Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 60487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Grayson stared at him with a flicker of something like curiosity. Or hope, or disbelief, or caution—or perhaps all of that in rapid succession. When he spoke again, he spoke quietly, carefully, and his gaze didn’t once waver from Carl’s, which made Carl feel restless.
“Sam is my past. A part of my journey. Not my destination.”
“If you were both in love you might—”
“No.”
Simply said. Just that. And Carl sank back into his chair, nodding and nodding.
Grayson opened his mouth to add something and shut it. Then said, “As for work . . . I should probably consider doing less, but I do like odd jobs. Helping others, variation.”
“You prefer that over a career? Moving up the ladder?”
“Yes.”
There was something extremely comforting in this conviction, and Carl rubbed his damp hands over his nape, nodding again.
“I’m privileged, of course. I have a mortgage-free house, and an inheritance. I can afford to pick and choose.”
“You know, your ability to do . . . everything, would be a real asset in a small town.”
Dark eyes lifted to his. “A small town like yours?”
Carl pushed him lightly away, trying to ignore the winding feeling in his chest.
Grayson cleared his throat. “You said you work in a convenience store. Like a dairy.”
“Bit bigger than the ones here, but yeah.”
“What’s it like?”
Carl brightened. He could feel his spirits lift and his voice became animated as he told Grayson about some of his Convenience Store (mis)Adventures.
“Working there gives you joy,” Grayson said.
“It’s not particularly glamorous.”
“Does glamour equal joy?”
Carl hesitated. “The attention Jason gets for his accomplishments is nice.”
“You’ve got the locals coming in to gossip. Is that not fun attention too? Is that not nice?”
Carl stared at Grayson. And stared. There was a shift in his chest, and an abrupt wistful longing for his store. All this . . . from a conversation with Grayson. “You don’t think it’s a dead end? Lacks integrity?”
“I think it sounds full of character. I’d like to see it—you, working there.”
Butterflies slammed into his chest. He managed a nonchalant shrug. “Come and stay anytime.”
A gust of wind had the door flying open and the box lid flying free into the room. Grayson twisted his chair and lunged, but the door moved too fast, hitting the frame of the bed, bouncing back—and slamming shut.
Grayson yanked at the handle, jiggling it. It didn’t open.
Carl was on his feet, shifting nervously, as he handed Grayson his phone.
Grayson called Mr Wilson’s number. Carl could hear it ringing at their end—could see light and movement from the house—but Mr Wilson wasn’t picking up.
“On silent?” Carl speculated.
“Or his TV is too loud.”
“Try again.”
“Can we use your phone?”
“I followed you on a whim. You brought all the electronics. Mine’s at the villa.”
“You don’t always have your phone on you?”
“Half the time. This isn’t that half.”
Grayson pressed the button on his phone but the screen wasn’t flashing any colours.
“Yours died?”
“We’re stuck in a cabin with no wifi and only one bed. Of course my phone died.”
Carl snickered. “Of course.”
They looked at one another and, simultaneously, with great urgency, banged on the door, shouting.
The gusty winds did them no favours. Their voices were lost. The universe was laughing.
They eyed one another, and shot their gazes elsewhere.
Away from the king-single bed!
Carl ran a hand through his hair and pointed to their laptops. “I suppose we’ll pull an all-nighter.”
“Right. Yes.”
They buried themselves diligently in Mr Wilson’s words, one speaking hurriedly into the laptop, and the other typing furiously.
From time to time, Carl snuck a peek at Grayson; from time to time, Carl felt the prickle along his profile as Grayson snuck a peek at him.
Close to midnight, and twenty thousand words—and an awkward moment in which they had to take turns relieving themselves using an old Coke bottle—they snuck looks at the same time.
Grayson pushed his chair back from the desk. “Okay. Let’s address the flying monkey in the room.”
Carl’s gaze flew from the bed to the Coke bottle to the bed again. “You mean the crowd of them? Each with a pair of immense and powerful wings?”
“Chattering with a great deal of noise.”
Carl snickered and turned his chair to face Grayson squarely. “We don’t need to be this coy. We’re friends. We can . . . And we can share a bed.”
Grayson hesitated. A glimmer of a frown touched his brow, and then he inclined his head sharply. “Exactly.”
They averted their gaze.
The air felt thick when it came time to shimmy out of their jeans. They turned their backs to one another and hurriedly shoved them off, but the flump of material hitting the ground sounded extra loud to Carl’s ears.
Grayson hit the lights, and Carl blessed the dark as he climbed under the cool sheets. He kept as close to the wall as he could, practically in the gap between bed and wall, and still it wasn’t enough distance to thin the tension between them.