Bromosexual

I stare at him, sobered up at once. “It’s been a while,” I agree, the words carrying more weight than I think he intended.

Then we carry load after load into his house, the thick silence between us saying more than either of us possibly could.

10

RYAN

Yes. It’s as awkward as you think.

The rest of the weekend is a blur of him keeping to himself in the spare room or going out for a jog. I sit with my laptop on a barstool in front of the kitchen counter and prepare myself for the week. Our conversations are a handful of words and then nothing. He asks a question. I answer.

The ice between us is real. The fantasy of whatever I thought might spark up between us again is dead.

I really did fuck things up between us back in senior year of high school.

Shouldn’t I be angry—pissed, even—that Stefan still holds a grudge about that? We were younger and dumber back then.

Of course, maybe I’m being totally self-centered about this. Maybe his demeanor has nothing to do with me, but rather with what happened to him and his career. I would be an idiot not to consider that, since it’s what means the world to him.

I just can’t help but take everything personally lately.

I’m a mess around Stefan Baker.

Monday rolls around, and I’m back at work. Dana flutters by my office, determined to learn everything about the Stefan Baker, but I don’t give in at all, and by Wednesday, she’s given up. My life at home becomes a left-footed tap dance of Stefan and I deciding what we want to eat for dinner, eating, then chilling at either end of the house, separated and not talking. He always looks tired and worn out from his work at Parker’s every day, and I try very hard not to appreciate what that’s doing to his muscles.

Or the way they gleam with sweat when I happen to get home from school before he gets home from his renovation work.

One time, he wore just a tight black tank, and when he came home a little after seven, he had spots of caulk and dirt pasted to his skin, which was slick with sweat. He looked like a construction god, and I enjoyed every second of watching his muscles bulge as he brought in his tools, going from the garage door down the hall to his room. When he went down the hall, my eyes were glued to the ass of his low-hanging jeans. His black tank top was bunched up a bit at his lower back, and I saw his ass crack peeking out from his jeans.

He’s free-balling it again.

I’m the luckiest motherfucker in the world.

That luck, after several days, doesn’t feel so lucky. Especially when Stefan and I aren’t even talking.

On Friday when I get home from work, I find him already at the house on the couch, clean and kicking back, looking as if he’s already freshly showered and relaxed. He turns his head toward me and shoots me a chin-lift. “Hey, man.”

“Hey.” I set my briefcase on the wicker chair by the door, then go for a drink in the kitchen. For some reason, I’m determined to talk to him today. I want more than just our tight-lipped greetings and ten-second small talk. “How was your day?”

“Decent. Parker and I got the whole bathroom gutted, all of the plumbing moved, electrical added—”

“Shit. You weren’t kidding when you said bathroom remodel.”

“Full renovation. Yep.” He throws an arm over the back of the couch, twisting his torso to get a better look at me. “How about you? Save any kids today?”

I reflect on my week. Frederick was sent to my office again on Thursday. I lovingly recall his pouting face and half-lidded eyes. “What can I say?” I mutter dully. “I’m their hero.”

“Have more faith in yourself.” Stefan’s words are just as flat and lackluster as my own, inspiring little faith.

“So is the bathroom renovation almost over?” I ask him.

He shrugs. “Maybe another week. We only get a few hours a day, what with Parker’s job and Lindsey’s needs.”

“Lindsey? Oh, pregnant wife. Right.” I shoot him a tight smile.

Stefan quirks an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Just curious. You wanna get some pizza tonight?”

He’s eyeing me from over the top of the couch, suspicious of something. I catch his strange gaze and return it with one of my own, staring wordlessly at him.

Stefan stands up and comes to the kitchen. “Shouldn’t be too much longer and I’ll be out of here.”

I freeze with my phone in hand, Domino’s number ready to call. “What? You’re leaving?”

“I got enough money to stay at a hotel for a couple weeks,” he explains, his words flat, “and then a nice place should open up on Redhill Avenue. I can head out tonight.”

I blink, the air sucked out of my lungs.