“Can I take you out for breakfast?” Ed asked. He fully expected Laurie to tell him no.
But Laurie only shrugged, still focused on the magazine he was flipping through. “I suppose.”
Not wanting to push his luck further, Ed gave a curt nod. “Let me get dressed quick.”
And quick was the word. Ed moved as fast as his unsteady body would allow him, climbing into his pants and shirt and socks and shoes, all of which were arranged on the tidy little rack. He didn't see his coat, but it had been warm the day before. He had probably left it in his car. And, he realized, he didn't know where his car was.
But his car turned out to be parked in Laurie's parking garage, because Laurie drove them right past it as they headed out to the street.
And there was the Walker Art Center. He could see the entrance to the sculpture garden from here. “Wow,” Ed said. “Good location.”
Laurie nodded curtly. “Where are we going for breakfast?”
“Keys Cafe?” Ed suggested carefully. “There's one close to here, right?”
Laurie nodded again.
They drove the rest of the way in silence. They didn't say much as they waited for the hostess to seat them either, and when they were sitting across from one another in their booth, the silence began to get heavy.
Ed tried to take comfort in the homey atmosphere, to bask in the smell of pancakes and eggs, to revel in the acid bite the pungent coffee warming his hands through the mug, but he was, in addition to being hungover, too aware of Laurie for any of this to bring him any meaningful ease. He watched Laurie's long fingers tightly gripping the handle of his own mug, watched him look everywhere but at Ed, watched him, Ed realized, retreating back into the stony wall he was accustomed to seeing the dancing instructor hide behind. It made Ed ache, and it made him hurt. But then he thought about everything Laurie had said, everything that he, Ed, had allegedly said and done, and all Ed could do was stare down into his mug. So they just sat there, not saying anything, all the way until their food arrived.
That, finally, freed Ed a little.
“I love their pancakes here,” Ed confessed, slathering the pat of butter across his stack before reaching for the syrup. As usual, his stomach got over its nervousness about food post-alcohol as soon as he got a bit of it in him. “There isn't anything better.”
That got a smile out of Laurie, who had a forkful of his omelet halfway to his mouth. “I haven't had them. I always get eggs.”
Ed gaped at him. “Are you serious?” When Laurie shook his head, Ed grunted in disbelief, then quickly cut a generous, syrup-laden bite and aimed it across the table. “Eat,” he demanded, and when Laurie tried to protest, Ed shoved it into his open mouth.
Then he watched, his blood humming as Laurie's lips closed around the fork, the pink flesh sliding slowly down the tines. He withdrew the utensil but kept it suspended in the space between them as he watched Laurie's mouth, watched his lips press together as he chewed, watched his tongue dart out to catch the last hint of syrup that coated his lips.
“And then you dragged your mouth across my cheek, dug your hands into my hair, and you started to whisper. You told me you thought I was beautiful.”
“It's good.” Laurie cleared his throat, set down his fork, and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Quite good.”
“You told me I was beautiful when I danced. You told me that when you watched me move it made you ache inside. You told me you wanted to move with me.”
Ed cleared his throat too, and he didn't say anything else. He just ate. And it wasn't long before the meal was over, and he was paying at the cash register, and then they were heading back to Laurie's car.
This wasn't what Ed had planned. He didn't know what he'd meant to happen, but it hadn't been this...this complete fucking silence. He felt angry. He felt helpless and frustrated.
Fucking hell, he felt cheated.
How was this his fault, he wanted to know? How had he fucked this up? And what exactly was this, while they were on the subject? Ed understood that he'd gotten drunk of his own free will and that all this was the result of that. All this awkwardness and misunderstanding. Except that was the problem, wasn't it. It wasn't a misunderstanding. He did feel that way about Laurie. He hadn't quite articulated it to himself, but yeah, everything Laurie said he'd said—yeah.
Every beautiful thing. Every word. Every longed-for touch. That he still, not even after Laurie had told him, could not remember.
And it was too much. Too fucking much.
They were at the stoplight at Dunwoody and Lyndale on the back side of the art center; looking out the window, Ed could see the grass browning and dying in the November cold. But it was space, open and inviting, and he wanted it.
On impulse, he opened the car door, jumped out, and ran.
He could hear Laurie shouting at him as he ran, first worried, then angry, but Ed just kept going. At this point he was well past being able to stop. He felt dizzy. He felt sick. Stupid too. Really fucking stupid.
And sad.
And really, really scared.
His head was still pounding, and his pancake was bouncing unhelpfully in his gut, but Ed just kept running deeper and deeper into the sculpture garden. He'd come here a thousand times with his mom, who loved the place, but he took the art in now in a blur, identifying it in a weird subconscious tour as he ran past. He heard the tree chimes and felt their surreal song cut into him, opening him up. He ran past Spoonbridge and Cherry, its sprinkler turned off for the winter. He ran past Knife Edge and Standing Frame, running until his lungs were burning and the soles of his feet were sending needles up through his legs with every step.
He didn't even know where he was going. My car, he realized. My car is at his place, just through this hedge. Yes. He could get his car and get out of here and end this. No good-bye, no more Laurie looking at him with daggers. Just be done with it. The thought made him ache, but the thought of being awkward with Laurie any longer when he felt like such shit made him feel even worse.
Except he'd screwed up, and instead of hitting the path that would have taken him out to the street, he ended up at the Two-Way Mirror Labyrinth—dead end. Wheezing, he bent over, braced his hands against his knees, and he looked up into the distorted, smoke-colored reflection of himself that the sculpture gave him.
Ed looked into that fucked-up vision of himself, blurred and morphed and darkened, and he knew, despite everything he'd told himself before, all the cheerfulness he had pretended, all his plans, that this was the way he felt inside, that all that happiness had been faked, and that this was real. It wasn't just Laurie, though that was part of it. Everything was wrong. Everything about him was fake and wrong and disjointed. He was charming up a man who would never really want him, and when he managed to get anywhere at all, he was too drunk to remember. He was holding on to a job by the skin of his teeth, but it was a job he hated. He was teaching weight-lifting classes and dancing and hanging out with the guys, but it was all fake, all empty, all for nothing. Because he was nothing. All he'd ever really had was football, but even that had been a joke. Just a hobby, just a parking space for high school and college dreams. He could fake it all he wanted, but this fucked-up reflection was more real than he had ever been.
Ed stared at it, shivering and weary and sick and hurting, hating himself, hating his life.
“Ed.”
He heard the call distantly, and at first he thought he'd imagined it, that he was losing his mind on top of everything else. But then he heard his name again, and he turned in a daze toward the sound. He saw Laurie standing across the grass near the sidewalk.
Laurie, who looked seriously pissed off. But Laurie who looked worried and uncertain.
Laurie, who I made beautiful love to, the kind I don't even dare to dream of. The kind I still don't know, because I can't remember what I did with him.
Ed's eyes were burning now too, along with his throat, and he blinked hard to hold the emotion back. But he couldn't stop his mouth.
“What did you tell me,” he called out across the exhibit, “in the car? About your past? What did you tell me that I said I understood?”
Then he waited for Laurie. Laurie looked uncertain, but Ed knew, somehow, that he would answer. And eventually, he did.
“I said I'd had to give up a life that I loved.” Laurie, who was wearing a coat, put his hands in his pockets and hugged the panels protectively against himself. “I said that I knew that part of my life had to end, but that it hurt, that part of me died with that end. That sometimes I still miss it. That sometimes I don't know if the pain is ever going to go away.” He wrapped his arms around himself even tighter, like a hug. “I said it was my fault too, but you insisted it wasn't, that it was just something that happened to me, and it made me feel better about it than I've felt in years. It was a nice moment.”
“Sounds like it. I'm sorry I missed it.” Ed's eyes were burning again. He tried to laugh, but he choked instead and looked down.
When had he gotten so lonely?
And how the hell was it fair that he'd found someone to ease that ache and lost him without even remembering how it had happened?
A tight, choking despair caught him by the throat and made him turn away. But when he caught a look at himself in the mirror again, he cried out in frustration and tried to turn farther away, but with the mirror there, he couldn't hide, couldn't keep Laurie from seeing the tears that leaked out of his eyes when misery forced them shut.
When he felt the soft, warm touch of Laurie's hand on his arm, the despair caught up with him again. He managed—just—to turn his sob into a ragged sigh.
“I do think all those things about you,” Ed whispered, his voice rough and broken. “It wasn't just that I was drunk.” He shut his eyes tighter and shook his head, trying to smile or laugh, but he couldn't. “I'm so fucking sorry that I was and fucked this up so bad.”
The hand on his arm was hard enough, but the soft brush of lips against his cheek undid him. He went like a baby into the warm strength of Laurie's arms and pressed his face into Laurie's cheek. He waited for Laurie to say something, to tell him he hadn't fucked it up, that it was okay, but he didn't say anything. Just held him.
Did that mean they were okay?
Ed let out a ragged sigh. “You make me crazy, Laurie,” he whispered. “You fucking turn me inside out.”
The arms holding him up drew tighter against his body, pulling him closer into the embrace. “The feeling is mutual,” Laurie whispered back.
They stood there, swaying slightly and saying nothing else at all, but this time the silence wasn't a tension, just a continuation of the release. Ed let it float up around him, easing him. Supporting him.
“Where did you park?” he asked after several minutes had passed.
“In a no-parking zone. I saw you through the trees and just left my car there, not wanting to miss you in case you took off through the Parade Ice Garden.” Laurie nuzzled the side of Ed's neck. “It's probably towed.”
The breath from Laurie's nose was tickling Ed's skin, and he nuzzled back. His hands slid up Laurie's back, then down toward his butt. “I'll pay to get it out.”
“Forget my car. It doesn't matter.” He kept nuzzling.
The sorrow that had felt so heavy just moments ago was gone like rain clouds burned away by the sun. But even as Ed reveled in the feel of being in Laurie's arms, of touching him, of enjoying the torture of his nose and mouth against the skin of his neck, he was aware too of the impending future. “What now, Laurie? What do we do now?”
Laurie kept nuzzling and nuzzling and nuzzling, but eventually he spoke, his lips brushing Ed's skin with every word. “We go back to my apartment. You get your car. You go home, get dressed, and you go to work. I get my car back from wherever it is, and then I do the same thing.”
“And then what?” Ed pressed, still stroking Laurie's lower back. Can I make love to you again, this time when I can remember?
“And then we go home again. And then you call me, or I call you. And if we feel like it, we go to dinner. Or we just talk.” He stroked Ed's skin. “We take it slow. We just go slow and careful, and we see what happens.”
Not too slow, Ed hoped. He didn't want to upset things, though, so he just nodded. And then, because he couldn't stop himself, he added, “I want to dance with you again.”
Laurie slid his nose along the length of Ed's jaw, and when he pulled back, Ed saw his smile. “Me too.” His gaze fell to Ed's lips, and his eyes went dusky. “Try to remember this, will you?” he said, and then he kissed Ed on the mouth.
Ed shut his eyes and opened for him, taking Laurie deep inside. He shivered at the feel of Laurie's tongue against his own, stilled at the sharp-sweet taste of him, a tang more potent and alluring than any pancake syrup. Laurie, he thought and turned his head to let the kiss go deeper, and it did, Laurie pulling Ed harder against him, moving his lips over Ed's until they had a seal, and then Laurie stole deeper and deeper and deeper, and Ed took him, gladly welcoming him into that place where neither of them were alone.
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Chapter Eight
dosado (also dos-y-dos): circular movement where partners who are initially facing one another each walk around the other without turning, facing the same direction through the entire movement.
Ed got in less trouble for coming into work five hours late and hungover than he thought he would, but he still got into trouble. Tracy was too busy to read him the riot act until after the meeting, but at the first available opportunity, she dragged him all but by the ear into her office.
“You don't seem to understand how intense upper management is about streamlining the next round of layoffs,” she said. “Because the layoffs are coming. That's not a question. And much as I like you, Ed, I can't pretend you didn't come in here looking like someone recovering from a bender. This is your chance to tell me otherwise.”
Ed stared at the top of her desk. “It was a bad night.” He rubbed absently at his neck.
Tracy leaned forward over her desk, suddenly eager. “Oh, it was your injury? You should have said. And actually, that could help, because I can put you on medical leave. The compensation is less, but it looks bad to can somebody with a disability, so this might actually be—”
“Hey.” Ed's head had snapped up at disability, but it had taken him another second to get the outrage channeled from his brain to his mouth. He leaned forward as well, but not eagerly. “I am not disabled. I just have a muscle that likes to spasm in my neck. There's something about one of the nerves, but there's no real operation for it. I'm fine. I just can't play football.”
“But that doesn't matter. We can still use it.” Tracy was smiling now, a new brightness about her. “I can protect you this way, Ed.”
“I don't care,” Ed shot back angrily. “I'm not disabled. You're not putting me on medical leave.”
Tracy's smile died. “So I should put you on the top of my cut list, then?”
Ed let his forehead fall forward to the top of the desk. “I'm not disabled.”
“Fine.” Tracy sighed. “You're not disabled, and I won't put you on med leave. But I want a doctor's note from you, Maurer, by the first week in December. Have them write up your ‘difficulty’ adjusting to the neck, or give a new report of your neck. Something, Ed. Give me something to put in your file besides ‘came in to work smelling like cheap beer.'”
“Fine,” Ed grumbled as he rose.
The vision of Tracy slumped in her seat, staring at a stack of personnel files, haunted him all the way home. It lingered especially as he sat in his car on the street beside his apartment. He thought about the heavy silence and the mess that awaited him up there. He thought about the long weekend ahead of living in it.
He thought about Laurie and the kiss in the Sculpture Garden, and he thought about the date they were supposed to have on Saturday night.
He thought about heading back to Matt's and havi
ng another few pitchers of beer.
In the end, Ed plopped down onto a pile of clothes on the couch, used the phone to order a pizza, then turned on the television and stopped thinking entirely.
At least, he tried.
The first official date with Ed went better than Laurie thought it would.
He had worried it would be awkward, but if anything, things felt more as he was used to between himself and Ed. Ed cajoled and teased him at the restaurant, and Laurie alternated between flustered and flattered, which seemed to be where Ed liked to keep him. As they walked back to Ed's car, Ed captured Laurie's hand, then held the door for him as he climbed into the passenger seat.
Laurie noticed too how many men and women noticed Ed. Sometimes Ed seemed to notice back, and sometimes he didn't. When Ed flirted with the waitress, it was kind of cute, but when he winked at the busboy, Laurie felt a stab of jealousy so hot he had to drown it in water. It was a silly reaction, though, because the casual attention Ed gave to strangers was nothing on what he gave to Laurie. He smiled, he laughed, he teased, and he held Laurie's hand.
But Laurie realized as he saw how popular Ed was with total strangers that he would never want for romantic company. And it made Laurie realize what an odd choice he was for a man like that.
Laurie was still brooding over this as he strapped himself into the passenger seat of Ed's car—and then he stopped as a somewhat familiar pop vocalist began to sing over the stereo.
He turned to Ed in disbelief. “Britney Spears?”
Ed bristled. “I don't want to hear any crap about Britney from somebody who plays La Bouche in aerobics class and goes to Barbra Streisand concerts.”
Laurie started to object to any comparison of Britney Spears and Streisand in the same sentence, then remembered how many smiles other men had given Ed and simply said, “Hmm.”
It was a full Spears album, apparently, and each song was as ridiculous as the one before. They were catchy, yes, but so was the plague. Ed, however, clearly loved the music, which baffled Laurie. How many other secrets did Ed have?
Dance With Me Page 13
