When Love Takes Over Ch. 08

The last students climbed into the bus promptly at 11:30, and by midnight, the volunteers had cleaned up as much as possible and left. The christmas lights were unplugged, but we left on the Chinese lanterns, deeming it too late to be climbing up ladders to turn them off. They could burn until morning when the next phase of cleanup was planned. Chance and I sat in the shed; by then he had removed his jacket, but he had insisted on transferring his orchid to his wife beater. He had also lost the shoes and was barefoot. I had lost my shoes, vest, jacket, tie, and my sleeves were rolled up and several buttons were undone.

Chance had brought out his stash, two chilled bottles of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill. "It's not prom night without Strawberry Hill," he had said, pulling out the bottles. "If memory serves me correctly, that was your high school drink of choice."

"You are correct, sir," I said unscrewing the bottle. Taking a tentative sip, I wondered how I had managed to drink the stuff. Surprisingly after a few more sips, it wasn't that bad, and was soon going down easily.

We had been listening to music as we cleaned up, and now, Chance went over and fiddled with his ipad. Suddenly the music switched, and the opening notes of David Guetta's "When Love Takes Over" filled the shed.

"I love that song," I said as he walked over.

"So do I." He held out his hand. "All the cute boys are gone, but if you don't mind an old sailor, you can still have a dance."

He pulled me up, and we started dancing. He was good, spinning and twirling me, but at one point, after he had spun me back to him, he pulled me close, and his arms wrapped around me. He was just enough taller than me that my head fit naturally on his shoulder, and we stood there, with our arms around each swaying to the music.

I'm not sure how long we danced or to how many songs, but eventually I realized Adele was singing and he was singing along with her, off-key, the chorus to "Make You Feel My Love." I pulled back a bit and looked up. Something passed through those amazing aqua eyes, and he was leaning down and kissing me.

It was a soft kiss, a sweet kiss, an innocent kiss. The kind of kiss a gay boy dreams about his first kiss being like. And I responded. Soon though, the kisses had deepened, and I opened my mouth to him, tasting the sweetness of the wine and his warmth.

Eventually, he pulled away, and said, "I should go."

I didn't want this to end, but knew he was right. I helped him gather his things and walked with him to his truck. Before he got in he turned to me.

"You know why I didn't go to my senior prom?"

"No."

"I couldn't take the person I wanted, so there didn't seem to be any reason to go."

I knew the answer, but asked anyway. "Who did you want to take?"

"You."

I stood there thinking about what might have been. I didn't believe that things would have gone well if two boys had decided to go to the prom together in Terry in the early 1990s. There would have been controversy and fighting and pain. And I knew that I had been a coward in my youth (in many ways I still was) and had almost always sought the path of least resistance. Yet, when I replied to him, I knew that my answer was true.

"If you had asked me, I would have said 'yes'."

He smiled, reached out and stroked my cheek, and then climbed into his truck and drove away.