the
mismatched cobblestones of Faneuil Hall, and summer finds the city opening like
a flower or an eager college girl. No place appreciates the summer like Boston,
because Boston knows in its bones what the alternative is.
Alabama seemed to take its warm days for
granted, and he found that he was slowly beginning to do so, too. But when he
had lived in Boston he had made every one of them count. Cracking open
lobsters at Elliott’s on the waterfront during a sweltering day in July,
watching the street performers draw awed crowds, his laughing and then daintily
sipping his lemonade through a straw.
Awful right field seats in Fenway, paying $7
for weak beer after weak beer, watching the game with his upper body turned
toward him as the seats required, catching the faintest hint of sweetness from
his hair and the shampoo he used. Feeling out of place at his favorite brunch
spot in Cambridge, filled with its ranks of alternative, hipster types and
their ubiquitous piercings and mismatched outfits, but feeling that awkwardness
melt away as he found him smiling not with disdain at his Charlestown accent
and stories of his youth, but with the doe-eyed gaze of someone as enamored
with him as he was with Elliott. He had loved the city then, loved every one of
its dive bars and hole-in-the-wall restaurants, the Green Line and the party
buses, the vagrants and the belligerent drunks. He had loved it as a part of
loving him but he would never be tied with the city from this point forward in
his mind.
He could never go back.
He could still remember it so freshly in his
mind. Even though it had been three years since that fateful day. He’d come home
after a long day of exams. He had been so exhausted. All he wanted was to
curl up in bed with Elliott and watch movies, or just talk. It didn’t matter,
because anything with Elliott was surely better than the stress he had to go
through with school.
He unlocked the front door with his cherished
key and stepped inside, rubbing at the back of his neck as he sighed. He
tossed his keys onto the table that was positioned conveniently there at the
entrance, and then he shrugged out of his jacket, putting it on the coat rack
as Elliott always preferred before he moved into the kitchen for a glass of
lemonade.
He’d kicked off his shoes near the beginning of
the hallway, which Elliott would scold him for but he could move them later.
Right now he just wanted their bed, and Elliott’s arms around him. He traveled
down the hallway and reached for the door knob, but he stopped when he heard a
giggle. A very feminine giggle. His heart froze inside of his chest,
becoming a heavy, painful lump of devastation.
Elliott was known for the occasional
comedy-romance, so maybe it was just the television. But then there was a moan ,
and Rowan’s blood ran cold. Oh, God. No. Please no. Though when he
pushed the door open, his sudden fears were confirmed. Elliott was tangled up
in the sheets with a young, very attractive red head. She was arching her
back, her nails digging into Elliott’s upper back as he slammed his hips into
hers.
Rowan stood there for several seconds, mouth
agape, and tears glistening in his eyes as he tried to take it all in.
“Oh, fuck. Right there, Baby. You know how I
like it,” She purred like a kitten. A very disgusting, red haired, home-wrecking
kitten.
“Oh, yeah. I know,” Elliott was growling as he
gripped the head board, slamming into her again. They probably wouldn’t have
known he was there, but the shattering of the glass as it hit the floor,
sending lemonade everywhere made Elliott’s head snap up and he froze. He’d
been caught. The red head let out a small gasp, her eyes nearly bulging out of
her head when she met Rowan’s furious gaze. She was like a deer caught in
headlights, not even being dignified enough to cover her
mismatched cobblestones of Faneuil Hall, and summer finds the city opening like
a flower or an eager college girl. No place appreciates the summer like Boston,
because Boston knows in its bones what the alternative is.
Alabama seemed to take its warm days for
granted, and he found that he was slowly beginning to do so, too. But when he
had lived in Boston he had made every one of them count. Cracking open
lobsters at Elliott’s on the waterfront during a sweltering day in July,
watching the street performers draw awed crowds, his laughing and then daintily
sipping his lemonade through a straw.
Awful right field seats in Fenway, paying $7
for weak beer after weak beer, watching the game with his upper body turned
toward him as the seats required, catching the faintest hint of sweetness from
his hair and the shampoo he used. Feeling out of place at his favorite brunch
spot in Cambridge, filled with its ranks of alternative, hipster types and
their ubiquitous piercings and mismatched outfits, but feeling that awkwardness
melt away as he found him smiling not with disdain at his Charlestown accent
and stories of his youth, but with the doe-eyed gaze of someone as enamored
with him as he was with Elliott. He had loved the city then, loved every one of
its dive bars and hole-in-the-wall restaurants, the Green Line and the party
buses, the vagrants and the belligerent drunks. He had loved it as a part of
loving him but he would never be tied with the city from this point forward in
his mind.
He could never go back.
He could still remember it so freshly in his
mind. Even though it had been three years since that fateful day. He’d come home
after a long day of exams. He had been so exhausted. All he wanted was to
curl up in bed with Elliott and watch movies, or just talk. It didn’t matter,
because anything with Elliott was surely better than the stress he had to go
through with school.
He unlocked the front door with his cherished
key and stepped inside, rubbing at the back of his neck as he sighed. He
tossed his keys onto the table that was positioned conveniently there at the
entrance, and then he shrugged out of his jacket, putting it on the coat rack
as Elliott always preferred before he moved into the kitchen for a glass of
lemonade.
He’d kicked off his shoes near the beginning of
the hallway, which Elliott would scold him for but he could move them later.
Right now he just wanted their bed, and Elliott’s arms around him. He traveled
down the hallway and reached for the door knob, but he stopped when he heard a
giggle. A very feminine giggle. His heart froze inside of his chest,
becoming a heavy, painful lump of devastation.
Elliott was known for the occasional
comedy-romance, so maybe it was just the television. But then there was a moan ,
and Rowan’s blood ran cold. Oh, God. No. Please no. Though when he
pushed the door open, his sudden fears were confirmed. Elliott was tangled up
in the sheets with a young, very attractive red head. She was arching her
back, her nails digging into Elliott’s upper back as he slammed his hips into
hers.
Rowan stood there for several seconds, mouth
agape, and tears glistening in his eyes as he tried to take it all in.
“Oh, fuck. Right there, Baby. You know how I
like it,” She purred like a kitten. A very disgusting, red haired, home-wrecking
kitten.
“Oh, yeah. I know,” Elliott was growling as he
gripped the head board, slamming into her again. They probably wouldn’t have
known he was there, but the shattering of the glass as it hit the floor,
sending lemonade everywhere made Elliott’s head snap up and he froze. He’d
been caught. The red head let out a small gasp, her eyes nearly bulging out of
her head when she met Rowan’s furious gaze. She was like a deer caught in
headlights, not even being dignified enough to cover her
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