Page 62 of On Dry Land

“Your sister bought you a Porsche?”

“On her birthday,” he adds. “She gives me extravagant gifts on her birthday to, in her words, remind me of the day the better child was born.”

I laugh so hard a bunny startles in the woods and scampers off into the trees. Dryden, mouth twisted into a smirk, meets my eyes when I finally get them wiped free of tears. I chuckle, unable to completely get the laughter under control.

“Older sibling or younger?” I ask, picturing a massive red bow atop the Porsche and what Dryden’s face probably looked like when he saw it. I have to breathe deeply through my nose to keep from breaking out in fits of giggles again.

“Older. By two years. She transitioned eight years ago, which is the other anniversary where I can expect to be showered in gifts.”

“She sounds amazing.”

“Yes. She’s a state’s attorney prosecutor.” I whistle, long and low. “And the only member of my family I’m particularly close with.”

I nod. My own parents, who I always felt did a pretty fair job of raising me, firmly pushed me out of the nest when I was eighteen. For a few years afterward, we got together on major holidays. And then those started tapering off as trips elsewhere were planned or work was unable to be avoided. They moved to Arizona, and I got mauled by a dog. They came to see me in the hospital to verify I was still alive. Then they went home to enjoy the desert sun, while I went home to watch my life fall apart. It didn’t occur to me then to ask for help, and I wouldn’t do so now. To them, having their child reach adulthood freed them of parental responsibility. My problems are my own.

“I’m not close with my parents either,” I tell Dryden, who raises an eyebrow at me.

“I do think mine might bum me a couple dollars if I found myself living on the street, though,” he comments. I snort. Sometimes I wonder if he can read my mind.

“I never asked my parents for help. They probably don’t even know that I need dollars. Although, to be honest, they likely wouldn’t share if I did ask. They’re very ‘you’re an adult, figure it out yourself’ type of people. Which, I do,” I add, shrugging. “I’m perfectly capable on my own.”

The gravel crunches under our boots as we walk. I think about my parents and how long it’s been since we’ve talked. I think about whether I would even be able to get the words out if I called them up to ask for help. Probably not. I was an independent child who grew into a tough, independent teenager. When we went places together, my parents would brag that I was an easy kid, that they never had to worry about me. Sometimes I wonder if I missed out on love because of it. I never learned how to ask for help, and they never learned how to give it.

Dryden hums a noise of agreement and lapses once more into silence. I think about the little bits of information he shared and tuck them away like nuggets of gold I panned from a still river. I feel like an anthropologist, compiling lore on a new species. I wonder if I can tease out a bit more.

“Do you see them often? Your family?” I ask him.

“Mm. No, not often. Holidays, usually. Which is also the one time of year I see my ex-husband.”

I wrinkle my nose. Dryden, catching the expression out of the corner of his eye, huffs, air fogging in the rainy mist in front of his lips.

“It’s a nauseatingly insular world I grew up in. My parents spoke about Dylan and I dating before I’d even met him.”

“Ew, what? Were you in an arranged marriage?”

“Good lord, Spencer, this isn’t the aristocracy. They merely knew his parents. We were the same age and gravitated toward the same end of the spectrum sexually.”

“Still kind of sounds arranged to me,” I grouse, trying, and failing, to imagine my parents inviting a boy over for dinner because he might be husband material. “Also, talk about a bummer way to spend the holidays. Who wants to see their ex on Christmas?”

“Not I,” Dryden deadpans. “And the feeling is mutual. We rarely speak and just content ourselves to aggressive eye contact across the ballroom.”

“It’s not the aristocracy, Spencer,” I mimic. “It’s just a normal family with a normal ballroom.”

His mouth pinches closed in the way he does when he finds me funny. As usually happens when I’m feeling anxious or trapped, walking has unraveled my knots enough that I’m calm once more. Grounded. The pull to run has abated, and in its place is Dryden.

“Thanks for walking with me,” I say quietly, using my body to steer us across the road and back the way we came. I want to go home now and show him how much I care for him.

He opens his mouth to reply, but pauses before simply saying, “You’re welcome.” Smiling, I wave at the car that slows down to pass us.

Dryden is beautifully pliable in bed. He lies where I push him and relaxes into the mattress by increments—a slow heat melting away the tension. He doesn’t go further than a press of the fingertips against my leg or arm, and he likes to watch. His eyes are always on me when I look up to find them, black speckled with silver as they reflect the light from the lamp. The attention burns like the first touch of warmth against frostbitten skin. I could turn the light off and be little more than an anonymous pair of hands in the dark. If he asked me to, I would.

But my preference is exactly this. I want to see each flutter of his eyelashes when he fights against the urge to close them. I want to feel the burn of his skin against mine and watch the way it pebbles with lust. I can feel him relax and watch the way he tenses back up. But more than that, I want him to know it’s me, to feel hands on his skin and fingers inside him, and to see me there. I want him to see how good this is—how good he is—for me, and never wonder what, if anything, I get from this. I told him that sex probably feels better for me than it does for him, and it’s true. How else is he meant to know this is genuine if he can’t see my eyes to tell him?

I leave Dryden’s box of toys alone this time, enjoying the connection of a slow and steady rise with nothing but my hands and mouth. And, as I’m reminded by his soft gasp as I stroke my fingers inside him, he’s so incredibly sensitive that nothing else is needed. I repeat the motion and shiver at the way he reacts, my entire body buzzing with his energy. It’s such a stunning transformation, watching the steel in his spine bend to something so wonderfully malleable.

“So perfect,” I say softly. Pulling my fingers out of him, I move up between his legs far enough that I can bend down and kiss him. I want him to know it’s not his physical attractiveness alone that’s beautiful, but the whole of him. Dryden doesn’t trust words, but I can show him.

Settling back between his legs and watching, with satisfaction, the way his eyelids seem heavier and his mouth parted further as he struggles to keep his breathing even, I touch him. I consider, for a moment, moving this in a different direction and giving him a blow job, but it’s not the time, and that’s not what he needs. What he needs is this—unhurried adoration and purposeful worship. He needs someone to give him what he deserves and show him that it’s okay to want.