Boys Like Daniel

  A Journey of Desire and Reckoning

  D.J. Ciccarello

  BOYS LIKE DANIEL: A JOURNEY OF DESIRE AND RECKONING

  Copyright © 2025 by D.J. Ciccarello

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any other informational storage and retrieval systems, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author.

  ISBN: 979-8-9898435-9-6 (eBook)

  ISBN: 979-8-9994283-0-1 (Paperback)

  ISBN: 979-8-9994283-1-8 (Hardcover)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2025914123

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, contact: https://www.djciccarello.com

  Cover Design by Juan Jose Padron

  Proofreading by Dominic Wakeford

  Published by D.J. Ciccarello, Atlanta, GA 30328

  Recommended for readers ages 16 and up.

  Boys Like Daniel is a coming-of-age novel that explores themes of queer identity, emotional reckoning, and intimacy. It contains mature content, including adult language, consensual and non-consensual sexual encounters, and emotionally complex situations. This story is intended for an Upper-YA, New Adult, and Adult audience.

  Also by D.J. Ciccarello

  Boys Like Kevin

  The Lucky Chip

  No Time for Duplicity

  To David W. Singleton.

  My best friend, mentor, and advocate.

  “Desire is the kind of thing that eats you and leaves you starving.”

  —Nayyirah Waheed

  CONTENTS

  1. The Morning After

  2. Two Truths and a Lie

  3. Reflections

  4. The Empty Seat

  5. The Wrong Kind of Warmth

  6. Chance Encounter

  7. The Edge of Yes

  8. Sunlight and Shadows

  9. Somewhere Else

  10. The Call Back

  11. At Home

  12. The Lunch Encounter

  13. Invitation to Swim

  14. Ghosts And Second Chances

  15. The Ripple Effect

  16. Afternoon at Emory

  17. House of Contentment

  18. Pick Up

  19. The Hunger

  20. Kiss of Silence

  21. Between the Grooves

  22. Echo Chamber

  23. This is Love, Too

  24. Red Beans and Reckoning

  25. Almost Honest

  26. A Polite Warning

  27. Lines We Cross

  28. The Romance of Misery

  29. No Place For Me

  30. Secret Journey

  31. Light in The Darkness

  32. The Reckoning

  33. Flip Turn

  34. The Confession

  35. The Letter

  36. The Hush of Darkness

  37. This Masquerade

  38. The Stillness After

  39. Suspended in The Quiet

  40. The Promise of Presence

  41. Enough For Now

  42. Our Home For The Holidays

  Thank You!

  Acknowledgments

  Let’s Stay Connected

  1. The Morning After

  (June 1986)

  Waking up next to someone used to mean something. At least, that’s what I thought. Now, it only means I drank enough not to go home alone.

  The ceiling fan clicks with every turn—a sharp, disquieting sound. Sunlight creeps through the blinds, casting shadow bars across the rumpled sheets now twisted around my legs. I stare up at the uneven rotations of the fan blades, willing time to rewind, as if I watch long enough, last night might unravel itself.

  The sheets reek of sweat, smoke, and sex, like the club the night before, familiar and forgettable. My head throbs, like it always does the morning after, but it’s not the alcohol. It’s the emptiness that takes longer to shake. Twenty-four shouldn’t feel this used up.

  Shifting to free my numb arm wedged beneath a body I don’t remember inviting up, Rick—whatever his last name is—stirs beside me, mumbling something into the pillow before stretching and rolling onto his stomach. He flops one arm over the far edge of the bed and looks comfortable. Too comfortable—as if he thinks he belongs here.

  It’s clear now we ended up back at my apartment: not his place, not the car, not the bathroom at the park like a month ago. No, last night we ended up back here, my apartment in 2B, where Daniel Whitmire lives.

  I’m careful not to wake him. Not out of kindness but because I’m not ready to talk. Not to him, not about anything. Sitting up, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My jeans are crumpled on the floor, as if I stumbled in at 2:00 a.m. and peeled them off half-conscious and in a rush, leaving the mess for the morning. Last night was a repeat of the routine: eye contact, the right half-smile, a drink, then more. Sliding my jeans back on, I wonder when this stopped feeling like freedom and started feeling like a form of forgetting.

  Shirtless, I pad to the bathroom, sidestepping the laundry basket and last night’s bar shirt. I brush my teeth and splash cold water on my face, avoiding the mirror until I accidentally glance into it out of habit. The reflection stares back with tired eyes and a too-practiced detachment—like nothing touches me—like I’m just passing through.

  From the bedroom, Rick stirs and mumbles something that sounds vaguely like my name.

  “Don’t go back to sleep,” I call out. “I’ll walk you down.”

  He sits up, blinking against the light. “Are you always this polite?”

  “No,” I say, grabbing a clean shirt off the back of a chair. “But it’s a building with nosy neighbors.”

  “Subtle,” he says as he dresses, smiling as though last night was more than what it was. He’s not my type in the daylight; he’s too young, too hopeful.

  Moving to the kitchen, I decide not to make coffee. There’s no reason to give Rick cause to linger—nor give him any more of myself than I already have. Leaning against the counter, I hear a dog bark outside, a car starting, and the sound of Rick’s piss cutting through the surface of the toilet water through the open bathroom door.

  The throb of the nightclub’s bass is gone. The script played out as expected: the flirtation, the undressing, the cadence of fucking—like an actor hitting all of his marks. Still, some part of me hoped it might feel different this time. It doesn’t.

  I know what to expect afterward: the disinterest and angst, the clean-up, the new name I won’t remember. I don’t feel hungover, just hollow, like I spent something I didn’t have. It feels like Sunday—another weekend lost and folded into the emptiness of all the ones before it.

  He walks into the kitchen, hair tousled, shirt clinging to his chest. “Any coffee?”

  “I’ve got to run some errands,” I say. It’s not a lie. It’s just undefined.

  He nods, looking around like the place might tell him who Daniel Whitmire is. It won’t. The apartment is sparse: a couch, some records, books I haven’t read. There are no photos to cherish, no phone to talk to people, no past to answer for.

  “Here,” he says, scribbling his number on a receipt from his wallet. “We should hang out again.”

  It lands in the palm of my hand and then on the counter behind me.

  Rick lingers a second, maybe hoping for something more. A kiss? A reason? He gets neither as I walk toward the door to hold it open for him.

  Taking the stairs down the three floors to the street, he talks about the club, the music, and meeting me. He says I looked like someone who wasn’t there for the music. Who says I was there at all? But he’s not wrong. Nodding, I let him go on, letting him believe I’m still half-listening.

  Outside, he brushes my arm. It barely registers.

  “You’re not gonna call, are you?”

  I meet his eyes. “No.”

  He submits a small, resigned smile. “Didn’t think so,” and turns to head to his car.

  Humidity curls the ends of my hair, and Midtown moves around me: buses, traffic, people spilling out of the twenty-four-hour nightclub or heading to church in their Sunday best. Both groups worship their chosen salvation: different sanctuaries, yet the same hunger.

  I need coffee. Down Juniper, past the florist and bookstore, there’s a café near the corner of Piedmont and North Avenue. It’s not my usual spot, but something pulls me in that direction. Maybe the wind or the chance to disappear.

  Corner Café has open windows and a line of patio tables with umbrellas shimmering under the morning light. I push the door open, and a small bell overhead jangles with forced cheer. The air inside is cooler and smells like cinnamon and over-brewed espresso. I order a black coffee with sugar, then step outside to wait under the awning, still shaking off the effects of last night and the thought of Rick peeing in my bathroom.

  That’s when I spot the
m inside the café, across the room, by the windows—two guys at a table in summer clothes. They look too stylish to sweat. The taller one faces me, laughing at something the other in a short-sleeved button-down said. I know that laugh, that grin, that face.

  Kevin Summers.

  My heart stutters while everything else freezes. I can’t remember the color of Rick’s eyes, or if I even looked, but I remember Kevin’s: that shade of green you only see right before a storm.

  He’s broader in the shoulders and more muscular now—he’s grown into his stocky build. His hair is shorter than I recall; his well-groomed, wavy locks are now cut close to his head like a man in the military. That’s it—that’s what’s different—Kevin looks like a man now. Still, he wears that expression like he’s listening with his whole face.

  The shorter, leaner, blond guy across from him reaches for Kevin’s hand and doesn’t let go. They’re mid-conversation, casual, and comfortable. They’re close—close enough to matter.

  Seeing him hits like a sudden riptide beneath still water. I don’t move—I can’t. My mouth goes dry. My fingers curl against the denim in my pockets. Kevin looks happy. Settled. The other guy leans in to say something, and Kevin touches his wrist in response. It’s a touch of familiarity—of intimacy.

  It feels surreal, but it is him. He’s right there and not alone.

  I step backward into the awning’s shadow and instinctively turn before he sees me. For a second, I consider walking over and saying his name, explaining what happened four years ago that night. But I’m not ready—not like this.

  I don’t look back until I’ve turned the corner, my heart still hammering. The air feels heavier, and I’m two blocks away before realizing I never got my coffee. It doesn’t matter. My heart is beating too fast anyway. The last time I ran from Kevin, he was naked, and I was twenty.

  Kevin is in Atlanta, and he’s not alone.

  I haven’t seen him in four years, but one look—and everything I’ve buried comes rushing back.

  I tell myself it’s nothing. Just surprise. Just curiosity.

  So why does it feel like the beginning of something I can’t undo?

  2. Two Truths and a Lie

  When I reach my apartment door, it feels like I’ve just dodged a meltdown. The hallway reeks of reheated Chinese and lemon-scented floor cleaner—the superintendent’s lazy way of pretending age and mildew aren’t slowly winning. Still, it’s a great Craftsman-style brick building on 6th Street: three floors, each with four corner apartments and large factory windows framed by shaded oaks. Timing is everything. I was lucky when I found this place almost twelve months ago—and again this morning, slipping away from the café unseen.

  I’m halfway to unlocking 2B when Naomi’s voice cuts my focus. “Well damn, look what the nightlife spat out.”

  I turn, and she’s leaning against her doorframe, 3C, arms crossed, one brow raised, that half-smirk pulling at her mouth like she’s already read the ending of a chapter not written yet.

  “Shit, you burn hotter than the skillet you just threw me on,” I reply. Naomi is sharp-tongued, intelligent, unbothered, and lethal with one-liners.

  “Well, if you weren’t crawling in here like regret in a T-shirt, fresh off the walk of shame on a Sunday morning.”

  Naomi doesn’t miss a thing. She’s got eyes that can sniff out guilt before you’re convicted. Late twenties, deep brown skin, shoulder-length braids, and a laugh you hear through walls. The first person I met in Atlanta and still my best friend—a freelance writer and editor by trade and full-time bullshit detector by birthright.

  “You got someone in there still?” she asks, angling her head toward my half-open door.

  I step in and nudge it shut with my foot. “No. He left.”

  Naomi checks her watch with a theatrical sigh, meaning she’s about to deliver another line. “And it’s not even noon. That’s a record for you?”

  “I need to shower and clean up,” I say, closing the door and turning the lock like it might shut out more than neighbors.

  “Uh-huh. Well, get your tragic ass cleaned up and dressed,” Naomi shouts through the wooden door. “We’re getting lunch at two o’clock. The usual spot.”

  The usual spot is a diner over on Myrtle, where Mateo works in the mornings. Naomi likes the corner booth. I like that no one asks how your night went unless you’re bleeding.

  “I’ll meet you there,” I shout back. “Let me rinse off the evidence of my poor decisions.”

  She chuckles, deep and sharp. “I’ll bring holy water. In case you miss a spot.”

  ~

  By the time I walk in, Naomi is already sitting at the one table that doesn’t wobble. She’s mid-rant about a manuscript she’s editing—some sad suburban memoir full of “we almost divorced, but then we bought a boat” nonsense. Her iced tea sweats on the table beside a page full of underlined sentences and passive-aggressive edits.

  Mateo walks over just as his shift ends, pulling his apron off like he’s shedding a costume.

  “Y’all don’t wait for nobody, huh?”

  Mateo Cruz has the kind of body you get from working two jobs and skipping the gym—solid, average, nothing flashy. Still, he wears it like he doesn’t owe anyone an apology. He’s got a bartender’s smirk that never bothers to become a smile and eyes that track people like he’s figuring out where they’re most likely to tilt.

  Mateo and I hooked up once, but it didn’t work—too much deflection on my end and too much honesty on his, perhaps. We’re better like this: part friends, mirror, and commentary.

  “Sit down, pretty boy,” Naomi says to Mateo, sipping her tea. “Danny here is about to confess something.”

  My stomach drops when she says this. For a split second, I think she knows. Somehow, through walls or instinct or whatever sixth sense Naomi walks around with, she saw me freeze on that sidewalk or spotted me duck into the café’s shadow like a coward. She knows who Kevin is and that he’s in Atlanta now. Naomi knows I saw him and that I am not okay.

  But then I catch the direction of her comment, toward my apartment door and Rick’s exit. She means him—last night’s mistake, not this morning’s surprise.

  The panic drains as fast as it came, leaving something colder behind. Guilt, maybe. Relief’s ugly twin.

  “I’m not confessing anything,” I say, wiping the condensation ring from her glass off the table with my napkin.

  Naomi lifts her cup like she’s toasting a lie. “Mm-hmm. You walked in like someone just pulled your file from the archives.”

  Mateo leans in, chin in hand. “This is about a guy?”

  “What guy?” I ask too fast.

  “See?” Naomi says. “There it is.”

  I could keep dodging. Make a joke. Pretend it’s about Rick and call it a day. But the lie’s already in my throat, half-swallowed and sour. What’s the point of having friends if I keep spinning stories for an audience that already sees through the curtain?

  Besides, saying it out loud might make it real. And real might be what I want.

  A sigh escapes as I stare into my water like it might tell me what I’m actually feeling. “Fine,” I say quietly. “I saw someone today. From before.”

  “From Bayview?” Mateo asks.

  I nod once.

  “Old boyfriend?” Naomi prods.

  “Old… friend,” I say, knowing it’s not entirely true—not in the way they’re hearing it.

  Naomi tilts her head. “Uh-huh. One of those ‘friends’ you don’t mention that creep outta your apartment in the middle of the night with their dignity half-buttoned? Like the one this morning?”

  Naomi’s not wrong. I glance up. “No,” I reply.

  Mateo arches a brow. “So? What’d he say?”

  “I didn’t talk to him.”

  Naomi’s eyebrows lift. “You mean to tell me you had a trick last night, showed him out, and then ‘ran into’ another ‘friend’ and screwed him, too? Cause boy, I’mma gonna tell you, I heard you two banging last night. That was no ‘old friend.’ Sounded like somebody you left your mark on.”

  “You saw a friend from Bayview but didn’t say anything to him? Why not?” Mateo asks, staying focused.

  “He was with someone.”

  “Someone serious?” Mateo asks casually as if the answer doesn’t matter. “Like a date serious, or like a boyfriend serious?”