by Roan Parrish
“Daniel.” He cups my chin and forces me to look at him. “I get it. The self-consciousness? Believe me.” He huffs out a breath. “But I’ve seen you try so hard to figure out what someone was thinking about you that your eyes about crossed. You’re thinking about things all the time. How people react to you. If they misinterpreted what you said, understood your joke. You’re so used to feeling like you don’t fit in that you’re always trying to be one step ahead. Figure out which Daniel’s called for in the situation. But….”
He trails off, stroking my hair like he doesn’t want to hurt my feelings.
“But?” I prompt.
“But you can’t read people’s minds, baby. You can’t always figure out what’s gonna happen just by being smart. And even if you could—” He shakes his head. “—you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t have to try so hard to fit in because you’re scared.”
I tense, but Rex’s hand is still gentle in my hair.
“I know, I know, you’re never scared, right?” He gives me an unreadable smirk. Amused? Doubtful? Indulgent? “Just, people are gonna like you or they aren’t. There’s no sense in trying to change how you act to suit them. It’ll just drive you crazy.”
I open my mouth to say something, to insist that I don’t do that. But then Rex is kissing me, holding me in place with his soft hands and his hard body, until all I can think about is how damn good he smells and how amazing he feels.
“I like you, Daniel. Just you. I like you so much.” Rex’s voice is low and sincere and I can feel in his kiss how much he means it. It makes me feel… treasured. Appreciated in a way I don’t recognize. “And I want to keep getting to know you. The real you. Okay?”
“I… like you too. A lot.” Jeez, and the award for Understatement of the Century goes to…. But he’s right. I love getting to learn all the strange little things that make Rex Rex. I may have been on my best behavior with him, but I’ve also been more relaxed when I’m around him than I can ever remember being with anyone but Ginger.
“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.
I decide to take Ginger’s advice, pushing down the roiling fear of rejection in my gut. “Hey, Rex?” I ask. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
“Nothing,” he says, his eyes narrowing.
“Would you want to maybe have it with me?” I try my best to keep my tone casual so he doesn’t feel any pressure to say yes.
“Yes,” Rex says instantly. “Yes, please.” He kisses me hard and pulls me into his arms.
“I like this whole not overthinking thing,” I tell him.
So, yeah, this week has been pretty great until I run into Will at Mr. Zoo’s when I go to invite Leo to Thanksgiving. And I remember that he knew about Rex’s dyslexia and purposely hid it from me. Until I remember that he’s touched Rex and therefore I hate him. Okay, so, apparently I’ve also turned jealous and irrational this week. At least where Rex is concerned.
Will and Leo don’t notice me at first. Leo’s behind the counter and Will is leaning on it, his chin in his hand as Leo talks quietly. When I wave, Leo turns bright red, as if I’ve caught him doing something he shouldn’t be. Will just straightens up and levels me with a look that dares me to tease them about their obvious flirting.
“Hey, Daniel, how’s it going?” Leo asks, fiddling with the tape dispenser.
“Can I have a word?” I say to Will, and walk back outside before he can answer.
“Let me guess,” Will says, as he leans against the shop window. “This is about Rex.”
Now that he’s standing in front of me I don’t know what the fuck I’m thinking. What I want to say is, “Why didn’t you fucking tell me about Rex’s dyslexia!” But, why would he? He barely knows me. Rex was his lover. It’s not his place to say a goddamned thing. But I’m so angry with him for knowing and so angry with myself for not noticing that I say it anyway.
“Excuse me?” Will says.
“Fuck!” I say. “I know, I know. Never mind. Goddammit!”
“Look, Daniel, everyone Rex has ever cared about either died on him or left town, okay? Then, here’s you. The hot professor from Philly who’s slumming it in our little town until something better comes along. I mean, I get it; I do. You’re so Rex’s type it isn’t even funny. The perfect lost cause. I’m not surprised he’s all over you like a dog on a bone. But, before you come in here with your accusations and your self-fucking-righteous demands about Rex, I want to ask you one question. Are you here to stay? Or the second the ivory tower says jump are you going to say From what window?
“Because, in case you can’t tell, Rex thinks you might just be passing through. I can tell just by looking at you together: he’s hung up on you something good, but a part of him won’t let himself open up to you because he thinks you’ll be fucking out of here on the next train. Frankly, I’m shocked he told you about his dyslexia. And if I were a betting man, I’d say he didn’t. I’d say it came up some other way and he was too much of a mensch to outright lie to you about it. So you just watch yourself, Daniel, is what I’m saying. You’re crazy about him; I can see that too. But I don’t trust you. I think you’re scared and I think, when it comes down to it, that you’ll hurt him.”
Will delivers this whole monologue without pausing or looking away once.
Fuck. When he puts it like that, I guess Rex really did only tell me about his dyslexia because of our shitty date. Was it not actually a sign that he trusted me, but just a sign that he felt sorry for me? Would he have told me otherwise? I don’t know.
And even though I should be furious at Will for what is clearly his low opinion of me, the way he told me off reminds me so much of Ginger that I’m filled with a rush of warmth and longing. Longing for Ginger, but also the briefest thought that maybe Will and I could be friends.
“Do you want to come to Rex’s for Thanksgiving?” I ask him. And I allow myself a brief moment of satisfaction as his self-possessed mask falls away and he looks genuinely surprised and, I think, a bit pleased.
“Dang, I like this Will guy—sorry, pumpkin. He’s so got your number.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“So…” Ginger pauses. “Are you going to stay? I know you didn’t want to at first. You said you were going to go on the job market again.”
“I dunno, Ginge.” I’m sure she can hear the conflict in my voice. “I mean, I’ll definitely at least look at the job list when it comes out. See if there’s anything too good to pass up. But… fuck, I really don’t know. I just never thought I’d be in this position. God, I used to pity the people who had partners they had to take into account when they were on the job market. It just makes everything harder.”
“Partners, huh?”
“What? No, I just meant—”
“I know what you meant; don’t hurt yourself.”
“So, we’re having Thanksgiving. Me and Rex.”
“That’s great, sweet cheeks. I’ll be eating The Burrito with my window open, so if I choke while I’m alone then the smell of my rotting corpse will waft out the window and I’ll be found more quickly,” she says dramatically.
“I think having the window open in November would make it so your corpse didn’t really smell that much, actually. Seriously, though, you’re not going to your parents’ at all?”
“Psh. I might stop by,” she says. “Of course, it’s not much use trying to go to dinner at the house of someone who sucks up all the oxygen in the room. Makes it kinda hard to eat, ya know?”
Ginger’s mother is the kind of nervous, hovering woman who cou
nts how many glasses of wine Ginger’s had and tells her about all the neighbors’ children’s accomplishments but never acknowledges Ginger’s. It doesn’t help that Ginger’s older sister is certifiably off her nut and always needs to be the center of attention, or that her parents refuse to say her older brother’s name and pretend that they never had a son.
“Christ,” I say. “Do we know anyone with a normal fucking family?” There’s a charged silence on the line. “Ginge?”
“Well, actually….”
“Actually…?”
“I kind of… met someone. And his family seems about as normal as they come.”
“Holy shit, you already met his family? Tell me.”
“Well…. You know him, actually. You remember that sandwich place that opened down the street from the shop at the beginning of the summer?”
“The one you said had real bagels?”
“Yeah. Anyway, you remember the cute guy who worked there?”
“Uh, dude, not to judge, seriously, but that guy’s like eighteen.”
“No, not the kid with the glasses! The redhead.”
“Oh shit, right. He’s hot, in a Josh Homme kind of way.”
“I know, right? That’s exactly what I thought. I went in there for a bagel and cream cheese a few weeks ago before I opened the shop. I was half-asleep—you know how I am before I’ve had my coffee—and I dropped the bagel on the floor as I was putting cream in my coffee.”
“Uh-oh. Thou hast not seen rage like the rage of a Ginger sans bagel and coffee.”
“Seriously. So, I drop the bagel and I’m just like swearing a blue streak, right? And that’s when he comes in the door. And he looks at glasses guy behind the counter in horror—like, what the hell did you do to make this lady lose her shit. Glasses guy’s kind of terrified, so I say, ‘Oh, no, it was my fault; I just dropped my bagel,’ thinking he’d nod and smile. But he walked behind the counter and made me another bagel and cream cheese, then put it in a bag with three other bagels and filled up a to-go container of cream cheese—that awesome chive stuff. And he hands it to me and says—get this: ‘Just in case the vagaries of your day find you needing another one.’ I mean, who the fuck says that? At first I thought, ruh roh: potential overly sincere Renaissance festival douchebag? But then he winked at me. A really filthy, flirtatious wink. And, of course, I went back for another bagel the next day.”
“That’s hot, Ginge. So, you’ve met his family?”
“Oh, not intentionally. Turns out glasses guy is his cousin and his dad comes by to fix stuff in the shop all the time. His mom sometimes brings him lunch. It’s hilarious. Every time he’s all, ‘Mom, I make food here,’ and she’s like, ‘give your mother a kiss and shut your mouth.’ Priceless, babycakes! Anyway, they’re so nice.”
“So, why don’t you have Thanksgiving with him? What’s his name, by the way, so I don’t just think of him as Josh Homme—or as The Ginger, which would be confusing.”
“His name’s Christopher. And I don’t know. I think it’s too soon. Like, he’ll be having dinner at his parents’ and we only started dating a couple of weeks ago, so.”
“You could always invite him over for a postdinner Thanksgiving burrito at your place,” I offer.
“Huh. Not a bad idea, sweetie. Not a bad idea at all.”
“Can you grab some butter?” Rex asks me.
We’re at the grocery store buying some last-minute additions for Thanksgiving dinner. Or, security items, really, since Rex has planned about three alternate dinner menus. Really, I have no idea what we’ll be eating, except that there’s a turkey, which I got back to his house yesterday to find in the sink.
We’ve already been to an indoor farmer’s market about twenty miles from here that Rex apparently frequents, where I embarrassed myself in front of several vendors and Rex by buying fennel because I thought it was the celery Rex sent me to get, so god knows why he’s asking me to pick up anything. Still, I can hardly fuck up butter, can I?
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Rex says, “I need unsalted. I should’ve told you to get the red package.”
The box I’m holding is blue.
“Never mind. We’ll just grab it when we get over there,” Rex says, obviously writing me off as a shopping buddy entirely. Doesn’t matter. I’m pretty content to trail along behind him while he looks at food. He dragged me out of bed at six this morning to get to the farmer’s market before they could sell out of… whatever he bought there. He made three pies last night as well as some kind of sauce for something. And I’ve never seen him so excited as when we were wandering through the market. It feels strangely domestic. I’ve never cared about cooking, obviously. But I haven’t really cared that much about eating either. I mean, it’s a necessary thing that sometimes tastes good, but especially when I’m by myself, it’s just a chore. An interruption, like laundry or cleaning.
But Rex makes cooking and eating feel like part of my life—our lives. He expresses something of himself through cooking. Not just his personality, but his care. It’s like he cares about what I eat—if it’s healthy, if I like it. And so everything to do with it feels important. Even grocery shopping. Because I can feel him looking at the food the way you’d look at a shelter dog or something: as a thing that might come home with you, if it’s the right fit. Something that will be incorporated into our lives. Life. Our life.
It’s all there in the way he chooses an onion or a bagful of apples, his attention totally focused on it. I can see the path from apples in the store to apple pie. Can see his hands kneading the pie crust. And I realize that the more I pay attention to Rex as he moves through the store, the less I think about myself. The less I notice if people are staring at me and the less I wonder what they’re thinking. The less I pay attention to who sees when I knock over a pyramid of limes.
I noticed that this week, when we were talking. When I paid close attention to Rex, it was like I escaped the present. Kind of like I do when I’m reading. It’s so fucked. I started reading and making up stories to escape how shitty things were. Then, that habit made it hard for me to be back in the real world—hard to connect with anyone. Which made me super self-conscious and want to escape. Jesus. Anyway, I’ve decided that if I’m going to escape, it’s better to escape into Rex than into a fantasy world where no one will ever find me.
The second we’ve unloaded the groceries, Rex remembers something he forgot and runs back out to get it. Will and Leo are coming over to help us cook, and Rex promised them breakfast, so I’m going to give it a go. Rex didn’t look impressed by this idea when I yelled it to him as he was walking out the door, but he gave me a resigned smile of what I can only assume is the thank-god-I-bought-extra-eggs variety and nodded, so I guess that’s that.
I’ve seen him make pancakes and I know I can look up a recipe online, so I think it’ll be fine. I’m not even going to try eggs again because I still can’t figure out how they tasted so disgusting the last time, and I’m not risking it again. Pancakes and bacon and then Rex will put us all to work on dinner.
The bacon is in and I’m pouring the first pancake into the pan when Leo and Will show up, bickering.
“It’s set in the eighties,” Will is saying. “That does not qualify as historical fiction, even if you didn’t happen to live through the decade. Wait.” He freezes, looking shocked. “Oh my Christ, you really didn’t live through any of the eighties, did you?”
Leo rolls his eyes and walks over to me.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Daniel! Thanks for inviting me!” He’s practically bouncing in place. Well, the kid definitely has manners.
“Ask the professor,” Will continues. “Daniel, a book set in the eighties is not historical fiction, right? Tell him, please.”
“When was it written?”
“2009,” Leo says.
“Actually, I probably would call that historical fiction, because—” I start to say.
“Oh, shut up; no one asked you,” Will grumbles.
&nb
sp; “Um,” Leo says, “I think your pancake’s—”
“Shit!” I yell. My pancake is black and smoking in the pan.
“Let me guess,” Will says. “You’re used to letting people cook for you?”
Before I can throttle Will, I scrape the remains of my poor pancake into the trash and put the pan in the sink.
“What’s this?” Leo asks, peeking into the pot on the stove.
“Hemlock,” Will mutters.
“Oh my holy god,” Leo says, sounding genuinely upset.
“What?” I ask, thinking he burned himself or something.
“Are you boiling bacon?
“Um. Is that wrong?” I say.
“Argh! I want to punch you!” Leo says.
“Sadly, we all know you can’t,” Will says, elbowing him out of the way and using tongs to pull a piece of bacon out of the water. It definitely doesn’t look the way it does at the diner.
“Bacon, bacon,” Leo chants, like some demented, carnivorous monk.
“Why the fuck would you boil bacon?” Will asks.
“Um. I thought it would be like hot dogs?”
“Jesus Christ, you boil hot dogs. You poor thing. I take it all back. Thank god Rex found you.”
“Thank god Rex found him, why?” Rex asks, walking in the door.
“Rex,” Leo says plaintively. “I—he—and—he boiled the bacon.”
Rex looks in the pot and then looks at me and bursts out laughing.
“I didn’t know!” I say.
Rex puts his hands on my cheeks and kisses me, shaking his head.
“Why don’t you, um, pick some music for us,” he offers, running his hands through my hair fondly. To Leo, he says, “I have more bacon.”
“Oh, thank you,” Leo says worshipfully.
“Shouldn’t you be at your parents’ house,” I mutter, and walk into the living room to pick some records.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, my phone on speaker while I arrange cheese and crackers on a plate in the living room, the only food-related job Rex will give me. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
