Dreamspinner Press Year Nine Greatest Hits

by Michael Murphy

  “Where would you go,” Evan said, resurrecting an old game from their childhood, “if you could go anywhere right now?”

  “Right now? Hmm.” Scott’s fingers tapped on the side of his thighs in time with the music coming from the house. He seemed in no rush to get back to the party and his friends, and Evan was strangely relieved at his best friend’s loyalty. “Maybe Greece. Athens. Or the Greek islands.”

  “Good choice.”

  “Your turn.”

  I wouldn’t go anywhere, a little voice whispered in the back of Evan’s head. I’d stay right here next to you.

  “Greece sounds good.”

  “Cheat,” Scott said immediately, indignantly. “You have to pick somewhere new.”

  “Okay,” he agreed with a laugh. “Maybe… Australia.”

  “Need to leave it until the beginning of the year. That’s when the best surfing is.”

  “You don’t surf, though.”

  “I would if I was in Australia,” Scott said emphatically. “I’d learn. From one of those hotties in the tiny bathing suits.”

  Evan’s head was immediately filled with images of ripped torsos, flat chests, sandy hair, tiny, tiny Speedos. Not what Scott was talking about, he was sure.

  “I’ll add it to the list,” Evan said with a smile.

  For a few minutes, they were quiet together, a peaceful calm that neither of them needed to fill with chatter. They’d been like this forever, enjoying both the madness that life threw Scott’s way and the calm that Evan seemed to summon. Noise from the party spilled outside—laughter and shrieks, the rhythmic thumping bass of whatever music someone had put on. By the pool, it had turned almost chilly. Fall wasn’t far away now.

  “Are you coming back in?” Scott asked, stretching again.

  Evan wasn’t ready yet, but he nodded anyway and started to gather the headphones on the red MP3 player Scott had bought him for his birthday.

  “Put any decent music on that thing yet?” Scott teased, throwing his arm around Evan’s shoulders as they walked back up to the house.

  “Fuck off,” Evan mumbled.

  The ground was uneven here. They’d managed to stray from the main path that looped around the Sparrows’ yard. It wasn’t really that surprising, then, when Evan stumbled over something sticking out of the lawn, stubbing his toe on a rock, most likely.

  “Shit!” he exclaimed, hopping over and leaning against the edge of the deck.

  “You okay?” Scott asked as he followed, steadying his upper arm as Evan rotated his ankle, feeling the twinge in it.

  “Yeah. Stupid,” Evan grouched. It didn’t really even hurt that much. His pride was more wounded than his foot.

  “Are you sure?” Scott said. His voice was suddenly soft, and his thumb moved, very slowly, back and forth over Evan’s bicep.

  The next breath Evan took caught in his throat, and he forced himself to swallow. Scott stepped in closer again, a frown creasing his forehead.

  His eyes are so fucking blue, Evan mused, the thought confirming that he was maybe a bit more drunk than he first thought. He’d had two—no, three—orange crushes and a beer.

  Probably drunk.

  But still… so blue.

  “Evan,” Scott said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you… okay?”

  Plump bottom lip. Not cherry-slushie colored tonight. No, just the regular soft pink of his mouth that Evan definitely hadn’t spent too long studying over the past, fuck it, since forever.

  “Yeah.”

  A smile flickered over Scott’s face, and those dimples reappeared, twisting the soft curve of his cheek. Scott flicked his tongue over his bottom lip, and Evan immediately focused his gaze there, too buzzed on orange crushes to use his well-worn defenses and keep his eyes on a more sensible place.

  Scott did it again, the movement surely more purposeful this time. Dark pink tongue tracing sweet, pretty lips.

  Oh fuck.

  Evan was so, so screwed.

  “Evan,” Scott said again, and everything seemed to slow down, time turning liquid as he leaned in and pressed those pretty, plump lips to Evan’s.

  The slowing of time—Evan was convinced it was happening—seemed to be messing with his reactions, because normally he jerked away when someone kissed him like this, so totally unexpected. But now he stopped breathing and just let it happen, feeling everything, too much and not enough all at once.

  Then Scott leaned up, nudging his nose against Evan’s, and he was aware of Scott’s hand still gripping his bicep, and this angle was weird, and he should definitely do something about that.

  Something seemed to involve wrapping both hands around Scott’s waist and pulling him closer, closer, until their hips bumped together and Scott’s other hand came up to tangle in Evan’s hair. Their mouths seemed to know how to move in tandem, an organized give and take, even with the chaos that was burning through Evan’s brain, his synapses, his blood.

  Scott flicked his tongue out again, and this time it landed on Evan’s bottom lip, drawing it into Scott’s mouth. This was better, infinitely better, and Evan shifted his position again so he could lean back against the deck, pulling Scott with him. They ended up almost in each other’s arms. Close to it.

  Making out.

  With his best friend.

  Whom Evan had had a crush on since forever.

  Scott’s tongue tasted like fresh orange juice and a little like vodka and a lot like something Evan could only attribute to intoxicating lips, the sort of sweetness that drew people into this very human trait of sticking tongues into each other’s mouths. Scott’s waist was warm, his shirt slightly rough under Evan’s hands, and Evan had to—he needed to—find out what Scott felt like underneath.

  As their heads tilted to try a new angle, a new way to taste and explore with lips and tongues and teeth—oh fuck, teeth—Evan pushed his hands under the denim of Scott’s shirt and wrapped them around his perfect slim waist.

  Scott made a little sound in the back of his throat, and the hand that was in Evan’s hair slipped down, cupping the back of his neck and holding him in place so Scott could kiss him deeper.

  Was there more than this? Evan wasn’t really sure if there was. Sometimes kissing led other places; he was a teenager, he knew that. But he was pretty sure he could stay like this, kissing like this, for as long as….

  Oh.

  Scott pulled away, pressing his lips to the corner of Evan’s mouth, then his jaw, then up his neck once, twice—fuck me—and finally to the shell of his ear.

  “We should move,” he said, voice rough in a way Evan hadn’t ever heard before.

  “Oh.”

  “Inside,” Scott said with the sort of inflection that was hard to misinterpret.

  “Okay.”

  Scott pulled back a little, the devastatingly handsome smile that Evan loved gracing his now kiss-swollen lips. He brought his hand around, rubbed his thumb over Evan’s tender lips, and kissed them again.

  “Come on,” he said softly, quickly squeezing Evan’s hand before leading the way.

  Evan followed. How could he do anything but?

  People were still in the kitchen, plenty of people, actually. Evan didn’t remember this many people being invited. It looked like since he’d been outside, the numbers at the party had doubled, tripled maybe, and the place was now buzzing with activity. Scott was quickly lost in the crowd as he navigated through the groups of people, and Evan let him go, for a minute at least.

  There were bottles of water in the fridge; Mrs. Sparrow always made sure of it over the summer. Evan grabbed two, twisted the top off the first, and drank deeply.

  He’d just made out with his best friend. The one who didn’t know Evan was gay.

  His heart felt like it was thrumming, too fast, too hard for a normal person.

  Evan thought he might throw up, and he pressed one hand to his stomach, dumping the unopened water bottle on the counter and rolling the other over his forehea
d. Someone asked if he was okay, some girl he’d never spoken to before, and he nodded, smiling at her for show.

  After a moment, the sickness settled, and he took another swig of the water, then followed the path he’d watched Scott take through the house and toward the family room.

  Scott was there, sitting on the arm of a sofa with Katie on his lap. As Evan watched, Scott threw his head back and laughed, tilting it to one side when Katie pressed a kiss just under his ear. Then another, slightly closer to his Adam’s apple. Then another, and Evan turned away.

  The clock in the hall said it was eleven thirty. His mom would be asleep by now, probably sleeping deeply, ready for her 4:00 a.m. start in the morning.

  While grinning at people, Evan started weaving his way through the different groups that had assembled around the house until he made it to the garage door. He dumped the unopened bottle of water on the shelf next to the door. Someone would put it back in the fridge at some point. The other he tossed in the recycling.

  Then he grabbed his bike, turned on the lights fixed to the front and back, and wheeled it back onto the street.

  Within fifteen minutes, he’d be home, and then he could process this. The tears were already stinging, and Evan knew, he knew what this had been. Pity. Or an experiment. Or a drunken mistake that both of them could draw a line through.

  The fizzing euphoria had been replaced with the low ache of pain, and Evan didn’t know enough about either psychology or biology to understand how something so incredibly perfect could turn sour so quickly.

  He wouldn’t mention the kiss again.

  It would be his, the one perfect kiss with his first crush, and as long as he kept it secret, no one could challenge it or poison the memory. It was his. Theirs. His and Scott’s.

  Cold air stung his cheeks and lungs as Evan cycled home.

  Summer was over.

  The Fourth Time

  March 2014

  “WINE.” LACEY suddenly sat upright.

  “Pass me your glass, then,” Evan said, already reaching for the bottle.

  “No.” She slapped his hand away. “For the tables. We forgot the fucking wine.”

  Evan sighed and topped off his glass anyway. “Okay. Do you have preferences for wine, Lacey?”

  “Not really,” she admitted and held her hand out for the bottle, then emptied it into her glass. “Oops.”

  “Is that the second bottle?”

  “Yeah. I like this stuff. What is this stuff?”

  “I have no idea. Whatever I picked up at the liquor store on the way over here.” Evan swirled the rosé in his glass and took a hearty swig. “You want rosé for your wedding?”

  “Yeah,” she said. A dreamy expression had taken over her face, and Evan wasn’t sure how much the wine could be blamed for that. “I like rosé.”

  “I think we’ve established that.” Evan giggled. Oh hell. He’d had too much to drink.

  “Fuck you.”

  “No thanks, darling. You’re not my type.”

  He hauled himself back up to sitting and put his wineglass down on the coffee table. There were seven weeks left until Lacey’s wedding, though there was still plenty left to do. The “to-do list” was supposed to have been what they were addressing this evening. Instead they’d gossiped and drunk two bottles of wine. That was more like what they normally did on a Friday night when Anthony was out of town.

  “So,” Evan said. “Wine. I’ll put it on the list. Do you actually want to go and pick wine or just find something that’ll go with the menu?”

  “You pick.”

  “Nu-uh. I’m not going to choose and get it wrong. We could always ask the caterers to suggest something.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Lacey said, pointing at him emphatically. “I’ll call them.”

  She reached for her phone, and Evan put a gentle hand on her wrist. “It’s almost eleven, Lace. Call them in the morning.”

  “Is it?” she shrieked. “No way. When did that happen?”

  “Somewhere between the first and second bottles of wine,” Evan mumbled, reaching for his glass.

  “I didn’t eat dinner either. That’s why I’m drunk.”

  “Mhmm.”

  “I’m going to make something. You want a grilled cheese? I’m in the mood for grilled cheese sandwiches.”

  “I can help,” Evan said. “Can’t have you setting yourself on fire this close to the wedding.”

  Lacey grunted and hauled herself to her feet. She was wearing sky-blue pajamas with fluffy bunny slippers and one of Anthony’s football jerseys. Evan pushed at her shoulder affectionately as they wandered through Anthony’s huge, gorgeous house, wineglasses in hand, to the kitchen.

  “So, we’ve got everything sorted for the rehearsal dinner now? I want to make sure I don’t need to think about that anymore.”

  “You don’t need to think about that at all,” Evan said as he pulled a skillet from the drawer next to the stove. “I’ve got that covered with Morgan.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yep. Morgan’s got your bachelorette party covered too—”

  “Wait, you’re not involved?”

  “No,” Evan said. “Girls only.”

  Lacey had taken a seat at the kitchen island, clearly willing to let Evan make her snack for her. He didn’t mind, not really, and moved around her to take butter and cheese from the fridge and a loaf of bread from the pantry.

  “But you have to come!” Lacey wailed. “You’re my gay best friend. You’re an honorary girl.”

  “Geez thanks, Lace,” Evan said sardonically. “Just what every gay man wants to hear. While you’re busy emasculating me, do you want my balls too?”

  “Oh, shut up,” she said, waving his words away. “You know what I mean. You have to come.”

  “I really don’t,” he said with a laugh. “I’ll end up carrying you all home on my own, and you know what? I don’t want to be the one responsible for you.”

  “Scott won’t be there.”

  “I know that, Lacey.”

  “So you don’t need to worry. It’ll be nice to have you at one wedding-related event where you’re not all on edge about seeing him.”

  Evan decided to ignore her and cut thick slices of cheddar and provolone to layer between the bread. It didn’t take long to assemble the first two sandwiches—there would almost certainly be more than two—and set them into the sizzling skillet.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to contact him ahead of time?” Lacey asked. “It would be good for the two of you to clear the air.”

  “There’s no air to clear,” he said mildly. “I don’t have any beef with your brother, Lacey.”

  “It’s been years since you last talked to him.”

  “Which is enough time for everything that happened to be water under the bridge. I’m not going to cause a scene. Or be rude, or whatever it is you’re worried about. I’ll be polite to him. But Scott isn’t part of my life anymore, hasn’t been for a long time. But you’re important to me.”

  “Love you.”

  “I know you do,” he said, smirking as he flipped the sandwiches over. “I’ll behave. I promise.”

  “Evan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m really not sure about those centerpieces,” she started, and Evan tipped his head back, groaning loudly.

  “No. The centerpieces are fine,” he insisted, flipping the first sandwich onto a heavy wooden chopping board before slicing it diagonally and sliding it onto a plate. Without asking, he went to the fridge and brought back a bottle of ketchup. Lacey was weird like that.

  “But it might be too much, too many roses.”

  “It’s a wedding, Lace. A wedding. There’s no such thing as too many roses at a wedding.”

  “Okay, but the colors—”

  “I helped with the colors,” he said darkly, cutting her off. “Don’t go there.”

  Lacey took a big, crunchy bite of her sandwich and wisely stopped talking. Evan
ate his while working on the next two, only aware of how hungry he’d been as he ate.

  “When’s the dress fitting again?”

  “The last one is Wednesday next week. Are you going to come?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “Yeah. My mom will just cry again, and I’m not sure I can deal with that.”

  Evan chuckled. “Okay. I can move some things around.”

  “If you have meetings—”

  “I don’t.”

  “Okay.”

  By the time the second sandwiches were done cooking, Lacey had polished off the first and gone riffling through the pantry to find chips. They split a bag while eating the next two in companionable silence.

  “Can you believe I’m getting married in less than eight weeks?” Lacey asked, leaning her chin on her hand as she stared out at the heavy moon.

  “I can’t believe you found someone willing to marry you.”

  “Asshole,” Lacey said with a laugh.

  “You’re sure about this?” Evan said, feeling the need to ask. Again.

  Anthony was six years older than Lacey, a sailor in the US Navy based in Norfolk. He was sweet and kind, and his family had serious money. But Lacey was only twenty-three and such a dreamer it almost hurt Evan’s heart. She loved so clearly, so openly, and he’d already watched her be hurt once before.

  “I’m sure,” she said seriously. “And, I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? If it doesn’t work out, I’ll just divorce him.”

  Evan laughed at that. “You romantic.”

  “He’s the one, Ev. Have you ever looked at someone before and just felt it? That ‘he’s the one’ feeling?”

  “No,” Evan lied.

  “You will one day,” she insisted. “I promise.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Are you bringing a date to the wedding?”

  “Oh no.” Evan shook his head emphatically. “Nope. Your grandma Sparrow doesn’t need to see me on the arm of another man. She hates me enough as it is.”

  “She doesn’t hate you! And it would serve the miserable old hag right for being so narrow-minded.”

  “I don’t want her causing a fuss on your wedding day. Plus, I don’t have anyone to bring. So I’ll be playing the role of your devastatingly handsome gay best friend for the day.”