by Beth Bolden
Ryan heard a very familiar shriek and looked up to see Flor walking fast and determined towards him, fury in her eyes.
He closed his own in supplication. This night had already been so long, and was growing longer.
* * *
Wyatt’s arm really hurt. His head too. He didn’t want to open his eyes because he was pretty sure that would hurt just as badly, but he needed to know who was saying those words. It was a voice he recognized. He was sure of it. He just couldn’t place it right now because his brain was so fuzzy. He didn’t even know why he was hurting.
“We could charge you for reckless driving,” he heard someone say. Not a voice he recognized. It was harsh at the edges, and clearly pissed off. “And even though there weren’t any other vehicles involved in the accident, your passenger could file charges since he ended up in the hospital.”
Accident. He had vague flashes of screaming metal and a surge of fear and then nothing. A voice in the darkness, reaching out to him. Begging for him to wake up.
Wyatt strained, anxious to hear the other voice in the conversation, hoping that it was the man who had been so desperate for him to be alright.
The man who loved him.
But the voice who responded wasn’t his at all. “Officer,” the accented voice said insistently, “it was just an accident. The road was slick. You said so. And Ryan, he’s sorry. He’s learned his lesson.”
“To the tune of a wrecked Maserati?” the same official voice retorted dryly. “I’m sure he has. But I will need to check in with Mr. Blake and make sure that he doesn’t want to file charges.”
“When he’s awake, you can speak to him if you like,” the accented voice continued. “Right, Ryan?”
Ryan. That sounded familiar. Was Ryan the man who’d professed his love in the car?
Wyatt, struggling through the fog in his brain, thought that might be the same man.
“I . . . Ryan . . .” he forced in a harsh whisper. His mouth was so dry and tasted smoky and metallic. The echo of blood and pain.
He hadn’t managed to open his eyes yet, but the moment he spoke, there was a person at the bed next to him, cradling his hand in his two hands. They were big palms, creased with callouses. Capable hands, hands he could be safe with, despite his presence in a hospital bed that seemed to prove otherwise.
“Wyatt, are you awake?”
That was the voice. This was the man.
He finally opened his eyes and a thousand memories came rushing back at the sight of his face. Dark eyes, pleading and terrified, stared back at him. Blood spatter on his white button-down shirt.
They were supposed to be on a date. At a restaurant. At a public place. Getting their pictures taken. He’d been angry; so angry, but that felt so far away now.
“I’m sorry,” Wyatt said, and Ryan laughed wetly, wiping his face with a blood-splattered hand.
“If I’m not allowed to apologize again, neither are you,” he said, leaning down so Wyatt could catch the words.
“My arm hurts,” Wyatt said matter-of-factly. He didn’t want to look over and see why it was immobilized. Did he even still have it? Was the pain just a phantom reminder of the limb he’d used to have?
“It’s broken, but it was a clean break. The doctor thinks it’ll heal quick and you’ll be back in the ocean with me soon,” Ryan promised. “And you have a mild concussion, from a contusion on the back of your head.”
“The blood?” Wyatt asked, lifting his good hand, and gesturing to the bright red all of Ryan’s shirt.
“It’s yours,” Ryan said wryly. “I only have a few minor scratches. A bruise or two. I’ll be fine.”
And then it hit Wyatt head-on. Ryan had been the driver of the car. The rest came rushing back: Ryan driving way too fast. Wyatt demanding he slow down and Ryan not listening. Hitting the slick spot.
“Eric is gonna kill you,” Wyatt said. “If I don’t first.”
“You’re upset,” Ryan suggested hesitantly.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Wyatt demanded, even though the tone of his own voice made his heart hurt worse.
Ryan shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m not sure we should be talking about this now,” he said hesitantly, voice wavering. Wyatt had seen Ryan Flores in a lot of moods, but never like this. Never diminished, scared, guilty.
Wyatt looked around, taking in Flor hovering in the doorway, blocking the police officer he’d heard earlier. “Can we have the room, please?” he asked, and Flor nodded immediately, shutting the door behind her a moment later.
Leaving him and Ryan alone.
“If you want to call it off, you can,” Ryan said nervously.
“I don’t want to call it off.” Wyatt’s head kept aching and Ryan’s behavior was somehow making it ache worse. “I want to figure this shit out, once and for all.” He paused, collecting his thoughts, the shards of memory that kept fitting back in place, one at a time. “You told me you loved me.”
“I do, I do love you. I was . . . so scared you’d leave. Scared you were only sticking around because you said you would. Maybe because you didn’t want to get sued.” Ryan laughed, self-consciously and without much humor. “You told me you’d stick around because you wanted to learn to trust me again. But you were angry in the car, and I was afraid it was all ending again, and I . . . got desperate.”
Wyatt took a deep breath, trying to keep his temper because the closer he got to the edge, the more he hurt. And he didn’t want to have any more to blame Ryan for. “I love you, you fucking idiot. I’m not going anywhere.”
Hope flared in Ryan’s eyes. “How can you even say that after . . .”
“After you wrecked your Maserati and almost killed us?” It was Wyatt’s turn to chuckle at the irony. “God only knows. Maybe because I know how much fear can control you. It controlled me for so long, how can I blame you for falling victim to it?”
“I didn’t think about it that way,” Ryan said and the stiffness in his back was softening a little, bringing him closer to Wyatt’s side.
It was all instinct to reach out and take Ryan’s hand, curl it in his own, despite the ache in his bones. Ryan gripped it fiercely, like a lifeline.
“We don’t have to know everything right now. We don’t have to figure everything out right now,” Wyatt said. “That’s all I meant earlier. Honestly . . . I couldn’t leave. Not now. Not before. I . . .” Maybe he should have felt ashamed as the tears clogged this throat and made it difficult to speak, but it had been an emotionally trying forty-eight hours, and he was reaching the end of his rope.
“I love you,” Ryan said, finishing his own sentence. “I meant it earlier. I’m not . . . going to do this right. I promise. But I promise you that I will be there to figure it out afterwards. Every single time.”
There wasn’t complete peace and acceptance in Ryan’s dark eyes as he gazed down at Wyatt, but there was more. The fear was receding, and Wyatt felt it leaking out his own mind, along with the anger.
On cue, there was a brisk knock at the door. Ryan raised his head and reluctantly let go of Wyatt’s hand to answer it.
It was the police officer. Of course.
“I need to take his statement,” he said gruffly. “Now that he’s awake.”
Ryan looked over at Wyatt, who inclined his head in agreement.
The police officer walked in, and took up a spot at the end of Wyatt’s hospital bed. Ryan resumed his previous spot, and grasped Wyatt’s hand like he’d never let it go again.
“Mr. Blake,” the officer said, “could you please tell me what you remember about the accident?”
“Do we have to do this right now?” Wyatt asked, even though he already knew the answer.
“Yes,” the officer said, unrelenting.
So Wyatt quickly and efficiently rehashed what he remembered from the accident. They’d been driving fast, maybe, he relented, but not outrageously fast. The road had definitely been slick. They’d flipped a couple of times. He didn’t rem
ember much else.
“And what about charges, Mr. Blake?” the officer asked expectantly.
“Charges?” he asked blankly. “Why would I want to file charges?”
“Mr. Flores’ reckless driving endangered your life,” he reminded Wyatt.
“Mr. Flores,” Wyatt pointed out, voice as clear and strong as he could make it, “despite some lapses in judgment, is mine.” Ryan’s fingers spasmed against his. Flor reached out a reassuring hand towards Ryan, but he brushed it away. “I’m not pressing charges against him.”
“Are you sure?” Ryan asked, but his voice was so hopeful. So full of love that Wyatt could almost block out the pain in his head.
“I’m definitely sure,” Wyatt retorted dryly, tugging his hand and bringing Ryan closer. Close enough to kiss. Maybe he shouldn’t have been, but he was.
The nurse outside must have heard the commotion, because she bustled in then, giving him some ice chips for his dry mouth, and talking about discharge papers after he saw the doctor again.
“I called Miles,” Ryan admitted. “I left a voicemail. I think he was filming or something.”
“Why did you call Miles?” Wyatt questioned.
“I wasn’t sure . . . wasn’t sure you wanted to be in the same car as me again. Not so soon, anyway,” Ryan said, voice halting.
“Do you think I didn’t mean it?” Wyatt asked.
“I know you do,” Ryan said, his voice growing stronger again. “But I didn’t know that then, and I wasn’t ever going to presume your feelings for you again. But,” he added, a wry grin blooming on his face, “I should probably call Miles and let him know his services are no longer required. And that you’re not dead.”
“Does this mean we can finally go home?” Wyatt said, in relief.
“I think the doctor needs to discharge you still,” Ryan said.
Wyatt knew the look he shot his boyfriend was unfair. He did it anyway. He hated these hospital sheets—they were scratchy, and he had a feeling they’d frown at Ryan climbing into bed with him. And he definitely needed to feel Ryan against him very soon.
Ryan reached out and carefully pulled him against his side, hugging him close. “You want me to go get the doctor and get it over with,” he stated, amusement bright in his voice.
“I do,” Wyatt admitted. “Let’s go home.”
Ryan reached out and intertwined their hands together, and helped him sit upright in the bed. “Let’s go home,” he agreed easily, giving his hand a final squeeze before he turned away to go take care of the rest of the paperwork.
* * *
Ryan drove like Wyatt’s nana the whole way home. Wyatt, a little tired and loopy from the pain pills, didn’t tease him about it. He figured there was lots of time for that later. And just that thought was miraculous. Instead of an enforced ending, and a time limit, there was endless time extending before them, the possibilities never-ending and boundless.
The gate opened and Ryan carefully drove the rental Prius into the driveway. Right next to a looming black mass that hadn’t been there when they’d left in the Maserati earlier in the evening.
“What’s this?” Wyatt asked as Ryan came around to help him out of the car. He was a little unsteady on his feet, and the doctor hadn’t wanted his arm jostled the first few days. Of course, that was the excuse Ryan had latched onto to practically never let go of him. Wyatt was definitely not going to tease him about that, because he was enjoying it too much.
It all felt like a dream come true, a hope and a wish coalesced into reality.
A fake boyfriend evolving into a real one.
Ryan helped him out of the car and they walked a few feet to the left of the big mass, just enough so that with the lights of the house, Wyatt could make out the faded writing on the stainless steel side.
“Tacos,” Wyatt recited, realization dawning. “It’s an old food truck.”
“It’s yours,” Ryan said. “I love you being my personal chef. I hope you never stop. But I’m not selfish enough to want to keep you all to myself. You need to spread your wings. Experiment somewhere other than our kitchen.”
Wyatt was speechless, staring at the stainless steel shell.
“It needs a lot of work,” Ryan rambled on, “but I’m going to help you. It can be our project. Maybe even Tony will want to help. I got the impression he might, and you and your brother could use something to bring you together.”
“You bought this for me,” Wyatt said incredulously.
“I was trying to grovel. Might have gone over better if I hadn’t wrecked the Maserati first. Oh, well. Anyway, in the morning, you can look in it. It’s basically a wreck. I wanted to buy you a brand-new one, but Tabitha said that was overdoing it.”
“She would be right,” Wyatt said. “This is still too much.”
“Trust me, you haven’t seen the interior. It needs a lot of work. You might think it’s not enough in the light of day.”
“I don’t think so,” Wyatt said, and turned towards Ryan. “I thought you were afraid of me leaving. But you just gave me the ability to leave.”
“I was, I am. But someone told me once that letting love in means you need to accept what you’re afraid of.” Ryan’s voice was wry. “I told you before I’m not going to be good at this. But I’m going to try, every single day. Today, this is me trying.”
Wyatt raised his good hand to Ryan’s face, cradling his jaw. “I love you. I’m not going anywhere. Even if you try and fail. Even when I fail. We’re in this together.”
“Together,” Ryan echoed, and leaned in and kissed him.
Epilogue
The food truck shone bright silver under the merciless LA sun. “What A Catch” was painted in a handwritten green script along the side of the truck, the letters nearly reaching the top of Wyatt’s head as he stood in front and critically eyed the setup.
“I still don’t think the menu is big enough. The letters are still hard to read from a medium distance,” Wyatt said, raising his voice so Tony could hear him from inside.
“We sell enough tacos to buy a new chalkboard today, you can have it,” Tony shouted back at him, the rhythmic chopping sound of his knife against the butcher block countertops they’d installed last week nearly drowning out his voice, and the Foo Fighters playing on the Bluetooth speaker.
The Foos were more Tony’s scene than Wyatt’s—he liked his food prep music a little chiller—but in this brand-new joint venture between the brothers, compromise had quickly become one of the most vital ingredients.
Wyatt rolled his eyes even though Tony couldn’t see him. “We’re not selling any tacos today, dipshit.”
Tony popped his head out the back door. His hair had grown out a little in the six months since they’d started rehabbing this truck, but it was still cut close to his skull, and a few more tattoos decorated his forearms. The two most important were also the smallest: a bright pink, yellow, and blue pansexual flag and a tiny, red, split heart. Tony had opened up much more about the former than the latter. He still wouldn’t talk about the first guy to break his heart—the first person to break his heart, if Wyatt was being specific, because Tony had always been the one to do the heart-breaking—but Wyatt hoped he would soon. Tony was clearly hurting, no matter what sort of jovial front he put on.
“That’s right,” Tony snarked right back. “We’re giving them away to your boyfriend.”
“My boyfriend’s team,” Wyatt corrected. “And I think catering a charity event of the Los Angeles Dodgers our first time out is a really great achievement.”
“I’ll say this,” Tony said casually, and Wyatt almost missed the hint of pride in his voice, “you don’t like to start small.”
Wyatt didn’t have to ask who Tony was proud of. It was definitely both of them. Probably because they’d managed to do it together, without killing each other. A real achievement that had never been a sure thing, and had been touch-and-go more than once.
The truth was, Wyatt didn’t like taking charit
y from Ryan. They’d begun their relationship—the fake one at least—with inequality, and Wyatt had spent the last eight months trying to figure out the right balance between them.
“He offered to pay for them,” Wyatt pointed out. He had, and Wyatt had turned him down flat. Ryan had already done enough getting them the gig and an opportunity to iron out the kinks that went with opening a restaurant, even if it was on wheels.
Especially if it was on wheels.
“Where is he, anyway? I thought he was getting here early to help us set up?”
“I think he had a last-minute meeting come up,” Wyatt said. “I’ll come in and help you finish prep. It’s not like he could’ve helped with that anyway.”
Wyatt followed Tony into the small cabin of the food truck. It was a tight fit with the two of them, but at least he didn’t have to stoop. He’d paid a lot more than he should have to get the roof raised just enough that neither of them had to stoop.
They fell into their regular rhythm which until eight months ago, Wyatt never would have guessed even existed. He’d believed he and Tony were so different for so long that figuring they were more alike than he’d ever imagined had turned his world topsy-turvy.
As soon as he’d regained his equilibrium, he’d realized just how much he liked his brother.
Ryan had looked very smug when Wyatt had admitted this one night.
“I knew you would. Or that you did? I’m not sure which is right,” Ryan admitted. “Sometimes it takes a shakeup to see what’s right in front of you.”
“A shakeup in the form of a wrecked Maserati?” Wyatt had teased.
Ryan hit him hard in the shoulder. It stung, offsetting the pleasurable afterglow from the sex they’d just had.
“I told you that wasn’t going to get old,” Wyatt teased again.
“I thought real dating would mean more sappy, cheesy fluff, and less tormenting me,” Ryan said mournfully.
“But the tormenting is so fun,” Wyatt said with a chuckle.