You, With a View(62)

Tonight, after you dropped me off at home, I decided that I’m going to let myself be happy right now. I’m going to do this for me, for you, and not concern myself with what ifs or the future.

I’m telling you this so that if I start worrying or making lists, you can help me push it aside. Right here and now is exactly where I want to be.

Yours in this moment,

Kat





Twenty-One





If Theo and I don’t have sex soon, I’m going to lose it.

We spend one more night at the Zion Airbnb. With Paul just down the hall and us exposed in the living room, we’re too paranoid to get into a situation we can’t easily extract ourselves from. The trauma for all would be lasting and complete.

Still, it’s hard to hold back, and we have to keep reminding each other not to take it too far that night when we’re tangled up in bed together.

“Fuck, I want you,” Theo breathes into the dark. He presses his cheek to mine as his hand makes magic between my legs. “We have hotel rooms in Bryce, right?”

I nod, too close to formulate words.

“Good. Tomorrow you’re mine, Shepard,” he whispers, catching my mouth with his to muffle my quiet moan as I come.

We spend Saturday exploring Bryce Canyon, and I endure endless glancing touches from Theo while Paul isn’t looking. Somehow I make it through our late dinner with Theo’s knee pressed meaningfully against mine, but I drag myself back to my room—which is next door to Theo and Paul’s—completely dickmatized. I have Zion pictures to edit, a highly requested TikTok of Gram and Paul photos to upload, and DMs and comments to answer, but as soon as I’m done, Theo better make good on his promise.

But fate is clearly conspiring against us. That, and Best Western. The walls separating our rooms may as well not be there. I hear Paul and Theo’s humming conversation as if I’m in the room with them, and all the plans I had go up in smoke. There’s no way we’re getting up to anything if there’s a chance Paul could hear.

I’d be lying if I said I don’t shed a frustrated tear or two, but it turns into reluctant amusement when Theo texts me later, after I’ve changed into my pajamas.

What are you wearing?

I reply: Did you hear me unzipping my suitcase?

Actually yes, comes his swift response. These walls are made of fucking paper.

Uh, yeah. So much for our plans tonight.

ALL our plans? We can still have some plans. We had plans in Zion.

I snort, typing: Paul was down a long ass hallway and we were quiet. We’re talking inches here.

Yes we are. Eight of them.

My laugh echoes around my room. His comes when I text: Of course you’ve measured your dick.

That’s an eyeball estimate, but you tell me.

I would never give you that satisfaction.

Still, when Theo knocks softly on my door later, I let him inside. Let him press me against the wall and kiss up my neck, along my jaw, hovering over my mouth until I make the quietest sound that screams my need. Only then does he kiss me, a handful of my loose, damp hair crushed between his fingers. We kiss like that, nearly silent, until my lips are bruised and my thighs are permanently clenched.

“Tomorrow’s hotel better have thicker walls, Shepard.” His voice is low and hoarse as he places his hand against my chest, right under my throat. He kisses me with an intensity that contradicts the tenderness in his eyes when he pulls back. “Sleep tight.”

“I won’t,” I grumble.



* * *





Sunday night, I’m in my room after our day in Monument Valley, uploading photos. I click through to a shot of Theo facing the Three Sisters, a trio of tall, slim rocks rising from the rich red Navajo land. The breeze is catching his shirt, billowing it behind him. The next photo has Paul stepping into the frame, cradling his beloved Hasselblad. Theo’s looking over at him, chin dipped toward his shoulder, an affectionate smile lighting up his features.

My favorite picture, though, is of Paul’s hand cuffing the back of Theo’s neck. Late-afternoon sunlight slices across the frame, illuminating their faces—and the obvious love between them. My chest aches; I care about these men, and our time is running out.

Sighing, I click to a photo of Gram’s letter, held open by Paul, captured over his shoulder. Gram’s elegant, loopy handwriting is stark against the paper, made nearly translucent in the light.

It reminds me why I’m here—for her, this secret. For myself and my grief. But I struggle to remember when Theo’s near. At dinner, he sat close, and I felt the promise in every subtle touch he gave me. But when the elevator deposited me onto my floor, he only winked as the doors closed between us. I haven’t heard from him since, and it’s after ten.

I don’t know the rules. We’ve admitted we want to see this through, so what the hell? Is he waiting for my invitation? A you up? text?

“Fuck it.” I grab my phone and type out what are you doing?

His response comes immediately: Open your door

My stomach bottoms out. I’m not proud of how fast I leap from my seat, but I manage to wrestle some control as I open the door.

Theo’s standing there, slipping his phone into the pocket of his gym shorts. His hair is mussed, like he’s been running his fingers through it, and his mouth curls up, his eyebrows set in a stern slash that goes right to the pit of my stomach. He steps closer, his hand circling my wrist.