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  “Be patient,” I told him. “You’re always in such a hurry.”

  “I’m sorry I waited, and I’m sorry for all those times I made you come with my dick up your ass instead,” he goaded. Nate knew just how to push my buttons.

  This earned him a sharp slap to the fleshy part of his ass, which in turn received a hiss from him. It made me wonder whether he might not enjoy a little roughness under different circumstances, but that was for another time. “There’s no reason to get testy about it,” I said archly. Nate groaned as I withdrew my fingers, but had the wherewithal to hand me a condom. I rolled it on and crawled back up his body to kiss him once, deeply, and tried to shift him onto his stomach while I grabbed at a pillow to place beneath his hips for leverage.

  The whole process would be less painful this way, but he stopped me, cupping his hands against the back of my neck so I couldn’t get very far. “Hey,” he said, “I’ve heard it’s supposed to be easier from behind and all, but I’d kind of like to look at you. If that’s okay.”

  I actually felt my face soften, and thought again of how completely gone I was on this man. “Of course it’s okay,” I told him. I bent to brush another quick kiss against his mouth. “If you’re sure.”

  At his nod, I placed the pillow under his ass instead and then scooped up his legs, giving a sigh when his knees settled over the crooks of my elbows. The skin there felt warm and clammy—both of us were nervous. Despite my earlier chagrin for Nate’s tendency to rush through everything, I decided it was best to stop dawdling and get the anticipation over with. I worked one of my hands between our bodies to line myself up, slicking more lube over my cock, and I shook with the intensity of my desire for the man beneath me, breathtaking and overpowering like a force of nature.

  The way he bit his lip at me, all nerves, made my mood shift from jovial to serious; he looked like a man about to jump off a cliff, terrified of what might lie below. “Are you alright?” I asked quietly.

  Nate seemed to shake himself out of it before he nodded and rubbed his face against mine like a cat, back arching at the prod of my cock against his ass. “Just go slow,” he murmured. “Okay?”

  We kissed again. “Whatever you need, Nate,” I swore. “This will be good for you, I promise.”

  Still, I bit my lip at his initial grimace. It always hurts a little bit, no matter the care or love that goes into the preparations. A shudder wracked through him as I started to ease inside. “Push out against me,” I suggested weakly. “Relax and let me in, I won’t hurt you.” That was all I could manage. I had to press my mouth against his neck to keep from crying out or giving in to the impulse to shove myself inside that soft heat. He was like an oven on the inside and gripped me like a silken fist.

  Each inch forward seemed to make Nate’s cries grow louder, his breath more ragged. His responsiveness, his vocalness, made all the hairs on my arms and legs stand up. “God, Phel, I want you so bad,” he keened into my ear. His arms encircled my shoulders to hold us together, as if in anticipation of when I finally slid home. It was close, so close, and I felt Nate’s cock jerking between our bellies in similar excitement, its hardness unaffected by the burn he must have felt, that beautiful, torturous stretch. “You ever feel anything like this before?” he gasped. “Anything this fuckin’ good, this right?”

  I hadn’t, not in the way he meant, though I had a pretty good idea how overwhelmed he must have felt right then. My breath hitched as I shook my head, and he pulled me down so our lips could meet, not a kiss so much as the opportunity for us to pant into each other’s mouths. With that, I seated myself fully inside him and shivered at his warmth and tightness, shivered at how badly I wanted to say I’d never felt anything like what I felt for Nate, period.

  Details of what happened after escape me. We fucked—made love—of course. If possible, Nate came even more alive beneath me, his voice loud in my ear as I started to thrust into him, first with gentleness and then increasing force as he bucked and cursed and demanded I go harder, faster, demanded I make him feel it. Each time my cock skirted his prostate, he moaned and writhed in ecstasy. He gripped my face so I couldn’t look away from him, and the intensity of those green eyes is a memory I’ll always have, no matter how bad things get. No matter how bad they are.

  From that moment on, if I’m not being overly generous with my restraint, I wanted so badly to make Nate my own; I never imagined he wasn’t mine to keep. The look on his face when he came in my hand could only be described as wondrous, like he never knew it could be this way, like his whole life changed in that moment. Maybe it did. Knowing what I do now, I realize for Nate that was probably the point at which he started to really think of himself as a gay man—started to embrace his desires. Not that it changed anything, since he was more closeted than I ever was. He probably never let his wife put anything up his ass for fear she’d suspect something.

  Later, as we lay in bed with nothing left to us but our sweat and the dwindling willpower to stay awake, Nate rolled onto his side to face me and laid a palm on my cheek. I turned my head against the pillow to look at him, so close I could almost count his freckles, his eyes nothing but blurs of mossy green. The weight of the happiness I felt made me sigh and bump our noses together with what had to be the goofiest smile on my face.

  I was about to make a smartass remark about how disgustingly romantic and unmanly it all was, but then he said to me—and this I’ll never forget: “I feel like you’re the only thing I’ve gotten right my whole life, Phel.”

  The comment sobered me right away. I can only imagine how much it cost for Nate to say that, averse as he is to emotional scenes, and I saw the flush that rose to his cheeks the minute the words left his mouth. There seemed no correct reply other than to bundle him into my arms and hold him close—cuddling so aggressive I know Nate secretly enjoyed it. Every part of me agreed with him at that moment, and I had no idea—none—that, months later, he would come to feel like the single greatest mistake I’d ever made.

  Feeling lower than low, I coast my board into the surf before dismounting and treading the twenty or so remaining feet to the beach, my feet slipping a little in the soft bed of sand. The salt that stings my eyes is, I know, not seawater. No matter how many times I remind myself not to get frustrated over these emotional responses, which everyone from Willa to Doctor fucking Phil would say are perfectly acceptable, I can’t help but feel a little more angry each time a memory of Nate makes me cry.

  At this point it’s not even sadness but sheer outrage over how much a blind fool I acted—for a whole damn year, feeling like I was finally doing right for once, living some impossible fantasy where I got the guy and a shot at happiness. Aurelia warned me of what I was getting myself into, trying to hide my relationship from our parents in plain sight, dismissing her suggestion for a background check on Nate. I wrote off her concerns as jealousy of my fairy tale coming true, my queer Cinderella story. What a laugh.

  Instead of riding off into the sunset with the proverbial Prince Charming, I destroyed a family, ruined a child’s life, and let everyone down, most of all myself. What would Hugh feel if he had even the slightest inkling I’m the man responsible for breaking apart what little family he has left in the world? Like it isn’t bad enough I’ve avoided his calls all week, I can’t even be upfront about why. Furious as I am, I couldn’t do that to Nate, couldn’t knowingly out someone when it’s a secret he so obviously isn’t ready to tell.

  Willa constantly has to remind me of the value of forgiveness, not just for other people, but for myself; right now all I feel is ashamed and broken and crazy.

  Months ago, Hugh and I discovered this little inlet up the beach from where the good waves are, a bit of a trek but quiet and ideal for stashing our stuff without fear of having things stolen. I head there now, desperate for a towel and a change of dry clothes. When I reach the little pile of my belongings obscured behind a large piece of driftwood, though, I notice someone else’s things are there too, an ass
ortment of clothing and a portable cooler. Hugh. It has to be—he’s the only other person who regularly throws his stuff down behind the log, and after a second of dumb staring, I recognize his towel and thong sandals.

  I contemplate throwing on my T-shirt and hightailing it out of there, but I need a moment to recover from my surfing and impromptu emotional turmoil. Besides, I can’t avoid Hugh forever. It wouldn’t be right to hold his relationship with Nate against him, and anyway, I realize I have no desire to forfeit our friendship because of that. Surely Nate won’t be in Cardiff forever, and if I make up some excuse about how I’m too emotionally fragile to assimilate new people into my life right now, maybe I can get out of hanging out with him. This, I know, will upset Hugh and his plans for us to become some happy band of misfits, but I have to look after myself first. Nate, no matter how badly I might want to see him, is detrimental to my progress, though glibly I think Willa would no doubt suggest couples therapy for us.

  After digging out a pair of sunglasses and my secondhand copy of Goodbye to Berlin from the pocket of my bag, I settle in with my back against the driftwood to read and wait for Hugh, enjoying the feel of the ocean breeze drying the water from my bare shoulders. For a gay man, I’m rather late in discovering Christopher Isherwood; I was always paranoid my parents would catch on if I left copies of his books about my bedroom, back when I still lived with them. Cardiff, however, has a few bookstores from which I’ve amassed a decent collection of his writing. I all but devoured A Single Man and Christopher and His Kind. That beautiful line “I am a camera with its shutter open, recording, not thinking,” felt so representative of my years in the closet that I wept the first time I read it.

  I like to think I’m stronger these days, but when the crunch of footsteps approaching across the sand forces me to glance up, I lose faith in this notion entirely. Even with the rays of the sinking sun haloing his head from behind, I recognize the height and bulk of Nate’s body coming toward me, the familiar breadth of his shoulders and long legs. My first instinct is to fling myself behind the log and cower with my arms over my head like a frightened child. He might be the first man to make me feel love, but damned if he isn’t also the first to make me feel like a total pussy as well.

  “Phel,” he says in surprise. He’s carrying a shortboard under one arm and is similarly attired in surf shorts and a tan that hasn’t yet darkened to California bronze. As he quickens his steps, it’s not joy I see on his face, but apprehension. In that much, at least, we’re on the same page.

  I’m on my feet and backing away before he can get too close, holding Christopher Isherwood in front of me like a shield of flimsy paper. I wish I knew where this scared-animal routine comes from, or how to control it. A year ago, I knew when to be calm and when to display aggression if necessary. These days it seems all I do is react and run away, react and run away. Now isn’t the time to start trying to modify my behavior, though, because I can feel the stirrings of an anxiety attack building in my chest like a leaden weight, and the slight edge of nausea that always follows. I’m pretty sure I left the Xanax back at the apartment.

  Seeing me frantically starting to stuff my belongings back into my bag, Nate quickens his pace and drops his own board on the sand with a dull thunk. He tries to grab me and manages, just barely, to get his fingers around my wrist before there’s time for me to jerk away.

  “Come on, Phel,” he says in a mix of desperation and impatience. The glance I sneak at his face before trying to wrench myself away confirms he is no less stricken. “Don’t go running away, man, this is stupid. We need to—”

  I finally succeed in snatching my wrist back, although there’s a faint band of red on my skin from where Nate’s fingers dug into me. “What, talk?” I spit. I back up a little more and somehow avoid tripping over my own bag. It would be so like me to fall and break my hip and have to hear him out. “What are you doing here, Nate?” I ask, and the catch in my voice disgusts me. I sound fucking terrified. Hating myself for it, I attempt to straighten my shoulders and steady myself. I tear off my sunglasses so I can look him in the eye. “I have no interest in talking to you,” I say. “I was waiting for Hugh.” Though I think I sound confident enough, I know this constant barrage of rhetorical questions, practically babbling, indicates otherwise.

  “Hugh?” To my surprise, Nate’s expression goes from uncertain to furious. This time the few steps he advances are definitely more threatening, aggressive, the way you know a man of Nate’s size has the potential to be. He gestures back in the direction of the ocean, which I’m to assume means Hugh is still out there on the waves. “As in my brother Hugh? The kid you’ve been avoiding for fucking days?” Nate gives an angry shake of his head and comes close enough that it takes all my willpower not to stagger back farther. “I can’t begin to tell you, Phel, how seriously fucked up it is that you’re here, but don’t you be taking that stuff out on him, do you hear me? He considers you a friend, and right now he thinks you hate his guts. I almost came right out and told him everything just to convince him otherwise, because he has no freaking idea why you’ve suddenly gone cold on him.”

  A part of me has to admire how Nate hasn’t bothered with pleasantries and small talk, as if to pretend this chance meeting of ours is anything less than what he said—fucked up—but I think it has far more to do with his defense of Hugh than anything. Before I knew who Hugh was, I always got the sense Nate was fiercely protective of his little brother; there was something in the way Nate spoke about him, or didn’t speak about him, combined with his reluctance to share identifying details, that suggested that to come between them would be a mistake. It’s good to know my read of the situation wasn’t completely off, even then.

  That doesn’t mean I’m deaf to the one very important piece of information Nate has accidentally let slip. “You almost came out and told him?” I shoot back. For a moment I’m glad my own anger seems to have finally overridden my instinct to curl up and have a panic attack in the sand. “Why the hell didn’t you, then? If Hugh and his emotional well-being are so damned important to you, why didn’t you just lay everything down so he can know exactly how it is? Exactly why you’re here?”

  As I knew he would be, Nate is cowed by my challenge; he tilts his head back and looks at me from down his nose like an animal on the defensive, trying to protect its face from harm while still maintaining eye contact. “He doesn’t deserve to be dragged into the middle of this,” he grates out.

  “And I did?” I don’t meant to shout, but it feels good, weirdly, to be launching into this outburst without preamble, without being allowed to think of all the whys and wherefores and whether or not this is what Willa would recommend. “Like I deserved any of the shit you heaped in my lap, Nate? A year of lies and deception and broken promises? Your marriage?” My throat closes off around the last word and I look away, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes to block out his face.

  Nate, damn him, catches it right away. “Phel,” he says again, and his voice is gentler now, pleading. He doesn’t say anything else until I look at him. Whatever I’m feeling must show on my face like a tragic mask, judging by how he frowns and rocks abortively onto the balls of his feet like he wants to come closer. “This isn’t how I wanted to do any of this. I never thought I’d see you again, but even so, this isn’t what—” The tension lines around his eyes and mouth seem to have deepened dramatically over the last minute. Those green eyes meet mine with all the force of what we left unsaid between us. And, I see now, he is miserable with it. Good, I think.

  Nate’s voice grows more insistent, but thankfully he doesn’t try to touch me again. “For months I’ve been thinking about what I’d say to you if I had the chance, man, and now you’re here? We do need to talk. Fuck knows how any of this happened, how we wound up in the same place, but that don’t matter. Don’t storm off again, not before we’ve had a chance to figure things out.”

  The anger that bubbles up inside me is, I find, more than a match fo
r Nate’s own, catching like a spark to gunpowder at the suggestion there’s anything left to figure out, anything that hasn’t already been destroyed. Our relationship is a razed landscape. It should be clear that Nate and I are finished, washed up like seaweed on the beach. He seems, mysteriously, to feel otherwise, but I’ve no choice but to disabuse us both of the notion before either of us can get any ideas. Same as at Hugh’s house, I’m too petrified to keep looking at him and too petrified to look away.

  A laugh bordering on the hysterical breaks from my throat, and I remind him, “You had a year to speak to me, Nate. A whole year with just us, alone, when I would have listened to anything you had to say if you’d only been honest. But all you did was bullshit me. And not just me, either—your wife, your son, your brother. Everyone. What interest could I possibly have in what you have to say now? It’s done. Whatever cosmic joke brought us here doesn’t entitle you to a second chance. It doesn’t even entitle you to this conversation.”

  Much as I’m convinced of this, I’m both surprised and confused we’ve gotten this far at all. Nate might be the one with the temper, but we’re equally stubborn and, to top it all off, I am hopeless when it comes to confrontation. While I’d never known Nate to welcome an emotional discussion about anything—it truly was like pulling teeth—he was always the one ready to stick it out to the end and see a conversation through. I, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to run at the first sign I might lose an argument. Nate liked to call this habit “drive-by fighting,” wherein I’d say the most unconscionable thing to come to mind, then immediately flee the scene. It’s how my last conversation ended with my parents, how Nate and I broke up without ever talking about it—I just ran and ran and didn’t look back. Shows how well that worked out for me.