In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere #1)

By Roan Parrish; Published In 2015
Genres: Romance, M M Romance, Contemporary
And Rex seems interested. He doesn’t seem to think I’m a total geek or a pretentious asshole. Or maybe he just feels sorry for the idiotic city boy who got himself marooned in Northern Michigan, almost killed a dog, and is currently drunk in a stranger’s sweatpants in a cabin made of plaid and flannel.

Are you boiling bacon? “Um. Is that wrong?” I say. “Argh! I want to punch you!” Leo says.

Don’t you know? Don’t you know how crazy I am about you?” My hands fist in his shirt and I stare into his eyes, blinking slowly. I guess I did know, but I never imagined he might say it. He cradles my neck in his hand, thumb stroking my nape. “I—I love you so much.” He says it quietly, but it’s like a bomb going off.

Do you want to watch a movie or something?” I ask, putting my plate in the sink. Rex shakes his head. “Do you want me to go so you can… do whatever?” Rex shakes his head again, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. He stands up and holds out a hand to me.

E forse questo è il punto.
Forse il punto del TI AMO è che quella frase E' un legame.
Una connessione che ti consente di ritrovare la strada verso qualcuno anche quando le cose sembrano enormi e ingestibili da solo.
Una promessa di aiuto perché ti importa di qualcuno; una promessa di aiuto che non significa ritrarsi in se stessi.

Feel so much better when you’re around,” I tell him. “’S not fair you get to be with you all the time.

It’s like the cartoon physics of awareness: we can’t hurt until we see that we’re supposed to.

I was thinking, over Thanksgiving, that I don’t really know him. I don’t know what makes him tick—made him tick. Like, if he were the main character in the book I was reading, it’d only be chapter two. I’d know his name and who was in his daily life, but I’d be waiting to find out that thing that would make me care about his story. At least, that’s how I felt before. There was a whole book left. The promise that maybe if I kept reading I’d learn enough to make me like him—care about him. Only now, it’s like he was just a secondary character—a tertiary character. And the author hadn’t even thought about any more of a story for him. There just isn’t any more of him. And, I don’t know. That makes me fucking sad because I think probably he felt the same way about me. I know he cared about me, at least a little. I mean, I think so. And Colin and the guys, they knew him. And they’re fucking devastated he’s dead. And I’m jealous because….”
“Because?” Ginger prods.
“Because they were a family and I wasn’t part of it,

Like, you know that feeling," I try to explain, "where it's Sunday night and you have school or work the next morning but then it's a snow day and you don't have to go in? You feel like that."

"I feel like a natural disaster?" he teases, but his gaze is intent.

"No," I say, forcing myself to say what I mean. "A relief. You feel like a huge relief."

Rex's eyes go very soft. "You feel like a relief too, Daniel," he says.

Maybe the point of I love you is that it is a tether. A connection so you can find your way back to someone even when shit seems huge and unmanageable on your own. A promise to help just because you care about someone, a promise to help that doesn’t mean pulling away.

Music social foul: no singing a song when another song is playing.
Double music social foul: don't ever fucking sing anything while Pink Floyd is playing. What's wrong with you?

Niente di tutto questo ha importanza
mentre sono qui al caldo e alticcio, nella terra della flanella e del legno.
All'improvviso, stare nel bel mezzo del nulla sembra la cosa migliore che potrei desiderare.

Oh, yes, Daniel. All girls like forearms. Every single one. No really, I’ve asked all of us and we all agree. We don’t even agree about whether or not the long arm of the law should be able to reach into our vaginas, but we agree about forearms.

Rex?” He freezes and when he looks at me I can see the uncertainty he’s trying to cover up with his motions. “I think you’re perfect. I mean, shit, that sounded sappy, but, I mean perfect in my opinion.” Ugh, how do I explain what I mean? That all those things that he is came together like the perfect recipe. “For you?” he says. “Hmm?” “Perfect for you, maybe?” He looks shy and pleased. All I can do is nod. He hoists me up onto the counter and kisses me silly.

Then she says something about the universe sending us pieces of our past selves to embrace so we can heal them and I must be drunker than I thought because I don’t follow her at all.

The other night, you said that we mean different things when we say I love you. That you don’t know what it means to have someone love you. This is what it means. It means doing things together and learning what each other needs. I give you what you need. You give me what I need. And they’re not the same. And that’s fine. It’s not too good to be true. It’s just good.

the skin like velvet over steel,

They became convinced that I thought I was better than them when the truth was that I just knew they would never like me if they knew who I really was and what I really wanted. Love me. They would never love me.

Words that are meant to comfort but mean nothing.

You like my forearms?
No, not yours in particular. I mean, they're fine. Just, it's a sexy body part.
I totally agree. I just didn't know girls liked them too.
Oh, yes, Daniel. All girls like forearms. Every single one. No really, I've asked all of us and we all agree. We don't even agree about whether or not the long arm of the law should be able to reach into our vaginas, but we agree about forearms.