The Distance

by Alexa Land

  The house smelled a bit like a funeral parlor, since Ollie had had dozens of bouquets of flowers delivered to Nana for the holiday. Roses, lilies, and things I didn’t have a name for covered almost every surface in the living room and kitchen. I had to move three flower arrangements aside just to get to the huge chrome espresso machine.

  I needed caffeine desperately, so I sighed in frustration as I spun dials and poked at the complicated device. After living in Italy, Ollie claimed he couldn’t function without espresso and bought the professional-grade appliance, replacing the standard coffee maker. He’d shown me how to use it more than once, but somehow the nuances escaped me. The two-inch-thick all-in-Italian instruction manual clearly wasn’t going to shed any light on the situation, either.

  My need for caffeine grew more critical with each passing minute, but the only thing I managed to brew was a headache. Chance and Finn had invited me to stay for breakfast after I spent the night on their couch, but I’d decided to head home instead of intruding on their family time. They’d been trying to make heart-shaped pancakes while Colt and Elijah, the teenagers in the household, chuckled and called their guardians corny. The boys were clearly enjoying every minute of it, though. It was all very cute, and very sweet, and in just those few minutes, I totally understood why Zachary felt like a third wheel, despite the Chinns’ efforts to include him (that was the celebrity couple name Zachary and I had come up with for Chance and Finn, which the newlyweds found endlessly amusing).

  I took off my hoodie and tossed it on top of the refrigerator since the counters were florist central, then tried to make sense of the staggering number of knobs and dials. As the water warmed somewhere inside the machine with a low rumbling sound, I actually managed to grind and dispense some coffee beans, which I caught in a little metal cup with a handle. Progress!

  From there, I moved on to frothing the milk with a steam spigot that protruded from the right side of the contraption. It went remarkably well, and I felt pretty good about myself as the milk foamed up and tripled in volume. But I forgot to turn off the spigot before pulling the pitcher away, so it blasted the frothy milk all over the front of me. Well, crap. It wasn’t all that hot, thank God, but Zachary had gone above and beyond in the friend department and had washed my clothes for me, and now my red t-shirt was once again ready for the laundry.

  I jumped a bit as someone knocked on the door just as a thin column of steam shot up from the top of the machine. Shit, that wasn’t right. I quickly turned some knobs, but all that did was produce a second steam column and a sharp hissing sound.

  Whoever was outside knocked again. Damn it! I gave a couple knobs a final spin and ran to the front door. When I flung it open, Trigger was standing there holding my wallet and baseball cap, and his mouth fell open as he stared at me in abject horror.

  “What?” I demanded, before realizing I was surrounded by giant balloon penises.

  That wasn’t what he was staring at, though. “Did you seriously not change your clothes from last night?”

  “Dude, who are you, the hygiene police? Not that it’s any of your business, but—” I’d been about to tell him they’d been laundered, but when I looked down at myself and noticed the huge splatter of white foam all across the front of me, I exclaimed, “Jesus! No! That’s not what it looks like!” My words were partially drowned out as the hissing sound in the kitchen suddenly went up several octaves and a few decibels.

  “What is that?” he yelled over the noise.

  “The espresso machine. Shit!” I turned and ran back to the kitchen. Steam was shooting out of the appliance from half a dozen locations, and it had begun to shimmy and rattle, jerkily walking itself across the counter like a reanimated corpse. I dodged the steam as I quickly twisted every knob, but nothing changed.

  Trigger appeared beside me and tossed my hat and wallet on top of the refrigerator. He then flipped a tiny, silver switch, pulled the sleeve of his sweatshirt over his hand for protection, and slid open a panel at the top of the machine. A mushroom cloud of steam billowed out, and the hissing and rattling stopped instantly. He turned to me and exclaimed, “What did you think you were doing here? You were running this machine way too hot, it could have exploded and killed someone!”

  “Well, good news,” I snapped, instantly annoyed, “I was the only ‘someone’ here, and I know you wouldn’t have lost any sleep mourning my untimely demise!” I pushed my hair out of my eyes, and when my fingers came away with foam on them, I sighed and stripped off my t-shirt, balled it up and used a dry section to wipe my face and hair.

  “You’re a total and complete disaster,” he told me. “If you can’t even figure out a coffee maker, why doesn’t your car explode every time you turn the key in the ignition? Or do you pay someone to work on your Matchbox car for you?”

  “No, I don’t pay anybody! And this thing is hardly a coffee maker, it’s an Italian Rube Goldberg device! I defy anyone to actually produce a cup of espresso with this thing without first dedicating twenty years of their life to studying its unfathomable complexities!”

  Trigger shot me a look, then turned to the machine. He flipped the little switch again, closed the panel, and spent about a minute doing various things before handing me a cup of espresso and grinning smugly. He’d drawn a precise Chevy logo on the top with foam. “I hate you,” I said.

  “I know.”

  I added a splash of cold milk and slammed down the espresso (which, damn him, was absolutely perfect), and as I put the little white cup in the sink, I said, “You worked at Starbucks, right?”

  “Hell no. I worked at an independently owned coffee bar in North Beach when I was in high school.” He turned back to the machine and wiped it down with a dish cloth. “You should really treat this better. It’s the Ferrari of espresso makers, but I suppose a spoiled rich kid like you takes things like this for granted.”

  “I’m hardly a spoiled rich kid.”

  “No, of course not. You just live in a multimillion-dollar mansion in one of San Francisco’s most expensive neighborhoods and have a five thousand dollar espresso machine.”

  “Jesus, was that thing really five thousand dollars?”

  “More, probably. That’s what it would cost wholesale.” He tossed the rag into the sink and started to leave the kitchen as he said, “I brought your wallet back. It was under my shirt on the floor of the garage. I didn’t use your credit cards or anything, but since you think I’m Satan’s spawn and probably don’t believe me, feel free to cancel them.”

  “Thanks for bringing it and my lucky hat back.”

  He glanced at me over his shoulder as he headed into the foyer. “Wow, you actually said thank you. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “Bite me.”

  “Ah, there’s the Jessie-with-an-i-e James I know and hate.”

  “You didn’t hate me all that much last night, on the floor of your shop,” I said, despite myself.

  He stopped walking and turned to look at me, narrowing his dark eyes. “I made sure to turn on the fan in my garage this morning. I can only assume there was a serious carbon monoxide problem in there, because I must have been completely high to do that with you.”

  “Fuck you, Richard.”

  “Why are you calling me Richard?”

  “Oh you’re right, you’re really more of a Dick.”

  Trigger rolled his eyes and headed for the door again. “If you want people to believe your fake ID, maybe stop acting like a child, Richie Rich.”

  “Dude, I’m the chauffeur. Do I really look like I belong in a place like this?”

  He paused again and turned back to me. “Do you drive the limo that’s parked in the driveway?” When I nodded, he said, “While you drive it, are you dressed like a big, pink Care Bear with a rainbow on your belly?”

  “Funny! Do you have a problem with gay pride?” He frowned at me and I said, “Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’re probably so deep in the closet you can see Narnia. Am I right?”
>
  “I what?”

  “Okay, technically it was a wardrobe, but that’s a type of closet so it’s still funny.”

  “What the actual hell are you talking about?”

  “Narnia.”

  “You’re a total lunatic.”

  “And you’re a closet case.”

  “Whatever you think I am doesn’t change the fact that you drive around in a sparkly rainbow car and live in Rainbow Brite’s dream home.”

  “So Nana’s enthusiastic about gay rights. The world would be a much better place if more people were even half as loving and supportive as she is!”

  “Nana?”

  “My employer.”

  “Ah, so you work for and live with your wealthy grandmother. But you’re not rich,” he said with a smirk.

  My voice rose as I asked, “Why do I bother trying to explain anything to you? You don’t listen, you think you know everything, and you always have to be right!”

  “Right back at you, every word of that!”

  “Why the hell did you have sex with me last night when you obviously can’t stand me?”

  He put his hands on his hips and exclaimed, “Again, right back at you!”

  “I have absolutely no idea!”

  “Me neither!”

  Trigger turned and stormed to the front door, which was kind of funny because he had to push several towering balloon dicks out of the way to reach it. He then swung the door open with such force that all the dicks skittered backwards in the updraft. For a moment he just stood there, holding the door open, glued to the spot. Then he slammed it shut and ran back to me.

  I grabbed him in an embrace as he pulled me off my feet and crushed his lips to mine. He cupped my ass with both hands, and when I pushed my tongue in his mouth, he tasted so sweet. I stopped kissing him just long enough to strip off his t-shirt and sweatshirt and nipped his bare shoulder before kissing him again.

  Trigger carried me to the curving staircase, his lips never leaving mine, and I wrapped my legs around him and rocked my hips to rub my swelling cock against his through our jeans. He sat me on the fifth step up and fumbled with my zipper before freeing my cock and going down on me. As he sucked me almost frantically, I moaned and arched my back, bracing my elbows on the stairs. But after a moment I regained enough of my senses to say, “Not here. I don’t know when my employer’s coming back.”

  “Where?” he asked, breathing hard as he looked up at me from between my legs.

  “My room.” I stumbled to my feet and pulled up my pants, then grabbed his shirts and his hand and ran up the stairs with him.

  When I flung open my bedroom door, I blurted, “Holy crap!” The small room was completely filled wall-to-wall with what looked like all the missing nine-foot-tall dick balloons. The only open space was a two-foot square just inside the door, so I could open it.

  “What the ever-loving fuck?” Trigger exclaimed.

  “Dante, probably,” I said, mostly to myself. “He owed me one after I called his brother and husband while he was wearing that giant tampon dress.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, never mind.” I shut the door and towed him down the hall to what had been Dante’s room, pushed Trigger inside, and locked the door behind us. I then threw his clothes on the floor and kissed him passionately.

  He quickly maneuvered me to the bed and when I sat down on it, he fell to his knees in front of me. Once my cock was back between his full lips, his eyes slid shut and he actually murmured, “Mmmmm.” Trigger stroked my shaft as he sucked me, and when I ran my fingers into his thick, dark hair, he looked up at me. When our eyes locked, my cock twitched and my breath caught.

  No way was I going to last long, given how great that blowjob felt, and in just a few minutes I mumbled, “Oh God, I’m about to cum.” I expected him to pull off me, but instead he redoubled his efforts, grabbing my ass as he took most of my length. I moaned as I came in his warm, wet mouth, and he swallowed without hesitation.

  I fell back afterwards, trying to catch my breath, but before I hit the mattress, Trigger was on his feet. A very obvious erection strained the fabric of his jeans, so it made zero sense to me when he pulled on his t-shirt and sweatshirt and headed for the exit. “Hang on,” I called as he unlocked the door and slipped through it. Of course he didn’t listen. Nothing new there.

  I jumped off the bed and pulled up my briefs and jeans as I followed him. “What about you? Don’t you want me to return the favor?” I called.

  “I have to go,” he mumbled. Seriously? He was actually turning down a blowjob? A team of scientists should be studying him, because he had to be the only male of the species to ever do that.

  He left the house in a hurry, and I went downstairs and watched him through the living room windows, standing back a bit so he didn’t see me. He was driving one of the cars I’d seen at his garage, a black ’67 Impala. It was the same model used in the TV show Supernatural. I wondered if that was what he was going for.

  Trigger opened the car door, stood there for a few moments, then slammed it and headed back toward the house. I waited for the knock, but a couple seconds later, I saw him retreating to the Chevy again. He did that four more times over the next minute. Conflicted much? I considered going out and getting him, but I was every bit as conflicted as he was, so I stood my ground. Finally, he got in the car, started the engine, and took off like a shot, apparently looking to put some distance between us as fast as he could after finally making up his mind.

  I sighed and dropped onto the sofa. I couldn’t believe that had happened again. I also couldn’t wait until the next time. The second half of that made me want to whack my forehead against the wall. I was wildly attracted to someone I couldn’t stand. What was I supposed to do with that?

  I was still contemplating my conundrum when Nana, Ollie and their dogs got home sometime later. Nana’s huge, hairy, brown mutt was named Tom Selleck, for reasons that made sense only to Nana. He ran over and tried to climb on me as soon as he spotted me on the couch, while I flailed around and tried to fend off his advances. He’d always been way too interested in me, in every inappropriate sense of the word. But then, Diego Rivera, Ollie’s little Chihuahua (who was dressed in a pink sweater with a red heart) yipped and left the room. Tommy immediately forgot about me and ran after the Chihuahua. It suddenly occurred to me that I was, through no fault of my own, in a gay love triangle with two dogs. That was so messed up.

  “Hey there, Sweet Pea,” Nana said, sticking her head in the living room. She was dressed in a tasteful pink Chanel suit, which she’d paired with red sunglasses with heart-shaped frames. “I didn’t see you at first. Ollie and I bought a bunch of stuff to make a nice Valentine’s Day dinner at home, since all the restaurants are so crowded today. Do you want to join us? We’re about to start cooking, since my homemade marinara is best when it simmers for a few hours.”

  Nana meant well, but wow did that make me feel pathetic. My best Valentine’s Day offer was to be a third wheel to my eighty-year-old employer and her honey. I got up and said, “Thanks, but I’m just about to go out, right after I run upstairs and change.”

  “Okay, Jessie, have fun! We’ll save you some dessert,” she called before heading to the kitchen.

  I’d forgotten all about the wall-to-wall balloon dicks until I opened my bedroom door again, and spent the next few minutes untangling the giant junk Jenga and lining them up in the hallway. Dante (presumably) had really made an effort to fit as many dicks as he possibly could into my little room. The last one was tucked under the covers in my bed. I left that one there because it made me chuckle, then got dressed in a fitted pink button-down shirt and one of my best pairs of jeans. I figured I might as well sell the idea that I actually had somewhere to go by dressing nicely.

  I grabbed my leather jacket and jogged downstairs, where I found Nana and Ollie in an embrace. She was giggling while he dotted kisses on her cheek. Oh yeah, definitely a third wheel. “Happy Valentine’s Day, yo
u two,” I said. “See you later.” They called goodbye as I headed to the front door.

  When I got behind the wheel, I didn’t start the engine right away. Instead, I rolled back my sleeves, pulled out my phone and found Zachary’s name in my friends list. I texted him and asked if he wanted to hang out, but he wrote back: Wish I could. I let the Chinns talk me into going to Six Flags in Vallejo with them. They wanted to do something special for the boys on Valentine’s Day. We’re about to get on a huge, puke-inducing roller coaster. Pray for me.

  I grinned at that and thought for a moment, then messaged River, but he was on his way to go surfing at Fort Point. I scrolled through my contacts list, looking for single friends that wouldn’t be with their boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse that day. Haley came to mind, but I didn’t have his number and didn’t know him well enough to ask to hang out anyway.

  There were several more single guys in my contacts, but the problem was, I’d slept with them. Many of my friends started out as love interests. After I smothered each one in turn and we broke up, we usually remained friends. But there was something beyond awkward about sending a, ‘hey, wanna hang out?’ message to an ex on Valentine’s Day. It just reeked of desperation, in addition to announcing loud and clear, ‘why yes, I am still single and completely alone today’.

  I chastised myself for always needing to be with other people in the first place. Why couldn’t I just go to a movie or a restaurant by myself? What was so hard about that? Although, okay, doing either of those things alone on that particular holiday would make me look like an enormous loser. If I couldn’t make myself go places on my own the rest of the year, I sure as hell couldn’t do it on Valentine’s Day.

  After a while, I realized what I really needed to do was stop thinking about myself and turn my attention to other people. I drove across town to one of my favorite bakeries (ignoring all the happy couples on the sidewalks, the people carrying flowers or balloons for loved ones, and every other reminder of just how single I was). When I got to the bakery, I bought every cookie they had. I had them divide them up into ten little boxes of half a dozen each, and the rest went into three great, big, pink boxes. “Sorry to wipe you out on Valentine’s Day,” I told the woman behind the counter as she neatly arranged rows of heart-shaped sugar cookies in one of the containers.