Twenty-Four Noah
twenty-four
Noah
Noah grunted, hoisting Jake’s sleeping form a bit higher on his shoulders, as Angela fought with the keycard.
It was nearly midnight, way past Jake’s bedtime, but the restaurant Angela had booked for them hadn’t even opened until eight o’clock, and they hadn’t gotten their food until nine, and Jake was nodding off by the time it was done.
Then their subway stop had been closed for some reason, and after a miserable half hour of walking around they finally managed to find a taxi to get them back to their hotel.
Jake had promptly fallen asleep against Noah’s side, and Noah hadn’t wanted to rouse him.
Now he tucked Jake into Angela’s bed. “This okay?”
She nodded. “Thanks. I’ll take care of him.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. Night.”
“Night.”
Noah let himself into his own room, locked the door, flopped onto his bed, kicked his shoes off, stretched. Had this day really begun with him waking up in bed with Ramin? That seemed like a lifetime ago. A beautiful dream he was desperate to recall.
Ramin. His phone.
He’d been in the middle of texting Ramin when he got distracted with Jake. And then spent all day out. Crap.
He rolled across the bed and nearly yanked his phone off its charger.
Sure enough, Ramin had finally responded to him.
A lot.
Ramin
I get back later today. Glad you made it. And I was happy to help.
With everything
I’m back now! What are you up to?
Everything okay?
Sorry. You’re probably with your family.
I didn’t mean to interrupt. I know it’s important. Tell Jake hi!
Sorry, didn’t mean to blow up your phone
I hope I wasn’t weird or anything.
Sorry
Noah groaned. The last message was from two hours ago.
Ramin probably thought he was a jerk. That Noah had just been taking advantage of him. And Noah couldn’t blame him. He’d left Ramin high and dry this morning. Unsatisfied. And then he’d ghosted him to run off with his family.
What else was Ramin supposed to think?
Crap. He hadn’t meant to. But he’d never had to juggle seeing someone with his family obligations. Was he seeing Ramin? Did Ramin want that?
Oh no. Had he already ruined it?
Please, please, please…
He had to explain. Had to apologize.
His thumbs were jittery as he tried to type out an acceptable response, but as he did, Ramin started texting again.
Noah’s heart leapt into his throat.
Ramin
Hey it’s coool i get it
Didnt mean to be all needy or whatever
It’s cool
I’m cool
Don’t worry about meeeee
I’m at a club!!!!!!
Enjoy the rest of your vacayyyy
Noah’s thumbs froze. That sounded like goodbye.
A very drunken goodbye.
Was Ramin… drunk texting him?
From a club ?
Shame filled Noah’s chest. He’d driven Ramin away. All because his phone wasn’t charged.
Ramin had given up on him.
It wasn’t fair. He was new at this. Well, not new new, but out of practice. He’d never had to juggle having a child with… well, whatever this was with Ramin. He was figuring it out. That didn’t mean he didn’t want Ramin. That didn’t mean he didn’t want Ramin to want him back.
He deserved a chance, didn’t he?
He had to find Ramin. Had to make him understand. This morning wasn’t some random hookup, and Ramin wasn’t some random guy. Ramin meant something to him. He wanted them to figure this out.
But how?
Noah
Where are you? Which club?
To Noah’s surprise, Ramin answered, though not the way he expected.
Ramin didn’t send the name of the club. Or the address. Or a little map pin.
Instead he sent a photo.
Despite everything, Noah laughed. Ramin was holding a drink, standing at the bar, posing in front of the lower half of some sort of go-go boy in gold booty shorts. The faceless bulge was perilously close to Ramin’s head.
Something burned its way through Noah’s chest, something primal and dangerous and perhaps even a bit problematic. But he didn’t want Ramin dancing with other guys. Or looking at their bulges.
Ramin was his.
It wasn’t a mature thought. He knew that. It was selfish and reductive and it didn’t matter, because after twenty years he was finally getting a chance with Ramin, and he wasn’t going to let some muscled Italian in booty shorts come between them.
Noah sprang off his bed and pulled his shoes back on. He started googling clubs nearby to see if he could find photos, find some clue—the shape of the bar, or the lights or, ugh, even evidence of gold-booty-shorted dancers. He had to find Ramin.
He had to.
Noah had never been to a gay club before.
He’d never been to any kind of club at all. His twenties had been spent working, saving money. Not hanging around Westport testing the limits of his liver. Part of him had wanted to, but he’d been careful with his budget, desperate not to have to ask his parents for anything.
Though now that he thought about it, he had been to one club: the Green Lady Lounge, a famous jazz club off Grand. Angela had taken him when they were first dating. They’d had overpriced drinks and danced until closing. She’d been so beautiful, so full of life, Noah had fallen in love that night.
This club was nothing like that.
Neon lights painted the walls of the entryway. Bass-heavy EDM thundered in the air. He wished he’d brought his earplugs. He took his hearing protection seriously.
Still, he was almost certain this was the right club. He’d spotted Ramin’s bartender—a shirtless guy with a truly epic mustache—in several of the photos of this place. Hopefully the guy didn’t work at other clubs, too.
Noah didn’t know the protocol—the folks he’d followed had flashed some sort of card to get in—and there wasn’t a bouncer.
Instead there was a front counter, where a young guy with a shock of pink hair explained to him in shouted, accented English he could pay for a one-club membership or do a three-month pass instead.
He handed over a few euros, took his card, and slipped into the dark club.
The bass thrummed in his chest, so loud he could barely make out the actual music.
Pink and purple lights strobed. He weaved his way through the press of bodies—some clothed, some half naked.
Some fat, some skinny, some muscled and smooth, some burly and hairy, all painted with color and light and shadow.
For a second Noah imagined letting himself get lost in here. Dancing the night away.
He’d finally figured out he was bisexual when he was twenty or so.
Started telling people a few years after that.
But for a multitude of reasons—ranging from heteronormativity to convenience to his parents to how expensive gas was when he was in his mid-twenties—he’d never really gotten to live a queer life the way he wanted to.
On his own terms.
He wanted to dance, wanted to touch, wanted to laugh.
But he didn’t want to do any of that without Ramin.
To his relief, he did indeed find the mustachioed bartender, spinning bottles and smiling. Ramin’s picture had been too blurry to show the guy’s pierced nipples, though. Noah wondered if they’d hurt.
If this was the right place, then where was Ramin? Noah made a circuit of the dance floor, checked the bar on the opposite end, dipped into the bathroom and then immediately dipped back out because it was extremely occupied in a way Noah thought was just a myth.
Had Ramin left? Or worse, left with someone?
Noah clenched his fist. No. Ramin wouldn’t do that, would he? Just because Noah didn’t get back to him fast enough? They were both adults. It wasn’t like Noah ghosted him. Not on purpose, at least.
He angled his way toward the DJ stand. Maybe he could beg them to make an announcement or something.
Ramin Yazdani, please report to the front office.
But then Noah spotted him.
Ramin swayed on the dance floor, eyes half closed, wearing a teal T-shirt and the most sinful pair of orange shorts Noah had ever seen in his life. His mouth went dry. His whole body flushed.
Ramin looked like heaven.
And he moved like heaven, too. Noah had no idea he could dance like that.
Ramin was a good decade older than most of the other folks on the dance floor, folks with sculpted abs showing through mesh shirts, or firm butts exposed by shorts somehow even shorter than Ramin’s, but Ramin was the most beautiful person there.
He opened his eyes and saw Noah. His head cocked to the side, almost comically, before a smile stole over his features, catching rainbows in his dimples.
Noah stepped up, but he didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t like prom, where you just spun in a circle with your hands on your girlfriend’s butt.
Then again, Ramin did indeed grab Noah’s hands and plant them on his butt.
“What’re you doing here?” he shouted, though it was almost a slur. And up close, Noah could tell Ramin’s eyes were droopy.
“Looking for you.”
“Whyyyyyy? I’m being interesting!”
Ramin slipped out of Noah’s hands, dancing more feverishly, grinding up against the other guys nearby, and that primal flame roared in Noah’s chest once more.
Oh. He was jealous .
He hadn’t been jealous in a long time.
“I want to talk to you,” Noah shouted.
“What?”
“I said—” But someone bumped into Noah, slid between him and Ramin. A young guy with the lower half of his butt cheeks literally hanging out of his shorts. He rubbed up against Noah’s front for a second, before turning and looking at Noah, eyes wide and interested.
But Noah shook his head, brushed him aside, found Ramin again.
“Can we go?”
“What?”
“I said, let’s get out of here!”
Ramin stared at him for a moment. Noah took his hand, tugged him toward the exit. Not a hard tug, just enough to show what direction he was trying to go.
“But what if I’m not done dancing?”
“You’re done,” Noah said, with more force than he meant to, but Ramin was drunk and Noah didn’t like the thought of Ramin here all alone without someone to watch his back, guard his drinks, make sure he got home safely. “We’re going.”
Ramin gave a full-body shiver as Noah led him off the dance floor, out the club, and into the blessedly silent streets.