The Bones of You

by Laura Stone

  As Gus set a new ball on the tee and did his multi-step loosening up—posture check, bounce bounce bounce of the club—Oliver shifted his weight and leaned on the dark green wooden wall that made up their bunker.

  “I may not be standing on a lunch table shouting for reform in my mini-politician phase back in school, but it seems that I still have that need for extemporaneous displays of idealism.”

  “Mm hmm,” Gus agreed, swinging with another solid “thwack!”

  “Three-seventeen on that one, not too bad,” Oliver said. He sighed and looked out at the ball sweeper roaming back and forth at four hundred yards. “I need to learn to control myself, don’t I?”

  “You said it, not me.” Shoulder roll, tap tap tap.

  “You don’t think I do?” Oliver turned to watch Gus line up. “Watch your left thumb.”

  Gus shot him a dirty look and adjusted his grip. Thwack! “There are people who happen to enjoy your… shall we say, joyful spontaneity. I think it’s more than just simple control.” He nudged the basket of balls aside and looked at Oliver straight on. “I think it has more to do with you living in the moment than anything else. It prevents you from seeing a bigger picture.”

  Oliver bent at the waist and snagged a ball with two fingers, placing it on the tee. It was Gus’s turn to watch as Oliver settled into his stance and focused entirely on the ball in front of him. As he brought his feet into position, he realized that he should think about where he wanted the ball to go instead of just hitting it. The ball sweeper was just off-center to the right, like the eighth hole at his father’s country club. Four hundred yards was a hell of a drive, though.

  He looked left as he bent over the ball, marked the place he wanted it to land in his mind and adjusted his grip slightly. Then he swung up and back, his sides twisting with the effort, and came back down and through, arms locked straight, right toe pivoting and providing a point of balance.

  Gus whistled appreciatively. “Nice, Oliver. Did you mean to slice it?”

  Oliver smiled to himself, imagining that he could hear the metallic thunk as the ball hit exactly where he had wanted it.

  * * *

  With a smug grin, Annabelle Schreiber folded her arms across her narrow frame. As was usual for Gus’s mother, not a perfectly dyed blonde hair was out of place and her jewelry gleamed just enough to draw attention without being garish. “No one cooks for you like I do,” Mrs. Schreiber said. Gus and Oliver bit their lips and did not mention the high-end gourmet takeout containers in the kitchen. “Why don’t you come visit more, Oliver?”

  Oliver swallowed the bite of lobster and truffle-filled puff pastry she’d cooked—er, reheated—choking a bit as it burned the back of his throat. “I’m sorry; I’ve not even been coming home to visit my parents much these past few years.”

  She narrowed her eyes, still with her arms folded. “Mm.”

  Gus rolled his eyes and passed a small platter to Oliver. “Mother, Oliver has been busy getting his degree. Although,” he leaned toward her, dropping his voice in a conspiratorial manner, “he did say something about loving the corndogs at the mall, earlier.”

  Mrs. Schreiber gasped and literally clutched her tasteful string of pearls. She covered her distaste by sipping angrily at her Pinot Grigio.

  Gus laughed. “Mother. Mom. I was joking.”

  She made a dismissive sound and waved her hand at him. Then she refilled Oliver’s wine glass and clucked her tongue at him.

  “Thank you,” Oliver said, helping himself to more food. “It’s utterly delicious. Really.”

  She set the platter down and ruffled his hair. “You need to come over more. You know how I love to be surrounded by handsome young men.” She smiled at Gus and said to Oliver, “You know he’s top of his class?”

  Gus smiled and dug into his food. Oliver grinned at him too. “I did. He’s working incredibly hard.”

  “Are you?” she asked, leaning back in her seat to regard him. “You look tired. Worn around the edges. Even though I want you both to do well, you still need to enjoy life.”

  Oliver didn’t have a response for that, so he filled his mouth with food.

  Mrs. Schreiber chuckled to herself. “I see. So, Gus is going to marry his Emily,” Gus sputtered, “someday, I’m sure. They’ll live in Washington, where she will become a doctor and he’ll be a good lawyer and they’ll make me beautiful, smart grandchildren. What are you doing to do?”

  That was the heart of the problem, wasn’t it? Oliver was just beginning to realize just how in-the-moment he’d been living. Every semester was its own world, every project a contained universe. And when it was over… what, exactly? He couldn’t build a fulfilling life on dreams of a magically perfect loft with Seth and nothing else. He couldn’t be happy staying stagnant in a never-ending blur of academia, either.

  Gus cleared his throat, a look of pure innocence on his face.

  “Traitor,” Oliver muttered. To Mrs. Schreiber he replied, “Beyond graduation, I can honestly say that I have absolutely no clue as to where my life will go. And I’m realizing that I need to figure that out. Quickly.”

  “May I make a suggestion?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Oliver answered. He wiped the corner of his mouth and placed his napkin beside his plate, giving her his full attention.

  “Get a job. Get someone to love you. Done.” She made a dusting-off motion with her hands.

  Gus, his wine glass paused just at his mouth, his eyes sparkling with mirth, said quietly, “See, Oliver? It’s easy.”

  Oliver figured he was due a little payback for the impromptu golf lesson earlier and made a point of emptying the wine bottle into his glass before Gus could.

  Gus rolled his eyes. “You know she has an entire wine cellar of that, don’t you?”

  Mrs. Schreiber stood and smiled at them both. “I’m so happy you two are old enough, so I don’t have to feel guilty about giving you booze anymore. No one likes to drink alone.”

  Dec. 25, 12:37 PM GMT

  To: Oliver Andrews

  From: Moira Byrne

  Subject: Happy Christmas, mate!

  Me mam got me a fifth of Jameson and a blind date for Christmas. I’m kidding. She didn’t get me a blind date. We don’t let the blind in our village. Yes I am going mad being at home, why do you ask? I hope you’re having a lovely time of it in your Hallmark home surrounded by your loved ones. You have pets, right? No? Then surrounded by your family.

  I have a bit of an extra gift for you: my DoS spoke with me two days ago to tell me that I’m on schedule to graduate, which means that as long as you mind yourself with our carefully constructed project plan, you will be as well. So there’s a bit of holiday cheer, right?

  I also asked him if the rumblings were true about Dr. Lan leaving, and he was verra cryptic. The mystery thickens… I’m slagging off for a few months after June and mucking about the countryside, so it’s no skin off my nose, but I thought I’d mention it.

  I’m saving a bit of mistletoe to bring back to Cambridge, so you know. Enough to cover every doorway in your house and the lab. ;)

  Love and peace to you and yours, me ould segotia,

  Moira

  P.S. …any conversations with a certain someone that you’d like to fill me in on?

  P.P.S. I hear Hungary is lovely in the summer. I’m completely daft, aren’t I? He’s just so handsome when he’s starkers, even if he is only as smart as a box of hair.

  Dec. 25, 11:17 AM CST

  To: Moira Byrne

  From: Oliver Andrews

  Subject: re: Happy Christmas, mate!

  Merry Christmas to you, too! We all slept in here and had a nice brunch, and now I’m ready for another nap. My mother doesn’t cook often, but for Christmas morning she makes these sausage rolls with brown mustard that are so good. I may have eaten my weight in them. It makes her uncharacteristically happy when I eat her food, so I’m more than willing to oblige her.

  You’ll note that I’m
skipping over responding to the more ridiculous portions of your email, but I will say that it’s a huge relief to know you’re on schedule. I’ll pull my weight, I promise, and I’ll start making plans for getting out of my flat after the end of June. :)

  I’ve been doing a lot of thinking over the past few days. I need to stop being so single-minded and hyper-focused. No, this is not about Seth. Well, partly. Remember my friend I told you about, Gus? There was a group of us that were pretty inseparable. Once I settled into school, that was all I focused on, that and Seth. Then I went to college by myself, moved straight to Cambridge and… you see my point. Most of the friends from my old group still do things together. I haven’t seen most of them in years.

  I need to look up more. I need to figure out what the hell I’m going to do once I graduate. It’s been this nebulous idea in the back of my mind for years, but I need to get it sorted out. And once I have that sorted out, I need to talk with Seth. No, we haven’t had any conversations since that last one, but he’s been performing and preparing to come home, so I’m not upset he hasn’t called me yet.

  This is what I’m telling myself—that is, after checking the phone to make sure it’s plugged in and not in silent mode. Yes, I realize how pitiful that is.

  What if I told you that I was deathly allergic to mistletoe? You didn’t even think of that, did you?

  Love to you, too, and even though I shouldn’t encourage you, I can’t wait to see you when I get back, either. I’m sure I’ll regret saying that after a few minutes, but until then, I’ll bask in happy thoughts of your wee elfish self.

  ~Oliver

  P.S. You can’t see that I read your postscript with my mouth hanging open. I just don’t even know what to say.

  * * *

  Oliver was stretched out on the floor in front of the fireplace, half asleep, half listening to his parents playing cards in the other room, when the house phone rang. He slapped his hand around blindly, looking for the cordless. He’d brought it down there with him just in case. He hadn’t been an official Boy Scout, but he did believe in being prepared.

  “Hello, Andrews residence.”

  “Merry Giftmas, Oliver,” Seth said. “Is this a bad time?”

  Oliver could hear voices laughing and talking boisterously in the background on the other end. A weightless feeling filled his stomach when he was able to hear Big Mike.

  “No, not a bad time at all. Everyone is in their post-brunch malaise here.” With the exception of a few quiet exclamations over losing or winning a hand, his house was silent. “I assume you got in safely. Glad to be home?”

  “I did! And I am,” Seth laughed. Oliver could hear the sound of his hand muffling the receiver as he told his dad that he was on the phone. “Sorry. Little Mike brought over some movie for my dad that apparently involves a lot of shouting and loud engines.”

  Oliver closed his eyes, curled in on himself on the floor in his blanket and tried not to let memories of Larsen Family Movie Night get him choked up. He cleared his throat, saying with forced calm, “Your dad can’t help but love anything with The Rock in it.”

  Seth hummed happily on the other end. “You remembered.”

  Oliver stared into the fireplace: It was a gas fireplace with a stone log. Nothing moved in this house, nothing changed. The fake log continued to glow red, barely putting off enough heat to be satisfactory.

  “I bet your dad was ecstatic to have you back home,” Oliver said, feeling a million miles away from pleasant memories of Seth’s house all those years ago. He turned up the heat with the remote that controlled the fireplace. Maybe he could increase its warmth enough to forget it was artificial.

  “Well, he does have a pretty fantastic kid to be glad to see. Or so I’ve been told. Repeatedly. He’s been ridiculous about visits since I moved out.” Seth’s happy energy practically crackled through the phone line. “Oh my God, he, ahem, reimagined the basement. Total man cave. I’m surprised there aren’t actual bloody pelts on the walls. It looks like his garage but with a ridiculously huge television.”

  Oliver remembered the Larsen house, simple, with mismatched furniture randomly collected over the years. It was clearly the home of a working man; not elegant by any means, but it was a home. It felt vibrant and lived in.

  The sounds of people lovingly teasing each other seeped through the call. If he closed his eyes, he could picture himself at the dining room table with all of them: Big Mike, Seth and the guys from the shop who were Seth’s honorary uncles.

  “Okay. I don’t know if you already have New Year’s Eve plans,” Seth said, sounding slightly coy and nervous. “But if you don’t, we’re having a party here at the house. Mostly Dad’s crowd and their kids, so it would be great to have someone my age here who isn’t in a biker gang. They’re nice, but, well.”

  Oliver knew what Seth was referring to: Seth was a Broadway performer, tall, thin, well dressed and very, very gay. Standing out in a crowd for being fashionable was one thing, but standing out like a sore thumb was another.

  “Are you sure you want me there?” Oliver sat up, momentarily over his longing for the past. He began to bounce his leg. Anxiety bubbled up in his chest, making it difficult to breathe. A chance to spend the evening with Seth and his dad? “I mean, your dad is okay with it?”

  “Of course! Dad’s wanting to see old familiar faces, I think.” Seth’s voice was softer. It was almost as if he had hoped Oliver would ask. “So… party starts around eight and goes until whenever. Do you think you might come at some point?”

  “Yes, absolutely!” Oliver closed his eyes and mentally cursed himself for sounding too eager. “I mean, I’ve been looking for an excuse to avoid the party my parents are having.”

  Seth laughed, “Oh, Oliver, don’t you want to make small talk about bland, uncontroversial topics all night?”

  Oliver chuckled. “Not particularly, no. And for the past few weeks, I’ve been dodging my father’s partner’s daughter at all of the events they’ve dragged me to. She really doesn’t believe that I’m gay, and apparently she’s making it her mission to Bridget Jones me over the break.”

  The fireplace may not have put out much heat, but the joyful feeling that built inside of him at the sound of Seth’s laughter was warm enough for now.

  “But Oliver, she likes you just the way you are! You do have that whole clueless, adorable straight boy, frat-legacy vibe working against you. Girls can’t help themselves,” Seth teased.

  It was incredibly satisfying to know that even after years of being apart, they could still laugh and tease one another. Maybe New Year’s would be a chance to show Seth how perfect they still were for one another.

  “Amanda is sweet,” Oliver said, “but, well. A woman.”

  “Poor Amanda. I know what it’s like to be struck stupid with a handsomely dressed Oliver Andrews, dripping with polite manners. You sure do know how to turn on the charm, babe, and God knows you can fill out a tuxedo like no one else,” Seth said, his voice going soft and intimate.

  Oliver was filled with so much want he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t help himself, not with an opening like that. His voice dropped to match Seth’s as he said, “I’d much rather be at these things with you. We could play our ‘Who’s More WASPy’ party game. Lots of corners and nooks at the country club for us to hide in so we wouldn’t get caught…”

  Oliver shook his head, remembering almost too late that he wasn’t supposed to push anything. “Talking,” he said quickly. “Caught talking.”

  Seth cleared his throat and teased, “Just don’t offer to show her around any campus libraries or help her with her French homework, and you’ll survive. That’s always been your superpower, you know.”

  “What’s that?” Oliver asked.

  “Charming your way into someone’s heart with your helpful earnestness. I’m surprised you didn’t woo any of those English boys with your smile and manners, quite honestly. And don’t get me started on that gravelly voice of yours; God,
I loved it when we were paired up in choir.”

  Oliver’s mouth hung open; he was unable to respond with anything quippy or clever. That niggling feeling he’d had in New York at the museum came creeping back. He’d all but stopped singing.

  “Oliver?” Seth asked, concerned, all his former glibness gone.

  “Sorry. I just realized that with the exception of our little caroling moment, I haven’t really done anything musical in… years.”

  “Why?” Seth sounded positively horrified, and worried. “Oliver… okay, if you do come—”

  “I’ll be there, promise.”

  “Then know that John will make a point of getting you to sing with him; just be prepared. And knowing him, all the songs in his karaoke machine are Molly Hatchet or some other ‘70s rock band.”

  Oliver bit on his lower lip for a moment, his voice low as he asked hopefully, “Just him?”

  He could hear Seth sigh, but it was meant to be silly. “If you want me to sing with you, I suppose I could be forced.” Seth scoffed. “Like I need an excuse, please.”

  Oliver couldn’t help the excited grin that spread across his face. He exhaled slowly and said, “I’ll put you on my singing card, then. Can I bring anything?”

  “Only if you want to. We should have plenty of food and drink, so just bring yourself.”

  “Can do. Eight o’clock?”

  “Eight o’clock. And Oliver?”

  “Yes?”

  Seth paused for a moment and dropped his voice to a sweeter register than his earlier teasing, something more intimate. “Feel free to come earlier. I know Dad would love to see you. Unless that’s weird for you, I don’t mean to—”

  “Seth.” Oliver pressed his hand to his sternum as if to keep his heart from exploding. “I would love that. I’ll call before so I don’t just drop in unannounced.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you then?”

  “Absolutely. Yes. Wouldn’t miss it.”

  Seth laughed on the other end as he said goodbye. Oliver sat back against the safety glass of the fireplace, the warmth seeping in through the back of his shirt as he held the phone to cover his huge grin. It seemed as though he had just made plans to come home. He looked around his quiet, sterile house and laughed dryly.