from it. The card read Thanks for not suing for sexual harassment. I hope your boyfriend took good care of you.
Skip and Carpenter toasted to a new friend with big Japanese pears that tasted like heaven itself—and Skip took a page from his nearly forgotten youth and sent an actual handwritten thank-you card when he was done.
The rain let up for a week, leaving them with mist and fog, but since that was normal November weather, it didn’t hardly get Skip down. He and Richie texted almost once an hour, and Skip started playing Words With Friends with him, not because either of them was a better-than-average player but because it meant once an hour he had an excuse to let Richie know Skip was thinking about him.
Once an hour, Richie did the same thing. (And Richie was particularly adept at finding the dirty word in his stack of tiles, a gift that never ceased to amaze Skipper. The word “vulva” actually won the game for him on Wednesday, and Skipper was full of praise.)
Richie showed up for soccer about half an hour late, though, and although Skip wasn’t going to yell at him—because he wouldn’t anyway—at the end of the game, he did use the excuse to call him over to help pick up the orange cones so they could talk about why he was late.
Winter ball practice was at Rusch Park instead of the middle school, because the park had lights, and they were two of the last people there, moving slowly, their silence companionable. They met at the end of the field, and Skip gathered the cones and started moving to their cars. The parking lot was decently lit, especially from the practice lights, and if their breath hadn’t been steaming as they spoke, it might have been a nice place for a nighttime chat. As it was, Skip told Richie to get in and he’d drive him to his car at the far end of the parking lot, and Richie slid in gratefully.
“Sorry, Skip,” he said as soon as he shut the door. “My dad—I mean, it’s been lots of little stuff, you know? He’s been knocking on my door at night like he’s tucking me in. Paul and Rob suddenly found Jesus, and it’s all about what Jesus would do to a fag on a dark night—”
Skip grunted. “Okay, they are about the two dumbest assholes on the planet. I mean, four years ago people bought that shit, but hasn’t everybody figured out that Jesus was gay-friendly by now?”
Richie grinned at him. “Oh, I told ’em. Quote chapter and verse—”
“You know your Bible that well?” Because that was something they had not covered in their late-night conversations.
“Naw, I know my gay that well,” Richie corrected, nodding. “I’ve got a laptop—I’ve been looking shit up. I mean, I know you were down last week, but you said the magic word, Skipper. You said ‘gay’ and I had a thing to research, and now I know my gay Bible stuff and Rob and Paul can kiss my ass.”
Skip laughed as he pulled up next to Richie’s car and put it in park, letting it idle.
“That’s awesome,” he said, meaning it. Then he sobered. “So I guess we’re in gay league soccer together if the guys find out, right?”
Richie sighed and leaned his head against Skip’s shoulder. “Yeah. Well, there’s worse things than not playing winter ball, Skipper. Do you want to just up and tell them? I mean….” He dropped a kiss on Skip’s collarbone, and Skip nuzzled his temple. “Carpenter surprised me, you know? Your job surprised me. My dad even—he knows. I mean, there was not enough eucalyptus in the world to disguise the way your house smelled on Sunday, and he keeps acting surprised when he comes over to my place, like he’s expecting a big gay orgy. But he’s got to know. What happens if we just say it and… and….”
Skip turned his head and saw Richie looking at him with wide, limpid eyes, begging Skip for something.
Skip didn’t like making Richie beg. He kissed him then, openmouthed, and Richie sighed and sank into it. Urgent but contained, because they weren’t going to get laid in Skip’s car—they could wait until the weekend for that.
But still passionate. Still the taste of Richie’s mouth in his own. Still the acknowledgment, somehow, that what started out in Skip’s car and had raged uncontrollably had now turned into something other than fire. It had transformed them, and they needed to see who they were.
They were the same two guys who had met at tech school and who had grown progressively closer ever since. They were the same two guys who had discovered their first real sex and their first kiss and their first love in each other’s arms.
Skip pulled back after a few moments, knowing his cock was swollen but feeling the weight of being a grown-up. “After Thanksgiving,” he said, while Richie blinked around like he was trying to figure out which day it was.
“What?”
“After Thanksgiving. We’ve got practice Friday afternoon. I’ll tell everyone then. I’ll just
tell ’em I’m gay if you want. If they get ugly, I’ll leave you out of—”
“Oh fuck that, Skipper,” Richie snapped, shaking his head. “You think I don’t know what you’re risking? You’re risking your… your family unit here—”
“And so are you,” Skip said gently. Richie’s hair was growing long too, and Skip wound a sweaty ringlet around his finger. “Your dad already—”
“You know the saddest thing about my dad right now?” Richie said, voice hard.
“What?”
“He doesn’t have anything to hold over me, Skip. He doesn’t have a single thing I want. There is nothing he can threaten me with that will make me change what I feel when I’m with you.”
Skip smiled, a sort of serenity seeping through his chest. “Okay, then,” he said, dropping a kiss on Richie’s forehead. “We’re the family we each need. That’s… that’s something I can live with.”
It felt good then, right? Felt hopeful.
The next morning Richie called Skip from work to say the junkyard had been completely vandalized. Cars had been torched, their best stock had been put into the masher—it was a mess, and Richie’s dad had everybody working overtime until they had a quote for the insurance people.
So no Richie that weekend, no sex, no warmth, and definitely no plans for coming out.
Skip just had to buckle down for a long, lonely weekend and look forward to Thanksgiving with Carpenter’s parents instead.
CARPENTER WASN’T having any of that bullshit.
“Not for the whole weekend?” he said when Skip explained it to him at lunch. Carpenter was moving much more quickly now, so they actually had more time to talk during lunch. Skip didn’t know if it was okay to say how proud he was, but it was true. His friend had really taken to the soccer thing, had been working out on his own since Halloween—at least Skip suspected so.
“It’s his dad’s livelihood,” Skipper said glumly. He’d gotten soup today, but it did not seem to be doing its job in comforting him. “And Richie’s starting to suspect that it’s more than just vandalism.” Richie’d texted right before lunch, saying he was pretty sure all of the prime parts of their best stock had been missing before the car bodies had been crushed. “It was like all the valuable stuff had been taken out before it got destroyed. And the alarms hadn’t gone off, and they should have been working.”
“So this is a really big deal,” Carpenter said, sounding relieved.
Skip glanced up and smiled wanly. “Yeah, he’s not just trying to ditch me.”
“You sound worried.”
“His dad….”
“Yeah—I saw he showed up at the game. Didn’t seem….”
“Warm,” Skipper said. That was the operative word right there. Richie’s family wasn’t warm. “And he hates my suddenly gay ass like you can’t believe.” Was that getting easier to say? Skip thought that maybe since he and Richie were both saying it, it felt like it fit. A little part of him wondered, Is this why I didn’t say it before? Is this why Richie didn’t? Because we were afraid of saying it alone?
“I caught that,” Carpenter said, furry eyebrows raised dryly. “Nice move, throwing up on the field, by the way. I think all gay men should use that to avoid coming out of the closet.”
Skipper covered his eyes with his palm. “Yeah. That was classy, right? Way for Skip to be a stand-up guy.”
“Hey, Richie wasn’t ready. I could see it. And nobody wants to say something personal on the soccer field. It’s why men bond over sports, for Christ’s sake.”
Skip nodded and straightened in his seat, trying to concentrate on his soup. “Still. Richie keeps saying he can do it all himself, but….” Skip slurped meditatively and swallowed. His chest was still a little raw, and the liquid soothed.
“But….”
“But I thought I was okay when I was sick,” Skip said, still sort of embarrassed. “But I was lucky that cough medicine didn’t kick in when I was driving. And if you and Richie hadn’t taken care of me, I’d probably be dead and Hazel would be eating my face right now.”
With a look of disgust, Carpenter put down the rest of his turkey avocado sandwich. “That’s awesome. It’s not bad enough you’ve got me playing soccer and working out and eating healthy, now you want me to hate food too?”
“No—forget the part about the cat. The point is that I needed people. I needed you and Richie, and maybe I should have admitted it sooner, but I’m admitting it now. But I wouldn’t have if Richie hadn’t tried to get me to promise I’d never try to curl up and die on my own again.”
“He’s a good boyfriend,” Carpenter said, going back to the turkey avocado with gusto. “And your point is?”
“That he might need a little help with talking to his dad. Not this weekend, though. This weekend, he’s busy.” And Skip was back to feeling glum and cheated.
“Oh hell no.” Carpenter threw the last of the sandwich in his mouth. “If you’ve got nothing to do this weekend, you owe me.”
“Owe you….” Skip eyed him suspiciously. “What do you need?”
“I need a golfing buddy,” Carpenter said. “Seriously. Couple of times a year my high school gang goes golfing and compares conquered worlds. I go. I hate it. And I always have nothing to say. I mean, they’ve all graduated from college—”
“As have you,” Skip felt compelled to point out. Unlike Skip, Carpenter had a bachelor’s degree in computer science and not a tech certificate. Skip got the feeling that Carpenter was teching his way through Tesko because it was easy and nobody expected anything from him, which was demoralizing in its way. Having a job with benefits had been Skip’s dream. Well, until he’d kissed Richie—now he had another one.
“Yeah, well, they’re doing something with their degrees, they’re making lots of money doing it, and they’re smug bastards about it.”
This sounded like so much fun Skip would rather be sick. “And you want me to come because….”
“Because you’re the most interesting thing that I’ve got in my life.”
Skip gaped at him in horror. “Oh, Carpenter….”
“Yeah, I know. Pathetic. But also true. You can come and be a gay soccer coach—I’ll get to fly my liberal flag, because most of them are as conservative as the diamonds shoved up their asses, and you and I can talk about whether or not Assassin’s Creed Syndicate actually redeemed the shitty last version.”
“Mn,” Skip hedged, because he hadn’t been convinced, but all the gamer magazines were saying it was the next best thing.
“Yeah, right? I mean we could spend the whole day talking about that. And Skip….” Carpenter smiled like he was enticing a kid with a piece of candy. “Ski-ip… it’s voluntary exercise.”
Skip laughed a little. “You’ve been exercising off the soccer field—you can’t fool me. You’re looking real good.”
“Yeah, well, that was because I thought I was gonna die after that first practice. I can’t promise it will stick, though. So yeah? Since you and Richie don’t have the weekend together, I get to have you for golf?”
Well, what could he say? The guy had just helped nurse him back to health.
“Yeah, but I warn you. Richie gets jealous—this whole thing better suck and we need to bitch loudly about it, or he’s gonna wanna take you out.”
Carpenter laughed then—a real laugh—and Skip felt marginally better. Richie had been right about everybody needing people. He was glad to be one of Carpenter’s people.
Fore!
CARPENTER’S FRIENDS were everything Carpenter was not. They showed up to the course in Fair Oaks in designer golfwear plaid pants and pastel polos, which Skip tried not to smirk at. He and Carpenter were in khakis and hooded sweatshirts—in Carpenter’s case, khaki cargo shorts, in spite of the brisk wind. Skip had asked about dress codes, but Carpenter had just smirked and showed his ID and they hadn’t gotten more than a look as they’d entered the club.
Carpenter’s friends talked about their stock portfolios, ho
w they were getting their MBAs in marketing or their law degrees to facilitate their next promotion, and how they were spending their Thanksgiving weekend going to fundraisers their parents were sponsoring.
Oh. And whether Corfu was a better vacation spot than Santorini.
Austen Mathers, the queen bee—erm, primary captain of the universe—did his condescending best to pull Skip into the conversation right when he was fixing to swing at the ball.
“So, uhm, Skip, where’s your favorite place to vacation?”
“Disneyland,” Skip said promptly. What had it been—two years ago? Skip, Richie, Jefferson, and Thomas had all gone down to Anaheim and roomed in the Tropicana. A five-star resort? No. But it had been across the street from Disneyland, and they’d gotten the three-day pass. For three days Skip had ridden all the rides, shaken hands with all the characters, waved at all the happy children, and basically relived a part of his crappy childhood but did it better. He still had the autograph book with pictures of him and the guys with as many characters as they could find. Jefferson had been on board with the character worship, but Richie? Richie had been right next to Skip in the front of the line. Thomas had humored the three of them—they knew that—but Skip and Richie? Skip had looked through that book a couple of times since then. Jefferson had looked happy, Thomas had looked long-suffering—but that look on his and Richie’s faces was as enchanted as any child’s. That book, that time, that was important to them.
“Disneyland.” Austen smirked and Skip nodded seriously.
“Swear to God, it’s the happiest place on earth. Now hang on here, I gotta swing.” This was the first time Skip had played golf—Carpenter had brought him his dad’s set of clubs so he didn’t have to rent any, claiming it was a fair swap for the soccer equipment Skip had lent him. He’d been five over par on the first hole—he wasn’t sure if that was called a bogey or a booger or a giant fucking dump—but he’d spent the round studying Carpenter’s friends and their swings, and their approach to the ball and the stick and the hole. He was pretty coordinated, and good at watching and learning and applying. Hell, it was how he’d faked a social life since the sixth grade.
