Page 67 of Sweet T

“I should warn you,” Tucker said, joining him on the lowest step. Only his head was exposed. “Mosquitoes are bad this time of year. Anything above the water is fair game.”

“My flesh is foul. Soured from the artist pen.”

“Is that a line from the play?”

“No.” Evan chuckled, sipping cool beer from his cup. “But it sounds like it, doesn’t it? Sorry. Affectation again. Another variant—inflating regular conversation as if you were onstage. Sorry.”

“I don’t mind. I’m intrigued. How do you do it?” Tucker scooted up another step to where they were at eye level. “I mean, I know you have to memorize lines and... emote—if that’s the right word.”

“It is.”

“I just can’t imagine doing it in front of so many people.”

“I used to be self-conscious. But onstage, you can be anyone you want.”

“How? I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“You have to face your fears head-on. Embrace them, turn them into emotional energy. As far as memorizing, it’s not as hard as you think. Shakespeare is easier for me because of the cadence—the rhythm of it all. You’re going to help me, by the way. With running lines.”

Tucker turned away. “I’ll only slow you down.”

“No, you won’t.” Evan reached out with a wet hand, turning Tucker’s face back to make eye contact. “I’ll teach you.”

As he said this, Evan’s mind went back to their conversation in the car. Only now, it was his own words taking on a different meaning.

Tucker’s expression had transformed from Evan’s touch, yearning. He leaned closer, his face still in Evan’s palm.

Evan could feel the sandpaper roughness of Tucker’s jaw in his hand, his pinky brushing the pulse of an artery on Tucker’s neck below. And, as he looked into Tucker’s deep brown eyes, he felt what little willpower he possessed seeping out of him, drawn and dispersed into the warm water surrounding them. He wanted to speak, but his tongue wouldn’t cooperate, as if it had gone to sleep, dormant and lifeless in his mouth. He pursed his lips instead, moving in, but Tucker raised a finger to them.

“Shh,” he said, eyes off to the left. “We’re being watched.”

* * *

Once they were dry and inside, the moment was gone. Evan even wondered if his mind had been playing tricks on him, that maybe he was misinterpreting the whole scenario.

Tucker emerged from the bedroom in pajama bottoms and a clean t-shirt. “See, I told you it was as good as taking a shower.”

“And you’re sure they were watching us?”

“Relax. I saw the curtain move. They were probably just closing the blinds. They’re not pervs, I promise.”

“I don’t think that at all. It was just a little unnerving.”

“Now you know why I suggested swimsuits. It’s too far away for them to see anything, except us being near each other. That’s all.”

OK, Evan thought. Maybe I wasn’t imagining things.

Tucker went to the linen closet outside the bathroom and removed sheets, a blanket, and a pillow. He tossed them on the sofa.

“Thank you.”

“Those are mine. You’re in the bedroom, remember?”

“Not anymore. Look at me, Tucker. My bruises are fading. I haven’t taken so much as an aspirin today. I’m fine. I’m not kicking you out of your bedroom anymore. I sleep out here.”

Tucker leapt over the sofa and landed on it, reclining. “Too late. I call it. You’ll have to sleep somewhere else. May I suggest the bed?”

“You’re aggravating, you know it? At least, share it with me. It’s a king-sized bed. I’m tiny, and I promise to stay on my side.”