100 Days (6 page)

“WaterFire,” Jake tells him breathlessly, his eyes still fixed upon the events below. “It’s a nonprofit arts thing they do through summer and fall, but I was sure we were gonna miss it. Isn’t it beautiful?”

Aiden nods—the sense of magic and enchantment in the air is tangible and heady. For most of the song, they simply watch, and when he feels Jake beginning to straighten and turn around, Aiden quickly steps back. He catches his breath, taking in the sight of Jake, gently backlit by the fire show: He has never looked quite so alive and joyous. And then Jake is tugging on his elbow again, saying something about going to sit on the end of a stone platform that tapers out from the bridge. “So we can see the gondolas close up, come on!”

As they seat themselves at the end of the platform, their legs dangling over the edge, the band starts the next song. The crowd’s attention is momen­tarily diverted from the water as they let out a cheer for the quieter, folksy introduction of the song, and Aiden’s breath catches again as the singing begins—it’s another song that he knows, this time intimately. The lyrics are about being the right person for somebody but damaged in some way, a lamenting of what could have been as opposed to what the two actually became to one another.

He’s captured as he takes in the beatific smile on Jake’s face, the flames re­flect­ed in his eyes and flickering across his freckled skin. The crowd joins in the chorus, hundreds and thousands of voices winding around him as they sing. The bright yet bittersweet mood of the song juxtaposed with the slow progression of the gondolas along the river somehow buoys Aiden. Everything is pure and beautiful, Jake most of all, and he wonders,
Did we miss our chance? Were we ever meant for something else, something more than what we’ve had to become in order to hold onto each other for as long as possible? Are we meant to be more?

Jake reaches out to a woman clad in floating white robes as she glides past, standing up in her gondola, and she hands him a white carnation that he holds to his nose. His eyes flick to Aiden over the top of the petals. Without conscious thought, Aiden slides his arm around Jake’s waist, shifting closer and never once letting his gaze waver from Jake’s face. Strings layer the song’s second chorus, a beat kicks in, and Aiden can feel himself lean forward, his tongue dart out to wet his lips. Jake tenses beneath his arm and lets the flower fall to his lap, his wide eyes moving down to Aiden’s mouth and back up again, and
Oh, how have I never
seen
you before?
Is this moment, this single suspended moment, exactly what Charlie meant?

The song, the water and the sound of fire crackling become nothing but the score to their wonderful, unexpected, perfect movie-moment, and all at once it feels like something inevitable. He moves even closer, tilts his face slightly upward, his breath leaves his body in a single, shuddering exhalation as his eyes close, and—

Cheering, even louder than the singing that came before it. Aiden’s eyes snap open and he rears back, realizing that the song is over without warning. Jake blinks at him owlishly, clears his throat and finally drops his gaze to the flower in his lap, the pristine white petals a shock against his dark jeans. Aiden mentally shakes himself.

What the fuck was that, Calloway? Your life isn’t a goddamn movie; way to go about scaring off your best friend a week into the trip.

Applause, rousing and raucous: Aiden takes his arm from around Jake’s waist and joins in just to give his hands something to do. He wants to slap himself silly.
What the hell was I thinking?
In the space of twenty bottomless seconds, he’s almost ruined everything—and judging by the confused expres­sion on Jake’s face as he slowly, dazedly claps along with Aiden, he might have already succeeded.

769
miles

Chapter Two

Day Ten: Connecticut

“What did I say to you this morning?”

Jake pauses with the last bite of pizza halfway to his mouth and regards Aiden through narrowed eyes. Aiden’s gaze is too focused, like the beam of a zeroed-in laser, and his face is entirely too bright and open. It’s the way he looks when he’s trying to overcompensate, when he’s intentionally playing dumb and acting as if something huge hasn’t happened. He just hopes it will all be swept beneath the carpet like the family issues that plagued his home life throughout his teens.

It’s maddening. Jake is the product of an open home, where issues are discussed at length—at least, they were before he and Charlie were orphaned. And he is not someone to shy away from confrontation; he’s quick-witted, with a razor-sharp tongue, and when there’s an argument to be had he knows how to stand his ground and—usually—come out on top.

Deciding that there is no argument to be had this time, Jake finally answers, “Something about a rooster.” Slowly, he chews the last bite, savoring the rich blend of herbs, spices and tomato. Neither the movie nor the website lied—the Mystic Pizza is heavenly.

“Right. That fucking rooster,” Aiden mutters, and Jake purses his lips against a smile—the crowing started at around five a.m. and didn’t stop for at least an hour. Despite the undeniable pleasantness of getting an early start, he vowed that this would be the last time they parked the RV anywhere near a farm.

“I was only half-listening, to be honest,” Jake says, wiping his hands on his napkin and setting it over his cleared plate.

“Well, I was only half-awake, so I can’t blame you,” Aiden says, and echoes Jake’s movements. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans his elbows on the tabletop. “So you remember what happens today, right?”

“Can we not?” Jake pleads, and drops his head into his hands. “I’m already suffering pre-traumatic stress disorder.”

“I swear to god, sometimes you’re more melodramatic than a Chekhov play.”

“Yes, well, Chekhov was never subjected to the horrors of Happy-Mart, and up until five seconds ago I was doing a great job of forgetting all about them. I mean, seriously, that has to be the worst thing that they could have possibly called it. It should be Misery-Mart.”

“Aw, poor Jakey,” Aiden teases in a wheedling voice. Jake shoots him a with­ering look and he finally relents, pulls out his wallet and leaves enough bills to cover their food and a generous tip. “Okay, let’s talk about
Mystic Pizza.
Favorite scene?”

Jake considers the question as he shrugs into his jacket and follows Aiden down the stairs and out of the restaurant. He casts one last glance around to commit every inch of the place to memory and answers, “The pub. The one that looked like a house. Did it remind you of The Cannery, too?”

“If you’re thinking about that one time I tried smoking, get out of my head.”

“I totally was. What about you, what was your favorite scene?”

“I liked the story about the guy who built the house for his wife,” Aiden says as they make their way around to the parking lot at the back of the build­ing. “You know, you don’t hear about people doing that anymore. Building a house for their significant other. It’s all down payments and escrow and mort­gages. Isn’t there something kind of romantic about building a house with the person you love, getting to choose everything together, right down to the roof tiles?”

“First you have to decide where home actually is,” Jake replies. As they reach the RV, he unlocks the passenger door and tosses the keys to Aiden—he isn’t about to drive himself to his own demise, after all. “But yeah, I can see how that’d be romantic.”

“Did I just hear you say the word ‘romantic’ without even a trace of irony, Jake Valentine? Could the ice finally be melting?”

“I only said that I could
see
how it would be romantic, not that I think it
is.”

Aiden says nothing—he doesn’t need to; his grin says it all.

“Just shut up and drive. Let’s get this over with.”

Their route down
I-95 passes all too quickly, and the pit of dread in Jake’s stomach only grows bigger the closer to New Haven they get. Before he’s ready, the preprogrammed GPS voice is telling them, “You have reached your destination.”

“We need to change the GPS voice,” Jake says, making no move to un­buckle his seat belt when Aiden cuts the engine. “I’m going to have nightmares about it for months after we get back.”

“She sounds kind of… Kathy Bates in
Misery,
doesn’t she?”

“Oh my god,
thank you.
I’ve been trying to figure it out ever since we left.”

With no response from Aiden aside from a brief, quiet laugh, Jake falls silent and glares through the windshield at the sprawling building ahead.

“You know, it might not be as bad as you think,” Aiden says gently. He slowly unclips his seat belt, as if Jake is a flighty animal with a low startle point. Jake lets out a long-suffering sigh and follows suit.

“I’ve seen that ‘People of Happy-Mart’ website, Aiden. I know
exactly
how bad it’s going to be.”

When they’re almost at the automatic sliding doors, Aiden fishes his phone out of his pocket. “Let’s turn it into a game,” he says. “The winner is whoever gets the most People of Happy-Mart-worthy pictures.”

Jake smiles weakly, takes a bracing breath and follows him inside.

His first impression is that perhaps Aiden is right. It isn’t entirely hideous—it’s bright and open, and at least it smells clean. It seems that they’ve timed their visit well, for the size of the crowd milling around, mostly mothers with infants, isn’t intolerable.

“Got one,” Aiden murmurs, surreptitiously snapping a picture of a middle-aged, balding man in a white T-shirt and what looks suspiciously like pajama pants. His back is turned to them as he walks toward the housewares section, and Jake raises his eyebrows as he takes in the clear plastic hangers hooked over the back of the man’s collar, two identical white T-shirts just hanging there as he goes about his business.

“Oh my god. Let’s just get this over with,” Jake mutters, and turns to grab a cart.

Thankfully—due in part to the number of times they’ve fallen back on lazy student ways and eaten out instead of cooking—their grocery list is short, and by the time they find the alcohol, their cart is only half-full. Jake had taken full control of the cart when it became obvious that Aiden couldn’t be trusted not to loiter endlessly around the baked goods, and they’ve made good time. Jake might even go so far as to say that it hasn’t been an entirely unpleasant pit stop.

And then they reach the end of the aisle, and Aiden’s hand settles at the small of Jake’s back. Jake almost jumps out of his skin at the contact; it’s the first time Aiden has touched him since their almost-kiss
—Because that’s exactly what it was, right?—
at WaterFire.

He does his best to shrug off the expectation that Aiden will get around to saying something about it, and they round the corner at the end of the aisle and slowly wander past shelves of party supplies. Jake picks up a pack of napkins printed with lassos and horseshoes. “Remember your cowboy-themed party?”

“You mean the best party ever? Of course I do,” Aiden answers without missing a beat, and Jake shoots him a grateful look. “I should totally throw another one.”

“You do know that having a cowboy party at twenty-one is a lot different than having a cowboy party at ten, right?”

“Cowboys are hot and you know it. After all, who was the one who was so gung-ho about
Brokeback Mountain
being our Wyoming movie when barely any of it was actually shot
in
Wyoming?”

“You saw the alternatives,” Jake says, replacing the pack of napkins on the shelf and continuing their slow progress down the aisle.

“So, Jake Valentine,” Aiden begins, in his best approximation of a Mr. Moviefone voice, “you’ve just survived your first trip to Happy-Mart. What are you going to do next?”

Jake just snorts derisively. “Barely survived. We still have to check out.”

“Hey, seriously,” Aiden says, catching him by the arm. Jake stops, turns and holds his breath. Aiden is doing that thing again, the thing where his whole body tenses in the most expectant way, as if he’s about to get every single thing he’s ever wanted all at once. It’s the same thing that Jake felt in him when Aiden’s arm was around his waist, when Aiden’s lips were inches from his own, and Jake’s heart stutters in his chest at the mere memory. A second later, the tension is gone, and Aiden wraps him in a hug, half-whispering, “I’m totally proud of you.”

Just as Aiden steps back, Jake weakly lifts his arms and catches him by the elbows, capturing them both in a replay of that moment on the platform. Aiden’s eyes, dark and warm, search his own for an answer to the question of what to do next. Then out of nowhere, just as Jake feels his tried-and-tested, sultry smile begin to tug at the corners of his mouth, two teenagers dressed in hoodies and jeans careen past, their cart almost knocking Aiden and Jake over.

“Surviving,” Jake mutters as he steps back, and Aiden sighs heavily, burying his hands in his pockets and looking anywhere but at Jake.

Jake hands over control of their cart, wrapping his arms around his middle as they set off the way they came, all thoughts of beer somehow forgotten in the shuffle. As they walk to the front of the store in silence, Jake steals only a brief glance at Aiden, taking in the set of his jaw and his furrowed brow. It’s the look he wears when he’s either fighting with himself, or lying to himself—or both.

And the lies we tell ourselves when we’re young are throwaway compared to the ones we tell ourselves as we get older,
Jake thinks.
There’s so much less at stake.

Which is the entire reason why they can talk about any topic under the sun except this one, why this is the one subject that makes Jake feel as if his throat is filled with glue. It isn’t as though they met six weeks ago, or even six months ago; their entire shared history could vanish with a touch of lips or rushing hands. They could
wreck
each other, and then what?

“Okay, don’t panic…” Aiden trails off, pulling Jake from his woolgathering. “But I just saw a rat.”

Jake stops in his tracks and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay, I’ve done this now. I promised you that I’d try it, and I have. But it’s Whole Foods from now on.”

876 miles

Day Thirteen: New York

It’s their third night in New York, and already Aiden knows that he will never get enough of this city of a million movies. His mind is filled to the rafters with moving snapshots of every moment so far, playing on a loop: the awestruck expression on Jake’s face as he looked out over the Hudson while they breezed down the 9A; the entire world full of color and light as they turned on the spot at the bottom of the TKTS steps in Times Square, where Aiden inexplicably felt as if he were running late for something; craning his neck on the 6 train to try and catch a glimpse of the faded glory of the disused City Hall sta­tion; a bona fide breakfast at Tiffany’s, with croissants from the Macaron Café; plac­ing a single, memorial rose of gratitude on a bench in Christopher Park and stepping inside the Stonewall Inn a few minutes later, his throat thick with a borrowed memory.

After the very first item on their list—window-shopping all the way up and down Fifth Avenue—Jake dragged him to Grand Central, and they both stopped in the middle of the main concourse to look up at the arched win­dows set high into the brick walls. When Aiden asked why Jake looked a little sad, he answered, “You’ve seen all those black and white photographs of the way this place used to be, sunlight streaming in through those windows right there. It doesn’t happen anymore because the buildings around this place are too tall.”

“That’s my star cinematographer,” Aiden replied, nudging Jake’s shoulder with his own. “Always worrying about where the light’s coming from.”

“Ade, I’m serious! Shooting in this city must be a logistical nightmare…”

Even so, Aiden has never seen Jake so full of life and wonder, not even in Boston. Last night, after deciding to capitalize on the campground’s proximity to the Statue of Liberty, they fell into the bed they’ve taken to sharing most nights and Jake talked long into the dark hours about all the city’s nuances, all the places he wants to come back and explore, everywhere he wants to work someday.

And now, standing on the observation deck atop Rockefeller Center with his gaze sweeping the horizon, Aiden wonders if it could ever get better than this. No, he hasn’t found the one place he truly belongs, as he’d been hoping—and expecting, given the astounding mix of cultures to which New York plays host—but he’s still in the greatest city in the world, sharing every second of the experience with his best friend.

“I can totally see why people pay so much money for penthouse apart­ments,” Jake says as he feeds another quarter into the coin-operated binoc­ulars. “If I could have even a tiny fraction of this view, I’d be happy.”

Now that Jake has distracted Aiden from the view over Central Park, however, Aiden’s attention drifts downward, to where the fabric of Jake’s jacket stretches across the breadth of his back, the way the tight, dark denim of Jake’s jeans hugs the curve of his ass so tightly it could be painted on.
He really is unfairly gorgeous,
Aiden thinks, and wishes that the number of spectators milling around the deck were much greater, if only to give Aiden an excuse to stand closer, close enough to justify fitting their bodies together just as he did at WaterFire. He wants to be back down on the streets, in the middle of the oppressive crush, where the danger of losing one another in the crowd is so great that Jake’s fingers tightly grip the crook of Aiden’s elbow.

The craving to touch and be close is agonizingly frustrating—it’s an itch beneath the surface of his skin that he can’t scratch, one that only grows worse no matter how many times he tells himself that it doesn’t even exist, that it’s simply a physical reaction to spending so much time with a hot guy. A hot guy with legs for days, broad shoulders, thick hair he could card his fingers through until they disappeared and a way of looking at him sometimes that makes him believe he is the beating heart at the center of the universe.