Him (Him #1)(21)

The eyes of the boys around me grew wider and wider. They’d hung on every word. Meanwhile, Wes had sat there cracking half an “aw, shucks” smile, looking cocky and carefree.

Maybe he’s not as carefree as he looks, my conscience suggests.

Fuck off, conscience! I’m busy being mad here.

Now we’re in our respective beds, but neither of us is sleeping. I still wear my anger around me like the bedsheet that covers me. But it’s a thin layer.

I hear him sigh from the other bed, and I stare up at the ceiling, wondering if I should just get over it already.

His husky voice breaks the silence. “I was afraid.”

There’s a rustling sound, and from the corner of my eye I see that he’s rolled over on his side, watching me in the darkness.

“You?” I ask. “Didn’t know that was possible.”

“Not often,” he concedes, and I snort.

There’s more silence, but I finally give in. “Afraid of what?”

“That I’d used you. And that you’d hate me for it.”

A sigh rises in my chest. I shift onto my side too, but it’s hard to make out his expression in the shadows.

“I could never hate you, dumbass.” I consider it. “Well, unless you did something hate-worthy, like run my mom over with a car on purpose or something. But hate you for being gay? Or for giving me a BJ without telling me you were gay?” Fuck, I’m still resentful as hell that he thought I was capable of being so narrow-minded.

“But I wasn’t ready to tell you the truth,” he admits. “I’m not sure I was ready to tell myself. But deep down I knew, and I felt like such a shit afterward. I felt like, I dunno, I took advantage of you.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Dude, it’s not like you tied me to the bed and forced yourself on me. I don’t know if you remember, but I came like a motherf*cker that night.” Aw shit. I don’t know why I said that. And the flash of heat that travels down to my dick is equally perplexing.

Thinking about that night is something I rarely let myself do. It was easily the hottest sexual experience eighteen-year-old Jamie Canning had ever had. But remembering it always confuses me, because I associate it with getting banished from the friendship I valued most.

“Oh, I remember everything about that night.” His voice thickens, and the stirring down below grows stronger.

I quickly initiate an emergency subject change, because talking about BJs seems to be confusing my body. “So are you out now? Like officially? Do your folks know?”

His answering breath is heavy. “Yeah, they know.”

I wait for him to continue. He doesn’t. Which isn’t much of a surprise, since Wes never liked talking about his family. I know his father is some bigshot investment banker and his mother sits on a bunch of charity committees. And the one time Wes’s dad had driven him to camp, I remember shaking the man’s hand and thinking he was the coldest person I’d ever met.

I’m so curious to hear what they think about having a gay son, but I know he won’t answer if I ask. The thing with Wes is, everything is always on his terms.

“What about your teammates?” I try. “Toronto?”

“With the Northern Mass guys, I had a don’t-ask-don’t-tell thing going on. I didn’t hide it, but I didn’t talk about it, either. They left it alone. But Toronto—” He groans. “Not sure how that’s going to work. My plan is just to duck the question as long as I can. I guess I’m slipping back into the closet for a while until I feel like I know those guys. Until I’m so valuable to them they won’t care who I screw in my spare time. That should only take three, four years tops.”

That sounds unbelievably rough. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I'm sorry. I’m sorry I f*cked up our friendship, Jamie.”

Shit, he called me Jamie. He only does that when he’s actually being serious, earnest. Regret radiates from his body and rolls toward me in palpable waves, and I feel my anger crumbling like a sandcastle in high tide. I can’t stay mad at this guy. Even when I thought he’d thrown our friendship away like a piece of trash, I still hadn’t been able to hate him.

I swallow. “Water under the bridge, man.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Letting out a slow breath, I crook my arm under my head and glance over at him. “So what’s been going on with you? Catch me up on the last four years.”

He snickers. “Four years’ worth of Ryan Wesley shenanigans? That’ll take all night, dude.” Then he pauses, his tone going awkward. “I’d rather hear about you, anyway. How’s the Canning clan? Still chaos central over there?”

I smile in the darkness. “Always. Mom sold her art gallery and opened up one of those pottery places where you come in and spend the day making vases and ashtrays and shit.”

“How many times do you think she’s caught people acting out that scene from Ghost?” he cracks.

“At least once daily,” I answer solemnly. “No joke.” I think about what else has happened, but it’s hard to sift through four years of events. “Oh, my sister Tammy had a baby, so I’m an uncle now… Um, what else… Joe—that’s my oldest brother—he got a divorce.”