Chapter 6 Evan
EVAN
The sound of the bench press clanking wakes me just after five on Monday morning.
Deacon’s home. I’d like to be happy about that, but since the whole Sunday date that was “maybe” going to happen ended up with me eating takeout Chinese food and breaking my software even more, I’ve been slightly depressed. That’ll teach me to get my hopes up.
It’s also got me thinking more and more about Hunter’s offer. If it was serious. If it’s true there are no strings. If I want a different life.
My crush on Deacon started off innocent.
He’s beautiful. Sexy. Kind. We have things in common with our jobs and our shared living space.
If he’s gay or even bi, it seemed like the natural conclusion to my moving in would be that we’d hit it off and hook up.
But that’s not what happened. He’s friend zoned me hard.
Or roommate zoned me. I’m not sure which is worse.
I’m his plus one with his finance friends, and I run interference between him and Millie when she comes on too strong, but whatever takes him away every weekend has left me on the outskirts of his life.
I suspect he’s seeing someone who lives out of town. Whether it’s a man or a woman, I’ve got no clue, but that would explain why he’s never so much as checked out my crotch, no matter how many tight pairs of shorts or gray sweatpants I parade around in.
My once fun and innocent crush has turned into something more like hopeless pining that hurts a little more every time I fail to break through with him.
My friend Sam, who is the only person who knows I have both a hopeless crush on Deacon and an inappropriate relationship with my boss has quizzed me relentlessly on why I won’t try to find someone who’s actually available.
Since I think about this a lot—because I’m alone a lot—I’ve concluded that it all goes back to what happened with Hunter in college.
His willingness to share me with anyone and everyone who asked left my self-worth in the fucking gutter.
My parents may think I’m the VIP of the world, but I have yet to meet a guy in San Francisco who pursued anything more than a night with me, not that I’ve wanted more, either.
And I guess I’ve gotten used to it? It’s better than getting stuck in a situation that has the potential to hurt me.
Bottom line—sex with Isaac is safe. He’s not gonna tell anyone about it. I like my job, so I’m sure as shit not gonna say anything. He’s consistently dating and looking for marriage or whatever, and I’m too emotionally damaged to be bothered by the fact that he wants me for the wrong reasons.
Deacon is safe, too. There’s something about wanting someone from the privacy of your own brain that mitigates the risk of getting totally fucked over, and I guess I’m into that kind of thing.
Still…Hunter got me thinking. Remembering the good times made me stupid enough to give asking Deacon out a try, and look how that went. Hurt feelings: Szechuan style.
I sigh and flop onto my stomach, trying not to think of his not coming home this weekend as being stood up.
Normally, at this early hour, I’d go back to sleep, because what the hell am I gonna say to him anyway? Need a spotter? Pecs look great. Want me to make the coffee?
Or maybe I could just straddle him when he’s lying on the bench press and see what happens.
I cup my crotch because the thought makes my dick twitch, and an erection is the last thing I need.
I’m wide awake after a few more minutes.
Eventually, I get out of bed, throw on my running clothes, and signal to Apollo that it’s time to go.
As we’re passing through the living room, I do my best not to look over at Deacon on the bench press.
“Did I wake you?” he asks, sounding concerned.
“It’s no problem.” I flash him a sleepy smile. I get the dog’s leash on, and we leave without another word.
The best thing I can say about sexual frustration of the Deacon variety is that it makes me go harder on my workouts.
Apollo isn’t a huge fan, but his legs are long enough that he’s capable of keeping up.
We walk to Buena Vista park so he can take care of his business, but once I’ve disposed of his mess, we start running. And that’s when she catches up to me.
“Good morning, neighbor! You’re out early.”
My first response to Millie’s jump scare is to haul ass, but maybe she’s the distraction I need.
It’s not like I’ll have to do much of the talking.
Millie’s biography highlights are that she’s twenty-five—my age—is originally from Portland, and also works in tech.
Her job is actually cool, though. She works in game design, creating some of the amazing graphics in the most popular games on the market.
She’s heavily tattooed. She loves her French Bulldog.
She doesn’t know the meaning of neutral colors, and she’s one of those people who always has music playing on her phone.
Every kind of music from African drumbeats, Gregorian chants, Chappell Roan, Sleep Token, to George Strait.
This morning she’s got an EDM beat playing at the exact pace of her strides. I guess she assumes it might be helpful to other people—otherwise, she’d wear headphones, right?
I say good morning, which is the only opener she needs.
“Do Apollo’s nipples ever get tender? Every time I try to rub Manon’s belly, she’s trying to get away from me.”
Manon—pronounced in the French way—sounds a little like Ma-Known, but Millie always says it with an accent, too. The dog is a funny looking little thing with bug eyes and a brindle coat.
“I never noticed.”
“And I swear they’re bigger. That’s never happened?”
“I mean—Apollo’s a boy.”
“You think that’s it? Female dogs have bigger nipples?”
“That could be it.”
“But why the tenderness?”
“Maybe she just doesn’t want her belly rubbed.”
Millie laughs, and—not exaggerating—it sounds like wind chimes. “That’s so silly.”
“Did you google it?”
“No! I don’t need the internet convincing me my puppy has breast cancer. I’m taking her to the vet after I’m done with work.”
Manon has been to the vet more times than I’ve been to the doctor in my entire life.
“Does Deacon run?” she asks, onto the next topic.
“He has a treadmill.”
“Well, I know that, but if he’s gonna do an Iron Man, trail running is key. He knows it’s different, right? Like it activates different muscle groups and builds better mind-foot connection. He should really get outside more. Or wait—has he already done the Iron Man?”
I’m not convinced Deacon’s actually training for an Iron Man. I’ve never once seen him on a bike, nor have I ever noticed him going for a swim. He works out at home, exclusively, from what I can tell. If I thought Deacon had pick up lines, I’d guess the Iron Man thing was a line.
“The marathon is brutal. I lost two toenails during my last one.”
“Wow,” I say.
“They’ve never been the same. But I still swear by trail running. Pedicures are miraculous.”
Millie also thinks yarn is miraculous.
My watch alarms, telling me I need to start heading back. I set the alarm because there’s no reason to run for more than thirty minutes ever. I don’t enjoy it, it’s cold out here, and frankly, I don’t want Apollo to get joint problems. I spin in a circle to head the opposite direction.
“We need to head back,” I tell Millie who’s running in place in her reflective blue jacket and patchwork leggings. She makes or modifies all her clothes, usually from thrift store finds. Thrift stores–also miraculous.
“I need three more miles. I’ll let you know what the vet says.”
“I’m sure she’s fine.” I try to sound reassuring. “Have a great day.”
“You, too. Tell Deacon I said hi, and if he ever wants any information on running outside, I’m right across the hall, and I’m always looking for a running buddy.”
I bet she is. It’s no secret she’s got a big crush on my roommate. She’s around all the time, always popping over for a cooking tip or to give him some little gift she made like a candle or a macramé wall hanging. As far as I know, she’s never asked him out, and I have no idea whether he’d say yes.
Some things about Deacon make perfect sense to me, and others leave me hopelessly guessing.
When I get home, Deacon has vacated the living room, and I expect he’ll be leaving for work soon.
I make coffee, but only enough for myself.
He drinks espresso, and I don’t know how to work his fancy machine.
Also, I don’t like espresso. Isaac does, though.
He drinks so much of it, I swear I can taste it in his cum.
He’s probably got a machine even better than Deacon’s.
Although, that’s assuming he makes his own, and honestly, who the fuck knows.
Isaac is such a stupidly charming blend of “I got this” and absolute cluelessness.
Like he’ll put together a complicated spreadsheet in seven minutes, but try to get him to order a salad from the deli on a delivery app? Impossible—Evan—get in here.
What should I wear for him today? I wonder as I stare into my closet, waiting for something to inspire me.
The soft knock on my door startles me and Apollo, who barks at Deacon, but only once.
“Hey,” my roommate says to me and then to the dog, “Sorry.”
I’m in my underwear and have an overwhelming urge to cover myself. I reach for the bed, trying to grab the throw blanket, but wind up gripping a pillow and using it to cover my front. This went from awkward to ridiculous in no time.
“Hey. What’s up?”
His gaze has already averted. He’s focused on the newly asleep dog on my bed. “Sorry for waking you earlier.”
“You didn’t,” I lie. I don’t actually mind Deacon being diligent about his workouts. Maybe I should. If we’re just roommates, it should annoy me that he’s noisy at five a.m., but between that, his cooking and his dimples, it’s all just…charming.