Should I make a move tonight?
Should I not make a move tonight?
After all of that talking in the diner, I find myself kind of paralyzed. On one hand, I could play it cool, listen to his song, and prove to him that I’m not a quick lay. That idea makes perfect sense. On the other hand, if I don’t do anything, he’ll either think I’m not interested or truly am a total prude.
Maybe he’ll think Rico is right about me, and I’m just a sad, lonely, twenty-one-year-old grandpa on vacation with a book, a towel around my waist, and boring clothes.
What the hell is happening to me?
A lamp flicks on suddenly, startling me. I spin around to find Kent moving to the couch with his guitar. He takes a seat, then pats the cushion next to him. “C’mon, Jonah. You insisted on cashing in your big song coupon from last night, so here we go.”
Oh, wow, we’re really doing this.
My heart needs to stop racing. I could pass out.
Relax.
I hurry to the couch and take a seat next to him. The cushions are old and sink in toward the middle, not supporting our weight that well. The unintended result is my pressing against his side the moment I sit down—and no matter what effort I make in trying to scoot over, I end up right by him, like the evil couch is pulling us together.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
I suppose I don’t, either.
“Alright, so … confession: I haven’t had an audience of any kind in a long-ass time.” Kent plucks one of the strings, winces, then twists the tuning peg as he plucks the same string over and over. “Can’t really promise how amazing this is gonna be.”
“I can’t play any instrument at all,” I point out—with my heart still stubbornly racing.
“It’ll probably be terrible, and you’ll regret asking for a song.” Kent chuckles as he continues tuning his guitar. “I … already regret even mentioning I play.”
We’re so close to each other, it’s impossible for him not to feel my heart racing. I keep the conversation going like I don’t even notice. “Where’d you learn?”
“My dad. Well, kinda. Didn’t I tell you? If he had stuck around, he’d probably be part of some beach-bum rock band playing gigs on the boardwalk.” He strikes a chord, then huffs with frustration and continues tuning. “Or he’d probably be business partners with Mr. Hopewell, the man who runs the fair. They were best friends in school, he and Martin Hopewell. Mrs. Hopewell passed away a while ago, leaving Martin, their son Finn, and their daughters to run the business on their own. Sad story.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I was eleven or so when it happened.” He strikes one more chord, then plucks a string as he twists the tuning peg a bit tighter. “They seem to be doing alright over the years. It’s actually going to be the twenty-year anniversary of the Hopewell Fair tomorrow.”
“Really? Nice. I wish I liked Ferris Wheels more. Or at all. They kinda freak me out.”
He chuckles. “Don’t sweat it. You think the boardwalk is touristy? You haven’t even begun to know true tourism until you see the commercialist marketing mayhem that is the Hopewell Fair on the north pier.” His guitar strings keep twanging in their bending tones as he tunes each one. “Mr. Hopewell’s son Finn is a pretty nice dude. He’s been with the same guy since high school. Everyone is waiting for them to tie the knot or something.”
I’m very interested in everything he’s saying. I promise I am. But with my body pressed up against his, it’s a true wonder neither of us seems to notice or has made a move. Every instinct in my body is urging me to grapple him, kiss him, and/or tackle him to the couch. I am all animal right now—yet somehow am managing to stay restrained.
Even after spending an hour in a diner, he still smells fucking delicious. How am I supposed to contain myself a second longer, squished against him like this? “Kent …”
“You almost met him, by the way. Finn. He came to the bonfire with his boyfriend, but I think by then you and I had already ditched the whole thing.” He keeps tuning—twang, twang, twang. “You like music?”
I like your lips when you talk. I like the careful way in which you pluck those strings and twist those tuning pegs. I like the firm feel of your arms and the side of your body as I lean against it on this couch which is practically a bowl of sweaty, sexual, soupy anticipation. “Y-Yeah, I do.”
“What kinda music?”
“Mostly super obscure stuff, like Preytown, or Staint.”
“Who are they?”
“Exactly.”
Kent snorts. “I see.” Twang, twang, twaaang. “I swear, I’ll get these strings right soon. I know you’re dying with anticipation to hear my breathtaking musical talent.”