Riding With Brighton(71)

I hoist myself up on the frame and am as lithe as possible as I swing my legs, followed by the rest of me, inside. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust, but once they do, I can see that Jay’s lying in his bed on top of his comforter fully clothed. Quietly, I slide the window shut and make my way to the bed. After kicking my shoes off, I lie down next to him.

I stare at him, at his beautiful face, and consider letting him sleep. He needs to sleep. His lips are parted, releasing distraught breaths. His body flinches, and I wonder what he’s dreaming about. His forehead creases and his head shakes. I place my fingers on the lines there, willing them to go away, willing his nightmare to leave him. And then he says, so quietly I can hardly hear him, “Brighton.” He flinches again and his face winces in his sleep. “No,” he mutters.

I lean down, letting my lips brush over his neck as I cradle his face. “It’s okay.”

His breaths become rapid for a few seconds before leveling off. I lay my hand on his heart, which is pounding so hard I can feel the vibrations in my palm. I keep it there, waiting for the pounding to subside, before returning my touch to his face, tilting my head so I can see his profile. I run my finger over the ridges of his defined lips, wanting to kiss them… wanting him to feel how much I care about him so he knows he’s not alone.

“Brighton,” he says again in his painful, sleepy whisper.

“I’m right here, Jay,” I whisper back, unsure if he can hear me or not.

He flinches again and his eyes pop open. Even in the dark, I can see that they’re full of panic. He pushes his body away from mine and sits up. Shit. He looks pissed. I sit up too and put my hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be here. I just needed to make sure you were okay,” I whisper.

He turns his head toward his door, then back to me, the fear and anger still obvious in his expression. “What the hell are you doing? Are you crazy?”

“Yeah. Probably. I’ll go, okay. I just needed to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m not okay,” he says, seething, shifting out of my grasp. “And if someone finds you here, I’m gonna be even less okay than I am now.”

His words hurt, his aversion to me hurts, but I obviously understand his reaction. I probably shouldn’t have done this. “I’m leaving,” I tell him, backing out of his bed. “No one will know I was here.”

He just stares at me as I stand, but as I turn away he says, “Wait… just hold on.”

I turn back to him, shove my hands in my pockets, and wait. He gets out of his bed on the opposite side of where I’m standing before going to his door and locking it. I duck my head so he can’t see my smirk. When he’s standing in front of me, I raise my eyes to his. His stare feels intense, but I can’t make out the expression on his face.

He shakes his head and runs his fingers through my hair before bringing them to the sides of my face. His touch is rough, and I can’t tell if he’s gonna head butt me or kiss me; it feels like it could go either way. He grasps on harder and slowly pulls me until his lips are touching mine. I let out a sigh of relief into his mouth and take my hands out of my pockets, wrapping them around his waist, pulling him to me. His lips start moving slowly, urging my mouth open, and his tongue slides across mine.

I feel him in a way I didn’t with our other kisses. It’s so soft and so quiet and so intimate it doesn’t even feel like a kiss. It feels like a conversation, like a moment. As with everything I’ve done with him, it makes me feel attached in just one more way.

But at the same time, it feels like it could be exactly the opposite for him: a good-bye, as if he’s cherishing this kiss like it could be the last.

When he pushes away from me and lets out a dejected sigh, it feels like the period at the end of that sentence—the one where he’s telling me good-bye. I don’t jump into panic mode, though. I wait for him to tell me whatever it is he needs to tell me.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he finally breathes, taking a step away from me and falling onto his bed. He leans his elbows on his legs and buries his face in his hands.

I sit beside him and ask, “What part of this are you talking about?”

“I don’t know. All of it.”

“Okay.”

He sits up and turns his eyes to mine. “Okay?”

I reach over and grab his leg, aware that it could make him want to run but needing to feel connected to him. “What am I supposed to say, Jay? You know how I feel. You know I want to keep you in this thing with me. You’re the one who told me how awful shit was for you before you came out…. I obviously don’t want you going back to that.” I suck in a breath before going on. “But if that’s what you’re choosing—if you’re choosing to put a Band-Aid on the situation for the sake of your family, I can’t stop you. I don’t get to make your decisions for you. Your mom shouldn’t get to do it either. But if you think this is what’s best for you, what am I supposed to say? Whatever you do… it’s okay. You know what I want you to do, but it’s your life. You’re the one who has to live it. So… okay.”

I can feel the intensity in his eyes, even though I can’t see them clearly, but then he turns them away from me. “No matter what I do, it’s never gonna be okay. I already took this too far.”