Page 37 of Backward Motion

He’d tried not to show it, but Sam’s inability to communicate what he liked had unsettled him. Sam seemed willing to go along with whatever he wanted. Connor knew about the pressure to fit within a certain category of preferences. He’d encountered it himself when he’d started meeting other men wanting to explore. Sex and labels were inherently tied up in the gay experience, but perhaps because it had taken Connor so long to come to terms with who he was, he found himself unwilling to go along with what didn’t feel right. And sex was supposed to feel right; as soon as it didn’t, it needed to stop. He wondered if Sam had been in a situation where he felt unable to make that call—or if he’d done so, only for it to be ignored. Then he remembered Plimmerton and the ridicule that had followed. The denial of Sam’s refusal. Connor’s stomach clenched. He had to make sure he was listening—even if what Sam was saying couldn’t be heard out loud.

“Anyway, I’m glad it’s all working out,” his mother said.

Connor nodded, concentrating on his dinner to avoid stepping on another mine.

“Earnings were up last month,” his father said to no one in particular. “Does that have anything to do with Mr. College Degree?”

Connor swallowed a mouthful of food. “It does, actually. Sam’s set up a website and automated our booking tool. He’s also a bit ofa whiz with digital marketing, which has brought in some new customers.”

“Is that right? Maybe he should be running the business.”

Connor felt the familiar stab of resentment. It was a well-worn groove his father had been tending for years. He turned to give his dad a wide smile. “Maybe he should.” Then he lowered his head and continued to eat his meat and potatoes in silence.

Sam collapsed back onto his pillow. Even in the throes of release, he pricked his ears for a creak from the hall, the soft thud of a door closing, anything that might signal his parents were near. One hand still gripped the hem of his T-shirt, which he’d yanked up quickly to avoid being streaked by the mess cooling on his stomach. In many ways, moving home had felt like a regression, and sure enough, here he was—reliving his horny adolescence.

Sam blamed Connor. Since their first kiss, his body had roused from hibernation and forcibly reasserted itself. He’d rushed home from Connor’s apartment on Friday night, thrumming with unmet need. Connor’s slow, deep kisses—his hands roaming over Sam’s clothes—had gotten him so worked up he’d headed straight to his room and frantically jerked off, coming in record time.

Now it was Sunday night, and all he could think about was Connor—the firm press of his limbs, the dizzying heat of him, how he’d brought his mouth to Sam’s ear, imparting a low murmur of shiver-inducing commentary. God, he knew what he wanted. He’d just let his insecurities get in the way. It was like his body and his mind couldn’t get on the same page. At least not at the same time.

Sam cleaned up in the bathroom and straightened his clothes, staring at his flushed face in the mirror above the sink. He waited until his pupils were a little less dilated before sneaking downstairsto raid the fridge. His parents were watching TV in the living room, and snippets of canned studio laughter filtered in from the next room. He was making himself a sandwich when his dad stepped into the kitchen and pulled out a seat across from him at the counter.

“Samuel.”

“Hmm?” Sam attempted to appear nonchalant as he opened the lid on a jar of pickles, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that his postnut glow might as well be advertised with a neon sign.

“I’d like you to call your sister.”

“I’m not going to apologize.” Sam speared a pickle from the jar with a fork.

“I’m not asking you to. I just think you should call her.”

“And say what? Thanks for being so supportive?” He snorted and sliced the pickle in half lengthwise.

“She cares in her own way.”

Sam glanced up to catch his father’s stern expression. It had always been like this—his dad siding with Georgia and his mom coming to his defense. Maybe his dad saw himself in her. Focused and pragmatic, Georgia was not inclined to emotion and more concerned with barefaced facts. Neither his father nor his sister seemed thrown by life’s many complexities. They simply powered through, arms swinging.

His dad had always met Sam where he was, not bothering to waste time with what-ifs. He’d happily paid for theater camp and hadn’t pushed Sam into Little League—despite his love for the sport—or made him tag along on one of his many fishing expeditions.

That didn’t mean Sam hadn’t internalized the expectations. His father was his earliest example of what it meant to be a man. Of course Sam had compared himself and seen how he measured up—emotional, easily rattled, eager to please. His dad was none of those things. In that way, Sam understood Connor’s dilemma. IanFinnegan had made his expectations crystal clear. Sam felt a newfound respect for Connor, who’d seen his father’s example and decided he could do better.

Sam sighed and placed the slices of pickle on his sandwich. “Fine, I’ll talk to her.”

“That’s the spirit. You’re better at these things than she is. Finding a middle ground. Knowing what’s really important.” His dad rapped his fingers against the countertop. “You know, I admire your grit, Sam.”

Grit?

“You’ve had your share of difficulties, but you always get back on your feet,” his father went on. “You should be proud of yourself. I am.”

Sam stared down at his plate, touched. “Thanks, Dad.”

“All right. Well, I think we’re done here.” His father slapped his palms on the counter and got to his feet as though adjourning a work meeting.

Sam couldn’t help but smile. His dad wasn’t one for subtlety.

When he got back to his room, he grabbed his phone and called his sister before he could talk himself out of it.

“What?” Georgia said when she picked up. Sam took that as a good sign. She could have just hung up.