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The question is, can I do it?
I’ve been an epic dick to my friends, my uncle. Him.
Travis Hunter. Photographer, econ-student, paraplegic. Can I redeem myself? Apologize? Make a fresh start?
Hunter seems to think so. Even roped me into saving his favorite gazebo from the bulldozers.
The confidence of this man amazes me. He’s no bullshit where I’m all bullshit. I throw up walls where he knocks them down.
He’s beautiful, too. Strong arms inked with hummingbirds, a wide teasing mouth, and blue eyes that read me like an open book.
He looks at me, and I look away.
These shivery feelings I have for Hunter? They can’t happen. I don’t deserve him.
Where did I put those Cheetos?
Content warning:
References of past homophobic violence, mentions of the Vietnam War and the draft
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Our faces were an inch apart and I braced my damp palms on his chair.
His fingers picked up an object from inside the chair and tugged my left breast pocket.
“What do you think?” Hunter said.
“About your eyes lingering on my crotch?”
“About the boutonniere.” He winked, dropping his fingers from me. “I already know what you think about my eyes lingering on your crotch.”
I flustered and stood upright. A light red carnation. I hadn’t been serious about Hunter bringing me a corsage. Or a boutonniere.
My cheeks burned holding the freaking smile on my face. “I wasn’t serious about bringing one of these.”
“You weren’t, maybe. I am.”
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