Glacier Gold

by Crystel Greene

  A few minutes to midnight, I left the suite. Both Jay and Carl were fast asleep.

  When I passed through the lobby, it was deserted. The party guests seemed to have long since left, and Andi himself must have disappeared to somewhere in the bowels of the hotel to help clean up or God knows what.

  Does he never sleep? How can he be working this late when he taught snowboard classes from morning till afternoon, has waitered and stuff in the hotel till nightfall, and is expected to be back on the slopes with clients by nine o’clock tomorrow?

  I’ve got trouble keeping my eyes open as I’m sitting here adding touches to the eagle picture on my tablet, and I’ve just been lazy all day.

  Or has he maybe forgotten what he said and gone to bed already? Or what if I’ve simply hallucinated he invited me here? At this point I wouldn’t even be surprised at that, with all the mixed messages he has sent my way. It’s certainly enough to drive a guy around the bend.

  The door clicks. He’s there; he has come.

  Feeling my stomach lurch as my system floods with adrenaline, I get up from the bench.

  He’s dressed in gray sweatpants and a threadbare, comfy-looking hoodie, and somehow I find him even hotter in these worn clothes than I did before. Somehow he manages to look more swoonworthy every time I see him.

  “Hi,” he says. His voice is a little hoarser than usual, and oh my God, how can a single syllable send my heart right through the roof?

  He has sized me up with a quick glance and is already looking at the floor again.

  When he steps into the bright neon light, I realize he looks tired. I quickly gesture at the bench to make him sit down. I myself am too keyed up to sit.

  He collapses onto the bench with a small sigh of exhaustion, running a hand down the side of his neck and tilting his head back like he’s trying to rub the tension from his muscles.

  How I’d love to do that for him, how I’d love to be the one to give him an after-work massage. Help him recover from a hard day. I’m not even thinking about sex, I realize with a twitch of surprise.

  “Sorry I kept you waiting,” he says, blinking up at me.

  “That’s fine!”

  “You aren’t the type to get bored, are you,” he says, nodding at my tablet. It’s lying on the bench, with the eagle file still open. Quickly I pick the tablet up and plunge it down my trouser pocket.

  He can’t know the eagle is him, but I have the suspicion he sees more than other mortals with those electric blue eyes. He’s definitely someone who puts two and two together, and I don’t want him to. It’s one thing to tell someone you want to hook up with them, it’s another thing completely to draw pictures of them that show them as a fantasy mountain superhero.

  “You’ve had a long night,” I say. “I wouldn’t want to keep you up.”

  “That’s okay. I think we need to talk.”

  “Yes, yes, we do,” I say a bit too eagerly. I’ve really thought things through while I waited for him, and I’ve come up with a whole line of argument.

  “You go first, then,” he says. He still seems to be avoiding my gaze, but I don’t miss the slight smile that crinkles up the corners of his eyes. It gives me the courage I need.

  “I’ve been thinking,” I begin. “I don’t want you to feel stressed out or pressured because I’m a guest in your father’s hotel. Carl said tourists can often be a bit…. He said I shouldn’t have said anything about your pants, and…. What I mean is, I don’t want to come across as condescending or presuming or anything, I….”

  I’ve lost my thread. It’s his mouth. It’s twitching, almost as if he’s suppressing a laugh.

  “Your friend is right about the guests,” he says. “There are those who treat staff as if they were included in the room rate. Some regard our valley, like, as a supermarket to take from whatever they want, people included, because they don’t see us as real human beings with a life of our own I guess, beyond the tourism…. Okay, I guess I’m rambling. Sorry. This cannot make much sense to you.”

  “No, no, it does,” I say, silently apologizing to Carl for never having properly appreciated his insights. “It makes a lot of sense. And I just want you to know…. I wouldn’t want you to think that I….”

  “I know that’s not you,” he simply says.

  He doesn’t think I think people are included in the room rate; he doesn’t think I’m a john. Feeling disproportionally uplifted, I dive right in now and tell him all I’ve come up with by way of reasons why it’s a good idea for him to hop into bed with me.

  “I get you aren’t out, and you don’t want to do anything here in your father’s hotel. Perfectly understandable. But here’s what we could do. How about we go to Innsbruck tomorrow night and rent a room in the youth hostel? It’s just a two-hour drive, but at a safe distance from here. It would be all discreet. No one would ever know.”

  That’s the central point of the speech I’ve prepared.

  He’s still listening. It’s great, but also a bit unnerving.

  “Here’s the thing,” I plow on. “I think, in case you want to start, like, exploring your options, I might be just the right guy for you.”

  He sharply inhales.

  “For experimenting, I mean,” I quickly clarify. “Like, I’m this random dude? I’m going to leave in three days’ time? What I mean is, with me, there’s zero expectations. No strings attached and all that. Please, Andi. Say yes?”

  I stand before him, eagerly waiting for his response.

  When he finally looks up at me, his eyes are very bright. He quickly casts them down again and gets up from the bench, walking a few steps away from me.

  “You’re making this harder than it has to be, Bennet.”

  The sinking feeling is so strong I feel I might slip right through the concrete floor.

  “But I thought you found me attractive! You said… I thought… I’ve been hoping….”

  I break off, choked by the unexpected force of my feelings.

  He gives me a quick, loaded glance. For a short, crazy moment I feel he’s about to close the distance between us and pull me in for a kiss. I feel ready to swoon, as if this were an ancient Hollywood romance movie.

  But the movie kiss doesn’t happen. He doesn’t step up to me or try to touch me. He just stands with his hands clenched into fists, looking at the floor again. Eventually he says, “You are super hot, and you know it.”

  “So you do find me attractive.”

  “I like you, okay?”

  Before I can think about whether he might actually mean by this that he likes me, like, as a person or something, he goes on, a little breathless.

  “But I’m not interested in sneaking off to grab a quickie with a tourist. I’m not the type who’d sneak off to some shady corner for five minutes of sex, okay? Or for a night. I’ve never done it, and I won’t start now. It’s not what I’m looking for.”

  He looks at me almost like he’s challenging me. The angles of his face are very pronounced in the neon light. It brings out the tired lines around his eyes, but also the determined set of his jaw. There’s a sort of steely clarity to his words.

  “The point is, you want me because I’m gay, and around. For you, it’s all about fun and not missing out on an opportunity. This is not an accusation, it’s just how it is. You and me, that doesn’t make sense.”

  Okay.

  Okay, this sounds like not being out and his family potentially freaking out and all that is just part of the problem. This sounds like he wants someone who brings more to the table than just girth, muscle, and a good fashion sense. This sounds like he’s looking for a relationship.

  And he doesn’t see me as someone who’d qualify for that.

  “Maybe I want more too,” I say, floundering, feeling at sea. What he just said about me summed up my attitude about making out pretty accurately. Or what has been my attitude up to now.

  He’s shaking his head at me.

  “You just told me the best thing about y
ou is that you’re going to be gone in three days’ time!”

  I did, but I only said that because I thought he thought it was the best thing about me; I hoped it might tip the scales in my favor. Apparently it did the opposite. Fuck, I’m not used to having to navigate my way around all kinds of pitfalls in presex conversation, I’m not used to having to argue so much with guys who told me they liked me just to get them to act on it!

  If he goes on like this, I’m going to crack and say something like I dream of you all the time, and I think I love you. And that wouldn’t be good. No matter how much he’s haunting my nights, no matter what that means, he just basically told me he sees me as this shallow slut. He said he liked me, but he never gave me a reason to think he might, I don’t know, love me back or anything. And that much I understand about romance: you don’t want to be the one who’s in love when the other guy isn’t.

  Shit, why can’t this be simple and just about the sex? Sex isn’t complicated, it’s the one thing in life that isn’t. Or it’s supposed to be.

  “I like you. You like me. We could have some fun together. What’s the big deal?” I plead.

  He shakes his head like I just proved all his points.

  “I think it’s best if we just try and stay out of each other’s way until you’re gone.”

  He sounds cool and detached. But by now I’ve learned he’s good at many things, and a master when it comes to keeping his feelings to himself. By now I’m picking up on the subtler signs: the brief hint of tension in his voice, the fleeting darkness shadowing his blue gaze.

  He turns away, making it impossible for me to go on reading his eyes and convince myself he didn’t just say this.

  Fuck, why does this hurt so much?

  “I think it’s best if we just try and stay out of each other’s way until you’re gone.”

  “Andi—”

  My voice cracks. He wrings his hands, like hearing his name physically hurt him. Or like he needs to stop himself from reaching out to me.

  “It’s better this way, Bennet. Bye.”

  HE DISMISSED me.

  He sought me out; he came to talk to me after an eighteen-hour day just to dismiss me. To tell me he doesn’t want to see me again.

  I wanted this conversation. Now it happened.

  And I’m further away from what I want than ever.

  With numb fingers, I pull my cardigan tighter around myself. I’m out in the parking lot, restlessly wandering about in the cold between the silent hulking silhouettes of snowed-in cars. I’ve mulled over what he said for almost an hour now.

  He really is a virgin. He doesn’t want casual sex because he’s still in the closet and hates the idea of engaging in stealth and secrecy.

  That proud tilt of his head.

  That pain in his voice when he told me goodbye.

  I look up at the five summits of Fitsch, at the magnificent skyline sprawling under the starry universe.

  So much open space, and here we are, caught up in constraints that seem to be of our own making yet impossible to resolve.

  “It’s better this way, Bennet. Bye.”

  “You and me, that doesn’t make sense.”

  “It’s better this way, Bennet. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  I HAD a dream of him, and in the dream, it was him who asked me to sleep with him. We were in the family wing of the Fankhauser, and he invited me into his room and was being super nice to me, and we were kind of together.

  How pathetic is that.

  I’m only grateful I don’t talk in my sleep. It would be just frigging great if Jay and Carl heard me babble shit like “I love you, baby.”

  Because I’m pretty sure I said that to him in my dream.

  IT’S FIVE o’clock in the afternoon.

  I’m alone in the suite. Jay has gone down to the restaurant to make a move on the Italian girl over a hot chocolate and a Topfenstrudel, with Carl as his wingman. I can’t imagine Carl being of much use as a wingman. He’s going to be completely absorbed by his strudel.

  The weather has cleared up, and we had another perfect day of boarding. But Andi wasn’t around at breakfast, and he still wasn’t there when we came back to the hotel in the afternoon. And when I finally managed to make Carl ask after him, the girl at the reception desk told him Andi had called in sick.

  The idea of Andi ill, maybe even seriously so, worries me crazy. He looked so tired last night.

  But what if he isn’t sick at all, and this is really about him trying not to have to see me again before I leave? What if this means he hates me?

  What if this means he cares more about me than he admitted?

  What if I’ll never see him again?

  Is this being in love? Imagining tragedy, trying to analyze every tiny bit of information, and always thinking everything is about you? Suffering, like, all the fucking time?

  Yeah, if this is love, it’s no fun.

  I’ve started working on another photo to take my mind off things. The image is from the video I made in the Funk House the other night; Andi at the keyboard, backlit by the stage lighting. It’s a bit like the shot in the information brochure. But he needs a different tint. That purple isn’t him.

  He’s blue and gold.

  I’ve already adjusted the background, and now I’m going to take the plunge and get to work on his eyes.

  My phone rings.

  It’s my mom.

  “HAVING FUN?” she asks, her voice sounding as distinct as if she were in the room with me.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Snow’s fantastic. Hotel’s good too.”

  “But?”

  “Nothing but.”

  She chuckles.

  “But you miss your gay bars and clubs.”

  That’s not really what it is, but I won’t tell her that.

  I’m not uncomfortable with discussing stuff like cruising with my mom. She’s extremely laid back when it comes to subjects like sex and hookups.

  It’s just that I know she’d instantly change from chill to high alert if I gave her the slightest reason to suspect there was a boyfriend on the horizon. Even if it’s just a dream boyfriend. Got to do with her own boyfriend history, I guess, which is basically my dad. The guy’s a bit of a scumbag. Got my mom pregnant, then left with half her money.

  Don’t make the mistakes I made, Justin, that’s what she’s been telling me for half my life.

  Well, I don’t intend to. I have no money besides what I earn at the campus coffee shop anyway, nor a uterus, so I’d say there’s little danger of history repeating itself.

  Still, every couple of weeks, my mom will remind me there’s nothing worse than projecting soppy ideas of romance onto a hookup. And I haven’t even had someone who’d qualify as a boyfriend up to now. But she’s got a sixth sense for when I like a guy.

  And I don’t just like Andi, I can’t stop thinking about him. I dream about him; I fucking dream about being with him.

  And people say I’m easier to read than an open book.

  If I as much as mention him now, she’s going to know. She’s going to say something like “Oh dear, a vacation crush, how classic.” I don’t need to hear how sweet that is when what she really means is stupid. I don’t need her to tell me to not do anything I’ll only regret later.

  Like falling in love.

  “Justin?”

  “I’m fine, Mom. I’ll be home in three days’ time, anyway,” I say offhandedly.

  My own words send a weird twinge through my insides. While I listen to my mom giving me an update of what’s going on at home, trouble with colleagues at the agency, my college roommate calling to talk about splitting the costs for a minifridge, I realize I don’t want to be back in three days’ time.

  “Justin? You still there? How’s the studying going? Are you on schedule?”

  “Sure.”

  “I hope you don’t waste your time doodling on that tablet of yours. You’re too old for kids’ stuff like drawing.”

  �
�Sure,” I repeat, pushing the tablet under the bedsheets as if I were a twelve-year-old and she were about to walk right in on me.

  “Justin!”

  Oh man, she never fails to pick up on it when I’m trying to fool her. There’s a fucking ocean between us, and she still does it.

  “Listen,” she says in a stern tone. “Maybe you’ve got to work a little harder for your grades than others. But you’ve always been the most competitive kid in the playground. I expect you to direct a little bit of that ambition toward your studies.”

  “Sorry, Mom, didn’t catch much of that. Cell reception really sucks in these valleys. Gotta go now. Love you.”

  I don’t wait for her response and just hit End Call.

  I do love her.

  But hell.

  HE ISN’T in the restaurant at breakfast again. But when we do our first run down from the top station, we pass a Happy Powder instructor, and when I look back to check, it’s Andi.

  He isn’t sick. He’s as tan and agile on his board as ever, radiating strength and superiority like he has to. I feel my whole face lift in a grin of relief under my visor.

  He’s being followed by a middle-aged man in an expensive-looking outfit who keeps losing his edge. A client taking a private lesson. As I watch the guy sit down on his ass in the snow, it hits me.

  I don’t really know why I didn’t think of this earlier. I’ve known Andi is a snowboarding instructor since my very first day in Fitsch.

  It’s so simple.

  I’ll take lessons with him. Private freeriding lessons.

  We’ll finally have some real space to be together, without another soul within hearing range. He’ll see I’m fun; he’ll see there’s no reason for him not to take advantage of the situation, and the rest is going to take care of itself.

  He told me we didn’t make sense, but hey, I think we absolutely do. Why shouldn’t he have fun with me while he’s waiting for the right guy to come along? And get a little practice while he’s at it too? He likes me and thinks I’m hot, so really he has nothing to lose.