17. Emerson
SEVENTEEN
EMERSON
It is a beautiful day outside, yet I am in my apartment. Working. Trying to work.
I stare at my computer screen, trying to make headway on my research paper. It comes in fits and starts. I’ll get some work done, and then my mind will inevitably wander to Bryce.
He got out of bed early this morning and took Bobo for a walk, and I thought they’d be back in a little bit, but now it’s early afternoon, and he still hasn’t returned.
A part of me is worried that something could have happened to him. But in terms of Occam’s razor, it’s more likely that he’s just … out. It’s a beautiful day and maybe he and Bobo are just enjoying the sunshine.
I turn back to my computer screen and keep typing away. I get a few sentences down, and my mind tries to wander, but like Bobo’s leash, I yank it back.
Last night was incredible for many reasons.
For one, the opera was unparalleled. I’ve listened to classical music and operas my entire life, but to see a production like that at the Met?
I’m not sure anything could top it. Except being there with Bryce.
Getting to experience it with him was magical.
As was everything that happened on the walk up to our apartment and in bed—where I could still smell him on the sheets when I woke up.
I don’t really have much experience with guys.
I had a boyfriend for a short time in college, but that was almost twenty years ago.
After graduation, he got a job overseas teaching English.
I decided to focus on my work and building my career.
Romance and relationships are just too murky for me.
They’re not worth the risk of getting hurt.
But last night, it was like a door opened that had been locked for the longest time. I didn’t realize I could feel this way about another person. And that they could feel this way about me.
Or so I thought.
I look to the floor. Only there’s no Bobo staring back at me.
I thought we had a good night. I mean, judging by Bryce’s moaning, screaming, erection, and subsequent ejaculation, it seemed like he had a good time as well.
Not to mention us falling asleep together, him cuddled in my arms. Nuzzled against my neck.
I realize it’s the first time I actually slept with someone—actually slept—in years and years. I woke up this morning filled with hope and excitement, experiencing emotions I hadn’t allowed myself to embrace in a long time.
And yet it’s early afternoon, and Bryce and Bobo still aren’t back. And I have an important paper that I can’t focus on.
I take a break to scroll on social media, and what do I find? A pic of him with a lady friend at breakfast.
So he left me in bed to meet up with a friend for coffee? I’m far from an expert on sexual mores, but I thought it was standard to at least acknowledge the person you slept with before leaving the apartment. I’ve never been snuck out on before, and it’s a gut punch.
My heart sinks .
“Why didn’t he want to have brunch with me?” I ask the ghost of Bobo at my feet, wishing he was here for a reaction. Or breakfast in bed? Or just spend the whole day in bed with me?
I’ve never been one of those people who wants to spend the day in bed. Hell, I’d rather get a jump on the day. But Bryce—he could make me switch up that pattern. He’s the first person I could actually see myself doing that with and actually enjoying it. Someone to be lazy with.
But he chose brunch instead of me.
I get up from my desk and pace.
“Focus.” I eye my computer screen. I’ve never been someone to talk to myself aloud, but I can’t take the quiet and emptiness in the apartment.
“You’re finally on an upswing with your class.
You’re going to this picnic today, and you’ll continue to wow your colleagues.
That tenure-track professorship is within reach.
You can finally claim your place in academia. Don’t let a cute boy distract you.”
I should go outside and get some fresh air. But then I worry—what if I bump into him on the street? What if he’s flirting with another guy already? Or still at brunch and talking about that weird hard of hearing guy who’s in his apartment?
He wouldn’t. Would he? He doesn’t seem like a guy who would do that.
But how well do I know him?
When it comes to eighteenth-century composers, I’m an expert. With twenty-first-century gay guys, I’m a total neophyte.
I go to the couch and lie down, close my eyes, and try to calm myself. I turn on the television to a sitcom to ease the noise in my head. The bad punchlines and laugh track help me forget about the outside world until I hear footsteps.
And the shaking of Bobo’s collar.
“Hey,” Bryce says, charging in with his usual energy. Nothing seems changed in his voice, as if nothing of note happened over the past twenty-four hours. “It’s gorgeous out. We really lucked out with this weather.”
He gives Bobo some pets, and Bobo comes over to me and immediately starts licking my hand. Then he jumps on the sofa and rests on my legs, essentially holding me in place.
Bryce looks at my computer and the papers scattered about. “Oh, you’ve been working on your paper? I was never good at papers. Or writing. I think that’s why I’m a dancer—I just have to be moving at all times.”
No statement has ever sounded truer. He’s flitting around right now—buzzing to the kitchen, filling up Bobo’s water dish, getting himself a drink, wiping the two feet of counter, and tidying up. I nearly get whiplash watching him.
“It looks beautiful out. I’ve been plugging away before going to that faculty picnic event in Central Park,” I say with forced cheer. It seems we’re both dancing right now.
“Oh, did you still want to bring Bobo?”
“That’s okay. I don’t have to.”
Bryce was the one who said that people love dogs, and there’s no dog more lovable than Bobo, so it could help score me more points.
“He’s already been out today,” I say.
“Bobo loves fresh air. He doesn’t want to be cooped up in here, do you, boy?”
Bobo lifts his head, perks his ears up, as if just the whisper of going outside again gets him excited.
“Yeah, Bobo is all for it. He’s gonna charm the argyle socks off all your coworkers,” Bryce says. “They’re gonna be like, ‘Oh my god, we have to give this guy a tenure-track position. Not only is he a great lecturer and an intriguing mind, but he has a very cute dog.’”
“You’re the one with the cute dog,” I say.
Bobo isn’t mine. This apartment isn’t mine. In fact, this life isn’t mine. It’s all temporary. This morning is a good reminder of that.
Bobo looks at me as if he’s sensing the ability to go outside is in my court, and, as we’ve already established, it’s very hard to say no to Bobo. “Okay. He can come.”
“It’ll be good. Everyone will adore him.” Bryce waters plants on the fire escape, something he did yesterday evening. “And don’t worry about chasing him around. He’s usually very good. He can be kind of shy around new people, so he’ll be by your side. He won’t run off.”
Bryce crams himself into the kitchen and begins emptying the dishwasher. The kitchen is narrow enough that pushing the dishwasher door down essentially bars me from entering. As if his emotional distance wasn’t enough.
“I need to get better at unloading the dishwasher!” he says with a laugh that ticks me off.
“Did you have a good walk this morning?” I ask, thinking about how just a few hours ago, we were tangled naked together, and now, besides both being fully clothed, there’s even more layers building between us.
“Oh, it was great, yeah. I mean, Bobo—since we didn’t get a long walk in last night—was really itching to go, so I wanted to get out there.”
“And then you stayed out. I saw that you went to brunch with your friend.”
“A gay guy meeting his hag for brunch is par for the course in New York. Are you checking up on me?” Bryce asks with a nervous laugh, meeting my eyes only for a beat.
“No, I was just scrolling through social media, and I saw the post. As one does.”
“I forgot you added me on Instagram.” Bryce wipes a coffee mug dry. “Yeah, Portia and I have a standing date for brunch, so it was already planned. So, you know, I didn’t want to stand her up because she got something waxed and had to tell me all about it. You know how it is, right?”
Last night, we were intimate and kissing and saying all these sweet things to each other, and now we feel more like strangers than we did when we first met.
Of course, maybe I’m reading everything wrong.
I can do that. But I feel like I’m in one of those dreams where I reach out for someone and no matter how far my arm stretches, they keep fading away.
“Look, I think there’s something that we need to address.
” I stand on the edge of the kitchen. I started off confident with “look,” but nerves quickly take over my brain.
When you’re direct with someone, you risk them being direct right back.
“Last night … things happened. We’re roommates, and things happened.
And typically, that seems like something that two people would discuss or acknowledge, seeing as it is an extraordinary situation. And so, I’m acknowledging it.”
I pause, wondering if anything I’m saying is making sense, but it’s one of those things where I’ve already started talking, and so I can’t stop until I reach my point. One of the downsides of being a long-winded professor.
“Seeing as this did happen,” I continue, “it seems proper protocol that we acknowledge that it happened and think about the repercussions of our actions.”
What I really want to say is: Did you have a good time last night? Do you want to do it again as badly as I want to do it again? But judging by the way Bryce has been keeping his distance so far, I think I have my answer.
“I get it. I know this is a common occurrence for you,” I say.
Bryce pulls his head back. “A common occurrence?”
“You know, you’ve had an assortment of men, from what I’ve gathered. I?—”
“Are you calling me what I think you’re calling me?”
“No, no. But, you know, if I may state the obvious: when we first met, you thought I was an anonymous stranger coming over from a hookup app. So, just putting that out as a fact, you know? It seems like you have a lot more experience with this than I do. You’ve kind of been through this a lot more, so I definitely get that this is just another fun experience you had. ”
Bryce is a very smiley person. There’s always a grin on his face, even when he’s mad. It’s like he’s playing mad. But this is the first time when I actually see his face curdle, where there’s no trace of joy on it. It all escapes like air from a flat tire.
“Oh,” Bryce says, taking a painfully long beat. “Yeah. Right. I’ve hooked up with plenty of guys before. And that’s what we did last night.” He closes the dishwasher door with more force than necessary. “We hooked up,” he says with a sour tone. “Excuse me.”
He scoots past me into the living room, wiping his damp hands on his shirt.
“We don’t need to talk about it again,” Bryce continues.
“We got caught up in the opera and the staircase, and that was that. Obviously, you’re only here, what, a few more weeks?
And I’m busy with auditions and finding a new apartment.
So, I just have a lot going on. You have a lot going on.
Together, we have a lot going on. So much going on.
So let’s not add more goings-on to all the things that we have going on. ”
I think I follow most of this train of logic. Whatever it is, it seems like we’re both going in the same direction—that we want this conversation to end as quickly as possible.
“Good,” I say. “Last night was great, and we can be adults about this and still cohabitate in the same apartment in a roommate capacity.”
“Just because I’ve seen you naked doesn’t mean I can’t take out the trash.”
“Exactly.” I adjust my glasses. “And just because I’ve seen you naked doesn’t mean that I can’t load the dishwasher.”
“Right. We’re adults,” Bryce says, his face flat. I’m talking with a zombified roommate. His joyous smile shows no signs of returning.
“Adults,” I repeat.
And then we stand there in awkward silence.
Even though we’ve come to a mutual decision, I’m very unhappy about it. But I can’t let Bryce know that.
I catch my reflection in the mirror. If he really wanted to be with me, he would have stayed in bed this morning.
Right? He would have canceled his brunch date.
He would have come back as soon as he walked Bobo, and we could have stayed in bed together all day—if that’s what he wanted.
And as much as I want to tell him that, as much as I want to just pull him close and kiss him, it’s better not to make things more awkward than they already are.
“Okay,” Bryce says. “I’m gonna … I’m gonna shower because I didn’t shower last night, and I feel gross. So I’m going to walk past you, go into the bathroom, and use the shower.”
“That’s perfect,” I say. “Because I have showered, so I’m all good. And then I have to leave for my picnic …” I check my watch, the numbers all mushing together. “Right now, actually, so I can get there in time. And I will take Bobo.”
Bobo leaps off the couch, eagerly going to the door, completely oblivious to what happened between the two people trying to act like adults. Or … does he know more than he’s letting on?
“Emerson,” Bryce says behind me.
I stop, hand on the door.
“Despite what you think, I haven’t been with a lot of guys,” he says. “What we did last night isn’t a typical thing for me.”
“Oh,” I stammer out.
“I just … I’m not the slut you think I am.”
“No, I don’t think?—”
“You do,” he says cutting me off, his jaw tight with actual anger. “You do. Or did. And that’s … I wanted to set the record straight. But anyway, have a great time at your picnic.”
Before I can object, before my heart can sink even further, Bryce closes the bathroom door and turns on the shower.
“I wasn’t calling him a slut, Bobo,” I say as we go down the steps.
But even Bobo has a hard time looking at me.