by Kim Fielding
“Sorry. I’m not very good in a crisis,” Elliott muttered.
A man and woman in their forties sat at the next table, both of them smartly dressed. Maybe on their way to a show at the Gallo Center after their meal. They were speaking softly, smiling a lot, and laughing. When Zach refilled their wineglasses, the couple clinked them together in a toast. Married? Maybe. They certainly seemed happy with each other.
Zach brought Simon another beer and refilled Elliott’s water. Then he returned with his arms laden with dishes, which he arrayed over the tabletop, naming each one as he set it down. “Enjoy your meal!” he said. “I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes.”
Simon and Elliott eyed the assortment of food. There was a lot of it. Enough to feed them, the twinkly couple next to them, the angry lady behind Elliott, plus her friend. “I ordered way too much,” Simon said mournfully.
“We can taste everything and bring the leftovers home.” Wait. Did that sound weird, as if they lived together, or at least as if Elliott was imagining them living together? Moving with extreme care, he took a few forkfuls from the nearest dishes and transferred them to his own plate. Nothing resembled sheep eyeballs.
Simon was hesitating, fork in hand. “Um . . . Shit. I’ve never done this before. Well, I’ve eaten before. Obviously. That’s not what I meant. But I’ve never done this before, and I’m not sure how it’s supposed to work.”
“How what’s supposed to work?”
Simon sighed. “A date.”
“You’ve . . . never been on a date?”
“No, I have.” As Elliott watched, Simon chose several dishes—seemingly at random—moved samples to his plate, and ate them steadily. His plate emptied almost at once, and he refilled it.
Elliott hadn’t yet eaten anything but the bread. He nibbled at his food. Pasta with squash in it. Tiny meatballs that tasted like lamb. A salad with cranberries and goat cheese. Some kind of mushy potato thing with green speckles. It was all probably delicious, but he was too focused on Simon to notice.
And Simon continued to shovel food into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten for days. Not that he was rude about it; his table manners were perfect, and he kept asking Elliott if it was okay to take more. He just ate a lot. After a while, Elliott settled back and watched. It was entertaining, both for the quantity consumed but also because Simon was so nice to look at. His mouth was generous, as if it was meant to be used often and with enthusiasm, and his brown eyes were as soft as suede. He was good with his hands too, wielding cutlery and glassware with a surprising amount of grace.
Zach came by a couple of times to check on them and refill Elliott’s glass. On the third visit, the dishes were all empty. “Can I get you anything else?”
Elliott would have said no, but Simon was still toying absently with his fork. “How about dessert?” Elliott said.
Il Piatto had three options that night: chocolate cake, tiramisu, and a poached pear thing. Elliott ordered one of each, plus espresso. If Zach felt judgmental, he hid it behind an easy grin. Probably looking forward to a hefty tip.
“I can’t believe I ate all that,” Simon said after Zach zoomed away.
“It was all really good.”
“Yeah. But Jesus. It was a lot. Um . . . I have no idea how to ask this without being completely awkward . . .”
Although that introduction made Elliott nervous, he forced a smile. “My pants are still wet. I don’t think you have to worry about being awkward.”
Simon scratched his beard. “Yeah, well, I can sure as hell try.” He huffed out a breath. “Who’s supposed to pay for dinner? I mean, we could go dutch, and that’s fine, but I don’t know if maybe it’s weird for a first date. Or I can pay for everything—I’m totally cool with that especially since I ate about ten times as much as you. And you drove. But maybe that would offend you? I don’t know.”
“It’s a date.”
“Right. But . . . I’ve never done this with a guy. Just girls. So I don’t know if the rules are the same.”
While Simon was blushing, Elliott felt himself pale. “Um . . . never?”
“No.”
“So you’re . . . uh . . . inexperienced?” Elliott had never been anyone’s first, and he had no desire to be. Way too much responsibility.
“Oh, I’ve fucked men,” Simon said. Loudly. Which not only caught the attention of the couple at the next table but was also overheard by Zach as he approached with their desserts. He dropped the plates, which landed with a tremendous clatter on the floor. And he didn’t even scramble to pick up the mess—he was too busy holding his knees and laughing hysterically.
Simon hid his face in his hands.
Eventually Zach and his colleagues cleaned up the mess, and Zach delivered replacement desserts as he tried very hard to keep a straight face.
“Oh God,” Simon said. Then he picked up his fork and gobbled half of the tiramisu. He reached for the chocolate cake next. “I am so sorry.”
Elliott hadn’t been particularly embarrassed by the scene—his own thing with the water had probably exhausted his mortification points for the evening. So he just grinned and shrugged, then snagged a bite of the pear. It was good, but watching Simon scarf it down was more enjoyable than eating it himself. He imagined kissing Simon right now. His mouth would taste so sweet.
As Simon was swallowing, an epiphany hit Elliott—one that should have occurred to him much earlier. Simon—handsome ex-cop Simon—was nervous. About Elliott. About their date. And somehow that realization relaxed him. He no longer felt like such a fool for all the lost sleep and panicky running he’d experienced over the week.
“I’m really honored to be your first male date,” Elliott finally said. “Thank you.”
“I’m such a moron.”
“You’re not. And dinner tonight is completely on me because I’m the one who asked you out—and because I’d really like to pay.”
“Even though I ate enough for an army?”
“Especially because of that,” Elliott replied with a smile.
“I eat when I’m nervous. Hell, I eat all the time. But extra then.”
“And I spill things.”
That made Simon chuckle, which was a good thing. “But you’ve dated men before. The ex, at least.”
“Sure. Although to be honest, he didn’t want us to be seen together in public, so we hardly ever went out. Anyway, how about if we stop worrying about what we’re supposed to do on a date and just . . . let things happen?”
Simon cocked his head a bit. “Complete with spills and gorging?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. But I still want to polish off that tiramisu.”
Elliott gestured at the plate. “By all means.”
Simon ate more slowly now, which was fine. Elliott didn’t feel hurried. The couple next to them paid and stood up, then flashed grins in Elliott and Simon’s direction before leaving. They’d had a memorable meal, at least.
“Do you want to explain the no-dating thing?” Elliott asked.
“Not much to explain, really. Like I told you before, I didn’t realize I was gay until a couple of years ago. I mean . . . I knew, but I didn’t know know. Like this one time I had a really bad toothache, and I sort of acted like if I pretended it wasn’t there, it would go away. It didn’t. I ended up needing a root canal.”
“I’m the root canal?” Elliott stared into his empty espresso cup.
“No! Jesus, I didn’t mean it that way. It was just a lot easier for me not to be gay, so I kind of went with that for a while. Until I couldn’t anymore. Then I hooked up with some guys, but that was just sex.”
“Apps?”
Simon snorted a laugh. “Sometimes. Or this bar in Oakland. It’s a dive, but at least none of the guys there are real picky.”
Although Elliott wondered why Simon thought a lack of standards was necessary for him to be found desirable, he didn’t ask. Another question was more important. “So what made you decide to go out wit
h me?”
“The trouble with my leg, it’s given me a lot of time to mull things over. All those hours sitting around in hospitals and shit. I’m not like you, Prof—never was much of a thinker. But with nothing much else to do, I decided I didn’t really want to be a cop anymore. And . . . I decided that pretending I wasn’t gay maybe wasn’t as easy as I thought.”
Elliott nodded. He knew a life crisis could lead to a lot of introspection and reexamining of priorities.
“Then I found your books,” Simon continued. “And I’d never read anything like them before. Got me thinking about who I am in a new way. ’Cause it’s not just the sex, right? I haven’t gotten laid since I got shot, but that doesn’t make me any straighter. I could be a monk but I’d still be gay.”
“So . . . you’re getting to know yourself.”
“Exactly!”
Elliott knew this was an excellent idea. Since ancient Egyptian times, philosophers have said Know thyself. And Elliott was firmly convinced that unless a person was comfortable and confident in his own self-identity, he’d never have a meaningful relationship with anyone else. But that led to sticky questions. What did Simon want from him? Mentoring? Was Simon even attracted to him?
Maybe asking him would be best. Clear the air. Avoid misunderstandings. Elliott opened his mouth, but before he could find a tactful way to word the question, someone tapped on the outside of their window. Elliott didn’t recognize the man, but Simon blanched. “Shit.”
“Someone you know?”
“My cousin.” Simon glanced around quickly, as if searching for an escape route, but his cousin was already walking to the front door. The restaurant’s back door wasn’t visible; it was probably around the corner, past the bathrooms.
“Do you want me—” Elliott began.
Simon shook his head. “Too late. But thanks.”
The cousin bore a close resemblance to Simon, but he wasn’t as sexy. He was thinner and a few years younger. He wore jeans and, beneath an unzipped hoodie, a T-shirt emblazoned with the logo for Pita Palace. His confident strides brought him quickly to their table, where he clapped a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “Hey, Si! What’re you doing here? Scoping out the competition?”
Simon looked as if he might have swallowed his tongue. “I’m having dinner with a friend,” he managed to choke out. “We just finished, actually.”
The cousin raised his eyebrows and turned to Elliott with his hand held out. “Hi, I’m Ashur Odisho. Si’s cousin.”
Elliott shook his hand. “Elliott Thompson.”
“Are you one of Si’s cop buddies?”
“No.” Elliott wanted to laugh at the idea of anyone mistaking him for a cop. “I’m a history professor.”
“Not Si’s usual crowd.” Ashur turned to Simon. “How come you didn’t eat at the Palace?”
“Because maybe once in a while I feel like eating something different.”
“But we haven’t seen you around in a while. Are you trying to avoid us or something?”
“We’re just having a nice dinner.”
Ashur looked back and forth between Simon and Elliott, the gears obviously turning in his brain. But Elliott maintained a poker face and Simon didn’t say a word, and finally Ashur grunted. “Okay. I guess I’ll let you get back to it.” He patted Simon again, exchanged a final brief pleasantry with Elliott, and left.
Simon was still pale. “Fuck,” he groaned.
“Is he going to out you to your parents?”
“I don’t know. I mean . . . there’s nothing really to out. We’re having dinner together, not fucking on the table. But they’ll speculate.”
Elliott wanted to offer his sympathy but was afraid that would only make things worse. “I should have picked a less visible restaurant.”
“Not your fault. I should have known one of my relatives would walk by. The Palace is only a few blocks away, and my family members pop up everywhere. Like dandelions. Or maybe thistles.” Although Simon attempted a smile, he was clearly miserable.
Zach brought the bill a few moments later, but Elliott noted all of the desserts and a few of the other dishes were missing. He waved at the bill. “You left a bunch of stuff off.”
“Comped it, dude. ’Cause I’m really sorry about dropping everything. That was, like, really unprofessional of me.”
Soon afterward, Elliott and Simon walked to the car. It was a short walk, yet Elliott half expected something to explode in front of them or the sidewalk to collapse into an enormous sinkhole. Or maybe another Odisho would pop out from behind some bushes. But no disasters befell them. The car even started right away, and traffic on the way home was light. Simon and Elliott remained silent for the short drive.
Then they were in Simon’s driveway, still not speaking but with the engine humming smoothly. “Thanks for the date,” Simon finally said, his voice quiet yet rumbly.
“Not all dates are like that.” Thank God.
“Well, it was interesting. Good food.” Simon placed his hand on Elliott’s thigh. “Good company.”
Oh no. That one little bit of contact—that broad palm and those wide fingers lying heavy on his jeans—was enough to send Elliott’s libido into emergency overdrive. His heart sped, his throat constricted, his face flushed, and his dick woke up and remembered how it used to have fun. Elliott froze, unsure what to do next.
But then Simon shifted in his seat and leaned toward Elliott, and Elliott leaned toward him, and despite the interloping emergency brake and Simon’s cane, they kissed.
It was a surprisingly good kiss, considering it was their first. As predicted, Simon tasted delicious, and his warm, plush lips and soft beard felt wonderful against Elliott’s skin. Simon tightened his grip on Elliott’s leg slightly while Elliott reached over and grasped one of Simon’s strong shoulders.
“That was nice,” Simon said when they moved apart. He briefly traced his finger along Elliott’s cheek and then across Elliott’s lips—a touch perhaps even more erotic than the kiss.
“Yes.”
Elliott wanted a lot more kisses like that, hopefully accompanied by lots of bare skin. Reality intruded, however, as it had the unfortunate tendency to do. “What do you want from me?” Elliott whispered. He wasn’t demanding, but he needed to know.
Simon sighed. “I don’t know. You’re . . . you’re something special. But you saw me tonight. I’m a goddamn mess, and I don’t mean the leg.”
“I don’t think you’re a mess. Or if you are, well, I’m an even bigger one.”
“It’s not a contest,” Simon said with a gentle smile.
Trying to block the arousal still coursing through his body, Elliott shook his head. “I spent a lot of years . . . skulking with John. I totally understand that you’re not comfortable being out, but I can’t skulk anymore.”
“I get it. Fuck, that wouldn’t be fair to you at all. But I don’t know if I have the balls . . .”
“You need to be comfortable with what you’re doing.” Elliott wasn’t really as charitable and understanding as he sounded. He simply realized from hard experience that if his partner had doubts about the relationship, the entire enterprise was doomed. Better not to drag them both through the agony, especially since Simon—unlike John—was a genuinely nice human being.
“I’m still gonna read your books, okay?”
“Good. And if you want to stop by, I’m almost always home. I’ve got a lot more books inside.”
“I know.”
They kissed again, but this time it was just a quick peck on the lips. Elliott watched as Simon hobbled up the driveway. Simon turned to wave before he closed the door, and Elliott waved back.
At home, Elliott changed out of his still-damp jeans and into sweats and a T-shirt, and he seriously considered going for a run. But although his appetite hadn’t matched Simon’s, he’d had a lot of water. He’d probably end up getting only a few blocks before he’d have to pee. He booted up his laptop instead, intending to check on his students. Som
ehow, though, he found himself browsing that familiar website, scrolling though the Recommended for You sections. The algorithms were on point tonight, sending him a slew of tempting titles. He added a half-dozen books to his shopping cart.
Just as his cursor hovered over the Place Your Order button, the doorbell rang.
Chapter Eight
Simon stood on Elliott’s porch wearing the same clothing as earlier in the night but with messier hair and a cloud of tiny moths wheeling and dipping around his head. He carried a paper grocery bag.
“Hi,” he said when Elliott opened the door. He smiled and then looked away.
“Hi.” Elliott tried to keep his expression neutral, but he suspected some of his surprise leaked through.
“Am I disturbing you?”
“No,” Elliott said. Well, yes, but not by showing up unannounced—that part was actually lovely. When it came right down to it, Simon had been haunting Elliott since they’d met.
“I came to apologize.”
“For what?” Before Simon could answer, Elliott waved his hand. “Want to come in?” The moths were annoying, and Elliott had the impression Simon’s leg hurt when he stood still.
Simon entered but stopped in the little entryway. “Here.” He held out the bag. “Peace offering.”
“I didn’t realize we were at war.” Elliott took the bag, which proved to contain a six-pack of Heineken bottles.
“Not war. Just . . . Shit.”
Simon looked utterly exhausted and defeated, and Elliott wished he could gather him in his arms before leading him to bed. Not for sex—although that wouldn’t be awful either—but mainly for a good, long rest. Hell, Elliott could use one of those too.
Instead, they walked into the living room where Simon collapsed onto the couch. “Right back,” Elliott said. He fetched a bottle opener from the kitchen, using that minute or so to try to compose himself. He wasn’t sure why Simon felt the need to apologize, and that meant he couldn’t prepare himself to react. Not for the first time, he wished life came with a playbook or—even better—a script. Extemporizing was hard.
