The Summer of Our Disconnect

Nerdy Ryan Miyashi’s life has been turned upside down by the reckless and erratic jock Tanner Cruz, but now that he’s accepted that they’re boyfriends and have started dating, you’d think that with the summer started, things would settle back into Ryan’s preferred and predictable rut. You’d be wrong.

Things finally seem to be working out for gifted high-schooler Ryan Miyashi. He came out to his friends and family earlier in the year and they’re okay with it. In the fall, he’ll be starting at Cal State Berkeley at the tender age of sixteen, and he’ll be starting graduate-level summer classes at Cal in another week or so. Best of all, he’s settling into his first relationship. Tanner Cruz’ outsized ego and cowboy personality used to turn off Ryan, but now that he knows Tanner’s secret and seen the kindness the big lug is capable of, their love has started to blossom. As they get to know each other and their families, Ryan and Tanner really start to connect—until Tanner’s hidden past and Ryan’s inability to deal with the fallout threaten to pull them apart.

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The Summer of Our Disconnect

Copyright © 2014 U.M. Lassiter

ISBN: 978-1-4874-0081-1

Cover art by Latrisha Waters

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

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Smashwords Edition

The Summer of Our Disconnect

Berkeley Daze 3

By

U.M. Lassiter

Chapter One

Nice shootin’!

I’d just been knocked flat on my ass by the recoil of a shotgun that was way too big for me to handle. For some reason, my boyfriend, Tanner, seemed to think it was amusing.

Are you trying to kill me, or something? I whined. As I’d fallen backwards, Tanner had snatched the massive firearm by the barrel, thereby preventing me from accidently firing off another round, as I surely would have dropped it. Now, as I sat in the dirt, leaning back on my hands, staring up at the grinning idiot, I was seething with righteous indignation.

Mebbe we orta’ start you off with somethin’ a little smaller, he said.

Y’ think? I snapped.

Tanner picked up the soft case, and after ejecting the remaining shells, slid the shotgun inside and zipped it closed.

We’ll try my squirrel gun, he said as he picked up another case off the ground. It’s just a little-bitty twenty-two.

Now, you might be wondering how I, Ryan Miyashi, teenage super-genius—Tanner’s term, not mine—came to be out in the woods trying to shoot holes in tin cans. You can chalk that one up to my incredibly annoying yet oh-so-hot boyfriend, Tanner Cruz.

Tanner had been a mid-year transfer to my high school, Sproule Prep, in Berkeley. He came from Texas. He played the bumpkin pretty well, but I was starting to suspect he was a little bit smarter than he let on.

For those of you that have been following these events, you might recall that the first time I saw Tanner, I was so besotted by his athletic good looks that I was willing to repeatedly abuse myself by putting up with his antics. Back then, I was pretty quiet and nerdy, but thanks to Tanner, I found myself getting into all kinds of trouble, which of course, led to unwanted attention. At one point, I even found myself in jail, thanks to the big ape.

Lest I not emphasize enough just how much Tanner Cruz turned my life upside down, before he came along I was way, way in the closet. Next thing I knew, I was pictured on the front page of the local sports section, with a nervous expression on my face, standing next to the latest local high school sports phenom—Tanner, of course—with the caption identifying me to all the world as his boyfriend. Fortunately, I guess, I’d already come out to my family—barely—and a few friends, but that didn’t mean I was ready for prime time.

Since then, things had more or less settled down—if you count shooting guns in the woods as settling. School had let out the week before. I had two weeks before my summer classes started, and apparently, Tanner, too, had time on his hands.

This little popgun has hardly any kick at all, Tanner said when I got to my feet. As I stood there watching him slot those itty-bitty bullets into the side of the rifle, I realized that this is what happens when someone like Tanner has time on his hands.

wut r u doin? the text said. Practicing my spelling and punctuation, I replied. haha lets go shooting, Tanner answered. Shooting? What kind of shooting? Like, with guns? Forty-five minutes later I found myself in Tanner’s truck and I suddenly understood the purpose of that rack in the back window. He was wearing his usual tight boot-cut jeans and a just-tight-enough t-shirt that set off his perfectly-proportioned and well-trained body. As usual, I was mesmerized as his biceps twitched and bounced deliciously as he turned the wheel.

I thought you had a job, I asked as we bounced along a gravel road somewhere in the hills northeast of Berkeley.

Nothin’ goin’ on today, Tanner replied. His dad was the Strength and Conditioning coach at Cal State Berkeley, or Cal, as everyone called it, and had wangled Tanner a summer job as some kind of helper. "No practice. You can only fold so many towels. And I can’t work out every day."

That was true. Tanner had appointed himself my Personal Trainer, and had me working out with him in the weight room at Cal, and one of the things he droned on about for the last couple of months was the importance of rest. Your muscles do their growing during your rest periods, he was always reminding me. Too many guys make the mistake of over-training, he’d say. They think if a little is good, a lot must be better, and that ain’t true.

I’d made some noticeable gains, much to the chagrin of my big brother Arnie. I’d gained about ten pounds, yet I looked leaner than ever. Arnie was going to be a senior this coming year, like Tanner, and had been on the wrestling team since middle school, so he was no stranger to the weight room. Seeing me make such easy gains just seemed to drive him nuts. Tanner said that those were just beginner’s gains, probably tied to the beginning of my final growth spurt, and not to expect them to continue at that pace, but that didn’t seem to mollify Arnie much.

We’d soon arrived at our destination. It looked like some kind of old quarry, and it was obvious that it was a popular illicit shooting range. Logs and stumps were lined up against the side of the hill, and spent cartridges littered the ground. Here and there were shot-up cans and bottles and other miscellaneous household items. Tanner stopped the truck and reached up to unfasten one of the rifles from the rack.

Nice guns, I said. Tanner gave me his trademark smirk and I resolved right then that my goal in the gym was to have a prominent vein on my biceps, just like Tanner.

Don’t shoot nothin’—least not accidentally, he said as he handed me the rifle. It was the first time I’d ever touched a firearm.

It’s not loaded, is it?

Hell, no! I may be crazy, but I’m not stupid. Nevertheless I handled the gun gingerly as I slid out of the truck. Tanner reached behind the seat and slid out the shotgun in its soft case and a small backpack that turned out to be filled with boxes of ammunition. He shut the door to the truck, slung the backpack over one shoulder, reached into the bed of the truck and pulled out a plastic shopping bag full of empty tin cans.

C’mon, he said as he strode past. Let’s do some plinkin’

That was how I came to be standing in the woods, my butt covered with dust and my boyfriend pressing a loaded gun into my hands.

Now, remember what I told you about your right elbow, he said.

Prior to my ill-advised encounter with the shotgun, Tanner had me stand with my feet apart, one foot slightly ahead, and since I was right handed, to hold my right elbow out horizontally while I held up the barrel of the gun with my left. It was the same drill with the rifle.

Sight in your target, Tanner murmured in my ear. Got it? Now take a breath and hold it, and slowly squeeze the trigger.

Pop!

You closed your eyes! Tanner said. I’d missed.

What do you expect, after that bazooka you made me shoot!

Aw, c’mon, Ry-Ry, you hardly felt the rifle, right?

He was right. The rifle barely moved.

Try it again, Tanner said, but this time, keep your eye on the target.

Trying to look as disgusted as possible, I turned back toward the target and raised the gun once more.

Elbow! Tanner said. I raised my elbow and this time carefully squeezed off a shot without closing my eyes.

Pop! The can flew off the stump. I’ll be damned.

Now you got it! Tanner said, giving me a slap on the back that nearly knocked me off my feet.

I hit it! I said, doing little to hide my astonishment. I turned to look up at Tanner and he gently pushed the muzzle of the rifle back toward the hillside.

Careful, there, Ry-Ry, he said. Feels pretty awesome, don’t it?

I looked back and forth between Tanner and the hillside a couple of times as it sunk in.

Yeah, I said with dawning realization, it does. Tanner flashed his pearly whites and gestured toward the target area.

Take out some more, he said.

And so I did. We spent the next couple of hours shooting and resetting our targets—me with the rifle, Tanner with the shotgun— until we’d used up the ammunition.

Tanner produced a trash bag from out of his back pack and we collected up the remnants of our targets and the spent shell casings.

What about all the other shells? I asked.

"What