Chapter Five

David

April

 

The air smells like rain as I step onto the front porch, fingers wrapped tightly around the hot mug of coffee, my copy of Kafka on the Shore tucked under my arm. Once again the sky is a depressing shade of white-gray and the diffuse morning light renders the brown grass and tangled dead plants in the garden especially dingy. I’m utterly exhausted. Dad had a rough night, falling out of bed and getting angry with me when I tried to help him to the bathroom. He’d wet himself and the shame and rage in his face had made me feel almost sick to my stomach.

I’d always been close with my parents, having the kind of open and honest relationship that precluded us from ever acting self-conscious around each other. But this was so different. Because I felt embarrassed too, seeing him like that. As I’d helped him to the bathroom and into fresh pajamas, he’d started mumbling. It was still difficult for me to understand anything he said since half of his face sagged from the stroke. Then I’d realized. He was saying he wished he’d died. His words hit me like a punch in the middle of my chest. Like her. He’s doing the same thing my mother had done when she’d chosen to ignore her doctor’s treatment plan. Was he going to stop trying too? Anger surged in me, hot and vicious, but I’d said nothing, just tucked my dad back into fresh sheets and returned to my room to lie awake for hours.

I try to read but I can’t focus, my vision blurring as I scan the same paragraph over and over. After last night I’d yearned for the comfort of a favorite book, hoping to lose myself in the familiar story and relax the tension thrumming under my skin. But I’m cold and jittery and especially irritated because my eyes keep flicking up to the Patrases’ driveway. Nick’s Jeep is parked out front. Well I assume it’s still his. It’s the same forest green ’97 Grand Cherokee he’d driven throughout high school and the whole time I was away at college. The same Jeep we’d fucked in before he decided to show me what a complete asshole he was. Ugh. Nope. Not thinking about that.

Clearly unable to use reading as a distraction, I pull my phone out of my pocket and check my Instagram page. I have a few new followers and a tiny flame of excitement flares in my chest. Maybe nothing will come of this but the joy of sharing my art even in this small way brings a smile to my lips.

“Hey.”

A low, rumbling voice and footsteps startle me so much I fumble my phone and it clatters against the stone porch. Thank god I sprung for the protective case. Before I even look up I know it’s him. Years of sleepovers and phone calls and teasing each other has seared the low cadence of his words into my mind. I don’t want to look up. My face is stupidly hot and my heart is hammering so hard I have to imagine he can hear it.

“Hi,” I say, still looking at my phone on the ground. Why am I acting like this? I’ve rehearsed seeing him again an embarrassing number of times, and it never was supposed to involve me dropping things or being stunned into silence. In my fantasies I’m always cool, impassive, not giving him the time of day.

Grudgingly I raise my eyes and he’s still perfect. Perfect because I know the sleepy smile he makes first thing in the morning. Perfect because I know how tight his big body scrunches up during scary movies. Perfect because I know his flaws but I don’t care. But honestly though, why does Nick have to look like that? He is almost comically tall, standing a good half foot taller than me. And his broad frame has gotten broader since I saw him last, like he’s started to seriously work out. He is massive. His dark brown hair, once a shaggy tangle, is cut shorter and parted on the side. It’s still long enough, I note, that the messy waves make me want to run my fingers through it. Nick’s stupid handsome square jaw is tight and his dumb gorgeous thick brows are pulled together. He looks nervous.

“Um. How are you?” He seems to be frozen at the bottom step of the porch, hands stuffed into the pockets of faded gray jeans that probably were at one time black. Nice to see he still dresses like a dad in an L.L. Bean catalog. He’s probably owned this entire outfit since last time I saw him: a light blue T-shirt that I pretend not to notice is deliciously tight across his built chest, and a green and blue flannel with the buttons undone.

“Tired,” I reply honestly. My face gets hot again. It’s still weirdly easy to talk to him even though I am so uncomfortable I wish a bolt of lightning would zap out of the overcast sky and kill me on the spot.

Easing myself back down into the Adirondack chair, I gesture vaguely for him to sit in the one next to me. He grins sheepishly and bounds up the porch steps. He seems pretty nervous. As soon as he sits his knee starts bouncing and I have to look away because even through the denim I can see the powerful muscles of his thighs clenching. We sit for a long, tense moment in silence. Then we both start speaking at once.

“So what’s up?” I start to say.

He laughs a little as if to acknowledge the awkwardness. But I don’t want to laugh with him. As happy as I am to see him—well okay, maybe not happy, but something in me eased the moment he sat down next to me—I’m still angry at him. I mean, he basically tortured me from the time I was sixteen until—well, until I got that damn wedding invitation with that damn note in his damn handwriting saying he was in love with Christi and he hoped I could make it to their damn wedding.

“I’m really sorry to hear about your dad. But he’s doing better, yeah?”

“Thanks.” My voice is cold and sounds kind of sarcastic. “So did you need something?” I’m being bitchy.

A touch of pink floods Nick’s olive skin and my heart softens. His abashed expression has always done that to me. His emotions are so clear on his face. He opens his mouth then scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “My mom wanted me to give you guys her best.” He pauses as if he regretted saying that. “Uh, yeah. My parents still do the whole Sunday supper thing. They’re trying to set me up with some girl from their church.” His eyes dart toward mine and I can see pain in his face.

Nope. David Webster, you are not going to feel sorry for him.

“Right.” Something like a sneer flashes over my face and I focus my energy on softening my expression. “I was sorry to hear about your divorce.” Again it comes out snarky and insincere. I mean, he has to know I’m not too broken up over his divorce.

He shrugs like he isn’t all that upset over it either. I guess it was more than two years ago. It’s possible he’s moved on to this new church girl. “Anyway,” Nick continues, “I don’t want to be over there. And Anna told me you’d moved back? So I thought I’d come see how you’re doing.”

He looks like he wants to say something else, so I wait, but he just grips his knees and stares down at his brown work boots. Wait, when did Anna see him? She never told me she talked to him. Traitor. I almost want to text her on the spot to pump her for information but I refrain.

“Yeah. I’m back for a while. I broke my lease, quit my job and everything. It’s so weird being back here. The town has changed a lot. And I’m pretty bored because other than taking my dad to physical therapy and his doctors and stuff, I haven’t been doing much.” I’m rambling but I can’t make myself stop. “Like for so long my whole life has been all about school and work, and I finally was getting settled in at basically my dream job and now I’m living at home and unemployed. I kinda feel like the whole doctorate thing was a waste of time. But my dad needs me.” I try not to think about last night and my dad’s apparent lack of desire to live. I have to figure this out. I have to help him get better.

I can hear the softness of sympathy in Nick’s voice. His gray eyes are locked on mine. “That sucks. I’m so sorry to hear he’s sick. Anna told me how much you loved your job. That must have been a tough decision.”

My stomach is weirdly hollow and my throat tightens. I have to change the subject. “So what’s your mom making for dinner?” Nick’s mother is a phenomenal cook. When we were kids I loved going over to their house to eat fresh baklava and dolmas and her amazing homemade pita.

Nick’s whole body relaxes, and he leans back into the chair. He’s too broad for it and I find myself smirking. “She’s making roasted chicken. The one she does with lemon, you know? And potatoes and, probably a million other things. I’d invite you over but…” He pauses and he looks even more nervous than he did when he initially sat down. His full lips pull into a tight line. “My dad hasn’t changed much.”

Nick’s dad is a bigot. He’s super religious and big-time into the brand of political conservatism that pushes hardcore anti-gay rhetoric. When he found out I was gay, he told Nick in no uncertain terms I was no longer welcome in their home and that I shouldn’t come by their family’s diner anymore either. This marked the end of years of Nick and I stopping by his parents’ restaurant after school to eat fries and guzzle soda and do our homework at the counter. Not only did I get cut off from pretty much their entire family but I also was cut off from my only source of being able to eat any meat or junk food. It was back to seaweed salad and carob cubes as after-school snacks from then on out. I groan. I can still remember how good Mrs. Patras’s roasted chicken is, all crisp and tangy and studded with rosemary and garlic.

“But hey,” Nick grins. His smile is the warm wash of genuine sweetness that drew me to him as a kid. “If you want, I can make it for you. I finally convinced her to give me the recipe and I’ve gotten pretty good at making it.” I can tell he’s trying to act confident but his knee is bouncing again. “Maybe you could come over one night this week for dinner?”

My whole body feels like it’s filled with helium at his words. I can’t help but return his grin and I stare down at my Bensimon sneakers. “Sure,” I say quietly.

Nick startles me by springing up from his chair. For a second I think he might pull me into a hug as he closes the distance between us. His gaze is hot on my skin. But then I realize he’s handing me his phone. “Here.” His smile is huge, his heavy eyebrows raised. “Put your number in. I don’t have your new one.”

I quickly add myself as a contact in his phone, noticing his wallpaper is a picture of him arm in arm with a tall Latino guy with big ears and a bigger smile, and a small, pretty black woman with honey-colored natural curls. I wonder who they are. He sends me a quick text so I have his number. It’s a smiley face, but he’s typed it out :-) rather than using the emojis. Goofball. I’m about to make some excuse to go inside so I can call Anna and panic at her about this whole situation when Nick speaks again.

“Thanks, David. I really, um.” He swallows loudly and I can’t look away from his Adam’s apple bobbing in his stubbled throat. “I need to say some stuff to you, okay?” He pauses again as if speaking is starting to cause him real physical pain. His breath, I notice, has gotten uneven and shallow. Does he still have panic attacks? He drags his fingers through his hair and starts to make his way down the porch steps. “So text me and let me know what day works.” Then he’s jogging across the street and disappears into his family’s garage.

I hustle back inside, already unlocking my phone. My head spins and thoughts fly around so quickly I can’t possibly grab onto one. Nick is somehow more gorgeous than he was in his twenties. Now he looks less like an Abercrombie model bro and way more like if Superman ditched the cape and got really into hiking. I force myself to focus. Does he want to apologize? Maybe he wants to try to be friends again? Or maybe he just feels guilty and needs to absolve himself. Or maybe Anna is right and he wants to—no. I can’t go there.

I’m in the middle of drafting an airtight contract in my head that I cannot under any circumstances allow myself to sleep with him when I hear grumbling and bumping from upstairs. My father is up, and it sounds like he’s fallen again. I take the stairs two at a time, my pulse racing, all frivolous thoughts sweeping out of my head like raindrops on a windshield. Relief washes over me cool and soft when I enter my dad’s dim bedroom. He’s okay, just awake and slightly tangled in his sheets.

“Hey, Dad.” I smile at him and give his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Do you want some breakfast?” He can’t eat solid foods quite yet because his facial muscles are weak so I’ve been making him lots of smoothies and soups. Mostly I’ve been eating the same liquid diet and I notice my jeans hang loose around my hips.

His gray hair is matted and his skin looks almost chalky. I forget sometimes, or at least I used to before this stroke, that my father is going to be seventy-one next year. My parents were in their forties when they finally had me, both of them academics who spent their twenties and thirties amassing degrees and flying around the country to give conference papers and conduct research.

He nods and the two of us make our way slowly to the kitchen, me holding him up. He doesn’t have any doctors’ appointments today and I’ve checked out a bunch of books and DVDs for him from the library. But he hasn’t seemed interested in anything over the last few weeks. I’m so used to the version of my father who breathes NPR and reads political science journal articles for fun, I hardly recognize this man.

“Want to watch something?” I ask softly once I have him settled on the couch with the kale, banana, and tofu smoothie I made him when I woke up this morning. “I got a few documentaries you might like. One of them was produced by Dr. DePalma. He was in your department, right?” My dad shakes his head and stares into space. The steady ticking of the ornately carved German clock on the wall is the only sound in the room.

“David.” My dad’s voice, still slurred and thick, but getting better every week thanks to his fantastic occupational therapist, startles me.

“Yeah, Dad?”

“Who was here?” The words come out slowly, a labor.

I feel a flush creep into my face. “Um, Nick, actually. He wanted to see how you’re doing. Said his mom sends her best.” Absently I’m surprised she didn’t send any food over. But Nick’s dad probably forbade it. He hates my father almost as much as he hates me. My father’s liberal op-eds in the local paper hadn’t exactly been George Patras’s cup of tea.

Even though he struggles to control the muscles around his mouth, I can see a flicker of amusement on my father’s face. It’s nice to see. “You talked to him?” he inquires slowly.

I only laugh and shrug in response.

“Nick’s a good kid, David. Always liked you two together.”

I blush hotly but say nothing. While I never told my dad exactly what happened between Nick and me—that would be too much information—I imagine he’d pieced some of it together. I would get irritable any time my dad or uncle mentioned my former best friend. But he never pressed for details.

After my dad finishes his breakfast, I keep myself busy cleaning the kitchen, doing laundry, and deep cleaning the bathrooms. I glance at the clock, intensely grateful that it is finally late enough in the morning that I can call Anna. She spends her weekend mornings running and I know she never brings her phone.

Thankfully she answers on the first ring. “What’s up, buttercup?” she chirps and I can hear the crumpled sounds of wind blowing into the receiver.

“Where are you?” I ask in response.

“Sitting on my porch having some coffee. Want to come over?”

“Been there, done that,” I tease. “And guess who showed up?”

“No. Way.” She gasps. “Yay! It worked!”

Damn, she’s perceptive. But I love how we’re always on the same wavelength, like she can read my thoughts. It’s always been this way with her. “Anna! Why didn’t you tell me you talked to him? You’re so shady!” My voice is teasing but I’m a little angry at her. I know she means well, but sometimes I wish Anna would leave well enough alone.

“Well…I may have seen him at the market yesterday. And I may have told him you were back. But man, he acts fast. I thought I’d have a chance to warn you. Oops. But tell me everything.”

I quickly fill her in on Nick’s visit this morning. “What do I do? Like, why does he want to see me?” I nervously pace around my bedroom, compulsively picking up random objects and putting them back down.

“Stop pacing,” she scolds. “I can tell you’re pacing.”

I sink down onto my neatly made bed, running my fingers over the blue linen duvet, but I get fidgety and stand up to look out the window. Great. I can see Nick and his sister Cassie sitting on the porch swing, a big brown and gray dog snoozing next to Nick’s feet. I turn around to keep pacing.

“You should see him, I think.” Anna’s voice is gentle. “I mean, you guys were friends for so long.” Her voice shifts from soft to playful. “And let’s be honest. You’re still pretty hung up on him. Like, you get so damn touchy about him and you used to always compare sex with Christopher and even Julian to the infamous Nick hookups.”

My cheeks flame. “I did not.”

Anna scoffs. “Okay. Whatever you have to tell yourself, bud. But worst-case scenario he gives you an awkward apology, and it’s kind of weird. Best-case scenario, I’m right, he’s queer and you guys fall in love and have a beautiful gay wedding and adopt a bunch of kids and animals.”

I press my palm to my forehead. Hearing that hypothetical makes my eyes lose focus and my neck go hot. “No,” I grind out. “Worst-case scenario he, like, messes with my head all over again. What if he still thinks being gay is wrong or whatever the fuck? Or what if he still doesn’t know what he wants? Or what if he wants to be friends again?” I pause and stare at the boxes of books I still haven’t unpacked from my apartment. “Because I don’t know if I can be his friend.” I open my mouth to spin out more horrible possibilities but Anna interjects.

“David, stop.” Anna sighs. “I know he hurt you. What Nick did wasn’t fair. We both know that. But I also think you need to give him a chance. I mean, not everyone gets to be as comfortable with their orientation and coming out as you did. Not everyone has a family like yours.”

Anna always gets frustrated with me over this point. I think she’s committed to this idea that Nick is just closeted partially because her parents stopped speaking to her when she finally worked up the courage to come out to them in her early twenties. Unlike me, she understands why someone might deny something so basic about who they are.

My shoulders sag. “Sorry,” I murmur. “I know you’re right. I should see him. Even if it is only to talk this out. And who knows, maybe we can be friends.”

“I’m still convinced he’s got it bad for you.” Her tone is cheeky again. “I mean he’s making you dinner. It sounds kind of date-like, no?”

I sigh.

“What night are you going? Want me to come over and hang out with your dad for a while?”

I love Anna. Since the day we met in studio art freshman year of high school, she’s always shown herself to be one of the most compassionate and thoughtful people I’ve ever known. Sure, she can be a nosey pain in the ass sometimes, but I know her heart is in the right place. I want to reach through the phone and hug her.

“Anna, have I told you how much I love you lately?” I ask. I almost feel like I could cry.

“Not often enough, honey,” she jokes. “But I love you too. I want you to be happy.”

We end the call a few minutes later after Anna asks me a few practical questions about helping my dad and tells me to let her know what night I want to go over to Nick’s.

“Oh,” she gibes before hanging up, “and let me know if I should pack an overnight bag.”

I’m tempted to text Nick immediately and tell him I’m free Tuesday night, but I force myself to wait. His Jeep is still parked outside his parents’ place. And not that I’m looking, but around noon I see a VW Bug pull up. A curvy woman with glossy brown curls walks up to the front door clutching a cellophane-wrapped bouquet of flowers. Church girl. A zing of jealousy rages through me but I tamp it down. Nick didn’t seem that excited to see her, did he? And so what if he is? Disgusted with myself I go around to the backyard with my painting supplies.

Once I settle into working, the world slows and softens. I lose myself in the task of putting paint to paper. I don’t even think about Nick. Well, not very much. I’m working on a watercolor of two men flirting at a bar, the colors all pastel and the brushwork light. I’m kind of liking it. The sexual tension between the men is palpable and I’m pleased that the image I had in my head translated onto the page.

I want these paintings to look gay. I want my work to celebrate queerness and the beauty of the male form. So much of art has historically focused on idealized female beauty but I want to express masculine attractiveness in a real and vulnerable way, to highlight the potential warmth of male interaction. I’m trying to capture what drew me to love art in the first place. Flipping through the big Caravaggio coffee table book in my mom’s office, getting uncomfortably turned on by Boy with a Basket of Fruit and realizing for the first time how simultaneously pretty and powerful masculinity could be. And I hope my work expresses that. I take a quick picture of my painting and text it to Marc, since a date he told me about was the inspiration for the piece.

Marc: I don’t hear from you for a week then you text me a random painting? I love it though! Hot guy in it too ;)

David: Sorry. I know I’ve been a shitty friend. I don’t even have an excuse either since I basically don’t do anything up here. I was thinking of uploading it to the page? Is that cool with you?

Marc: Hell yes! Tag me in it! I saw you already have like 50 new followers. This is such a good idea. I’ve always liked your work.

David: Thanks. I hope everything’s good at the museum.

I almost type that I missed it, but that’s not exactly true. What had felt like my dream job had been weirdly easy to leave behind. I probably just have whiplash from the extreme left turn my life had taken. I was always bad at sorting out my own emotions, opting instead to go along with things until I was freaking out but couldn’t understand why.

My phone buzzes and Marc replies saying he’ll call me this week. I do miss Marc, his all-black outfits and snarky commentary. I wonder what he’d make of the whole Nick situation. He’s pretty adamantly opposed to dating guys in the closet so he probably wouldn’t think too highly of it. And why am I thinking about Marc’s opinion of Nick? I need to pull it together.

By nine at night I’m exhausted since I’d barely slept the night before. My dad seems better. He ate more for dinner than usual and even agreed to let me read an article to him from the local paper, intent on expressing outrage at the columnist’s views on redrawing local voting districts, which was much more like the old him.

I collapse onto my freshly laundered sheets and pick up my phone to set the alarm. I have a text from Nick.

Nick: Hey David. I hope it’s okay that I’m texting you. I just wanted to say it was really good to see you today. I missed you. I hope you’ll come over.

My heart does a little backflip. After years of hooking up with hipster art academics who ironically used flip phones and scoffed at texting, and then living with Christopher who almost never expressed his feelings, it’s strange to get such an honest and vulnerable text. I type out and delete a few replies before sending off my response.

David: Sure. It’s okay. It was weird to see you honestly. It’s been so long. But yeah, I’d like to come over. Is Tuesday okay?

My hands shake and I quickly darken the screen of my phone. In order to avoid the horrible waiting game, I scamper off to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. But I should have known Nick’s response would be immediate. When I get back to my bed, I see two texts.

Nick: Yeah it was weird, I guess. I was nervous if you couldn’t tell.

Nick: Tuesday is great. I got some tips from my mom today too, so the chicken should be good. :-)

David: Well you’ve officially gotten my hopes up, so it better be.

This all feels too flirty so I send a second text, then immediately regret it. I’m not sure why I insist on torturing myself.

David: How was hanging out with church girl?

The little gray bubble hovers on the screen to show he’s typing, then disappears only to reappear again for what seems like an eternity. My head spins. What is he doing, typing a Russian-novel-length description of their time together? When my phone buzzes again it almost flies out of my hands in my haste to unlock the screen.

Nick: Fine. She’s a nice person.

I want to throw my phone out the window hard enough that it finds Nick and hits him on his perfect head.