A Bluewater Bay Collection

by Witt, L. A.

  “Not particularly.” I sipped my drink. “Speaking of Scott, I should really introduce you guys one of these days.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Mm-hmm.” Goddamn this pizza was good. “If you don’t mind hanging out with a marriage counselor who’s also a stoner.”

  Jesse laughed for real this time. “Seriously? He has to smoke to stay sane at that job or something?”

  “Well, maybe, but he’s been a stoner as long as I’ve known him. That’s how we met—smoking in the woods behind our high school.”

  “And you’ve been friends ever since,” he singsonged. “The magic of weed.”

  I chuckled. “Yeah, basically.”

  His eyebrow arched. “You still smoke?”

  “Occasionally.”

  The eyebrow rose higher, and so did the temperature of my cheeks.

  “Okay, pretty much whenever I hang out with Scott unless his fiancé is there. Isn’t fair to smoke in front of Jeremy when he can’t smoke.”

  “Job?”

  “Yep. So what about you? You smoke?”

  “I haven’t in a long time.” He gestured dismissively. “Never really did much for me.”

  “That’s okay.” I grinned. “More for the rest of us.”

  “Right. Like that shit’s endangered in this state.” He nodded toward the front counter. “I’m going to get another soda. You want anything?”

  “Nah, I’m good. Thanks.”

  He got up with his empty glass, and as he walked past, he gave my shoulder a gentle but obviously deliberate nudge. I just smiled before going for my pizza again.

  I didn’t know if it meant anything that I could talk about Sean and my in-laws and his death, and it was almost like normal conversation. Jesse didn’t seem to mind, and it didn’t make me feel like falling to pieces as much as it would’ve a few weeks ago.

  Maybe that meant I was moving on.

  Maybe there was hope for me yet.

  * * *

  As Jesse and I found our groove, two things became very obvious very quickly.

  One, we were basically inseparable. Lunch breaks. Late dinners. Long nights. Any chance we had to be together, we were.

  And the other thing? We were going to annoy the shit out of waitstaff at every restaurant we went to.

  We were both polite and we tipped well, but without fail, we’d get lost in conversation and wind up closing the place. Not even two weeks into this, we’d started giving servers a sheepish heads-up that we’d probably be there a while and promising to tip extra for taking so much time. It didn’t help that my work schedule—and to a lesser degree, Jesse’s—meant we didn’t usually sit down to eat until late, so we were lucky to get out of any restaurant before midnight.

  This evening, for a change of pace, we weren’t going out. I had the night off and Jesse would be done at six, so I was cooking for us. At least then we wouldn’t have to feel guilty about occupying a table until sunrise. Plus, Jesse had made a comment about finding culinary skills incredibly attractive, and who was I to pass up an opportunity to make the guy swoon?

  It had been a while since I’d cooked for anyone but myself, and I was more excited than nervous. It was like breaking out of a rut and taking another step back into the land of the living.

  As a bonus, it pushed me toward unpacking my apartment a bit more. I still had way too many unopened boxes cluttering the whole place, and I also needed to dig out some kitchen things so I could cook. So I spent the morning digging through boxes I’d been avoiding for the last month. Though I’d unpacked the bare essentials early on, the more specialized cookware and the dishes that didn’t look like glorified paper plates had been MIA. While I was at it, I finished unpacking the boxes of clothes that were still stacked in the bedroom and even cleared out the one marked DVDs, which had been doubling as an end table for the last couple of weeks. If Jesse was going to be here for more than just a roll in the hay, the least I could do was make the place look a step up from a bachelor pad.

  All the boxes were explicitly labeled, but during the move-in, some had wound up stashed in the wrong places because I’d gotten tired of doing anything beyond dragging the damn things into the apartment. In between taking out cookware I hadn’t seen in ages, I stumbled across a large box marked PHOTOS.

  One look at it, and my heart jumped into my throat. I might as well have been able to see every single picture tucked away inside that box and the albums within, and it was like my brain was trying to process all of them—and the vivid memories associated with them—at the same time.

  I had other things to do, though, so I ignored the box of pictures. Or, well, I tried to. Even after I’d found what I was looking for and dug out the spices and utensils I needed, I kept gravitating back to the box marked PHOTOS. It wasn’t like I didn’t know what was in it, but I suddenly had this overwhelming urge to look through it.

  While the sauce for the enchiladas simmered, I turned back to the box on the kitchen table. With my heart in my throat, I pulled out one of the albums.

  I grew up before the digital age. Taking pictures during that time had involved little yellow boxes of little black canisters containing little rolls of film, which had to be loaded, wound, and then taken to the drug store to be developed. There was no instant gratification. If you fucked up a picture, you didn’t know it until later. Nothing was uploaded seconds after it was captured.

  So when digital became the big thing, I’d dug in my heels . . . for a while. Once the quality had caught up to—and ultimately surpassed—film, and once the cost had come down so far it seemed ridiculous to even consider film, I’d jumped on the digital bandwagon without a second thought. And like so many people, I’d taken to keeping photos on my phone and my computer, not bothering to have them printed.

  My husband, however, had inherited his mother’s adoration of photo albums. I wasn’t sure if he’d ever used a thirty-five millimeter camera in his life, or if digital had simply been the way of the world by the time he knew what photography was, but he’d been diligent—nearly obsessive—about getting his favorite photos printed. Not just printed, but displayed in frames and, of course, albums.

  He hadn’t been a scrapbooker, per se—he didn’t like embellishments and flourishes. No whimsical stickers or cutesy borders. Just simple acid-free albums, each photo carefully arranged in chronological order to tell the story of a weekend in Victoria, an afternoon at Pride, or the hilarious comedy of errors that had ensued while we’d helped my dad fix the roof on their cabin at Lake Chelan.

  The album’s pages creaked softly as I turned them. I paused on a picture of the two of us on my parents’ deck. Must’ve been at a barbecue or something, since we were both wearing shorts and sunglasses, and we each held a brown longneck. Budweiser for me. For him, some microbrew I couldn’t name.

  We were standing against the railing, both looking at something outside the frame. We were laughing. At what, I couldn’t remember. Maybe the antics of a niece or nephew. Maybe my sister had said something ridiculous and probably inappropriate for mixed company. Whatever it was, we’d been caught on camera, frozen in time with huge smiles and my arm draped loosely around Sean’s waist. He was tucked into the crook of my shoulder, head tilted like he’d been leaning on me up until something had drawn his attention.

  My heart thudded as I gazed at the photo. I couldn’t help running my fingers over the protective clear plastic, as if that might somehow take me back to that moment.

  In the photo, my left arm was around Sean, and the sun had been positioned just right to glint off my wedding ring. Here in my kitchen, I absently thumbed the divot where the band had once been on my third finger.

  I remembered staring at this photo—among others—in the weeks after Sean’s diagnosis, and again after he’d died. I couldn’t say if I’d been torturing myself or trying to memorize him and our life together before he was gone, only that I hadn’t been able to stop myself.

  Tonight was the first time since Sean�
�s diagnosis that I’d seen these photos without breaking down. My throat was thick with emotion, and my heart hurt as I looked from one picture to the next, but it wasn’t that soul-wrenching grief that had become way too familiar. That feeling tingled around the edges, but it was more like a habit now. Something I felt because I expected to feel it.

  That realization was oddly encouraging. Clearing my throat, I turned the page. It still stung to wade through the memories of my marriage, but I definitely felt better these days. No one and nothing could ever replace Sean, but maybe moving on wasn’t as impossible as it had seemed in those devastating early days.

  I sighed and gave the stove a glance. Nothing seemed to need my attention, so I faced the album again, idly thumbing the red leather cover.

  I’d used all these photos and books to wallow in my grief before. Now it felt a bit more . . . objective? Like I was checking in with myself, seeing where I was emotionally, and gauging that based on how I responded now versus a few months ago. And I liked the result. I liked that even though I was still sad and I still missed that man like crazy, I didn’t feel so fragmented and lost anymore.

  It occurred to me that this was the first time I’d gone through our photos since I’d started seeing Jesse. There was a place in the pit of my stomach that should’ve swelled with guilt right then, but . . . it didn’t. Yeah, it was surreal to be looking back on my marriage and the man I hadn’t had nearly enough time with, but I didn’t feel ashamed or guilty about having someone new in my life. If anything, it loosened a knot that had been there for months. The knot of apprehension that the rest of my life would be a miserable, grief-stricken existence.

  Exhaling slowly, I closed the album and went to check the pot on the stove. Of course, my mind stayed with the photos. I expected it would be there for a while.

  In the weeks after Sean’s death, I’d gone to a widower support group in Seattle. They had been good people, and though I’d been nervous about joining a group of straight men, they’d welcomed me without blinking, along with another guy who’d lost his longtime boyfriend. It wasn’t homophobia that had ultimately driven me out. In fact, I was pretty sure I’d have kept going except at the third meeting, one of the guys had brought up his new girlfriend. He’d lost his wife four years prior, and started dating this woman within the past year. He was talking about getting married.

  I’d never gone back to the group after that. I’d resented the hell out of them for talking about new partners. Replacements. We’d lost our spouses, not wrecked our cars.

  Looking back now, I understood. The man had been alone for three years when he’d met his current girlfriend. He wasn’t running out before his wife was cold in the grave. My grief had been raw while his had had time to heal.

  And now mine had had time to heal, and there was a new man in my life. Was this thing with Jesse something that would last more than a few weeks? No way to know. But that was okay. I liked being with him. I liked talking with him. I liked the sex. Even if we fizzled out in a month, I’d enjoy it now, and I’d enjoy the hell out of knowing I still had the capacity to be someone’s lover.

  The lack of guilt and shame caught me almost as off guard as my attraction to Jesse. I hadn’t gone looking, so maybe that was why I didn’t feel bad about it. I hadn’t even realized anything was happening until it was well past the point of maybe he’s into me. It almost felt like I’d stumbled backward into this and, once I’d regained my equilibrium, decided it felt right.

  A knock at the door brought a smile to my lips. He was on time, as always. I quickly checked the pot on the stove again, glanced at the box of photos on the table, and went to let him in.

  When I opened the door, he grinned at me, and goose bumps sprang up all over my skin. I loved the effect he had on me. Every time I saw him, I wanted him more than I had the last time. Forget the novelty wearing off—the more I knew what he was capable of in the bedroom, the more time I wanted to spend there with him. Though I knew it was entirely possible this was a short-term thing, I sure as hell wouldn’t object if he wanted to stick around for a while.

  I shook myself, stood aside, and waved him in, and as he stepped past me, I caught him with an arm around the waist. He laughed, letting me reel him closer as I nudged the door shut with my foot.

  “Miss me?” he murmured as our lips brushed.

  “Always.” I kissed him full on, and he moaned softly as he slid his fingers up into my hair. I loved how the world seemed to pause whenever we kissed like this. In a minute, we’d pick up the conversation and I’d continue cooking, but first . . . this. A long, gentle kiss with his strong, warm body pressed up against mine.

  He broke the kiss just as gently and smiled. Then he sniffed the air. “Something smells amazing.”

  “Nothing extravagant. Just chicken enchiladas.”

  Jesse’s face lit up. “Oh, you went all out, didn’t you?”

  “Well, I had to find some dish to keep you interested in case my lack of charm starts showing through.”

  He laughed, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, okay.”

  I chuckled. “Anyway, it still needs another . . .” I craned my neck to check my watch. “Twenty minutes or so.”

  “Good. Plenty of time.”

  “For . . .?”

  He slid his hands up the front of my shirt and grabbed handfuls of the fabric. “What do you think?”

  I pulled him closer. “I think we should take this to the bedroom.”

  “I think we should.”

  Chapter 17

  Jesse

  If not for the timer going off in the kitchen, I was pretty sure Garrett and I would have gone two rounds. One round was hardly a disappointment, though, and I had no doubt we’d wind up back in bed before the night was over. Assuming we didn’t eat too much, that is, and as good as the kitchen smelled right now, that was a possibility.

  Garrett—wearing jeans and nothing else—went into the kitchen to make sure dinner didn’t burn, and I stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, grinning like an idiot. For the last two weeks, I’d pretty much spent my days fantasizing about the sex we’d be having once we were in the same room, and he blew those fantasies out of the water every time. I was starting to see why a couple of my friends were into older men. I’d teased Kevin about it a few times, but he’d always just given me a sly smile and insisted that nothing beat all the years of experience Hunter had accumulated before they’d met.

  “Make all the geriatric jokes you want,” he’d said with a shrug a couple of months ago. “Whenever he’s done with me, I’m the one who needs a damn walker.”

  Carter had nodded sagely along with him even though Levi wasn’t that much older than him. Kevin, Carter, and I were all roughly the same age. Hunter must’ve been pushing fifty by now, but Levi was in his . . . early forties, I thought. Maybe a touch older than Garrett.

  Whatever the case, both Carter and Kevin had sworn up and down that nothing in the world beat sex with an older man.

  Yeah, I could see that now. I leaned over the side of the bed and fished my phone out of my pants pocket. I wasn’t even dressed yet, but couldn’t resist shooting Kevin a text.

  Dude. Older guys. You were right.

  Then, grinning to myself, I got up. As I pushed myself to my feet, my hips were a little disjointed, but my legs stayed under me. They even did what they were supposed to do while I pulled on my jeans and walked from the bedroom to the kitchen, though I was pretty sure they were going to be stiff and sore tomorrow. Considering the shop had a bunch of shipments coming in first thing in the morning, there’d be no hiding it if I was moving a bit gingerly. Simon was going to have a field day with that. Which I supposed I deserved after relentlessly giving him crap about all the times he’d come in looking haggard and sore after a night with his wife and boyfriend.

  I left the bedroom, and in the kitchen doorway, I stopped and stared.

  Holy fuck.

  Few things were sexier than a man cooking. A shirtless man with a bit
e mark on his shoulder and sweat still curling the ends of his hair? Oh sweet Jesus, yes. If dinner turned out to be as good as it smelled, this man might actually be perfect.

  “Has anyone ever mentioned how hot you look when you’re in the kitchen?”

  He glanced over his shoulder, and he actually blushed. “Let me guess—you’ve got a calendar of shirtless men cooking, don’t you?”

  “I . . . Well, not for this year, but I may or may not have had one in the past.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I snickered, but before I could comment further, my phone vibrated.

  Pics or he isn’t real.

  I smirked as I watched Garrett at the stove, then snapped a shot of him. Oh good Christ, yes. “You mind if I send this to a friend?”

  “Send what?” He turned around, and when he saw my phone in my hand, his eyebrow arched. Craning his neck, he repeated, “Send what?”

  Hoping my face was the very picture of innocence, I showed him the screen.

  He peered at it, then rolled his eyes and laughed. “And you’re sending it to . . . who?”

  “Just a friend who doesn’t believe me when I say I’m nailing a hot older guy.”

  A laugh burst out of Garrett, and I regretted I didn’t have my phone at the ready to get a picture of that too. He was sexy when he cooked, but he was gorgeous when he laughed. The way the corners of his eyes crinkled, the sort of lopsided smile—fuck, he was beautiful.

  “All right, all right.” He waved a hand at my phone. “You can send it.”

  “Sending it.”

  A moment later, Kevin replied, Well done. ;)

  That message was quickly followed by, Hunter agrees.

  “You’ll be pleased to know,” I said with a grin, “that Hunter Easton and Kevin Hussain think you’re hot.”

  “Hunter East—” Garrett turned again, eyes wide. “Like, the Hunter Easton?”

  “And the Kevin, aka Kevyan Montanari, yes.”