Riding With Brighton(7)

“Let go of the slide,” he says, laughing easily. “Or are you afraid?”

“I am a little afraid, honestly. This thing is not wide enough for me, and I’m sure as hell not letting go.” I bend my knee and shove my boot into his back.

He slides, and I’m right behind him, desperate to get off this death trap. At the end he stands, and I run into him, knocking him forward and toppling down on him. Oh shit. I literally just fell on top of him in the perfect rear-entry position. I roll off him and onto my back. He flips over so he’s on his back too. He’s laughing again, which is better than calling me a fag and telling me to stop trying to break into his back door, which, sadly, is the more likely response I would expect from him. But he’s just lying next to me. Laughing.

“This is funny, huh?”

“Yeah. Holy shit, you’re a total pussy.”

“Shut the hell up. What grown-ass man climbs into something like that so he can go down a slide?”

“You—apparently.”

“God… you’re right. I totally just reverted back to a five-year-old, doing stupid shit because some asshole kid called me scared.”

“So I’m an asshole kid?” His voice is no longer easy, so I turn my head to look at him. He’s got his head turned, looking at me too. Our faces are maybe two feet apart. He’s definitely hot. Especially like this—his brows furrowed, his eyes searching, his lips parted like he’s about to speak.

“I hope not. I don’t hang out with assholes.”

He turns his head away from me. “I’m serious. Am I an asshole? Is that what people think about me?”

“How the hell do I know what people think about you? It’s not like I sit around having conversations about you.”

“Right. That was stupid. Why the hell would people like you give a shit about people like me?”

“Are you going through some kind of crisis?” I ask, half seriously, half facetiously. “Seems like you got a lot on your mind.”

“Maybe. It’s normal, though, right? I mean, senior year, the end of all of this. Thinking about your future and what you want to do with your life.”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m not feeling any of that.”

“Yeah, but you know who you are. You’ve never been the kid who does things to be cool or to fit in.”

I smile at him. “Are you calling me a misfit?”

“Maybe. But in the best possible way.”

I stare at him for a moment, trying to figure out what the hell he wants and realizing I don’t really care. If he’s looking for a new BFF or curious about guys, or already knows that he wants me… I don’t care what his agenda is. I want to hang out with him.

I sit up, then stand. “Come on, let’s go have some fun… get your head out of the gutter.”

“Jesus, I’m being a drama queen.” He stands and shakes his head like he’s clearing it.

Is that normal… a straight guy calling himself a queen? This is gonna be one mindfuck of a day, I can already tell.

I head down the path, and he follows me. “You got other clothes with you?”

“Shit.” He looks down like he’s just realized what he’s wearing. “I’ll have to stop back at my house.”

“Which is where?”

“Folsom Hills.”

“No. We ain’t got time to go all the way over there.”

He pauses in front of his truck and looks at me, confused.

I grab his arm and pull him around his truck, purposefully releasing it once he’s moving again. “Come on. Now that we’re buddies, you can borrow a pair of pants.”

“Wow, okay,” he says with an uncomfortable huff. “I don’t think I’ve ever borrowed a friend’s pants, but… whatever.”

I watch him closely, noting every nervous tick he’s putting out there: the hand running through the hair again, the cap flipped back to forward, the tan skin around his eyes crinkling.

“You know what, Jay, I can already tell you think too damn much about everything. Why don’t you just try to chill out? Take a deep breath. It’s just a pair of pants.”

“Did I say something that would make you think I’m stressed out about pants? ’Cause I’m not.”

“Perfect. You’re getting the hang of it already.”

“Shut up,” he says with a smirk.

“This is it,” I announce when we get to my driveway, which is about a hundred yards from the park.

His eyes roam the brick rambler. “Nice.”

“It’s no Folsom Hills, but I like it.”

“I don’t live in one of those mansions.” There’s a hint of guilt in his voice.

“No? I didn’t realize there was anything but mansions over there.”

“I don’t know. It’s one of the smaller ones.”

I shrug at his guilty expression. “You don’t gotta feel bad about the fact that your family has money. I mean, shit, if I had a house like that I’d take a picture, have it printed on a shirt with the words, Yeah, bitches, this is where I live, and wear it every day.”

He cocks his head at me. “I can never tell if you’re fucking with me or not.”