Ten years ago.
It’s spring, and the school year is spiraling fast toward summer, catching Lance up in the whirlwind delight of knowing that long, empty months with no homework are just ahead. He hated summertime before Danny and the Chases came into his life, but now it’s his favorite time of year. The long days melt into cool, clear nights, and some kind of magic spell keeps his father from noticing when Lance doesn’t come home for days.
But this summer is going to be new in other ways, too, because Lance is changing. Since spring, he’s abruptly grown five inches without gaining a pound, leaving him thinner than ever. He can basically wrap the old belt of Johnny’s twice around his waist, and has to keep it cinched tight or the jeans that are long enough to cover his ankles won’t stay up.
And that’s not all. He’s got three dark hairs on his chest, and his voice has gotten rough and scratchy.
And that’s not all, either. He’s been having a certain kind of dream.
Lance isn’t totally naive. He knows this sudden rebellion of his mind and body, this new awareness of his own skin and total inability to control his random and inconvenient erections, is all normal. He’s maybe a hair ahead of schedule, but there are boys his age who are further down this path. Of course, there are also boys his age who aren’t on the path at all—who may not even have the path in sight—like Danny, who’s now the shortest boy in their grade and still has the narrow chin and big, glaring eyes of the eight-year-old who first sat next to Lance on the bus almost five years before.
What’s not normal, Lance also knows, is that the main trigger for all of Lance’s new, riotous hormones seems to be his best friend’s much older brother.
In addition to finding himself staring and blushing around Robbie all the time, he also has to be careful that he doesn’t smell Robbie’s jacket when he walks past the coat hooks on the porch, or let their hands touch when Robbie hands him a glass of water at dinner. Or look at the vee in the collar of Robbie’s shirt where a few dark hairs curl. Or, or, or. If he does any of the things on that growing list, he has to clamp his hands over his lap and get out of sight as fast as possible.
And at night, he feels the worst kind of shame when he grinds against the blankets of his bed, face pressed into his arm and pillow, praying his father won’t hear him—and the only thing that can push him past the horrible pressure and into a half-painful release is the thought of Robbie. Not even Robbie’s nakedness, which he doesn’t know how to imagine, or even his touch or kiss, which would be incomprehensible. Just his smell and his laugh and his outline, and even the way he walks. All of the details that Lance has been storing up for years, as though he’s accidentally calibrated himself to only want Robbie in this, the most hopeless of ways.
On the third day of summer, grade cards come in the mail. Parents can check them on the computer, too, but Lance’s father doesn’t have a computer, and the beginning and end of his effort around Lance’s education is to grudgingly enroll him in school every summer, despite the inconvenience of going by the school at the appointed time.
He’s either forgotten Lance gets grades or he doesn’t care, and the latter is much more likely than the former. Whatever the reason, Lance tucks his grade card into his back pocket and runs for the creek without bothering to tell his father it came.
The Chases fish during summer afternoons when it’s too hot for Robbie and Johnny to work the horses. Fishing with them is one of Lance’s favorite things—especially when it comes to riding in the back of the truck, bumping slowly over the pasture grass, until they reach the shaded banks of one of the ponds, or walking up the creek to one of the quiet pools that feed it.
Today, though, they’re going to the reservoir, and Johnny and Danny even talked Robbie into bringing the rowboat. When they get there, Robbie starts casting into the shaded water near the dock by the boat launch, and Lance casually offers to stay with him while Johnny and Danny take out the boat.
That’s how he finds himself sitting on the rocky shore next to Robbie, his shoes and socks off and his jeans rolled up, and his feet stretched into the cool water. For some reason, all he can think about is how badly he wants to show Robbie his grades.
He got straight A’s, which is even better than Danny, who argues too much in Phys-Ed and can’t make better than a B-minus.
Lance is trying to think of a way to bring up his grade card when Robbie turns with a smile and asks, “Hey, did your grades come? We got the boys’ this morning.”
Lance nods and sticks his fishing pole between his knees, already reaching into his pocket. The folded paper is kind of damp from sitting on the bank, but not too bad. Robbie takes it, still smiling, and then sets down his own pole, resting a foot on it to keep it from going anywhere as he unfolds the paper with care.
As Robbie studies the page, Lance can’t look away. He has the strangest urge to look over Robbie’s shoulder, like maybe he read the card wrong the first time. Maybe there’s something he missed, and actually it’s a bad report card, or—
Robbie slides his arm around Lance’s shoulders and gives him a little shake. The sight of his grin is like stepping out of the shade and into broad daylight. “Aw, Lance. This is amazing, buddy. I’m really proud of you.”
Lance’s heart seems to actually stop. His breath hitches so hard, he makes a little gasping sound. Robbie’s smile fades, eyes concerned. Then, searching Lance’s face, he squeezes his shoulder gently. “You know that, right?” he asks softly. “You know I’m really proud of you?”
All Lance knows is the fury of his blush—it burns, like that time he got too close to the campfire and singed his eyebrows. He shakes his head mutely, throat dry and tight.
Robbie takes a deep breath, scooting closer and holding Lance against his side. Then, he puts his face down against Lance’s head. A kiss, Lance realizes faintly, lost somewhere in the tumble of his curls.
“Well, I am proud of you. And I love you, okay, kid? If you didn’t know that already, too.”
And that’s how they sit, fishing poles more or less forgotten, Lance paralyzed by how much he wants it never to end—Robbie’s arm around him, Robbie’s hand cupping his shoulder, Robbie’s chest against Lance’s cheek. But when Johnny and Danny bring the boat back around close enough that Lance can hear them bickering playfully with each other, Robbie gives his shoulder a last squeeze, unwinds his arm, and reaches for his pole.
“Mind if I keep this?” He tucks the paper, refolded now, into the breast pocket of his pearl snap shirt and winks. “I want it for the fridge.”
All Lance can do is nod. And then, to complete the miracle of the afternoon, there’s a jerk on his line. He’s hooked a fish.
Now.
Lance sits cross-legged on the floor, looking at the calf. She’s about the size of a small Labrador, and her big, liquid brown eyes are framed by ridiculously long, inky-black eyelashes that curl. Her nose is a wrinkled black triangle, her ears big and silky. He’s starting to understand why people use calves as a metaphor for cuteness. He’s never seen anything more precious than her face. The thought that she might die overwhelms him.
She seems to be watching him back, aware of his attention, although she’s motionless except for the occasional sweep of her eyelashes when she blinks. He wonders if this is normal newborn animal behavior for creatures that evolved as prey. If she were curled in the grass while her mother left her to graze, a predator like him could brush past, and if she didn’t move, he might never know she was there. It’s a comfort to think that her stillness doesn’t necessarily mean she’s sick.
Lance is almost too hot while sitting this close to the wood stove, which makes him worry about the calf. But when he runs his hands all the way down her body over the towel, he can tell her body is still too cool.
From where he sits, it’s easy to stare out the big window over the bed. The snow makes the day outside look bright even through the clouds. It’s like the Earth has the same muted glow from above and below, and the trees are low-burning candles.
He catches sight of the folder that Tim gave him, sitting on top of the dresser in the sleeping area. His stomach instantly knots at the reminder of that stack of documents and the hearing date on the citation, which says he needs to be at the courthouse on Wednesday at one o’clock. How is he supposed to travel in this weather back to town for his hearing? He guesses he’ll have to ask Robbie to drive him, and that might also mean the end of this strange dance they’ve been engaged in, where they pretend Lance is just here for a visit and don’t ask one another any difficult questions.
Before Lance can stew any longer, the door opens and Robbie comes in, stomping the snow off his boots. The floorboards around the doorway really need to be tiled over, or at least sealed, Lance thinks absently while he watches Robbie emerge from the cocoon of coat and coveralls. He’s holding an old metal coffee can protectively against his chest, like it’s full of gold.
“Any luck?” Lance asks in a hushed voice, as if he’s trying not to wake a baby, even though the calf is a calf, not a human infant, and she’s not even asleep.
“Well, she didn’t break my legs kicking me,” Robbie says, and then grins ruefully. “Just bruised me some.”
Lance’s eyes widen in alarm. “Are you okay?” He’s forgotten to whisper, and he’s halfway to his feet before Robbie’s voice stops him.
“I’m just kidding,” he says hurriedly. “Sorry. Don’t worry about me.”
Lance settles slowly back down to the floor, then scoots a little closer to the calf so that he can reach inside the towel she’s wrapped in and stroke her side. He can feel her ribs through her coat, which is already mostly dry.
Robbie goes to the kitchen, washes his hands, and opens and closes a drawer. When he comes back, he has his coffee can, which is maybe a quarter full of pale liquid, and a small dish rag. He gets down on the floor opposite Lance, sets his supplies carefully to one side, and finally pulls the calf’s head and shoulders up into his lap.
Lance rests his chin on his knee, watching with fascination as Robbie’s large, gentle hands move—one cupping the calf’s jaw, his thumb coaxing down her jaw. With his other hand, Robbie makes a point out of one corner of the rag and dunks it in the milk. Then he puts the wet cloth against the cup of her tongue.
The calf’s eyelashes flutter and she struggles in Robbie’s grip, but weakly. He holds her firmly, rubbing the cloth against her tongue. When she doesn’t seem to get the hint, he slides his thumb down her tongue beside the cloth.
That does the trick. Her eyes go wide and she abruptly clamps her mouth closed around his thumb and the rag, then begins sucking aggressively. Robbie laughs and winces at the same time, tugging free of her mouth after a few seconds.
“Good girl.” He dips the rag in the milk again and repeats the process.
By the time he’s wrung the last of the can’s contents into her mouth, the calf seems exhausted again. Her eyes drift closed. She makes a tiny, contented mooing sound as she lowers her head, draping her neck over Robbie’s thigh. He and Lance’s eyes meet; they share identical smiles.
“I think I love her,” Lance blurts in a whisper.
Robbie breathes out a laugh. He rubs the calf’s neck with his splayed fingers. “She’s definitely a cute little thing,” he murmurs in agreement.
Robbie and Lance pet her another moment, ruffling her coat, moving their hands in intersecting circles without touching one another. Then, Robbie rearranges her towel nest a bit and slides her back into it. She is as boneless as a plush toy, eyes firmly closed now. Lance positions her legs in a way that looks a little more comfortable, though he’s mostly guessing since he doesn’t have four legs and he’s pretty sure all of the joints on the two he does have are in different places.
“Can I ask you something?”
Lance looks up abruptly. He hadn’t realized Robbie was watching him, and now that he does, his hands slow, lingering on the roundness of the calf’s little ankles, the absurdly tiny points of her cloven hooves. “Yes,” he says without thinking, and then immediately wishes he hadn’t, considering all of the things Robbie could ask that Lance really, really wouldn’t want to answer.
For a split second, Robbie looks unsure, like he’s changed his mind and isn’t going to ask. Then, he seems to steel himself, and Lance’s dread triples at whatever he’s about to say.
“Did you go to school?”
For a moment, Lance just stares. Then, the breaking tension rushes through him and carries with it the urge to laugh. He manages to smile instead. “You mean, college?”
Robbie nods.
“Yeah. I did it in three years, to save money. I had some scholarships, but there were still so many expenses. And my aunt said she didn’t mind paying, but I didn’t want her to—well, I didn’t want her to have to worry about it.” He shrugs uneasily. I didn’t want to be a burden, he doesn’t say. He had been a burden on his aunt, but he’s come to terms with the fact that it wasn’t something he could help at the time. Now, Lance tries not to bother her if he can help it. He already derailed her life for two years when he abruptly showed up at her doorstep at sixteen, practically a runaway.
“What did you major in?”
These questions seem strange, until Lance is revisited by a series of vibrant memories. Robbie overseeing his brothers’ homework at the dining room table in the farmhouse, asking detailed questions about school projects and follow-ups to the answers; Robbie doing half of their required reading along with them; Robbie snagging Danny’s textbooks when he finished studying for an evening and reading from them like other people read pulp fiction.
Robbie had loved school, and he probably would have loved college, too. Lance already knows that Robbie never went. His dad died his senior year of high school, and he stepped in to take care of his brothers and the ranch. Lance has always known the bare bones of that part of Chase history, but as a kid, he hadn’t dwelled on how hard that would have been for Robbie. How young eighteen really was.
“I majored in film studies, and also in photography.” He’s braced for comments on the impracticality, but instead of disapproving, Robbie looks both impressed and mystified, like Lance has just told him he has a PhD from MIT or something.
“Two degrees?”
Lance nods shyly.
“So, you take photographs?”
“Well.” Lance pulls his knees tighter against his chest. “Yeah, but I haven’t sold much yet. For work, I wound up on the other side of the lens…you know.” He shrugs uncomfortably. Talking about modeling always makes him feel vaguely itchy, especially since what happened with Niall.
“‘The other side of the lens’?” Robbie echoes, making it a question.
Lance realizes, with mixed feelings that range from hurt to amusement, that Robbie has never searched Lance’s name on the internet.
“I’ve done some modeling.”
“Oh.” Robbie’s eyes are a little wide, and it seems like he’s having a hard time not letting them drift over Lance, as though knowing Lance makes a living out of being looked at makes Robbie want to look, as well. “I, well. That makes sense.” He clears his throat. Lance’s lips twitch with the effort not to grin as a wash of dark red appears in the line of skin above Robbie’s beard and below his cheekbones. “I mean, you’re—” He gestures at Lance, then clears his throat again and picks up the coffee can, fumbling it at first so that its metal bottom rattles against the floorboards until he gets a good grip and pushes himself off the floor with his other hand. “You’re really…well.”
It’s like the moment in the kitchen that morning with the spilled coffee, all over again. Awareness of the energy between them rushes through Lance, and he has that irrepressible urge to—perform. He stretches his legs in front of him but keeps his feet flat on the floor, easing back on his hands. Not quite a pose, and yet he knows exactly how it makes him look. Just like he knows that when he holds his chin down at this precise angle, then looks up—
Robbie staggers backward a half-step, dropping the can and then catching it in his other hand with remarkable dexterity. They stare at each other, Robbie breathing heavily and his eyes aglow, Lance trembling with the effort to contain the undeterred yearning that ate him alive between the ages of thirteen and sixteen. Maybe it’s never stopped eating at him at all.
“I’m gonna wash up,” Robbie mutters, his voice as rough as gravel under snow tires. He strides the short distance to the kitchen, drops the can in the sink, and then leans over the counter with his back to Lance, his shoulders high and tight, his head slung low between them.