Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“No friends in Swan?” Jonah made the phoniest shocked face Liam had ever seen. “The town that thinks gay people are a wicked urban legend? What a surprise.”
“Hey!” He tried not to laugh but failed miserably. “It’s too early in our friendship for you to call out my poor life choices.”
“Well, Mr. Complication, I am always open to making a new friend. How about this… I’m meeting some of my boys at a funky little coffee shop right down the street on Friday at ten in the morning. What do you say to joining us and making a bunch of friends at once?”
“Call me Liam. Mr. Complication is too long. And thanks for the offer. What’s your number.” He pulled out his phone and entered the ten digits Jonah rattled off. “Great, I just texted you mine. Just send me the name of the coffee house before then.”
“Will do.”
They chatted as Jonah finished checking him out. Liam couldn’t help but feel a genuine buzz of excitement at the prospect of forming a friend group. Back in New York, he’d had a thriving social life, and while he expected it to be very different here, he’d love to have something to put on his calendar once in a while.
Maybe he could eventually introduce Tate to these guys if coffee went well. Then, if Tate came out, he’d have an instant support group. It was so important to—
No. Oh no, you don’t, Mr. Complication.
He’d promised himself no less than ten times this week that he would not plan any part of his life around Tate. Nor would he take on Tate’s problems. If he started doing that, he knew exactly how this story would end. Liam would catch feelings. Tate would eventually realize he didn’t want to come out of the closet and didn’t want to risk being with a man so close to home. He’d break it off, and Liam would be left a weepy, heartbroken mess eating Cinnamon Toast Crunch three times a day alone on his couch.
This coffee outing was for him and him alone.
It had to be.
“YO, T, LOOK alive.”
Tate glanced toward Randy, but he wasn’t quick enough to catch the package of hot dog buns lobbed his way. It smacked him in the face, then dropped in his lap.
“Dude, don’t smoosh them. I hate it when it’s hard to open the bun for the wiener.” Daryl scowled at Randy.
And, queue homophobic jokes.
“Bet that dancer… what was his name… bet he could teach you all about getting the wiener in the bun,” Randy said as he cackled and slapped a hand on his knee.
Daryl’s face screwed up. “Fuck you. I ain’t going near that guy again.”
As Tate sighed and tried to ignore the twist in his gut, Whitney came out of their trailer with a tray of hotdogs and a few bags of chips. She looked cute and summery in her denim shorts and cropped tank, her long hair in a high ponytail. “You still didn’t get the fire going?” she asked as she set the food on the upside-down trash can serving as their table.
“Doing it now.” Randy hopped up from his sagging lawn chair, grabbing the bottle of lighter fluid at his feet. They didn’t have a fire pit in their trailer park, but an old trashcan lid did the job just fine. Randy had piled wood on it a few minutes ago. Now, he stood shirtless and in his favorite grungy cutoff jorts, squirting the logs with lighter fluid. When he’d soaked them enough to start a damn wildfire, he lit a match and tossed it at his creation.
Whoosh!
The stack of wood ignited in a rush of heat and sparks.
“For God’s sake, Randy, why you gotta make it so big? One day, you’re gonna burn down this whole trailer park,” Whitney complained, whacking her husband on the back of his head.
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world,” Tate muttered.
“What was that?” Randy sat back down. His chair cracked as a few of the stretched fibers snapped.
Tate couldn’t wait until the day the chair finally quit and his brother’s ass landed on the ground. Not that his own lawn chair fared much better. He’d picked it up at Goodwill almost six years ago, and it was almost as crappy as Randy’s camping chair.
“Nothing.”
“What the hell’s up with you, man?” Randy asked as he hooked an arm around his wife’s waist and dragged her onto his lap. She yelped, but it quickly became a giggle as she settled in.
“What do you mean? Nothing’s up.”
“Yeah, you’ve been weird as shit this past week,” Daryl added.
Nodding, Randy said, “We’ve hardly seen your ass around here. You’ve been all quiet, sneaking in and out.”
“Guys,” Whitney said, shooting him a sympathetic smile. “Leave him alone.”
“You got a side piece or something?” Daryl asked. He popped the tab on his beer, chugged half the can, then belched.