Summary:
What do you do when you can’t figure out if your roommate is interested in more?
Try out the Five Love Languages on him, of course.
Like bros do.
I’ve wanted my roommate, Oliver, since the day we moved in together five years ago. There’s just one problem: I’ve never been in a relationship with a man before. And I don’t know if Oliver is into men… or anyone other than his microscope. And I’ve been doing everything I can to not think about it. Okay, three problems, but who’s counting?
But when our sweet-but-nosy landlady forces a copy of the Five Love Languages on me, the sight of the book sends Oliver into some kind of dark mood. I’m skeptical about the whole love language thing, but my curiosity gets the better of me: What is Oliver’s love language, and why won’t he talk about it?
If I want to find out, I'll just have to take a leaf from Oliver’s book and perform a science experiment of my own. I'll try showing him how I feel using all five love languages, record the results... and hope that by the end of our upcoming Friendsgiving gathering, I’ll have something new to be thankful for.
Speak My Language is a 15,000-word low angst M/M romantic novella featuring cozy fall vibes, unexpected birds, roommates-to-lovers, friends-to-lovers, a feastworthy Thanksgiving meal, and a super steamy and romantic first time. All books in the Slow Burn Holidays series can be read as standalones and in any order.
Summary:
It’s only a matter of time until Christmas works its magic on them...
Jack and I lived together for our entire twenties, friends so close that everyone just assumed: if we weren’t already together, we would be soon. Honestly, I believed it too.
Then Jack got married. I was his best man. Jack moved in with his new wife. And I was alone.
Four years later, with Jack’s terrible marriage over, we're roommates again—and it's all too easy to slide right back into the rhythm and comfort of living together. But something is different this time. Warmer. Closer. And just like before, everyone can see it.
When we agree to host my parents for the holidays, the slow countdown to Christmas wraps us in all the cozy, intimate warmth of holiday preparations. There are so many almost moments I think I might go mad… along with all our friends and family, who have been watching this dance for far too long. But when a friend talks me into buying Jack a romantic Christmas gift, the old fear comes rushing back. Revealing my feelings seems so dangerous, even after all these years. Especially now that I know what it’s like to lose Jack.
Have I waited too long? Is the risk too great? Or could this Christmas be the day we finally admit what’s been between us all along?
Say It Out Loud is a 19,000-word low-angst M/M romantic novella featuring roommates-to-lovers, friends-to-lovers, meddling friends and family, warm Christmas feelings, and a super steamy and romantic first time. All books in the Slow Burn Holidays series can be read as standalones and in any order.
Summary:
They both want it. They just need some help getting there.
The older I get, the less I care about all the BS in life... especially the things that have held me back from telling Nick how I feel about him. The fact that he’s my best friend. The fact that we live together. My parents’ outdated attitudes. Stupid insecurities. With forty looming just a few years down the road, it’s all starting to seem trivial.
But even the slightest chance of losing the friendship that saved my life? That’s one thing I still can’t quite move past. If I could just be certain Nick felt the same, I’d take the leap, no hesitation.
Luckily, Nick's mom is as tired of the limbo as I am, and she has absolutely no qualms about getting involved. She invites us to spend New Year’s Eve weekend at Nick’s childhood home, and she promises me: Before the weekend is up, I’ll get the confirmation I need. In exchange, she makes me promise: by the end of the weekend, I have to ‘put her poor son out of his misery’ and tell him how I feel.
We strike the deal. We make plans. Nick and I have never been closer. But we’ve been denying ourselves this for so long… can we finally ring in this new year as something more than friends?
Sing In the New is a 12,000-word low-angst M/M romantic novella featuring roommates-to-lovers, friends-to-lovers, meddling parents, only one bed, and a steamy first time when it all finally boils over. All books in the Slow Burn Holidays series can be read as stand-alones and in any order. Please note that this novella contains mentions of an unaccepting, homophobic family, all off-screen and in the past, as well as internalized homophobia that has been joyfully overcome.
Original Review November 2023:
I'll admit I never gave "love language" a thought until reading Speak My Language and since reading it I've seen it in at least 4 fanfictions as well as heard it on 2 shows/films. I guess I'll never not think about it again😉. I believe in it, I just never thought about it. Nico Flynn is a new author to me and I can't think of a better intro to their work than Speak My Language. Definitely going on my authors-to-watch list.
Some readers don't care for stories where the biggest speed bump is miscommunication or lack thereof and I can understand their points about "all the ridiculousness/heartache could have been avoided if they just talked" well of course it could but its not always easy for people to open up. So long as the communication hiccups are done believably and not just to further the drama or lengthen a story, I'm okay with it because sometimes emotions have to be explored at the right time. I think that's what Oliver and Chris have faced: the right time.
The duo have been friends for years and you know they both want more but are too unsure how to go about taking the plunge. Chris takes the initiative and creates a little science experiment after their landlord brings out a book on love language. I loved watching Chris trying to discover Oliver's love language. I won't say more but just know that his journey of discovery is wonderfully written that is both fun and heartwarming, you will not regret giving Speak My Language a read.
Say it Out Loud #2
Original Review January 2024:
Generally(and by "generally" I mean 99.999% of the time) I'm a read-in-order kind of series gal, even a series of standalones, there's just something about "out of order" that seems out of whack, what can I say😉? On the odd occasion the "out of whack" happens I've never been lost, never missed anything and Say it Out Loud is no different. I featured Out Loud in my Random Tales of Xmas posts in December but just didn't have time to read it even though I skipped ahead and read book 3, Sing in the New Year for my New Year's post. So I can honestly say this trilogy really is a group of standalones even though the couples do seem to be friends.
So on to Say it Out Loud. As with the other two in Nico Flynn's Slow Burn Holidays, there is a certain amount of lack of communication mostly due to fear of lost friendship. I'll admit when an author goes the route of communication issues it can go sideways but when written realistically it can be magical. Let's face it, even when we're at our most honest we've all had communication hiccups and it's easy to say for an outsider/reader to scream "Just talk to each other!" but it isn't always easy to do. So again, when written right it can be a very special story and IMO, the author has written it right.
If I'm completely honest, I see Out Loud as more of a friends to lovers/right time, right place story more than lack of communicating. With Ezra getting what he sees as the perfect romantic Christmas gift to help him jumpstart the convo over loving and being in love with Jack forever, I can't help but love the big, adorable, scared goof and wrap him in the biggest Mama Bear Hug ever.
I don't know if the author has plans for any more holidays in this Slow Burn Holidays series but if there are more, I'll be sure to read them because I'm a sucker for a heartwarming, sweet, smile-inducing tale of love.
Sing in the New #3
Original Review December 2023:
Sometimes Moms know whats best for their kids and extended found family. Nick's mom is just that mom but what I really love about her is she is not only that mom to her son but also to Ezra. With some extra pushing she just might get to see her boys happy. I understand Ezra's fears of possibly losing his best friend if the feelings aren't returned but sometimes you just have to take that leap. What I really love about this Slow Burn Holiday entry is the blend of friendship, family, and fun that brings us readers a better-than-Hallmark holiday romance that may be short on quantity but long on quality. Sing in the New is a delicious delight to help bring in the new year.
RATING:
RATING:
Speak My Language #1
Chapter One
Oliver and I love our landlady. Really.
After five years of renting her basement apartment, Mrs. Thomas is like a mom to us. We have Sunday dinners together, she checks in when one of us gets sick, and she talks some no-bullshit sense into us when necessary. When we first moved in together as a broke grad student (Oliver) and the owner of a brand new business barely off the ground (me), she was exactly what we both needed, and she’s at least a part of why neither of us moved out even when we could afford to. She’s perfect in every way… except for one.
She likes to chat.
Often.
"And so I told Melinda she was being silly," Mrs. Thomas says with a wave. "She insisted on buying me this book for my birthday. She said it was something I needed to read because of that little fight with my Jerry. Such an overreaction, don't you think, Chris?"
Oliver's lip twitches with a suppressed laugh, and I cut him a quick look over the dinner wreckage sprawled across Mrs. Thomas's dining table. Jerry is Mrs. Thomas’ new boyfriend, and we have spent far too much time speculating on the relationship. Oliver isn’t known for his tact and manners, but when it comes to Mrs. Thomas, he has a hidden but well-documented soft spot. He’s managed to go the whole evening without saying something oblivious or unintentionally insensitive which, even when it comes to his beloved Mrs. Thomas, is rare.
I, on the other hand, can’t deny the woman a single thing, no matter how hard I try.
"Oh yeah? What's the book about, then?" I ask, managing to sound only slightly pained. Mrs. Thomas lays a hand on my shoulder, and I could swear her smile turns almost… mischievous? Secretive? The hairs on the back of my neck prickle in warning.
"Oh, I thought it was silly at first, but it's actually quite interesting! It's called The Five Love Languages, and it's about how everyone has a particular way they prefer to receive love."
Oliver lets out a barely audible sigh, no more than a faint whisper of air, exasperated by what he no doubt considers ‘complete nonsense.’ I bite back a grimace at the minor flare of pain in the general region of my heart.
Oliver doesn’t do love, or romance, or… anything. The one drunken time I managed to get up the courage to ask about his love life, Oliver insisted he wasn’t asexual or aromantic. But he also doesn’t date. Which would be totally fine if not for the very minor, totally insignificant fact that I have, against my better judgment… fallen in love with the asshole.
Years ago.
I sigh and give in to my curiosity.
"Okay, I’ll bite. How can you ‘receive love’ in different ways? You just... love someone or you don't, I thought."
"Oh, I'm not saying it right,” she says, flapping her hand as if to dismiss her earlier explanation. “It's like this. My ex-husband always used to show me he loved me by buying me expensive gifts and the like. Now, don't get me wrong, I did love the fancy cars, though I wish he had put a dime in the bank so I’d have a bit more to go on at my age. But what I really wanted was for him to tell me he loved and appreciated me. He bought me gorgeous diamonds, but all I needed was for him to say the words 'I love you' more often."
Well, that sounds simple enough.
"Okay, so, he was telling you he loved you in one way, but you wanted to hear it in a different way."
Mrs. Thomas nods emphatically. "Exactly. And it's so common. Most people don't even realize that a lot of their gripes with their spouses, friends, and family all come down to a simple miscommunication on a very basic level. And it gets even more complicated, too. The way you tend to show love to others isn’t necessarily the way you want to receive it. So you can be ‘speaking’ one language, but that doesn’t mean that’s the language you want to ‘hear’ in return."
Oliver shifts in his chair and knocks his foot against mine under the table with a pleading expression, as if to say get me out of here. I shoot him a dirty look and can't resist the opportunity to get under his skin.
"So, five love languages you said? What are they? Can you list them all?" I ask, my voice syrupy sweet and innocent. Oliver kicks my ankle harder. Mrs. Thomas beams.
"Let me think for a moment... there's words of affirmation," she says, ticking each one off on her fingers. "Gift giving, acts of service, physical touch, and quality time."
"Huh." I think back through a dozen failed relationships, but can't find the common thread. What have I always wanted that I haven't gotten? What had they wanted from me that I didn’t give?
Or was it just that they weren’t Oliver?
"She was right, though," she continues. "Jerry and I had a lovely talk about it and I understand now that his need for physical touch is much greater than I'd previously—"
I cough hard, bringing that particular line of discussion to a sharp close.
"So, love languages, yeah. They can help friends and family too, you said? What about you, Oliver, what's your ‘love language’?"
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I wish I could snatch them right back out of the air. Too obvious, damn it. Pressing Oliver about feelings is a guaranteed way to ensure awkward, irritated silence around the apartment for the next two days. But now that Mrs. Thomas has put this idea into my head, I have to know. If there’s a way I can show him how I feel without actually saying anything, to get a read on whether there’s a chance without risking the friendship…
But Oliver's mouth tightens, and his eyes reflect something dark and tense.
"I've had enough. Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Thomas."
He pushes back from the table to stand, but I stop him with a hand on his arm. I can’t resist. The conversation has led us to this point, and the information is right there. So close.
Does Oliver want to be loved in a particular way?
Does Oliver want to be loved at all?
"Come on, Oliver, it's just for fun," I say, keeping my voice light. "I know you don't do the whole feelings thing, but we all know how much you love to be told how brilliant you are. What is it, then, words of affirmation?"
A shadow passes over Oliver's face, and he stands so fast that his chair skids backward with a clatter.
"This is bullshit," he spits, and he storms out of Mrs. Thomas's kitchen, slamming the door on his way out.
I blink, my heart deflating.
"Well, that seemed a bit of an extreme reaction, even for him."
"Bit of a sore subject for him, dear. He'll come around," Mrs. Thomas says with a pat on my arm.
Sore subject?
"I know he doesn't really… want love in that way, but I don't see why it would make him so angry."
Mrs. Thomas fixes me with an incredulous stare.
"Chris Greene, you aren't a stupid man, so why do you insist on saying such stupid things?"
I blink again, struck by her bluntness.
"Come again?"
Mrs. Thomas shakes her head sadly and begins to clear the dinner dishes.
"How have you been showing him how you feel so far?"
I sputter a weak protest but quickly give up at the look on Mrs. Thomas's face. Apparently, I haven’t been as subtle as I thought about the whole bisexuality thing. Or more specifically… the whole Oliver thing. Of course she knows how I feel about him. She sees everything.
My shoulders slump as I drop my face into my hands.
"I do everything to take care of us. I do all the grocery shopping, I clean up his messes, and I make most of the weekend plans with our friends. What don't I do?"
Mrs. Thomas hums. "And what's something he's done or said that meant a lot to you?"
I sit back in my chair and think it over. Oliver has done a lot to infuriate me over the last five years, that’s for sure. He’s not the easiest man to get along with. But he's also said some things, here and there, that have moved me.
"Well, there was this time when he was finishing up his doctorate. He was going out of his mind with stress, spending so much time in the lab I hardly saw him. And he was just sleep-deprived enough to let slip that…”
I swallow hard against the rush of remembered feeling. It was so small, and it’s so pathetic of me to be clinging to such a tiny moment. But Mrs. Thomas’s eyes are filled with such gentle kindness, with no judgment at all, and the words rush out all on their own.
“He said he missed me. He missed me when he was gone at the lab so much. And that nothing made him feel human again after living in his research for weeks at a time… except coming home to me.”
Mrs. Thomas blinks rapidly, her face going soft, clearly seeing the same thing I did in the moment. Oliver has so few people in his life. To be one of the ones that matter feels… immense.
And, remembering that moment, I fall for him all over again.
"Well,” Mrs. Thomas says, clearing her throat. “It seems to me that you've been trying to show him through acts of service, but that's apparently not his love language. Perhaps you should try something else."
"Perhaps he doesn't have a love language because he thinks the whole thing is ‘bullshit,’" I grumble, and Mrs. Thomas fixes me with a terrible glare.
"Chris, you know better than anyone how deeply that man cares for the people in his life. You just proved it yourself!"
"He has a funny way of showing it," I say, resigned. Mrs. Thomas shakes her head with a sigh, disappearing for a moment before returning with her copy of The Five Love Languages.
"Maybe he's just not speaking the language you want to hear,” she says, pushing the book into my hand. “Think about it, Chris. Really."
I look down at the book, tempted to “accidentally” leave it on the table when I go.
So tempted.
Instead, I shove it in my back pocket as I stand from the table.
"Fine. Sure."
I gather up my dishes and load them into the dishwasher, then do the same with Oliver’s, because of course he didn’t bother before storming off. Mrs. Thomas tries to catch my eye as I thank her for dinner, but I manage to avoid her until I can step out the front door into the late evening darkness.
The bite of the autumn air chills me even through my knit sweater, but I take a few minutes to walk the length of the property anyway. I’m not ready to face Oliver and our shared space yet. I check the fence line and Mrs. Thomas’s beehives for damage from the day’s gusty wind, though Oliver will need to suit up and come do a real hive inspection tomorrow. There are no major tree limbs down, but the leaves are piling up. I take my time, going over everything in detail, needing some space to mentally lick my wounds and steel myself before heading inside.
I always feel raw after looking straight at my feelings for Oliver. Most days, they’re tucked safely into a corner, just an unacknowledged but constant hum in the background. I’ve never been in a relationship with a man before, so I don’t even know exactly what I’m missing. That helps, in a way. We go about our lives, working and living and getting older, and never straying too close to the topic of feelings.
I have to remember that last part, no matter how hard it is.
With my brain sufficiently re-calibrated, I finally turn and back toward the house, fallen leaves crunching under my feet. I’ll need to rake tomorrow, or else Mrs. Thomas will get it in her head to attempt it herself, bad hip be damned. I’ll need to pick up some salt before the first snow, too, so Oliver won’t end up ice skating off the back porch again this year. The bulb next to our basement apartment entrance flickers in that way that says it’s about to burn out. And, of course, there’s the Friendsgiving party we’re supposed to be helping Mrs. Thomas and her sister throw at the end of the month. Those are the kinds of things I need to be focusing on. The practical day-to-day elements of the life I love.
I’m happy. I don’t need anything more than I already have. I need to let it go.
No more thinking about love languages and feelings.
Just life and the business of living it.
But I do think about it.
For weeks.
What is Oliver's love language? If he were to want love, how would he best receive it? How would he hear it?
It clearly isn't acts of service, since I’ve tried that plenty over the entirety of our five years living together. But that still left four options.
Gift giving. Quality time. Words of affirmation. Physical touch.
I’ll just have to take a leaf from Oliver's book and perform a scientific experiment.
I’ll try all four. And if after all that, I still have no luck… then I’ll let it go.
Once and for all.
Say it Out Loud #2
Chapter One
Tess Navarra is a woman on a Christmas mission, and I am firmly in her clutches. I've begged, I've bargained, but she refuses to be swayed.
I'm currently backed into a corner of an adorable bakery draped in gauzy fake snow and cheerful twinkling fairy lights, pinned there by the force of her glare. She presses her lips together into a thin line and stares me down.
"Ezra, you knew my opinion on this when you texted me this morning. I'm not sure why you thought it would change in the last..." She checks her watch. “Six hours?”
"Because your opinion is stupid and I hate it," I say with absolutely no whining in my voice. I pull my coat tighter around my thin frame, my shoulders rounded in what is definitely not a petulant sulk, and shove past her, out the door, into the chilled evening air. Tess jogs after me, blinking against the flurries of fine snowflakes that land in her eyelashes. As soon as she catches up, I try another tactic.
"How about a—"
She cuts me off. "No. Unless you're going to say a kiss, a card that includes the words 'I'm in love with you,' or you're planning to put a bow around your own dick—"
"Oh my god, you are the most mortifying human—"
She barrels on, completely ignoring the glare of a passing middle-aged man in an unfortunate scarf. "If it's not one of those things, then Jack doesn't want it, and I don't want to hear it."
I scowl. She makes it sound so easy. Like Jack and I don't have years of baggage working against us. We met in our freshman year of college when we were in the same core requirement history class. We started living together our sophomore year, then got a place off campus our senior year and just... stayed there. We have all the same friends. We've traveled together, spent holidays with each other’s families... and I've been in love with him the whole time.
Well, probably. There were a few years there in the beginning where I swore we were just really great friends. Best friends, the kind you have for life. In hindsight, though... I'm pretty sure it's always been more than that.
I just didn't realize it until Jack started dating the woman that would become his wife.
If we really were just best friends, then being the best man at his wedding would have been one of the highlights of our friendship. Instead, the day he asked me was one of the worst I've ever had. The whole experience left me sick. It was right after one of our biggest almost moments, too, the night of Jack’s twenty-seventh birthday, when we’d had way too much whiskey and I nearly fucked up our entire friendship.
I guess in the back of my mind, I thought we would always be together. Even throughout the whole wedding preparation year, I kept thinking... this will all go away. Something will happen, the wedding will get called off, and everything will go back to normal. I always thought... eventually, it'll just happen. We'll get there.
We didn't get there. Jack married Hannah four years ago. He moved out, and I stayed. We were still best friends, but he had a wife. Things were different.
Then they split up six months ago, though Jack was uncharacteristically vague on the 'why' of it. He moved back in a few months later. And now, everything is almost back to normal.
Almost.
"Look, Tess," I say, struggling to master my temper. "I’m not going to turn Christmas morning into some kind of grand romantic gesture. Especially not while hosting my parents. And you’re one to talk. You’ve been mooning over Imani’s sister for the last year. Why do you have to keep picking at this?"
"Because, Ezra—"
She snags me by the crook of my arm and tugs me to a halt. The grumbling, holiday-rushed crowd pushes us against the wall of yet another glittering shop, this one full of toys and delicate ornaments and a thousand other things I study intently instead of meeting Tess's gaze.
"Because you've been through enough," she says, her voice low and gentle. "The both of you have been through so much, and it's time to just be happy, okay?"
My throat goes thick, and I blink hard until the lights through the shop window lose their blur.
“It’s not like I’ve just been waiting around. I’ve dated. I have a job I love, and a seat in the orchestra—"
She cuts me off.
"It's time, Ez. You asked for my help, and I'm giving it. Let yourself be happy." She runs a comforting hand down my arm, then takes a deep breath and steps back. "Now, why don't we—"
I slip away before she can finish that sentence, already halfway across the street before she starts to follow. The light changes, and she gets stuck on the other side of the crosswalk while I disappear into the craft beer and wine shop I spotted in the reflection of the window. I have an idea. Maybe it's a stupid one... but it's the only idea I've had all day. It's worth a shot.
I must give off helpless vibes, because seconds after I stop in the middle of the store, a woman with a kind smile approaches me.
"Shopping for a gift?" she asks.
"How could you tell?"
She shrugs, eyebrows raised. "Just a lucky guess. Who's it for?"
"It's, uh..."
This question shouldn't be hard. It's for my roommate? It's for my best friend? It's for... the man I've been in love with for my entire adult life? I don't know how to answer without spilling way more than this poor woman asked for. She seems to sense my internal angst and comes to my rescue, thankfully.
"Is it for someone... special?" she asks delicately.
My cheeks go hot, and I look away, sure it's written all over my face.
"Possibly," I say, then immediately have to fight the urge to run away. Before I can flee, the woman's smile deepens. She waves for me to follow her.
"I think I know just the thing," she says as we weave through aisles of craft and imported beer toward the wine section. "Do they like red wine?"
"He does," I say, and the urge to flee overtakes me again as soon as I realize that I've just come out to this random stranger, which shouldn't be a big deal but always feels like it. She doesn't react at all, though, just scans a rack of red wines and gently withdraws a bottle with a quiet 'ah hah!'
"This merlot is deep and rich,” she says, angling the bottle for my inspection. “Beautifully seductive color, full-bodied flavor, very warming. It's a fantastic wine for a special occasion, or... a night in."
The flush spreads from my cheeks to the tips of my now burning ears, but I nod, a vision of Christmas possibilities unfolding in my mind. This wine, the right atmosphere, a touch of bravery, and maybe…
"I'll take two," I say, once my throat lets me.
Tess sidles up and bumps her shoulder against mine, having finally caught up. She nods at the wine.
"Good choice.”
I slide my card across the checkout counter and can't help the tiny, private smile that curls at the corner of my mouth.
"We'll see," I say.
The snow is falling in earnest by the time we get home from our shopping trip, my cheeks wind-burned and my hair dusted with fine powdery flakes. Tess and I chat on our shared front porch for a moment, then head for our respective doors. Jack and I have been renting this same duplex since college, and when our terrible previous neighbors moved out we begged Tess to apply to rent the other unit. One good word to the landlord later, and she was in. Good thing, too, because it made things at least slightly less desolate when Jack moved out.
I unlock the door, and a warm, sweet scent immediately fills my senses. What is that? Chocolate? As soon as I step inside, I see him. Jack, standing in front of the stove, stirring a pot with a wooden spoon and humming quietly to himself. My heart gives a painful contraction at the sight of him, so perfectly at home here, as much a part of this place as the walls. Some part of me is still expecting him to leave again, to come home one day and find it empty and quiet.
But he’s here.
"Welcome home," Jack says in that warm southern drawl of his. He doesn't look up, intent on whatever his project of the day is—the man can never just sit still and relax for an afternoon. I should reply. Thanks, or hello, or something.
Instead, I flee into my bedroom, darting past Jack with something like guilt or embarrassment twisting in my stomach. I practically slam the door behind me and shove the wine under my bed like a porn magazine hidden from a parent.
What am I doing?
I slump onto the floor next to the bed, forearms propped on my knees, waiting for my heart to stop trying to break out and fly away. Somehow, having the wine in the same physical location as Jack makes the reality of giving it to him, drinking it with him, so much more immediate.
Honestly, there’s probably nothing to worry about. It's wine. Jack will drink it and completely fail to understand the significance. He'll be a little confused, but he'll say thank you, compliment the wine's characteristics, appreciate its color without ever applying the word seductive like the woman in the shop did.
Things will continue as they always have.
I'll want him. Jack will be oblivious.
Fine.
But... agh. Tess's words are like a nagging fly I can't shake. On our walk home, I actually tried to backpedal and make her take the wine. The look she gave me was so fierce I thought she might eat my face off.
"Look, I understand that before he got married, you had lots of reasons to doubt,” she’d said. “But I just don't understand what you're so afraid of now."
I'd barked a harsh laugh right in her face, shaking my head.
"How am I not supposed to be afraid? I could lose my best friend. Again."
"You're not going to lose him, Ez. He's a sure bet. You have nothing to worry about."
"So everyone keeps telling me. Everyone thinks they know. But do they really? How sure are all of you?" I'd had to pause and rein myself in, hearing the ragged edge of hysteria in my voice. "No, I think it's a lost cause. If he wanted me, I'd know by now. I need to let this go. Jack isn't interested in me like that."
"Then why did he come running right back to you as soon as his marriage was over?"
"He's only been back for three months. They've been broken up for six."
Tess had hesitated for a moment then, setting off alarm bells in my brain. But she’d continued.
"He wanted to come straight back to you. But he didn't want you to feel like he was only coming back because he had nowhere else to go. He wanted you to know he was choosing to live with you again because it's what he wanted."
If only I could believe that.
"I think you're reading too much into the situation."
"It's literally what he told me. I'm not 'reading into' anything."
"But he never told me that."
"Because you are two thirty-something men who can't figure out how to talk about feelings. At some point, Ez, you're going to have to open your mouth and say words, and I can't help you with that."
I was grumpy and silent the rest of the way home, digesting that bit of info. Against my better judgment… it does give me a bit of hope.
And yet, here I am, sitting on my bedroom floor and running a thousand scenarios through the logical machinery of my brain. As always, I’m getting nowhere. It’s been a lifelong problem; I’m either thinking with my math brain or I’m drowning in my feelings. It even came out in my choice of college majors. I majored in math but minored in music because I couldn’t bear to put down the flute entirely. Everyone always said, ‘oh, yeah, there’s so much math in music!’
But they don’t understand. To me… I just can’t integrate them. They’re wholly separate parts of me that can’t seem to take possession of my body at the same time. Even now, I have a day job running probability models and managing statistics for a climate nonprofit. But I have a seat in the community orchestra, too.
Logic and feelings. And I can’t make myself accept logic where Jack is concerned, so my feelings just… overwhelm me.
Maybe I need more opinions here. Tess is too close to the situation. Maybe a different friend. I pull one of the wine bottles back out, snap a picture of it, then send it along with a text to one of the only people who might understand what I’m struggling with. Our friend Oliver is a genius scientist who finally just got together with his boyfriend, Chris, after years of pining. Maybe he’ll have some insight.
Ezra: Is this a terrible idea? Too obvious?Oliver: Not obvious enoughOliver: Get out a sharpie and write I FUCKING LOVE YOU on the label and you'll be halfway there.Ezra: Shit, if that's halfway then what's all the way??Ezra: Never mind, please don't answer thatOliver: Look, I know it’s terrifyingOliver: But it’s worth itOliver: Trust me
Ugh, smug bastard. He’s been like this ever since they got together. The sex must be really good.
Ezra: Easy for you to say. Chris did the wooing. All you had to do was be wooed.Oliver: Wooed? What are we, 16th-century ladies of the court?Ezra: I regret texting youOliver: Most people doOliver: But look, I DO know what it’s like to not trust what your eyes are seeingOliver: And to be too afraid to hope that it might be trueOliver: But you have to trust Jack, and trust the rest of usOliver: It’s going to happen. You just have to say something.
Ugh. It’s Tess all over again. I close my eyes and lean my head back against the bed, letting the tide of my feelings carry me out to sea. Jack. What am I going to do? Can I really go through with this?
A knock on the bedroom door startles me from my thoughts.
"Ez? You okay? Are you busy?"
Shit.
I shove the wine back under the bed and scramble to my feet, schooling my features into something less obvious, then crack the door open. A hand holding a cheery red mug pushes through.
"Come on," Jack sings, waggling the mug as much as he can without spilling. "Come join me. I built a fire in the fireplace, and I just made real hot chocolate from scratch. Try some."
My throat constricts at the sight of Jack's warm, crinkled smile, so all I can do is nod and take the mug, following him out into our living room. Jack picks up his own mug and goes to stand by one of the big windows overlooking the road. After a moment of hesitation, I join him. I'm careful to place myself a comfortable distance away, but Jack ignores it and shifts closer until our arms brush with each sip of hot chocolate. Outside, the fine powdery snow shifts to fat, wet flakes, falling in a thick rain over the dusted streets.
"Beautiful, right?" Jack asks. "I wonder if we'll get snow like this for Christmas."
He turns to me, as if I could possibly provide the answer to such an impossible, changeable thing... and my gaze falls to his lips. My mind automatically maps out the motions needed to bring our mouths together, the possible actions and reactions, the—
I drag my eyes back up to Jack's, finding them soft and glowing with something. And I think of the wine. Of that full-bodied flavor on Jack's mouth, of seductive red, warmth in my belly, first kisses, and laying Jack down in front of the fire while a winter wonderland swirls outside our window.
I take in a shuddering breath and lean away from Jack, bracing my forearm against the window. A topic of conversation, something to distract, anything, what can I say...
"My parents want to stay here for Christmas," I blurt, knowing the surprise of it will knock Jack off balance. I wasn't planning to bring this up until later, but needs must. “Instead of a hotel. They want a ‘cozy Christmas at home.’”
Jack predictably flounders, his mouth gaping open for a long moment. "What, here as in our house? Where will they..."
Jack pauses, his face shadowed with disappointment and hurt. "I guess I can call my sister, see if I can spend Christmas Day with them so your parents can stay in my room and—"
"No," I interrupt, half-panicked. "Stay. Please. They want to see you, too. I already talked to Tess and she’s going to let them sleep there while she’s out of town. Please stay here."
Okay, I’m practically begging now. Does this count as talking about feelings? I feel like I should get credit for this. Regardless, I catch the quirk of a small smile at the corner of Jack's mouth.
"All right, Ez. I'll stay, if you're sure you want me to."
Ha. As if we don’t all already know that I want him around at all times. I think back to the wine bottles hidden away under my bed and swallow hard, the anticipation of merlot on my tongue.
"Yeah. I really do."
Sing in the New #3
Chapter One
The drive out to Nick’s childhood home is undeniably beautiful. It's like some kind of rustic postcard scene; evening sun spilling across the horizon, painting gold over white farmhouses and herds of cattle, then fading as the early December dark approaches. It’s been a cold but sunny winter day, something Nick says is a rare treat in the gray winters of Western Pennsylvania.
One that I’m completely ignoring in favor of my phone.
“Who are you texting?” Nick demands, looking away from the road to peer over at my phone. “You’re missing the pristine beauty of my homeland and shit.”
I tilt my phone away. “Eyes on the road, madman.”
Nick huffs but complies anyway, giving his curls a toss to emphasize his irritation. “There. Eyes on the road. Who are you texting? Is it Jack? Have he and Ezra finally crawled out of bed? It’s December 30th, surely they’ve stopped having sex by now.”
I ignore him and send one last text.
Tyler: This is my last chance to back out. You’re absolutely sure?Mrs. Warren: Tyler, dear, you’re being obnoxious.Mrs. Warren: I am completely sure.Mrs. Warren: Now don’t text me again, love. Keep it together.
I have to fight to keep my face neutral, the corner of my mouth twitching with suppressed laughter. Nick is so clearly his mother’s child in a way that makes me fiercely fond of them both and incredibly bitter about my own family at the same time. My parents fed me homophobic garbage when I was growing up, pushed me to propose to every girl I ever dated in college, then made more homophobic comments with every year that went by without me settling down. I finally quit talking to them a year ago.
Then, there are Nick's parents, who called me on Christmas Day to make sure I knew they were thinking of me. And to let me know that they were tired of my shit.
“I know you’re in love with my son,” Nick's mom said during that Christmas call. “When are you going to do something about it?”
I didn't bother wasting my breath with denials. Partly because Nick's mom is a certifiable genius, but also because I was just... tired. They’ve seen us together so much over the last six years that it’s a miracle they didn’t catch on sooner. I'd shot a glance at Nick’s closed bedroom door, then replied, “It’s not quite that easy.”
“It is exactly that easy,” she’d said. “Put my boy out of his misery, Tyler. You’ve had his heart for years, and I'm completely exhausted by watching him wait for you.”
My heart had ached at that, had thumped rabbit-fast with panic as I'd looked to the bedroom door again, waiting to be caught.
“I’m pretty sure it’s the other way around,” I’d finally admitted in a murmur. “I don’t think he’s interested in… relationships.”
I hadn't wanted to elaborate because, you know, it was Nick's mom. But Nick isn't really the... settling type. He sees guys for a bit. He goes out and hooks up on occasion. But for as long as we've known each other (six years) and lived together (four years), he's never had a long-term boyfriend. And that's part of what's scared me off, honestly.
Mama Warren wasn't having it, though.
“Tyler Oberlin,” she'd snapped, and my spine had automatically straightened to attention. “I know my son. I watched him build that wall he uses to hide his heart as a young man. I know it for what it is. Armor. Protection, Tyler. People were not kind to him growing up. Trust me. All he’s waiting for is a sign from you.”
I’d done my best to tamp down the painful swell of hope her words had stoked, but it was impossible. I’d become obsessed.
I texted her the next day.
Tyler: What if I need a sign from him, too?Mrs. Warren: Then you’ll have it. Get him here for New Year’s Eve. I’ll take care of the rest.Tyler: You’re sure?Mrs. Warren: Completely. But I’ll need you to be brave, too, and give as much as you’re asking for.Mrs. Warren: Make my boy happy, Tyler.
In the moment, I'd doubted I had any actual say in the matter. Mama Warren had a mission in her head, and she was gonna push the issue anyway, no matter what.
But once the idea was in my head, I couldn’t let it go.
Tyler: Okay.Tyler: Okay, let’s do it. We’ll be there.Mrs. Warren: Good man. You’ll be thanking me in the new year.
And with a furtive glance at Nick, half unconscious in a bowl of cereal at our kitchen table, I’d deleted the text thread. I remember the feeling so vividly; my cheeks burning red and my heart racing with fear, elation, embarrassment... and hope.
So much hope.
And now here we are. The day before New Year’s Eve. Nick driving us in his little Mazda 3 that I barely fit into, taking the corners way too fast with that sort of driving muscle memory that kicks in on the roads of your hometown. On our way to what feels like my doom, even though in theory it’s going to be my ultimate happiness?
I turn my phone off and stash it in my back pocket, as far from Nick as it can possibly get while remaining on my person. Can’t have him catching his mom’s name on the screen and getting suspicious.
“There. No more phone,” I say. “Pristine beauty of your homeland and shit. Got it.”
Nick isn’t so easily distracted, though, so I deploy one of my recently discovered distraction techniques: physical contact. I lay a hand on Nick’s leg and give a light squeeze, relishing the soft slide of expensive fabric under my fingers. Nick freezes for half a second… then relaxes, his legs falling ever so slightly farther apart. His face stays perfectly blank, but his breathing hitches the tiniest bit—a tell I’ve learned to look for, a tiny seed of hope that’s grown into a tangled wanting that suffocates me on the best of days and aches without relenting on the worst.
It could still be something else. Friendship. Touch starvation, maybe. (Nick hasn’t had a steady hookup in over a year. Not that I’m counting. Too busy at the hospital, he says.) He could even be uncomfortable with the touch but not willing to say so. But sometimes, rarely, Nick will give the smallest sign: the corner of his mouth turned slightly up, a brush of fingers against mine, a faint hum.
It takes all of my considerable self-control to keep my hand from sliding higher in search of a gasp, a blush, a—something. I want, so much that sometimes I worry the wanting will eat me alive. Now that I know what it is. Now that I’ve accepted it.
Distraction. Music, conversation, something, or else I really will let my hands wander and my mouth start running, probably crash the car and our friendship and my life all in one dramatic move. I pull back and desperately latch onto the first topic of conversation that comes to mind.
“So, what do you think your parents have planned for the weekend? Anything special? New Year’s Eve traditions?”
“My grandmother used to visit and cook the traditional pork and sauerkraut for New Year’s Eve and Day when I was a kid,” Nick says. “I hear my mom still does pork, but she always hated sauerkraut. Don’t tell anyone, it’s a sin around here.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I would have to pass on that.”
A small smile curls at the corner of Nick’s mouth. “I haven’t been back for New Year’s Eve since I was seventeen, but I imagine we’ll eat way too much around one in the afternoon, graze on leftovers and desserts for the rest of the day, and drink too much champagne in front of the fire while my mom murders us all at cards. She’s a shark, don’t let her fool you.”
He glances over at me. “They’re probably going to be embarrassingly clingy with you this weekend. I hope you’re prepared.”
I look out the window to hide my grin.
“I don’t mind.”
Honestly, it’ll be nice to have a family that cares, that’s accepting and affectionate instead of expectant and cold. My father’s disapproving sneer forces its way into my mind, whispering poison about soft men and their feelings, but I shove it all away. He has no power over me. Not anymore.
“Hey, where’d you go?” Nick asks, startling me out of my unpleasant memories.
“I’m here, sorry,” I say. “Just thinking about how different our families are. I’m looking forward to this.”
“Yeah, we don’t exactly grow herds of big burly boys in my family,” he says with a self-deprecating laugh. “Just little old me.”
“I don’t think I could handle a whole herd of you.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Nick says with a sly grin. “I bet you could hold your own.”
Man, it’s a good thing Nick never comes around my job sites, because if my crews of foul-mouthed construction workers and subcontractors could see the way I flush at a little light flirting, I’d never hear the end of it. No one expects the general contractor to be a blushing flower. Then again, no one expects the general contractor to be bisexual, either.
Still trying to get used to the sound of that.
You’d think it would be easy, considering our friend group. Probably half the people we hang out with are queer. But it took years of conversations with Nick and my best friend, Nia, to wade through a lifetime of brainwashing. To finally realize that yes, I’ve had sex with women and liked it, liked them, but I’ve never fallen in love with any of them. And it’s not because I’m broken, and not because I’m aromantic. Sexual attraction and romantic attraction don’t always map one to one. And me? I can only fall in love with a man, it seems.
Once you figure this shit out, it’s so obvious, looking back. But looking back is too painful. So, all I want to do is look forward. Nick, my closest friend, the man who saved me from the lowest point of my life… and the man I’m in love with.
Hopefully, after this weekend, the man I’ll be with.
Nick takes a left turn down a narrow-paved road and flashes me a grin. “We’re here. Prepare yourself for Hurricane Warren.”
“I can take it,” I say, keeping my voice light even as panic tries to force it higher.
Nick laughs. “Damn right you can. You’re built like an oak tree.”
I roll my eyes. I’m not that big, I’m just… sturdy. All the Oberlin boys are. We grew up hauling lumber and bags of concrete on dad’s job sites, and that’ll leave its mark.
Even so, as the house comes into view, I find myself wiping sweaty palms on my jeans. The house is adorable, a remodeled farmhouse that was clearly added onto a time or two. Our friend Chris would probably have a fit—he’s a building inspector and this thing has “handyman special” written all over it. I’ll eat my hard hat if all the proper permits were filed for those add-ons. It looks well-maintained and cozy, though, bursting with personality and care even from the outside. Those flower beds have Mr. Warren’s green thumbprints all over them, even in the dead of winter. There are a few evergreen plants evenly spaced to make sure there’s always a bit of color and telltale mounds where perennials have been covered to overwinter.
Nick barely has time to shut the engine off before the front door flies open. His mom comes out first, wrapped in a shawl and heading straight for the driver’s side. Nick’s dad follows close behind in a well-worn brown jacket, and he greets me with a firm handshake-turned-hug.
“So good to see you, Tyler, truly,” he says, thumping me hard on the back. “I hear my wife has been meddling.”
Nick’s head shoots up from where it had been resting against his mother’s in a rare show of affection, and he steps back from her hug like she’d attacked him.
“Meddling how?” he demands, hands on his hips, but his mother waves him off.
“You never would have shown up if I hadn’t gotten Tyler to bring you and you know it.” With that, she turns her back on her son to wrap me in a long motherly hug.
“Don’t you dare ask it again, Tyler, I mean it!” she says in a low voice. “I see that look on your face. You look half sick and ready to bolt. You remember the deal and do your part. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” I reply as I pull back from the hug, catching a glimpse of Nick over his mother’s shoulder in the moment before he masters his expression. It was just a brief thing, a stolen snatch of time, but Nick’s face had gone unbearably soft at the sight of his parents embracing me. I get it—I already feel at home in a way I never have with my own family, and Nick’s expression seems to say all the things I want to hear: I want this, be my family, this is right, please stay forever.
If all goes well this weekend, then that’s exactly where we’ll end up.
I pull our overnight bags from the trunk and hand Nick’s over, not letting go until our fingers touch. “Let’s go get settled in.”
Nick’s gaze is oddly charged when our eyes meet, and he nods.
Nick’s mother is a devious one, I have to hand it to her. The house is romantically lit with candles and fairy lights, a fire crackling in the fireplace, the last of the fading sunlight leaving everything dim and warm and cozy.
Including the bedroom.
Singular.
I expected a lot of things, but the dusty wreck of a construction zone in the spare bedroom was not one of them.
“What happened?” I ask, eyes wide.
Mrs. Warren closes the door to the room with a gentle click, a cloud of plaster dust puffing out. “We’ve had a slow roof leak for years, and you know how it goes once you start opening up ceilings and walls.”
I wince. “Yeah, house projects have a way of unexpectedly growing.”
She pats Nick on the cheek with an indulgent smile. “Nick’s old bed is plenty big enough for two. Now, put those things down and get out of here, you’ll need to get to the brewery soon if you want food before the kitchen closes at eight.”
And with that, she whirls away and disappears down the stairs, leaving me with bright red cheeks and a very awkward Nick.
Here’s a chance, I tell myself. This is why you’re here.
“Come on,” I say, nudging Nick’s shoulder with a smile. “Let’s ditch these bags. What’s this about a brewery?”
Nick opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, his gaze flicking over my face.
“I can sleep on the couch…” he finally offers, hesitant, but I cut him off.
“Don’t worry about it. Unless you’re against cuddling, of course, because I’m a notorious sleep cuddler.”
A beat of silence.
Then Nick snorts, and we break down into ridiculous giggles. And here we are—an opportunity to be just a bit daring, to push the boundaries just a hair.
I reach out and grab Nick by the wrist, tugging him along as I walk backward toward the bedroom door.
“Come on, madman. You can handle me for one night.”
I do a great job of pretending not to notice the way Nick stumbles at that, if I do say so myself.
Nico FlynnNico Flynn is all about stories that are heartwarming and steamy in equal measure, always with a healthy dose of humor. Bring on the snappy banter, mutual pining, and well-earned happy endings!
Nico lives a wild life out in the country with too many dogs, a family, video games, and a whole lot of books. If new releases suddenly stop, you can assume Nico was swallowed up by an out-of-control tomato plant or eaten by a bear.
After years of writing across age groups and genres in the traditional publishing arena, Nico is thrilled (and terrified) to finally be taking this first step on the indie side. It's a wide and wonderful world out here!
EMAIL: nicoflynnauthor@gmail.com
Speak My Language #1
Say it Out Loud #2
Sing in the New #3
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