39. Suspended in The Quiet
I t’s been four weeks since I handed Josh the truth and let Kevin go, and not a word from either of them.
Mateo and I have visited B-Side several times, sometimes to browse, sometimes to loiter near the jazz section, but Kevin’s never there.
Some Saturdays, I wander in alone, pretending to shop, scanning the floor.
Nothing. No sign of Kevin, no trace of Josh.
They must’ve vanished into their old life while a new one slowly takes shape around me.
Still, I haven’t regressed. No bars. No Steamworks. No reckless hookups to silence the noise. Just quiet days and quieter nights, slowly learning how to sit with the silence that’s mine.
In that time, Patrick and I have found a quiet rhythm—unlikely friends orbiting the same city in different ways.
I went with him to see Rebel Without a Cause , and after that, seeing him once a week became a kind of habit.
A walk through Piedmont Park, a trip to B-Side to talk music, and a late-afternoon swim at the Y.
Nothing big, nothing defined. But consistent enough to feel like he was more than just a client’s son and a teenage smart-ass—like someone I didn’t have to chase to feel seen.
The air outside is thick with heat, even as the sun begins to set.
I sit with Patrick at a hole-in-the-wall Thai place off Cheshire Bridge Road, the one with sticky tables and spice-thick air that clings to your skin.
The scent of basil, fish sauce, and grilled meat curls through the slatted windows, mixing with the faint tang of bleach from a half-mopped floor.
The booth seats are cracked vinyl, the kind that peels against your thighs if you shift too much.
A portable radio hums from somewhere near the kitchen, half-drowned by the hiss of a wok and the clatter of plates.
Patrick’s twirling his noodles with plastic chopsticks slick from use, pretending not to watch me talk.
The chopsticks click softly against the sides of his bowl as steam rises, fogging the glasses he wears when he doesn’t have his contacts in.
I don’t say much at first. Just enough to keep things moving.
But then I catch his eye and see he’s listening—truly listening. So I tell him.
I talk about jogging in the morning before the humidity gets cruel, about swimming laps at the YMCA every chance I get, and about skipping bars and cutting back on drinking.
I stay in more nights than not, and I feel clearer for it.
The quiet times come more easily now. The clarity isn’t constant, but it feels more honest.
Patrick raises his eyebrows. “So you’re a complete bore now?”
I laugh. “Something like that.”
He pokes at his food. “Don’t you miss it? The scene? The action?”
“Sometimes. Then I remember what it feels like waking up with a hangover—sometimes alone, sometimes with a stranger and a gut full of regret.”
He nods, biting back a smirk. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Believe me, it’s better you don’t.”
“Sure,” Patrick says, “easy for people who have done the bars and had the sex to say.”
There’s a part of me that wants to tell him he’s not missing much, but I don’t. He’ll find his own way there. Everyone does eventually. And maybe he won’t regret it as I do. Perhaps he’ll make better choices, or maybe he’ll recover faster .
Still, part of me wants to warn him, not from fear but from memory.
From that hollow feeling that used to hit somewhere between the last call and the first break of dawn—when the noise fades, and all you’re left with is sweat, smoke, and the ache of something that didn’t happen, or something that did.
But I know better than to hand someone a story that’s not theirs.
After dinner, he assumes we’re going out.
He mentions a bar a few blocks down the road that he has heard of but has never been to.
A place called Cityside, he says. I know the place all too well with its twink strippers and older daddies, its crowded dance floor, and naive out-of-towners from the rural parts of Alabama and Tennessee in town for the weekend looking for some gay action in the big city.
He looks so young, talking about it as if he’s asking for permission.
A slow shake of my head. “I have a better idea.”
We drive southeast, across town. The streets soften—more trees and fewer cars—until Midtown gives way to quieter neighborhoods.
Patrick keeps glancing over like I’m leading him somewhere secret and illicit.
Maybe, but not dangerous. We pull into the gravel driveway of the still vacant Scott Blvd.
home and kill the engine. There are no lights, and the sign is still in the yard.
“Are we breaking into a house?” he asks.
“They know I’m here. I have a key.”
“Why’s it vacant?”
“The owners moved,” I explain, “but I’m not so sure they’re anxious to sell it.”
We walk around back, and I unlock the gate.
The pool is there, of course, and I flip on the submerged lights.
The landscape lights come on, too, uplighting the trees and highlighting the yard’s features.
It’s pretty, not as extensive or upscale as Patrick’s backyard, but more intimate—more like a warm and cozy Italian country house.
At the edge, I lower myself and dip my feet in.
Patrick kicks off his sneakers, rolls his socks inside them, and then follows.
The water laps against our ankles, warm and still.
“You swam here before?” he asks.
“Yeah, a few times. I clean it for them. Now they have me watch the house, too, for leaks and stuff like that.”
Patrick leans back on his hands, looking at the night sky, and the silence between us stretches for a few minutes before he speaks.
“Sometimes I feel like everyone else got a head start. Like they got the manual, and I’m—I don’t know—winging it.”
A quiet nod as moonlight scatters across the surface. “Most people are winging it,” I reply. “You get better at hiding the panic over time.”
He exhales with half a laugh. “Do you ever stop feeling behind?”
“Not always, but sometimes. You catch up to yourself. These days, that’s good enough.”
He looks over at me, not smiling exactly, but with a soft grin, like he’s still figuring out if I’m messing with him or telling the truth.
Standing, I tug my shirt over my head and fold it neatly, setting it beside the pool’s edge.
I step out of my jeans, leaving just my briefs.
The air is cooling, and the water looks calm, inviting in a way that has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with presence—a kind of mirror waiting to be disturbed.
I glance at Patrick. He’s watching—not staring, not smirking—just taking it in like he’s not sure what this is but trusts it enough not to ask.
I slip into the pool slowly, without ceremony, the water rising across my body until it meets my chest. It’s cool at first, then warms as I settle in.
It’s quiet and familiar. The kind of stillness you only get in a pool that hasn’t seen kids or chaos for years.
I push off from the edge and float on my back, held by the surface.
For a minute, it’s just me—drifting.
When I open my eyes, Patrick is still sitting at the edge, elbows on his knees, watching with a soft kind of focus. Not awe—just a quiet sort of attention, like he’s seeing something new.
A moment later, I hear a soft rustle, then the light scrape of his bare feet against the concrete.
Still, I wait—letting him decide.
Patrick pulls his shirt over his head, revealing his wiry chest still marked with the last traces of boyhood.
His jeans come off next, then he steps in slowly, sucking in air at the temperature change before letting himself sink into the water and drift toward me, careful not to get too close at first.
We float quietly alongside each other, a few feet apart, eyes on the sky and occasionally each other. There’s no music, no voices from nearby yards, just the low hum of cicadas and the hush of water displaced by our bodies and brushing against our skin.
His breath is audible, the space between us thinning. It’s not sexual, not even flirtatious. Just two people suspended in the quiet—nothing to prove, nothing to chase.
We drift a little. Patrick kicks into the deep end and dunks under the surface, then surfaces and shakes his head like a dog. His hair slicks back, and his face and shoulders gleam under the lights.
“You ever feel like you’re faking it?” he asks, voice low. “Not the being gay part—that part’s real. But the whole swagger thing. The don’t-give-a-shit thing. ”
I glance toward him. “Sometimes.”
He nods slowly. “Yeah. That’s most of my day—at school, at home. Walking into rooms like I’m untouchable. As if I’m fearless and know exactly what I want. Like I’m choosing everything—when really, I’m just trying to stay one step ahead of feeling anything at all.”
Patrick laughs under his breath, but there’s no humor in it. I know exactly how he feels. I tread closer, not touching him, but closer.
“I flirt with guys like it’s a game,” he says. “Tease, push—just far enough to feel something, but not enough to let it get real.” And the whole time, I’m acting like I’m in control.” He glances at me. “You ever done that?”
I hesitate, then nod.
Patrick exhales. “It’s exhausting. But it’s safer than saying what I really want. Because if I do, and I don’t get it—it’s not just rejection—it’s confirmation. That I’m too much. Or not enough.”
He sinks lower in the water, his chin barely above the surface. The pool is quiet. Just the faint sound of water lapping the edge.
“I think I act cocky so people don’t ask,” he continues. “So they don’t see I’m still figuring it out. Like—am I looking for a boyfriend, or love, or just someone to make me feel less invisible? I don’t even know the difference sometimes.”
“I think you know the difference,” I say.
Patrick looks at me for a long time. Not flirty. Not teasing. Just quiet. Searching.
“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe I do. I just don’t trust it yet.”
He floats closer and nudges my shoulder with his. I don’t pull away. We drift like that until the water feels cooler on our skin. The moonlight ripples across his face, soft and uneven, like nothing here is trying to be perfect.
We don’t kiss. Not here. Not yet.