In the Distance

by Eileen Griffin

  Another bell sounded, but I kept my focus on the soil in front of me. Kids rotated in and out of the garden. Each one was eager to help, but at least half of them got too distracted by the worms wriggling in the dirt to pay much attention to the plants. When an hour had passed and the last group had gone back inside the school, Nathan called all the volunteers together to share our thoughts on the garden and any suggestions for improving it.

  I should have been paying attention, but I zoned out and looked back at the building behind me. My mom had never put us in an aftercare program, but that hadn’t stopped me from hoping to see Ollie today. It was selfish, but I hadn’t seen him or my sister since the day after graduation. There were countless times I’d wanted to visit them, but the memory of my dad’s insults hurled at my back as I grabbed my things and left was enough to keep me away.

  I hated my parents for keeping us apart. I hated society for maintaining this farce of us-versus-them mentality when it came to sexuality. But more than anything, I hated myself for not having the balls to stand up to my parents and tell them the truth before they found out on their own and everything fell apart. There was so much I wanted to prove. One day, they’d see they hadn’t broken me. One day, I’d be able to support myself without help from anyone, and maybe one day, I could help other kids who felt broken.

  * * *

  “Next week we’ll put into practice what we covered today. I’ll expect you to arrive early enough to pick out your own selection of meat from the cooler and have it prepped before class begins.”

  The class’s collective groan would have been much louder if not for Chef Allen’s “there’s the door if you don’t like it” expression. Just another day around badass chefs. A quick glance at the clock told me I had fifteen minutes to make it to the counselor’s office.

  “Tyler? You working the gala this weekend?”

  I slung my backpack over my shoulder just as Sam approached my prep station.

  “Yeah. Kitterick made it pretty clear the financial aid students had to pull their weight during the event, but it was hell trying get two weekend nights off from work.”

  I glanced at the clock one last time before leaving the room. Fourteen minutes and counting. Once we were outside, Sam leaned against the wall as the rest of our class filed out.

  “That guy seriously scares the crap out of me. I had to beg my boss for the whole weekend off because I volunteered to work Friday and Saturday, as well as the faculty breakfast on Sunday. I know they’re paid gigs, but let’s just say my boss wasn’t too thrilled I wouldn’t be in until Sunday afternoon.”

  “I hear ya. He’s got the total mind fuck going on, but he’s not so bad. Both of my bosses worked for him when they went here and they actually like him.”

  Sam’s eyes widened. “Dude. Your bosses’ balls must be made of titanium.”

  The image struck me as so funny, I couldn’t help but laugh. After an entire morning of nerves jangling around under my skin, it felt good.

  Sam tilted his head in the direction of the exit. “You heading out? Maybe we can grab a coffee, or something.”

  The look in his eyes confirmed what I’d only suspected a few months ago. Before meeting Trevor, I might have said yes. Now, the thought of saying yes to anyone except for Trevor made me feel all weird inside.

  “Not yet. I have to drop by the counselor’s office. Just some paperwork to check up on. But you’d better hurry if you want to catch the three-fifteen headed back in town.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, see you on Friday for the massive prep-a-thon.”

  I stood in the hallway, watching Sam walk away, until I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer. When I’d made the appointment a month ago, I’d rationalized it as an opportunity to simply check out everything the Institute had to offer. Getting the scholarship and being accepted to a school I’d never even seen as an option for me had been overwhelming enough. With Ethan and Jamie as informal advisors, I hadn’t really given much thought to any program outside of the Associates Degree program, because that would secure me a position in most Seattle restaurant kitchens.

  So why was I headed to the advising office to talk to a counselor about a degree plan that would add not just two, but four more years on to my already existing program? I wasn’t sure it started with my conversation with Chef Boulanger or Donna, but somewhere along the way, I began to wonder what if? What if I didn’t want to be a head chef whose life was dedicated to fourteen-hour days in his kitchen? What if I really didn’t want to be a head chef at all? What if I still wanted to be in the culinary world, but just on the other side of the desk as a teacher? It didn’t take a genius to see I didn’t exactly have the same kind of commanding presence like Ethan and Jamie did. Even though they had vastly different styles, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind who was in charge when either of them was in the kitchen. I hadn’t even raised my voice when my parents kicked me out of the house. How in the hell did I expect to run a kitchen and keep my staff on their toes when I couldn’t even stand up for myself?

  The answer had come slowly over the past few months of volunteering at the elementary schools and helping Nick learn a few simple cooking techniques during our breaks. There was something electrifying and gratifying about seeing the light bulb go off when something clicked in the other person’s mind. It was an addictive feeling to be able to work with someone who got excited about something as simple as where our food came from or how to make a simple wine reduction without scalding it.

  The one hitch in the plan was that I hadn’t talked about any of this with Ethan and Jamie. They’d been over the moon when I brought in my fall schedule, telling me which chef was a hard-ass and which one was a pushover. It was still embarrassing whenever they brought up how proud of me they were for attending culinary school at all. All the hours they’d put into helping me master techniques and the increasing responsibilities at Bistro 30—all of it to prepare me for having a kitchen of my own one day. It had been bad enough to face my parents’ rejection when they found out I was gay, I didn’t think I could handle Ethan’s and Jamie’s disappointment in me for not following in their footsteps after all they’d done for me.

  Still, here I was, taking a step in that direction.

  “Tyler? I’m ready for you now.”

  I hesitated outside the open door as the counselor returned to her desk. I wondered what I’d be willing to do to make this crazy plan work. Work extra hours on top of my already insane schedule by adding a second job, maybe through the school’s restaurant, to cover the cost of the extra tuition hours? Hurt those who genuinely cared about me for something I may not even be good at? Ultimately fail, and prove to everyone my parents were right and I’d always be a failure? The simple truth was, no matter what I decided, I was going to be letting someone down.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Trevor

  I glanced at the clock on my bedside table as I slipped into bed. 12:47. Between Alex’s promo op at a local TV station and a dinner meeting with a potential client, I was beat. As tired as I was, though, I couldn’t resist checking my text messages. Nothing from Tyler. He wasn’t the small talk type, but still, I was oddly disappointed. Unable to stop myself, I typed out a short message. I checked it over three times before I hit Send. It was a casual text. A text one friend would send to another. Trying not to overthink what had happened over the weekend, I pressed Send.

  You still awake?

  A few, very long minutes later, my phone buzzed.

  Yeah. Just getting ready for bed.

  How was your first day of class?

  Good. Long.

  Unable to stop myself, I texted back.

  That’s what he said.

  When nothing came back, I began to worry. Had I crossed the line? Were we just going to ignore what happened on Saturday night? I’d begun typing out a new text, on
e without any innuendo in it, when Tyler’s reply came through.

  You might want to think long and hard before taking your comedy routine on the road.

  I exhaled the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Smiling, I quickly typed back.

  Killing me, Smalls.

  His reply was faster this time.

  Thought you discovered last weekend there’s nothing small here.

  My cock twitched as I reread his text.

  I think I might need a closer inspection.

  It was a dangerous game, especially since I’d officially been warned to keep my distance from Tyler. But seeing as how there hadn’t exactly been much distance between us this past weekend, I figured all bets were off on that front. I’d almost given up hope of him replying when my phone pinged again.

  I’m looking at it right now. Yep. Nothing small about it.

  You still in bed?

  Yep.

  I shifted back against my pillows and fought the urge to slip my hand under the covers to give my cock a stroke.

  This inspection needs to be thorough. Very hands-on.

  There was a pause, then the next message pinged on my phone.

  Not sure if you noticed, but I don’t have a third hand hidden somewhere on my body.

  I stared at the phone, debating. “Fuck it.”

  Tyler picked up on the fourth ring. “Trevor, I’m not sure—”

  “You wanna know what I can’t get out of my mind?”

  A strangled whimper came through the phone.

  Sliding my free hand inside my boxers, I ran my fingers down my hardening length. “All day, and throughout a boring-ass dinner, all I could think about was the way your back arched off that damn futon of yours when you came in my hand.”

  “Oh, God.” Tyler’s breathing hitched, accompanied by the sound of his phone shifting.

  “I was supposed to be concentrating on winning over a new client, but instead all I heard was the soft gasp you made right before you came.”

  “Trevor.”

  I cupped my balls, rolling them in my hand.

  “And the feel of your chest against my back when you wrapped your arms around me and started stroked me off.”

  There were no words this time, just Tyler’s rapid breathing giving me the green light to continue.

  “I thought I was going to lose it the moment you wrapped your hand around my cock, but I wanted it to last so I held off as long as I could.”

  “Fuck.”

  “But when you twisted your wrist over the tip? I knew I wouldn’t last.”

  There was rustling through the earpiece just before Tyler’s strained voice met my ears. “Trevor.”

  I closed my eyes and worked my hand back up my cock, my dry palm creating just enough friction to make it painfully pleasurable. An image of Tyler on his bed with his palm on his cock had me increasing my speed.

  “Then you grazed my ear with your teeth, and that was all she wrote. I swear I felt a jolt of electricity down my spine before losing it all over your hand.”

  Tyler’s labored breathing came faster, and I knew he was close. At that moment, I would have given anything to watch him work himself. Were his eyes closed? Was he using both hands? Maybe one tugging on his balls while his palm tightened over his leaking tip?

  “It was painful to leave your apartment after that, because all I could imagine was doing it all over again. Except this time, I’d take you deep in my mouth just so I could see how fucking good you taste.”

  For a few heartbeats, there was no response, then I heard a strangled gasp. A dozen images of Tyler coming undone assaulted me, each one more erotic than the last. Letting my phone slip off my shoulder, I thrust my hips up to pump my cock against my palm. I focused on the last image—Tyler with his head thrown back while he shot his load in my mouth—as I fell over the edge and pulsed into my hand.

  With my clean hand, I grabbed my phone as I fumbled around for something to clean off with. The line hadn’t disconnected, giving me hope Tyler hadn’t freaked out and hung up. “You still there?”

  I groaned when I heard Tyler’s raw, ragged breathing. “I’m here. Sticky, but I’m still here.”

  A slow smile spread across my face. “Me, too. I’ll let you go get cleaned up.”

  “Night, Trevor.”

  I didn’t want the call to end, but I’d already pushed my luck enough for one night. “Night, Smalls.”

  Tyler laughed one last time before the call disconnected. I tucked my phone away, replaying every gasp and moan I’d just heard Tyler make as I turned out my light. A month ago, hell even a week ago, I never would have imagined Tyler being up for that kind of call. Maybe I’d caught him with his guard down, but a selfish part of me wanted to crow out loud he was exploring all of this with me. Not one of his classmates or that guy Nick at the restaurant. Me. My last thought before finally succumbing to sleep was I really needed to find out who invented the cell phone and send that person a fruit basket.

  * * *

  It was embarrassing how fast I pulled my phone out of my coat pocket when I heard it ping. It had been almost a week since Tyler’s last text and I was getting antsy to hear from him.

  About to clock in for my shift. How’s NY?

  I leaned against the windowed facade of the restaurant, my fingers freezing as I typed out a reply.

  Good. About to meet Mom for lunch. How R U?

  Tired. We’re working on new items for the spring menu so I’m pulling a double.

  As if you don’t spend enough time there as it is?

  Gotta put in the hours now if I’m getting a night off next time you’re in town. I might even ask for the a.m. shift off, too ;)

  “Trevor? Why are you waiting outside? It’s freezing out here.”

  It was sheer luck I was able to catch my phone before it shattered on the concrete. Scrubbing a hand over my face, I tucked my phone back into my pocket and hugged my mom.

  “Hey, Mom. Sorry. Got a text that I needed to answer and the restaurant is packed. I already put my name on the list. Why don’t you go inside and warm up. I’m sure our table will be ready soon.”

  Her look told me she hadn’t believed a word of what I’d said, but instead of calling me on it, she leaned in and patted me on the cheek before leaving me out on the cold street. I took my phone back out of my pocket, reread his last text and hurriedly typed out one of my own.

  Speaking of, how about dinner on Friday?

  I squeezed my eyes shut. Please say Friday works. Please say Friday.

  Have to work afternoon shift at B30 & school stuff on Saturday. Sunday for breakfast?

  I couldn’t expect him to drop everything to accommodate my crazy agenda while I was there, and yet I had hoped after everything that had happened since the last time I was in town he would want more time together than a few stolen hours here and there.

  Am flying out on a red-eye on Monday morning. Maybe a late dinner on Friday and something earlier than dinner on Sunday?

  His response was immediate.

  I won’t get home til about 9 on Fri. Is pizza okay for a late dinner? We can even grab a quick breakfast before I have to clock in on Sat.

  Not helping my situation here. About to walk into restaurant, with my MOM, and all I have to say is thank God I’m wearing a long jacket.

  I looked through the window and thankfully still saw my mom waiting near the hostess stand. Right when I was about to give up, my phone pinged.

  I’d say I’m sorry but I’m not sorry. Have fun with your MOM.

  Unable to wipe the shit-eating grin off my face, I entered the restaurant. Even though I was happy to spend the afternoon with my mother in the heart of Manhattan, a part of me was already planning my next trip to Seattle.


  “I was beginning to think I’d lost you to some new deal you’ve got in the works. You were pretty engrossed in whatever conversation you were having when I walked up.”

  While most of my friends had spent the majority of their adult lives trying to get out from under their parents’ thumbs, I was one of those rare guys who actually liked having my parents around. I’d seen what money could do to people—hell, Jamie’s parents were a good example of that—but my parents had tried to keep our lives normal. Or as normal as they could, considering my dad, Warren Anderson Pratt, had come from modest beginnings only to build a respected name and fortune at one of the most successful advertising agencies in New York. My mom, Margaret Windsor Pratt, was the daughter of a prominent investment broker. She had grown up in New York’s elite society, but had always worked hard not to let her family’s money and status make her one of the obnoxious socialites she’d grown up with. They’d met at a social gala, talked all night and into the morning, both freely admitting to this day it had been love at first sight. It was a disgustingly romantic story I’d heard hundreds of times over the years, and I secretly envied them. I’d never wanted for love, not when I went through my obnoxious teenage years or when I’d officially come out of the closet for them, but more than love, they’d always given me their acceptance to be who I was. That didn’t mean we hadn’t had our growing pains as a family who was immersed in New York’s elite social circle, but just one look Jamie’s and Tyler’s parents reminded me how lucky I was to have the parents I did.

  “Just finalizing my plans for this weekend’s trip to Seattle.”

  “Seattle? I thought your new client was in Portland.”

  A part of me wanted to tell her about Tyler, but what could I say? Hey Mom. So, I met this guy. He’s funny and handsome and sexy and almost ten years younger than I am. He got kicked out of his house because his parents are total religious fuckwads, so he’s got some baggage to deal with. I’m not sure what exactly we’re doing, but I like him. Even though Jamie and Ethan are overprotective wannabe dads who’ve threatened to kick my ass if I hurt him.