Out of Sync

by Vanessa North

  He groaned and moved my hand off his lap and onto my own. “I didn’t invite you here for that. I know we had a—a moment—two weeks ago, but I didn’t realize how young you are.”

  “The age of consent—”

  He held up a hand. “It’s not happening, Jacks.”

  I sighed. “Why did you invite me here?”

  “Why did you apologize to me?”

  “You invited me here to find out why I apologized?”

  He steepled his hands under his chin and stared back, then scrubbed a hand over his face. “I shouldn’t have gotten stoned before having this conversation. I didn’t think you’d get here before I was on stage.”

  “You’re stoned?” I puzzled over it. It’s not like I didn’t know people who smoked pot, but I wasn’t usually around them when they did. But now that he’d said it, I could smell the funk of it in the air.

  A knock sounded on the door, then Teri’s voice. “Put it away, boys, I’m coming in whether you’re decent or not.”

  She looked disappointed to find us fully clothed and with room for the holy ghost between us. “Ritch. We’re on.”

  “Can you hang out a bit after the show?” He asked me as he stood. “Just to talk?”

  “Sure.” I nodded. “Hey, break a leg.”

  He grinned, then leaned over me and pressed his lips to my forehead. “You’re fucking adorable.”

  He disappeared out of the green room, taking the smell of pot smoke with him.

  Ade and I made our way into the crowd and danced. The show was louder and a little wilder than the Princeton crowd had been, a rowdier, earthier gathering. All around us, couples and more ground together, hands going under shirts and down pants.

  Wide-eyed, Ade turned to me, wrapped an arm over my shoulders, and leaned in to speak in my ear. “Stay close, please?”

  I nodded, wrapping both my arms around her waist. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the raw sensuality on display around us either. I was inexperienced, and despite throwing myself at Ritchie, I didn’t know what I was doing. No wonder he had brushed me off so firmly. Disappointment soured my mouth and I pulled Ade closer.

  I was comfortable with Ade—dancing with her wasn’t sexual, no matter how it looked. I appreciated the beauty of her curvy body as she turned around in my arms and ground against me, but it wasn’t a turn-on. Still, I closed my eyes and gamely ground right back. Ade was safe. In every possible way. Safe to dance with, safe to talk with, safe to tell my parents I was spending the night with.

  About halfway through the set, I realized we were one of the few mixed-gender couples on the dance floor. We were in a queer bar. A safe place. Understanding that, I relaxed a little more, and our dancing became more fluid. Ade seemed to realize it too, with the same response. When a guy came up behind me and put an arm around my waist, Ade grinned and stepped away.

  A heavy hand flattened against my abs. The guy was shorter than me, just enough that his chin rested on my shoulder, and a soft beard brushed the side of my face. I let my head lean back and closed my eyes, enjoying the press of his muscular chest to my back. It was only dancing, after all.

  “You go both ways?” He asked, his voice deep and knowing as his hand stroked up, up, up my abs to my chest. His hand paused over my heart, which was pounding loudly.

  “I don’t know,” I answered breathily. Which was stupid, because he was asking if I was into men, and I knew I was—it was women I wasn’t sure about.

  He chuckled and his hand brushed down again. My body tightened and swelled in response. Yeah, I definitely went that way. He turned me around and I got a good look at him. He was older—at least thirty—and he had a sweet smile that made me think there were dimples under the beard.

  “Damn, you’re cute,” he growled, then laughed. “But I think I have socks older than you.”

  I wasn’t insulted, especially since he seemed to mean it kindly. I laughed too and put my arms on his shoulders. “We’re only dancing, old man.”

  And we did, for the rest of the song. His body was thick with muscle, barrel-chested and hairy. I was dancing with an actual bear. He was a good dancer, and it was easy to move with him, and I let myself grind against him. We were both hard, and it was sexy, but he didn’t try to kiss me or touch me in a sexual way. When the song changed, he squeezed my waist with one hand and moved away.

  Ade moved back into my arms, laughing. “Did you find yourself a Daddy to dance with?”

  “I think he found me,” I answered, breathless. “Damn.”

  The rest of the set continued like that, with us dancing together and then apart. I danced with three other men, and Ade danced with a couple of women, which somehow managed to both surprise me and not at the same time. When the set ended, we were both breathless and sweaty.

  “Do you want to stay and talk to Ritchie?” she asked me. I could tell she was tired and didn’t want to linger.

  “I do, but if you want to go back to the hotel—”

  “I can go by myself.” She smiled. “Stay, talk to him. Tell him I enjoyed the show.”

  “You’ll text me when you get back to the room?”

  She nodded and gave me a quick hug. “I promise. Have fun. Be safe.”

  I found Ritchie back in the green room, sweaty and hyper, hugging on scary Teri. When he saw me, his face broke out in a grin, and he let go of Teri and made a beeline for me.

  “What did you think?”

  “It was really great. Ade thought so too.”

  “Where is your beautiful little beard?” He looked around as if he expected her to jump out from behind something.

  “She’s not my beard; she’s my friend. I wouldn’t use her that way. I wouldn’t use anyone that way. She’s gone back to our hotel.”

  His face goes serious and he nods. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called her that, it was disrespectful to both of you.”

  Teri put a hand on Ritchie’s shoulder. “I’m going to have a drink with Nat Marshall. She’s having girl troubles. Will you be around for a while? Can I leave my guitar back here with you?”

  Ritchie waved her off, nodding, and he took my hand and tugged me over to the couch. This time, when he sprawled, he pulled me down with him, and I landed half on, half off his lap. I scooted back and drew my knees up to my chest, simply studying him.

  His hair was disheveled, and he seemed to pulse with a raw, twitchy energy. He reached out and took one of my hands and tangled our fingers together.

  “Why did you apologize if you hadn’t done anything wrong?” he asked, looking at our joined hands.

  “Because it was the only reason I could think of to text you.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “Okay, fair.”

  “Are you not attracted to me anymore, because I’m only sixteen?” I asked, embarrassed, but needing to know.

  “I’m attracted.” The grin fell from his face. “But I don’t want to hook up with you. It feels wrong. And don’t start with that age of consent bullshit. How many boyfriends have you had?”

  My face flushed hot. “None.”

  “Girlfriends?”

  I made a face that must have clearly shown my exasperation with that line of questioning.

  “Right. So, if I hook up with you, and that’s your first—would it be your first time?”

  Jesus, this was getting more embarrassing by the second. I nodded.

  “Don’t you think your first time should be with someone you, I don’t know, know?”

  That’s when I got it—when I truly understood his reluctance. “Was yours?”

  He looked away, shrugging. “Not really. And it was fine, but he didn’t care about me, and I felt bad afterward.”

  “Did he hurt you?” I wanted to hurt whoever had made him feel bad.

  “No, not like that.” He squeezed my hand. “I liked the things we did. But then it was over, and I was alone, and I wanted to be close to someone. It’s hard to imagine feeling lonely after sex, but sometimes it’s
the loneliest feeling in the world. And I don’t want to leave someone feeling that way, especially after their first time.”

  It was a lot to digest, but I thought I understood. And he wasn’t saying never. Just not like this.

  “So, friends, I guess?” I squeezed his hand back. His smile seemed shy and serious, but he nodded.

  “Tell me about yourself, Jacks. You like music—do you play an instrument?”

  I curl toward him, relaxing my knees down so our legs brush together, and I don’t let go of his hand. “Piano and drums. Or, I used to play drums, but I started at Princeton last semester and haven’t had time to play with anyone.”

  “You should still be in high school.” His brows furrowed. They were dark and striking against his pale skin, and I wanted to touch them.

  “I finished early and I started young.” I’d said those words hundreds of times in exactly that way, but they never conveyed the weight of it—being a four-year-old in kindergarten or a sixteen-year-old at Princeton. At least in kindergarten, I’d had the good fortune of sharing a table with Adriana. At Princeton, I was alone.

  “What are you majoring in?”

  “I haven’t declared yet. My father wants me to go pre-med but I’m more interested in research. He’ll probably get his way. He always does.” I didn’t want to talk about my dad.

  “You don’t want to be a doctor?”

  I shook my head. “Honestly, the sight of blood makes me woozy. But what about you? Are you in school?”

  Ritchie shook his head. “Nah. My grades weren’t ever good enough for college. And all I’ve ever wanted was to play my bass. I work at a restaurant, hosting and waiting tables, depending on what kind of hours they can give me. And I play in the band and sleep on Teri’s couch. We’ve been friends forever, so until I find a place…well, she doesn’t mind.”

  “Oh.” He’d basically confessed to being homeless, but not really because he stayed with Teri. It was such a vastly different life than the one that had been mapped out for and expected of me.

  “Does that bother you?”

  I shook my head. “It sounds like you have a lot more freedom than I ever will.”

  He snorted. “Yeah, well. Kris Kristofferson had a thing or two to say about freedom.”

  And I liked that he named the songwriter and not Janis Joplin, who had made that song famous. He cared about the details.

  “I want to know everything about you,” I confessed, glancing down at our still-joined hands. “Do you want to get out of here? Ade and I have a suite at the Jefferson Hotel in Manhattan. We can order room service and raid the minibar. And talk.”

  He leaned in and pressed his forehead to mine, his eyes drifting closed. “I don’t want to know how two sixteen-year-olds are paying for that, but it sounds like heaven.”

  “Ade’s eighteen like you. And my asshole of a dad is paying for it.”

  “Then yes, yes I want to get out of here. Let me say goodbye to Teri.”

  Ade’s bedroom door was closed when we got to the hotel, so I took his hand and led him to the other bedroom. I skinned out of my clothes and climbed onto the bed in nothing but my briefs. After a moment, he joined me, still in his jeans.

  In the dark, it was easy to tell him about my life. About a stern, angry bully of a father and a mother who blamed me for her shitty marriage. About the pressure to live up to a potential I didn’t care about and a life I didn’t want. About the way I tried to be a good person, a good son, but sometimes felt helpless against his wrath or her antipathy and rebelled just to feel alive.

  “I can’t be someone I’m not, and I’m terrified of the person he wants me to be.” My hands shook as I pushed the floppy mohawk out of my eyes.

  And then he told me about his family, about the band. About the drummer, Drea, who worked in an ambulance crew as an EMT and seemed to live on adrenaline and caffeine. About the guitarist, Teri, and how she seemed tough on the outside but was always listening to the gaps in conversations and silently loving the people who couldn’t love themselves. When I raised an eyebrow at that, he swept his thumb over it and smiled.

  “I don’t know who I’d be without them,” he murmured.

  We talked for hours, holding hands and lying close with our foreheads pressed together, until we were too tired to talk and just yawned at each other. Eventually, he sighed and kissed me. It was soft and mostly chaste, only a hint of tongue, but it sent a thrill through me all the same. Too bad I was too tired to do anything about that beyond touching the side of his face and protesting softly when he pulled away.

  “Good night, Jacks,” he whispered, running a hand through my hair. “Dream of freedom, okay?”

  Chapter Three

  Ade and I slept in, and when I woke, Ritchie was long gone. A note sat propped on the pillow, written on the hotel notepad in angular, blocky handwriting.

  Jacks,

  I’m glad you came to see me. I know things didn’t go quite like you hoped. I like you so much. Be safe and let me know you got home okay. If you want, check in with me from time to time? I’d like to know you’re doing okay.

  -Ritchie

  I folded the note carefully and tucked it into my wallet, behind my Princeton ID card. My feelings were raw and tender, like a healing bruise.

  I like you so much. Those words turned over and over in my mind, and in my heart, as Ade drove us home. I watched the New Jersey countryside roll by us without really seeing it, and when Ade spoke, I was startled.

  “I’m sorry, I missed what you said.”

  She laughed. “I asked why you were so quiet. Did you get everything you wanted, lust monster?”

  I smiled. “No, but maybe what I wanted wasn’t what I needed.”

  “He seemed nice. I mean, I barely spoke to him, but he seemed into you.”

  “He’s not what I expected at all. He is nice, but he’s also really sensitive. He didn’t want to hook up because—” I stopped. That wasn’t my story to tell. “He didn’t want me to get hurt if it wasn’t what I expected.”

  “So the lust monster abides?”

  I laughed and started to make a joke, but my phone rang. My laughter turned to ice in my chest. Dad.

  “Hello?” I answered.

  “Where are you?”

  “Ade and I spent the night in the city after the show. It was late and she was too tired to drive home.”

  He made a gruff noise. “You have exams coming up. You should have seen a matinee, so you’d be home in time to study. School is your priority.”

  “You’re right, sir; I’ll do better next time. We’re on our way home now. I’ll study all afternoon, I promise.”

  “All right. See that you do.”

  I hung up, sighing. I did need to study—exams at the University made my prep school exams seem tame by comparison. Still, I was exhausted and hoping to sleep off some of my late night that afternoon.

  I said goodbye to Ade in the driveway with a kiss on the cheek and a squeeze of the hand. “Call you later.”

  “Bye.” She squeezed back and smiled.

  I watched her drive away and then pulled out my phone.

  Jacks: I’m home

  Ritchie: Safe and sound?

  Jacks: Sure. I have a lot of studying to do—talk later?

  Ritchie: I’d like that.

  Over the next two weeks, Ritchie and I talked or texted almost every night. As soon as Dad and I walked through the door at the end of the day, I’d disappear into my room, lock the door, and open my phone with shaking hands to call his number. If he was working, he usually sent my calls to voicemail and texted back.

  Ritchie: working—I’ll call when I’m off shift.

  And he always did. Sometimes, it would be so late that I’d be half asleep when I answered. Sometimes it would be only an hour or so later. But when he said he’d call—he did. We talked about everything—my school, his work. And most of all, music. One night, he asked me to play the piano for him, so I brought the phone downstairs wit
h me, and I put it on speakerphone.

  I’d been taking piano lessons since kindergarten—my mom had read somewhere that it was good for my developing brain—and had memorized so many pieces over the years that it was simple enough to sit down and play. And play. And play. I lost myself in the music, and in the knowledge that Ritchie was listening quietly from Teri’s couch in New York. When I finished, I picked up the phone and turned the speaker off.

  “Chopin,” I said, unsure if he’d recognize the piece.

  “That was beautiful, Jacks.” Ritchie’s voice was thick with emotion. “Thank you. I loved that.”

  “Thanks.” My own voice sounded gruff to my ears. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  “I have to go—Teri needs my help with something. Can I call you tomorrow?”

  “Of course.” I flushed all over with pleasure. “I love talking to you.”

  “Tomorrow then. Bye, Jacks.”

  “Goodnight.”

  The next day, my grades arrived. My first instinct upon reading the email was to hide it and lie. Find some way to get into my dad’s inbox and delete it before he saw them. But no, his text came mere minutes later.

  We’ll discuss your grades when I get home.

  Panic flooded me. I sank to the floor in my bathroom and pulled out the razor blades. I held one, tested its edge by shaving a patch of hair off the back of my wrist. Sharp. Sharp enough to quiet the panic. I cut a quick slash across my forearm and watched the blood ooze from it. Then another. Before long, there was a hash of shallow cuts along my forearm, and I was resigned to the argument I was about to endure.

  He cornered me in the kitchen.

  “A B in differential equations? How could you be so stupid?” My dad scowled. “You’re trying to get into medical school. You can’t slack off even for a minute.”

  “You mean you’re trying to get into medical school.” I huffed under my breath.

  “What was that?” His gaze sharpened and his back stiffened. When I didn’t answer, he stepped closer, all aggression. “What did you say to me?”

  “Nothing.”