You & Me

Emmet was gone by the time I woke. I’d slept in hard, and when I grabbed my phone off the nightstand the display said 10:36 a.m.

Landon looked sleep-rumpled and disheveled, and he was still blinking himself awake when I stumbled into the kitchen. He was at the sink, drinking a glass of water, and perked up when he saw me. “Good morning.”

“Mornin’. How did you sleep?”

“Like a rock.” His hair stuck up in the back. “Your couch is wonderful. Thank you for letting me use it.”

I laughed. My couch was cheap as hell. “My pleasure. You can use it anytime.”

His ears turned pink as he laughed into his water.

We chowed down on cereal, and I sipped my coffee while I hunted for something for Landon. I could have sworn I had tea somewhere, but no luck.

I could offer him milk, at least. He said that would be like swiping food from a baby.

“I was wondering,” he said after I’d given up on the great tea hunt. “Would you like to go to the lake today? It’s supposed to be gorgeous. Eighty-five and sunny. We could rent kayaks, paddle around? Hike a bit?”

“That sounds awesome.” I hadn’t been out to the lake in… I couldn’t remember how long. I kept thinking I should go, but every time the weekend rolled around, I’d been too tired from work or too depressed about Emmet, and I hadn’t wanted to do anything but glumly punch at my keyboard and try to lose myself in work. “Did you bring a swimsuit?”

“I’m gay, Luke. I packed three different outfits based on three itineraries for today.”

“What were the other options?”

“You picked option number one, so the others will remain a mystery.” I frowned. He laughed. “You did pick the one I’d hoped for.”

We changed and headed out. I had on board shorts that were a little loose on my gangly frame and an old, ratty T-shirt, and he had on a chic pair of mid-thigh swimmers and a long-sleeve surf shirt. If he was going for modest, I wasn’t entirely sure he’d succeeded. Sure, he was covered up from thigh to neck and wrist to wrist, but the fabric clung to his shoulders, his defined biceps, and the taper of his back down to his narrow waist.

At least he didn’t have a six-pack. He had a nice, normal stomach, flat but soft. It just wouldn’t be fair if he had abs along with everything else.

The lake was crowded, as per end-of-summer Texas. Landon guided me to a corner of the parking lot that was more out of the way. From there, it was a long hike to the main beach but a short hike around an inlet to a kayak outfitter and a sail-up dock that sold tacos, burgers, and margaritas by the pitcher.

I was shaky in the kayak at first. These were the hard plastic kind made for beginners and purposely designed not to flip, but I seemed intent on proving that engineering wrong as I wobbled left and right. I couldn’t get the steering right, and I spun in spirals as Landon circled around me. He tried to correct me, but every time, I oversteered.

He did wade waist-deep through the water to rescue me when I got mired in a tangle of bamboo reeds and creeping vines. He was red-faced and laughing about it, and I thanked him with a flick of water to the face.

After I got my feet—or my paddles—under me, Landon guided me on a tour around the reaches of the lake. We stayed away from the beaches and the motor anchorages and the sailing lanes, keeping to the coves and inlets along the rocky points. We watched waves lap against the sheer cliff faces to the south and found alcoves where birds made their nests. We paddled lazily under overhanging tree branches out on the finger inlets to the west and cuddled up to overgrown banks where butterflies and deer lived in hidden enclaves.

Eventually, we found a quiet spot tucked along the north shore, and we looped our kayaks together before we slipped over the sides to swim in the cool waters. It was deep enough at that spot that we couldn’t touch the bottom. I had visions of lake monsters eyeing our toes and debating whether we were worth possible exposure on the nightly news for a nibble of flesh.

We were exhausted when we finally paddled in, but it was the good kind of exhaustion. We bought burgers and a basket of fries to share and sat on the edge of the dock with our feet in the water. I stripped out of my soaking wet T-shirt and let the sun do its worst on my pale skin. Landon started making noise about me getting a sunburn after five minutes. After ten minutes, he couldn’t take it, and he pulled the sunscreen out of the backpack he’d brought and slathered my back while I laughed. I did my own chest, and then I made him hold still while I reapplied sunscreen to his face. I painted his face in thick stripes like we were kids at a carnival, then told him he was going to have to live with a unicorn tan as I fingerpainted one onto his cheek.

After lunch, he showed me the hiking trails that bled away from the lake. One switchbacked up a cliff and dumped off at an overlook. It was a clear, perfect day, with Dallas’s skyscrapers outlined against the horizon in the distance. Nearer by, we found the stadium lights at Last Waters, and then the stadium lights of the next three towns. Everything was bigger in Texas, and nowhere was that more true than when little towns competed for who had the best football stadium.

Finally, we headed home. I had a sunburn on my collarbone and my shoulders. An explosion of freckles had risen across Landon’s nose and cheeks. He’d escaped the fate of a unicorn sun tattoo, though.

On the way, he asked me to stop at the grocery store. I grabbed milk, another two bottles of Landon’s favorite wine, and a couple of cheap wineglasses. He met me at the front with a cart full of food: filet mignon steaks, sweet potatoes, fresh broccoli, two soft bread loaves. Eggs and bacon and orange juice. A whole sourdough round.

“What is all this?”

“I’m going to cook dinner tonight,” he said.

“For who? The United States Army?”

He laughed. “For you and me. And Emmet, if he’s around.”

“He texted and said he was spending the night with Jason.” I eyed his cart. “Let me pay for all that, at least.”

“Can you bag for me?”

He distracted me with the bagging, damn it. While I was loading everything into the cart, he got his debit card through the reader first.

When we got home, I gave him a tour of my kitchen—all five cupboards of it—and pulled out the things he said he needed: baking sheets, a frying pan, a potato peeler, a half dozen spices, butter. I watched him salt the filets and roll the edges in peppercorns, then set them on a baking sheet. “You have to let them sit and absorb the salt,” he told me. “Then we’ll start the potatoes.”

“You’re a regular Barefoot Contessa.”

“Not until I have my wine, I’m not.”

While he showered, I poured him a glass. When he returned, he was dressed down in a pair of athletic shorts and a worn T-shirt. His hair was wet and dangled in front of his eyes. I wanted to slide my fingers through it and sweep the strands back.

Instead, I blitzed through my shower, setting a new speed record for the time it took to soap down, run the bar through my hair, suds up, and rinse. I was in sweats and a T-shirt and back in the kitchen before he had the first potato peeled. A glass of wine waited for me on the island.

“This is how you make french fries,” Landon said. “Or, in our case, sweet potato fries. Here, mimic what I do.”

He led me through peeling and chopping, slicing and slivering. We seasoned the sweet potato shoestrings with salt and sugar and cinnamon and put them in the oven. Then we tackled the broccoli. I mangled my head and ended up with a mess of parts and pieces, while he had a perfect line of chopped broccoli all in a row. When he laid everything out on another baking sheet and we saw the wild swings in quality between our two efforts, we both descended into wine-fueled snorts.

It all came together, somehow, and an hour later, he served two medium-rare filet mignon steaks topped with melting garlic butter, crisp sweet potato fries, and oven-baked salt-and-pepper broccoli. I was drooling before we sat down, but I had enough manners to refill our wineglasses and thank him before I dove in.

“I was right,” I groaned around a piece of butter-soft steak. “God, you are an incredible chef.”

“I’m glad you like it.” He couldn’t stop smiling.

I lifted my wineglass to toast him. “To the best steak I’ve ever eaten.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not.” I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to eat fast or slow. Inhale the deliciousness or savor the experience. “This is wonderful.”

After, I banished him to the table with another glass of wine while I did the dishes. He was starting to look wine flush, his eyes brighter than usual. His laugh was louder, fuller, and reached deeper inside of me every time I heard it.

I wanted to hear it more. I kept cracking jokes. He kept laughing.

We ended up on the couch again, sitting in our corners. He’d folded his blanket and set it at the foot of the sectional that morning. “What do you watch on Netflix?” I asked as I grabbed the remote. “I can never find anything good.”

“What do you like?”

“Dramas. Something intense. I like to feel along with the characters. Give me an angst-ridden mystery or a thriller that makes me stop breathing.”

“Perfect,” he said. “I have about two dozen recommendations. I love the same things.”

He had so many good options that I had a hard time picking one. But I did, and I turned off the lights, and he started the first episode. Within minutes, I was hooked.

Forty minutes later, I turned to Landon to tell him he was in charge of all my Netflix watching from now on, but my words died on my lips before I could speak.

He’d passed out sometime during the episode. He was curled around my throw pillow, head leaning back on the cushions, facing me. His knees were up by his chest, and his bare feet were pointed in my direction.

I paused the show and let the light from the TV fall over him. All of Landon’s stresses and strains from the week had faded away, and he looked peaceful lying on my couch. Serene. He was soft in a way I hadn’t seen before, like I was able to peek beneath his layers and glimpse the man beneath the laughter and the smiles and the selfless love he gave to the world.

I turned the TV off and shook out his blanket. He didn’t wake when I draped it over him, or when I tucked the corner around his shoulder. “Good night, Landon,” I whispered. “Sleep well.”

I woke to incredible smells. Bacon frying, cinnamon and vanilla and eggs. I heard something sizzle. My mouth watered.

Landon was up and cooking in my kitchen. He looked rested, if a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry I fell asleep on you last night.”

“You needed it. You were still catching up from the week.”

“Did you like the show?”

“I loved it.” I snaked a piece of bacon from around his side, swiping it from a paper-towel-covered plate. He slapped my hand with his spatula.

Breakfast was homemade french toast. It was one of the best meals I’d eaten in my life. I ate everything, vacuuming my plate like I was Emmet, and then stretched and scratched my belly. My very full, very happy belly.

“So, what now? Do you want to chill and watch another episode? Or do you want to head downtown? There’s a farmer’s market on Sunday, right?”

“There is,” he said. “And I would love to go. I’d love to watch another episode, too, but I have to get back.”

Right. Bethany. The reason he was at my house. This wasn’t just a sleepover for fun. “Yeah, of course.” I grabbed our plates and stacked them in front of me. “Sorry, I didn’t realize the time.”

“I’d rather stay, but I said I’d take her to the airport.”

“We’ll have to find another time to watch. I’ll wait for you to keep going.”

He smiled, then dropped his head, staring at my tabletop. “How about next time she’s in town?”

“Sure. You want to come over every weekend when she’s here?”

“If you’re offering, absolutely. I can make dinner for you?”

“Deal.”

He showered and packed his duffel as I did the dishes, and then, in what felt like no time at all, I was saying goodbye to him at my front door.

He hesitated on the threshold. “I want to thank you for doing this for me.”

“You don’t need to. You already cooked me two amazing meals.” And we’d shared a weekend together that would go down as an absolute favorite in my books. “You’ve already thanked me. I think I should be thanking you.” I tried to smile as I played with the weather stripping on the door. “This was awesome.”

“This weekend was great.” His voice was soft as he stared into my eyes. “There’s this wine bar that I like: Juice & Butter. Have you been?”

“Never heard of it.”

His ears were turning pink. “Can I buy you a drink? We can probably find you a red wine you’ll like.”

“I like the carménère.”

“It took me two years to be able to drink a cabernet. Another year before I even tried a carménère.”

“I like things best when they’re intense.”

Landon peered down at my planters as he bit his lip. There were daylilies there when I moved in, but they were withered stalks now. My front stoop and walkway looked dull and dreary, especially with Landon standing there. He sucked up all the color around him. “Well, if you want a glass of wine, it’s on me.” He threw me a tight smile as he readied to leave.

Part of me lurched, like I was going to follow him out the door, to his car, and back to his house. I was greedy for more minutes. I didn’t want this to end. Behind me was an empty, echoing house. In front of me was Landon. “When would you like to go?

Hope sparked in his gaze. He squeezed his duffel strap like Emmet squeezed the air before a play. “Tuesday? While our boys are at practice?”

I shoved my hands in the pockets of my pajama pants. My bare toes curled against the tile. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

Landon smiled. The flush on his ears had spread down his neck and dipped beneath the collar of his T-shirt. “Does six work for you?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll text you the address?”

I could find the place on Google, but I nodded anyway.

“Great. I’ll… see you Tuesday.” He trotted backward down my steps toward his car.

I watched him go like he was taking something of mine away with him.