Page 12 of These Secret Years

Still, I’m not sure how I feel about this. Or if I’m going fucking crazy, and he’s just being nice, and I’m imagining the rest.

This is complicated for me. And confusing. I have to assume Knight sees something in me. Maybe the same thing Adrian saw. Maybe it’s something else. Something that tells him I might be okay with flirting. That I might want part of him touching part of me. That I might want more from him than conversation.

Do I? His leg, though it feels like a burning log, is sturdy, and I haven’t moved away from it. I’m warm and overly aware of everything. The crackling of the fire. The bouncing chatter between the other guys. The taste of whiskey on my tongue. The cold brick of the tunnel against my back. And Knight’s scent of amber and leather that I still smell above everything else in the forest, including an entire fucking bonfire.

He starts to pass the bottle to the next person, but I reach across him and attempt to take it back. My hand lands on his, and I let myself feel it, allow my fingertips to brush his knuckles. I note the catch in his breath, and the way he swallows convulsively before I pry the bottle away from him to take another sip. Then I lean past him, my other hand on his side to keep myself balanced as I pass the bottle on.

The man has no body fat. Like the one place where most people have an inch or so of extra fluff, he’s all hard muscle. I find myself in this weird state that’s both intrigued and nauseated. It isn’t homophobia. It’s not a fear of who he is or who I might be. It’s a much messier feeling than that.

It’s memories of hot breath on my skin. Hands on me I didn’t ask for but didn’t refuse either. Curiosity that was denied. The reluctant acceptance of things I didn’t have it in me to refuse. That I didn’t have the permission to refuse.

“So, what’s up?” I ask.

He stares at me like he’s trying to come up with an answer.

I ask a different question. “Is there something else you wanted to ask me?”

“Um…am I bothering you?”

“I don’t know.”

He frowns like this troubles him but not like he’s upset. “What don’t you know?” he asks quietly.

I don’t know—despite the fact that I’ve been in a relationship of sorts with a man for nearly two years—if I’m gay. But I think Knight is.

I don’t answer, turning my attention back to the other guys.

Up to this point, the conversation around the bonfire has been future focused—the guys talking about what they want to be when they grow up—what they’re looking forward to in college. But it’s shifted to what they’ll miss. Deandre is talking about his mom’s cooking, particularly a lasagna she makes with three different kinds of meat.

“Okay, okay,” Tyson says. “Besides your parents and grandparents—if you disappeared out here tonight, who’d be the one hounding the police to find you?”

“Is that one for me?” Deandre asks.

“It’s for everyone.”

Deandre answers anyway. “Well, for me, it’d be my high school football coach. He’d be pissed if all the sweat he put into me wasn’t gonna pay off. You wanna go next, Ty?”

“Probably my girlfriend. But she’d be convinced I was with someone else.”

That brings up laughter from the group.

Knight leans closer and asks, “What’s your answer?”

My honest answer is not one I’m willing to share with the group or with anyone. “My sister, I guess.”

While it’s true that I have a sister, her ability to understand a disappearance is limited. She has Down’s syndrome and is somehow perpetually happy. The real answer, of course, is Adrian. I doubt his ability to cut his losses, but what do I know? He lies as well as he sucks dick.

“Younger or older?” Knight asks.

“Hey—QB. Share your thoughts with the group. We’re bonding,” Dillon says.

“I was gonna say my sisters,” he answers. “Mostly my middle sister.”

“No high school sweetheart you left behind?” asks a guy whose name I don’t remember.

“Nope. I’m single. And I better not be the only one.”

He’s not the only one by far according to the reaction he gets.