by John Inman
“Oh, I don’t have time for this,” Wyeth grumbled, and with that, he ducked into the elevator and waited impatiently for the door to close behind him, praying to God it would close before Mrs. Mulroney could swoop in like a vulture to pester him some more.
Just before it slammed shut, he heard her cry out, “Call him! He’s a fine boy!”
“He’s nuts!” Wyeth yelled back. “You call him!”
Finally the door dinged shut and the elevator jerked and grumbled its way to life, dragging him down, down, down toward another day at the library, another day of his life—his blessedly uncomplicated, uneventful, unromantically plagued life.
What Wyeth didn’t expect was that once he was there, toiling away inside the library, he would think of Agnes through most of the morning and Deeze through most of the afternoon. That pissed him off. He had to put up with the old lady because she lived next door. But Deeze? Why should he be thinking about Deeze at all? It was confusing.
To make matters worse, he kept hoping Susie, the flirty library volunteer who couldn’t quite wrap her head around the fact that the redheaded librarian she had such a crush on was gay, would stop by with another crayon-addressed envelope with another strange surprise inside. When she didn’t, he grew even surlier, although he couldn’t quite understand why.
By the time five o’clock rolled around and Wyeth was heading home, sweltering once again under the broiling summer sun, loosening his tie even as he walked down the street, he was totally depressed at the idea of eating dinner alone in front of the TV. This was confusing too. He had never been depressed about eating dinner alone before. Why the hell did it bother him now?
And yes, for a smart guy, Wyeth Becker was really that dumb.
If there were any new crayon-painted signs taped to Deeze’s window across the way, Wyeth didn’t know it, because he refused to look. He spent his Friday night the way he always did. He walked Chaucer—heading off in the opposite direction from where he usually went because he didn’t want to pass Deeze’s building. They had a quiet dinner alone, he and the dog, and then about 10:00 p.m., Wyeth slipped on a ratty pair of Bermuda shorts, grabbed a wrinkled shirt from the dresser drawer, and set off for the final stroll of the evening so Chaucer could drain his pipes one last time before turning in for the night.
In front of the all-night deli on Eighth Avenue, where Wyeth had stopped to purchase a bag of bagels for breakfast, he ran head-on into Deeze. Literally. They crashed into each other while Wyeth was digging through his bag of bagels and two little packages of cream cheese to make sure he had everything and Deeze was jogging full-tilt down the sidewalk gazing at the Garmin strapped to his wrist.
Their collision was spectacular. The only one who wasn’t knocked on his ass this time was Chaucer, who took the opportunity while both humans were flat on their backs on the sidewalk, to stand on Deeze’s chest and give his old friend a thorough tongue bath.
Deeze spit his way out from under Chaucer’s kisses and sat up with a groan to stare at Wyeth, who at that moment was mumbling curses and crawling around the sidewalk gathering up his scattered bagels.
“I like your shorts,” Deeze said.
Wyeth stopped gathering bagels and turned to stare while Deeze mumbled his way to his feet and dusted himself off as if he did this sort of thing twenty times a day, which Wyeth wasn’t so sure he didn’t. While Deeze did all that, he still found time to ruffle Chaucer’s coat and return the dog’s happy greeting.
“Chaucer! Come away from there,” Wyeth snapped. Then he snapped at Deeze. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why don’t you look where you’re going? When you jog, you’re a menace. You know that? Every time we bump into each other, one or both of us ends up flat on his back!”
A sexy grin lit up Deeze’s face. His eyes smoldered merrily. “I like the way you put that,” he said with a leer.
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Wyeth growled. “Grow up!”
“It must be karma,” Deeze said. “It’s the only way to explain it.”
Wyeth stopped fiddling with his fucking bagels and just stared. “What must be karma? It’s the only way to explain what?”
Deeze’s grin widened. “Me. You. Us. The way we perpetually plow into each other.”
“We don’t plow into each other. You plow into me!”
Wyeth sucked in a deep breath and made a concerted effort to calm down. He stared at the man in front of him. His eyes traveled from Deeze’s brown eyes, across the blue-black shadow on his unshaven cheeks, to his broad bare shoulders poking out of the muscle shirt he wore, which was the same shirt he had worn the day they collided by the lagoon. Deeze was also wearing the same tiny running shorts he had worn that day too. And he still had the same beautiful legs.
Wyeth swallowed hard, staring down at himself. Why in the world had he worn his stupid gaudyass Bermuda shorts and a wrinkled polo shirt that was so old the little polo player had fallen off. He was all too aware of his pale, hairy legs in comparison to Deeze’s fuzzy, olive-colored ones. So when Deeze spoke again, he spoke words Wyeth never expected to hear in a million years.
“My God, you’re beautiful,” Deeze said.
Wyeth’s jaw dropped. His ears turned red. He scrunched up the paper bag holding his stupid bagels and simply glared.
“I don’t care what you think of me, Deeze! Everybody can’t look like you, you know. Everybody isn’t muscle-bound and tanned.”
Deeze’s face fell. He stood there blinking, such a look of hurt crossing his face that Wyeth began to wonder what the hell he had said to deflate the guy so quickly. Then he remembered what Deeze had said and got mad all over again.
“I am who I am! You have no right to comment on my appearance at all!”
Deeze’s face fell even more. “I-I’m sorry.” He stepped closer and laid his hand on Wyeth’s arm. “Did you think I was making fun of the way you look?” he asked quietly.
“Yes!” Wyeth brayed. “And you’re an asshole for doing it!” Wyeth tried to shake off Deeze’s hand, but Deeze wouldn’t let him. He clamped his fingers around Wyeth’s wrist instead.
“Stop trying to pull away and listen to me, Wyeth Becker, you insufferable jackass. I do happen to think you’re beautiful. If you don’t, that’s your problem, not mine. You should learn to take the occasional compliment without going nuclear. If you did, you might get a few more now and then.”
“I don’t want compliments, Deeze! I just want to be left alone.”
“No, you don’t,” Deeze quietly answered.
Wyeth’s ears burned even redder. He tried again to wrestle his wrist from Deeze’s grip. When Deeze refused to release him, Wyeth said, more softly this time, “You’re hurting me. Let go.”
So Deeze did. He released Wyeth’s wrist and took a step back. Then he spoke in an almost inaudible whisper while late-night pedestrians paraded past and a brittle spray of palm fronds rattled in the night breeze above their heads.
“I still think you’re beautiful,” Deeze said.
Wyeth squeezed his eyes shut and tightened his grip on Chaucer’s leash. “Are you finished?” he asked. “Can I go now?”
Deeze stepped closer. Again, he wrapped his fingers around Wyeth’s wrist, but he did it gently this time.
“I’ll let you go if you promise to spend the day with me tomorrow.”
Wyeth couldn’t believe it. This guy never gave up. He wore you down with sheer, obstinate doggedness. No matter what you said, he just kept blathering on. Then he made you feel guilty when you fought back.
“Sorry. It’s my day off. I have things to do.”
A small grin twisted Deeze’s lips. “Like what?”
Wyeth stammered out the first thing he could think of, knowing while he did that he was sounding like a twit. “I have to wash the dog.”
Deeze’s tiny grin morphed into a full-blown smile of incredulous proportions. “That’s it? You have to wash the dog?” He stared down at Chaucer. “You want a bath, boy?”
Chaucer ducked his head and tried to make himself invisible. A tiny whimper erupted from his throat while his tail shot between his legs. Suddenly he was the poster boy for abused, overwashed dogs everywhere.
Deeze turned back to Wyeth. “Well, there you have it. The dog doesn’t want a bath. So spend the day with me and give the poor filthy mongrel a break.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to spend the day with you. You’re annoying.”
“No, I’m not. I’m charming.”
“You’re an ass.”
“I know. That’s part of my charm.”
“You’re not going to give up, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Oh fuck it, then. All right.”
Deeze went through the motions of digging a pound of wax out of his ear and smearing it down the side of the palm tree next to them. “Did you say ‘all right’? Is that what I heard? Did you honestly agree to spend the day with me tomorrow? Saturday? This Saturday? I mean like—tomorrow? In this lifetime?”
Wyeth was not amused, merely resigned. “What else am I supposed to do? You won’t shut up. You won’t take no for an answer. You won’t leave me alone. And my neighbor said you’re a nice guy. Of course, she’s older than God and makes about as much sense as you do.”
“You must mean Agnes.”
“I should have known you two would be friends.”
Deeze laughed. “I’ll have to give her a gift for bringing us together.”
“She didn’t bring us together. We aren’t together. And if we are together, it’s only because you never watch where you’re going and keep running into me. But if you must buy the old witch a gift, give her a subscription to the newspaper so she’ll stop stealing everyone else’s.”
Deeze beamed. “Good idea! I’ll do just that.”
“The rest of my building will love you forever.”
Deeze shuffled forward a little closer. “Tell me, Wyeth Becker, will you love me forever too?” he asked quietly.
Wyeth tried to turn away, but Deeze still held his wrist. “You’re hopeless,” he mumbled.
Deeze batted his eyelashes. “No, I’m persistent.”
Wyeth felt a sudden urge to step closer too, to walk directly into Deeze’s arms and let Deeze scoop him into an embrace, and wouldn’t that startle the shit out of the guy. Then Wyeth quickly realized he was the one who was startled. Startled to even think of doing such a thing. In fact, that sudden urge to walk into Deeze’s arms frightened Wyeth more than anything that had happened.
That Wyeth was drawn to Deeze was inescapable. But the possibility that Deeze might be drawn right back scared the bejesus out of him. A heartache waiting to happen, that’s what this was. He just knew it. There wasn’t a hope in hell that two men so different in looks and personality could find anything but disappointment together. Wyeth had endured these situations before. The handsome one always bailed, and Wyeth was never ever the handsome one. He was inevitably the dumpee, not the dumper, and he really didn’t have the stamina to go through it again. He tried one last time to weasel his way out of tomorrow.
“You could do way better than me,” he said, with more than a trace of hurt lacing his words. “You should look for someone in your own pay grade to spend the day with.”
At that, Deeze frowned, and this time it looked like an honest one. “Please tell me you don’t believe that,” he said, all the while stepping closer, clutching both of Wyeth’s pale wrists now, his fiery brown eyes burning a path straight into Wyeth’s brain. That soulful, heartfelt stare frightened Wyeth even more than the words the man used. There was no humor in Deeze’s face anymore. He was no longer joking.
Somehow, Deeze’s crystal clear certainty of Wyeth’s worth made Wyeth ashamed of what he’d just said. “I didn’t mean that, Deeze. I’m sorry. I’m just—rattled. You rattle me. I-I promise I’ll try not to be so paranoid in the future.”
Deeze’s gaze softened. He almost smiled but didn’t quite. “Good. I’m going to hold you to that promise.” Lowering his voice even more, he said, “And by ‘the future’ I assume you still mean tomorrow. I’ll be at your door at eight in the morning. I’ll stop in for a bagel—” He lifted the hand Wyeth was holding the paper bag in and shook it in his face. “—and then we’ll go. And yes, you can bring the dog.”
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t figured it out yet.”
“Do I really have to wear shorts? My legs are so pale.”
“Does that bother you?” Deeze asked.
Wyeth blushed. “I usually only wear shorts at night. Like now. When I walk Chaucer.”
“We’ll change all that.”
For some reason, Wyeth couldn’t think of a reason to disbelieve him. “Will we?”
Deeze’s teeth shone white in the glare of the streetlight. “We will.” He stepped back. “Can I walk you home?”
“Why would you want to—” Wyeth forced himself to shut the hell up. He took a deep breath and said, “Yes, if it means that much to you, you can walk me the fuck home.”
Deeze laughed. “You’re learning,” he said happily. He took Wyeth’s arm, and the three of them headed off down the street.
“I like that I rattle you, you know,” Deeze said while they waited for a light to change.
Wyeth had to bite back a smile. “I suspected you might.”
At the front door to Wyeth’s apartment building, Deeze once again faced Wyeth and gently grasped his wrists. “Thank you,” Deeze whispered. He leaned in for a brief kiss without asking permission, and while their lips were still together, he muttered, “Thank you,” again. Wyeth closed his eyes in the middle of the kiss and only opened them again when Deeze broke the kiss, said, “Good night,” and walked away, whistling, before Wyeth had a chance to say anything.
Wyeth watched him go until he couldn’t see him anymore. This time Deeze didn’t turn and wave at the corner. As soon as he knew he was really and truly alone, Wyeth’s legs went weak. He collapsed to his ass on the front step while Chaucer wiggled his way between his knees and tried to stick his nose in the bagel bag.
Wyeth yanked the bag away, scratched Chaucer’s ears, and thought of the kiss. Ten minutes later, he hauled himself to his feet and made his way home.
Once again, the apartment seemed strangely empty. He stood at the living room window, staring out. He was still watching when the lights in the apartment across the way blinked on, but Deeze’s red curtains never moved.
Not sure if he was relieved or disappointed, Wyeth finally gave up and went to bed.
Chapter Four
“THIS IS the first time we’ve come face-to-face without somebody getting knocked on his ass,” Wyeth said.
He had just answered the rap at his door. It wasn’t quite eight in the morning yet, but he was such a nervous wreck he didn’t care that Deeze was early. He had been up for hours anyway. He had needed all that time to decide what to wear. What he finally chose was a pair of khaki cargo shorts with tennies and white socks and a white T-shirt with a picture of Shakespeare on the back. The shirt was baggy and untucked and one white sock hung lower on his ankle than the other, but by then it was too late to change. Wyatt kept tugging nervously on the errant sock, which made it even worse.
The moment Deeze saw him, he roared his approval. “You look great! You’re not an insufferable stuffed shirt after all! You can actually be casual! I love it!”
Wyeth went through the motions of trying to close the door in Deeze’s face, but Deeze just grinned and barged his way inside, mumbling, “What a kidder.”
Deeze wore cargo shorts as well, and another muscle shirt, exposing broad shoulders and lovely plump biceps. This shirt was bright yellow and complimented Deeze’s skin tone to perfection. Wyeth supposed if he had Deeze’s olive skin and Deeze’s shoulders and Deeze’s everything, he’d wear that muscle shirt too. Instead of tennis shoes, Deeze had slipped into a pair of sandals. Once again, he had t
he braided gay pride bracelet on his wrist, and a San Diego Pride baseball cap perched cutely on his head.
“I guess we’re not trying to pass for straight, then,” Wyeth sniped. “Should I wear a feather boa and heels?”
“You’re bordering on mean again,” Deeze said around a grin.
“Who, me?”
The minute Deeze passed through the door, Chaucer headed up the welcoming committee by sticking his nose in Deeze’s crotch, causing Deeze to go “Whoop!” in surprise.
“Now that’s what I call a hello!” he laughed. He dropped to his knees and gave the dog a hug. While he was down there, he took the opportunity to gaze up at Wyeth in his shorts and baggy shirt. He took an extra moment to study Wyeth’s legs, much to Wyeth’s chagrin. Not only was Wyeth self-conscious about how pale they were, he was uncomfortably aware of the scab on one knee, which Deeze had apparently just noticed. Deeze reached out and tapped the scab gently with his fingertip, causing Wyeth to jump. “Did I do that last night when I ran into you in front of the deli?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Wyeth said. “I expect more extensive injuries than that before the day is over.” Full body cast. PTSD. Broken heart. He squeezed his eyes shut to block those thoughts. “Just don’t worry about it,” he said again.
Deeze still knelt at his feet, looking up. His eyes were serious, and he spoke haltingly. “Why would you say something like that? Boy, you really don’t like me, do you?”
At that, Wyeth blushed. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t think this is a good idea. And why are you still on your knees? Get up. Please.”
Deeze slipped the fingers of one hand around the back of Wyeth’s knee to pull himself up. Wyeth gave a tiny gasp at the touch.
By the time he was on his feet, Deeze was once again standing inches from Wyeth’s face. He stared into Wyeth’s blue eyes and spoke in measured tones. “I’m going to pretend you like me.”
Wyeth could feel his pulse pounding in his temple. It had been a long time since he was this nervous. “You’re too close.”
“I’m also going to pretend you’re not afraid of me.”
