I shrug. “They could be. You don’t know they aren’t.”
He laughs. “I knew it.”
He says other words after that, but I can’t hear them because he just reached over and grabbed ahold of my leg. He shakes it for a second before squeezing, then letting go. Jesus. I’m desperate for him to touch me. I have been all day. The fact that that very brief interaction, that could definitely be interpreted as friendly, set my whole body on fire (yup, suddenly understanding that term now too) is disconcerting. And confirmation that it’s him. I want him. Mentally, I shake my head and try to refocus.
“I’m tempted to tie a blindfold over your eyes” are the next words from his deep voice that infiltrate my brain. What the hell? I can feel the shocked expression on my face as I look at him.
He looks at me with confusion that quickly turns to amusement. “Ha.” He stutters a laugh. “Jesus, Jay… so that you don’t see where I’m taking you. Get your mind out of the gutter, man.”
I’m a complete and utter tool. I’ve never been in this position before, where I’ve made it known that I want someone and I don’t know if they feel the same way. “Fuck,” I groan. “This is torture.”
He reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. This time he keeps his hand on me, and it’s almost worth it—making a fool out of myself in exchange for a reassuring rub on the shoulder. I’m officially a twelve-year-old girl.
“Why is it torture?” he asks.
“You’re super smart, Brighton. I’m sure you can figure it out,” I mutter, still not looking at him.
“Because you want me.”
“Yeah, asshole, because I want you.”
He takes his hand off my shoulder. “I don’t know why I’m the asshole. You’re the one who’s got the girlfriend,” he says, his tone no longer easy.
“What the hell does that matter? Clearly, I don’t want her.”
“You already told me you have an emotionally intimate relationship with her.”
“And? You don’t have emotionally intimate relationships with people?”
“Yeah, I do. But those people don’t think I’m in a relationship with them. I’m not cool with getting in the middle of that. You’d be an asshole if you betrayed her like that.”
“So, what… you want me to call her up and end things? How would that change anything?”
“No, I don’t want you to call her up and end things. What kind of dick breaks up with someone over the phone?”
“Exactly.”
He cocks his head and looks at me with disappointment. “Maybe you need to think about it for a minute. This isn’t the first time a guy has told me he’s gay only to wig out about it and go back to his girlfriend, then look at me like I’m his dirty secret. I’m not gonna touch you, Jay. I fucking want to touch you, but I’m not gonna. Not until you have a chance to figure out if this is something you can live with or not. I’m not the gay for a day vending machine.”
“Are you serious? Do you know how difficult it was for me to tell you the shit I did? You think I would do that if I were just experimenting, just toying around with the idea of being with another guy? Who the hell does that? I think about you all the damn time. It’s not like I just woke up this morning and the possibility of being with you popped into my head, so I thought I’d test it out… see how it goes.”
“So I owe it to you?”
“God. Of course not. That’s not what I’m saying. All I’m saying is that I’m not gonna wake up tomorrow and suddenly these feelings I’ve been living with my entire life are gonna be gone. If you don’t want to touch me—fine. But don’t tell me it’s because I’m gonna be straight tomorrow.”
“Calm down, okay. Let’s take like ten steps back. Realistically, until today, all we’ve been are a couple of guys who have a class together. Until an hour ago, you couldn’t even admit to yourself that you’re gay. And now you’re arguing with me about the reasons why I’m not gonna touch you. I mean, shit, you tell me you’ve been thinking about me and the idea that this could all be real, that I could potentially start something up with that hot guy from my history class, is mind-blowing. And yeah, since the minute you showed up at that park in those goddamn baseball pants and I let myself consider that you might be there because you were interested in me, about all I can think about is putting my lips and hands all over you, but—” He pauses to suck in a breath. “—that’s not gonna do either of us any good, so let’s just chill the fuck out and carry on with our day like there’s not a wall of sexual tension between us.”
He’s right. I know he’s right. I mean, I definitely want him. That’s not gonna change. But then what? How is it gonna be in history class, guys from the baseball team to the left of me and Brighton to the right? The idea of anyone but Brighton knowing about this is not something I’m prepared to deal with, and I shouldn’t go there with him until it is.
But when the hell am I gonna be ready for that? It still feels like the answer to that question could totally be never. The thought of my friends and my family knowing is terrifying and literally makes me feel like I’m gonna vomit. Seriously, I can feel the little chunks creeping up in me, desperate to see the light of day.
On the other hand, the idea of never touching him, never knowing what it feels like to kiss him, makes me feel like I’m being kicked in the gut. But he’s right. He would be my dirty little secret. And he’s too good to be anyone’s secret. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”
“We’ve gotta come up with some way to punish you.”
Seriously, what the hell? Am I imagining this shit… blindfolds and punishments…?
“Holy crap, kid. Is that your thing—bondage? You dream about me tying you up and torturing you?” he asks, another easy laugh coming out of his mouth.
“God, no. You’re the one who keeps saying that shit.”
“I’m not saying anything. I was thinking like, you can give me five bucks every time you say the word sorry, or I could make you do something embarrassing like sing a One Direction song or some shit. You gotta stop saying you’re sorry.”
I’m laughing now too. God, I’m an idiot. “I’m not singing.”
“No, wait, I got it. Dancing. Every time you tell me you’re sorry, you gotta do a dance for me.”
“Hell no.”
“Hell yes.”
“No,” I tell him one last time, shaking my head and looking out the window. I’m distracted by a giant sculpture made of… made of all kinds of shit. I can pick out a bike and a chair…. Is that a mannequin leg or an oar? Then it all comes into focus. It’s a giant sign made up of the strangest letters I’ve ever seen that spell out THE FARM. “Holy hell. That’s crazy. Like, seriously, the craziest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You have no idea.” As he pulls through the sculpture gate, a large field opens up in front of us, and sprinkled over it are giant sculptures.
“It’s a sculpture park?”
“Yup.”
He drives down a narrow path around the right side of the land, and a big old farmhouse comes into view. “A sculpture park on a piece of land that used to be a farm.”
“Exactly,” he tells me. “It was my grandparents’. When Grandpa passed five years ago, my dad donated the land to a group of artists he and my mom are friends with, and it’s been growing since then. There are five artists in residence now, living in the house, and a ton more who come here to help out and work. Abe’s in charge of everything.”
“That’s… awesome.” The first thing that comes into my head is the land my family had. So of course, I vocalize it. “When I think about how my dad gave up our land to developers when he could have done something like this….” I shake my head.
“That’s what normal people would do if they had a lot of property they weren’t using. This is my parents’ dream, but most people dream about having a nice house to raise their family in.”
“I don’t think it was his dream. It’s my mom who always wanted the big house.”
&nbs
p; “Well, that’s beautiful, Jay. He did it for love. Anything you do for love isn’t wrong. It’s all good.”
“The thing is, she doesn’t seem any happier now that she has it.” Shut up, you whiney baby. He’s not your damn therapist.
“Is your mom unhappy?”
I take a minute to think about that. “I wouldn’t say unhappy. She’s always been one of those in-between people, you know? Fine. Okay. Whatever.”
“And what about your dad?”
“He’s a good man. He lives for us—me, Mom, and my little brother. And none of us are really happy. That’s gotta be hard. Living to make people happy, giving up everything for them, and never accomplishing your goals.” Seriously, jackass—not your therapist.
“That would be hard. You seem happy, though. I mean, I know you’re going through some shit, but you always seem happy.”
“I’m a lot like my mom. Maybe after today things will change, though. God, the thought of actually being happy and not just pretending to be happy is damn exciting.”
Brighton parks the truck in front of the farmhouse and turns to me. He wraps a hand around my neck and turns my face toward his. For a second I think he’s going to kiss me, and I’m pretty sure I go slack in his hand—which would be the limp noodle metaphor. “I’m happy for you,” he whispers.
All I can do is return his smile.
He drops his hand then and opens the door. By the time I climb out of the truck, there’s a beautiful woman jogging toward us.
“Oh my God, Brighton!” Squealing, she jumps into his arms, enveloping him in a hug. Jesus, the women really love him. “I have the best news,” she announces before hopping off him and shaking his shoulders. “The new artist showed up yesterday. And he’s hot. And he’s cool. And he’s so unbelievably talented. And… he’s gay. And… he reminds me so much of Harrison, minus all the insecure, paranoid bullshit.”
Brighton glances over at me before saying to the girl, “No shit, huh?”
“No shit. And he’s only twenty so, you know, it could totally work. Really, it’s kind of amazing; the first gay guy other than you to step foot in the county is an absolute wet dream. Come on, you have to meet him.” She grabs ahold of his hand and pulls on it.
“Hold up, Maggie. This is Jay.”
He looks at me, so she does too, noticing me for the first time, apparently.
“Hey,” she says with a nod. She starts pulling him again and then stops, looking between the two of us. “You’re not… I mean, he’s clearly not….”
“I’m not with him,” Brighton confirms, and the little chunks of vomit pull out their rope, whip up a noose, and yank the damn thing around my heart. Jesus, does that mean I want to be his boyfriend? That I wish he were saying I’m not interested in wet dreams, I have Jay?
“Well, come on, then,” she says, practically skipping her way across the drive and up the porch. Reluctantly, I follow them. Somehow I can’t muster up any excitement about meeting Brighton’s dream man, who reminds Maggie of Harrison (I hate his name already) who must be the ex. Right now, I’m totally feeling like I would climb to the top of the highest mountain, or at least a reasonably large hill, and declare my love for Brighton if it meant avoiding meeting this man.
“Samuel,” Maggie calls out as we enter the farmhouse, “come down here. You have to meet Brighton.”
“I’m in the kitchen,” a deep, raspy voice calls out. “I’d come out but my hands are a mess.”
Brighton laughs, and Maggie pulls him through the threshold to the left. He looks back at me and shrugs. I contemplate throwing a tantrum, but I follow them instead.
In the middle of the kitchen is a long butcher-block island and behind it stands a tall, rugged-looking guy in a flannel and a trucker hat, who’s in the middle of making what looks like meatballs.
I totally feel like I’m in the middle of a bad rom-com when he looks up at Brighton—his beard lifts with what I’m sure is a sexy smile hiding under all that hair, and his big brown eyes (fine, he’s got really beautiful eyes) get all happy. “Brighton,” he says, going to the sink to wash off his hands, never taking his eyes off Brighton. “It’s good to finally meet you. People around here don’t shut up about you.”
“Sounds like that’s something you’d like them to do—shut up about me,” Brighton says, taking the hand Samuel is offering him. They don’t shake, though; they just hold on to each other, their eyes already falling in love from the looks of it.
I tell my vomit chunks to go to time-out and think about what they’re doing—it’s seriously not the right time to projectile into the world.
“Nah, just the opposite. I’ve been waiting on pins and needles to see what all the fuss was about.”
“Oh shit,” Brighton sputters. “Nothing like trying to live up to myself.” Finally, he takes his hand back.
“So far you’re living up to at least half the hype. You’re damn cute.”
“Um… all right.” He leans against the counter and crosses his arms. “We’re going there already?” He glances at Maggie.
“What else would we say? That you’re ugly?”
“There were other things said too,” Samuel tells him. “It wasn’t all superficial.”
“You don’t need to elaborate.”
Samuel shrugs and glances at me. “Hey,” he says with a raised hand.
“Oh shit, sorry,” Brighton says, walking back to me and wrapping an arm around my shoulder and this time I don’t really want it there, which, yeah, I realize is stupid. I’m getting jealous over a guy I have no right being jealous over. “Samuel, this is my friend Jay,” he says. But to my newly possessive ears it sounds like “This is my friend!”
“Good to meet you,” he tells me, looking between the two of us before an awkward silence ensues.
Brighton takes his arm off my shoulder. “So, you got plans for your first project?”
“I thought I did, but now that I’m here, I’ve kind of been re-inspired by the place, and I’m thinking about going in a different direction.”
“Where are you from?” Brighton asks, taking a seat at the island, leaning into it. He looks over his shoulder to me, then at the spot next to him, so I force my mopey two-year-old ass to go sit by him.
“I’m a student at Virginia Commonwealth.”
“Impressive. Best school for sculpture in the states.”
Impressive, best school for sculpture in the states, blah, blah, blah, my inner two-year-old whines.
“You know it?”
“Of course I know it. So is this your internship?”
“I got a grant based on a show I did last fall and needed a place to erect it. You’d be surprised how few of these places there are.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised, actually. You might be surprised by how many large-scale sculpture artists there are who have no place to work and no funds to do it.”
“Well, it’s cool what your family’s doing. This place is heaven… and it just got a little more heavenly.” He winks at Brighton and the chunks come out of time-out and race up my throat toward freedom.
“Agreed,” Brighton says with a sexy smile. They stare at each other for a while, like they’re challenging each other. I feel like I’m getting soaked in their sexual tension and I need a shower. It’s awkward. “All right,” Brighton finally says, placing his hands on the counter and standing. “We’ll let you get back to your…?”
“Veggie balls,” Samuel says with a flirty smile.
“Your veggie balls,” Brighton repeats, matching his smile. “I’m gonna show Jay around the place.”
“Maybe I’ll catch up with you guys when I’m done here.”
Try it, you brown-eyed beard-wearing, veggie-ball-making, grant-getting asshole. Seriously, just try it.
“Sure. Otherwise, I’ll come around again.”
We stand, and I give Samuel a tight smile, and he smirks at me. We’re almost out of the kitchen when Samuel says, “Hey, Brighton?”
“Ye
ah?”
“Is it okay if I get your number from Maggie… you know, in case I can’t wait until you decide to come around again?”
“Go for it,” Brighton says, slapping the wall before leaving.
Chapter Four
Brighton
JAY’S BEEN quiet since we walked out of the farmhouse. He politely helped Abe and me unload the truck and listened as Abe went on about the work they’re doing at The Farm, but now that we’re alone, I can feel it more heavily—his agitation.
I can guess why he’s pissed. He didn’t enjoy seeing me and Samuel flirting. He didn’t like me ignoring him for another man.
I’m not trying to push Jay into anything. I mean, that wouldn’t be fair. He’s had a big day as it is: admitting he’s gay, admitting he wants me. Every inch of my body gets excited at that thought, and ever since he made it known, it’s been damn hard to keep my hands off him. But I’m not just gonna give him what he wants. Not because I’m a prick or a tease but for the reasons I gave him: it’s not fair to his relationship, and I’m not the gay for a day vending machine. And I want him to be gay for more than one day, and if me flirting with Samuel forces him to think about the consequences of not coming to terms with his sexuality, then I’ll flirt. I mean, I always flirt. I can’t help it.
“This is one of my favorites.” Looking up at the colorful ship-like structure, I step up to the plank bridge and tell him, “Come on.”
“Are we supposed to be climbing on the art?” he asks, following me up.
“You can climb on any of the art as long as there’s something to climb on. That’s part of the beauty of doing large-scale sculpture—it’s usually interactive. People who normally don’t care about art come here and are forced to look at it differently and maybe they appreciate it. Kids always get it. The field trips are the best. They pile off the bus looking all pissed off because they think art is boring, but then they see how big and colorful it is and they’re amazed. And then they climb on it and it becomes an experience and they feel it. You should hear the insightful stuff that comes out of their mouths. It’s kind of amazing.”
Riding with Brighton Page 7
