by Max Hudson
The work day comes to a close, and Owen types furiously while trying to finish up one last spreadsheet before heading home. A heavy hand falls on his shoulder. He flinches, glancing up into Mason’s hazel eyes. His skin tingles beneath Mason’s hand.
“See you at seven,” he murmurs, giving Owen a toothy grin and a wink before heading out the door.
Owen exhales slowly, closing his eyes and trying to focus on the work in front of him and not on the remnant of heat in his shoulder. Realizing quickly that this isn’t going to happen, Owen snaps off his computer, sweeping the day’s paperwork unceremoniously into a pile at the side of his desk, and speed-walks out to his car.
Giddiness floods through him as he heads home, but the feeling soon drains from him as he stares at his closet. He’d struggled once before in front of the closet trying to impress Mason, but at least then he’d had work dress code to fall back on. There was some wiggle room, but not much, and even if his clothes hadn’t looked fantastic it could be ascribed to the rules of the workplace. Now, though, Owen doesn’t have this luxury. There are no strict rules for simply going to dinner. Any choice he makes would reflect directly on his fashion sense and could not be attributed to anything else.
He glances at his watch—just past five-thirty.
After scrambling for forty minutes, throwing clothing across his bed and throughout the room, he turns to find his room looking as though a tornado had passed through it. Groaning, he rubs his forehead, trying to figure out what to do. He is hopeless.
But, he realizes he knows someone who isn’t and who also knows the contents of his closet pretty well. He bites his bottom lip, unsure if he really wants to bring her into this. But, taking another look at the mess of clothes strewn throughout the room, he gives in, takes out his phone, and calls Faith.
“Hello?” she answers.
“Hey, sweetie, it’s me,” Owen says. “Do you have a sec to talk?”
“Sure. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine. I just have a quick question for you.” Owen rubs the back of his neck, the words sticking in his throat.
“Yeeees?” Faith asks after a few moments of silence.
Owen sighs. “Look, please don’t tell anyone just yet, but I, uh, I sort of have a date tonight.”
She gasps, squealing in delight. “Really? Oh, that’s great, Dad! What’s her name?”
He cringes, scrambling for any female name he can come up with. “Uh, Suzie. But look, honey, I need help. I haven’t been on a date in over fifteen years. I have no idea what to wear. Everything in my closet is awful. I need to go shopping. Everything in here looks like old fart clothes.”
Faith giggles. “Well, maybe next weekend I can take you shopping. Let’s see, what about that blue sweater? The navy one? It brings out your eyes.”
He rifles through the pile on the bed, shouting in triumph when he finds it. “Okay, got it. What else?”
“Hmm. I’d just go with slacks. Khaki or tan if you have them. Brown belt. And that brownish-gold watch?”
He locates all of the items Faith listed, sighing in relief when the final product looks decent on the bed. He exhales deeply. “Thanks, Faithy. I owe you one.”
“Yes, yes, you do. I love you, Dad. Have fun tonight. Don’t stay out too late,” she teases.
Owen chuckles. “Will do, sweetie. Love you too.”
He pulls on the clothes Faith picked out for him, shaving and slapping on some cologne before simply standing in front of the mirror for a while. He tugs at the hem of his shirt, at the ends of his sleeves, at the hair next to his ears. He swallows hard, painfully aware of the fact that Mason, while not ridiculously young, is a good ten years younger than him. He hasn’t had children, hasn’t settled down, hasn’t had anything but himself to worry about his whole life—and, because of that, hasn’t gotten the haggard look of an older man or the pooch in the belly that accompanies a fairly stagnant life. Owen sucks in his stomach, exhaling hard at the effort of it. He sighs, resigned to the fact that there is nothing he can do to change how he looks tonight. He has to live with it for at least the next few hours.
The doorbell rings.
Owen starts, then races to the front door. He hesitates, hand reaching for the handle. He takes a deep breath, and opens the door.
Chapter Nine
“Hey,” Owen breathes.
“Hi.” Mason whips his hands out from behind his back, bowing slightly as he holds out a bouquet of yellow and white flowers, grinning up at Owen. Owen laughs, taking the bouquet and ducking inside to put them in a vase. Mason follows him inside, taking stock of the rooms around him. Owen glances around uncomfortably.
“It’s not much, I know.”
“No, I like it. It’s homey.” He leans in behind Owen, kissing his neck lightly. A shiver runs down Owen’s spine. “Ready?”
Owen sets the vase on the kitchen counter, taking a deep breath. “Yeah, let’s go.”
As he turns, Mason’s lips greet his. He puts a hand on Owen’s waist, pulling him closer. Owen gasps, taken by surprise, and Mason smiles against his mouth.
“You look great, by the way,” he murmurs, the scent of peppermint wafting toward Owen’s nose.
“Thanks,” he breathes, hands on Mason’s upper arms. Thanks, Faith, he thinks silently.
They remain like this for several moments, each breathing raggedly and trying to read what the other wants. Coughing slightly, Owen takes a small step backward—a short distance, but enough that the tension is broken and Mason looks away, running his hands through his hair.
“We should probably get going,” Owen says, shuffling toward the door.
Mason follows, stepping ahead of him outside and opening the car door for him. He flourishes his hand toward the interior of the car.
“Your chariot awaits,” he says, his voice inflected with a British accent.
Owen rolls his eyes, smiling as he ducks into the seat of the car.
As they drive, Owen steals glances at Mason through the corner of his eye, blushing and looking away quickly when Mason looks back. Owen sees him grin, and he reaches over, taking Owen’s hand in his own. They interlace fingers, and they continue to ride along in silence, warmth radiating from Mason’s hand into Owen’s.
They reach the restaurant and head inside. Mason heads to the podium, informing the hostess that he’d made a reservation. She smiles and waves them forward, seating them at a cozy table toward the back of the restaurant. A candle flickers in the center of the table, and the scent of cooking meat and vegetables fill Owen’s nostrils. He inhales deeply and his stomach rumbles.
Mason chuckles. “Hungry?”
“Starving,” Owen admits, putting a hand on his growling stomach.
A waitress shows up at their table. “Hi guys, my name is Ruth, and I’ll be your server tonight. Can I get you started with anything to drink?”
“Just water,” Mason says. Owen says the same, unsure why Mason hadn’t ordered any wine or anything. Owen knows he drinks—they’d had several together before tonight—and, besides that, Owen desperately feels as though he needs a drink to loosen up.
“No wine?” he asks, trying to keep his voice neutral and calm.
Mason shrugs. “I’d prefer not to drink tonight.”
When he doesn’t elaborate, Owen prods a little further. “Any particular reason why?”
He stares at the table in front of him, jaw tense. Worry gnaws at Owen’s insides. Mason is normally so relaxed and unbothered. It’s strange to see him visibly agitated, and a million unwarranted reasons flood through Owen’s mind as to why.
Mason huffs, visibly steeling himself. “I just… if anything’s going to happen tonight… I mean, I’m not expecting anything, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want—”
“I know that,” Owen murmurs. Honestly, though, he hadn’t. He was just as worried as Mason currently sounds. A little of the nervousness leaves him knowing that nothing besides dinner has to happen ton
ight.
Mason takes another deep breath. “Okay. If anything’s going to happen tonight, I just…I want to make sure that you’re really okay with it. That there wasn’t anything else making you feel okay with something that you’re really not. So, no alcohol.” He finally looks up at Owen, locking eyes with him. “Please.”
Seeing Mason be unsure of himself, vulnerable, makes Owen feel surer of himself than he had in the last few weeks. Courage rushes through Owen, and he reaches across the table, holding out his hand. Mason takes it, squeezing gently.
“I’ve never done this either,” Mason murmurs. “I don’t really know how to go about these things, what’s appropriate and what’s not, what—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Owen says. “We’ll just muddle our way through together.” He smiles and squeezes Mason’s hand.
Mason chuckles, and they release hands, turning toward their menus. The evening continues smoothly, each placing their own orders, but while they wait for their food, Owen notices that their waitress eyes Mason each time she walks by. His stomach twists, and he suddenly realizes he knows relatively little about Mason. Though they’d been around each other almost constantly in the last month, very few gritty details had been divulged from either of them.
“Can I ask you something?” he blurts.
Mason raises an eyebrow. “Sure.”
“Why did you and your last girlfriend break up?”
The slight smile on Mason’s face vanishes. He coughs, sitting up straighter in his seat. “Does it matter?”
“Kind of, yeah.”
Mason narrows his eyes. “Why did you and Jenna get divorced?”
Owen looks away, heat rising in his cheeks. They remain silent for a few minutes, each quietly fuming and trying to figure out how to remedy the situation. Finally, Owen hears Mason sigh.
“She grew up with money, never had to work a day in her life. She liked to draw. She was actually pretty good, and so that’s what she did most days. When I lost my job, she panicked. Said she couldn’t be with someone that she couldn’t rely on to bring in a solid paycheck. We got into a huge fight, I told her she could get a job herself, she told me to go fuck myself, et cetera, et cetera. It got pretty ugly. She packed her stuff and left that night. A month or so later I got the job offer here. I haven’t heard from her since.”
Owen nods, a knot loosening in his chest. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting or afraid of—maybe that Mason, handsome and a proven flirt, had cheated on her—but Owen feels relieved.
Mason clears his throat. Owen looks up and Mason gestures toward him, planting his elbow on the table and resting his cheek against his hand. “Your turn, buddy.”
Owen takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. “We’d been drifting apart for years. At first it was little things—her not saying she loved me when she’d go to work, forgetting to say goodnight before we went to sleep, stuff like that. It got to a point where I realized that we hadn’t been intimate in months. I tried to get her attention again, would surprise her with flowers or a spontaneous date, but she didn’t seem to care. And I stopped caring, too. We carried on like that for a few years. I know I did it for our daughters. I don’t know why she did, but she’s a good mom and it was probably for the same reason. We never talked about it.”
Owen pauses, the words sticking in his throat.
“That sucks,” Mason murmurs.
“That’s not it,” Owen sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think we could have continued like that for a long time. Forever, maybe, or at least until the girls were all grown. It wasn’t an ugly silence. It wasn’t until after we got divorced that arguments started to happen. It was just lonely. She thought so too.” He takes a deep breath. “I caught her in bed with another guy.”
Mason is silent for a moment. “Like, just found out about it or literally caught them in the act?”
“Literally caught them in the act. In our bed. When she knew that I’d be home at any moment. I don’t know if she didn’t realize, if she did it on purpose, or if she just didn’t care. But it was the last straw for me. I filed for divorce later that week.”
“Damn,” Mason mutters. “How long ago was that?”
“A little over three years now.”
Mason stares at the table for a moment before glancing back up at Owen. “Have you… have you been on many dates since then?”
Owen shifts uncomfortably. “Uh, no. Not exactly.”
Mason nods, and Owen is suddenly terrified that he’ll realize that he’s old and not worth dating and boring and…
“If it makes you feel any better, I haven’t really gotten around much myself,” Mason chuckles.
Owen stares at him, confused. “You mean after your last break up?”
“No…I mean, like, ever. I only had one other girlfriend before Jeanine.”
Owen continues to stare at him—at his beautiful hazel eyes, tinted with green, his messy honey hair, his chiseled jaw line—and remains confused. “But you’ve been with more women than that, haven’t you?”
Mason looks away. “No, Owen, I haven’t. Not romantically, not physically, not in any way. I have slept with exactly three women in my entire life.”
Owen gapes at him, stunned. “But… but—”
“But what?” Mason growls, his face hardening.
“But you’re so attractive,” Owen blurts, closing his lips abruptly when he realizes what he just said. Mason’s eyebrows arch and a small smile breaks the stoniness of his face. “I mean, you talk to people so easily, and the way you flirted with Angela before…”
“I admit, I like to flirt. It’s fun. I like making people feel good. And yes, I’m a good talker. But, like I said, I don’t usually act on it.”
Owen stares at him, unable to believe his ears. He’s been so sure that Mason had been around the block a time or two, that he’d have a dozen women under his belt, that he’d be bored with Owen within two minutes. He isn’t sure what to do with the information that all of his preconceptions aren’t true.
The waitress brings their meals, breaking the tense silence, and the two spend the rest of dinner in quiet contemplation, simply eating and staring softly at one another.
Chapter Ten
When dinner is over and Mason has driven Owen home, Mason walks him to the front door, pausing behind Owen as he unlocks the door. It swings open, and Owen turns to face him.
“Well, this is me,” he jokes, jerking his thumb toward the interior of the house.
Mason shoves his hands in his pockets, nodding. Owen bites his cheek, unsure what to do. Does he go in alone? Does he invite Mason inside? Does he want to invite him inside? What happens if he does?
Mason glances around, rocking back on his heels. “I guess I should get going then,” he says, nodding back toward his car.
“Yeah,” Owen murmurs, his lungs deflating. “Sure.”
“I had a good time,” Mason says with a small smile. He turns and starts walking down the driveway.
“Wait,” Owen blurts, reaching a hand toward Mason. He pauses, turning back around to face Owen. Owen’s mind races and tries to catch up with his body. “Do you, uh, do you want to come inside?”
Mason grins, jogging back up the driveway. As he reaches Owen, he ducks in and plants a quick kiss on his lips. “I was afraid you were going to let me walk away for a second there,” he laughs, strolling confidently inside.
Owen chuckles nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. Unsure what to do now, he stays frozen in the doorway. Mason, on the other hand, heads straight for the living room, holding up the remote and waggling it at Owen.
“It might be too early for you to know this, but I am a major movie buff. Like, not in the cute ‘aw he watches a lot of movies’ way, but in a ‘oh, dear God, please shut him up; I don’t care who scored or rigged or breathed on this movie’ kind of way. So, you’re in for a faintly irritating night.”
Owen laughs, the tension leaving his body. He goes and sits next to
Mason on the couch, snagging the remote from his hand to get everything going. As soon as it’s up and running, Mason snatches the remote back, scrolling through movies quickly and efficiently. He scoffs at some, nods at others, and gives an appreciative ‘oh’ at very few. He finally chooses one, settling back and throwing an arm casually across the back of the couch and, as Owen doesn’t fail to notice, inches away from Owen’s shoulders.
For the next twenty minutes, Owen sits rigidly in his seat, hyper aware of how close he is to touching Mason. He tries to calm himself repeatedly, telling himself over and over again that they’d touched before. They’d kissed, held hands. It wouldn’t be new. It wasn’t as though they’d never been in close proximity before.
Yet, he also can’t deny that this is extremely different. The other times there had been no chance of anything more happening at the moment – a touch of the hand or a quick meeting of the lips was all that could happen. But now, sitting so closely together on the couch, limbs separated by only inches, house empty, he can’t help but imagine the night taking a physical turn. The thought fills him with fear and excitement, and he manages to scoot infinitesimally closer to Mason. He sighs, realizing that the move was marginal at best but still patting himself on the back for even bucking up and making a small move.
Though the shift was slight, Mason appears to have noticed it, for he, too, shifts slightly closer, albeit making a bolder move than Owen. He rests his arm across Owen’s shoulders, rubbing his thumb in gentle, soothing motions on Owen’s arm. Owen exhales deeply, allowing some of the anxiety to melt away and letting himself relax into Mason’s side a bit. After a few more minutes of sitting comfortably like this, he even allows his head to rest against Mason’s shoulder, breathing in his cologne and leaning into the warmth of his body. Owen sighs, closing his eyes and, just for a moment, free of all thoughts of what may come in the future—what may happen this night, tomorrow, with his kids, with Jenna, with God. All of it is forgotten for just a moment, and Owen lets himself just enjoy it, basking in the feeling of pleasure and safety and intimacy that he hasn’t felt for so very long.