Chapter 20 #2
“Keeping Austin weird, right?” he says.
I chuckle. That’s almost the phrase.
“So, you were feeling all that—and you still beat Dimitris today?”
“Yeah. Today wasn’t terrible, but yeah.”
“That’s pretty amazing, then.”
“I don’t know. I think I got lucky,” I say, softly, because as much as I don’t want it to be true, it is. I could have easily lost today. In another world, I’m packing to go home right now.
“Do you ever think about how good you would be if you didn’t have to deal with that?”
His question lodges in the back of my throat.
Yes. I think about it. Every time I step onto a court. Every time I lose. Every time I win. Every time I make it this far, only to know it will catch up to me sooner or later. I think about it every day.
“Shit, dude, no, I’m sorry,” he says, moving toward me. He grabs my shoulder, and I lift my hand to brush a single tear from my face—a sneaky one slipping through the cracks, through the walls, escaping right in front of him, because somehow he asked the question that lives rent-free in my head.
“I’m good. I’m good.”
“Are you feeling anything right now?” he asks, concern creeping into his voice.
“It’s funny…I can sort of talk myself into one, an anxiety attack, describing all of it,” I say, shaking my head.
“Like, I was feeling fine, but trying to describe it, out loud, like, floats things back up. It’s so fucking bizarre.
” I laugh, because it really is. “Sorry. I’ll be fine,” I say, and I distract myself with another sip of my drink.
Hopefully this alcohol will kick in soon and I can go back to normal.
“I’m sure I look…really stupid here.” I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to reset.
And then I feel the warmth of his hand on my cheek—again—just like on court the day we met. His touch is light but confident, decided. He presses further as I open my eyes.
“I’m sorry for asking,” he says in a whisper.
“No—”
“What can I do?”
“Nothing, nothing. I’ll be fine.”
“Here.” He puts both of his hands on my shoulders.
“What are you doing?”
“Here. Turn this way…” he clarifies, and starts to turn me on the couch, leaning me down, down. And before I know it, my head is in his lap—in his fucking lap, resting on his quad like a pillow. I can’t believe this is happening.
“Close your eyes. My mom used to do this to me.”
I let out a nervous laugh but follow his directions.
“I would have nightmares when I was a kid, really terrible ones, and I would wake up crying my eyes out, so worked up. And she would do this—put my head on her lap and run her fingers through my hair…”
And there they are, the tips of his fingers against my scalp, lightly first, then firm, tracing through my hair. My eyelids close slowly, giving in to the comfort. I sink into the plush of the couch, melting at his touch. And then he does something even more surprising. Diego Cruz starts to sing.
Una rata vieja que era planchadora
por planchar su falda se quemó la cola
His voice is soft, low, his fingers still working my head. I try to keep up with the lyrics, but I can hardly concentrate.
se puso pomada y se amarró un trapito
y a la pobre rata le quedó un rabito
“What’s this song?” I ask him.
“It’s called ‘Una Rata Vieja,’ a children’s song.”
“Pretty.”
“Translates to…‘An Old Rat.’ ”
“Oh. Interesting choice.”
“I know.” He laughs. “It’s what she’d sing to me, and it made me feel better. Is it working?”
“Yes, your rat song is working.”
“Good.” We sit in silence as he continues running his fingers through my hair. And then I feel his body move, and my heart sinks because it’s over. But it isn’t. Through barely open eyes, I watch him lower his head—slowly—and place his warm lips on my forehead. A gentle kiss. And a whisper.
“You’re going to be all right.”
I open my eyes fully.
“And that’s how she would end it,” he adds.
“Okay,” I say, sitting back up and sliding to the other side of the couch. “Thanks.”
“What?” he asks as I squint at him, trying to find the words for what I’m feeling, what I want to say.
I shake my head. “I don’t know. I—”
I just went from anxious to relaxed to confused, and I need a second to understand my life right now. And I need to finally understand what he wants from whatever the fuck we’re doing.
“Look,” I say. “I really like hanging out with you. Clearly.”
“Good. Me too—”
“But I feel like you should be…” I pause, deciding on the words. I don’t want to blow this whole thing up. “I feel like you should be more careful here. Like, you’re gonna give me the wrong idea.”
Diego doesn’t flinch.
“Like, you can’t just…kiss my head!” I laugh at the absurdity of saying it out loud.
“It’s nice—it’s so nice—but I’m gonna go back to my hotel and wonder what the fuck it means all night long, and get like zero sleep.
” Whatever anxiety he managed to melt away comes rushing back as I try to articulate the storm he’s been brewing in my head all week. It’s all coming out.
He exhales. And now it’s his turn to take a gulp of champagne. “I’m not trying to give you the wrong idea,” he says after a moment. “I think…I think I’m trying to give you the right one?”
“What does that mean?” I ask. But deep down, I think I know. Should I just go for it? Should I just outright ask him? Is it rude to ask him? He asked me about my anxiety, and that’s fucking personal too. Can we just be done with all this already? Can I get a yes or a no?
“Are you gay?” I ask.
He sits there, staring back at me. His mouth twists.
“I’m not”—he pauses—“not.”
“You’re not not?”
“I don’t know, Austin. I felt straight until you came around!” he says, jolting off the couch to pace the room.
Holy shit. “So that’s a…maybe?”
“It’s an I don’t know.”
“Which is fine. It’s fine.” Because it is. He doesn’t have to know anything or be anything or decide anything.
He stops his aimless laps around the furniture and stands a few feet away from me, eyes glued to mine, glass in hand. And I wind up for the biggest swing of my life.
“Well,” I say, fighting the shake in my voice, “do you wanna find out?”
His response comes with no hesitation.
“Yes.”
And in a split second he moves toward me, just as I jump up from the couch.
His glass falls to the carpet with a thud, and our bodies meet like a car crash.
Lips, teeth, tongue…everything pent up releasing into the wild.
His hand grabs the back of my head, and I feel my entire world opening up, feel that I can do anything, be anything—with him.
His hands move from my neck to my back, pulling me closer to him.
I do the same, my hands running over the map of muscles across his shoulders.
I’ve never felt this feeling before and I never want it to end and I—
He pulls away.
“What?” I ask. “What?”
“I like it. I do,” he says, meeting my eyes. “I— Can we just slow things, a bit?” He hangs his head.
Fuck. Fuck. Was that too much? Did I pressure him into this? Fuck.
“Austin, I like it, I promise,” he adds, calming my spiral, as if he can read my mind.
“Yeah, sure. Of course we can. Yeah.” I find my way back to the couch and sit. He takes his original place.
He laughs softly to himself, shakes his head.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head harder. “I don’t know. You make me feel—you make me feel so…nervous.”
I do a double take at that. “I make you feel nervous?” I ask, hopping off the couch again. I can’t control this energy, these nerves, and I have to keep moving.
“You do, Austin,” he says earnestly.
“Dude, you’re a walking anxiety trap for me. Do you know who you are?”
“Can we both be nervous, then?”
A breathy chuckle escapes both of us, and I sit in the chair across from him, pressing my hand to my cheek.
“What do we do now?” I ask, genuinely, because I don’t know where we go from here, and I don’t know what to do with my heartbeat right now.
“I don’t know.” Diego thinks for a moment.
I can’t believe any of this is happening.
I don’t even feel attached to my body. None of this feels real.
But there he is, sitting with his legs crossed on the couch, staring at me with those eyes, those lips that were just locked on mine.
A flutter of warmth radiates from my stomach.
“Do you…want to see something cool in the bedroom?” he asks.
“See, when I say don’t give me the wrong idea, that’s what I’m talking about.”
He laughs. “No, it’s not like that. Come see.”
I follow him to his bedroom, the carpet soft on my bare feet, and I catch a whiff of his cologne, or shampoo, or whatever it is, and I’m thinking about kissing him again.
“Okay, onto the bed,” he says, pointing.
“Dude, what did I just say.”
“Do it. Come on.”
Reluctantly, I follow his directions, navigating the many decorative pillows and trying to ignore the pair of folded Calvin Kleins on the corner of the bed.
He walks over to the other side, presses a few buttons on a touch screen, and a faint hum of a motor comes from the foot of the bed. Slowly, a TV screen rises from the bed frame, right in front of us.
“Okay, yeah, this is pretty cool,” I admit. Fancy hotels are something else.
“I told you,” he says, hopping next to me on the bed. “Will you watch something with me?”
“Sure, let’s watch something,” I say through a smile. I can’t wipe it from my face. I don’t think he can wipe his off either. “We can do a coin toss. Phineas and Ferb or Gilmore Girls.”
“Will it make you feel better if we do your show?”
“I’m fine. I’m feeling fine.”
“No, let’s do yours,” he insists. “Golden Girls it is.”
—
At some point later in the night, I wake up to the hotel’s welcome screen looping on the TV, casting the room in a turquoise glow. The weight of Diego’s head rests on my shoulder. Carefully, I reach for the remote. If I wake him, he may move, and I want to stay like this forever.