Did that make me bi? Maybe.
Okay…yes, probably.
But that wasn’t my label. It was George’s, and you know how families work. Everyone had a designation. In the Murphy house, Ben was the “normal” one, George was the bi genius, and I was the jock. We were all very good at these roles. Ben had a successful career, a beautiful fiancée, and a great group of friends. George, on the other hand, was the kind of smart that automatically opened doors and celebrated idiosyncrasies. He could show up with pink hair, wearing a cape and combat boots, spout some weird shit about astrophysics or quote an obscure movie from the 1930s, then disappear in between courses at a family dinner.
Me? I was a one-trick pony. I played pro football. And let’s be real, there were no out NFL athletes. Sad but true. I never dwelled on the inherent unlikelihood that every man on the field was straight or selectively-slash-secretively bi like me. It wasn’t my business. I was paid to do one thing…play ball.
But now I was unemployed and literally waiting for my phone to ring. Scratch that. I was texting with the only man I’d ever kissed—who I hoped was up for doing much more—while my father speculated about the girl who’d taken my mind off my troubles. Wasn’t life strange?
On some level, I should have been freaking out, but I wasn’t. I was more fascinated than anything.
Look, nothing had changed in my life. I still had the same ol’ problems, but they didn’t seem quite so hopeless now. I had Topher in my corner. And I couldn’t wait to see him again.
I knocked on the front door of Topher’s new place Tuesday morning and glanced down the pretty tree-lined street. The houses in this section of town were quaint and well-kept with wide porches and old-fashioned art deco light fixtures. The neighborhood reminded me of a movie set for a horror flick from the fifties. Eerily quiet, perfectly preserved, and ripe for mayhem.
Squeak.
“You ready to party?” I pivoted on my Nikes and flashed a ready smile at a nattily-dressed short, thin, blond guy wearing round glasses. Not Topher. “Oh hey, you’re the guy with the sofa. I’m Simon. We met the other day.”
“I remember.” He foisted his hand toward me brusquely, yanking on my fingers to pull me across the threshold. An impressive feat for someone who was literally half my size. “I’m Asher, and I’m a tad irked with you.”
I raised my brows in amusement, then narrowed my eyes as they adjusted in the semidark foyer. “Oh?”
“Yes, I’ve been on cushion duty for the past five minutes due to Topher’s allergies, and I’m going to be late for work. Well, not late late…just less early than usual. Come in, come in,” he instructed.
I followed the curious little man into the adjacent living room, blinking wildly against the morning sunlight cascading through the bank of unshaded windows. Ah, the joys of old houses. Every room was different and unless you lived there, you never knew what you’d get. See what I mean? Perfect for a horror film.
“Hello.”
I cocked my head curiously and stared at the red sofa in front of the fireplace, divided down the middle by a tall stack of pillows. Topher waved from the far side of the furniture.
“What’s he doing?” I asked Asher, hiking a thumb in Topher’s direction when he disappeared behind the cushion barrier.
“Battling allergies.” Asher sighed, tapping his watch. “I must go. You’re on your own. Just be mindful of his condition.”
“Condition,” I repeated. “Does he need tissues?”
“Probably, but not for his nose,” he huffed with a laugh.
“Asher!”
“Gotta run. Nice to see you again, Simon!”
I rubbed my neck, then stepped forward, setting my backpack on the floor near the coffee table and peering over the pile of pillows.
“So…what’s all this?”
“This is our makeshift work cubicle. You said I was the office manager, and this was the best I could do given the circumstances. I assumed someone would be home and of course, no one is home, so it’s just us. But that’s okay. It’s going to be fine.” Topher popped up again holding a cup. “Want some coffee or tea?”
“Um…no, thank you.”
“Fabulous.” He gave me a thorough once-over, lingering on my chest…and then lower. “You’re wearing those shorts again.”
I looked down at my basketball shorts.
“Yeah, I guess I am. Different pair, but it’s supposed to be warm today and—” I sighed heavily to shut myself up and lifted the pillow on top. “What are you doing?”
“Staring at you. I mean, admiring the view. I mean—” He covered his mouth and closed his eyes briefly.
Fuck, he was cute. Slightly disheveled yet still put together. His hair glinted with strands of auburn in the sunlight. It looked messier than usual, as if he’d finger-combed it. But his mint-green T-shirt and khaki shorts looked freshly ironed. Which begged the question, did people really iron T-shirts?