Riding With Brighton(23)

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.