9. Ryan
RYAN
I t turns out, I don’t hate attention as much as I thought I did.
As Bud’s and my following grows, and I become more confident shirtless on the internet—because the comments I’ve read are a thousand percent positive—minus the inevitable guy who always wants to argue with me about whatever snippet of advice I dole out, I feel good about this plan.
Leveraging social media successfully is a quick ticket to success, and I’ve always heard the trick is to “just be yourself,” but when yourself is a glaring, awkward, cynical dick most of the time, you kinda think it’s probably not the place for you.
However—I’m also the guy who works out six days a week, quit smoking pot and started using my brain.
I rescued Bud and picked the best tattoo artist in Oregon to decorate my body.
Granted, I knew I wasn’t hideous, but a certain rejection at a young age has made me err on the shyer side of social interaction.
But the compliments I’m getting—on my ink, my muscles, my eyes, my hair—have me enjoying the process a hell of a lot more than I thought I would.
Norah never leaves a comment, but she always likes my posts, and I like knowing she’s watching.
I texted her Sunday afternoon telling her she could do something similar if she wanted to join the fun, but she sent me a picture of herself with no makeup in a baggy hoodie with the message no thanks .
Because this has become my new life now, I’ve stepped outside my own box and invited an actual person into my home.
Calyx is currently sitting on my bathroom counter.
I’m standing between his legs with my hands on either side of him while he explains how to make up my eyes so they’ll pop on camera without looking like I’m wearing cosmetics.
I hesitated when he hopped up and spread his lean, smooth legs, but he gave me a look that was some combination of come hither and get over yourself, and I walked right in. “You want to bring it just inside your lash line—see?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And this mascara is super light because your lashes are so dark, but it’ll give them a pretty gloss.” He taps my bottom lip. “You’re not wearing lip balm.”
“I hate it,” I tell him.
“Get over it. Or at least use a lip mask at night.”
I laugh.
“Your pores aren’t terrible, but before I go, we’re gonna put in a Sephora order, and when it comes in, you’ll invite me back over, and I’ll talk you through your new skin care routine. Actually, let’s just use Amazon. Sephora takes forever, and I know you’re rushing this.”
“Sounds good.”
“I’m so glad you realized how pretty you are. How many likes did it take?”
I roll my eyes.
He flashes me his rare but brilliant smile. “I’m glad it’s working.” Using the pads of his middle fingers, he pats something wet beneath my eyes, then lightly smooths it out. “Concealer,” he explains .
“What am I concealing?”
“It acts like a highlighter in your case. You don’t have bags or anything.”
“Good.”
“If you’re not gonna do lip balm, just like a brush of gloss before you film to make your lips look dewy would work wonders.”
I laugh again, my head dipping forward.
“What?” He’s obviously laughing, too. “Dewy is youthful and glowing. Dewy is fabulous .”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“You better. Now look at yourself and tell me what you think.”
I slide to the side and study my reflection over his shoulder. It’s like he put a beauty filter on me. “Nice work.”
“Can I film you?”
“Malcolm hasn’t posted anything else today,” I say.
“He can stitch you, too, you know?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Calyx pats my hip. “Come on. Let me watch you do one. I can help you with your angles and finding your light.”
“I thought you said I was doing great.”
“You are, and there’s always room for improvement. I saw a bunch of workout equipment out there. Wanna try using some of that?”
“Bud hates the weights.”
“What if you put some tuna or catnip on you?”
“You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?”
He simps with a shrug of a shoulder. “I may look like a dumb blond, but I’m a secret smarty pants.”
“Speaking of which, you haven’t traveled in a few weeks. Is everything okay with your job?”
He sighs, tossing a glance at himself in the mirror. “I just wanted a little break. The traveling was a lot, but fashion weeks will start up again soon, and I’ll get back into it.”
“Burned out?”
“It’s lonely,” he says.
“Yeah, I get that.”
“I know you do.” He slides off the counter and winds his way past me and out of the bathroom to take a look around the apartment.
I trail a few steps behind him as he flips lights on and off in different combinations, examining the way it changes the space.
We leave my bedroom and head over to Deacon’s weight set up.
“Why the fuck do you come to the gym?” Calyx asks.
He’s got a point. Deacon has almost everything I use at the gym besides TRX straps. “This is all my roommate’s.”
“What does he do?”
“Tech stuff. I think he’s like a software developer. He’s also training for an Iron Man.” There. Everything I know about Deacon in a few simple sentences.
“Where is he tonight?”
“I don’t know. We don’t talk much.”
“How long have you lived here?” Calyx asks, dragging his fingertips over the bench press.
“I moved in right before Memorial Day.”
He gives me a disappointed look. I shrug it off.
“Grab the cat,” he says. “We’ll keep it simple with a bicep curl.”
He adjusts some lighting while I remove my shirt and retrieve a sleeping Bud from my pillow. The amount of hair he leaves behind is just—ridiculous. I blow some off my mouth while I’m selecting a weight.
“It’s gotta be at least twenty-five pounds,” Calyx says. “Oh, hold on—I have a thought.”
He stages me with a light coating of olive oil everywhere but my face.
He even runs wet fingers through my hair to make it look like I’ve been sweating.
Once I’m where he wants me, I talk about gold, and because he’s not done with me yet, and the ideas are popping for him, we film a few more clips in different locations with wardrobe changes and less oil where I discuss everything from stock futures, the bond market, and how to create your own 401K if you’re not in a job with benefits.
Calyx directs me all the way through. “Growlier. Give me the bedroom eyes—that’s it—you got it. Pet the cat longer.”
The process leaves Bud greasy, but I have fun. All Calyx wants in return when I offer to pay him is a mini photo shoot of his own. He does his own makeup and directs himself, but I take the pictures and send him all the shots. The best one is of him wrapped in a bed sheet sitting in the bay window.
In it, he’s the perfect, enchanting combination of feminine and masculine—or not masculine, but boyish. It makes me wonder what kind of man he’ll wind up with. I picture him with someone older, I think. Someone who’ll spoil him stupid and worship at his feet.
He leaves around midnight, and before I go to bed, I send the video of me doing biceps curls via a TikTok message to Bailey and Malcolm, just so they’re aware I’m doing something. Once I get a thumbs up from Bailey, I post it.
As I’m about to drop off to sleep after a shower, I get a text.
Malcolm
Are you wearing makeup?
My mouth twists. This whole night, I’ve managed not to think about him.
Not the way he spoke to me or the way he held me.
Not the way I nearly broke down in tears from the pain in my chest and the restraint it took not to press my mouth to his neck.
Not the way I’d very nearly told him that nothing had changed for me, and that was the answer to the question as to why he needed to let me go.
I think about it for a while, about whether to respond or not, and finally, I answer the question.
Me
I was
Malcolm
Where’d you learn how to do that?
Me
My friend Calyx did it.
Malcolm
Did he film the video too?
Me
Yeah. Why?
Malcolm
It was good. That’s all. Looked more professional.
Me
Not sure how to take that
Malcolm
It was a compliment.
Me
Oh. Thanks
I want to ask him why he’s still up. Why he’s got so many questions. Why did he hug me like that.
Malcolm
Should I wear makeup?
I laugh.
Me
I don’t think so, golden boy. You don’t need it.
Malcolm
Neither do you but it looked good.
There. What the fuck is that? How the fuck am I supposed to take that? Nothing he said so far was going to keep me up tonight, but that will. That in the context of the hug I didn’t ask for but took for every ounce of him it was worth.
Me
Don’t do it. You’ll look ridiculous if you don’t know how to put it on.
Malcolm
I can watch a tutorial as well as anyone else on the planet.
I curl onto my side. Holding the screen like it’s something precious, imagining what it would be like if he were here, curled up just like I am, facing me, saying the words instead of typing them. Would he try to hug me again? Would I stop him?
Me
Unless you have eyeliner, mascara and concealer lying around, you’ll have to find a 24 hour store to get all the supplies you need.
Malcolm
Is that all it was? What did you need with mascara anyway? You’ve got great lashes.
Well, now I’m just supremely fucked.
Me
Your lashes are fine
Did he ask? No. I just said that. For no reason. As if I want to talk about what Malcolm looks like. I need to go to bed. I’m losing my inhibitions. My mind.
Malcolm
You think?
I am not fucking answering that.
Me
Go to bed, Mal
Malcolm
Yeah, okay. Good night.
I flip the phone face down on the mattress and close my eyes, but that’s a mistake because my mind transports me straight back into his arms. Into the moment I pressed him to the wall, and he turned the tables on me.
When I felt the clench of his hand in my hair and the throb that made my cock rise, I had to force myself to push his hips away.
How is it still possible to want him after all this time and all the shit he threw at me—both the outright disdain, the constant humiliation, and the complete indifference?
All incredibly painful. Deserved, maybe?
And yet too much. He broke my heart and my brain.
He shattered parts of me I can never put back together.
Primarily—trust. Specifically, my ability to trust him .
But I can’t ignore him either. He’s in my life again, temporarily at least, and if we somehow salvage a friendship, he could be around for years. I’ll get to live through him getting married, having kids. Possibly even with Kaylin, who I don’t entirely hate.
I used to think she was an opportunist, but I also knew Mal was better boyfriend material than I was and extremely hard to resist. I honestly can’t believe they’re still together.
I’d have sworn when they first started dating, it was just to stick it to me—Mal’s revenge for me fucking up our friendship. But then they just—never broke up.
I don’t know what he means by being on a break with her. If that just means she’s out of town, and she’s allowed to dance with other people, or if it’s an official—let’s think this through before we get really serious kind of break.
I hate that I care which it is. It doesn’t matter.
I also hate that I have so many questions I can never ask.
I hate that I’m reading into the hug and these texts.
His compliments . I hate that they mean more to me than the hundreds of similar ones I’ve gotten from strangers on the internet, or the ones Norah texted me just before I got into bed.
I hate that I’m thinking about what I’m going to wear tomorrow and whether lip balm would make me slightly more attractive to him.
I hate that this is happening to me. That he is happening to me.
Again.