Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Harrison
A couple of weeks went by, and Zander stayed at my house a few times a week. I liked having him there, liked looking over and seeing him with his laptop at the table, grading work or planning lessons. Liked hearing his phone go off with a reminder for him to do something. Part of it had to do with the fact that I didn’t feel like such a jackass slipping out of my son’s apartment every time Zander and I got together. The major factor, though, was that I liked being with him, spending time with him, laughing with him and having him tease me, and holding him at night.
He was still adjusting to the car thing. He would randomly thank me and always made sure to call it my car. He’d set out a plan and put it in writing about the payments he would make to me. I agreed only because I knew he needed me to, that he wouldn’t have driven the car if I hadn’t.
As time went on, it was becoming more and more clear that I was in over my head. That I’d misjudged this whole friends-with-benefits arrangement we’d agreed to—something I knew would come up when Warren and George arrived. I’d invited them over for dinner. Zander had driven to his hometown after school ended and wouldn’t be back until Sunday. Ross had plans with Trina. We hadn’t spent as much time together lately as I would have liked, and when we did, it was never the three of us—Ross, Zander, and me.
When there was a knock at the door, I went over and opened it.
“Smells good,” Warren said as he came in and hugged me.
“Enchiladas.”
“My favorite.” George gave me a similar greeting, and I closed the door behind them.
“You want a drink?”
“Beer, please,” George answered.
I got three bottles out and opened them. We sat around, talking while the food finished cooking. George was a lawyer, and Warren an accountant. We talked about work and life and about Ross.
After we ate, the three of us went to the backyard for George to have a cigarette. He used to be a heavy smoker, but Warren hated it. Now he had one a day after dinner.
“How are you and the boy?” Warren asked.
“I can’t believe it took us this long to get on the topic,” George said.
Warren and I were sitting on the porch steps, George standing in front of us.
“He’s not a boy,” I replied. “You can just ask how Zander and I are.”
The two of them exchanged a look. I’d learned over the years that they had whole silent conversations with each other that no one else understood, though this one I knew was about me and Zander.
I picked at the white paint on the railing. “I think I might be in trouble.”
“Uh-oh,” George said.
“Damn it. I told you to be careful,” Warren added.
“How was I to know I’d fall for him? It was supposed to be just sex. I’ve had plenty of sex in my life, and feelings have never been a problem before.”
“Yeah, but you’ve been a little different about this ki—Zander—from the start.”
“I know. Fuck, I know.” Something about Zander had been special from the very beginning. I just hadn’t wanted to admit it. “I want strings, damn it, and I know I shouldn’t.”
“Why shouldn’t you, though?” George asked. “Things change all the time. Relationships start with dating or having sex, and then you realize that person is yours. It’s never really in the plan. And once you have them, you start trying to figure out how to give them back.”
“Asshole,” Warren replied. They ribbed each other the way Zander and I did, and Jesus, was I acting like some lovesick kid or what? Comparing it to my friends who’d been together nearly twenty years?
“It’s complicated. Zander is…skittish about relationships. It’s hard for him to trust people, and he’s been honest with me about it from the start. This is convenient sex with a side of friend, and that’s it. I can’t change the rules of the game now. And how stereotypical is that? The older man smitten with the younger one. I feel like a walking cliché.”
“Since when do you care what other people think?” Warren asked.
“I don’t, not really. I care what I think and how I feel, which brings me back to the weird older guy crushing on a younger one.”
“Wow, when did you start using the word crushing?” George asked.
“Asshole,” I teased, calling him what Warren had. They laughed. “Seriously, though. I care what Zander thinks, obviously, and he thought he was just going to get laid. He’s so determined not to give himself to someone else, not completely. He wants to be independent and focus on his career and not worry about the relationship thing. I respect the hell out of him for that, but it’s also one of the reasons I know my catching feelings is a mistake.”