Will was acting normal most of Monday, apart from the more-than-normal smiles and the not-normal happy-to-be-at-work-on-a-Monday thing, and as much I wanted to bring up Mr Perfect-with-the-stupid-name, I didn’t.
On Tuesday when he walked in to the office, he was all smiles.
“Someone’s rather cheerful this morning,” I prompted.
But nothing. He still wouldn’t say anything. He just smiled.
And after five minutes of torturous silence, I couldn’t help myself. I stood up and looked over the cubicle wall. “Let me guess, your smile has something to do with Mr Perfect?”
His smile widened slowly. “Maybe.”
“You spoke to him?”
“I did.”
“Did he call you, or did you call him?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
Will was quiet for a long, smug moment. “He called me.”
“Still going out tomorrow?”
“Yes, we are.”
“Is he still perfect?”
Before Will could answer, Hubbard’s voice boomed from across the room. “Mr Gattison! Do you plan on doing any work today?”
“Just discussing the advantages of six-strand construction spun around a steel core against galvanized round wires, helically spun together to form locked coil strands of stainless steel cables.” I gave him a charming smile.
Hubbard glared at me for a long moment, then he huffed. I was bullshitting and he knew it. “Of course you were.”
“I swear on my mother’s next martini, sir,” I said, sitting back down at my desk. When Hubbard had disappeared and after about two minutes of solid keyboard tapping, I asked Will, “So will he show you his fire truck?”
I knew he could hear me, but it took him a long moment to answer. “Hope so.”
We didn’t really get a chance to speak again after that. I didn’t really know what to say. We were even a little quiet at lunch, which wasn’t like us. We never ran out of things to talk about. Ever.
It was never supposed to be like this. It was never supposed to get weird.
Not with Will.
I wanted him to find someone who made him happy—I pushed him into it with that stupid fucking list.
I wasn’t sure, now that he’d found that, why it bothered me so much.
So when we grabbed a sandwich and walked to Bushnell Park, we still hadn’t spoken and I just couldn’t stand it. I had to think of something to say that wasn’t related to Mr Perfect-fireman-horse-rider Clay.
“Did you like that Ted guy?” I asked.
“Who?”
“The George Hamilton lookalike that was attached to my mother on Sunday?”
Will laughed at my description. “Yeah, he seemed okay. He was rather taken with your Mom. And her with him.”
“Yeah, she’s moving in, the wedding is in two weeks.”
Will stopped walking and stared at me. “Are you serious?”
“No, not at all,” I answered, “but should we take bets to see how long it takes.”
“Did you take lessons in cynical?”
“I did, yes. I was so good at it, I now teach ‘How to be a cynical jerk’ at the local community college. I can get you discount rates if you want. Just tell them I sent you.”
“And sarcasm?”
“Yep, I have my Masters in sarcasm. I can get you a two-for-one deal if you want.”
Will laughed again. “You would seriously charge me to take one of your hypothetical classes?”
“Hypothetical is an extra charge,” I told him, sitting down on a bench seat. “And anyway, I have to make a living somehow. I’d consider prostitution, but it’s against my moral standing to enjoy my work.”
Will chuckled. “God forbid you actually like what you do.” He opened up his sandwich, peeled off the cucumber, and handed it to me.
“I don’t know why you order food if you don’t like it,” I said, happily eating the cucumber. “I’m sure they’d make you a fresh one without the cucumber.”
“But you’ll eat it,” he said, biting into his sandwich.
And we were finally back to our normal selves. We talked as we always did—about random crap. We had a ten-minute conversation on the benefit of Frosted Flakes versus bran. Because really, no one eats that bran shit without adding a pound of sugar.
Will didn’t agree.
So then the argument careened into a debate about tooth decay and obesity in children. For another ten minutes we debated back and forth, but he just wouldn’t concede that kids are fat these days because of their parents.
“You can’t just blame the parents.”
“Why not?”
“What about the companies that sell the overprocessed crap, and the FDA that approves the chemicals, sodium, and sugars?”
“Well,” I countered, “they can manufacture and sell any product they like, but it’s the parents who buy it. If it’s not in the house, the kids can’t eat it.”
“Mark, you do know it’s cheaper to buy fries than a salad, right?”
“Well, I don’t agree with that,” I said. “I mean, I agree with what you’re saying—it is cheaper. I just don’t think that’s acceptable. But,” I said, changing my tone, “I still think the parents have no right to complain that it’s everyone else’s fault, when they’re the ones who purchase the product.”
“How about the advertising agencies?” Will asked.
“You know what’s cheaper and faster than fries, Will?” I answered his question with a question. “A freakin’ apple. Kids should try that sometime.”
Will looked at me curiously for a long moment, then he looked left and right, like he was looking for something.
“Is this conversation boring you?” I asked.
“No, I’m just looking for the cameras and cast and crew of Punk’d.”
“Oh, ha ha,” I said sarcastically. “Very funny.”
“You know,” Will said with a smile. “If you had kids, you’d let them do whatever they wanted. You’d be the biggest softy ever.”
“If I had kids?” I asked incredulously. “What drugs did you take this morning?”
“Answer me this,” he said seriously. “If you had kids, would you let them eat Frosted Flakes? Or bran?”
“Oh, man,” I said with a groan. “I can see what you’re doing, but you’re wrong. My kids could eat Frosted Flakes because to make them eat bran should be considered as child abuse.”
“Mm mm,” he hummed. “I’m pretty sure it’s not classed as child abuse to feed your kids bran without sugar.”
“It should be.”
Will grinned at me, then checked his watch. “Come on, or Hubbard will fire your ass.”
“Not before I tell him to kiss it.”
We made our way back to work, and we were all back to good. At work on Wednesday, things were good between us. I even told him I wanted every sordid detail of his date with Clay.
I kept myself busy that night so I wouldn’t sit there wondering what they were doing all night, by phoning my mother.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, sounding rather alarmed.
“Oh, nothing,” I fibbed. “Just bored. Thought I’d call and see how things with Ted are going?”
There was a beat of silence. “He’s here, actually. We’re having dinner.”
“Oh.”
“Where’s Will?”
I knew that question was coming, but still dreaded it. “He’s on a date with that guy from Sunday.”
“Oh.” She sounded surprised.
“Yes, apparently he’s a fireman, too.”
“Oooh, I wonder if he’ll take Will to see the fire truck.”
I fell back onto the sofa. “It really is uncanny how similar we are,” I said. “I had that exact thought.”
Mom laughed into the phone, but then she was quiet. “You okay, my love?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I answered, though it wasn’t the exact truth.
“Did you want to come over here,” she asked. “There’s enough food for you. Have you eaten?”
“Nah, I ate already,” which was another half-truth. I’d had a bowl of Frosted Flakes for dinner. “Plus you don’t need me crashing your date. How is Ted, anyway?”
“He’s very sweet,” she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice.
“I better let you get back to your date,” I told her. “I’ll call you on the weekend.”
It was a pretty sad state of affairs when my mother and my best friend were on dates and I was staring at the TV. I considered getting dressed and going out, but couldn’t be assed, so I clicked off the television and went and stared at the ceiling in my bedroom instead.
I was dying to ask Will about his date. Dying.
And of course, he was tight lipped and gave nothing away. But he smiled and that told me his night went well.
“Okay, you’re smiling so that tells me the date with Clay was good,” I hedged. “But you’re wearing your own clothes which tells me you went home, so it might not have gone that well. Unless he’s wearing your clothes?”
Will rolled his eyes. “It didn’t go that well.” Then he mumbled, “It almost did.”
“But you stopped it?” I asked.
“He did.”
“Gattison!” Hubbard’s voice called out across the room.
I rolled my eyes and sat my ass in my seat, trying not to think about Will making out with Mr Perfect.
He stopped it. Clay stopped it. Which meant Will wanted it.
Will wanted more with Clay.
Oh.
It’s funny how much work you can get done when you’re trying not to think.
The rest of the week was much the same. Will smiled, and he seemed happy. He’d get random texts and smile at his phone, and every time his phone would beep, my stomach would drop.
On Friday at work, I asked if he wanted to go out that night, but he said he had plans with Clay. So I suggested the weekend, but he gave me a sad sort of smile. “Sorry, man.”
“Let me guess. He’s gonna show you his fire truck?”
Will’s smile grew. “Hope so.”
“So.” I batted my eyelashes. “Is Mr Perfect, perfect?”
Will rolled his eyes and ignored my question. He turned his computer off. He looked over his tidy desk. “Are you done?”
“It’s five o’clock on Friday,” I told him. “I’m so done.”
“What are you gonna do tonight?” he asked as we walked toward the elevator. “You haven’t been to Kings in a while.”
I shrugged. “I was gonna go out with you!” I pressed the elevator button. “But you got a better offer.”
“I did,” he said with a smile. “But we can catch up during the week, yeah?”
“Sure,” I said, but the realization I’d been relegated to second best kinda hit hard. “Doesn’t matter.”
We stepped into the elevator, and thankfully there were other people in there so the silence between me and Will wasn’t so obvious. When we walked into the foyer, just before we walked out onto the sidewalk, he grabbed me by the arm.
“Hey, Mark, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Are you sure?” he asked. “Because you said I should start dating… I don’t want to not include you, but it’s just that Clay swapped a shift this weekend so we could do something.”
“Will, it’s fine,” I told him. I gave him a smile that he seemed to buy as genuine. “You should go out with him. I’m sure I’ll find someone at Kings to keep me busy.”
Will nodded and looked at the ground. “I’m sure you will.” Then he took a step back. “I’ll give you a call.”
I barked out a laugh. “Oh, Will, surely you can give a better brush-off line than that. Have I taught you nothing?”
Will gave me a half smile and turned to walk away. “Have fun tonight.”
“You too,” I said, and with that, we both walked away.
I didn’t see Will all weekend. I did go out on Friday night, but went home alone. I never went into some back room or back alley. I just didn’t feel like it.
Saturday lunch I spent with my mom and her new boyfriend, Ted, which was nice and kind of frightening at the same time. Nice to see Mom happy, but frightening to catch them making out when I came back from the bathroom.
I spent Saturday night on the phone to Carter and then Isaac, both who found my mom’s make-out session—and my subsequent need for brain bleach—funny. They talked of wedding plans and catering and honeymoons.
“Honeymoon?” I asked. “Where are you going?”
“There is no way I’m telling you that,” Carter said. “God only knows what you’d arrange delivered to… where we’re staying.”
“You’re no fun,” I told him. “Can I know how long you’re going for?”
Carter hesitated, then answered, “We’re going for four weeks.”
“Four weeks?” I repeated. “Oh, man, that sounds good.”
“Still not interested in moving to Boston?” he asked again.
“I don’t know,” I answered quietly.
“You sound more interested this time,” he said. “What changed?”
I sighed. “I don’t know, nothing I guess.” Then I told him, “Will’s seeing some perfect guy.”
“Is he really?” he asked disbelievingly.
“Yeah, why do you sound so surprised?”
“I just thought… you know what, never mind,” he said, sounding rather distracted. Then I could hear his muffled voice say something to Isaac, then he spoke back into the phone. “You know, if you want to take some vacation time after the wedding—”
“Carter, I’m not going on your honeymoon with you, no matter how much Isaac begs.”
He laughed. “I can assure you, you’re not coming on our honeymoon. What I was going to suggest was that we could use a house sitter for four weeks. Take some time, have a look around Boston.”
I had to admit it sounded like a freakin’ great idea. “I’ll think about it,” I told him. “And Carter, thank you.”
“Mark,” he said softly. “I know you feel like Will’s forgotten about you, but he hasn’t. He’s just dating some guy and it’s all new and exciting. That part doesn’t last forever. You’re his best friend, and that part does.”
I smiled into the phone. He just seemed to know what to say. He always did. “Thanks.”
I wanted to know how long he thought the new and exciting part lasted and when it would all be over, but I didn’t dare ask.
Unfortunately, it didn’t take long to find out.