by Amy Lane
And then he felt bad.
This was Terry’s day—his bid for independence. Even if Mason lost his boyfriend… friend… Saturday lover… these gifts needed to come from a whole and untainted heart.
Mason felt bad enough to try to make friends with Rudy.
It didn’t go well.
“So, uh, Rudy. You know Terry—”
“Jefferson? You’re the only one who calls him Terry.” Rudy blinked at Mason with those dark-fringed green eyes, and Mason tried again.
“Well, yeah. But he’s, uh, sort of special to me. Anyway, you guys know each other from work?”
“Yeah. I work at one of the service stations he comes to.” Rudy regarded him with sober alertness, like he was just waiting for the next question.
“Working your way through college?”
“No.”
Oh c’mon, kid, give me something to work with.
“Tech school?”
“No.”
“Your master’s degree on ancient religions?”
Rudy looked at him suspiciously. “Are you making fun of me?”
Oh hell. “No—I’m just trying to make friends. Terry—”
“Jefferson.”
“I call him Terry. He’s special to me, and you’re his friend. I’d like to get to know you, that’s all.”
“I’m twenty-two, and you’re too old for me.”
“Rudy, would you like some popcorn? I’d like some popcorn. I think Dane brought some popcorn. Let’s make everybody popcorn.”
Mason made his way from the corner of the living room, where Rudy had just finished setting up the television and DVR, to the kitchen, where Terry and Dane were debating the best place to put the glasses.
Terry barely looked at him. “So you think the plastic thirty-two-ounce cups will fit here?” he pondered.
“How’s it going, Mace?” Dane said, looking at Mason carefully.
“Peachy. I’m going to make popcorn.” Mason tried not to give a death’s-head grin as he said it.
“Why popcorn?”
“Because popcorn was the first word to come out of my mouth a minute ago and I’m grateful it wasn’t penis.”
Terry looked up then just as Dane guffawed. “Penis?”
“Yeah,” Mason said grimly, looking out into the living room, where Rudy was apparently having a grand ol’ time with Richie and Cooper. “It’s another word for dick.”
HE MADE popcorn, people snacked, and everybody—including Rudy—eventually left, and Mason sank to the couch with Terry in his arms. Once the people were gone, the air-conditioning kicked on, and it made the apartment suddenly sweet and cozy instead of stifling.
“Nice of everyone to come out,” Terry mumbled, falling asleep on Mason’s chest. “What’ya think I should do to say thank you?”
Mason thought of Terry’s tight finances. “Thank-you cards are nice,” he said thoughtfully. “Old-fashioned, but nice. And if you tell people ‘Thanks, and let me return the favor,’ then they’ll call on you for help. It’s a nice cycle.”
“Mm… you know how to be a grown-up in the best ways,” Terry mumbled. “I’ll buy some cards on….” He sat up, putting his elbow in Mason’s stomach.
That quickly he was standing in the middle of his apartment, turning a full circle.
“That’s so weird,” he said in wonder. “This is my home. And I can get here as late as I want on Monday. And leave whenever I want to. I don’t have to ask anyone’s permission to go to your house and stay the night. Nobody has to know where I am. Nobody cares.”
“I do,” Mason couldn’t help but say. “But only so I don’t worry.”
Terry turned toward him. “Worry about what?”
“Worry about you getting home safe. Having enough to eat. Wearing clothes that aren’t too hot or too cold or too full of holes.” Mason’s voice caught. “Being scared during thunderstorms.”
The aching realization on Terry’s face was hard to watch. “Being alone,” he said softly. “Dealing with his brother without anyone to make sure he’s okay. Thinking he’s a big dork when he’s really just….” Terry bit his lip. “Kind,” he said at last. “The kindest person I’ve ever met.”
Mason smiled crookedly. “You’re easy to be nice to.”
Terry threw himself into Mason’s arms. “I’m not so good with days,” he confessed, voice almost lost in Mason’s T-shirt. “I… I might not return your texts. I… there’s new people and….”
Mason kissed his temple. “It’s okay,” he said. “If I’m not important enough for you to come back to, that is not your fault. But… but I’ll tell you. If I need us to be more than I need us, to be.”
Terry nodded unhappily, and Mason saw his lips moving as he tried to work out exactly what Mason just said. It was the best he could do. Mason couldn’t say it again, couldn’t rephrase it more simply.
His chest ached so fiercely he couldn’t hardly breathe.
THEY SLEPT that night on Terry’s queen-size pedestal bed. No box springs. None. Mason woke up at five thirty in the morning and creaked out of bed, trying not to groan about his back. Thirty-six, old man. Oh fuck. Thirty-seven. His birthday had been in early March, when Dane had been at his worst. Mason had put a bright shine on things for his parents during their phone call and taken Terry out with the gift card they’d sent him.
And tried really hard to forget it meant he was dating a guy twelve years his junior.
But this morning, looking around the still-bare walls of Terry’s first apartment, he felt his age settle into his bones. He looked down at where Terry lay sleeping. He’d rolled over and hugged Mason’s pillow, smiling a little, and Mason tried to memorize every line of that smile.
For a little while, I made him happy. Even if that changes and he isn’t happy anymore, I need to remember this. It makes me a better person.
He slid into his clothes and kissed Terry on the cheek.
“Mason?” Those big brown eyes—they sort of slugged Mason in the gut.
“Gotta go get ready for work,” he said, smiling. “You set your phone last night—you should be good.”
Terry grunted. “See you Thursday?”
Oh yeah. Practice. “Or earlier—call me whenever.”
A tiny smile quirked at the corner of his lips. “Text me. I like it when you send me shit.”
Mason grunted and kissed his lips this time. “Then tell me thank you—I’m afraid I’m sending them to my brother half the time.”
Terry frowned. “Some of that shit’s really dirty!”
“You can see why I’d be worried.”
Laughter, low and sleepy, tickled up Mason’s spine.
This could work. This would work.
Another kiss, and he left.
HE GOT home and Dane and Carpenter were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. They were looking at each other warily, and both of them had red-rimmed eyes, but they were sitting intimately close, and whatever wordless communication was happening, Mason thought it was better done alone.
He slid past them, and Carpenter’s voice stopped him as he was walking up the stairs. “You driving to work, Mace?”
“Yeah. Want a ride?”
“Sure. I’m coming back here tonight.”
Dane jerked sharply like this took him by surprise, but Carpenter looked determined.
Okay. Fine. They asked no questions about him and Terry; he asked no questions about them. Fair.
Sort of.
“So,” Mason asked as he negotiated the tiny thoroughfare of Sunset. “Sleepover?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You want me to be somewhere else?”
“If it gets as loud as you and Jefferson, I’ll kill myself.”
Mason almost swerved into a tree. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do you have any idea how thick your walls are, Mason? And still, I swear to God, I thought you were killing him Saturday night.”
“You were there?” As far
as Mason could remember, they’d gone out on a day trip that Saturday. “Dane said you didn’t get back until one!”
“It was to spare your feelings. Good Lord, man—I’ve seen nature shows on bonobos that made less noise.”
Mason’s flush had pretty much suffused his entire body. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I had no idea—”
Carpenter let out a giant sigh. “No. I’m sorry. You’re not that loud.”
“Then why—”
“Because.” Sigh. “Because. I’m nervous. And he’s trying not to let me know how important this is. And we’re both… I mean, the whole reason this started is because we liked each other, right?”
“Change is hard,” Mason said, a little less mortified. And a whole lot more sympathetic. “Just… don’t do anything out of character, okay?”
Carpenter grunted sourly. “Like have a relationship that doesn’t end in tears, recrimination, and assertions that my fat ass is the end-all and be-all of the problem?”
“You’re not fat,” Mason muttered. Sixty pounds. He must have lost sixty pounds in the past seven months.
“Well, it’s good to hear you say that. I’m freaking out, Mason—could you take me to Starbucks for a dessert drink and a cookie? I promise not to tell Skip if you don’t.”
“Deal,” Mason said. He was sort of depressed as it was. “Do you want to get lunch today? You can borrow my car.”
Carpenter’s twelve-year-old-doing-wrong laugh was a balm to his soul. “So, perks to banging the boss’s brother include access to the boss’s car. I should have slept over months ago.”
APPARENTLY DIETER’S remorse hit, because Carpenter came back with sushi for lunch. Tasty, yes, but by the end of the day, Mason was craving steak and potatoes. Ugh—the curse of the overfed male!
He texted What are you doing for dinner? to Terry.
Caught a burger. Am writing thank-you notes. Do you have addresses?
Not everyone’s. Skip might.
Good idea!
Mason stared at the phone. Thought Maybe tomorrow, Mace. Thought it hard. Consistently. Just that one phrase. It never appeared.
Well, a night alone in his own apartment—wasn’t too much to ask.
Or two nights. Or three. Or four. On Thursday night, Mason put a spare set of work clothes—casual, in deference to his and Mrs. Bradford’s new resolve to dress like the sun was out to kill them—in the back of his car before he went to practice. The action was based on hope and hope alone.
Terry didn’t show up until halfway through, and although he ran by Mason and patted him casually on the ass, they didn’t get a chance to talk until the usual beer and bullshit session in the windless hush of sunset.
“You were late,” Mason said neutrally.
“Yeah—me and Rudy were picking out posters for my bedroom and the living room. Lost track of time.” He grimaced. “Low-rent move—sorry ’bout that, Skip.”
“No worries,” Skip said easily. “Just try to remember the game Saturday, okay?”
“Yeah! It’s our last, right? Two-week break afterward.”
Oh—dammit! Of all the fuckin’ times!
But everyone else was nodding like this was expected, and whatever. “Do we play when it gets to be a hundred?” Mason asked, half-afraid of the answer.
“We stop at 105,” Skip confirmed. “Same as the little kids.”
“You know,” Mason said thoughtfully, “uh, after those really hot games, I sort of have a pool.” Dane’s project that day had been cleaning and dosing the pool so it would be usable that weekend.
But right now Mason was in the middle of many admiring sets of eyes, and damn, it was great to be a hero.
“Beats the shit out of my porch,” Skip confirmed. “Do you mind if Richie and I bring the monster?”
“Does he come when he’s called?” Mason asked, thinking about all the places beyond the fenced-in patio the dog could get lost if he decided to disappear.
“He responds to my whistle,” Richie said, and he pursed his lips and folded his tongue, and the groan of the rest of the team told Mason all he wanted to know about that.
“So,” Cooper said slyly, “do we have to wait until next season? Can we maybe come by after the game Saturday?”
Terry smacked his arm. “Subtle, Cooper. Really fuckin’ subtle.”
“Yeah,” Skip said, voice dry as the Sahara. “Subtle is our middle name around here. So, Mason, you up for it?”
“I’ll have burgers and dogs,” Mason confirmed. “You guys bring the beer.”
“What should I bring?” Terry asked quietly while the rest of the guys whooped.
“A change of clothes?” Mason asked, so full of hope he almost hated himself.
“Bank on it.”
The promise came with a kiss on the cheek, and Mason clung to it, even when Terry missed lunch on Friday.
Mrs. Bradford ran and got him an emergency sandwich from the cafeteria, and she placed it on his desk at around two, right when Terry’s text pinged.
D’oh! Sorry!
No worries. I’m eating company egg salad. It’s awesome.
Next time I’ll text you if I’m coming—that way you don’t have to plan on me.
Sure.
Sure.
THEY LOST the soccer game, but the pool party was a success. People brought food and beer and dessert—and more beer. Singh brought his wife and two kids, and Menendez and Owens brought their girlfriends. Carpenter and Dane stayed out of the pool and in the shade, talking, but most everyone else got in and out—and even used the hot tub in the corner, although it was plenty warm outside.
Skip and Richie’s dog—as big as advertised, and so voracious that Skip brought him his own bag of food to inhale so he wouldn’t go after burgers right off the bat—ran around the trees and down to the creek. Every now and then, a piercing whistle would rend the air, and the whole world would look up to see Ponyboy come running to check in with his humans.
Terry stayed and frolicked, as comfortable in the water as an otter. The guys—being the guys—started an impromptu game of water polo that turned into a blood sport.
Mason was busy grilling, so he didn’t participate, but Carpenter and Dane dressed a lot of wounds—and counseled a lot of bitterness about how some people didn’t trim the eagle talons they were nurturing in the place of toenails.
Terry, being neither wounded nor wounder, put on his shirt and went running into the oak trees to throw sticks to the dog.
After Mason had gotten everyone else settled with food, he found Terry there, chucking what amounted to half a tree over and across the creek and up the rise. This was great—it ensured the dog had to run down one hill, across the water, and up the next hill, and he’d obviously been doing it for quite some time, because he was starting to slow down.
“You hungry?” Mason asked with a smile.
The expression Terry turned toward him was troubled. “Little bit, yeah.”
“What’s wrong?” But he knew.
“You know… Rudy—he was saying all sorts of shit, and… I know it’s not true but….”
Mason grimaced. “I don’t know. It might be true. Ask me.”
Terry rolled his eyes. “You just using me for sex?”
“Absolutely. Next question?” Mason couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice.
“Be serious!”
Mason took a deep breath and tried to be the grown-up. Only succeeded a little. “I am terrified that’s the only reason you’re with me. Because I put out, and I was easy, and I was there,” he said soberly.
Terry looked uncomfortable. “That’s how it was at first,” he admitted.
“I know it.”
“It’s more than that now.”
Mason swallowed. “I was hoping. Is there anything else Rudy said?”
Shrug. “He said if you really cared about me, you would have asked me to move in with you.”
Great. “I was sort of hoping you’d ask me, when you were ready.
”
The look he sent Mason was hurt and pissed. “Why do I have to do the asking?” The dog dropped the stick at Terry’s feet, and he bent down and scratched it behind the ears.
“Because you’re the one who’s finally sprouting some wings, here. I don’t want you to move in with me because I’m a rich old guy with a nice house. I want you to move in with me because you hate it when we don’t see each other.” Mason offered his hand to the damned dog, who was going to weigh more than he did when it was grown. “Hi, dog.”
The dog licked his knuckles.
“I don’t think of you like that!” Terry objected, chucking the stick across the creek with enough force to lose it in the trees on the other side.
The dog took off, and they were left alone.
“What do you think of me as?” Mason asked, wanting the answer so damned bad. But we don’t always get what we want.
“I think of you as a friend,” Terry said with dignity. “Maybe the best friend I’ve ever had. And the best sex I’ve ever had. What does that make us?”
In love. “Boyfriends.” Mason went with the obvious.
“But I don’t know how to have a boyfriend.” Apparently Terry was going for the same.
“You… you make dates with them to do stuff,” Mason said, feeling plaintive. “Even if it’s stuff you think they won’t like, you ask anyway. Like looking for posters. Or going to see a movie. You surprise them unexpectedly with gifts—doesn’t have to be pricey. You tell them before you’re going to miss a meeting, because you know they might be planning on you. You… you hug them in public and kiss them on the cheek when they’ve said something nice.” You hold them tight and say you love them and promise to be faithful and to never let each other go.
“I… this is a permanent thing you’re talking about,” Terry said, like this had suddenly dawned on him.
“It would be if we moved in.”
“Are you ready for me to move in?” The horror in his voice was unmistakable.
“In a hot second. Months ago. March.” He couldn’t have lied if he’d had a teleprompter.
