“Relax,” he murmurs, tugging down on my waist.
I hesitantly lower, and lower, and lower my hips until I am . . . sitting on Tahegin’s lap. Honestly, I expect to hate the position, to undoubtedly cringe and pull away, but for some reason, I don’t. It actually isn’t that bad.
I am blaming that thought on the beer.
Hey, at least my back feels better.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask. My gaze is stuck on the wall behind the couch as I try not to freak out about the fact that I am straddling another man.
A friend, I remind myself. He’s my friend.
“You don’t have to listen to my sob story,” he tells my chest.
I can’t ignore the sniffle he lets out, but my stupid brain won’t let me say, “I don’t mind listening”—like saying those words would physically hurt me. I can, however, default to what I do know how to do: give Tahegin a piece of me in exchange for a piece of him. Taking a deep breath, I say, “It’s hard having a big dick.”
Tahegin jerks back to stare at me with shocked and confused eyes, and—okay, well, maybe that wasn’t the best icebreaker, but like hell am I about to talk about my parents abandoning me on a fucking Thursday afternoon at the family services building. I am not ready for that yet. “Wha—”
“I haven’t told anyone this. Not even Micah,” I continue, appearing unfazed, despite how my chest fills with relief when the moisture is blinked away from his bright blue eyes. “But my package is so big it’s difficult to find boxers that fit comfortably. Sometimes, it’s easier to just go commando. And I get weird looks in locker rooms. Not, like, leering but . . . jealous, maybe? They just don’t know how much of a burden it is. Found out the hard way to take my hookups in the bathroom of a club instead of bringing someone home just for her to look down and go ‘no, thank you.’ Sex ed did not prepare me for being turned down for having a big dick.” Tahegin keeps staring at me, lips slowly parting wider and wider as I go on and on. “It looks big when it’s soft, but the kicker is, it grows, too. When I get hard, it goes from—” Something bumps beneath my thigh. “What was that?”
Those big blue eyes get impossibly bigger. “Nothing!”
“T, what—” I lean back and look down, and—oh. Oh. He’d changed into a pair of Rubies joggers after we left the animal shelter, and currently, they are doing nothing to conceal the situation inside them. “Dude, are you—”
He moves an arm from my waist to put his palm over my mouth, giving me a serious look. “Okay,” he begins, intensely calm. “I like dick, and you just spent the last five minutes talking about one, so yes, my body reacted. Not to you—just the topic of conversation.”
I stare at him until he slowly peels his hand from my mouth. “I am literally talking about how girls turn me down because it’s so big.”
Eyes are naturally drawn to movement, so both of us glance down as there is another twitch in the red fabric between us.
God help me, my curiosity piques. Is his reaction only because of the topic of conversation or something more? Is it . . . the size of the topic? “Do you—”
He cuts me off again, which is probably for the best. Who knows where my question was going? “I started drinking in my junior year of high school,” he says in a rush without preamble. “My first drink was at a party after a game. I had already been diagnosed with depression a year prior and had been taking my medications religiously. You really aren’t supposed to drink on the meds, much less in excess. I told myself I was only doing it to celebrate with my friends. Then, I was only stealing from my parents’ liquor cabinet to contribute to the parties . . . And then told myself that I was only drinking the stolen alcohol alone in my bedroom to work on my tolerance so no one would call me a lightweight. I went to school hung over quite a bit, but I had it controlled for the most part. At least, that’s what I told myself. It wasn’t until my freshman year of college that I decided I wasn’t depressed anymore.”
Forgetting all about our earlier conversation, I absently settle on his lap once more. “Does it work like that?” Somehow, my hands have found his shoulders, and I soothe my thumbs along his collarbones. He relaxes slightly into my touch. “Once you’re diagnosed, can it go away?”
Lips rolled between his teeth, Tahegin shakes his head. “Situational depression—like after the loss of a loved one—can be treated and get better. Clinical depression is different. I have a chemical imbalance in my brain that will never fix itself. The doctors say it can be hereditary, but I have no way of confirming that.” He quirks a wry smile, and I want to ask why not. The foster system had my shitty parents’ information when I asked for it. Why not for him? “Anyway, I took my pills less and less, drank more and more, and then . . . I don’t know.”
His brows furrow, and his jaw clenches, working the muscle in his cheek. I can tell he has more to say, but it’s clearly painful to talk about, much less speak aloud. Knowing all I can do is provide support, I melt completely into him. My knees bracket his hips, the back of my thighs line the top of his, my ass nestles in his lap, and I continue the smooth motion of my hands on his shoulders. I keep my attention solely on him, as if the entire world has stopped to give him as much time as he needs.
“I woke up.” His voice breaks, and his eyes brim with unformed tears. He sniffs hard, sounding as if he needs a tissue. I don’t even have toilet paper in my new apartment, so he’s out of luck there. “I woke up in the hospital. Apparently, I downed a bottle of pills and chased ’em with a bottle of whiskey. I . . . I don’t even remember doing it.” He’s all shaky whispers at this point. “I keep hoping one day I’ll recall swallowing the pills and booze or at least remember why I did it. Truth is, I don’t know if it was an attempt or a cry for help or what. My family would like to know the answer, too, I think, but I don’t have it. At this point, I will probably never know.”
Sniffling, he wipes under his eyes, where tears have finally begun to escape. “I got sober. The day I woke up to my family sitting beside the hospital bed, I swore to them and myself that I wouldn’t drink again. And I would take my medicine. My parents made a big donation to the college, and I magically finished out the year, even though I wasn’t functioning at my best.” He pulls a face. “I guess being rich does help sometimes.”
“You’ve kept your promise for five and a half years? That’s admirable.”
He nods. “Haven’t had a sip since. I, uh, did skip a dose of my meds once, though.” Blue eyes sheepishly meet mine. “The first away game we roomed together, I didn’t want to have to explain the bottles, so I didn’t take my pills that morning before the game. It was a big mistake. I felt off for, like, a week after. I have been taking them since, just tried to be discreet about it whenever we roomed together. I don’t . . . I don’t want to be defined by my diagnosis.”
I grip his shoulders and give him a small shake. “Dude.” I stare straight into his eyes to show how serious I am when I say, “You are literally the most happy-go-lucky guy I know. Swear to God, you could be a spokesperson for Sesame Street.”
Tahegin bursts out laughing, making me chuckle, too. “Sesame Street? Where the fuck did that come from?”
“I don’t know,” I laugh. “It just came out. I guess because kids are always happy and giggly? Fuck if I know.”
Still grinning, he pushes on my stomach. “Get up, fat ass. My legs are asleep,” he complains with amusement. I carefully maneuver myself off him. “Speaking of sleep, you don’t have a mattress here yet. Do you want to crash at mine again?”
“Well, I was going to sleep on the couch, but after the conversation we just had, like hell am I letting you go home alone tonight.”
Surprise flickers in his eyes. “You don’t have to come simply because you’re worried I’ll fall off the wagon. I’m okay on my own.”
I suck on my teeth, practicing my contact skills by clapping his shoulder. “Yeah, I know. I’m also going because your bed is heavenly.”
“Uh-huh. My bed,” he clarifies. “The guest bed isn’t quite as luxurious”—he stretches his back with a wince—“trust me.”
Ah. So that’s where he slept last night. Good to know.
The part of my mind that had wondered if he’d slept on the other half of the bed I’d commandeered last night wasn’t ever actually upset at the idea.
Huh. Also good to know . . . I think.
CHAPTER 15
TAHEGIN ELLINGSWORTH
The game on Sunday is amazing.
Not only am I in a good mood because of last night—Hendrix and I spent the entire evening in our hotel room in Miami with the balcony door open, listening to and smelling the ocean, sitting in one of the beds in our usual fashion, and practicing my sign language by telling childhood stories and stupid jokes—but because our team is killing it in Shipwrecked stadium. Sure, the Pirates are giving us a run for our money, but what a great fucking run it is.
I’m zigzagging down the field, covering the star tight end with a powerful man-to-man matchup. Kennedy is good, but after months of being tested by Hendrix’s skill, I can keep up with the sharp turns and dynamic routes better than ever.