Page 17 of Axes and Ohs

“Well, yeah. I mean, I might have gone in a different direction if you lived in New York.” I bounce my keys from hand to hand. “And obviously, this is just a temporary situation.”

He narrows his eyes. “Temporary. Right. Meaning…?”

“Meaning, not permanent?” I shrug. “It’s month to month, so⁠—”

Carlos wrinkles his nose. “Erick… what the fuck are you talking about?”

“My apartment. It’s tiny, but it’s just a sublet, so…” I tilt my head. “What are you talking about?”

“I asked you how many hot guys you brought up here!” His voice isn’t all that loud, but it rings through the little hallway and up and down the open stairs. He runs a hand through his long hair in frustration. “And you were all, ‘Carlos, I have something to tell you,’ and I⁠—”

“Wait, wait, wait.” I set my hands on my hips and review our convo. “So you thought I was saying I have hot guys up here all the time? And you were all, ‘Yeah, no, that’s cool’?” I nod. “Oh. Right.”

Well, damn. I guess that defines our relationship, doesn’t it?

“No. I mean, yes, that’s what I said, but… fuck, what was I supposed to say? We hooked up once, and I don’t know how you feel about me and… We haven’t talked about this,” he repeats.

“Well, we’re talking about it now!” I blow out a breath, hoping Mrs. Quan’s enjoying the show. “I’m not seeing other people. You asked the other day how many lumberjacks I was texting, and I specifically told you⁠—”

“Yeah, I know. But we were joking around. And I realized two minutes ago that it doesn’t mean shit since there aren’t a whole lot of lumberjacks in Manhattan, anyway. But there are a whole lot of other guys.”

“I don’t want any of them!” I shoot back. I hear myself and squeeze my eyes shut, feeling my face turn red. So much for not being too obvious.

Carlos takes a deep, audible breath. “Thank fuck,” he says softly.

My eyes fly open.

“I… I don’t want you to want any other guys.” He braces his feet and sets his hands on his hips too, like he’s ready to fight me on this.

“Yeah? And what about you?” I demand softly. “What about you and… and other people of any gender?”

He shrugs and spreads his hands helplessly. “I haven’t been with anyone since you. I haven’t wanted to be.”

“Then why the fuck are we fighting?” I lift my hands and let them fall against my thighs with a fwap.

Carlos takes a step toward me and cups my face in his hands. “Because apparently, I’m an insecure idiot, and I… I want you so fucking bad I can’t think.”

“Oh. That’s… a good answer.” I move in closer, feeling my shoulders drop as I inhale his woodsy cologne, and sigh.

“Still love when you say oh,” he says in a growl. “Like you’re surprised and pleased all at once.”

“Because I am. The only reason I’m not being a jealous idiot right now is because I haven’t let myself think about you with other people. I’ve been telling myself not to push you. To let you figure shit out.”

“Yeah, well… I think I’ve figured out some of it,” he says softly. He smooths his thumbs over my cheeks.

“Kiss him!” an elderly female voice calls from above. “Kiss him, Erick!”

Carlos’s muscled shoulders shake with his laughter. “Uh, Erick? You wanna let me inside your apartment now?”

I snort and hand him the keys. “Get in.” I take a step toward the stairs and shout up, “Have a good night, Mrs. Quan.”

Carlos unlocks my door and steps inside. It really is a tiny place—a studio with a Murphy bed, a kitchenette that’s two burners and a half-broken mini-fridge, and just enough room for a table and two chairs… though one of the chairs is stacked with Spanish textbooks and crafts I’ve prepped for next week. The crown molding and windows are “pre-war” according to the landlord, but I realized too late that he didn’t specify which war, and these drafty fuckers probably date from the American Revolution.

But Carlos doesn’t seem to notice any of that. His eyes lock on the poster hanging above the table. “Ah, shit. You’ve got a Winsome tourism poster? I’ve never seen this on our video calls.”

He steps closer to examine it. It’s an illustration showing a forest of fall foliage. But in the foreground, instead of the usual baskets of shiny apples, there’s a barrel of pickles. And across the top in cheerful letters is spelled out the words, “It’s Always Brine and Dandy in Winsome, Vermont.”

“Griffin sent it to me last week,” I admit. “I emailed him to apologize again for blowing up his life, and he, ah… he thanked me.” I shake my head, still not quite able to believe it. “Said if I hadn’t taken a stand, he never would have ended up in Winsome with Beckett, and he never would have been so ‘disgustingly happy.’ His words.”