Page 39 of Wood

He sighs. “Yeah, her and her husband. They came into the bar one night, gave me their number. I hooked up with them one time, I swear, Ben, that’s all. No one else since you. I don’t want anyone else.”

“But,” I force the words out, “you’re Bi. You want women, too.” I say it bluntly, like there is no uncertainty, because obviously he was turned on by a woman. Has fucked a woman. Women. That woman. I saw it with my own eyes, my man’s beautiful cock about to slide into her. I want to unsee it. That cock that I’ve taken in my mouth, adored. I want to sob. Fucking tears are leaking out of my fucking eyes. I want to hit something. I want to scream.

“I thought I was Bi,” he says carefully. “But I don’t think so anymore. Since we started… all I want is you. I have never connected with a woman like I have with you. And no other man has made me feel what I feel with you. Like I want to crawl inside you, become part of you. Like I can’t get close enough.”

He bangs his fist on the phone over and over as though he can make it disappear.

“I am so sorry, Ben. I never thought I’d ever hurt you and here I am, causing you pain when all I want is to make you happy, make you feel good.”

He collapses on the floor next to my chair, wrapping his arms around my knees, his face against my thigh. His breath hitches, and my leg is wet. My beautiful boy is crying, too.

“Are we just fucking, Ben? Is that all we are? It doesn’t feel like just… fucking.” His breath hitches, sobs. “Just fucking doesn’t hurt like this. Aren’t we boyfriends, Ben?”

I’ve felt closer to this man than anyone I’ve ever fucked. Hell, I can’t get close enough, either. We’ve never named it. It never seemed necessary, the label. Perhaps I was wrong about that. I’ve never done this, never kept a man, let alone a Boy. And this isn’t something he did wrong. And now, he is on his knees for me. And I am the one who needs to fix this.

I pull him onto my llap,facing me.

He turns tear-reddened eyes up to me. “Are we ok, Ben?”

I kiss his beautiful face, wiping away the tears from his face. “Yeah, baby, we are ok.”

“I’m so sorry that stupid woman thought it was ok to send me that stupid photo. I didn’t realize her stupid husband was taking it at the time. I hope he didn’t take any with my face. I hope they were mostly of her.” He turns to look away. “It wasn’t even that good. I was desperate.”

This brings a laugh from my chest. I press my forehead against his.

“Threesomes are rarely very good,” I chuckle, rubbing his nose with mine. I come away a little wet, and I’m ok with that. “Show me the delivery options you picked. We need to eat.” I kiss his lips softly. “Then I need you. Boyfriend.”

He shivers.

By Sunday, the weather is clear and, if not sunny, at least not outright raining. With three rounds done, I am sitting with a full nine under par as we set out. Definitely top ten again if I can maintain focus, keep steady. That calm that Geoff brings in deadly poise. He is a fucking rock. He centers me, lets me zone out, filter the gallery, the other players, the wind, the fucking drizzle… none of it touches me.

“Slow and easy,” he murmurs, and I step up, slow everything down, and narrow myself to just this ball, just this stroke. Exactly as we studied and planned. I move through the holes almost automatically, executing each stroke with laser precision and end the round with an eagle. Geoff’s face is electric, and I have to look away so I don’t wrap my arms around him in celebration, kiss the fuck out of him. Instead, I pat him on the shoulder twice, hand him my putter, then turn to take handshakes from my fellow player, give a two-finger wave to the gallery as they whoop their approval.

Geoff walks towards the buffet as I field spot interviews, “found my focus, kept my head in the game, one stroke at a time”, verify my score card and pose for photos. At twelve under par for the tournament, I am probably in the top five, but I have to wait for the last round players to finish to get the final standing. Geoff finds me, silently handing me an electrolyte water, chugging his own. He peels a banana, not looking at me, but a smirk curves his lips, and I turn my face away to watch the golfers as he eats it. Bad boy.

Eyes glued to the leaderboard, my gut is jumping as my name rises to fifth place when the group with Todd Harrington comes off the green. Two more groups are still on the course. These four are the men ahead of me.

A ball comes in hot and wild, careening into the rough to the left of the green as the wind gusts around us, whipping caps from several spectators. Both players execute good chip shots to get their balls onto the green, then putt to make par, and my name rises to fourth. The last two golfers walk towards us. Another mini gust has pushed their balls just off the smooth fairway, and they battle the wind, each landing balls short of the green. Scott Whitaker nails a beautiful chip shot that smacks straight into the pin for a birdie. Sean Galloway chips a bit too aggressively and ends up on the far edge of the green. A final putt finishes his round for par. And my name rises to third.

I can feel Geoff vibrating from here, but I can’t look at him. We both are doing the mental math. Third means my prize is a cool one-point-two million dollars, with his cut being a sweet eighty-four thousand. I have never placed this high before, and I know he is the reason. My hand reaches out and grips his shoulder tightly, just for a moment, then releases. Cameras are everywhere, catching everything. Just a golfer and his caddie. A reporter sticks a microphone in my face for a reaction to placing third.

“I played well today, kept my focus.” Blah blah blah.

24

GEOFF

I’ve booked us dinner at the Bushmill Seaside. The voice on the phone said they have something private, where I won’t have to play guard dog so Ben can eat. The girl at the desk called it the Library, though there’s barely a book in sight anymore. It’s just a round little room with a fire going low, two plush armchairs with worn dark red paisley fabric pulled close to a small table, a single lamp casting more shadow than light. She tells us it’s not usually offered up for dinner, but there’s an exception being made this once and doesn’t say why and I’m not sure Ben is coherent enough to realize I booked this for him. For us. That his name and his third-place finish today got this for him. I may not tell him. At least not for now.

Ben ducks his head coming through the low doorway, still moving like a man who isn’t quite convinced the week is over.

“This is ridiculous,” he says, looking around at the paneling, the fire scent thick and sweet in the air. “We’re basically in someone’s study.”

“Sit down before you say something that gets us thrown out,” I chuckle.

He laughs, and it’s the first real laugh I’ve heard out of him in four days.

The food comes without much ceremony. Chowder first, thick with smoked fish, the kind of thing that tastes like it was made specifically for men who’ve been standing in wind for a week. Wood-fired beef with roast mushrooms, tomatoes, red onion, and a small salad. Smoked trout. Ben eats like he’s only just remembered he’s allowed to be hungry and for a while we don’t talk, just the fire, and cutlery, and somewhere beyond the door a low murmur of the Gas Bar doing its Sunday-night thing without us.