by Amy Lane
He finally put a hand over his glass and murmured, “I have to give the speech in twenty—we maybe don’t want my inhibitions lowered.”
“Aw, c’mon, Mason—I’ve been dying to hear you say something to put Ira and Roy in their places. They’re grossing me out!”
Mason looked over to where his ex-boss and ex-lover were simpering in each other’s eyes, and fought the urge to hurl.
Then he had the strongest, sharpest, most painful pang of missing Terry in two and a half months of barely being able to breathe for the same pain.
Terry would… he’d make Mason feel like they didn’t matter.
Oh God. They didn’t. They didn’t matter.
“They’re grossing everybody out,” Mason whispered back. “And Ira’s in charge of the graphics department, so that means everybody. Your new advertising looks like shit. Seriously. If Roy doesn’t replace him, you’re going out of business.”
Janice shivered. “Tesko got any upper-management positions open?”
“No--I’ll drop you a line if any open up. But don’t worry about putting them in their place. Mrs. Bradford wrote my speech. It’s a masterpiece of passive-aggressive backhandedness that would do a politician proud. Seriously—it’s going to be one of those things that has everybody laughing but Roy and Ira. I wouldn’t change it for the world.”
Janice was staring at him with wide, bright eyes and a rather besotted smile. “Oh, Mason—self-control and a masterstroke. I like this new you!”
Mason laughed wickedly. “Oh, hon. You haven’t seen anything yet.”
At that point he was called to the stage.
TWO HOURS later Mason let himself into his hotel room, feeling very pleased with himself—and still a little drunk.
He shucked off his clothes, parked himself on the bed in his boxer shorts, and plugged his phone in the charger. That’s when he noticed the five messages and pulled it out again.
They were all from Terry.
Dammit—you were supposed to come today. I missed you.
I’m sorry—I should have called you over the week to make sure.
Your brother put me in my place about that—I feel bad.
Call me when you get in, okay? I’d really like to talk.
But don’t feel bad if you don’t get in until late. You should be having a good time.
Mason smiled, touching the face of the phone, and figured what the hell.
He wanted to brag to someone after all.
“Mason?” Terry asked excitedly. “How did your speech go?”
Oh, it was good to dish. “It was amazing,” Mason said, practically dancing where he sat. “Mrs. Bradford wrote it for me—it was great. The first thing I said was that loyalty was really important, but you can’t get it if you don’t give it—it’s like getting caught cheating on a spouse. The next person in line is going to know they’re not going to expect faithfulness, so they might not be so committed, right? And oh my God, you should have seen Roy and Ira squirming. And the rest of the audience—I’m going to have to read you exactly what the speech said, but everybody was laughing, because it was funny, right? But I swear to God it was like watching my boss and my ex sitting on thumbtacks when they couldn’t get up. They couldn’t move, they couldn’t squirm, but Jesus did their asses hurt!”
Terry was laughing by this time, chortling into the phone as Mason ran out of breath, and Mason felt bad. He’d been wanting to crow about that since he’d given the speech, but he couldn’t talk this freely in front of anybody—not here, and not at home.
Dane, maybe.
And Terry. Who just happened to be on the other end of the line when Mason needed him most.
“I’m sorry,” Mason said after pausing to think. “I was just so excited. I didn’t even ask about the game—”
“We lost,” Terry said like it didn’t matter. “I… it’s not fun without you.”
Mason sighed and melted a little into the pillow. “Well, this wouldn’t have been as fun if I hadn’t been able to tell you,” he admitted. “I’m so glad you called.”
“You called,” Terry said, but it sounded like he was teasing. “I just whined at you via text.”
“Well, I’m glad you did that.” Oh wow. They were talking. Like they hadn’t been for two months. Mason hadn’t realized how difficult breathing had become, weighty, as though he’d been walking around with an elephant on his chest. Until now, when he was talking to Terry, and he felt like he could fly.
“So what else did Mrs. Bradford’s speech say?” Terry asked, as Mason took deep breaths of happiness oxygen. “How bad did she burn those assholes?”
“So bad,” Mason told him. “It was like… like… she said stuff like ‘Caring more about a person’s job description or education than about their character and performance is like picking out wines and caring more about label than taste. And then gulping your overpriced chardonnay and complaining about the hangover.’” Mason giggled and then realized there was only puzzled silence on the other line.
“See, Ira, he used to throw these dinner parties where everyone came and sampled wine and cheese and stuff—”
“You like doing that?” Terry asked, sounding pretty alarmed.
“Not really. I mean, beer I can get into, and I don’t mind stuff that tastes good, but mostly—”
“Sounds like a good way to throw up,” Terry agreed.
“See? That’s what I always said. But the thing is, Ira and Roy like to do this thing, and I knew it, and they knew I knew it, so—”
“It let them know you thought they were douche bags.” Terry chuckled as he caught on. “That’s good. And you didn’t have to say they were douche bags, which is even better, ’cause what are they going to do? Complain ’cause you used an example?”
“Right? And she did that all throughout the speech. And….” His voice dropped, because he was sort of ashamed about this, even though Ira had it coming. “She used examples about graphics, which was sort of mean, because Ira is the head of their graphics department now. But he sort of sucks—I mean, really sucks. He used to make our Christmas cards. Dane would laugh at them and draw mustaches and stuff on them because they were dumb. So really, that whole part was to—”
“Make him feel like shit,” Terry said. “I approve.”
“It wasn’t… kind,” Mason said, coming down a little. “I… I mean, comeuppance is nice, but….”
“You were kind and they hurt you,” Terry growled. “I think you’re even now.”
“Yeah. But being a nice guy is something you like about me.”
There was a thoughtful silence on the other end of the line. “I like so much about you,” Terry said at last.
Mason’s heart fell. “But….” That statement was always qualified.
“No buts.” Terry’s voice sounded warped when he spoke again. “Nothing in the way. Everything about you I like. Your smile. Your brown eyes. Your geeky clothes. Your pretty house. The way you laugh. The way you make me laugh.” He choked a little, caught between laughter and emotion. “Your cock.” His swallow was audible. “The way you touch my face when we’re making love.”
Mason closed his eyes, the last of the champagne fizzing out of his blood and the heady liquor of Terry’s words taking its place.
“I love your laugh,” Mason said. “The unexpected things you notice. The unusual way you think. Your eyes that hit me in the gut whenever you look at me. Your pride. The way you’ve grown. The things you’ve done with yourself without my help.” And his throat grew thick. “I really loved that you texted me tonight.”
“I wanted to call you all the time, these last two months,” Terry confessed. “But… but it wouldn’t be fair, calling you, unless I knew what I wanted. You’d been so… so damned fair. If I was just calling to tell you about my day or about a guy I’d talked to—that’s not right. So I had to wait.”
“For what?” Mason asked, heart in his throat.
“Until I knew what I wanted.”
“I want you.”
Thank you. Oh God, thank you.
“I want you too.”
They talked longer than that—they talked for hours, actually. Some of it was silly: the lizard who climbed in through Terry’s bedroom and then kept running across the covers at night had Mason burying his face in his pillow to stifle his laughter.
Some of it was painful: Terry’s stories of trying to date other men weren’t exactly welcome. One guy tried for the car blow job when Terry didn’t want to put out; another called him bottom boy before they even went to the movies. The best and worst story was the last one, though.
“What was wrong with him?” Mason asked, wondering. Because Terry actually described a pretty nice, normal date—dinner, a movie, looking at comics on Terry’s phone and laughing their asses off.
“He wasn’t you,” Terry said softly. “When I realized that’s what it came down to, that’s when I knew what I needed to do.”
“So you came to the party,” Mason realized. Oh.
“Well, yeah. My friend came with me—”
“I never did catch his name—”
“Porter. Like the steak, right? Or the liquor?”
“Port is the liquor and porterhouse is the steak, but porter is the guy who carries your luggage. Like transporter, right?”
“Whatever. His name does too damned much. But he was nice, and he was cute, and he was even my age. But at the end, he went to kiss me, and he wasn’t you. So I told him about you. Spent the whole rest of the night talking, and he said I may want to go see you somewhere, I don’t know. Neutral. Not a date. Someplace with people. And Thursday night we could barely breathe ’cause of the heat, right? And everyone was talking about your place with the pool, and I asked Dane, and….”
Mason understood. “Well, my brother didn’t want me to look… I don’t know. Alone and foolish, I guess. Which is how I ended up with all the extra men.”
Terry chortled. “Which did you no goddamned good at all. You… you followed me with your eyes that day, and I’d been feeling so low. So stupid for not knowing what I wanted and maybe losing you. But the way you looked at me—it reminded me of all the things I really love about you.”
Mason must have made a sound, a helpless, yearning sound.
“Yeah, love. You heard me right. Don’t shit your pants—you’re probably on a really fancy bed.”
Mason’s laugh was broken. “I… I need to say some of these things to you in person,” he apologized. “I—” His phone beeped. “I’m running out of power, and I have to plug my phone in.”
“It’s okay if you say it over the phone,” Terry said, his voice gentle. “You didn’t say it that day when I left because you didn’t want to tie me up. It’s okay if you say it now.”
“It hurts,” Mason admitted, feeling small. “I’m sorry, but—”
“No. Don’t be sorry. This here is my job, Mason. I’ll make sure it doesn’t hurt anymore.”
Mason’s phone beeped again, and this time they could both hear it.
“You drive home safely tomorrow. I’ve got to take my mom to Concord—”
“Concord?”
“She’s doing some sort of rally where they take buses to DC and protest queers getting married and people using bathrooms. Whatever. It’ll take a month and hopefully she’ll get abducted by aliens, but I told her I’d take her to the meet. But you’ll hear from me between now and Saturday. I promise.”
“Saturday?” Mason almost hated to ask.
“The game. I’ll see you—”
And Mason’s phone died right then. He plugged it in and responded to Terry’s good-night text while it was charging, and then climbed into the crisp, impersonal sheets of the hotel room bed.
He fell asleep hugging that phone conversation around his shoulders like a blanket. It kept him warm and safe as he settled down to dream.
Fall into the Future
MASON GOT home around one the next day and found Dane and Carpenter swimming—wearing trunks, thank God.
“Did you expect an orgy?” Dane asked acidly.
“No. I expected orgies all through college. They never materialized. I learned to live without.”
“Right?” Carpenter asked, treading water without getting breathless. “Everyone told me I’d get girls in college. Heinous disappointment.”
“I got laid,” Dane told them both as though bored. “Frequently. I think you two just had no game.”
“I suspect you’re right,” Mason said, standing up to take his stuff in the house and change into his suit. The pool was big enough to do laps in and still avoid Dane and Carpenter, and that was the best way ever to recover from a long, hot car trip.
“Hey—speaking of game. Go through the kitchen on your way upstairs. I think your game is better than you think.”
Mason blinked at him, feeling stupid. He’d needed ibuprofen to get out of bed that morning, because champagne was just not as good for him as he always thought it was.
“Where in the kitchen am I looking?” he asked. “In case my head is throbbing and I’m blind with pain?”
“The counter, Mason. It’s not going to test you too badly.”
Oh thank God.
“If you killed a bug and left it for me, I’m disowning you.”
“Promises, promises. Go drink some water and come back when you’re human.”
There might have been some more banter, but Mason missed it in his desire to get out of the heat and redose himself.
But when he saw the thing on the counter, the headache, the heat, the tiredness—it all went away.
Flowers.
There was a vase—new—full of flowers on his counter, with a six-pack of sparkling cider next to it.
And a card.
You sounded a little loopy last night. I figured this might help if you wanted to keep a clear head next time we talked. Call you tomorrow—promise.
The flowers were standard grocery-store daisies and carnations—he’d apparently bought a bunch of each and then mixed them up in the vase.
Mason didn’t care. They were flowers, and they were beautiful, and they were for him.
He’d never drink champagne again in his life. Not if flowers and sparkling apple cider made him as high as he felt right now.
TERRY CALLED Monday night, and they talked for hours. He asked if he could bring lunch, and Mason had to tell him that he was in lunch meetings all week.
“Yeah, suddenly I’m Mr. Popular. It won’t last. We can do lunch next week. If, uhm, you’re still available.”
“I’m planning on it,” Terry said, and Mason wished they were having this conversation face-to-face so he could see how Terry meant that. “But this week is sort of crazy. A lot of our vendors got new machines, and everybody is working twelve-hour days to get stuff installed. It should all die down by Saturday, though. Uh….”
“Yeah?”
“You’re going to be there this Saturday, right?”
Mason had double-checked with Mrs. Bradford. “Unless something dire happens. Like a hurricane or an inferno or a massive hippopotamus migration, yes.”
“So, uh… do you want to see a movie Saturday night?”
“Pixar?” Mason prayed.
“Oh my God yes! Like, Porter, when we went out, wanted to see one of those inspirational movies? I almost cried when I realized I was gonna have to sit through that.”
“So it’s a date,” Mason said, trying not to jump up and down on the bed.
“It’s a sleepover,” Terry said grimly. “And a talk some more. And I’ll pay for the movie if you pay dinner. And we can flip for donuts and coffee.”
Ohhh… Mason liked this.
Mason loved this. “That’s definitely a date,” he said. He hadn’t been this excited since he was twelve years old and found the two bikes in the garage the day before Christmas.
Except this was better, because D
ane wasn’t getting the red one Mason wanted, and there was sex involved.
“You sound very determined,” he said, feeling warmth seeping back in what used to be the hole in his chest.
“Look, Mason, I know grown-ups are supposed to be patient and all? But I had the perfect boyfriend in my life since January, even if I didn’t know what that was. Now that I’ve got it figured out, I’m not fucking around. I want you back. I want sexy Saturdays and sleeping in Sundays and something, even if it’s just a phone call or a text, all of the other days. I may have been clueless, but I ain’t stupid. Now that I’ve caught a clue, you need to speak up now or get used to us being us again, but better.”
“We’re us?”
“Yeah, Mason. We’re us. We’re… dating. Exclusive. Boyfriends. And I swear to Christ if I see one more old guy hitting on you, I’m gonna get the tool kit out of Richie’s car and slash some fucking tires. It was all fine when you were just looking at me all heartbroken, but I’m not throwing you out there like chum to catch big rich men.”
“Deal,” Mason said with relief. “And if you ever bring that Rudy kid to practice again, I’m cleating him myself.”
Silence. “Crap. Mason, he’s… he’s not trying to get in my pants anymore. But I’m sort of the only friend he’s got.”
“You ever think that’s because he’s a prick!” Mason snapped.
“Well, yeah. But… but you helped me not be such a fucking squirrel. And I don’t want to be the same thing for him, but… but someone needs to help him.”
Mason pinched the bridge of his nose. “That is so not fair,” he said, feeling twelve.
“No, it’s not,” Terry admitted. “But I’m hoping you don’t need fair if you’ve got me.”
Oooh. “Nice one.”
“Thank you. I’ve been planning a lot of this in my head since last Saturday. Practice. Helps.”
“Truth,” Mason conceded. “I’ll still cleat him if he’s mean to people.” Okay, be truthful. “I’ll try. I mean, I’ve seen Richie do it, but I’m not that graceful—you know that.”