“Teaching.” He pushed back the curls from his forehead. “I’ve thought about teaching. I taught some when I was an undergrad, and I really liked it. I could imagine doing that and being happy.” His face was suddenly soft, all the lines vanished.
“I bet you’d be really good at it, Dweeb.”
“And then playing on the side wherever. Chamber music—or who knows? Maybe even Phantom. But I absolutely draw the line at Les Miserables.”
“So?”
“So—what do I have against Les Miz?”
“So why don’t you?”
“Well, there’s my family, my father, my grandfather. There are expectations.”
“But still, if you’re really unhappy …”
“And, of course, there’s a lot more money in helping rich people stay rich than in giving the kiddies fiddle lessons.”
“We’ve never really talked about money, but, Roger, seriously?”
“Let’s not talk about money.”
“You brought it up.” Of course I’d picked up—mostly from Tommy—that there was a lot of money in Roger’s family, and a lot of pressure. “I’ll just say this—how les miserables do you want to make yourself over something that doesn’t matter? But of course if you stick with the law, Jeff has big plans for your career.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Congrats, Dweeb. You’re going to be New York’s next big power couple. I’ll look for you on page six.”
“He didn’t really say that about ‘power couple,’ did he?”
“You know I couldn’t make that up.”
He sighed.
“I’ll go get plates.” He got up. I got up to follow.
“Hey!” I took the hint and changed the subject. “I looked up haggis on the Internet. Did you know it’s a real word?”
“Really?” He poked his head down under the cabinets to look at me.
“It is, it actually means something. It’s a food! It’s this disgusting dish. They take the stomach of a sheep, and they stuff it with oatmeal and other stuff you don’t want to know about, and they cook it and eat it, and that’s a haggis!”
“And you found that out, did you?”
“Don’t believe me?”
“Is it by any chance a specialty in—oh, maybe—Scotland?” He let me think about that for a second. “Because—what a coinkydink!—he’s a Scottish terrier.” He came out with plates and set them on the coffee table.
“You knew that all along, didn’t you. I’m an idiot.”
“Oh no, not you.” He was at that moment going back into the kitchen for something else, meaning he had to pass between me and the end of the couch.
“Why you—are you making fun of me?” I asked, and as he passed me I gave him just enough of a shove that he had to fall backward over the arm of the sofa. As he went over, he tried to catch himself by grabbing my arm, which was enough to pull me off balance—okay, I let him pull me off balance—and I fell over onto the couch as well, on top of him.
“Are you making fun me?!!” I asked again laughing, maybe tickling him a little. “Is the snotty Harvard boy making fun of the poor street kid?”
We were both laughing and tickling, and I was reminded just how amazingly beautiful and deep those velvet-brown eyes were and just how close I was to that beauty. He was still grinning and ready to defend himself against the next onslaught of tickling. I could feel his breath against my cheek, I could smell his skin.
And aside from the beauty of his eyes and all that, I was suddenly aware of two other things:
One was in my jeans.
The other was in Roger’s khakis.
Talk about your muscle memory.
Roger was just a beat or two behind me, but I saw the moment when he realized, and in that heartbeat his eyes flipped from smiling to horrified.
“Get up! Get up! Get up!” he sputtered, pushing me off him with both hands, and I jumped to my feet.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“I can’t—”
“It’s okay! I wasn’t—”
“I’m not like you!” he snapped at me.
“Well what’s that supposed to mean? You seemed every bit as keen as I was!”
“I wasn’t going to do anything!”
“Neither was I!”
“As if!”
“Hey. Roger,” I tried quieter, calmer. “Today was really nice. I really enjoyed being with you, hearing you play. Please don’t wreck it.”
“Too late.”
“Please?”
“You need to go.”
“Look, the pizza will be here, we can just eat. I promise, no touching.”
“I know how good you are with promises.”
“But I’m starving!”
“Tough noogie!”
“Roger, I’m sorry that happened, but it was no big deal.”
“That’s how it is with you. It’s no big deal. It’s never a big deal. It’s not important. You’re so frigging irresponsible!”
“Irresponsible? I will gladly take responsibility for exactly half of what just happened. How’s that! Your turn!”
“Great, it’s all just a game to you, a big joke. I’m serious!”
“So am I!”
“You go through life with your fly open, and you think it’s okay! Well, it’s not okay! I can’t do that. I’m not like you, and I don’t want to be like you!”
“Fine! I never wanted you to be like me or anybody else! I—I like you the way you are!”
In my frustration I had almost blurted out a different verb. Maybe I should have, but I was too chicken. Maybe if I had, it would have sped this along.
Or maybe if I had, he’d have thrown me out for good instead of just temporarily. Doesn’t matter because, like I said, I was too chicken, and in that moment, I was more than a little peeved.
“Please—just go!”
“Fine!” Man-oh-man. It’s funny, considering what a great guy he was and how clearly out of my mind I was about him—he could still really piss me off sometimes. “Fine! I’m sorry! I am so frigging sorry!” I yelled and threw my hands in the air as I went to the door. “You know, for somebody who prides himself on how logical and reasonable he is—you can be so stupidly unreasonable sometimes.”
As long as everyone was yelling, Haggis decided to weigh in with a couple barks of his own. “You tell him!” I said to the dog. I pulled open the door and turned back to him. “So fine! I’m leaving! Forget I ever touched you!”
And bam! Then thump-thump-thump down the two flights.
Out on the street, I tried to calm down. Deep breaths. I had no idea what just happened.
No, that wasn’t true. I knew. We had wandered across a border neither of us had intended to cross. And it scared him.
I took another deep breath. Holy moly, it was cold.
And the Dweeb had my hoody.
Chapter 18
3:32 a.m.
Roger
“Forget I ever touched you,” he said.
As.
Fucking.
If.
Chapter 19
For the Guy Who Has…
Tommy
“It’s weird having you around again,” I said as we stopped at a corner.
“Admit it, Tommy. You missed me,” Fletch said, and he gave me the hugest squeeze while we crossed the street. “Admit it, admit it.”
“Okay! Okay! Cried-myself-to-sleep-every-night, now get off me, ya big palooka!” He did. “Thank you!” I shook my jacket straight again. “Now. What exactly are we looking for?”
“You know!”
We were bumbling through Soho with all those cute little shops, and they were all decked out for Halloween. Totally kitsch and I adored it. You don’t even want to be around me between
Thanksgiving and Christmas—I am my own Hallmark movie. But there I go, digressing again.
“I know we’re birthday shopping for you-know-whom,” I said, “but for what specifically?”
“I don’t know—I want to find something that suits him, that he’ll like, but that he wouldn’t buy himself.”
“That Jeff wouldn’t think of.”
“Yeah, well, that too. And thanks, by the way. For coming along and helping.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I’ll probably be useless,” I said.
“You know him better than anybody.”
“You know him pretty well yourself.”
“I suppose. But seriously I want to get him something that’s—you know—perfect.”
“Big chance to impress, eh?”
“Something like that.”
“So you want to find something that will make him realize that you’re actually this fantastic and deeply sensitive person, not just that cheating bastard who shattered his precious little heart into a million pieces.”
I had to stop and turn around because Fletch was about twenty feet behind me and looking like Lot’s wife right after she remembered she’d left the kettle on. From the expression on his face, you’d think I’d kicked his puppy or something.
“What?” I said.
“You know, if I didn’t have that coming, you little twink, I’d stuff you down a manhole somewhere.”
“I might point out that stuffing things into manholes is how you got into all this—”
“Okay! Okay!”
“Besides. You do have it coming, and by rights I shouldn’t even be speaking to you. It’s my best-friendly duty to be at least a little bitchy to you now and then, don’t you think? But I figure, if Roger can put up with you…well c’mon. Let’s go shopping.” I led him across the street.
“You’re a real human being, Tommy.”
“I know. Of course if you blow it this year,” I chirped cheerily, “you can always try again next year.” And you wouldn’t believe the dirty look he gave me. “All-right-already! We’ll see what we can do!”
We kept walking.
“That sweater is the cutest thing,” I suggested and went to the window we were passing to inspect it more closely. It was totes sharp. Black. Was that cashmere maybe? With the coolest asymmetrical collar.
“Roger would never wear that. Would he?”
“Roger?! Not in this life. But it would look fab on me, doncha think?”
“Tommy!” he said, scolding.
“Hey, I have a birthday coming up too, you know.”
“In February, isn’t it?”
“Right. Around. The corner.”
“Tommy—concentrate.”
“Okay, okay.” I tore myself away from the window, making a mental note of the store. Da-yam, that place is always so expensive, but that sweater was mine, goddamnit. There were some nice shoes in there too. I heaved a mighty sigh, like the tragic hero that I was, before I scampered to catch up to Fletch.
“The thing with Roger is,” I said, tugging Fletch’s arm to slow him down—you cannot shop properly at that pace. “He can obviously buy himself whatever he wants.”
“Unlike you and me.”
“Very unlike you and me. But, on the other hand, he doesn’t buy himself diddley.”
“Unlike you.”
“Unlike me.”
“Is he still convinced the law firm is going to let him go?”
“I think he goes to work every day half expecting to get canned.”
“You know what’s going on—is that really gonna happen?”
“Strictly between you and me and not a hint of it to Roger-Dodger—yeah, probably. From what I can tell, it’s what they do with baby lawyers. They’re testing out who’s partner material and who isn’t. They try ’em out, squeeze a few years’ hard labor out of ’em, and then they start culling the herd. And every year there’s another group of eager little first-years that comes in right behind the last one.”
“That’s messed up.”
“Meanwhile, yon Jeff over at his firm is going to make partner in a couple years.”
“Which is messed-upper.”
“So. Whereas Jeff has all his shirts custom made for him, with his initials cunningly embroidered on the cuff so everyone will know his shirts are custom…”
“Roger still gets his shirts online at shy-gayboys-dot-com.”
“Exactly.” We walked a little longer.
“How is he?” Fletch asked out of nowhere.
“Who?”
He gave me a look.
“What do you mean? You see him all the time.”
“He seems sad, or is it just around me?”
“He’s been a real mess.”
“Because of me?”
“Oh hells yes.”
“Thanks. Now I feel so much better.”
“That’s not my problem, kiddo.”
We stopped in front of a window.
“Actually, he’s better since you resurfaced—do not read too much into that,” I said, but I could tell he was starting to buck up. I wasn’t at all sure that was a good thing. “It’s just an observation, not an endorsement. But he was worse before.”
Apparently that gave him something to chew on because he didn’t say a word for the next two blocks, when something else caught my eye.
“Wouldja take a look at that,” I said quietly. There, looking in the window of the next shop was an amazing work of art, a glorious natural wonder, this guy who had obviously just stepped off an Abercrombie shopping bag. The cheekbones alone made me momentarily light-headed. Then there was the jaw, those lips, and that chest! And my God did those pants fit nice. I wanted to applaud.
“What?” Fletch said. “Something else I can get you for your birthday?”
“If you did, Fletch, I would be forever grateful.”
He went over to the window and stood there looking at the mannequins inside. I was about to say something, but hey, I can be discreet, and besides, it might be fun to watch the Fletcher in action. I stepped away to go check out some headlines at the newsstand on the corner. From there I could still see really well, but I couldn’t hear.
Fletch stood there, right next to Mr. A&F, and he didn’t even turn his head. Damn, I thought, how cool can you be. This was what it was like, cruising in the big leagues. I obviously had a lot to learn. I waited for Fletch to make his move. Any second now. I bet you could smell the hotness from there.
Shopping-Bag Boy, in contrast to Fletch, had most definitely noticed the change in his surroundings, and he had lost all interest in winter fashions.
The guy said something. Fletch turned to him, smiled, and said something back. Okay, I thought. This should be good.
Cheekbones moved a little closer, with eyebrows raised. Fletch said something and the guy said something and put his hand on Fletch’s arm. I figured that that was about the end of my outing with Fletch. And Fletch said something, and the model said something, and then Fletch came over to me, no doubt to tell me to get lost.
“I didn’t see anything for Roger, did you?” he said instead, and he started walking again.
He was just walking away? He was going to leave all that unmitigated man-hotness standing on the sidewalk, untouched and looking stupid?
Well, call me Ishmael.
I jogged to catch up with Fletch.
“What was it you wanted me to look at?” he asked.
“You didn’t notice the totally gorj runway model you were talking to?”
“What? Him? You idiot, I thought you were talking about the jacket or something.”
“I can’t even. So what did he want?” I said. He gave me another of those looks. Okay, stupid question.
“He said he wanted to buy me a cup of coffee”�
�and here he dropped his voice to a stage whisper—“but just between you and me, I think he had something else in mind.”
“And you shut him down???”
“I’ve kinda sorta lost my appetite for it these days.”
“Well. Da-yam,” I said. I was nonplussed. Seriously, if Fletch’s libido could shrivel up, we were all in terrible danger.
“Fletch, that was the most beautiful guy I’ve ever seen, present company excluded, and you turned him down?”
“He was pretty good-looking, but, honestly? You see hotter guys at the opera.”
Wow. I was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about Alexander Skarsgård. My turn to have something to chew on.
We walked for a bit longer, seeing nothing in the shop windows that called out “Roger-Roger-Roger.”
“Tommy,” he said out of the blue, “I want this more than I ever wanted anything.”
“You’re not talking about something from…” I gestured vaguely at the Banana Republic window we were standing in front of.
“No!” he said.
“Good, because that would be gross. You’re talking about my best friend?”
“Yep.”
“Soooooooo, you wanna know what I think your chances are, right?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.”
“I almost thought something was going to happen last Sunday.” He started walking again, and I started walking again.
“Really?” I couldn’t believe Roger would let anything happen.
“We got a little too close, and Roger sort of panicked.”
“He’s not like you, Fletch.”
“Funny you should say that.”
“Roger has a conscience. He’s not going to cheat on Jeff.”
“Jeff.”
“But you know as well as I do, Jeffrey’s not your real problem here. I think Jeff was a Band-Aid.”
“And now, what? The wound has healed?”
“Scabbed over maybe.”
“Ooh, real pretty.”
“I try,” I said. “You know me, always struggling to find le mot juste. But hey, listen. You better be serious about this, because if you hurt him again, I will personally hunt you down and—”
Where Do I Start? Page 14
