Promise Me This (Between Breaths 4)

It was a small boy on a bike travelling unsteadily down the driveway. He was smiling and singing a somewhat familiar tune. When I glanced at Nate, he was staring raptly at that boy, as if he could see something else there. Maybe he saw himself at that age.

His eyes glazed over and I could feel him softly panting against my cheek, as he zeroed in on something—maybe a recollection. His breaths become harsher and he seemed to lose himself to some memory in the distance.

“Hey.” I placed my hand on his arm. “You okay?”

For a moment, he looked at me like I wasn’t even there, and then a ruddy color washed over his cheeks.

“Yeah, I’m cool.” He straightened his back and inched away and I immediately lamented the closeness.

Nate’s childhood home held evocative memories, no doubt about it, and a week ago, I never would have guessed that this carefree guy had such a quiet intensity, a bottomless well of pain. It made him more alluring, more authentic, more real.

“Um, anyway . . .” he said tearing his eyes away from the kid in the driveway who was now staring back at us. “If you go to the end of the street and turn left, I’ll show you the first bridge.”

My tongue felt thick in my mouth. I felt strangely sorry for him, for that little boy who grew up in this house.

“Wait, give me one more second.” I lifted my camera from the bag that now sat on the backseat floor and removed the lens cap.

“What are you up to?” Nate said in a tight voice as I aimed the lens out the window.

“I’m taking a quick photo of your childhood home.”

I snapped away even as I heard him inhale a sharp breath. “Don’t do that for my benefit. I don’t want it.”

My head lifted back to look at him but I refrained from asking why. I could see so much turmoil in his eyes. “Well you might . . . maybe another time. A later time.”

He shook his head almost violently. “I won’t . . .”

And then he seemed to rein himself in. Maybe he realized that he was giving too much away, that I could see everything on his face. That something about that house made him miserable and infuriated and fearful.

And fuck, I wondered just what in the hell it was and whether it had anything to do with his prick of a father.

“I’ll just keep them—until you ask me to see them or pitch them. No harm done.”

Nate stilled his breaths and his limbs. As he sat there quiet and motionless, I realized he could be quite energetic, animated, almost jittery in his everyday life.

But when he was anxious, sad, or contemplative, he became quite static and silent—almost unobtrusive. And it was that vulnerability that was most appealing to me now.

Sensing we had stayed well past our welcome, I carefully laid my camera back in the bag and jerked the car into drive. The little boy from the yard had long since disappeared into the back of the property, but Nate gave the house one final glance as he instructed me to turn left at the end of the road.

A few hundred feet more on this dirt lane and it dead-ended into a quaint and tranquil pond. There were a couple of large willow trees that hung over the water and sitting in the backdrop was a covered bridge. Painted a deep cranberry red, the color appeared to be fading and peeling, which only lent to its charm.

“This is really pretty,” I said, taking in the every square inch from my position in the car. “Is this the pond from your good memory day?”

He nodded and then pointed to this huge thick branch that hung over the water. “We swung from that tree.”

We exited the car—me with my camera, him with his coffee. We stood next to each other in silence and I could hear birds chirping and dogs barking and the soft sound of the water lapping against the rocks.

It was one of the most serene places I’d ever been.

I lifted my lens and focused in on the bridge, taking multiple shots in quick succession, given the light reflecting off the water was perfect this time of day. I stepped further back, adjusted the shutter speed, and then took a photo of the entire picturesque scene before me, including the lake and the tree.

Bet Nate wouldn’t mind having that shot. The one of his happy memory.

I squatted down on my knees to get a different shot. “Want to be in the frame, Square?”

“No thanks,” he said, holding up his hands. “Unless you need a point of reference.”

“Sure, go stand over there by the pond,” I said. “Let me put you to work. You can be my assistant.”

He placed his coffee on the hood of the car and strolled to the water’s edge, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He turned and grinned and I focused in on a tight shot.

This was my opportunity to gaze at him shamelessly. His legs were long and his waist was lean, but it was his chest and arms that were broad and defined. I never cared for that kind of build before—I liked my guys slim, but could appreciate the effort it took to look that way.

I wondered if his thighs and ass and well . . . the rest of him were just as muscular. Sure, he liked to joke about it, but given how enormous his others parts were . . . I was more than curious.

Nate folded his arms, looking at something in the distance and my lens edged in on his face. His full lips, slightly off-center nose, and large eyes, framed by long and lush lashes. Yep, he was definitely a pretty boy.

For the first time I noticed a light smattering of freckles that dotted his cheeks and I had the urge to lick them all, one by one. I adjusted the hair that was now sticking to my neck, because I was getting all hot and bothered while picturing Nate naked.