Always You

By Nell Iris

Published by JMS Books LLC

Visit jms-books.com for more information.

Copyright 2020 Nell Iris

ISBN 9781646564026

Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America.

* * * *

Always You

By Nell Iris

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Epilogue

Chapter 1

The fiftieth-anniversary edition of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. A huge bowl of buttery popcorn. A warm blanket—spring is unusually chilly this year—a comfy couch, and the newest issue of my favorite science magazine for backup, what better way is there to spend a Friday evening? There isn’t, at least not for me, homebody extraordinaire, old Western movie lover, science teacher Thom Novak.

I’ve even foregone the beer tonight and instead settled for a giant glass of ice-cold soda.

“You’re such a party animal, Tommy-boy,” says Lee, my roommate and best friend since birth thirty-one years ago as he’s getting ready to leave for his date with his current and somewhat lengthy—at least for him—girlfriend, Debora. He’s dressed up: a nice black—instead of his usual plaid—button-up shirt stretches across his broad chest, and his favorite jeans look painted on his thick legs, showing off their power, every dip and curve of his muscles. The corduroy blazer that he bought at a bargain from his favorite second-hand store swings from his finger, ready to be put on when he walks out the door.

I drag my gaze away from his legs and glare at him. “I’m spending almost three hours alone with young Clint Eastwood. It doesn’t get better than that.” Blatant lie, my brain says. I’d much rather have Lee keep me company.

He throws back his head and laughs—giving me a peek of the protruding Adam’s apple under his beard line and his chest hair peeking out through the open collar—the happy sound filling every nook and cranny of our apartment.

I force myself to look away. Ogling one’s straight best friend isn’t allowed, no matter how much one wants to.

It’s his fault for being so ridiculously hot—wide shoulders, biceps larger than my head, abs padded slightly with a soft cuddly-looking layer, and thighs thicker than my waist push all my buttons—at least that’s what I tell myself, and the excuse sounds much better in my head than admitting I’m a walking cliché: the gay guy hopelessly head-over-heels for his straight best friend.

Some romance author—a good quality one, thank you—could have a field day with me and my story. Or I guess not, since I don’t foresee it having a happy ending. On the contrary, I’m expecting that Debora will start demanding stuff from Lee soon. A ring and a white dress, and most likely a few kids—for some reason, she strikes me as the type of person who would want three. The least she’ll demand is that they move in together since they’ve been going out for almost a year and she’s of the age when the biological clock starts ticking loudly.

But first, she needs to figure out that it’s crucial for her to be absolutely clear about what she wants because there isn’t a more emotionally oblivious guy in the whole world than Lee Conway. Subtlety never works on him; he’s the kind of guy who needs a huge sign saying Debora likes you and wants you to propose to get with the program, and I’m not even sure that would be enough.

Lee’s laughter dies down and he shakes his head, fondness shining from his eyes. “If you ever change your mind about wanting a relationship and allow a guy to snatch you up, he’s gonna be really fucking jealous of Clint Eastwood.”

I look away, grab my popcorn bowl, and mutter, “You know how I feel about young Clint.”

“I do. Why do you think I bought you that Blu-ray in the first place?”

“Because you’re the best friend in the world?” I say, mimicking—all right, ridiculing—the exact tone of his voice when he gave it to me for my birthday last year.

He laughs again—always such a happy guy, laughing, smiling, and grinning at me all the time—and then he clasps my shoulder. “All right, my friend. I’ll leave you to your date. And remember the lecture your dad gave you on safe sex.” He guffaws, so damned happy with his joke, and saunters off.

I shake my head and chuckle. “Thanks for reminding me of the most awkward moment of my life,” I yell after him.

“That’s what friends are for,” he yells back, then the door slams shut and I’m alone.

Bloody, gorgeous idiot. He’s going to be the death of me.

“All right, Clint,” I tell the TV as I press PLAY on the remote. “I guess it’s just you and me.”

The movie sucks me in like it always does. I’ve probably seen it at least fifty times, but I never grow tired of it. Time flies, and soon I’m in the middle of the iconic, three-way standoff scene that never grows less nerve-racking, no matter how many times I see it. The bowl of popcorn is forgotten, and I’m hanging from the edge of the couch, entranced in the intensity of what’s happening on the screen. My heart pounds, agitated by the soundtrack, by the hands creeping closer to the revolvers, by cameras zooming in on Clint’s eyes, so when the door opens, then slams shut, I jump and almost end up plastered to the ceiling.

With a yelp, my hand flies to my chest, my heart slamming so loudly I can hear it in my ears. I press PAUSE and call, “Lee? You back already?”

I thought he was going to stay out late, and maybe even spend the night with Debora. He wouldn’t bring her here; he never hangs out with any of his girlfriends in our home. Not because we’re two sloppy bachelors living in filth—on the contrary, our apartment is always meticulously clean—but because he claims he prefers it that way. That this is our home—we’ve spent so much time and attention decorating it and making it perfect for the two of us—and he doesn’t want just anyone in our space.

I get no answer to my question, just a grunt. I scrunch my eyebrows at the unexpected sound; Lee is not a grunter. He’s happy and talkative and easy-going, and even if he’s had a fight with whatever girlfriend he’s with at the moment, he never takes it out on me. Something must have happened.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

Again, no answer. Instead, he wanders into the living room, and a first glance at him reveals nothing but a face deep in thought and his brown wavy hair that was smooth and perfect when he left looks like it’s exploded around his head, as though he put his fingers into a wall socket.

He sinks onto the couch next to me without a glance in my direction or a single word. He just keeps his gaze trained at the frozen image of Clint Eastwood’s face on the big-screen TV mounted on the wall.

“Hey.” I bump his shoulder with mine. “You okay?”

The bump yanks him out of his trance-like state and he looks at me. Still no smile, but his deep brown eyes flicker over my face. He meets my gaze—light green as a contrast of his dark—then follows the contours of my bearded jaw, takes in the messy curls hanging around my face. Lingering on my mouth, then trailing down to my neck. I feel like I’m a bug in a microscope, being studied. “Yeah,” he finally says.

What’s going on with him? “Did something happen with Debora?”

“Eh, no?”

He smiles, but it’s not the genuine grin that seems to start in the pit of his stomach, light up his body, and escape through his mouth and eyes. This is his polite smile; it would look perfectly normal to anyone else, anyone who’s not me, who hasn’t known him all his life. The lack of sunshine in his eyes makes my stomach drop to my knees. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

“Heh.”

Heh? That’s all I get? As I open my mouth to ask again, he elbows my side.

“Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to interrupt your favorite scene. Go ahead and start it from the beginning. I know you want to.” His smile widens, as though he realizes I can see right through him, and he makes a better effort to hide whatever’s going on.

And I relent. I know him well enough to know he’ll tell me sooner or later. He usually blurts out what’s on his mind immediately, so this evasiveness is strange. But once or twice over the years, he’s needed a little time to collect his thoughts before talking to me, so I’m giving it to him.

So I nod, lean back in my seat, and say, “Yeah. I bet you did it on purpose. Barging in on my date like that.”

The chuckle escaping him is real this time and alleviates my worries enough to do as he says; I restart the scene, and we watch the rest of the movie in silence.

But the inside of my head is anything but quiet; my thoughts are swirling as my brain is obsessing about the situation. Lee hates Westerns, especially The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. “It’s so fucking slooooow, Thom. Watching paint dry is more action than this movie.”

But since he’s my best friend, he watches it with me when I ask him to. But never in silence; he will comment loudly about what happens on the screen and make biting comments with the sole purpose of making me laugh or rile me up until I bash him over his head with a throw pillow. And he would never miss a chance of teasing me for my crush on young Clint Eastwood; he will imitate my voice and say stuff like, “I was born fifty years too late for this stud muffin,” or something equally ridiculous.

But not today. Today he watches the rest of the movie without a single scathing comment or teasing nudge. He doesn’t even steal the rest of my popcorn. He just sits there. Silent. With his gaze trained on the screen as though it’s the most riveting thing he’s ever seen.

It’s strange.

It’s freaking me out, and I can’t concentrate for shit on what’s happening. Instead, my brain starts running in circles. He’s never quiet around anyone, especially not me. On the contrary, whenever something’s got him upset or riled up, I’m the one he turns to. So why is he so weird now?

It must have something to do with me, that’s the only reason I can think of. Has he figured out what I feel about him?

The thought turns my spine into ice.

When the credits roll, he stretches his arms over his head with a groan, twists this way and that until something pops in his back, then he stands. “I’ll hit the hay. See you in the morning.” And without even a glance in my direction, he heads down the hallway and disappears into the bathroom.

I turn off the TV and the Blu-ray player, but I don’t get up. I sink deeper into the couch, staring at the black TV screen as though I’m expecting it to provide me with answers. And I listen to the familiar sounds coming from the bathroom. The shower running. The toilet flushing. The buzz of the electric toothbrush.

One thing I can’t hear is his off-key humming of his current favorite nineties grunge song—these last few weeks it’s been “Black” by Pearl Jam and I’m really getting fed up with that song and hope he’ll pick a new favorite soon—that usually accompanies his evening routine.

When he steps out of the bathroom a few minutes later, with only a towel hanging low on his hips and his wavy hair in a damp, almost black, halo around his head, he heads into his room without a glance at me. And for once, I don’t even notice the miles and miles of bronze skin on display, his beefy arms, or the way his muscles play under his skin when he moves. I don’t even sneak glances of his long thick legs I usually can’t take my eyes off.

I sink even deeper into the couch and fling my arm over my face, hiding my eyes.

What the fuck happened tonight that got him into this weird mood?

Worry sprouts roots deep in my gut, but I shake my head, trying to push it away. I heave a sigh as I get to my feet and clean up after my wild night on the couch.

But the concern stays put as I take a shower. As I dry off, untangling the long black tresses on my head that resembles a bird’s nest more than hair if left untended. As I trim my beard, moisturize my face, and brush my teeth. When I’m done, I keep staring at my mirror image, trying to find answers.

But maybe I’m over-reacting. We are all allowed off days, even those who very rarely have them. I nod at myself, grab the oversized T-shirt I love sleeping in, and pull it over my lean torso—the neckline so wide it slides down one shoulder—comb back my hair with my fingers and collect it into a high bun to keep it from trying to strangle me when I’m asleep.

But it’s no use. By the time I crawl into bed, the roots of worry have invaded me entirely, and there’s no way for me to silence my mind.

It takes me a long time to fall asleep that evening.

Chapter 2

The next morning, I’m one hundred and ten percent certain something’s wrong. It’s 6:17 A.M. and I’m waiting for Lee in the kitchen, leaning against the sink, trying to make my glass of water last so I have an excuse for hanging around, doing nothing but staring in the direction of his bedroom.

Every morning, we go out running together at six on the dot. Without fail, come rain or shine, weekend or workday. The only exception is if either of us is sick or if it’s a world-ending kind of storm outside. And Lee is a stickler for being on time; between him and me, I’m the one who’s always late and leaving him waiting impatiently for me to get ready.

And now it’s almost twenty-past six and he hasn’t shown his face yet?

Outside, it’s a lovely May morning. The birds are chirping, waking up the neighborhood, and the first rays of sun promise to finally heat our corner of the world. So no world-ending storm in sight, and yet he’s nowhere to be seen.

Is he dying?

Any other day, I would march into his room, pull off his down comforter, and yell in my best—albeit not very good—imitation of a drill sergeant—Get up, get up, get up!—but today I’m strangely reluctant.

On one hand, I want an explanation for his weird mood from yesterday—and his tardiness!—but on the other hand, I still want to give him time if he needs it. And part of me isn’t entirely sure I’m not over-reacting.

But I can’t help thinking that it has to be something about me. What if he found out how I feel about him and can’t deal with it? Not that I can recall doing something to show my hand, but I can’t be sure.

Maybe it’s something Debora said? Did she figure me out and tell him? She’s never shown any homophobic tendencies, so I don’t think that would be the reason. But maybe she’s jealous? She wouldn’t be the first of Lee’s girlfriends to be jealous of our close friendship, and I can’t blame her if that’s the case.

But that can’t be it either. Every time someone has complained about our friendship in the past, Lee’s shut them down immediately. He wouldn’t accept it from her. And to be perfectly honest, Debora has always been friendly and nice whenever we’ve met and not shown any indication of being jealous.

And I’m back to thinking he must have figured out how I feel about him, even though it seems highly unlikely. I mean, I haven’t told him specifically—or written my feelings on a sign—but whatever it is, I hope it won’t come between us.

I can live without having Lee Conway as my life partner, but I can’t live without his friendship. Losing that would kill me.

In the end, I decide to give him time and live with his ire if it turns out he overslept—yeah, right!—and I neglected to wake him. I shove my feet into my shoes and head out on my own.

Running alone is weird. Lee is the whole reason I’m a runner at all; when he decided he wanted to become a professional football player when he was ten, he told me he needed to start taking his “fitness routine” seriously and he was going to start running every morning. When I made a disgusted face over the thought of getting out of bed at the buttcrack of dawn to go out and run of all things—wake me up and take me to the library and I would have been game, but running?—he zeroed in on me and started lecturing me on how even science geeks needed to stay healthy. He went on and on—and quoted honest-to-God, real, actual facts!—until I broke down and agreed to come along. I’ve never been one to resist science. Or Lee. And the combination was deadly even when I was ten.

Luckily, he grew out of the dream of becoming a professional football player some time in high-school—and it was definitely not because of me quoting research about football players and brain damage, nope, no—but we continued our running habit. All through college, where we were roommates of course—both of us studying to become teachers just like our moms, PE for him, science for me—and we’ve continued up to this day.

Once or twice, I’ve been out without him; he’s an unusually healthy person who never gets sick and only extraordinary circumstances will keep him away. Like his grandmother’s funeral or puking his guts out after getting food poisoning. Even on the occasion he spends his nights with his girlfriend, he gets up before the chickens and comes home to run with me.

The thought of him alone in our apartment, troubled by whatever it is, makes my heart hurt, and I increase my speed until I’m flat out sprinting, finishing our usual loop in record time. When I’m back outside our building, I double over, my breathing sounding like I’ve been a smoker all my life, and press my hand to my side, trying to calm the insistent stitch that pokes and prickles my insides. When I’ve stopped panting, I make my way slowly upstairs on trembling, aching legs.

Our apartment is still silent and dark when I step inside. I check the time on my Fitbit; there’s no way early-bird Lee would still be asleep at seven-thirty in the morning. I stare in the direction of our bedrooms, as though I would be able to see them from here, as though he’d miraculously appear just because I’m silently begging him to. When he doesn’t show, I stumble to the kitchen and guzzle down a Gatorade, then I take a quick shower, followed by breakfast. At nine AM when Lee still hasn’t woken up, I decide to hell with it, I’m checking on him now, but before I can start down the hallway, there’s a knock on the door.

With a grumble, I make a detour and throw open the door, swallowing whatever I was going to say when I’m met by Her Royal Blondeness, blue-eyed, athletic, bouncy Debora.

She smiles, but her gaze is intense, as though she’s trying to figure out something about me just by staring a hole into me. “Morning. Is Lee home?”

My eyebrows disappear into my hair; Lee drills his girlfriends to never stop by unannounced—Debora’s been here only once that I know of—so her showing up here, clearly without being invited, is another piece of this confusing puzzle.

“Uh, sure.” I pull open the door and step aside so she can enter.

“Thanks.” She disappears down the hall.

I shake my head and stare after her for a few seconds before collecting myself enough to remember to close the door again.

This entire situation demands coffee even if I’m not normally a caffeine addict, but desperate times and all that. I’m in the middle of filling the pot with water when Debora joins me in the kitchen. Alone.

“He’s not here.”

I stare at her as though she’s grown a second head. “What do you mean he’s not here?”

“His bedroom is empty. He’s not in the bathroom. So unless you’re hiding him in your room, he’s not here.”

“Why would I hide him in my room?” I put the pot on the countertop; all the weirdness is making me lightheaded.

He’s not here?

Then where the fuck is he?

“I’m just saying it’s the only place I haven’t looked.”

“Oh. Okay. But no.”

I know I’m stupid, I know she’s not lying to me, I know he won’t be there, but my feet carry me without conscious input from my brain to my room, where I fling open the door. No one is less surprised than me when I find it empty.

I check his room. His bed is unmade and the clothes he wore yesterday lie thrown on the floor, so at least I know he slept here, but also his clothes are on the floor!

Mr. Anal Retentive, super particular about his things and definitely his clothes, throwing his beloved corduroy jacket on the floor? No. Just no.

I turn on my heel. “I have to call him.” I jog to the kitchen, snatch my phone from the table, and press SPEED DIAL ONE.

“I already called him,” Debora says. “Before I got here. He didn’t answer.”

I nod to show her I heard what she said, but it doesn’t matter. I have to call to see for myself that he left the apartment. Without telling me, or texting me, or leaving a goddamned note.

We always tell each other where we are. It’s non-negotiable. If one of us is late from work, we shoot a text. If we’re derailed or detained or do something unplanned, we tell each other, even if it’s something mundane like going to the grocery store or visiting our parents.

“It’s common courtesy to let someone you live with know where you are,” Lee told me when we moved in together in our college dorm. It was his mom’s words—I could practically hear her voice when he said them—but I was raised the same and didn’t think it was weird.

When people found out about our agreement, roommates who didn’t give each other the same consideration, they thought we were weird. Told us we acted like an old married couple. We shrugged, agreed, and kept doing our thing. It worked for us. Still does. Now I wouldn’t feel right going somewhere without telling him.

So this is weird. It keeps getting weirder all the time.

The phone rings and rings and then goes to voicemail. I hang up and try again.

He never ignores my call, to the point of extreme. Once, in college, he answered when he was in the middle of having sex with some girl—he grunted in my ear and she berated him in the background—and I had to lecture him about phone etiquette, telling him that while I appreciated him answering my call, being intimate with someone is a more than valid reason to let voicemail handle it. But since the one he’s currently in a relationship with is here with me, I’m pretty darned sure that’s not the reason for not answering my call.

The second attempt gets picked up by voicemail, too, but I don’t leave a message. Instead, I sink onto a chair—almost sliding on the floor because my ass lands too close to the edge—rest my elbows on the table, and hang my head. I can feel Debora’s gaze on me, but I ignore her.

She’s very well aware of our friendship and closeness, and I’m not going to pretend to be less affected than I am. Something is clearly up with him. Something he feels he can’t talk to me about, something that made him hide and ignore me…and I don’t know how to handle this situation.

We’ve always been confidantes and told each other everything. He was the first one I told about being gay. He came crying to me when he’d accidentally seen his dad kissing another woman while still being married to his mom.

Growing up together as we did made us unusually close. Our mothers met in middle school when his mom moved into the house next to my grandparents, and they became instant best friends. They went to college together and were roommates until they got married—a double wedding of course. They wanted to have kids the same age, but that took them a while. My mom had trouble conceiving and it was years before she finally got pregnant with me. Mom—overjoyed but anxious and scared about something happening—waited to tell her BFF in case she miscarried again, but when she was confident enough to break the news, Mrs. Conway was also pregnant. I was Mom’s first child and Lee was Mrs. Conway’s third, but they’d finally achieved their dream.

The only thing I haven’t told Lee is how I feel about him. He’s straight and there’s no chance for a happily ever after for us, so it would be unfair to tell him, to put him in that situation.

I almost did tell him once. One late night three years ago, after about ten thousand beers, when we were both so drunk we literally fell off the couch, Lee asked why I never had boyfriends. He was emotional and told me that someone as great as me deserved the best guy in the world, and he’d be more than happy to be my wingman and go out and help me look for this person, whoever he may be.

The earnestness shone from his eyes and he laid his hand on my arm, the warmth almost burning his palmprint into my skin. I wanted to tell him so badly that I could only ever find the second best because my heart fully belonged to him, to Lee, to my best friend, and had been his since high school when I realized what I felt for him was more than friendship, when I understood that “normal” guys didn’t get a belly full of butterflies or a raging boner around their guy friends.

I opened my mouth to tell him…and released a giant belch that sent us both into a fit of drunken giggles, and the intimacy of the moment, the time for confessions, passed.

In the here and now, I straighten my back, fill my belly with air, and release a loud sigh. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where he is”—Debora scrunches up her face at my confession as though she can’t believe what I’m saying—”he was…weird when he came home last night. And when he didn’t get up for our run this morning, I decided to give him space. I guess he must have left when I was out.”

Her gaze on me is intense, as though she’s trying to see into my soul and discern whether or not I’m telling the truth or if I really have hidden him somewhere she can’t find him. But after a few seconds, she looks away. Apparently, I passed her inspection.

“Listen, Thom. I said some things to him yesterday. Some things that caught h—”

I hold up my hand. “No.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “What do you mean no?”

“No offense, but I don’t want you to tell me. I’ll wait until he can tell me himself.”

“Yes, of course, I should have known.” She nods but looks strangely content, maybe even a little smug, as though my answer was what she expected to hear. “I’ll go. Tell him to call me when he gets home.”

“Sure.”

We say our goodbyes, and after she leaves, I start scrubbing the kitchen to keep my hands busy, and that escalates to a full-blown cleaning of our already spotless apartment. After that, I go grocery shopping, even though it’s technically his turn. I buy all his favorites; the fancy coffee he can’t start his day without, the candy bars he loves so much but will never admit to anyone he eats—my kids can never know I eat this shit; they will never let me live it down that I lecture them about healthy eating and don’t practice what I preach. I don’t want to be known as the hypocrite PE teacher—and I even buy ingredients so I can bake his favorite bread.

But back home, I can’t focus on anything. Not the book I’m reading, not the YouTube channels I follow, not my favorite TV shows. Instead, I walk around the apartment like a restless ghost, not allowing myself to call him every five seconds like I want to until he picks up from sheer anger or desperation. Aside from the two tries to get a hold of him when Debora was here, I don’t call again.

Not until it’s past eight PM and I haven’t heard from him all day. My stomach is knotted and twisted, and disaster scenarios flood my brain—him lying in a pool of his blood or knocked down in an alley somewhere—and I can’t sit still. My legs jiggle, my fingers tap against my knee, and I shift forward and back on my seat.

I give up and call him. When his voicemail picks up, I jump to my feet and start wandering again.

“You’ve reached Lee Conway. I can’t take your call, but please leave a message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Bye.”

This time I leave a message. “Hi. It’s me. Thom. I’m…I’m really worried. This is so unlike you, you never leave without telling me where you’re going and yesterday you didn’t make fun of Clint Eastwood a single time and you didn’t show up to run with me this morning and—” I snap my mouth shut, grimacing at myself and my tendency to ramble when I’m worried or upset. “Listen. I understand if you need space for whatever happened, but can you at least text me so I know you’re all right? Please? I’m really fucking worried, and I’m considering calling the hospitals. Or worse. I’ll call your mom, Lee.

“Please. Just let me know you’re all right. You have one hour, then I’m calling her. You better be all right, you hear? Bye.”

Chapter 3

Forty-five minutes later, Lee comes home.

The apartment is dark; I haven’t bothered to turn on any lights, but at least I’ve stopped the frantic pacing. Instead, I’m sitting on the couch, staring at the black television screen. The only light in the room comes from my phone whenever I wake it up to check the timer I’d set for sixty minutes after leaving him the message.

My stomach churns, my throat burns, and my head is starting to hurt after clenching my teeth for so long. And when he finally comes through the door, I tense even more, the muscles in my shoulders protesting loudly.

I don’t call out for him, and he doesn’t say anything either. His shoes thud to the floor, the closet door opens and closes, his keys and phone land on the table, then padding footsteps walk into the living room. Without hesitating a single moment, he sits next to me on the couch. Maybe a little closer than usual.

I tap on my phone, and after turning off the timer, I lay it on the coffee table. Then I can’t keep upright anymore as the vivid disaster images taking up space in my brain for so long evaporate, and I rest my elbows on my knees, head hanging low, back curled. I draw a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

“I’m so sorry, Thomas,” Lee says and places his hand between my shoulder blades, the flash of warmth causing me to shudder. “I…I needed to think, but I never meant to worry you.”

“But you did.” My voice is gravelly and unsteady, but I don’t try to hide it from him.

“I understand that now. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you would feel that way. I should have.”

I run my fingers through my hair, tangling the curls even worse. Then I nod, oddly comforted by his emotional thoughtlessness. That, at least, is something I’m familiar with. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Nothing happened to you, you’re not hurt. You needed time to think, which I understand. When I asked you to get back to me because I was worried, you did. So yeah. We’re okay.”

He heaves a sigh and leans back against the couch but doesn’t remove his hand. “Fuck, Thom. You’re too nice to me, I don’t deserve you.”

I huff, and I don’t know if it’s a sound of agreement or not.

“It’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever experienced; needing to talk about this huge…thing, and not being able to talk to you.”

I lean back, too—he slides up his hand until it rests on my shoulder—and turn to look at him, trying not to show that his words sting, but I have to find out. “Did I do something to upset you?”

“What? No! Why would you think that?”

“What am I supposed to think when you take off without saying anything because you can’t talk to me about whatever it is? I thought you could tell me anything.”

Lee groans. “Fuck. I’m an even bigger idiot than I thought.”

I smirk at him. “That’s a well-established fact.”

He slaps my bicep. “Ha ha. Mister Comedian.”

We smile at each other, my stomach unknotting some, making it easier for me to breathe. Whatever it is, it doesn’t seem to be a threat to our friendship.

He lets his hand fall to his leg. “Debora broke up with me yesterday,” he says not a trace of regret or sadness in his voice.

“What? But you said nothing happened with her when I asked you. And she was here earlier, looking for you.”

“Yeah, I know. She left me a voicemail, telling me. But she…said some things that caught me off guard and she needed to know I was okay. That was all. She hasn’t changed her mind, she doesn’t want to get back together.”

“Those things she said, are they the reason you’ve been so weird?”

He looks away. Stares at the black screen just like I had done earlier. “Yeah.”

I follow his gaze, even though I know there’s nothing to see, sensing he needs a moment to collect his thoughts, knowing without a doubt that he’s ready to talk now.

He shifts in his seat. Crosses and uncrosses his legs by the ankles. Clears his throat. Rubs a palm across his face.

I’m so curious I want to scream, but force myself to keep still, to wait him out. As the seconds tick past, my consciousness zooms in on him and nothing but him. Everything around us grows blurry and fades out until his measured breaths and fidgeting are all that exists. It’s as though the whole world holds its breath, waiting for what’s to come, knowing it’s something big.

But the sense of foreboding doesn’t faze me. I breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth and wait.

He clears his throat, leans forward, and scratches his neck before leaning back again. “Debora said…Debora…she said you’re in love with me…”

I grow cold, all blood rushing to my head and whooshing in my ears. My heartbeats thunder in my mind.

“…and that it’s obvious to her that…that I feel the same way about you. That…I’m in love with you, too.”

“What?” My question is like a whip cracking in the quiet room and I swirl my head to look at him. His gaze is still steady on the TV, but he nods.

“Yes. That’s what she said. And since I’m in love with you and not her, she broke up with me. Said she wanted someone who is devoted to her and no one else.”

I hear the words, but they don’t make any sense, and I feel like I’m trying to decipher a research paper with half the results missing.

Why would she even think that? “But…you set her straight, right?”

“She told me there was nothing I could say to change her mind before I had a chance to even try. Not that I would have. Tried, I mean.” He looks away from the screen and instead stares at the window, exchanging one blackness for another. He clears his throat. Lays his left ankle on his right knee, then sets the foot back on the floor.

I knit my eyebrows together. His fidgety body language doesn’t go with his weirdly neutral tone of voice. I need to dig deeper. “And what did she base this theory on? What evidence does she have to back it up?”

He looks at me then, and even in the darkness, I can see the soft glow in his eyes. “Oh, Thom. Ever the scientist. Always asking for proof.”

“Well, I am a science teacher.”

“I know. I remember the chemistry set you got for Christmas when we were ten. I’ve never seen anyone that happy in my entire life. Not before, not after.”

Slowly, I nod.

“I always thought it was hilarious how your mom managed to trick you into liking baking by saying it’s pretty much the same as chemistry.”

I hum. “Well, it’s true.”

“And you’re a great baker. Your sourdough bread with walnuts and honey is reason enough to live with you for the rest of my life.”

“Lee,” I say, locking my gaze with his.

He nods. “Yeah, I’m trying to stall.”

“I know.”

“It’s things like what I just said. That I’m thirty-one and would be happy to live with you for the rest of my life, instead of wanting to make a family of my own. And how I always talk about you. How I always smile and look happy around you or when I talk about you. How I know you better than anyone else. How close we are.”

“That’s quite the list.”

“And I’m pretty sure I left out a few items.”

“How does all that equate to you being in love with me? We’ve known each other all our lives, so of course we’re close.”

He steadily meets my gaze, but his fingers twitch and he shuffles his feet back and forth. “Well. Apparently, there’s being close as two guy friends, and then there’s being ‘close.’”

I can practically hear the quotation marks, and I clench my teeth so I won’t blurt out something negative about Debora even if, right now, the very thought of her pisses me off.

“I can’t help notice that you haven’t objected to her claim that you’re in love with me,” he says, his velvety voice warming and agitating my heart at once.

It’s my turn to look away. “I’m not in the habit of lying to you. I’m not about to start now.” The moment my secret is out in the open, I get woozy. I grab the armrest and squeeze, afraid I’ll faint or throw up.

“Oh, Thom.” The two simple words bear no trace of discomfort, just overflow with tenderness and emotion.

The softness in his tone snaps me back into myself. “I’ve never let that come between us. Never. And I won’t let it. You don’t have to worry about me making moves on you. I swear it.”

“I know that, Thom, considering I had no idea you feel that way about me.”

Damn him and his velvety voice and melty eyes. He’s making it difficult to keep on my brave face. “I can’t have been all that subtle if Debora noticed,” I mutter.

He chuckles. “You know me, right? Mr. Oblivious, as you’ve called me lots of times.”

“Yeah, well. Women have to push their breasts in your face for you to notice them. But that’s beside the point,” I say, wanting to steer the conversation back to the issue. “The point is that whatever I’m…feeling has nothing to do with your sexuality. Just because I’m…well…it doesn’t make you in love with me, no matter how fucking close we are.”

“It doesn’t.”

His calm agreement only adds more fuel to my fire, and I have to stop myself from grabbing him and shaking him and making him look at me and see the truth in my words. “So don’t let her tell you what your truth is. Only you can know your truth. Only you can know your sexuality and who you are in love with. Besides, friendships are different for everyone.”

He doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at me. His warm brown gaze is both comforting and unnerving. It says so much, and yet I can’t decipher it. Somehow, I’ve lost the ability to interpret what he’s thinking just by looking at him. When did that happen?

My heart races as heat crawls up my neck and settles in my ears, making them throb with my pulse. I lean forward, digging my elbows into my thighs hard, hoping the pain will ground me. His gaze penetrates my flesh and bones and bores its way into my very essence. His damned eyes are so bright and clear, and at any other time I would have given anything to have him look at me like that, but right now it’s too much.

Too much and yet not enough.

I’ll fly apart, ionize into the atmosphere and never be seen again if he keeps looking at me like that. Like I’m the only one in the whole universe who matters.

“All I’m saying is that just because your girlfriend—”

“Ex-girlfriend.”

“Yes, yes, just because your ex-girlfriend says you’re gay it doesn’t mean you are. Don’t let her make you doubt yourself. Just be you. You’re perfect the way you are.”

I shouldn’t have said that. Fuck.

I surge to my feet, the flight instinct swelling inside me. “Look. I realize this conversation is far from over, but I need some space. I promise I’ll talk tomorrow.” When my voice breaks on the last word, I flee from the living room. With a hammering heart and a roar in my ears, I rush into my room, close the door behind me, and dive into my bed fully dressed. I pull the sheet over my head, turn my back to the door, and curl into a ball.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I had not meant to crack like that, but an entire day of worrying about him, about if he’d found out how I feel about him just to realize he actually sort of did find out, made it impossible for me to be calm and rational.

What if my frenzied babbling is the one thing that finally drives him away?

Fuck.

And fuck Debora. What right does she have to sow doubts in his mind like that?

The thought of Debora makes me groan and burrow my face into my pillow. I’m such a fucking idiot; I only ranted and ranted instead of making sure he was okay after the break-up.

Before my thoughts spin out of control, I force myself to try to calm down by taking a deep breath. I imagine air molecules rushing down my throat, spreading out into my lungs, then continuing down into my belly, where I hold them trapped, hoping they will calm some of the shame glowing in my guts. I repeat the process again and again, visualizing the process until I don’t feel like my heart is going five hundred miles an hour anymore.

And just when I’ve gotten myself under control, my bedroom door opens.

Chapter 4

I stiffen, waiting for Lee to say something, but he doesn’t. He pads across the floor, then my mattress dips and he shuffles close. Close enough for me to feel his warmth through the sheet but not enough for our bodies to touch. Carefully, he pulls down the cover from my head.

“You’re going to suffocate under there,” he murmurs and presses his palm against my back, right between my shoulder blades.

We lie in silence for a while. The sounds of his breath and the warmth of his hand relaxes me for the first time since yesterday and I sink into the mattress, reveling in the fact that the quiet between us is as comfortable as ever despite the awkward conversation we’d just suffered through.

“I forgot to ask if you’re okay,” I whisper after several minutes. “About Debora, I mean. I didn’t mean to rant at you like that. I’m sorry. I’m a terrible friend.”

“Shut up,” he says without heat. “You’re not a terrible friend. You were busy looking out for me, just like you always are.”

“I just—” A light pat on my back stops my words.

“Let me talk, please?”

I hum my agreement.

“To answer your question first: yes, I’m okay. I should have ended things between us a long time ago, but I got comfortable. And she’s a nice person. Funny to hang out with. So I thought, ‘so what if I’m not head over heels’? I’ve never been anyway. But yeah. She saved me the trouble of ending it. I was relieved.” He scoots a little closer and moves his hand from my back to my upper arm, giving it a squeeze. “It was the reason she ended it that shook me.”

“I understand. Being told you’re gay and that your best friend has feelings for you must be a shock.”

“Yes. But not for the reasons you think. Only because I didn’t think you wanted a relationship.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Every time I asked why you’re single, why you never have a boyfriend, you were adamant you didn’t want a relationship. That you liked being by yourself and able to do what you want.”

What was I supposed to say? I don’t want a boyfriend because it can’t be you? I don’t think so. “Yeah.”

“But that’s not the real reason, is it?”

My throat is dry and I’m certain I won’t be able to produce a sound, so I shake my head.

He hums and scoots even closer to me, his chest brushing against my back, his body curling around mine without really touching, his hand sliding down to my waist, then coming to rest on my belly. He’s so warm; he’s leaving little trails of fire in his wake, even through layers of clothing and bed linen, and I gasp.

“What are you doing, Lee?”

“I’m trying to tell you that Debora was right.”

“About what?”

“I really am in love with you.”

Everything stops. My heart. The world. Even the laws of physics cease to exist, and the universe comes to a screeching halt.

I really am in love with you.

“Don’t joke about this, Lee. Please,” I plead, the desperation in my heart audible in my words.

“I’m not.” He leans his forehead against the back of my neck, his nose pressing into my flesh, and he brushes his thumb over my abs. With a huff, he moves and wiggles and pulls on the cover until he can crawl underneath it, then his hand takes back its place on my belly. “I’m deadly serious, Thomas.”

The world starts turning again, but it’s making me dizzy. “But how?”

He shuffles even closer—any more and his front will be plastered against my back—igniting more fires on my skin, along my spine, down my legs, all the way to my toes, and I can’t suppress the shudder that runs through me.

“You know how you always say that I’m totally oblivious about my emotions?” He’s so close I can feel his mouth moving and the heat of his breath brands his words on my skin.

“Yeah.”

“It’s even worse than you’ve realized.”

Sweep, sweep, sweep of his thumb and I want nothing more than to tear off my shirt and feel that infuriating digit on my bare skin—would it leave burn marks?—but I force myself to focus on what he’s saying. His words, even though sounding facetious, are heavy. Overflowing with earnestness and seriousness.

So I ask. “What do you mean?”

His thumb never stops moving and his chest rises and falls against my back, but when he starts his story, his words have my full attention.

“When Simon and Sally were getting married back in November, and I helped Simon get ready before the wedding, we talked a lot. I asked my brother what he loved most about Sally, and he got this dreamy look on his face and spoke a long time about what was so great about her. The more he talked, the more confused I got. I’ve never felt that way about anyone I’ve dated, not even close. Not even one of the things he listed. Except for being attracted to them and having a good time in bed, I haven’t had any romantic feelings for anyone.

“In fact…the only one I’ve felt that way about is…you.” He goes on to tell me how his brother had noticed something was wrong, and when Lee said he didn’t want to ruin his wedding day with his problems, Simon convinced him by saying it would take his mind off the nerves and make the waiting go faster.

“So I tried to explain that I’ve never felt like I was going to die if I wasn’t with my partner, that I’ve only ever felt that way around you. He nodded and said that he and Anna always suspected I was in love with you.”

“What?” I stiffen. It’s weird to learn that Lee’s older siblings believe that about him.

He nods against my neck. “I reacted the same. Then I had to stop thinking about it because it was time for the ceremony. But after my best-man speech, it was all I could think about for days until I realized that yeah…they were right.”

“But you didn’t break up with Debora?”

“Why would I? You were determined. You didn’t want a relationship, you said.”

Realization dawns on me. “So that’s why you’ve been asking me and asking me why I don’t have a boyfriend these last months?”

“Yes.”

“Not because you wanted me to find someone so you could move in with Debora without upsetting me?”

“Is that what you thought?”

“Well, yeah. You’ve been with her longer than anyone.”

“That’s not saying much,” he says with a huff.

“True. But you know. People change.”

He hums noncommittally, his thumb taking more liberties on my belly, hovering by the hem of my shirt as though he wants to slip underneath it. Then he does.

It’s definitely on fire, flames licking my skin as his fingers card through the hairs on my lower belly on his way up to its previous position where it resumes its teasing.

If I thought he was driving me insane when he was touching me over the fabric, it’s nothing compared to how I feel now. The skin on his fingertips is a little rough and scrapes lightly against my flesh. Snags on my hair, transferring lightning bolts from his body to mine, lightning bolts that race through my body, settle in my dick, and flash behind my closed eyelids.

My mouth grows dry, my heart thumps in my chest, and all my questions fall away except one.

“But…” I lick my lips—what was I going to say? His thumb, his thumb, his thumb. “Loving me is one thing. What about…”

“…sex?” His voice is as husky as mine.

I nod.

He completely closes the minuscule distance between us—Oh my God, he’s pressed against me, I’m going to die—and our bodies touch from neck to calves and suddenly something hard is poking my ass. He rocks his hips forward a little, making my world spin. I moan as desire pools in my belly and floods my dick.

“Still think that would be a problem?”

“No,” I whisper. “But…aren’t you straight? I thought you were straight.”

“So did I. Or I didn’t think about it, I guess. I just assumed I’m straight. We live in a very heteronormative society and I don’t spend a lot of time in deep thought over my emotions as you know.”

“I know.” I’m sure I have more questions, but his hands, his breath, his dick poking my ass makes me forget them all.

He rubs his nose against my neck. Brushes his lips underneath my ear. Splays his fingers across my abs. “Just to be absolutely clear,” he mumbles against my skin, “you’re in love with me, too?” He makes it sound like a question and not as a statement.

“Yes.” The easiest question I ever answered.

“And you do want to be in a relationship. Just not with anyone other than me.” His confidence is growing.

“Yes.”

“Good.” He wiggles his arm underneath my neck. “Turn around.”

I hesitate for a heartbeat. And another.

This is it.

This is the moment I’ve wanted all my life but thought I’d never experience.

Slowly, I turn in his arms. I open my eyes and meet his gaze. His shiny, warm gaze, overflowing with so much emotion I can’t handle it. I curl my hand on his side, desperate for him to stay with me forever.

“Kiss me, Thomas.” He winds his arm around my waist and pulls me flush to his body. His nose bumps against mine, his breath tickling my lips.

“Yeah.” With our gazes locked, our hands desperately clasping flesh, breaths panting, I lean in and brush my lips against his.

His beard is scratchier than mine and prickles my mouth, but his lips are soft, inviting, pleading, and so right.

We kiss again. Featherlight, yet substantial. Flighty, yet solemn.

His kisses are everything. His kisses are home.

Lee’s hand slips back underneath my shirt and I bury my head in the crook of his neck. “Lee,” I whisper, his name tasting different in my mouth. More.

“How long?” His lips move against my temple.

“How long, what?”

“How long have you been in love with me?”

I swallow and tighten my grip on him. Nuzzle my nose into his bearded neck. “Since freshman year in high school.”

Strong fingers grip my chin and tilt my head up. Brown eyes meet mine, so loving, so, so loving.

“I’ve got you now, Thom. I’m never letting you go.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Epilogue

A knock on the door, followed by a chuckling, “Stop hiding in the bathroom, Thomas Novak. It’s your parents we’re meeting.”

“I’m not hiding,” I grumble, and Lee bursts out laughing outside the locked door before he walks away.

I’m not, I’m just…mentally preparing. That’s right.

Why I need to mentally prepare is a whole other thing. It’s just dinner with my parents. With Lee. Same as a gazillion times before. But it’s the first time we’re showing up as a couple.

Correction. It’s the first time we’re going to tell them we’re a couple.

We’ve taken it slow these five-plus months after the conversation that changed my life forever. Not because of uncertainty—I’ve never been surer of anything in my life and Lee says the same—but because we’ve wanted to have time to get to know each other as partners and not just as friends. And because we’ve wanted our relationship for ourselves for a while. I’ve enjoyed having us all to ourselves. No outside opinions or surprised faces or what-took-you-so-longs?

Just him and me. Afternoons filled with drugging kisses on the couch. Weekends consisting only of lovemaking—oh my gawd, he was a quick study when it came to man-on-man sex; he sucks dick like a god!—and only leaving the bed when in danger of starving to death. Nights sleeping curled around each other with no space between us even when the nights grew warmer and we had to kick the sheet to keep from overheating. The thrill of being greeted with a “welcome home” kiss.

I’m so happy we’ve had this time to ourselves. But now it’s time to make us public, to let the important people in our lives know we’re in a relationship we both believe will last the rest of our lives.

So here I am. Cooped up in the bathroom with the clothes I picked out to wear in a neat pile on the toilet, while I’m standing in front of the mirror, staring at my mostly naked self. Trying to figure out why I’m so nervous.

My family already knows and loves Lee. They’ve never had trouble with me being gay. There’s zero chance of a negative reaction from them, but despite that, my belly is full of butterflies.

You’re ridiculous, I mouth to the mirror, then I nod as though I’m agreeing with myself.

I run my fingers through my hair, making a mess of the curls I painstakingly brushed just minutes ago until I look like my head got caught in a wind tunnel.

“Get dressed,” I mutter to myself, but I still make no move to grab the clothes.

Not even when Lee wiggles the door handle and does something that produces weird noises, do I do anything but stand there, like my atoms are frozen at absolute zero and unable to move.

A few seconds later, the door is thrown open and Lee steps into the bathroom with a triumphant smile on his face.

“Ha haa,” he crows. “I can now add breaking and entering to my resume.” He holds up some kind of tool that I can’t properly make out from this angle, throws it on the counter, then slides up behind me. He grabs my hips and pulls me close—the denim of his jeans rough against my lower body—and rests his chin on my shoulder and meets my gaze in the mirror. “We’re going to be late.”

“Yes. But they know me. They know I’m always late.”

He hums. “Yes. You’re pretty hopeless. But now that you’re mine, I’m going to teach you all about punctuality. And I’m an excellent teacher, just ask my kids.”

I grin at him. “You haven’t had much luck teaching me so far.”

“That’s true. Some people need more lessons than others. But I have other, better methods at my disposal these days that I didn’t use to have, so I’m confident in my abilities.”

“What methods might that be?”

His gaze roves over my body in the mirror—hungry eyes lingering on my nipples, my sparse chest hair, my abs, my treasure trail—as he slides his hands forward until one rests underneath my belly button and the other on the waistline of my boxer briefs. His eyes darken as he drags his fingers through the hair on my lower belly, and he hums. He bucks his hips against my ass and wiggles his eyebrows.

“You’re going to fuck me until I learn to be on time?”

He bites the juncture of my neck, drawing a moan from me, and I tilt my head to give him better access. He nibbles and licks and sucks, until I’m sure he’s going to leave a mark, but I can’t bring myself to care. I’d proudly be branded as his.

He pauses what he’s doing and mumbles into my skin, “Or maybe I won’t fuck you until you learn to be on time.” As he says the words, he slides his hands into my underwear, resting one hand on my sharp hip bone, sliding the other past my hardening cock until he’s cupping my balls.

I gasp—my hips jerking back—and chuckle. “Good luck with that, horndog.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining this morning. Or last night. Or yesterday morning.”

“I wasn’t complaining. But you will be when you realize you’ve just condemned yourself to a life of no sex.”

He gives my balls a light squeeze, making me get up on my toes and gasp. Fuck. He knows all my hotspots already. “I didn’t think of that.” He licks my neck, from my collarbone to my ear, pushes his erection against my ass, and breathes into my ear. “So how about you get to fuck me when you learn to be on time?”

I meet his fiery gaze in the mirror and swallow my tongue. Then I wiggle out of his grip, snatch the pile of clothes from the toilet, and march out of the bathroom. “Hurry up,” I call over my shoulder. “We don’t want to be late.”

His laughter booms in the bathroom and I’m halfway dressed when he comes sauntering after me, whistling his favorite song of the week, “Heart-Shaped Box” by Nirvana. His face is the definition of laughter, his neck and ears are splotched in red, and his bulge is prominent as he looks at me with eyes so full of love, I almost evaporate into steam.

“Bastard,” I grumble under my breath.

When he reaches me, he bats my hands out of the way and takes over buttoning my shirt. His fingers move slowly but steadily, his eyes never leaving mine. “Yeah, but you love me.”

With a sigh, I lean my forehead against his. “I do. I really, really do.”

When my shirt is buttoned and tucked into my pants, he wraps his hand around my neck and pulls me into a kiss. He brushes his lips over mine, the corner of my mouth, my nose, my eyelids. Teasing, tender kisses, designed to drive me crazy, as his free hand snakes around my waist and rests on the swell of my ass.

“I can’t believe you’re finally mine,” I blurt as he wiggles his fingers into my waistline.

“It was always you, Thom. I just needed time to understand it.”

This time, I kiss him and would never have stopped if he hadn’t pulled his fingers out of my pants, smacked my ass, and said, “Do you really want to be late?”

* * * *

Thirty-five minutes later, we step into my parents’ house, only two minutes late. Hand in hand, we enter the kitchen where my parents sit next to each other, doing a crossword puzzle.

“You’re early, son,” Dad says, then looks up. His sharp eyes take in what’s in front of him and he understands immediately; how close we stand to each other and our interlocked hands are a dead giveaway. Dad’s face splits in the widest grin I’ve ever seen, and he elbows my mom.

“Bob, what the heck?” she says and looks up. When she notices us, she falls back against the chair with a loud groan, and my dad holds out his hand to her, palm up.

“You owe me fifty bucks, May.” He winks at us.

Lee laughs and pulls me with him to the table, as I look from Mom to Dad to Mom again.

Lee pulls out the chair for me and smacks a quick kiss on my cheek before he sits next to me.

“Um, Mom, what’s going on?” I ask.

“Never mind your mother, son. She’s just annoyed I won the bet.”

“What bet?”

“I bet fifty bucks that you two would end up together sooner or later.”

I groan and tilt back my head, rolling my eyes at the ceiling.

“Awww, you bet on us,” Lee says and flings his arm around my shoulders.

“I hadn’t expected to have to wait this long, though,” Dad booms, and I shake my head before looking at them.

Their smiles are wide and happy. Satisfied with this development. And no hint of surprise, whatever Dad says.

Mom leans across the table and caresses my cheek. I’m so happy for you, she mouths.

Thank you, I mouth back.

She turns to Lee, and lays her hand atop his, giving it a motherly pat. “I’d say welcome to the family, Lee Conway, but you’ve been a part of it forever. But we’re glad it’s finally official.”

If I have to hide my face in Lee’s shoulder and blink away happy tears, no one will ever know.

THE END

ABOUT NELL IRIS

Nell Iris is a romantic at heart who believes everyone deserves a happy ending. She’s a bona fide bookworm (learned to read long before she started school), wouldn’t dream of going anywhere without something to read (not even the ladies’ room), loves music (and singing along but, let’s face it, she’s no Celine Dion), and is a real Star Trek nerd (“Make it so”). She loves words, poetry, wine, and Sudoku, and absolutely adores elephants!

Nell believes passionately in equality for all regardless of race, gender, or sexuality, and wants to make the world a better, less hateful, place.

Nell is a forty-something bisexual Swedish woman, married to the love of her life, and a proud mama of a grown daughter. She left the Scandinavian cold and darkness for warmer and sunnier Malaysia a few years ago, and now spends her days writing, surfing the Internet, enjoying the heat, and eating good food. One day she decided to chase her lifelong dream of being a writer, sat down in front of her laptop, and wrote a story about two men falling in love.

Nell Iris writes gay romance, prefers sweet over angst, and wants to write diverse and different characters.

For more information, visit nelliris.com.

ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC

JMS Books LLC is a small queer press with competitive royalty rates publishing LGBT romance, erotic romance, and young adult fiction. Visit jms-books.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!