Same Love - @((Y^!@ Allyvia (books for men to read txt) 📗

etc. etc.-- were scattered throughout the room, smashed ones lying in the hallway, flat as a pancake.
 

I cradled my soccer trophy in hand, one of the last reminders from my life in Pineswood, Minnesota. Pineswood was a little town where everyone knew everyone and everyone heard everything. They'd especially hear about the pastor's son being gay. I'd be the town's newest scandal, along with Mrs. Witicker having her third heart attack.

"Andrew," a rumbling voice called from the stairway down the hall. California was different though; gay marriage is accepted here, I reminded myself as I set the trophy on the awaiting shelf and headed towards the door to my new bedroom. One last glance at my life from Minnesota, and I smiled. Yeah, California was pretty nice.

 

Ally

A year ago today, my brother killed himself. Three weeks ago, a family moved into our old house. It was an icy slap in the face, reminding me that everything changes. A cool breeze whipped by me, tugging at my sweatshirt, smelling of rain. green grass whistled, tickling my ankles with each brush. The grey skies overhead rumbled with the promise of thunder. Oak leaves rustle and fluttered in the array of sounds and scents.

 Just a week ago it was sunny.

Like I said, everything changes.

I almost missed him, huddled in his expensive, meant-to-look-worn leather jacket, floppy brown hair hanging in his green eyes. He looked hulking compared to the gravestones and miniature flags poking out of the ground, like Godzilla in Tokyo. He jogged down the paved path, his Nikes slapping against the asphalt.

"Ally," he murmured as he neared, his cheeks rosy and eyes red. He had been crying. A sad smile tugging at his lips, he wrapped his long arms around my middle, holding me close to him in comfort. I breathed in deeply, hoping to catch a hint of Carter remaining in the leather. It just smelled like rain water and hair gel.

"Hey, Ashton," I sighed, closing my eyes. Disappointment ate at my stomach. Black strands of curled hair falling out from beneath my beanie cap, and I broke away, my eyes wandering to the gravestone we stood by.

Carter Rhys Maxx, b. May 14, 1996, d. October 23, 2012.

That was all it said, and yet it seemed to tell his whole life story. Carter was simple, and yet he died young. He would have been seventeen. My eyes burned, with tears and anger and sadness, and I watched the granite words blur into oblivion. Instinctually, I grabbed hold of Ashton's hand, wondering how many times my brother had done the same thing.

"Ashton," I whispered, tears beginning to brim and brighten my eyes, black hair whipping  as the wind gust around us.

"Yeah?"

"He loved you... he was crazy about you. I-I'm... glad, you agreed to come with me. I-I couldn't have done this alone," I finished, the words lodging in my throat at first. He nodded, kissing his his teeth, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"I know."

"Ashton?"

He didn't say anything, only nodded and looked down at me with sad green eyes and dark lashes.

"I'm glad you're the last person he saw."

"Me too," he choked, tears falling down his cheeks in big fat droplets. I squeezed his hand once more. As selfish as it sounded, I was glad someone else was miserable. It meant I wasn't the only person, in all of Grafton, California, that was sad he was gone. I was just the only one anyone saw mourning.

Two

 

Carter

 "Hey! Hey, are you okay," I heard his voice call from somewhere behind me. It was the day we met, the day Mike King kicked the shit out of me.  i didn't know where I was going; I just needed to get away. I rolled my eyes, and shouldered my weathered backpack, my Converse sneakers squeaking against the linoleum. My stride was slow, hoping to look casual despite the raging pain in my ankle, and I didn't look back.

"Hey, you, are you okay," he asked again, the sound of his Nikes hitting the floor echoing down the hall. The feel of a hand on my shoulder stopped me cold, and I glanced behind me to see his tentative half-smile and worriedly knit dark brows.

"I'm fine," I muttered, stopping just long enough to show him I wasn't suffering any broken limb or internal bleeding.  He didn't seem very convinced, and dropped his hand from my shoulder quickly enough to make it seem like I had imagined the action.

"You don't look fine. You have, er, blood on your lip," he insisted, the crinkle in his brow deepening. That was one of my favorite things about him, the little wrinkle that formed between his thick, dark brows.

I used the back of my sleeve, running it across my bottom lip quickly, pain radiating from my piercing. Just fucking great.

"Are you sure you don't need anything? Or I could walk you to the nurse-"

"They'll ask what happened. I'm fine just walking back home," I mumbled, my eyes flickering from the little kink in his hair to the letterman jacket to the expnsive tennis shoes on his feet. A weak smile tugged at his lips, showing off straight white teeth.

"Well, let me give you a ride or something. I was going to skip fifth anyways," he shrugged, shifting awkwardly. He offered me another weak smile that I didn't bother returning it.

"You don't have to. You've already bruised my ego, at least let me live through the humility of walking home," I insisted, the joke making a small chuckle bubble from within his chest. He smiled, nicely, showing off those white teeth, and held out a hand.

"Ashton Grey. Savior and chaffuer," he grinned, waiting for me to clap my hand in his. Tentatively, I shook it, a small smile tugging at my lips before I could stop myself.

"Carter. Carter Maxx. Otherwise known as Fag Boy."

Imprint

Publication Date: 07-19-2013

All Rights Reserved

Dedication:
To Brandon, My favorite gay senior bitch!