The Quarterback by Tal Bauer
Chapter Twelve
Nick woke up slightly hungover,and he was bleary and quiet through breakfast, then tight-lipped and wound up as they drove to meet his attorney. She was a beautiful woman, slender and elfin, her dark hair perfectly spun into an elegant French bun. Her name was Francesca de los Santos, and her voice was perfectly calm and soothing. Colton watched Nick relax, micron by micron, as she walked them through what to expect at the final hearing. If she was surprised by Colton being there, she didn’t show it.
The divorce hearing went faster than Colton thought it would. Both lawyers spoke. Nick and his ex both stated they wanted the divorce and that they agreed to the terms. The judge listened and then issued the divorce, declaring their marriage, as of that day, legally over. Nick didn’t look at his ex once, and when the hearing was finished, he, Francesca, and Colton strode out of the courtroom and out of the courthouse as fast as they could. Nick shook Francesca’s hand on the steps and then turned his face up to the sun. He closed his eyes. Exhaled.
He gave his keys to Colton. “Why don’t you drive us home?”
When Nick fell asleep half an hour into the drive, Colton turned down the radio. He’d put on the Spotify mix he’d made for Nick, but he hadn’t said anything, hadn’t told Nick the playlist was for him. He let it play, let the music try to say all the things he couldn’t as the miles blurred.
There was something else Colton had put together for Nick that he hadn’t told Nick about, either.
He’d woken early. He wasn’t going to wake up in come-stained boxers in front of Nick, damn it. He set his alarm and woke two hours early in case he needed to shower or change or hide his sheets. He didn’t, thank fuck. His dreams stayed tame, and though he and Nick spent the night driving up and down the roads of Texas, holding hands like the lovesick fools he dreamed they were, and Nick kept saying, It’s so much better with you and I’m never alone with you, Colton, he didn’t end up creaming himself. Small miracles. He’d used the time that morning to finish Nick’s playlist.
And then he thought back, remembering his and Nick’s conversations from the days they’d spent together. I don’t want to be in the past. I only want to think about the future.
He could give Nick a day to start that future, hopefully, with a smile. He’d pulled up Google Maps, checked the drive times. The only thing he couldn’t figure out was how to get Nick there and keep the whole thing a surprise, but when Nick handed him the keys, that solved that problem.
Nick slept through the rest of the drive, only stirring after Colton had made the westward turn at Georgetown onto Highway 29. Nick blinked as he stared at the road. “Where are we?”
Colton checked his map. “An hour away.”
“From where?”
“Where I’m taking you.”
“That sounds ominous. Am I being kidnapped?”
Colton looked at Nick and almost drove off the road. Nick’s hand flew to the dash. “Sorry,” Colton grunted. He’d gotten lost in Nick’s gaze. “Do you trust me?”
“After that?” Nick chuckled. “Well, maybe I shouldn’t, but I do. But please, this isn’t some midlife-crisis thing, is it? Making me bungee jump or get an ear piercing? Or a tattoo?”
“I can’t see you doing any of those things. I know you, and none of that is you.”
Nick smiled. “You know me, huh?”
His heart skipped three beats. “I hope I do. I guess we’ll find out in an hour.”
“I guess we will.”
Fifty-nine minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of one of the best wineries and tasting rooms in all of Texas. The Porsche rumbled over the caliche parking lot, and he parked beneath a shade tree, facing the winery’s dramatic, castle-like entrance. Vineyards spilled over the surrounding hillsides, extending for miles in all directions. The sun was shining, turning the bunches of grapes on the vines into clusters of fat rubies and black diamonds.
It was perfect. A day out of a fairy tale. He cut the engine.
Nick stared. His jaw had fallen open as Colton drove up, and he hadn’t breathed once.
“You said you wanted to go,” Colton said softly. “You said you never got a chance.” He shrugged. “Why not now? It can be something you can remember well, not something you have to throw away.”
Nick turned to him slowly, like his head wasn’t attached to his neck. He was still taking everything in, his gaze bouncing over the winery, the vineyards, back to the tasting room, out to the patio clustered with couples. Finally, looked Colton dead in the eyes. “Colton…”
He hates it. This was stupid. He was thinking about taking a woman here when he starts to date again. This is obviously a date, obviously romantic, and I fucked up.
He fiddled with the keys. Turned them over in his lap. “We can leave, if you don’t want to do this.”
“No,” Nick breathed. “This is perfect.” He reached across the console—like his dreams, like his fucking dreams, just like this, one of them reaching for the other—and squeezed Colton’s hand. “You do know me.”
He wanted to turn his hand over, tangle their fingers together. Wanted to tug Nick to him, press their lips together like they did in his dreams when they drove out to the edge of a lake and watched the sunset. He’d kissed Nick across his center console—like this, just like this—so many times he knew how the leather would sound when he shifted, when Nick shifted, when they leaned in.
But he didn’t, and Nick didn’t. Nick, instead, climbed out of the car. The door slammed behind him, leaving Colton alone, staring at the empty space Nick had left behind.
He hauled himself out and followed Nick to the tasting room, fixing a smile across his face. He was happy, really. He was with Nick, and that was the only place he wanted to be.
They sat at the bar, shoulder touching shoulder, and ordered three different wine flights and two cheese boards. Nick talked nonstop, telling him about this vintage or that, what grapes went into what wine, how long each took to make. What was a blend, what was a varietal. He taught Colton how to swirl each glass, how to let the wine breathe. How to describe the bouquet and the flavors. Told him which wines were full of tannins and which were fruit forward. Which ones were bitter and which were sweet. Which were thick and heavy on the tongue and which were light as a kiss.
One of the attendants came to check on them after an hour. “Teaching your son about wine?” he asked Nick.
“Nah,” Nick said. He knocked back the last of one of the tastings, swallowing it in one gulp rather than dumping it into the reservoir he’d told Colton was there specifically to pour old tastings into. “He’s not my son.” He rested his hand on Colton’s lower back.
“Oh!” The attendant’s eyes went wide. “I’m sorry. My mistake.” He launched into his sales pitch, stumbling through describing the wine Nick had just downed like a shot. He disappeared and reappeared with a split of sweet summer red for them and popped it open, saying, “On the house. Enjoy.” And then he vanished, walking away so fast Colton almost saw colors bend behind him.
Nick bumped Colton’s uninjured shoulder with his own. He chuckled into another small taster, then reached for the complimentary bottle. It was one of the wines Colton had really liked. He’d liked Nick’s description of it, too, and how his cheeks were flushed and his eyes were bright and he talked with his hands. How his shoulder had become a comfortable weight against Colton, and how they kept looking into each other’s eyes as the afternoon bled on.
He’s not my son. That was true, but was it also… true? Was Nick saying something else?
Nick poured a glass and handed it to him. Their fingers brushed. Colton held his stare as he took a sip. Take his hand. It’s so close. It’s right there, on the counter. You could touch his fingers if you barely reached out. He was building his courage incrementally, fortified by summer red, as Nick popped honey-smothered brie and fresh peach slices into his mouth, when their phones buzzed. Nick whipped his out like it was in a quick-draw holster, beaming down at the screen as he chewed.
Colton loved his best friend, and he loved Justin, too, but damn. They had the worst fucking timing.
They sent awesome photos, though. This time, Wes had snapped a picture of Justin practicing his dance moves. Justin was shirtless and in profile in Wes’s truck bed, and Wes must have taken the photo while sitting on the ground and looking up, nothing but big blue sky behind Justin. Justin was up on one foot, his other leg straight out behind him, arms outstretched, all of him looking long and lean and hard. His muscles were carved from granite, as firm as Wes had ever looked, though not as bulky. His jeans were low on his hips, showing off his defined hip bones and what looked like a new, ripped six-pack. He was tan, too, burnished bronze from weeks in the West Texas sun. His hair was pulled back in a messy French braid, loose strands blowing in the wind.
He looked like a work of art.
Nick’s jaw fell. His eyes boggled, and he looked from the screen to Colton and then back. “Holy shit.”
“Wow. He looks great.”
Nick hearted the photo right away. He seemed to struggle, though, with what to text. Stunning, he finally typed. You look amazing. That’s a gorgeous photo.
Thanks, Justin texted. He sent a heart. Ballet in the truck is different than ballet at the barre. Laughing emoji.
You look perfect doing both. Wes, dive-bombing the conversation with love for Justin. Colton grinned. He should pull out his phone. Text back. Pretend he and Nick weren’t side by side in a winery, of all places.
But then Nick pulled up his camera and said, “Smile,” and he snapped a photo of him and Colton together doing exactly what Colton had just thought they shouldn’t admit they were doing. In the photo, Colton had tipped his head toward Nick’s like he was with his damn girlfriend—boyfriend—and both of their faces were flushed, smiles stretching their cheeks as wide as they would go.
Nick sent the photo to the group chat before Colton could say, “Wait, let’s redo that.”
The response was immediate. Justin texted You guys are together right now??? Where are you??
At a winery, Nick texted. We’re having a great time.
You know wine, bro?Wes sent the laughing emoji this time.
He does! Nick, defending him. Jesus, he needed to pull out his phone, get in on the conversation. Or, he does now. :)
OMG are you guys actually hanging out? Dad, are you playing PlayStation with Colton still? Justin sent three lines of laughing emojis, like it was the funniest thing he’d ever imagined, the two of them becoming friends.
Nick snorted. He bit his lip. Didn’t text back right away.
Colton knew what he wanted to text. We hang out all the time. I’m living with your dad. I dream about him every night. I imagine kissing him every hour of every day. Wes, can you teach me how to suck dick? I want to, but I’m afraid I’m going to suck at it. Excuse the pun. I’ve never wanted to before, and I don’t have any idea what to do.
Of course, he didn’t really need to learn how to suck a dick. Nick wasn’t going to let him suck his cock, and if it wasn’t Nick’s dick, he wasn’t interested. I’m not gay, but if the right guy comes along…
I’m level 5000 in Halo, Nick finally texted. Colton’s coaching me to join a pro team.I’m looking for a career change.
He wasn’t, and Colton wasn’t. Level five thousand didn’t even exist. But it was the right thing to say, and both Justin and Wes sent back laugh emojis. Hello midlife crisis, Justin teased. Nick texted three hearts, and then he slid his phone into his pocket.
Wes, is this what it felt like all those years?He watched Nick’s profile: the hard, straight line of his nose, the bow of his lips, the sharpness of his jaw. Watched his throat move as he sipped his wine. Watched his eyes flutter closed. Is this how it feels to want something so fucking badly you ache for it? But you can’t have it, and you can’t reach out, and you can’t even admit that you want what you want? That you’re dying inside with every heartbeat, but you can’t stop this yearning? Is this what it feels like?
