9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Beau
A s soon as Adrian’s back is turned, the door left open for me to follow, my nerves begin to settle, and I tell myself that this might not be the worst idea I’ve ever had. Then I swallow a derisive laugh when I realize it’s not even the worst idea I’ve had with Adrian , and I step a little further into the living room, Adrian turning at some point to study me and the bag I’ve brought along. He could’ve slammed the door in my face, or at least forced me to carry on a conversation from the faded and forgotten welcome mat, but I’ve been allowed this much, and it feels a little like a gift.
“You look ridiculous,” he huffs. “Did you really need the hat?”
I lift a hand to the fur of my Santa hat. “Seemed relatively important, yeah.”
The next few seconds might’ve made a lesser man squirm, his critical gaze dropping to my Ugg boots before skimming over my red reindeer-covered flannel pants and a dark green hoodie with “Naughty” splayed across the front. Our eyes meet, and whatever else Adrian might have had to say about my clothing choices gets exchanged for something else when he bites down on his lip.
“I’m almost afraid to ask,” he says, his hands on his hips as he nods at the duffel slung over my shoulder. “But I’m also terribly afraid I’m going to find out sooner or later.”
“Ah, well, yeah. I didn’t bring it to use as a doorstop.”
“Tell me there’s not a present in there. People who have only been friends for five minutes don’t exchange presents on Christmas morning.”
“Okay.”
“People who have only been friends for five minutes also don’t show up at each other’s houses on Christmas morning,” Adrian continues.
“Too late for that one,” I say. “But I didn’t get you a present. Not really.”
Suspicion pulls his eyebrow high. “Not really?”
He’s as grouchy as I had expected, though there’s a limit to how seriously I can take him when he’s wearing a long sleeve NYU t-shirt worn thin a while ago, and rumpled plaid pajama pants riding low enough on his hips that the bottoms of them almost cover fuzzy socks that look suspiciously like snowmen. It’s the only vague acknowledgement of the season I’ve spotted so far, but my mouth quirks into a smile.
“Fine, I’ll tell you the sooner part now, and the later part—later,” I say, patting the side of the bag. “Gonna make us some breakfast. Didn’t figure you would go all out for the holiday, so I’m here to help.”
I start to move again, first ridding myself of the Uggs so I can traipse through the house more comfortably, and then I come to a sudden stop about three steps later, my head turned toward Adrian’s couch.
“Kitchen’s that way,” he growls.
“Guessed that much, but you—” I look from the couch to him and back again, my fingers stroking my beard like it’ll help me play detective. I note a couple of bed pillows and an oversized comforter, neither of which looks like it's part of an impromptu Christmas morning in front of the tv when the television remains off. Plus, a few couch cushions have been removed to make extra room, and any of the nearby throw blankets might have worked just as well for someone wanting to be cozy for a few hours. Then there’s the wide coffee table, one distinct portion of it resembling a nightstand more than it should, a couple of books and a bottle of water and a small lamp all within reach of anyone lying down. There’s nothing obviously wrong with anything I can see, but none of it’s quite right either. “You made a whole bed for yourself here.”
“Wasn’t expecting Santa to drop by for an inspection.”
“Are you sick?” There aren’t any tissues though. Or cold medicine. Or a trash can.
“No,” Adrian says. “What are you making us for breakfast?”
“This is a regular thing, then.”
“Fucking Christ , Beau. What do you want me to say? Do you really know that many people who want to sleep all alone when their husbands are supposed to be in bed with them? When they should be able to reach over and touch them and not be taunted by cold sheets and an empty space?”
“It’s been months,” I say, as unhelpful as anyone’s ever been.
Adrian just stares back. “It’s been 148 days.”
Good lord.
“Buttermilk pancakes.”
I watch as Adrian crumbles almost imperceptibly, the fight taken out of him with those two words, and something rising to take its place when he closes the small distance between us and grabs my shoulders to turn me around and force me in the opposite direction. It’s a reminder of his size—one that hits quick, low, and hot—because while I’m still bigger, it’s not by nearly as much as I’m used to, Adrian able to control me without the effort it might’ve taken a hundred others.
He steers me through the living area and toward the small kitchen, and when I hit the counter and brace myself there, it should be enough.
But then Adrian’s voice breaks too close to my ear.
“You know what it’s like. You told me. You told me you’re lonely at night, and you can’t take that back now. You can’t tell me you don’t understand when you sat in front of Darren night after night after night, and all I have is a fucking ring Levi never even gave me.”
He’s probably overstating Darren’s role in most of the choices I’ve made, but I’m not going to fight him on it now. Adrian’s breathing hard enough for me to feel it through my hoodie, but the moment his body starts to pull away, I spin and catch him there, my hands bracketing his hips because fists in his t-shirt would probably tear it apart. I can watch the rise and fall of his chest, but it doesn’t last long when I’m drawn to stormy eyes I so badly want to calm.
“With banana butter,” I whisper. “And real maple syrup.”
I let him go then, careful when I pull the duffel bag off my shoulder and set it on the countertop, and while I wouldn’t have been surprised to see Adrian leave me there, I’m also not surprised when he stays. As I unload everything I brought for breakfast and wash my hands, I consider asking for help to find a griddle or skillet and a mixing bowl and spoon, but when Adrian sits silently on a nearby stool, I take it as permission to explore. It’s a little clumsy at first, but I find what I need—and pay attention to where mugs are for later—and get to work.
And with my head down and my hands busy, I talk.
“I told you I played football in high school. My best friend played, too. Benji. He, um—well, everyone loved him. Kind of on the smaller side. Blond hair. Glasses.”
“Are you inventing a Levi lookalike so you can bond with me on this joyous Christmas morning?”
“Nope.” I glance at Adrian and my smile feels sad even as I offer it. “Benji was real, but you’re not all wrong. Levi definitely reminded me of him.”
“Was.”
“Was what? ”
He gestures toward the stove until I refocus on the half dozen slices of raw bacon in my hand, then he goes on. “You said Benji was real. So, how’d he die?”
It was careless, maybe, for me to give that away too soon, but Adrian probably picks up on a lot of things I don’t mean to let show, and I shake my head, mostly disappointed in myself.
Again. Still.
“We were out with a couple of other friends—teammates—the Thursday night of our spring break—”
“Drinking?”
“No, actually. I mean, we weren’t saints—we drank way more than we should’ve on way too many nights, but not that night. We were just sorta driving around. Stopped for pizza. Swung by someone’s house to shoot some pool. Took a bunch of pictures of each other with our awesome, shitty digital cameras.” I spare another look for Adrian as I wash my hands again. “I’m sure my talent as a photographer would’ve impressed the hell out of you.”
“Because I’m so impressed by you now?” he quips.
I nod and turn to the pancake batter, the bacon just growing warm but making my stomach growl. I’m glad that I’d made the banana butter at home to save myself one small step because I’m hungry now, and I think I want to be done with my story either way.
“Anyway, it was still pretty early, and we were havin’ a great time, but I didn’t want to be there with them when I—” I sigh, fumbling with the mixing spoon. “There was somewhere else I wanted to be. Someone else I wanted to be with. And they had no idea—no chance I was brave enough to be a gay high school kid in Texas—so I pretended I wasn’t feelin’ all that great and asked them to take me home.”
“Did they do it?”
“Sure,” I shrug. “Not without bitchin’ about it, but yeah. Benji was driving, and he joked like he was gonna make me jump from a moving truck, and then he pulled up to my house and kinda grabbed my shirt and knocked his forehead into mine and said ‘I’ll see ya tomorrow.’ And then he didn’t. They left me there, and about five minutes later, when I’d already snuck into a house down the street and forgotten they existed, they were hit by another car. Flipped ‘em. Two of ‘em made it ‘til morning. Benji was dead before the paramedics arrived.”
The bacon gets turned, the batter gets poured, the butter gets whipped, the syrup gets warmed, and it’s Adrian’s turn to sigh. “Congratulations on finally explaining why you bothered to talk to me that night at Trailhead. You lost your best friend 20 years ago. I lost everything this summer. Definitely comparable.”
“You want water, milk, or juice?”
“Water’s fine.”
I’m not gentle when I deliver the glass, and I can’t begin to care. I pull plates from an upper cabinet a few seconds later, and throughout the silence that follows, I load them with food and top them with a flourish and drop them just as recklessly, Adrian’s glare missing me by a mile. And when I finally make myself at home on the stool next to him, I’m sure to crowd him there, the heat immeasurable in the chill of the room .
“It’s barely comparable, and I know that’s your point,” I start. “ My point is that I understand plenty of why you aren’t sleeping in your bed. Because for so long after Benji died, I’d climb through a window and cry myself to sleep in his room, holdin’ on to as many of his things as I could touch.”
“You realize that’s the opposite of what I’m doing,” Adrian says before shoving a forkful of food into his mouth.
“I do, which is why I’m gonna tell you the rest of it. I started climbing through Benji’s window and sleeping in his room because I couldn’t bring myself to sneak into his older brother’s room like I had the night Benji died. The night he bled into the cold pavement, and I fucked his brother one last time.”
Adrian nudges my knee with his own. “You and the brother ended things after that.”
“Wasn’t quite that tidy. Luca up and left town without telling anyone, and after months of what I thought was love, I had nothing but an empty bed and a couple of his things to remind me of everything else I lost that night, like Benji wasn’t enough of the pain I deserved.”
“Your best friend and the guy you loved. Fine. I guess it’s a little comparable.”
“Telling you about Benji was mostly to give you context for Luca, and I’m not trying to keep score here anyway,” I argue, dragging a piece of bacon through the syrup I over-poured. “I’m just sayin’ that I get how fast everything can change, and how much longer it can take to accept that the bed will always be empty in some irreparable way. ”
We eat quietly for a while, and it isn’t supposed to be comfortable when I’ve dumped my trauma on the table and Adrian’s is everywhere else, but it’s difficult to imagine wanting to be anywhere but at his side today. And if he hasn’t bothered to throw me out yet, maybe he feels the same.
“That’s why you couldn’t tell me how long it takes for the pain to go away,” he murmurs after another minute. “After we—you weren’t talking about Darren—or not entirely, at least.”
“Nope.”
“You kinda over-corrected on the closure with Darren. Drawing out the world’s longest ending with him because you didn’t get one with Luca.”
“I will always love Darren, and yeah, the empty bed sucks, but he’s a convenient crutch more than he’s an attempt at closure.” I attempt a laugh, but it sounds pathetic, and I shake my head to knock it away. “And losing my best friend was horrific for me, but everyone knew it was horrific for me. There was a funeral. I was allowed to grieve. But with Luca—”
“Nobody knew,” Adrian finishes, sliding his fork onto his plate as he frowns. “Everyone’s eyes were on you, but you had to pretend your grief was only what they expected to see. And the longer you pretended you weren’t feeling more, the harder it was to heal from it.”
“Exactly. But the good news is that you’ve been allowed to grieve Levi, so maybe you’ll get to tell me how long it takes for the pain to go away.”
He doesn’t crack the relieved smile I was hoping to see. Instead, Adrian stands to gather our empty plates, setting them in the sink with an unnecessary clatter before tugging at the strap of the duffel bag still on the counter.
“Do I still get the later part of your ‘sooner or later,’ or did Santa take that away when I was a dick about two decades of mourning?”
“Santa is too selfish to take anything away when he wants to drink peppermint schnapps and hot cocoa while making you watch his favorite Christmas movie.”
“Telling me sad stories and then moving in on my holiday traditions, huh?”
“Maybe it was my holiday tradition too,” I say. “And is that a yes?”
“You didn’t ask me a question, but if you pour enough schnapps, you won’t have to make me do anything.”
“Good to know,” I wink.
I get up to make our drinks, and Adrian takes the empty bag away now that the last of its contents has been added to the mess on the counter. I hear the hum of the tv soon after that and when I make it back to the living room, two steaming mugs in my hands, I find the couch resembling something like—a couch.
Adrian sort of waves his hand over it. “Kept the comforter in case we want it, but I—you probably didn’t come over to spend the day in my bed.”
I step forward to give him his hot cocoa, but I don’t let go right away, my eyes locked with his because sometimes the right response doesn’t fit into any of the right words. To Adrian’s credit, he doesn’t flinch, and maybe it’s because he doesn’t have them either.
“ It’s a Wonderful Life .”
“Hmmm?”
“My favorite movie,” I say. “What I want to make you—”
“Already told you, you don’t have to make me do anything,” he interrupts. “Besides, why would you think I’d have a problem with that? You already know I love the classics.”
“Guess there’s something to be said about the cynicism they have to overcome, right? George Bailey and Doris Walker? One of them living and loving so loudly until it seemed better to have never loved at all, the other quietly shutting down a while ago, just to avoid any of the hassle in the first place.”
Adrian finally pulls the mug from my hand and doesn’t look away until he takes his first sip. “You really think any of the way I loved Levi was loud?”
There’s something about the way he asks that has me moving again, cautious when I get settled on the couch, my back against the recently returned cushions and the comforter tugged across my lap. Adrian slowly follows my lead, another sip or two gone when he grabs the remote and sits down to find the movie, and I let the peppermint schnapps burn my tongue.
“Do you still expect to see him when you walk through the door, or to hear him greet you when you close it behind you?” I ask. “Because even if you weren’t loud, it kinda seems like he was. That smile and—I don’t know.”
“No, you don’t know. You really fucking don’t. ”
Whatever friendly progress we’d made between pancakes and cocoa has slipped through my fingers, and I clutch my mug like that might fall, too. Adrian has curled forward, the opening credits doing nothing to relax him, and I’m forced to use all of my self-control to keep from reaching for him when all I want to do is knead the tension from his shoulders.
Even when the rest of my world confuses the hell out of me, I know I’m good at my job.
But time heals wounds too, or so they say, and after a few more minutes, a full stomach and hot drink are enough to help Adrian sink back into his own couch in his own home to watch a movie with someone he likes—
Until he remembers to hate him—
And then starts to like him again.
It takes pressure off us, though—the movie playing in its black and white glory—when neither Adrian nor I are expected to keep talking after we’ve both said enough. We drink side by side until the hot cocoa is gone, the liquor softening the roughness Adrian wears too well, and I think exhaustion must be working against him too, his body seeking support from mine without asking for permission from either of us. With an eye on a phone call George and Mary take from Sam Wainwright, I’m careful not to jostle him when I set both mugs on the coffee table and lean back again, my arm stretched behind Adrian this time so I can pull him against my chest.
He stirs then, turning in my arms to blink up at me. “What’re you doing? ”
“Just watching two people fall in love.”
“Don’t wanna miss it,” Adrian mumbles.
“You won’t,” I say, my hand there to comb his wayward hair away from his forehead. “Just gotta stop looking at me.”
And without an argument I wouldn’t have expected anyway, he does exactly that, nestled against my side so he can see everything clearly, at least until his eyes fall closed and I’m treated to the softest snoring I’ve ever heard.
I don’t take my fingers out of Adrian’s hair for a very long time.
We say almost nothing the rest of the day, maybe because things go a little bit wrong every time we do and it feels silly to try. Adrian drifts in and out of sleep, and It’s a Wonderful Life becomes Miracle on 34 th Street and then A Christmas Story . I get up to make more spiked hot cocoa and Adrian unearths some popcorn, and no matter how many times we leave and come back again, he drops back into my arms, and neither of us talks.
Touching him in the flicker of the movies’ lights becomes easy when nobody expects me to explain, and a drowsy glance and a whisper I can’t quite hear convince me I’m doing something right. The physical weight of him is heavy against my chest, but at least for the afternoon, nothing else is, and I hope it’s the same for Adrian even if I won’t wake him to ask. Then at some point, I think I nod off too, and if I feel tentative fingertips brush over my beard, I convince myself it’s a peppermint-induced dream.
I leave Adrian’s later than I should and far too soon, and it’s the best Christmas I’ve had in four years.
A few nights later, I’m sitting in front of the tv I turned off a while ago, still thinking about everything Adrian and I had talked about and all the things we didn’t say. There’s an empty beer bottle in my hand because I can’t let go, and as much as I’m caught up in memories of Luca, for the first time since Darren took me outside Trailhead, I don’t fight my feelings about Levi. It’s complicated still—the reminder that Adrian’s loss is not mine is an ache deep in my chest—but tonight I decide to breathe through it, and I’m calm when I realize my pain may not be as nuanced as grief.
Maybe I’m just fucking sad .
I loved Luca, or might have had the chance to love him if we hadn’t been so young and afraid before Benji died, but while Levi was never going to be that for me, chances died with him, too. I could’ve had a new friend. I could’ve kept dancing. And I could’ve introduced myself to Adrian without making him hate me against a brick wall.
A sigh comes and goes because it’s late and I’m tired, but when I’m trying to convince myself to move from my couch to my bed, worried that Adrian’s still stuck doing the same, I get a text from him.
Trailhead having some big new years eve party?
In spite of everything, I can’t help but smile.
No why ?
Figured I should make sure you have something to do so you don’t end up at my door again
Is that an invitation to go out with you?
It’s self defense
And where I ask about your traditions again
No
I smile again at the scowl I can imagine all too easily, mostly so I don’t think too hard about a midnight kiss I know won’t happen.
We had a really nice Christmas tho
I was asleep for most of it
Something something beginning of a beautiful friendship
Casablanca? Really?
Hey I was doing just fine wallowing at trailhead night after night…
But of all the gin joints
Yep this is all your fault. So where are we going for new years?
There’s no quick response, and it makes me restless enough to finally push off the couch and leave the beer bottle in the kitchen before I head into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I’m still stalling, probably, by the time I make it to the king size bed that only reminds me again of the empty space Adrian and I hate. There’s never been anyone else here, though. Nobody who has made it past my couch. Fucking strangers is easier when you don’t have to wash their scent from your sheets, and I would rather be lazy about that for as long as my body will let me dream alone.
Physically alone, at least. My phone remains quiet long enough to make me sorry about something that doesn’t require an apology, and I take it a step further by tapping on the screen until a dull ring gets silenced by a familiar groan.
But a bitchy Adrian is better than no Adrian at all.
“I knew I shouldn’t have brought this up,” he grumbles. “Could’ve just planned to keep all the lights off, hide under my comforter, and ignore the knock at my door this time.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Could’ve blocked your number, too.”
“Mmmm, but you didn’t do that either,” I say, getting settled under my duvet and staring at the ceiling that offers me nothing in return.
“No, but I really don’t want to go out for New Year’s.”
“Okay.”
“And I feel like you were already coming up with a list of plans.”
“Maybe,” I admit. “Friends celebrate with friends, don’t they?”
He sighs in my ear. “Sure, but couples celebrate together too, and I think maybe if you and I went somewhere—”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, and I press my lips together to keep from asking him to. It’s possible that it would bring up too many memories of too many celebrations with Levi, but I’m not convinced that’s what has him hesitating now, and for just a moment, I want to hear something frighteningly honest. I pull back though—just a little—and open my mouth again.
“And you don’t think stayin’ in on New Year’s Eve would solve that problem for us. ”
“No,” Adrian says. “Might make it worse.”
“Even though you know I don’t fu—”
“Even though.”
I nod, and my free hand wanders, and neither matters when Adrian isn’t here. “What about this?”
“This?”
“What about just talking our way through it?” I suggest. “You there, and me here, fireworks happening wherever else. Friends who don’t have to be alone, but also don’t have to be together.”
After another minute, he agrees. On New Year’s Eve, it’s exactly what we do.
I have a bottle of champagne delivered to him early enough in the day that there’s no worry about another holiday ambush. Adrian sends chocolate covered strawberries to me around the same time, insisting via text that it’s only because of that goddamn sweet tooth , and because he doesn’t want to hear me bitch and moan about not having something to eat.
A second bottle of champagne ends up in my hand. Plain strawberries stay with Adrian.
We watch a bunch of New Year’s festivities—together; separately—and we talk about nothing more than we pay attention to much of anything. I’m sprawled on my oversized sectional with a pile of pillows and blankets because it’s where I’d be if Adrian were here or if I were there, and I’m drinking straight from the bottle like the classy, lonely bastard I am. And then, as was true on Christmas day, we take turns falling asleep, my phone on speaker and never out of reach while I listen to Adrian snore .
I don’t think I’m dreaming when I hear a voice just barely louder than the television I’ve left on long after the last piece of confetti has fallen.
“I don’t think I can be friends with you.”