“No, not yet, but they will.”
Wade pulled out a small notebook from her purse and scribbled down her information, while I dictated my phone number. She tore off the sheet with her number on it and gave it to me with a grateful smile.
“I’ll call you soon,” she said just as her cell phone started going off. She whipped it out of her purse and, placing a hand on my arm, smiled at me once more. “I think Peter’s a really lucky guy,” she said, her voice dropping. She winked as she released me and then hurried off to take the call. “Hello? Hey, where are you?” she chirped, her voice fading into the distance.
“I’m sure he doesn’t feel it with me, though,” I whispered, my spirits sinking as I folded the piece of paper and tucked it inside my jacket pocket.
I ended up buying the book, while Mom loaded up on romance titles. Then we went off to find a place to eat but were quickly sidetracked by an ethnic clothes store that had just opened. Made in Nepal, the labels proudly boasted, along with prices that made me choke on my tongue.
“Eric, wait here,” Mom said, and I groaned, the bag of used books dangling from my hand.
“Hurry, Mom,” I said, but she’d already vanished inside. I sighed as I looked around for a place to sit, seeing as how I was likely stuck waiting for an hour at least. A walk down the block found me standing in the middle of a smallish courtyard that joined two rows of shops.
People wandered through the area, with some of them resting their feet as they claimed a few of the benches that littered the place.
As I looked around, I caught sight of someone walking inside one of the shops. I nearly turned around and walked back to take my place in front of the store where Mom went, but I didn’t want to chicken out. Bracing myself, I hurried through the courtyard and stepped inside the shop, which turned out to be a small art supply store.
Peter was easy to find. His passion was charcoal, so I went straight to that aisle and found him there, frowning over two brands. I figured it was the cost that was giving him a momentary hernia.
“Hi,” I said, approaching him carefully.
He glanced up, surprised. “Oh, hi. How’s it going?”
“Good, good. How’re you?”
“Same as ever.” An awkward pause followed. He raised the two boxes of charcoal. “I’m shopping for art supplies.”
“That’s cool. I’d take the Vermeer brand if I were you. It’s way better than everything I’ve tried.”
“Really? Okay.” He replaced the other box and let another awkward silence fall between us.
I scratched my head and looked around to see if anyone was nearby. “Peter, I don’t really know how to approach this, I mean, I’ve never been involved with someone before but, you know…I’m really sorry.” I grimaced after I spoke. God, I must’ve sounded so lame.
“Sorry for what?”
“For pissing you off…over Wade and other things. You were right. I was being totally selfish and a dickhead and was just too hung up on what I wanted and not what everyone—this city—needed.” Once the words came, they were hard to stop. I suppose I could’ve chosen a better, more private place than a small art store to attempt a reconciliation, but hell with it.
“Eric…”
“No, no. Listen. I wanted to be like you and Althea. I didn’t feel like I fit in the group anymore, the way you guys were improving on…you know.” At least I tried to keep the conversation on a pretty general level in case of accidental eavesdroppers. “Then Wade showed up, and you were all thrilled about her, and what I had, you know, what he gave to me…I tapped into that. My insecurities about me and how it all relates to us. Know what I’m saying?” God, I hoped he understood my stuttering rambling. “I thought at first that I finally got what I wanted, but it backfired on me. I wasn’t meant for that…that sort of thing.”
Peter listened, looking slightly stricken. “I know,” he replied in a quiet voice. “You weren’t. You’re not like us, and that’s what’s always helped me.” He smiled at my confusion. “You ground me, Eric. At the end of a crazy day, when the world seems to have gone to Hell, I turn to you for a reality check.”
“Huh? Like how?”
Peter shrugged, looking down at the box in his hands.
“You remind me of what matters in the end. Not the fancy, you know, stuff.” Oh, yeah, he’d picked up on my attempts at shielding the truth from eavesdroppers. “It’s about being with the person you care for the most.”
“Until that person drives you to break up with him, anyway.”
It was his turn to grimace. “Eric, it wasn’t your fault…”
“Oh, yeah, it was. I was the clingy, jealous one, wasn’t I?”
“Well, I made you insecure. I remember how I behaved when I talked about Wade and the stuff we did together. Looking back at those times now, I feel like a total ass. I don’t blame you at all for going off the deep end.”
“Liz will say I’ve always been off the deep end.”
Peter looked up, met my gaze, and we both broke into quiet laughter. I kept looking around as we tried to hold back, only to snort like pigs, which only made us laugh harder, and try to hold back harder. I never realized until then how romantic small art supply stores were.
We eventually calmed down, and once I managed to gather myself, I went for broke.
“I miss you.” Okay, so not quite broke. But saying that I missed someone was one step closer to saying that I loved someone.
Peter regarded me with a sad little smile. “I miss you, too. And I’m sorry for hurting you the way I did.”
Oh, fuck it. “I love you.”
“Love you, too.” Peter paused, glanced left and right, and then pulled me close for a quick but demanding kiss. I might not be a superhero, but I gave as well as I took. Peter was beet-red when we pulled apart. He was so insanely cute when he blushed.
“Would you like to go out with me tomorrow?” I asked. “I mean, if you’re not busy.”
His smile widened, and that was all the response I needed. I quickly set a time for us to meet, though he insisted on picking me up. One final look around the aisle to make sure we were alone, and he pulled me close for an embrace. A really long, tight one. I wanted to say, “I love you—please stay with me forever” but that would’ve been too much, too soon, especially after what we’d gone through. I wanted to wipe the slate clean, start over, and try not to screw up this time around.
I hurried out and was about to make my way back to the clothes store when I heard my name called. I turned around and found Mom sitting on one of the benches, watching shoppers with vague interest.
“Sorry,” I panted, taking my place beside her. “I got distracted in the art store. Are you ready to go?”
“Didn’t we just have a talk about him, Eric?”
I paused and stared at her, my heart dropping. “You saw?”
She turned to face me, her face tired and pale. “There were too many people in the other store. I got out pretty quick. You didn’t hear me when I called you, and I followed you here. So, yes—I saw and heard, actually—not that I’m surprised. Knowing you, I expected some rebellion.”
“I’m sorry, Mom, but—”
“Do you still love him?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
She took a deep breath and waited, looking around while the tenseness of her facial muscles told me how much she was fighting against so many things. Then she tucked some stray hair behind an ear. “I don’t think you understand how difficult this is for me,” she said. “I’m trying as hard as I can, you know…”
“I know, Mom.”
“No, you don’t. You don’t. Someday you will, though.” She glanced at me and smiled, her eyes filling with tears. “I don’t want Peter to be seen in your company as his alter ego. Okay?”
It was my turn to fight back tears. “Okay.”
“I want you two to be far away from each other while he’s…working. It’s for both your sakes, do you understand?”
“I do.”
She’d still say I didn’t understand. That was cool, though. I guess we were both on the cusp of something, and we needed to let go of each other’s hands before we took that step forward.
I gave her a tight hug, enjoying the warmth and comfort of her arms around my waist. “Thanks, Mom. I love you.”
“I know, honey. I know.”
* * * *
My second real date with Peter, counting the one when we were still boyfriends, proved to be a surprise at least to him. Well, he should’ve known better than to encourage me with a cheeky “I don’t care where we go. You choose.”
I’d insisted on paying, so he let me. “Next time, it’s my turn,” he said.
We took the roundabout way—roundabout because it was the safest way to go, with the well-lit streets and the public parking garage a block away. I told him not to wear anything fancy, too. It would make it much less of a worry for me when it came to walking to a block that wasn’t exactly as lucky as the area where we left the car.
When we stood in front of the door, Peter laughed. “I figured you’d take me here,” he said, turning to me, the old neon lights on the window lending his face a strange glow. I thought it made him look even more beautiful.
I grinned back. “What? It’s good food! Okay, a little on the greasy side, but what restaurant doesn’t serve greasy dishes, anyway?”
“I’m game.”
I opened the door for him and saw that we were the only customers there, at least for now. Mrs. Zhang’s takeout place was constantly swarming with folks, but I’d made arrangements with her the previous evening, and she was nice enough to agree. Then again, I suppose having Dad there with me, salivating over her food and then buying enough to feed an entire country, helped.
Seriously, I was glad I wasn’t around when Mom went over the family’s expenses this afternoon, as I was too busy getting a haircut. From the look on Dad’s face when I got home, I guessed that he was in the doghouse for a week.
“Hey, skinny boy!” Mrs. Zhang bellowed from behind her steaming counter. She waved a ladle at us, and I waved back. “You bring a date, huh? Good thing he’s not as skinny as you!”
I leaned closer to Peter. “She’s got serious weight issues when it comes to me.”
“Gotcha.”
“She’ll try to make you stuff me with potstickers and fortune cookies.”
“Okay.”
“Over here!” Mrs. Zhang waved us over, and we followed her, squeezing ourselves between her steam counter and the wall and walking down a very, very short hallway toward a back room. It was directly across from the kitchen, and from the looks of things, it was used as a dining room for the staff—if she had any other than herself and the cook. Stacks of boxes, buckets, crates, and other packaged food items lined the walls. A single bulb lit the room with a slightly yellow glow. The floor looked nicely mopped, though, and the table was covered with a white cloth, with plates, chopsticks, and glasses already set.
Mrs. Zhang waited until we sat down before she marched up to Peter to give him a rough nudge on his shoulder. “Watch that boy,” she said, jerking her head at me. “Make sure he eats. Make sure he finishes his food. Teenagers nowadays are too vain about their looks and their weight.”
“I promise I’ll keep an eye on him,” Peter said.
Mrs. Zhang grinned at him and then turned to me. “Good date. Very sensible. Should be boyfriend, if you’re smart.”
“I’m lucky he said yes.”
Peter colored. “I haven’t said anything yet,” he stammered after she left.
“I was talking about the date, you big goof, not—you know—getting back together.”
“Oh.” Peter stared at his plate for a moment, contemplating. “I would’ve said yes, anyway. Then again, I would’ve asked you first—or more like begged.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say to that. I must’ve looked so stupid just sitting there and watching him like a moonstruck puppy. Starting over? Yeah, it definitely felt like it, but at the same time, I wanted to think that we were smarter—and maybe a little more grown-up—about everything. I hoped so, anyway.
Peter finally glanced up and caught me looking like a total dork. Just as Mrs. Zhang reappeared, carrying our first course—hot and sour soup that was so spicy customers were known to blow fire from both ends after eating it—he let himself go. Apparently, not giving a hoot if Mrs. Zhang saw him, he mouthed, I love you.
Later that evening, while holding me tight in the back seat of his car, he told me he’d never seen me smile so big.
THE END
ABOUT HAYDEN THORNE
I’ve lived most of my life in the San Francisco Bay Area though I wasn’t born there (or, indeed, the USA). I’m married with no kids and three cats, am a cycling nut, and my day job involves artwork, crazy coworkers who specialize in all kinds of media, and the occasional strange customer requests involving papier mache fish with sparkly scales.
I’m a writer of young adult fiction, specializing in contemporary fantasy, historical fantasy, and historical fiction genres. My books range from a superhero fantasy series to reworked folktales to Victorian ghost fiction.
My themes are coming-of-age, with very little focus on romance (most of the time) and more on individual growth and some adventure thrown in. More information can be found online at haydenthorne.com.
ABOUT QUEERTEEN PRESS
Queerteen Press is the young adult imprint of JMS Books LLC, a small electronic press specializing in gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender fiction, as well as popular and literary fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. While our preference is for stories with GLBT characters, we publish stories in any YA genre. Visit us at queerteen-press.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!
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