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In high school I used to hang around guys who skipped most periods and got off on disrupting whatever classes they did go to. One of them—Ethan—was my best friend at the time.
Looking back on it, he was a piece of shit, and I don't know why I stuck around. To feel included, maybe. He picked on Milo after word got around that he preferred guys to girls and, like the idiot I was, I followed suit. I would’ve done anything he asked.
Understandably, Milo hated him and, by extension, me.
Then something happened between me and Ethan. Something stupid. The next day at lunch he refused to talk to me. For the first time in years, I was on my own.
Milo found me sitting on the dingy bathroom floor of our high school, tears staining my cheeks. At that point, we hadn’t spoken beyond trading insults, and I expected him to turn around and pretend he’d never seen me.
Instead, he shut the door, sat down beside me, and asked if I thought Captain America was better than Iron Man. We spent all of lunch arguing over superheroes and cracking stupid jokes. At one point I didn’t realize I was crying, but Milo handed me a wad of tissues and half a chocolate bar without a word. From that moment on, I was hooked.
I couldn’t believe he’d talk to me, not after the shit I’d said to him. It changed everything. He found me at my lowest point and, despite our past, was willing to be my friend. I would never do anything to jeopardize that.
Milo’s still asleep when I finish my shower and shove on a pair of shorts and a random tee shirt. This one has holes in the collar and the front reads ‘Of course I come fast, I’ve got fish to catch.’ I screen-printed it at a shop in Portland years ago, before I got my own set-up at home.
I decide to take a walk around the motel while I wait for Milo to wake up. Greta is at the front desk and lets me know breakfast will be served in the diner behind the check-in area.
By the time I make it back to our room, my erection has flagged and I’m feeling less rough around the edges.
Milo's sitting on the bed when I enter, black hair falling in damp tendrils over his eyes. He looks unreasonably good in a tight-fitting black tee shirt and baggy jeans. He gets up when he sees me, that bright smile forming on his lips.
Relief, stark and brilliant, floods my chest. He doesn’t hate me.
“There you are,” he says.
“Here I am.” I watch him carefully, looking for any sign that he might remember what happened. “We should head down for breakfast.”
“Sounds good.” He slings an arm around my shoulder and leads me out of the room. “You alright?”
“Never better.”
The lie feels oily on my tongue and comes out just as easily. All I can think about is cherries, stifling heat, and the feeling of his hips thrusting against mine.
*
In the soft daylight, the motel looks warmer and more inviting. The diner has the same paneled walls as the rooms, decorated with photos of local heroes who have stayed at the motel. A few other motel guests sit around, filling the room with chatter.
We settle into an uncomfortable plastic booth along a wall of large windows. Still shaken from this morning, I can’t find anything to say. The words are locked behind my teeth.
He doesn’t look like he remembers what happened, which is good. Because it’s not like it meant anything. I’m overreacting.
A waitress with familiar gray hair and brisk demeanor walks over to us. Greta holds a small notebook and an apron folded over her smart clothes. Milo greets her with a smile and a quick hug that she looks charmed by.
“You also run the diner?” I say when he sits back down.
“Family businesses, you know how they are. Everyone does everything.” She waves a hand dismissively. “Tell me, are you boys staying with us long?”
Milo explains everything that happened with the pickup, taking over the conversation easily. He’s always been better at social interactions than me, knowing exactly what to say to smooth a situation over or offer a kind word. One of our friends, Spencer, says it’s because Milo’s not afraid to be open and vulnerable. When he’s not bickering with Luke like a kid at playground, Spencer can be insightful.
But it’s easy to be open when you’ve got nothing to hide—I’ve lost a lot by letting my guard down.
Something kicks my leg. Pushing the thoughts away, I slip back into the conversation, ignoring Milo’s lingering gaze and the unspoken question in it. Yes, I’m fine. No, I don’t want to talk about it.
“I can get an in-house mechanic to look at the truck for you,” Greta’s saying.
“Really?” I sit up straighter. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Nonsense, that’s what he’s there for. It’s my eldest son, Dale, and he needs something to work on before he gets bored of us.”
