Something Magic

by Justine Taylor

  Mack raises Caleb’s glass to his face but not to drink; he sniffs at it, nose wrinkling slightly, those damned eyes closing in concentration. It takes Caleb a second to realize what he’s doing before he groans, hand reaching forward to land on Mack’s forearm of its own accord. “Dude, you can’t smell roofies,” he says. “Besides, I’m just regular-trashed, not drugged.” Caleb had the misfortune of actually experiencing rohypnol once in college – nothing happened to him, thank God, but he remembers the distinct heavy solidifying of his limbs before the blackness crashed down on him, and this isn’t anything like that. He’s just wasted.

  Mack keeps smelling his glass though, breathing in deep before he finally decides that Caleb is right. “Are you okay?” he asks again, sounding suspiciously like he really cares.

  “Yeah man, I’m good. Just…just need to sit down for a sec, I think.” The bar is getting more and more crowded, and Caleb is suddenly burning up and feeling lightheaded. Mack moves quickly to his side to steady him, and Caleb lets himself lean into the touch a bit. He’ll blame it on the booze later. He watches Mack’s eyes dart around them, and, finding no empty seats and no easy path to the door, he huffs and pushes Caleb towards the photobooth. With a rough shove of the curtain, he deposits Caleb gently on the short little stool inside, where he relaxes immediately and leans back against the wall, so grateful to be sitting again, no matter where he is. Mack has disappeared, probably bailing after doing his Good Samaritan deed for the week, helping out the idiot kid who stares at him too much and can’t hold his liquor.

  But then Mack’s back, pushing aside the black curtain to shove a glass in Caleb’ face. “Water,” he barks. “Drink it all.”

  “God, you’re as bossy as Abbie,” Caleb mumbles, gratefully reaching for the water and gulping it down. It’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted.

  Mack leans against the opening of the booth, half-in, half-out, watching him drink. “That must be why my sister seems to like her so much,” he says wryly.

  Caleb laughs. “Those two still out there scandalizing everyone?”

  “No, Abbie took Maribel back to her place a few minutes ago,” Mack says with the pained expression of a man talking about his sister's sex life.

  “Atta girl, Abbie,” Caleb smiles, not at all bothered that she bailed on him. They have an understanding when the possibility for sex is on the table. “Way to snag yourself one of the Nolan hotties.”

  Mack looks very amused by that, and Caleb feels the heat crawling into his cheeks again, so he buries his face back in the water glass. Mack jerks forward a bit, like he’s been bumped from behind and then he steps awkwardly into the photobooth to get out of the way of the growing crowd. He leans back against the camera wall, putting as much distance between himself and Caleb as he can in the little box, hunching forward slightly so his head doesn’t hit the booth’s ceiling. It’s weird, completely and utterly weird, how he’s just standing there watching him, but Caleb likes it, likes Mack’s proximity, likes the feel of his gaze on him. He slides down on the stool a bit, slouching so that his shoulders are resting firmly against the wall behind him, wincing just slightly as he presses against the newly touched-up tattoo that’s still bandaged under his t-shirt. Maybe it’s the angle from which Caleb is looking up at him, but Mack’s shoulders are so broad they seem to span the entire width of the box they’re sharing, making him feel like he’s locked in a too-small cage in with a too-large, barely-tame animal…but a sexy way.

  “You should sit,” Caleb says. “You’re too big to be a standing man in here.”

  “There’s only one seat,” Mack replies, a tiny grin playing at the corner of his very pretty mouth.

  Caleb grins back. “Sharing is caring, Mack.” He slides over as far as he can, pressing himself into the corner, letting one butt cheek and leg fall off the stool to make room for Mack. He looks up at Mack from under his eyelashes and blinks hard. Through the gin-soaked haze, he’s sure he looks seductive and inviting.

  Mack just stares at him for a second, one eyebrow crooked up, mouth open slightly. “Okay,” he says finally, taking a small step forward. It takes some awkward maneuvering and too many burpy-giggles on Caleb’ part, and the empty glass gets dropped twice, but eventually they’re both seated on the stool. Caleb’ is half in Mack's lap and it feels so good because so much of him is touching so much of Mack, and he’s never felt this kind of heat before, this kind of desire.

  “See,” Caleb breathes a little too heavily, “isn’t this better?”

  The way they’re sitting leaves no option but for them to wrap their arms around each other, Mack’s circling his waist, his own settling around Mack’s shoulders easy and sure, like they’ve been there before. “Yeah,” Mack whispers against his collarbone. “This is better.”

  Caleb thinks he should be freaking out; he’s crawling over Mack like a drunk puppy and who knows what he might say, and it’s taking all of what little self-control he has left to not swing his other leg over Mack’s lap to straddle him. But he doesn’t and he’s not freaking out. They’re in a loud bar full of people, but tucked away behind the half-curtain of the photobooth it's like they’re all alone. It feels intimate in a way Caleb has never experienced before, and it’s exciting and new and exhilarating, even through the numbing haze of the alcohol.

  Caleb can’t wait to find out what this feels like sober.

  Mack isn’t freaking out either, seemingly content to sit there and let Caleb lean into him and onto him, supporting his drink-heavy body with ease. Caleb feels his fingers working into Mack’s hair at the back his neck, pressing slightly against the strong tendons there. To his delight, Mack moans softly and shifts his hips, repositioning so they’re settled even more together. It’s overwhelming, the way Mack is softening and relaxing against him. It makes him seem…not weak, Mack could never seem weak…but vulnerable, maybe? Like he’s letting his guard down for Caleb, and he hasn’t known Mack long, but still he understands the rarity of that, even through the tunnel of inebriation. His eyes catch Mack’s, and his mouth falls open dumbly when he sees how much of that golden-green is gone, filled in by the dark caverns of his wide pupils.

  Caleb doesn’t want to be drunk the first time Mack kisses him. He wants to remember it, every hitch of breath and press of lips and flash of his tongue. He’s not thinking too clearly about much of anything at this point, but on this his mind is blindingly clear. Mack, and whatever it is between them, deserves more than a slobbery, drunken first kiss in a photobooth in a crowded bar, regardless of how very hot Caleb knows it would be, regardless of how much he wants it.

  Swinging his head away from Mack, heart pounding, he glances at the camera across from them. “We should take pictures,” Caleb announces, just for something to say and to give himself something else to think about.

  “Okay,” Mack says. For a guy who seems so closed-off and severe, he’s sure been amenable to all of Caleb’ suggestions tonight. Mack manages to pull a few dollars from his pocket and slide them into the machine.

  They don’t say anything, don’t pose. They just sit there, wrapped up in each other, listening to the pop of the flash and the snap of the camera. Caleb notices that Mack closes his eyes at the flash, and he thinks that’s a shame; those eyes need to be memorialized for all eternity, even if it’s just in black and white. Before the fourth and final snap, Mack leans in even closer to him to nuzzle behind his ear, breathing in deep, like he’s trying to inhale him. It’s the most erotic moment of his life, Caleb realizes, just as the flash pops.

  They sit there for a few minutes longer, not speaking, just breathing each other in. When the little strip of photos slides out of the slot next to the camera, Mack snatches it up and tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans. “Let’s get you home,” he says, scooping Caleb up before he can object or ask to see the pictures.

  He leads Caleb out of the bar, clearing a path with his shoulders and his eyebrows. The cold, damp air smells absolutely incredible t
o him when they get outside, even if it is heavily tinged with cigarette smoke. Mack takes his hand and walks him away from the bar, back towards the shop. The cool air makes him more alert, but he’s still unsteady on his feet, mind still fuzzy and gin-soaked. “Where we going?” he asks, not really caring about the answer, just happy to feel Mack’s hand in his.

  “I’m parked at the shop,” Mack says, leading him up the block and around the corner to a small private parking lot behind Triskele. Mack clicks a remote on his keychain and opens the passenger side door of a sleek black Camaro.

  “Do you remember where you live,” Mack asks, placing a gentle hand on the small of Caleb’s back and guiding him into the car, “or do I have to call Abbie to interrupt something I really don’t want to know anything about?”

  Caleb likes the sound of his laugh when he’s around Mack. “I ‘member,” he says, trying and failing to sound like a reasonably sober person. Mack gives him the treat of a shy smile, and Caleb sighs happily as he pours himself into the passenger seat. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” he asks when Mack glides into the driver’s seat. Mack side-eyes him, as if to say that anyone in Caleb’s condition has any right to talk about anyone else’s drinking. But he’s a sheriff’s son. Safety first and all that.

  Mack’s face is softer when he explains, “I only had a couple beers. I’m fine.” There’s a knowing little smirk curving his mouth as he says it, which Caleb notes distantly, too far gone to begin trying to puzzle it out. Instead, he further relaxes into the soft leather of the bucket seat and manages to get the seatbelt on without too much struggle, and even tells Mack his address without too much slurring. He's sleepy and a bit dizzy, but thrilled to be getting a ride home from Mack – and terrified of its implications. Even if he weren’t drunk – so very drunk that he doubts he’d even be able to get it up – he wouldn’t want his first time with Mack to be like this, doesn’t want it be a drunkenly rushed, one time thing.

  The Camaro is rumbling through the drenched and crowded streets of Cap Hill before Caleb speaks again, his voice drowning out the soft sounds of The Black Keys coming from the stereo. “I’m not having sex with you tonight,” he informs Mack, proud of how matter-of-fact and confident he sounds. “Not tonight. No-sir-ee, Mr. Sexyman. No matter how much I want to, not gonna happen.”

  Mack smiles at the night. “Caleb, I would never,” he says. The words hit Caleb like a punch to the gut, all the air going out of him, and suddenly he feels incredibly nauseous, even though the gin has been doing just fine with that all on its own. They’re approaching a red light; Caleb weighs the potential embarrassment of jumping out of the car and running away against crying and then probably throwing up in Mack’s pristine Camaro.

  He's reaching for his seatbelt when Mack’s tattooed hand leaves the gearshift and settles low on his thigh. “I would never take advantage of your current state like that,” he clarifies, his thumb running soothing little circles against the outside of Caleb’ knee, the smallest of gestures that creates a tsunami of relief within him, soothing the momentary but-all-too-powerful sting of rejection.

  “Oh.” Caleb relaxes again and moves his hand from the seatbelt to cover Mack’s, keeping it there all the way home.

  6

  A week later, Caleb has sufficiently recovered from another torturous hangover and is firmly back on the I’m-Never-Drinking-Again train, trying in vain to not constantly replay his foggy memories from that night. He especially can’t stop thinking about the way Mack walked him to the front door of his building, and then insisted on walking him upstairs and helping unlock the door to his apartment, insistent on ensuring his safety, which Caleb finds incredibly endearing. Then, with a squeeze of his hand and a chaste kiss on the cheek that Caleb wonders if he imagined, he turned away, reminding him to drink water and wishing him a good night.

  Early Saturday afternoon, after battling crowd at the farmer’s market, Caleb heads to Eliot Bay Bookstore to distract himself from thoughts of Mack by indulging one of his not-so-guilty pleasures: young adult novels. He’s hunkered down in a worn velvet chair between two shelves in the YA section, two books he’s decided to on his lap and third open across them that he’s reading when he hears a soft, slightly sarcastic voice. “Don’t you think you’re a little old for Confessions of a Teenage Werewolf?”

  Until that moment, Caleb had thought that going weak in the knees was a thing that only happened in books with titles like Confessions of a Teenage Werewolf, but he’ll be damned if his knees, along with all of his traitorous bones, go a little soft when he sees Mack’s little smirk, those indefinable eyes looking down at him.

  It looks like Mack hasn’t shaved at all since Caleb saw him last, and he’s rocking a full-on beard now, and Caleb thinks he should get some kind of reward for not immediately rubbing his face on it. Mack has a couple of books in his hands too, but Caleb can’t tell what they are, so in lieu of a snappy comeback he goes to his usual plan B, the first pop culture reference that pops into his head. “It’s for my niece, Torple,” he quips.

  The eyebrows go up. “Oh yeah? Do you need to excuse yourself to the whiz palace now?”

  Caleb has to pick his jaw up from the floor before responding, all witty repartee gone as his mind goes blank at Mack’s response. Leo is the only other person in the world who gets Caleb’ near-constant references, because Leo s a good bro who watches everything with Caleb. He’s the Troy to his Abed.

  “Oh come on,” Caleb finally sighs in mock exasperation. “That face and body and you’re a Parks and Rec fan? That’s just not fair to us mere mortals, dude.” Caleb is a bit shocked at his forwardness, but he figures that since he gave up the game pretty spectacularly the other night by drunkenly declaring his desire to sleep with him, there’s no point in trying to play it cool.

  He knows he made the right call, though, when Mack’s little smirk turns into a full on smile, brilliant and wide, and holy hell, what strange sorcery is this? That angry face that Caleb hasn’t been able to get out of his head all week suddenly transforms with the sweetest expression he’s ever seen. It’s unreal, really, practically a violation of the laws of physics or something, how a face capable of such intimidating hostility is also capable of glowing like fucking sunshine. Mack’s eyes actually sparkle, goddammit, and Caleb is pretty sure he sees dimples buried under that dark beard, soot-filled parentheses bracketing that bewitching smile.

  Caleb decides right then and there to make it his mission in life doing whatever he can to make Mack smile, forever.

  Mack hasn’t said anything in response to his admittedly awkward and obvious come on, but that smile says plenty, speaks all kinds of possible secrets. Caleb clears his throat and rise to his feet, clutching the books and trying to settle his anxious energy, the slamming of his heart against his chest. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee,” he asks, gesturing vaguely towards the café in the back of the store. “You know, for the other night. For the ride home.”

  There’s a voice in the back of his head that’s yelling at him for bringing that night up, for reminding Mack of what a disaster he was, but it’s not like Mack wasn’t there to experience it firsthand, and he still decided to approach Caleb anyways, so he can’t be too horrified by it, right?

  “I’d like that,” Mack says.

  Caleb is so happy he thinks his wide smile might rival Mack’s.

  It’s exciting and nerve-wracking, having coffee with Mack, but despite the chaos inside of him, Caleb feels remarkably comfortable with him, like he never has with anyone he’s ever been romantically interested. Mack isn’t nearly as laconic as he seemed the other night, and as the conversation flows from coffee preferences to books to TV to politics, Caleb learns that Mack is quick-witted and quietly sarcastic, and smart and well-read, and a good listener and likes all the same TV shows and fuck, Caleb is spun.

  Caleb talks a lot, as usual, but Mack seems to actually like listening to him ramble, encourages him with questions and wity commentary and even a
couple brushes of his hand. He tells him about his friends and his job, about coming out to his dad when he was a freshman in high school, about growing up as a small-town sheriff’s son. He tells him about how he majored in English in college because his mom did and that he sometimes thinks about going back to school to get his teaching license so he can teach high school English, also like his mom. Mack gives him a strange look when he says that, his eyes going wide for a second. “What,” Caleb quips. “You don’t think I’d be a good teacher,” he asks, pretending to be offended.

  Mack clears his throat and blinks a few times, like he’s trying to focus his vision. “I think you’d be an excellent teacher,” he says, heartbreakingly sincere.

  “Oh. Thanks, dude. Man, I'm talking a lot. Your turn. Tell me more things about you. Are you originally from Seattle?”

  “No. Maribel and I moved up here to live with our uncle when we were seventeen.” The way Mack says it suggests that his vagueness is deliberate, so Caleb doesn’t ask for details, but Mack surprises him by offering more. “Our parents died. Liam took us in.”

  Caleb doesn’t want to say I’m sorry, because he hates it when people say that to him, so he just reaches across the table to wrap his hand lightly around Mack’s where he’s clutching his coffee mug. “My mom died when I was fifteen,” he says quietly, offering tragedy for tragedy.

  He feels Mack’s knee press lightly against his under the table, and the contact somehow says more than any words could. They sit like that for a moment, eyes locked, the loud din of the cafe fading away as they watch each other, and something unspoken but somehow all the more real passes between them. An uncanny feeling weaves through Caleb, something like déjà vu, but stronger, more insistent. He feels like there’s something he’s not quite grasping, a realization just beyond his perception that tugs at his mind, at his heart. It’s that feeling from his dreams, he realizes, amplified and urgent and wholly, completely, utterly because of Mack, a realization that is as sudden as it is true. There’s something familiar about the way Mack’s looking at him too, but Caleb just can’t focus enough to figure it out, too enamored with the feeling of Mack’s hand under his own, with the way his entire body is tingling with heat and desire infinitely stronger than anything he’s ever felt before.