Day 9 New York, NY #2
When I’m done, we stand in front of the bathroom mirror together, and I can’t help reaching for him, pulling him close. Because I’ve never thought about it like this before, but we look good together.
Sam meets my eyes in the mirror, and for a second, I can’t read his expression. Then he sighs and pats my chest with his hand, his skin warm through the thin material.
“Come on, let’s get out of here before it gets too late.”
SAM
I must be on drugs, right? Because I feel like I’m going crazy.
Max insisted on pregaming before we left the house, so we split one of the 40s that nobody drank last night.
And we’re both a little buzzed, which is probably why he spent most of the ride on the PATH with his arm around my shoulders.
And why he held my hand for most of the walk through the Village to the bar.
And why he’s opening the door for me like I’m some sort of fancy lady, putting his hand on the small of my back as we walk into the space.
“Not the kind of music we’re used to, huh?” Max leans over to shout into my ear.
“No, I guess not,” I yell back.
The room is dark, except for the flash of colored lights that pulse along with the house music, a club remix of some Top 40 pop song.
It’s packed, too, with guys who look like me, lean and hard and flashing a lot of skin, chatting each other up at the bar or grinding on the dance floor or slipping off into dark corners.
I’m not even sure where to look, or what to do first.
Max seems to have an idea, though, because he takes me by the elbow to lead me through the crowd to the bar. There are a few bartenders working hard to serve the crowd, and after a couple of tries, we flag one of them down.
“What can I get you two? Our special tonight is a Long Island iced tea.” The bartender is cute, wearing a muscle tee that shows off his tattooed biceps.
“I’ll try one of those,” Max says. “Sammy, how about you?”
“Sure, why not?”
When the bartender serves us our drinks, Max takes a sip, then raises his eyebrows. “Man, that goes down easy. There must not be much booze in it.”
I try my own and shrug. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”
The bar is packed, and we’re nearly chest to chest, hemmed in on all sides. I’ve told myself over and over not to do anything stupid, but it’s hard not to look at him, to linger on his face.
“Nice to try something new and get out of our comfort zones, though,” he remarks.
“Are you sure you’re not too far out of your comfort zone?” I can’t help teasing. This place must be getting to me already. “Most straight guys would be running for the hills right now.”
Max touches my arm, and there’s a flush across my skin that has nothing to do with the weak drink I have in my hand. “Hey, as long as I’m with you, I don’t care where I am.”
Fuck, this was probably a bad idea.
MAX
How the fuck have I been so blind?
Sam is great. I mean, I always knew that. I always knew he was fucking fascinating — smart and kindhearted and funny, the best friend everyone wishes they had. There’s a reason I’ve hung out with him almost every day for pretty much my whole life.
But I don’t think I’ve ever let myself appreciate how truly pretty he is.
The way his long lashes frame his startling eyes when he looks up at me.
The way he bites his lower lip when I tease him, trying not to laugh.
His pink lips, moving as he talks, waiting for me to stop them.
His slender fingers (fuck you, Roxie), wrapped around his glass or brushing my arm or tapping on the surface of the bar.
I want to kiss him so badly that I can barely follow what he’s saying.
But how do you do that? How do you unlearn twenty years of not kissing your best friend? How do you show him that you really mean it, that this isn’t a joke to you?
I finish my drink, and I push the glass back across the bar before I turn to Sam. “Wanna dance?”
Sam laughs, draining his own glass and putting it down. “Do we even know how to dance to this kind of music? I don’t think anyone wants us to skank out there.”
“We’ll figure it out! Come on —”
I grab his hand and pull him through the crowd.
The dance floor is just as crowded as the rest of the place, packed with sweaty bodies — mostly men — all wrapped up in each other, moving as one.
It’s not exactly what we’re used to, but somehow my hands find Sam’s waist, and he drapes his arms loosely around my shoulders, and we find a rhythm, swaying together, stepping in time to the beat.
I’m feeling good, my whole body fluid and warm, buzzed but not too buzzed, more intoxicated by Sam’s closeness than by anything else.
I’m not sure how long we’re out there, whether it’s one song or five songs, one minute or one hour. It’s easy to lose track of everything but the beat, the heat of Sam’s body, the closeness of his lips, the drumbeat against my brain — just do it just do it just do it just —
I tilt my head to look at him at the same time he looks at me, and we lock eyes, everything going still except for the two of us. His gaze slides unmistakably to my mouth, his fingers curling around the strap of my borrowed tank top, and I’m going to go there — I’m —
“Fuck,” Sam whispers softly, and pulls away. “Hey, um — I’m thirsty. Let’s go get a drink.”
SAM
You’re an idiot, Sam Dove. You’re a fucking idiot and you’re going to ruin everything you care about and you deserve it.
I stride through the crowd, and I know Max follows because he appears at my elbow when I get to the bar, looking a little lost. Miraculously, two barstools open up right in front of us, and I plunk down on one of them. Max sits carefully on the other.
I’m living in fucking fantasy land. First there was the diner, and then the beach and the bathroom at the ska show and when we were wasted the other night and countless other times in the past five days, where I’ve felt the air vibrating between Max and me and thought — stupid shit.
Stupid shit that’s gonna make me lose my best friend. It has to stop.
The bartender comes over, a different one this time, and Max orders first. “Another Long Island iced tea?”
“And just water for me,” I snap. Clearly I can’t be trusted around even small amounts of alcohol.
We get our drinks, and the thing is, Max is still giving me that look, the one he’s been giving me all week, the one that turns my insides to jelly and makes me forget everything I ever knew.
I play with the straw in my drink. Maybe I just need to address this head on.
“You know —” I sigh, “I thought I told you not to look at a guy like that unless you’re planning on doing something about it.”
“How am I looking at you?” His voice is low and rumbly, sending prickly waves under my skin.
I glance up at him, and I’m caught in his brown eyes, the shockwaves turning into an electrical storm.
I lick my lips, willing the words to leave them. “You’re looking at me like you mean it.”
“What if I do mean it?”
I’m frozen for a second, and I almost believe him. Then I huff, covering his face with my open palm. “Please stop.”
I know Max likes to commit to the bit, that almost nothing is serious for him. But it fucking hurts that he would tease me about something like this.
Max pulls away, and I gulp down the rest of my water. “You know how I said I was coming here to hook up? You’ll be okay if I do that, right?”
He hesitates, but then the old smile is back. “Yeah, I already said it was fine. I’ll just be here. Don’t worry about me.”
“Okay, good.”
I slip off my barstool and make my way into the crowd. My heart is pounding in my chest, and I’m off my game, but it’s not too long before I see a guy sitting by himself, watching the action around him. He’s a good bit older than I am, but cute enough, I guess. I make a beeline for him.
“Hey, do you want to dance with me?”
The man smiles slowly, taking his time checking me out. “Are you sure your little boyfriend won’t mind?”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I snarl, and the man laughs.
“Okay, okay — lead the way, then.”
I need to do something to break the spell.
MAX
Ouch.
I don’t even watch him go. The bar is facing away from the dance floor, and there’s a mirror on the wall behind it.
So if I wanted to, I could follow the flash of Sam’s pink hair, looking out for him the way I’ve always done.
I could watch some other dude pawing at him and pour salt right into my fucking wounds.
But I don’t.
Instead I sip my drink. Damn, it tastes good. It slides down way too easy and settles in my gut.
I don’t know what the fuck I did wrong. Well, no.
I do. Like, I have all these new feelings, right?
I want something from Sam — something I’ve never wanted before.
But that doesn’t mean he needs to turn around and want me back.
Why the fuck would he? Look at me. I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.
I don’t know what any of this shit means.
I can’t even look in the mirror and say the fucking words out loud.
And like, I’m no champion in the sack. Krista made sure I knew that.
But Sam? He’s beautiful. He knows what he wants, and it’s not fucking me. I gotta get over it. I gotta find a way to gather up all this shit inside me and stuff it back where it came from.
I’m just downing the last of my drink when I hear a voice beside me.
“Hey, is this seat taken?” Damn, he’s tall — at least four inches taller than I am.
And I dunno, maybe this fruity-ass drink is doing something, because I feel like I’m looking at Brad Pitt in Fight Club.
He’s got the gym body and the bleached hair and the easy smile and everything.
And I’m thinking — there’s this question in my head that I need to answer, and I bet this dude could help me figure it out.
So I think of the way Sam looked at me back in the diner. And it’s way too fucking easy to lean back and give this guy the eyeball, taking my time before I answer. “Nope, it’s not taken.”