Starting From Here (Starting from 3) - Page 77

“You have been missing out on this python.” I waggled my brows and grabbed my spent dick to make him laugh.

Tegan didn’t disappoint. He threw his head back on the pillow and guffawed. “You’re funnier than I remember.”

“Thank you. That’s the second time you’ve praised my wit.”

“That was sarcasm, McNamara. I think I was pissed at you the first time.”

“You were,” I agreed with a laugh. “Now?”

“You really do make me laugh. You’re funny…peculiar funny, too. I spent a lot of years thinking I knew you, and I don’t think I did.”

I cocked my head. “How so?”

“You’re quirky. I didn’t know that. I saw your swagger and figured you were full of yourself. But you’re not, really. It’s an act. You use your bravado onstage and in groups where no one knows you well. I bet only a few people know that you write poetry all damn day. Am I right?”

“Not all day,” I argued without heat. “I’m actually pretty cool.”

“I know.” Tegan kissed me tenderly. “So what do you want to do for the next four days, cool guy?”

“Go to museums, check out the State Building…”

“Oh, my God. Nerdville,” he groaned aloud.

“Fine. We don’t have to—”

“I was teasing.” Tegan’s eyes went soft and a little gooey. “I’ll do whatever you want, babe.”

I basked in the unexpected sweetness. Sadly, it didn’t last long. He caught himself and looked away quickly, then gave me a shuttered half smile that felt like a physical push. No conversation necessary. He didn’t want to talk about it, and neither did I. We were temporary and secret. I wanted to tell him I’d come out in a heartbeat, but I wasn’t going to put him on the spot. Honestly, I didn’t think I could take the rejection if he didn’t feel the same.

I kissed his shoulder and snuggled against his side. “Get some sleep. We have a big day tomorrow.”

Tomorrow sounded good. And the next day and the one after that. We could worry about the hard stuff later.

We blew most of our first day in bed. We slept late, had sex, ordered breakfast in bed, had more sex, showered, and dragged ourselves into town to explore Austin before the sun went down. We popped in and out of stores, went to happy hour, and listened to a local band before having a late dinner. The sense of freedom was heady.

After months of preparation, writing, rehearsing, releasing an album, and spending months preparing for the tour, it felt cathartic to step off the hamster wheel. Food tasted better, wine was more potent, and the cool wind was refreshing…not chilly.

For the first time in years, I felt…happy and light. I didn’t have to be anywhere in particular, and I didn’t have to impress anyone. Tegan didn’t want or expect clever conversation twenty-four seven. He was a smart man with simple tastes. He liked music, horror movies, and had an appreciation for kitsch that made me laugh. But he also liked quiet.

And his quiet felt cleansing. He didn’t require words to communicate everything he felt or needed. He was content to be still, to listen to music, to read, to just…be. Kind of a miraculous trait for a guy who played the drums for a living. The interesting part was that he didn’t expect me to be “on.” I could just be…with him.

Tegan

We cut the trip into two ten-hour legs on the road with a two-day stop in Santa Fe. Dec insisted Santa Fe was like an outdoor cathedral with the bluest skies and filled with endless stars. He forgot to mention that it was at seven thousand feet elevation and therefore fucking freezing in February. We blasted the heat in our rented navy Chevy Trailblazer and took turns manning the tunes in between lengthy discussions about nothing in particular followed by long stretches of quiet.

He was easy company. He’d always been good-natured with a wise-ass sense of humor and a carefree vibe. I hated that he battled depression. I couldn’t imagine him melancholy. It actually hurt to think of him in a dark place. Of the two of us, I was the broody one. Yet I liked to think I made him happy, ’cause his brand of joy was literally contagious.

Dec could talk to anyone about anything; no matter how mundane the topic, he always seemed genuinely interested. The weather in Paris, the stock market, hobbies, sleep, food…food, food. Yeah, he was a little food obsessed for a guy who ate healthfully. Except on the road.

When we stopped at a gas-station-slash-mini-market on the way to Santa Fe, he loaded up on an array of disgusting treats. I glanced at his armful of chips, candy bars, and a case of water, shaking my head.

“What’s with all that crap?”

“Trip treats. You know the drill,” he replied, dumping everything on the counter. “If we break down on an interstate in the middle of nowhere, we won’t be hungry.”

Tags: Lane Hayes Starting from Romance
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