Smoky Mountain Dreams (24 page)

Jesse handed the glass of wine over to Christopher, who
started to take a sip, and then pulled back, a flicker of embarrassment
flushing his face.

Jesse went on, pretending he hadn’t noticed. “Sometimes it
tries to tell people to turn down Turtle Hollow, but there is no Turtle Hollow.
I don’t know where the GPS systems even get that.”

“I’ve had that happen before in the mountains,” Christopher
said. “The GPS insisted I needed to go down a Hut Drive in Asheville once, but
there is no such place.”

He looked a little nervous as he swirled the wine,
self-consciously examined the legs—obviously he had no idea what he was looking
for—and then took a sip. His lips puckered, and then the gorgeous smile Jesse
already liked too well slid over his face.

“It’s nice. I like it,” he said.

I should teach him about wine
.
Jesse reached out to smooth a small curl of hair from Christopher’s temple. A
spark of want coupled with unexpected tenderness burned in his chest and groin
at just the simple touch.
I should teach him a lot of
things
.

Christopher’s breath caught, and his cheeks went even
redder. His pupils dilated. “So, um, did you say your kids are still awake?”

Jesse laughed. “I thought that was so passé? And
conversation was all the rage?”

“Can you blame me for wanting to double check?”

“Hell no. But, unfortunately, I’ve got three little girls in
the basement and two boys upstairs.”

Christopher grinned. “I’m good with talking. Or hanging out.
Whatever.”

“Let’s head into the living room. It’s more comfortable in
there. We can watch the game.”

“There’s a game?”

“Not the Vols. Last Sunday’s Steelers game. I missed it and
wanted to catch a few plays in context. But it’s not a big deal, I’m not paying
that close attention.”

“Ah. I was confused. I couldn’t figure out how Shannon had
thrown such a successful party on a game night without losing half the crowd to
the TV.”

Jesse chuckled as Christopher trailed behind him into the
living room. He could feel the space between them, and he wanted to close it.
Christopher looked so warm and tempting. A kiss would be okay, wouldn’t it?
Maybe not now, but later? Definitely before Christopher left for the night.
There was nothing wrong with kissing a man in his own home. It was different,
though. He knew that. More intimate. He’d never asked a man he’d had sex with
into the house he’d shared with Marcy. He was encouraged by Christopher’s
presence here tonight—with no sex on the horizon—to think it was about more
than that for him too.

Christopher took a seat at one end of the sofa, and Jesse
sat at the other end. He couldn’t help but notice how good Christopher looked
there, his hair slightly tousled by his nervous fingers running through it, and
his softly lean body filling a space that had been empty for far too long. Then
there was his face—and his eyes—which did something to Jesse’s stomach,
something pleasant and awful, and something that hadn’t happened in so long
that he didn’t know if it ever had.

Even when he’d fallen for Marcy it’d felt like a slow-motion
descent that he hadn’t even felt until he’d smashed into love, hard and
shocked. This was like the ascent up the tallest peak of a rollercoaster. He
could see the drop coming and it was scary and good—and made him want to vomit.

“So, how’d you become a Steelers fan?” Christopher asked
when Jesse tore his eyes away, found the remote, and turned down the volume on
the game.

“My Aunt Marge was a big fan. Her ‘roommate’ Delia—and,
yeah, you heard the air quotes—was originally from Pittsburgh. She’d moved
south to attend U.T., met Aunt Marge and never went home. They taught me the
game when I was a kid. My dad didn’t have time for crap like that.”

“Did your parents care that she was…a lesbian?”

Jesse considered the question. “My dad thought Aunt Marge
was disgusting, but she was my mom’s only sister, and they were…not close, but
my aunt was willing to take care of me and Amanda while my folks did their
corporate party circuit and ignored their parenting responsibilities.” Jesse
placed the remote control on the coffee table and picked up his wine glass
again. “She lived down in Knoxville, though, so we didn’t see her that often.
Most of the time my folks hired babysitters. Or left us alone. Times were
different back then.”

“Yeah. I hear you. My sister Jackie was taking care of me by
the time she was twelve. She’d cook me dinner and make sure I had my homework
done. My mom and dad were divorcing then and didn’t have time for kids when
they could scream at each other about who was the biggest shit bag and throw
out pointed Bible verses like rounds of live ammunition.”

“Wow.”

Christopher shrugged, his eyes flashing with old hurt. Jesse
felt it in his own soul too. Parents that didn’t do their job. Life that didn’t
care that it wasn’t going to plan. A past that ached like a bad tooth
sometimes.

Christopher turned to the TV and took another sip of wine
before asking, “Who’s ahead? I mean, I know who won, but at this point in the
game who’s winning?”

Jesse glanced to the screen where the score showed at the
bottom. “Steelers. 12–6. You like football?”

“It’s all right. I think I absorbed the rules by osmosis or
something, though. No one taught me,” Christopher said. “And God knows I wasn’t
any good at it. I tried, but I wasn’t an athlete.”

“You’re a musician.”

Christopher smiled at him but continued to talk about
football. “Vols fanaticism is a given in this state, isn’t it? And one of the
only things consistent between my dad’s house and my mom’s once the divorce
went through was that if there was a game, the TV was on and everyone’s
attention was on the screen.” He smiled. “It was easy for me to disappear. Be
invisible.”

Jesse looked at the screen—the jerseys, the fans, the green
of the field—and then back at Christopher. “Was that important?”

“Huh? Oh! Being invisible? Well, it depended. I guess so, yeah.”

Christopher kept his eyes on the TV but he continued
talking, and Jesse kept h
is
eyes on Christopher
because something in his gut was telling him this was important and that he
needed to pay attention now. Christopher couldn’t be invisible—not to him.

“My stepdad…well, he’s a Baptist preacher. So, yeah,
sometimes just disappearing off everyone’s radar was a blessing.”

“Was it tough to come out?”

“I feel like I’m still coming out because they don’t see it
as me being gay. They see it as me being a sinner. It’s like they don’t even
believe me, you know? It’s hard to explain. But it’s like being gay doesn’t
exist for them, just sin does. And I’m a stubborn sinner.”

“My sister-in-law is like that. Ronnie—Marcy’s older sister.
Real Bible thumper. It’s a problem.”

“I’m sorry. Has she always been that way? Or just since your
wife…”

Jesse was warmed by Christopher’s reluctance to mention
Marcy’s accident ever since that first night at the Mexican place. It was sweet
that he didn’t want to hurt him. “It started before, but there’s no doubt that
the accident exacerbated the problem. It gave her a reason to really dig in
deep with what she believes.”

“Grief does troubling things.”

“Grief’s no excuse for acting like a—” Jesse stopped
himself. “Sorry. Ronnie’s my Achilles heel. Nothing pisses me off more than
her.”

“I hear you. That’s my stepdad for me.” Christopher sighed. “I
can’t do anything right when it comes to him, and finding forgiveness for what
he’s put me through is going to be a tough nut to crack.”

Jesse leaned forward and nudged his knee against Christopher’s,
which brought a soft smile to Christopher’s face. “So, your folks are in
Knoxville still?”

“Yeah. I haven’t seen my dad in years, though. We don’t
talk. When it comes to my folks, like I said, it’s better to be off their
radar.”

Jesse nodded and took a sip of wine, watching Christopher
gulp some of his. He slid his arm along the back of the sofa and touched
Christopher’s shoulder.

Christopher turned his head and smiled. He reached up,
sliding his fingers over Jesse’s knuckles before dropping his hand again.

“If it’s not too personal…what happened if you were on their
radar?” Jesse asked, stroking gently against Christopher’s shoulder with his
fingertips.

Christopher’s lips twisted in a smirk. “Hell happened.”

The noise was involuntary and so was the rougher grip of
Jesse’s fingers. To think of anyone hurting Christopher…

Christopher smiled and shook his head. “Don’t worry. They
didn’t beat me or anything.”

“Some things are just as bad as a beating.”

“Yeah. I guess. Being told you’re filthy and will burn in
the fires of hell, constantly bombarded by dinner table prayers calling for the
cure of your ‘sickness,’ being exhorted to turn my back on the various evil
temptations of Satan, and to seek satisfaction only in Christ when all I wanted
was to be left alone long enough to figure out what it meant that I had a crush
on my biology lab partner and that he’d actually kissed me? I guess it’s not
unfair to say it was pure hell.”

Jesse sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, from what you told me the other night, it sounds like
you didn’t have it easy either. It’s gotta change. Next generation, maybe.
Hopefully they’ll be accepted and loved for who they are.”

Almost on cue there was a yell and a thud, then a door
upstairs banged open and shut, and two sets of feet thumped down the stairs.
Will and Frankie-Jones almost tumbled into the living room in their pajamas,
waving pool noodles like swords and using bed pillows as shields. Christopher
grinned as the boys fought each other in front of the television, shouts and
laughter punctuated with whaps of the noodles.

“Boys, I thought you were making forts!” Jesse shouted over
the new chaos.

“We were attacked!” Will shouted.

“By each other!” Frankie-Jones added, his pretty impressive
afro shaking with the seismic vibration of a noodle being whapped across his
face.

“I can see that.” Jesse raised his hands. “Let’s bring it
down a notch before you break something.”

Will wiped a hand across his sweaty face and then stopped
short, noticing Christopher for the first time. “Oh, hey. Mister…um, I forgot
your name?”

“Christopher. Just call me Christopher.”

“This is Frankie-Jones,” Will said, slapping his blue noodle
against Frankie-Jones’s arm. “He’s nine.”

“I’m twenty-eight,” Christopher said solemnly. “And nice to
meet you, Mr. Jones.”

“No, it’s Frankie-Jones,” the little boy corrected. “Two
first names with a dash between ‘em. My last name’s Bell. But you can call me
FJ or Frankie-Jones. Mr. Bell’s for my dad.”

“Gotcha, FJ.” Christopher’s eyes sparkled. “Looks like a
good sleepover.”

“We built forts,” Will volunteered. “And we’re battling for
the castle. Hey! You could be the bad guys. Then we don’t have to fight each
other.”

“Christopher and I are—” Jesse started.

“Actually, that sounds fun,” Christopher said, unbuttoning
the sleeves of his shirt and rolling them up. “Got any more noodles? And maybe
we should take this battle somewhere nothing will get broken. Where would that
be?”‘

Jesse looked over at him, noting the flush in his cheeks and
the glow in his eyes. “You don’t have to—I mean, I didn’t invite you over to
entertain my kids.”

“I know. But I like kids. And I haven’t had a good noodle
war in…ever.” He stood and grabbed Will’s blue noodle and jerked it out of his
hands. With a playful grin he said, “Game on!”

Will screeched in laughter, taking off toward the stairs,
screaming, “Wait, wait! I have to get more swords! Don’t start without me!”

Frankie-Jones settled into a ninja crouch, holding the
noodle-sword in front of him in a defensive posture. Christopher mimicked his
position, sticking his ass out in a way that made Jesse bite down on his bottom
lip to keep from chuckling. They eyeballed each other.

Then Christopher said earnestly, “May the Force be with you.”

Jesse cackled as their noodles slapped against each other in
crisp, clean moves. Jesse didn’t move from his position on the couch, staying
out of their way as he sipped his wine, and kept a close eye to make sure Christopher’s
nearly empty glass wouldn’t be knocked over and the lamps were safe. He stood
when Will scrambled down the stairs with two more noodles. “Let’s go out back.”

After everyone grabbed their coats and shoes, they headed
toward the back door onto the deck. From there stairs led them down to the
small patch of fenced yard carved out of the hillside before the woods and
mountain took over. Jesse paused in following them only long enough to yell
down to the basement to Brigid and the girls, “We’re out back if you need us!”

Outside, the light from the basement sliding glass door lit
up the battlefield. Inside, he could see the brown and gold tones of the movie
and the bright heads of the girls as they watched. Jesse motioned toward the
north side of the house, saying, “The base for Frankie-Jones’s and my team will
be the rocking chairs on the patio. Will and Chris, your base will be the
hammock by the basement storage door.”

“What are the rules?” Christopher asked.

“Hitting only with the noodles, no hands, feet, elbows, or knees.”

“How do we win?”

“First team to steal the other team’s base wins.”

“I’m ready,” Christopher said, whapping his noodle on the
ground for emphasis. “You ready, Will?”

“Ready, Mr. Chris.”

“Cool. Let’s get ‘em.”

Jesse didn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so hard.
Darkness and the cold night air rushed all around as they ran and pushed and
grappled, as the kids screeched, and Christopher bellowed and laughed. The kids
were still in their pajamas underneath their coats, but even with their breath
puffing into the night around them, no one seemed cold in the melee, both teams
sweating for the victory.