Chapter 7 Henry #2
He smirked. “I tried a few times, but I couldn’t get the hang of it.
I have a friend who’s permanently attached to her knitting needles - I’m pretty sure she has a whole room in her house devoted to knitting supplies - and she’s tried to teach me, but fuck, that shit is hard.
I kept making knots instead of stitches.
I suspect I’d be just about as good at making furniture as I would be at knitting. ”
I fought off a mental image of Jamison tangled in a ball of yarn like a naughty cat. Mental-Jamison might have been wearing cat ears, too. What, they were cute on him!
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why does me saying I suck at something make you smile like that?” he demanded.
“Uh.”
“Hmm?” Shit, his right eyebrow was going up. He meant business.
“I was picturing you as a cat playing with yarn,” I admitted quickly, then stuck my hands up by my head and wiggled my fingers like cat ears, like the idiot I was. “It was adorable.”
He blinked, squinted, and took another sip of his drink before looking back up at me in apparent consternation. “I’m gonna be honest, I have absolutely no idea how to respond to that.”
Of course he didn’t. Who said things like I was imagining you as a cat to a near-stranger? “Let’s…” I winced. “Let’s just pretend I never said that.”
“Can I still keep the mental image of you acting out kitty ears, though?”
“I’d rather you didn’t?”
He grinned. “Too late, it’s embedded in my consciousness. Foreverrrrr. I’ll be on my deathbed, barely breathing, and I’ll start laughing at the memory.”
Eh, could be worse. He could be laughing at me. Or just up and leaving. “Glad to be of service,” I deadpanned, eating the rest of my roll in one big bite.
Jamison eyed me as I chewed and swallowed, but didn’t say anything until my mouth was clear again, at which point he said, “I’m impressed. I didn’t think you could swallow all that at once.” A pause, and our eyes met as we both realized what he’d said at the same time.
We cracked up. Nothing like an accidental double entendre to break the awkward ice. “You…” I gasped through my laughter, “you have no idea what a real man can swallow.”
“Just saying,” he cackled back, “you have more than a mouthful over there. Can confirm.” He wiggled his eyebrows.
“Oh my god.” I threw a hand over my eyes. “Can we not…”
“Moreeee…than a mouthfullll….” he sang at half-volume.
I looked around the room, but surprisingly, no one was staring at the crazy men at the bar. “You’re insane,” I informed him.
“You laughed too, big guy!”
“Well,” I protested, “I didn’t say I was any saner than you. I’m having this conversation, aren’t I?”
His laughter died slowly, and he met my eyes. “And I’m glad you are.” He reached out to pat my hand, gamely ignoring the smear of butter I belatedly noticed I’d left on it. “I’m glad you agreed to meet me. I kinda have the impression you don’t get out much. And maybe that people are hard for you.”
He’d nailed it, but how? I thought I’d been doing a pretty good job of peopleing when it came to being around him.
We’d met at a bar the first night, after all.
And we’d been texting semi-regularly. I’d offered to teach him how to braid, for god’s sake!
“I, um.” I cleared my throat. “I’m mostly a homebody. ”
“Well.” He smiled. “I imagine Curie needs your attention a lot of the time.”
It was kind of him to pretend that the cat gave the slightest shit where I was at any given moment.
“Yeah,” I agreed automatically, then shook my head.
“Nah. She doesn’t really care. I mean, she likes to hang out with me, but she’s fine when I’m out, too.
Mostly I just find going out stressful and uncomfortable.
I mean,” I added hastily, “I can do it. I’m not agoraphobic. But home is so…comfy, comparatively.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, you’ve been doing a good job peopleing with me. I know I can be a lot, and you haven’t run screaming yet, even after the way we met, so I respect the hell out of that. And you’ve been nothing but classy even when I’m…not.”
I frowned at that. He thought he was classless? “Hey, you’re not not classy. You just make a lot of jokes.”
“About sex furniture,” he pointed out. “That make people like you uncomfortable.”
Was he embarrassed? I immediately felt bad about making him feel that way.
“Hey, no,” I said, picking up another roll - with a gentler grip this time - and fiddling with it.
“You don’t make me uncomfortable. You make me feel weirdly comfortable most of the time, actually.
I mean, considering how we barely know each other, and The Mistake -”
“?,” he interjected.
“?,” I agreed gamely. “Anyway what I mean is that just because I, like, blush or forget how to human doesn’t mean you’ve done anything wrong. It just means I’m a redhead and not great at conversation.”
Another lemonade appeared in front of me, followed shortly by our plates. We thanked the bartender and I switched my straw into my new glass. “Hmm,” Jamison mused, looking from his plate to mine and inching his fork in my direction.
I shook my fork defensively at him. “Nope. You promised, we each get our own first bite.” When his fork paused but didn’t draw back, I jabbed mine playfully at the back of his hand, pulling the blow at the last second so as to not actually stab him. “Mine.”
“Hmph.” Pouting, he moved back to his own food and cut off a piece of his steak. “What fun is it when I have to eat what I chose for myself, I ask you?”
I took a deep whiff of my food, enjoying the scent of cream with the tang of wine.
“I promise you can have a taste of mine. After I do.” And with that, I forked up my first bite, ignoring Jamison’s puppydog eyes.
The chicken was piping hot, and I barely managed to not do the panting-dog thing you do when you burn your mouth.
It was good, though - creamy and slightly spicy with just a hint of fruitiness from the wine. “Mmm,” I murmured.
Jamison swallowed his own first mouthful and scowled theatrically at me. “Showoff.”
I shrugged off his protest. “It’s good. How’s yours?”
“Good, actually. Not overcooked, which puts it ahead of a lot of steaks I get at restaurants.”
“Oh, you’re one of those,” I observed dryly. “Do you prefer your cow to still be mooing?”
“Ew, no.” He shook his head and, before I could stop him, forked up a bite of my chicken. He slipped it into his mouth and made an exaggerated face of orgasmic pleasure as he chewed. “Ok, I’m getting that next time. Hnghh.”
Deciding that if I couldn’t beat him, I’d join him, I reached over and cut off a bite of his steak for myself to try.
“Anyway,” he said after he swallowed, making no objection to my theft of his food, “no, I’m not a still-bleeding steak person. But I like it with some pink still in it, and you’d be surprised by how many times I order medium and get all-the-way gray.”
“All-the-way gray sounds like a good name for a paint color,” I mused. “Or an emo band name.”
“ ‘Yes dear’,” he intoned in a girlish voice, “‘I want to paint the nursery the color of overdone steak. This is just perfect!’”
“Someone, somewhere, wishes that was an option,” I said with a grin. “Believe me when I tell you that some people’s taste in decor is…highly questionable.”
His eyes lit up. “Ooh, I detect a story. Have people asked you to make weird shit?” He ate another bite of steak. “Or paint your stuff weird colors? Wait, do you paint your stuff?”
“I can,” I allowed. “But usually it’s just staining rather than actual paint.
Most people want their wood to look like wood.
” I took a sip of lemonade and twirled up some of the pasta that had come with my chicken.
“Don’t look,” I ordered him, just before attempting to slurp up the pasta without getting it all over my face. My success was…limited.
He looked. And then he raised his napkin and wiped butter off my chin.
“I’m not sure whether to say you’re rude,” I said, raising my own napkin to wipe the rest of it off, “or thank you for the assistance.”
“Always be thankful when a guy wipes white stuff off your face after the fact,” he said with a grin. “It’s just the polite thing to do.”
I couldn’t suppress my eye roll. “I made that too easy for you.”
“Ok, big guy,” he teased. “Now, tell me more about bad design decisions you’ve had to shut down. Or even better, the ones you haven’t been able to shut down!”
***
Two hours later, a tipsy Jamison and I said goodbye at the door of the Cheesecake Factory. We parted with about as much awkwardness as I would have expected, with me unsure whether a hug was acceptable and him grabbing me in a bear hug before I could spend too much time overthinking things.
“You take care of yourself, my friend” he said into my chest. “I’ll let you know when I get my latest results.”
I patted his shoulder. “Same. But we’ll be fine, yeah?”
He sighed. “Yeah. Fine.” He pointed over his shoulder. “Ok I should head out. Wait -” He squeezed me again. “One more for the road,” he said with a grin, and then released my waist. “Talk to you soon, ok?”
I couldn’t resist the tug of longing that rose in me at his easy affection.
I wished I could be like that, just reaching out and hugging someone because I wanted to and it felt good.
But no, I was always too hung up on whether it was the right time, what they’d think of me, whether my hugs were good enough…
Enough, Hen. I coughed a little and offered Jamison my best smile. “Soon, yep.”
Jamison flipped me a wave and turned down the street.
I stood there for a few seconds, watching his retreating form and wondering what it would be like to see him and get those hugs regularly.
He was a good hugger. Solid squeezes, no fluttering or wandering hands.
Didn’t smell like potpourri or just pot. A++ would hug again.
I checked my watch, noting that it was nearing five p.m. How had that happened? At least I’d gotten some work done this morning, so I wasn’t behind, but wow, time flew when you were socializing.
That’s what we’d been doing, right? Socializing? This definitely hadn’t just been a Check in about test results meetup, or even a Keep in touch with the guy so he’ll keep you updated meetup. This had been a Bored on a Saturday, let’s do something fun meetup. Like friends did.
Before I could stop myself, I’d pulled out my phone and texted Jamal.
Me: I think I made a friend!
Jamal: Aw, my widdle boy is all grown up! Who’s your new friend?
Me: Well, new-ish? Jamison, the guy who…you know.
Jamal: The guy you wildly banged while throwing caution to the wind? That Jamison?
Me: I wouldn’t put it exactly like that. But…yes.
Jamal: And what makes you think your fuckbuddy is a friend now? Wait, can he be a fuckbuddy when you’ve only fucked him once? Wait, you have still only fucked him once, right? Or was that what today was??
Me: J! No, today was not about sex. He found out I’d missed breakfast and insisted we meet for a late lunch, and then we sat and chatted for a couple hours. The thing hardly even came up other than us mentioning that we’d be in contact with test results.
Jamal: So what did you talk about?
Me: A little of everything, really. He wanted to hear some of my work horror stories and about some of the more…out-there stuff I’ve produced. We talked a little about his sister and how she puts pressure on him. I told him about finding Curie as a kitten.
Jamal: Sounds like a well-rounded conversation, such as might be had by…dun dun dun…friends!
Me: I feel like I need to insert a girlish squeal here.
Jamal: EeeEEEeeee! ← like that?
Jamal: [gif of teenage girls jumping up and down and clapping]
Jamal: But seriously, I’m proud of you for getting out of the house and meeting up with someone who’s not me. I know that shit’s hard for you.
Me: I’d kinda like to make this a thing we do, but I…
don’t know how? Like, it feels like asking him on a date to text him and be like, ‘Hey man, wanna hang out?’ I need to know where I want to hang out, what I want to do, and then invite him, and then do we hug, and I mean damn we’ve already fucked so do we kiss, what if he wants to have sex again, how do I even know what he wants, how the fuck do I know what I want and just aaaaa…
Jamal: My friend. Breathe. Why don’t you invite him over to exchange your next round of test results? Offer to show him your workshop and let him meet the furball. It sounds like he’d be interested in both of those.
Me: Ok. Ok, yeah. I can do that. I…can do that, right?
Jamal: Honestly, I have no idea how you’re not still a virgin sometimes.
Me: People ask me out.
Jamal: I’d love to have your problems.
Me: I hate you.
Jamal: Love you too.