making me feel this.
I promise.
He’s smiling a small smile, and it’s still the cutest thing. Also, when he took his tank off he kinda messed up his hair, so there’s now a dusty-brown spike sticking up on the crown of his head.
“Want me to hang up your shirt?” he asks. “Unless you plan on swimming in it?”
“Not yet.”
“Dude, what?”
It’s Jason, I figure I can be honest.
I swallow. “Sorry, just … you look so good, and I feel like I can’t compete.”
“Oh, hey.” He sits down on the edge of the pool, facing me. Seriously, his skin looks so nice. “Want to talk about it?”
I cross my arms. “You’re, like, perfect, man. How am I supposed to take off my shirt around you?”
He laughs. “Well, thank you. But, dude, this isn’t a contest, and I’m not going to judge you. I promise.”
“That sounds like something a judgy person would say.”
He rolls his eyes. Okay, I deserved that.
“Besides,” he says. “You’re forgetting that I’ve already seen you, remember? I know I like how you look, so you have nothing at all to worry about. Trust me. Your beach body is whatever your body looks like right now.”
It’s so nice my first thought is that he’s lying. I’m gay and have access to the internet. I know gay dudes seem to like only ripped jocks. I wish that wasn’t the case, but the evidence is pretty overwhelming.
But why would he lie?
“You do?” I ask.
He nods. “Trust me, you have nothing to worry about.”
I grin. “Okay.”
He puts his hand out. I take off my shirt and hand it to him. He walks it over to the fence and hangs it up beside his. They’re side by side, barely touching. I keep my focus away from him as he walks back to me.
Being shirtless feels good right now. It’s warm, and it’s nice to feel the breeze on my skin. I made the right call.
“You work out,” he says, then he steps down onto the first step. Again, he moves dangerously close. Now that we’re both shirtless, I’m even more aware of the space between us. Any contact might lead to a dangerous situation, given that I’m only in trunks.
“You didn’t tell me that.”
“What?”
He points at my chest. “You’re pretty buff, man.”
I’ve never been called that. Ever.
“You’re buffer.” I straighten up and tense as hard as I can. I stretch and catch him watching. “I just do push-ups in my room sometimes, it’s nothing.”
We both sit down on the first step, so our legs are in the water but our top halves are totally dry. I enjoy the sunshine.
“So what’s your routine?” he asks.
I push away the urge to make a joke. “Push-ups and body-weight stuff in my room, but that’s about it.”
“Really?”
“Why?”
“Nothing, just stick with it. Maybe you could give me some pointers?”
“Oh, please, you so don’t need that. You’ve got, like, abs and stuff. You’re doing fine on your own.”
He stretches out, so his arm is behind me. “Thanks, man. They finally came in, I’m so happy.”
I stare down at the water. Crotch, behave.
But now he’s inches away from me, and we’re talking about our bodies. It’s like he’s trying to get a rise out of me.
“How about you?” I ask.
“Well, I play baseball, obviously, which is great cardio, and I work for my uncle as a mover. Since I’ve been doing that, it just sort of happened. Seriously, moving couches is one hell of a workout.”
I look. His abs really are defined. They look shiny right now, because of the sunscreen.
Or maybe he’s starting to sweat.
He smiles and leans a little closer. “I’m totally lying. It was a lot of work. I do this YouTube ab workout, like, every day, and I track my calories. Abs are made in the kitchen, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. And they don’t show all the time; I worked out this morning because I thought we might hit the pool.”
So he prepared. I guess maybe he’d wanted to be impressive. And he is. But still.
“Your shoulders are nice,” he says, glancing at me. “So’s your back.”
“Um, thanks. So are yours.”
There’s a moment of silence.
“Speaking of,” he says. “Can I ask you something deep?”
“Anytime.”
“Are you happy with your body?”
“What makes you ask?”
“What you said before. Do you really have body-image issues? We can talk about them, if you want.”
“Um. Maybe I do? For the most part I’m happy, I guess.”
“Why just for the most part?”
“I know I don’t look like the standard definition of hot for