34. Christian

34

CHRISTIAN

L arry’s house in Bridgehampton was where he lived full time before he and Jeremy hooked up through a dating app. They now spend their workweeks at Jeremy’s place in The Bowery but most weekends out here.

“This is nice,” Gibson says as he pulls his car into the long driveway, surrounded in part by woods and gas lamps.

“I’m guessing not as nice as yours.”

“My place is in Sag Harbor.”

I don’t know what he means by that, so I make a noncommittal humming noise, which makes him laugh. When the house comes into view, Gibson lets out a low whistle. “This is much nicer.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, it’s bigger. I guess I need to see inside before I start making any comparisons.”

Larry’s house is huge. Sprawling. It’s got all the trappings I associate with homes in the Hamptons. A pool. A tennis court. A lawn with a permanent croquet setup. It’s closer to town than it is to the beach, but Larry’s more of a coffee shop and antiques guy than a beach bum .

“What does Larry do for a living?” Gibson asks.

“Corporate law, I think.”

“And you knew him first or Jeremy?”

“Jeremy. He was staying at The Eastmoor with Babs Connelly for a while back when Drew and Ollie were getting together.” Everyone on the UES knows Babs.

We’ve talked during the drive about my friends—how I met Drew, and when Jericho came into the picture. Everyone knows the story of Olivier and Elodie since they published their society tell-all book about their sham of a marriage, so I helped fill in some details Gibson wasn’t familiar with.

He knows I’m closest to Drew and Jericho, but they’re all closer to each other than I am to any of them—they’re like a family, and I’m like an out of town cousin who stops in from time to time and offers new fodder for them to discuss. Lately, however, I’ve been holding more back. If someone were to ask me why, I’m not sure I’d have an answer ready.

My world outside of them has shrunk to Gibson. The last few weeks, other than the three nights I covered at The Eastmoor, I’ve been with him, save a few hours here and there.

I feel a conversation about us coming, and I thought it might happen on the drive, but it never materialized, even though we don’t ever seem to stop talking unless we’re fucking, and even then…

If he told me right now he never wanted to see me again, I’d have a rough time digesting that. It’s not that I necessarily need more, but I don’t want anything to change, either.

He pulls to a stop behind two other cars in the circular drive in front of the white, Cape Cod style home. Accented with gray shingles and window boxes full of flowers, it’s as welcoming as it is enormous. With eight bedrooms and twelve bathrooms, it’s ridiculously big, but still somehow manages to feel cozy.

Gibson and I get our bags out of his Lexus’s trunk and walk up to the porch. The screen door is closed, but the actual door is wide open, and I hear Mallory’s throaty laugh coming from the direction of the kitchen.

Olivier happens to walk by as I’m reaching for the latch. He smiles—not the usual greeting I get from him, and there’s definitely something shit-eating about his grin. “I knew it,” he says, opening the door.

“Knew what?”

“You’d bring your boss.” He looks up at Gibson. “Drew always calls you Mr. Hayes, so it’s tempting.”

“Please don’t,” I say before Gibson has a chance to respond. “It’s a holiday.”

“What do you call him?” Ollie asks me.

“Gibson,” I say tersely, letting go of my suitcase and taking a look around for some backup.

The entry hall is bisected by a staircase. The view from the front door leads all the way to the back of the house where the pool is visible.

“Nice to see you again,” Gibson says, taking over and shaking Ollie’s hand.

Jeremy appears from the right, dressed in swim trunks and a t-shirt. He gives me a hug and welcomes Gibson warmly, offering to show us to our room. “Or rooms ?” he asks leadingly.

“One room is fine,” I tell him, feeling heat lick my cheeks at the awkward acknowledgement that I am in fact actively sleeping with the man who pays my salary. Not that I feel any judgment here, but it’s hard to be proud of. Embarrassing, but just shy of shameful. Gibson is what I’ve decided I need right now, and it is what it is. It’s the reason I asked him to come with me. If he hadn’t wanted to, I wouldn’t be here, either. So we’ll definitely be sharing a room.

Olivier comes upstairs with us as we follow Jeremy, and we catch Drew coming out of one of the bedrooms, shirtless in some of the gayest black swim trunks I’ve ever seen. They’re skin-tight with detailed stitching around his package to really make it stand out. I meet his eyes and smirk.

A successful model, Drew is the face and body for a line of men’s skin care and fragrance products. He’s covered in tattoos and exudes a raw masculinity that should make a swimsuit like that comical. However—with a perfectly sculpted body and his rugged good looks, he pulls it off down to the mischievous expression on his face when he spots my plus one. “I owe my husband fifty bucks,” he says.

Ollie steps up to him, and Drew slides his arm around his waist. “We’re showing Chris and his employer to their room,” Olivier says.

“Excellent.”

“Lay off,” I say, then add, “He’s very demanding, and he’s always working. It’s better when he has me close by.”

Everyone laughs at that, including me. I take Gibson’s hand, and we proceed to the end of the hall to make my point. He squeezes it in return, and I feel validated.

This is not my usual room. It’s much nicer. It features a king-sized bed, a bathroom, a fireplace, and a view of the woods. Mostly white with navy and wood accents, it looks like it belongs in a luxury hotel. I give Jeremy a side-eye. Thanks for the upgrade, asshole.

He gives me a sheepish look and asks the billionaire he’s obviously trying to impress, “What do you think?”

Gibson looks caught off guard. “Oh—it’s fantastic. Thank you.”

Drew leans down and whispers near my ear. “VIP treatment.”

“Billionaires, right?” I joke, though I suddenly feel uneasy.

Drew chuckles and gives my back a couple of solid pats.

Of course I realize how wealthy Gibson is—it’s one of those things that’s impossible not to notice, but he feels so down to earth to me. However—when I compare this room with my basement apartment, I can’t help but hope he doesn’t feel like he’s slumming it when he’s with me on my spring-loaded mattress or my well-used sleeper sofa.

“We’ll let you get settled,” Jeremy says with another smile. “The ladies are making sangria and snacks so feel free to come down whenever you’re ready. It’s personal pizza and trivia night, so be prepared to show your skills.”

As the three of them file out of the room, and Jeremy shuts the door, Gibson turns to me. “Personal pizza?”

“We make our own pizzas?” I’m guessing.

“You’re blushing,” he says, approaching me to rest his hands on my hips. “What’s going on?”

I’m not really sure, but as I look into his eyes, my mind does another three-sixty spin. “I’m glad you’re here, but it’s weird.”

His brow furrows. “What’s weird? We don’t have to share a room if?—”

“It’s not even that. Please. We’ll just wind up in bed together anyway. Right?”

“You’re nervous.”

“Am I?” He’s right, though. I am.

“Is it me or them?”

“It’s not— both ,” I admit. “I guess I’m not really prepared to answer questions about you and me if they come up.”

“Let me handle it, then.”

“You’re not always gonna necessarily be there. If one of them corners me?—”

“You want me to say I won’t let you out of my sight?”

“No,” I insist. “I’m not gonna make you say anything. Jesus.” I put my hands on his, gently ease them off me, and take a step away. My anxiety is spiking wildly, and it’s unlike anything I’ve felt in years.

After a few seconds of carefully staring at me, he starts for the door.“I’ll give you some space.”

“Gibson, wait—please.”

He leans back on the door, folds his arms, and crosses his ankles. His cheeks are hollow, and he’s staring at the floor. He’s second guessing coming with me. I can tell.

But this is all me, and I don’t need to be alone, I need to settle down. While I’m not sure how to do that, or why I’m suddenly so worked up, his leaving me to stew in it won’t help.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe I could use some sangria.”

“You sure that’s all you need?”

My tension isn’t coming from the same place it always used to. It’s got nothing to do with my past. Since we pulled into the driveway, I’ve been thinking about the future, mostly related to this weekend, but after we get home, too. In a handful of weeks, I’ve managed to become completely reliant on this man for every last one of my basic needs, and some of my more complex needs as well—like the desire to serve a purpose or share my random thoughts. The desire for feedback and validation.

He’s my entire safety net. Without him, I’d probably have to move in with Drew and Olivier, and no fucking thanks, although their place in Brooklyn is really nice.

The problem is—I like this. Technically speaking, since Rome, this is the first time I’ve had him all to myself for more than a few hours. No club, no work meetings, no wives to have breakfast with. I don’t want to fuck this up, but if I thought my friends were too much to be around with him for thirty minutes a couple weeks ago—what’s a whole weekend going to do?

I’m not prepared for hard questions because I don’t want anything to change. “I don’t know what I need.”

“I don’t believe you.”

I scrub at my face and sit on the edge of the bed. “Maybe I don’t want to get into it.”

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Do you want to go downstairs?”

“In a minute. I think I just got overwhelmed.”

“I didn’t mean to crowd you. ”

“You didn’t.” If anything, he wasn’t close enough. He still isn’t. “Come here.”

Moments later, the mattress sinks beside me, and I lean my arm against his. I rest my hand on his thigh, palm up, and he slides his into mine. Our fingers interlace, and I take a shaky breath.

It strikes me what’s happening as our palms press together. This feels real .

It feels like we’re in a relationship, and we’re taking it out for a spin. Showing it off. Putting it to the test of scrutinizing friends and shared accommodations. Drew can say what wants about how long this affair is going to last, but I have no plans to end it any time soon. In fact, I only feel our connection deepening, unless I’m completely off base, but in a moment like this, it’s hard to believe we’re not on the same page.

I’m afraid to put it into words, though. I’ve told him something very definitive about myself and how I approach relationships, and that could be why he sees me as a safe place to explore his sexuality and kinks. I’ve never given him the impression that I have an issue with the fact that he’s married and is devoted for reasons I only vaguely grasp to his wife.

He’s gotta still be in love with her, though, right? And if that’s true, he’s biding his time, waiting for the day she either comes around to him or ends the marriage on her own.

I squeeze his hand when I think about it because I can relate to what it feels like to love a ghost and wonder if there was anything I could have done to keep her with me. The heaviness of Trinity’s death isn’t as weighty as it was even a week ago. Or maybe I’ve been distracted from dwelling on it so much. I’m not saying our scenes are some kinky magic bullet, but they’ve helped release some guilt from my consciousness.

Talking about Trinity as much as he lets me helps. A lot. I’ve started to understand I really was just a kid who could only do so much. It still hurts, what happened to her, but it feels like a long time ago now—not like it happens over and over again every time I wake up.

“Should I not have come?” he asks quietly.

“It’s nothing like that. It more like maybe we shouldn’t have.”

“Talk to me.”

I brace myself for some measured honesty. I’m not trying to go overboard and share my soul, but I want to communicate what I’m feeling in a way that doesn’t sound nuts. “I feel really close to you, and maybe that’s not the right way to feel.”

“Right for what?” he asks.

“Right for this. What we’re doing.”

“Do you have a word for what we’re doing?”

“No,” I admit. “And I take it you don’t either.”

“Keeping each other company. Getting to know each other. I have plenty of words for it,” he says, but he’s being measured, too.

“You have excuses.”

“I have my reasons for not wanting to put a name to it, also.”

“Are the reasons a secret?” I ask.

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

He’s not making this easier at all. “I’m scared to ask.”

“I guess we should talk, huh?” he says.

“Now?”

He gives my hand a squeeze. “I think things have changed enough since we started all this that it’s time to re-assess.”

My heart drops to the pit of my stomach. This doesn’t sound good. It sounds more like this weekend is going to be over before it’s even begun.