4. Alexei
4
ALEXEI
W e live on the same street, so we’re walking in the same direction. I’m kicking stones and watching my feet, but I can feel Gage’s dark brown eyes on me, and I haven’t yet decided how I feel about him studying me.
“Did you grow up here?” he asks.
Small talk is bullshit, and more people would admit that if they weren’t afraid of coming across as weird. I have no such reservations. I take pride in my weirdness.
“No. My dad moved us here when he got sober because he needed to get out of the city. What are you addicted to?”
Gage’s steps stop, but I keep walking. He’ll either catch up and accept my personality, or he won’t be my friend.
“Drugs,” he says, jogging to catch up, his sunset orange t-shirt coming into view. “Pills, mostly. Stealing. Alcohol. Anything that gives me a thrill. Porn. Sex.”
I grip a stop sign and swing around it, stalling to let him catch up completely. We’re on a back street now, and other than a few people out on their porches in the nice spring weather, we’re alone for this conversation.
“Cigarettes,” he adds, lighting one.
“Coffee,” I add for him. “Sugar. Salt. Overindulging.”
His eyes narrow on me, but it doesn’t feel threatening. “Are you judging me?”
“Observing.” I notice he hasn’t once taken a phone from his pocket. “Not social media?”
“What?”
“Are you addicted to social media?”
“Oh. Uh, no. I guess that’s maybe the one thing I’m not hooked on.” He laughs a little pathetically. It’s a nice, reserved sound, not dissimilar to how my dad laughs sometimes. “I don’t have social media. Not a personal one, anyway.” He takes a long drag and blows the smoke away from me.
“So, you’re just twenty-eight…” I pause, waiting for him to confirm my guess at his age.
“Twenty-seven.”
“Twenty-seven, living with your parents again after rehab?”
“Just my mom. My dad left. And yeah, I guess. And my two younger brothers. My other brother lives across town.”
“Owen. I know him a little. We’re the same age.”
“Twenty-five?” he asks, and I nod. “And living with your dad?”
We’re side by side now, our arms sometimes brushing between our bodies. We’re almost the same height, but he has a bit of muscle on me. I like muscle, a lot, but not on myself; it doesn’t suit me. The sidewalk is narrow and full of cracks with weeds growing through, so I keep my eyes down, watching my feet. “My dad is trying to get me out on my own, but I’m afraid to leave him. Not afraid, really, I just don’t want to.”
“Being a sober addict doesn’t make him weak,” Gage says.
I glance at him, noticing he pushed his black hat up a bit, showing me his eyes. “Do you believe that about yourself?”
He licks his lips and looks away, hauling on the smoke again. “Sometimes.”
I fiddle with the sleeves of my hoodie while Gage finishes his cigarette. I keep my mouth shut when he litters the butt and slow my pace as we get to our street.
Gage is tall and lean, dressed in a basic pair of jeans and a hoodie. He’s not giving off athletic vibes, but casual vibes instead. He either doesn’t care about his appearance, or he threw on whatever he found first in order to get his medication from my dad. At least he didn’t dress to impress his sponsor.
“Do… do you want a cookie?” he asks as we pass his house. I’ve met his mom and brothers before, mostly at their neighbours’ for cookouts. “My mom got a bunch from that factory.”
Sugar scares me, but one cookie might be okay. “Alright.” My mind circles back to sex addiction because it’s the only one I don’t know much about. How does a sex addict recover? Abstinence? What if he wants children someday? Perhaps the methods of sobriety are different with sex addictions than drug and alcohol addictions.
I can think about that later. I follow him up the front steps, pause by the pillar of the cement front porch, and wait for him to get his keys out. His hands don’t shake like my dad’s, but he’s nervous about something. Me, probably. I’m the stranger here, and I just hated on him during breakfast and then made him admit all his addictions to me. I’m not an easy friend to have, which is why the only one I have is deaf and chooses not to read my lips most of the time.
Gage gets the door open, inviting me in. As soon as I pass him, I get a whiff of tobacco, but stronger than that, he smells like the laundry detergent my mom used to use. Wow, childhood memory unlocked.
“I’ve never been in here,” I say for no reason. Uncomfortable silences aren’t usually uncomfortable to me, so maybe I’m talking just to ease Gage’s nerves.
“Uh, me either, until the other day.” He closes the door behind me. “I didn’t grow up in this house.”
“But you grew up in this town?” I’ve met Slash before, too, so I kneel to pet him while he side-eyes Gage.
“Yeah. I… I guess I ruined the last house with bad memories.” He bends to pet the dog but decides halfway there not to. “Cookie?”
No, thanks. But I don’t say that.
On their kitchen table, kitchen counters, sticking out of the pantry, and even on the floor, there are unlabelled cardboard boxes with clear plastic spilling out from the top of the open ones. Gage opens the one closest to us, and I peek inside to see broken and jagged bits of cookies with some sort of chocolate icing on them.
“It’s a cookie factory,” Gage explains. “Uh, they sell the broken ones. My mom goes overboard.”
Wonder if he gets that from his mother or if it’s a trait he learned all on his own. I pick a broken cookie from the box and watch him do the same. He’s getting sketchy, his eyes shifting from place to place, and the way he keeps fucking with his hat makes me feel guilty. I’m not someone who puts many people at ease, so I take a deep breath, bite into the cookie, and walk around to the patio door at the back of the kitchen. The reflection of his bright shirt shows me his movements while my back is to him.
“This is a nice place. Do you like it here?”
“Wanna see my room?” He laughs. “That sounds weird because I’m twenty-seven, but I promise it’s cool. It’s in the attic. Secret staircase and everything.”
This is awkward, and I love it. Gage has no idea how to have a friend, and I don’t know if that’s a normal thing for him or a since-sober thing. According to my dad, he only got out of rehab this week, and he spent a year there, so friendships in his old hometown probably feel strange to him.
I finish the cookie and follow him up the secret staircase, which is basically just a narrow set of stairs behind a door you’d think led to a closet, and Slash trots ahead of us. My eyes are level with Gage’s ass, and the jeans he’s wearing no longer seem so casual. I watch my feet instead.
The top opens up into one big room that has no sense being a bedroom. Anyone else would turn it into a games room, a storage room, or some sort of library. If it were mine, I’d turn it into one of those rooms from detective shows with a murder board and yarn on the wall, whiteboards everywhere, and coffee mug rings on every surface.
Slash jumps on a box and then makes himself comfortable in the window seat, and I gawk at everything in Gage’s bedroom. I’ve never been in someone’s bedroom in the daylight.
“Are there bats?” is my first question.
Gage grins. “I’ve only been here a few nights, so I don’t know. And I spent most of last night at the kitchen table drinking tea.”
“A good sleep schedule is important for someone trying to build a healthy routine.” I peek at him, hoping he didn’t hear me say that. “Nice view.” I look out the picture window.
This house is taller than most on the street, so it gives a decent view of all the rooftops. I can even see the corner of our roof if I lean in far enough. Gage comes to stand beside me, and I smell that detergent and cigarette smoke again. I tug at the sleeves of my hoodie, unsure if I’m nervous or not, and when I look down, Slash is staring at us instead of out the window.
“I don’t know how to have a friend,” Gage admits, finally putting me at ease. I like it when other people feel awkward because it makes me feel less alone in my awkwardness. Quirks like company, I guess.
“Me either.” I look at him. “We don’t have to be friends. We can just be neighbours or something.” I shrug. “Takes the pressure off. Pretty sure my dad was just pimping me out because he thinks I’m lonely.”
“Are you?” Gage asks, sitting down on the window seat.
I sit on the other side, leaving Slash between us. “Kind of. Sometimes. Yes. Not all the time. I’m not friend material. I’m weird and proud of it.”
Gage points at himself. “And you think I’m friend material? I’ve literally pushed away everyone good in my life because I’m selfish and a bit of a dick.”
I can see that. “I’m just neurotic and, according to my dad, too intense.” When Gage smiles at that, I blurt out something that has no business being said. “I’m gay.”
“Okay.” He laughs. “Neurotic, intense, and gay. Got it.”
But I’m fishing. I want to know his sexuality, and now that I’ve brought it up, I can’t outright ask him without it looking like I’m fishing. So, I do what my dad tells me not to do and keep rambling.
“I’ve never been in a relationship. I’ve never really even told anyone I’m gay because I don’t have anyone to tell. Other than the few hook-ups I’ve had with strangers. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I’m also a Pisces and don’t believe in astrology, but sometimes I look at horoscopes anyway. I have an app for that. It’s next to Grindr on my phone, and even though I have a profile, I’ve never looked at the app outside of making the profile. My hook-ups didn’t come from Grindr. They came from a gay bar in the city, and I’m still not sure why I’m telling you this, but also, this is just me. Want me to leave?” I stand.
Gage touches my sleeve and pulls me back down, our hands landing on Slash’s head. The tiny dog huffs, which forces me to take a breath.
“Neurotic, intense, gay, and rambly. I like it.” Gage grins at me, and my whole body gets hot and I’m afraid my fingers are trembling, so I pull my hand away and clear my throat.
“And an oversharer,” I add. “But secretive, too.”
“Complex. Complicated,” Gage amends. “I’m neurotic, too, but in an obsessive way. Clearly, I have an addictive personality. I’m intense, mostly because I don’t have limit controls and just go all in on everything, which really helped my addiction along. I ramble a little when I’m nervous, but since being sober, I realize I’m more the shut up and listen type.” He looks at me, grinning because he left out the sexuality part. “We have a lot in common.”
“Like being gay?” I blurt.
Gage laughs, and again, I like the sound. It isn’t as reserved as before. “No. Not like being gay.”
Dammit . Probably for the best, though.
“I’m bi.”
And a recovering addict. A sex addict. My dad’s sponsee. My neighbour. My new friend. And you look incredible in sunset orange.
“And I had to delete all dating apps because the old me abused them.” He cringes a bit. “Why haven’t you looked at yours since you made the profile?” He rubs his hands over his thighs.
“Because I’m a hypocrite. I want to meet someone the old-fashioned way, even though I never go anywhere to meet people.” Deciding a change of topic is probably best, I ask, “Does it bother you when people ask if you’re okay?”
“Yes and no. I know I’ve given them reasons to ask, so it’s on me. But it fucking sucks knowing that I’ll forever just be a junkie, you know? No matter how long I’ve been sober, people in my life will always be waiting for a relapse.” Gage stands. “I need a smoke. Want me to walk you home?”
Is he asking because he wants to go outside and spend time with me, or is he asking because he’s trying to get rid of me? If he needs a smoke, does that mean I’m agitating him and making him antsy? Does he not like me in his room? I should never have mentioned the gay thing.
He doesn’t wait for an answer. We head downstairs, leaving Slash to the window seat, and Gage is already smoking by the time we get to the front porch. He spins his hat around to face backwards, thinks better of it, and turns it forward again. Pulled down low.
“What’re you doing for the rest of the day?” he asks. “It’s Friday. Do you work?”
“I have a gig on Fiverr. I work for myself.” Because I don’t want him to lead me, I start walking and hope he follows. “Do you know what Fiverr is?”
He follows. “Yeah, a site to offer services for hire. What kind of gig?”
“I build websites for small businesses. WordPress. Shopify. That sort of thing. Help them manage and upkeep their websites once they’re running, and I do a little PR management.”
“What’s that?”
“Like I help people with the business side of a new product launch or an email campaign. Stuff like that. Book releases, new products, setting up an online store with new merch. Newsletter marketing.” I shrug. “Mostly for indie artists, bloggers, and pop-up type places.” I squint into the sun to avoid looking at him.
“That’s cool. I run an online business, too. Well, I don’t run it well. I hyper fixated on digital products when I was younger. I made a bunch of planners, spreadsheets, trackers, and page designs that are compatible with digital planners and apps like Excel, Sheets, Goodnotes, and Notion. It kind of runs itself, but I’ve really dropped the ball on it. I started it before digital stuff got so popular, so… I dunno, it was all good timing and luck. It’s a lot harder these days.”
“Sticker packs,” I tell him. “You should sell digital sticker packs with digital planners. People eat that shit up. Is it an Etsy store?”
“I started on Etsy. It’s from my website now. A website I haven’t maintained in forever, so maybe I should look up your gig,” he says, smirking. “Up for another client, or are you booked solid?”
I think I’d take him on even if I was booked solid. I’m steady, and that’s how I like it, but I smile at him and nod. “I can help you out. No need to go through my gig.”
When we get to my house, Gage stops on the sidewalk. “Wanna hang out again?”
“So this one is over?”
He rubs the back of his neck while his cigarette burns down to the filter. “I, uh, need to find a meeting. Or something. Call your dad, maybe.”
My face gets hot. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s just who I am. Give me your number, though.” He hands me his phone, so I put my number in and add a blue heart to my name. When he texts me, he sends the crossed swords emoji, and I tilt my head at him. “Sorry. That’s because my mom is a metal… she makes swords, so I was joking with my brother… I didn’t mean it as…” He looks at his feet, his cheeks flushed pink. “Nice meeting you, Alexei Kopacek. Text me.” He backs away slowly, laughing as he goes. I watch him long enough to catch him looking back, and we both smile pathetically.
When I get inside the house, my mouth is smiling, my confidence is high, my head is buzzing, and my dick is hard.
Nice morning.