by Anna Martin
“You have a dirty fucking mind.”
Scott laughed again, then screwed up his face in concentration as he affixed the juicer attachment, which was really too fiddly for a basic kitchen appliance.
“There?”
“Move your fingers.”
Evan pressed the button, and the machine whirred to life. Scott whooped and started to dance around the kitchen.
“Don’t celebrate too soon,” Evan said, unable to stop the grin spreading over his face. “Now we actually need to juice the fucking things.”
“Let me put some music on.” Scott went into the family room to put a CD into the sound system that hooked up to most rooms in the house. A few minutes later, the familiar opening track of By The Way filled the kitchen.
Evan had introduced Scott to the Chilis when they were younger, and Scott’s dad had scored them tickets when they played Atlanta a few years back. To Evan, it had always felt like the band was their band, the one that cemented their friendship as they progressed into adulthood.
“Good choice,” Evan said as Scott sauntered back in.
“Thanks.”
“You wanna cut or juice?”
Scott looked between the big pile of oranges and the juicer, frowning a little.
“Juice.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
After a few songs, they found their rhythm. Evan could halve the oranges fairly quickly, and Scott had to transfer the juice to the enormous punch bowls at regular intervals, so it wasn’t surprising Evan finished first.
“You tricked me into this,” Scott grouched as he licked sticky orange juice from his wrist.
“I gave you a choice!”
“Yeah, yeah. How much vodka do you think we should put in?”
“On the understanding that everyone is going to try and spike it? Not much?”
“And keep the rest of the vodka for ourselves,” Scott said, throwing a juiced orange half to Evan. “You’re a genius.”
“I try,” Evan said, turning the orange inside out to scrape the stringy flesh from the skin with his teeth.
People started to show up around eight. For a few hours, it was just Evan and Scott, kicking back next to the pool with beers neither of them were used to drinking. Scott had set up the stereo system with half a dozen CDs, and they played on rotation, meaning all they had to move for was to get more chips.
Andy arrived first, fresh from his shift at a pizza place on the boardwalk.
“Hey,” he called, walking around the side of the house like most friends knew to. “I brought leftovers.”
He had a stack of pizza boxes in his arms, at least eight of them, and Scott grinned.
“Awesome. Thanks, man. What do I owe you?” He took half the boxes and nodded for Andy to head into the kitchen.
“Don’t worry about it. I mentioned to Mrs. Spinelli that we were having a party, and she wouldn’t let me leave until I took some snacks.”
“She gave you eight large pizzas as snacks?” Evan asked.
“You don’t know Mrs. Spinelli,” Andy said darkly. “It’s a miracle I haven’t gained twenty pounds since I started working there. She tries to feed me constantly.”
Scott dumped his stack on the counter and pulled the top one down. Sausage and mushroom.
“Here,” Scott said, offering Evan the box.
“Thanks.” Evan took a slice and folded it in half to take a big bite.
They left the pizza boxes in the kitchen, and Evan found a spot in the huge family room, content to sit and watch TV for a while.
“You wanna come socialize?” Scott said.
“Not really.”
“You’re so weird sometimes,” Scott said with a laugh, but it was affectionate, and Evan was weird, so he didn’t take offense.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m going to go… do host stuff.”
“Good plan.”
“I’ll find you later.”
Later Evan was outside, feeling the effects of the beer and the orange crush. He thought he didn’t like drinking all that much and wondered what that would mean when he started college. His head felt a little fuzzy, but the cool air was helping. For some reason, Scott hadn’t packed away the loungers next to the pool, and Evan decided they were a great place to hide from the hoards inside.
“People are looking for you,” Scott said, stepping between the loungers. “I thought you were out here hooking up with someone.”
Evan snorted. “No. I’m not doing that.”
He stretched on the lounger, cracking his knees and toes. His MP3 player still played music from the headphones—the John Mayer song Evan didn’t publicly admit to liking.
“Mind if I sit down?” Scott asked.
“It’s your house, dude.”
“You might want to be on your own,” he said as he straddled the lounger to Evan’s left. “I can respect that.”
“Are you drunk?” Evan asked in a rush.
“Don’t think so. Maybe a bit buzzed. Why?”
“Dunno. Just asking.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? You’re being weird, Ev. Even for you.”
He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, ’m fine.”
“Cassie Williams was looking for you.”
“Shit. Who invited her?”
“I don’t know,” Scott said as he swung his legs up and reclined back. “I don’t mind Cassie.”
“I thought your type was more… blonde.”
Scott snorted. “I don’t have a type. And you’re a fine one to talk. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were….”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Evan dropped it. He didn’t really want that sentence finished anyway.
“All the orange crushes have gone,” Scott continued. “I think we got the recipe pretty damn close.”
“That, or there’s enough alcohol in them that no one cares.”
“True,” Scott said easily. “Damn, it’s clear tonight.”
Evan hummed and tilted his head back to look at the night sky. It was dark enough now that the universe seemed infinite, the stars bright points of possibility against an inky dark sky. The moon had waned into almost nothing. It was darker, much darker, than that night they’d played football at the beach.
“I love it when it’s like this,” Evan said softly.
“Really? I can’t wait to get away.”
“I know.”
“It’s nothing personal.”
“I know that too. You want to explore.”
“Yeah,” Scott said with a long, heavy sigh. “Just look at it, Evan.” He extended an arm up to the sky and waved demonstratively.
“You want to go into space?” Evan teased.
“Maybe.” Scott’s voice was familiarly defiant. “I could.”
“I think you need to be at least passing science to have any chance of being an astronaut.”
“Fuck you,” he said easily, with a soft laugh. “I need to find a career option that means I can travel.”
“Where would you go,” Evan said, resurrecting an old game from their childhood, “if you could go anywhere right now?”
“Right now? Hmm.” Scott’s fingers tapped on the side of his thighs in time with the music coming from the house. He seemed in no rush to get back to the party and his friends, and Evan was strangely relieved at his best friend’s loyalty. “Maybe Greece. Athens. Or the Greek islands.”
“Good choice.”
“Your turn.”
I wouldn’t go anywhere, a little voice whispered in the back of Evan’s head. I’d stay right here next to you.
“Greece sounds good.”
“Cheat,” Scott said immediately, indignantly. “You have to pick somewhere new.”
“Okay,” he agreed with a laugh. “Maybe… Australia.”
“Need to leave it until the beginning of the year. That’s when the best surfing is.”
“You d
on’t surf, though.”
“I would if I was in Australia,” Scott said emphatically. “I’d learn. From one of those hotties in the tiny bathing suits.”
Evan’s head was immediately filled with images of ripped torsos, flat chests, sandy hair, tiny, tiny Speedos. Not what Scott was talking about, he was sure.
“I’ll add it to the list,” Evan said with a smile.
For a few minutes, they were quiet together, a peaceful calm that neither of them needed to fill with chatter. They’d been like this forever, enjoying both the madness that life threw Scott’s way and the calm that Evan seemed to summon. Noise from the party spilled outside—laughter and shrieks, the rhythmic thumping bass of whatever music someone had put on. By the pool, it had turned almost chilly. Fall wasn’t far away now.
“Are you coming back in?” Scott asked, stretching again.
Evan wasn’t ready yet, but he nodded anyway and started to gather the headphones on the red MP3 player Scott had bought him for his birthday.
“Put any decent music on that thing yet?” Scott teased, throwing his arm around Evan’s shoulders as they walked back up to the house.
“Fuck off,” Evan mumbled.
The ground was uneven here. They’d managed to stray from the main path that looped around the Sparrows’ yard. It wasn’t really that surprising, then, when Evan stumbled over something sticking out of the lawn, stubbing his toe on a rock, most likely.
“Shit!” he exclaimed, hopping over and leaning against the edge of the deck.
“You okay?” Scott asked as he followed, steadying his upper arm as Evan rotated his ankle, feeling the twinge in it.
“Yeah. Stupid,” Evan grouched. It didn’t really even hurt that much. His pride was more wounded than his foot.
“Are you sure?” Scott said. His voice was suddenly soft, and his thumb moved, very slowly, back and forth over Evan’s bicep.
The next breath Evan took caught in his throat, and he forced himself to swallow. Scott stepped in closer again, a frown creasing his forehead.
His eyes are so fucking blue, Evan mused, the thought confirming that he was maybe a bit more drunk than he first thought. He’d had two—no, three—orange crushes and a beer.
Probably drunk.
But still… so blue.
“Evan,” Scott said.
“Yeah?”
“Are you… okay?”
Plump bottom lip. Not cherry-slushie colored tonight. No, just the regular soft pink of his mouth that Evan definitely hadn’t spent too long studying over the past, fuck it, since forever.
“Yeah.”
A smile flickered over Scott’s face, and those dimples reappeared, twisting the soft curve of his cheek. Scott flicked his tongue over his bottom lip, and Evan immediately focused his gaze there, too buzzed on orange crushes to use his well-worn defenses and keep his eyes on a more sensible place.
Scott did it again, the movement surely more purposeful this time. Dark pink tongue tracing sweet, pretty lips.
Oh fuck.
Evan was so, so screwed.
“Evan,” Scott said again, and everything seemed to slow down, time turning liquid as he leaned in and pressed those pretty, plump lips to Evan’s.
The slowing of time—Evan was convinced it was happening—seemed to be messing with his reactions, because normally he jerked away when someone kissed him like this, so totally unexpected. But now he stopped breathing and just let it happen, feeling everything, too much and not enough all at once.
Then Scott leaned up, nudging his nose against Evan’s, and he was aware of Scott’s hand still gripping his bicep, and this angle was weird, and he should definitely do something about that.
Something seemed to involve wrapping both hands around Scott’s waist and pulling him closer, closer, until their hips bumped together and Scott’s other hand came up to tangle in Evan’s hair. Their mouths seemed to know how to move in tandem, an organized give and take, even with the chaos that was burning through Evan’s brain, his synapses, his blood.
Scott flicked his tongue out again, and this time it landed on Evan’s bottom lip, drawing it into Scott’s mouth. This was better, infinitely better, and Evan shifted his position again so he could lean back against the deck, pulling Scott with him. They ended up almost in each other’s arms. Close to it.
Making out.
With his best friend.
Whom Evan had had a crush on since forever.
Scott’s tongue tasted like fresh orange juice and a little like vodka and a lot like something Evan could only attribute to intoxicating lips, the sort of sweetness that drew people into this very human trait of sticking tongues into each other’s mouths. Scott’s waist was warm, his shirt slightly rough under Evan’s hands, and Evan had to—he needed to—find out what Scott felt like underneath.
As their heads tilted to try a new angle, a new way to taste and explore with lips and tongues and teeth—oh fuck, teeth—Evan pushed his hands under the denim of Scott’s shirt and wrapped them around his perfect slim waist.
Scott made a little sound in the back of his throat, and the hand that was in Evan’s hair slipped down, cupping the back of his neck and holding him in place so Scott could kiss him deeper.
Was there more than this? Evan wasn’t really sure if there was. Sometimes kissing led other places; he was a teenager, he knew that. But he was pretty sure he could stay like this, kissing like this, for as long as….
Oh.
Scott pulled away, pressing his lips to the corner of Evan’s mouth, then his jaw, then up his neck once, twice—fuck me—and finally to the shell of his ear.
“We should move,” he said, voice rough in a way Evan hadn’t ever heard before.
“Oh.”
“Inside,” Scott said with the sort of inflection that was hard to misinterpret.
“Okay.”
Scott pulled back a little, the devastatingly handsome smile that Evan loved gracing his now kiss-swollen lips. He brought his hand around, rubbed his thumb over Evan’s tender lips, and kissed them again.
“Come on,” he said softly, quickly squeezing Evan’s hand before leading the way.
Evan followed. How could he do anything but?
People were still in the kitchen, plenty of people, actually. Evan didn’t remember this many people being invited. It looked like since he’d been outside, the numbers at the party had doubled, tripled maybe, and the place was now buzzing with activity. Scott was quickly lost in the crowd as he navigated through the groups of people, and Evan let him go, for a minute at least.
There were bottles of water in the fridge; Mrs. Sparrow always made sure of it over the summer. Evan grabbed two, twisted the top off the first, and drank deeply.
He’d just made out with his best friend. The one who didn’t know Evan was gay.
His heart felt like it was thrumming, too fast, too hard for a normal person.
Evan thought he might throw up, and he pressed one hand to his stomach, dumping the unopened water bottle on the counter and rolling the other over his forehead. Someone asked if he was okay, some girl he’d never spoken to before, and he nodded, smiling at her for show.
After a moment, the sickness settled, and he took another swig of the water, then followed the path he’d watched Scott take through the house and toward the family room.
Scott was there, sitting on the arm of a sofa with Katie on his lap. As Evan watched, Scott threw his head back and laughed, tilting it to one side when Katie pressed a kiss just under his ear. Then another, slightly closer to his Adam’s apple. Then another, and Evan turned away.
The clock in the hall said it was eleven thirty. His mom would be asleep by now, probably sleeping deeply, ready for her 4:00 a.m. start in the morning.
While grinning at people, Evan started weaving his way through the different groups that had assembled around the house until he made it to the garage door. He dumped the unopened bottle of water on the shelf next to the door. Someone would p
ut it back in the fridge at some point. The other he tossed in the recycling.
Then he grabbed his bike, turned on the lights fixed to the front and back, and wheeled it back onto the street.
Within fifteen minutes, he’d be home, and then he could process this. The tears were already stinging, and Evan knew, he knew what this had been. Pity. Or an experiment. Or a drunken mistake that both of them could draw a line through.
The fizzing euphoria had been replaced with the low ache of pain, and Evan didn’t know enough about either psychology or biology to understand how something so incredibly perfect could turn sour so quickly.
He wouldn’t mention the kiss again.
It would be his, the one perfect kiss with his first crush, and as long as he kept it secret, no one could challenge it or poison the memory. It was his. Theirs. His and Scott’s.
Cold air stung his cheeks and lungs as Evan cycled home.
Summer was over.
The Fourth Time
March 2012
“Wine.” Lacey suddenly sat upright.
“Pass me your glass, then,” Evan said, already reaching for the bottle.
“No.” She slapped his hand away. “For the tables. We forgot the fucking wine.”
Evan sighed and topped off his glass anyway. “Okay. Do you have preferences for wine, Lacey?”
“Not really,” she admitted and held her hand out for the bottle, then emptied it into her glass. “Oops.”
“Is that the second bottle?”
“Yeah. I like this stuff. What is this stuff?”
“I have no idea. Whatever I picked up at the liquor store on the way over here.” Evan swirled the rosé in his glass and took a hearty swig. “You want rosé for your wedding?”
“Yeah,” she said. A dreamy expression had taken over her face, and Evan wasn’t sure how much the wine could be blamed for that. “I like rosé.”
“I think we’ve established that.” Evan giggled. Oh hell. He’d had too much to drink.
“Fuck you.”
“No thanks, darling. You’re not my type.”
He hauled himself back up to sitting and put his wineglass down on the coffee table. There were seven weeks left until Lacey’s wedding, though there was still plenty left to do. The “to-do list” was supposed to have been what they were addressing this evening. Instead they’d gossiped and drunk two bottles of wine. That was more like what they normally did on a Friday night when Anthony was out of town.
