“Um, sure.”
As soon as he takes his place behind the wheel, the overhead lights fade out. I can tell his breathing has gotten faster in the last few seconds. So has mine. Fast breathing can be a physiological reaction to sexual arousal. If I were like Amy, I’d be jumping him right about now. Instead, I go in for the kill with another riveting question.
“So, what kind of car do you drive?”
“A Ford Explorer.”
“Nice!”
“Nice for having a hundred thousand miles. It used to be my brother’s back when he was in high school.
There’re tons of burn marks on the upholstery from his cigarette mishaps.”
“Hey, I’m jealous you have a car at all. I just have a road bike, which works out okay unless the weather is bad or if I want to wear something nice. I have to hitch rides a lot.”
“That’s another thing I like about New York City. You can walk everywhere.”
Amy arrives a few seconds later. I feign nonchalance in telling Wes I’ll be on IM tomorrow night. He grins and says I should drop by their first meet next week to root for the team.
“Yeah.” I smile back. “I’ll be there.”
“Cool. The strawberries were wicked dee-lish, by the way.”
“I’m glad.” I smile wider.
“And I guess I won’t be seeing you at practice Wednesday, expatriate,” Wes pesters Amy as they switch places.
“You can count on it, Gersh…. Hey, Dom, you didn’t turn on the heat!”
Wes says, “Oh, sorry.” He holds out his hand. “Dom didn’t get the chance. I have the keys.”
Amy starts putting me through the third degree before we even turn the corner. After recounting everything I remember, I end with, “Sitting next to him just now was so—” I can’t think of the right word.
“Ames, I don’t know how this is happening so quickly, but I think I could really, really like him.”
“Wow.” Amy turns to me, her eyes solicitous. “Even though things were kind of awkward tonight?”
“Yeah, I just know there’s chemistry there…. I also kind of like that Wes is on the quiet side. It probably means he’s deep.”
“Well, this is all uncharted territory for me. I don’t think I’ve met a guy yet I liked that much, as more than just a hookup.”
“It’s kind of nice.” I pause and look out the window. Just a few minutes into a new year and already so much possibility. “A little frustrating, but nice.”
Subject: Food!
Date: Wednesday, January , : a.m.
Hey Dom,
This Sunday my parents are having the trackies over to our place. We’re probably gonna order up Chinese and watch some of the James Bond marathon on Spike TV. It’d be great if you could come too.
Even though she jilted the team, feel free to invite Braff so there’ll be someone else there you’ll know.—Wes
If you can believe it, this is the fifteenth e-mail Wes has sent me since New Year’s! It’s also the shortest.
He usually writes upward of eight to ten paragraphs, and the subjects run the gamut from Family Guy (his favorite TV show) to how the only thing he hates about being vegetarian is the nasty protein shakes his coach makes him drink. Even though the tone of what he writes is still platonic, I’ve convinced myself that flirtation is better measured by quantity than quality.
Wes and I have been sticking to e-mailing because we haven’t been able to find common time to IM like we did before New Year’s—track practice keeps Wes from getting home until eight or nine some nights, and I have to go to bed super early to make seven a.m. Science Quiz practice. I don’t mind, though.
There’s something special about corresponding with lengthy e-mails the way people used to with snail mail.
On Sunday I arrive at Wes’s fifty minutes late and in a bad mood because Grandma was particularly unpleasant during brunch this morning, my bike is in the repair shop, and Mom, who promised to drive me, was held up at an emergency faculty meeting. On top of everything, Dad was rummaging through our fridge this afternoon for a beer and accidentally toppled the tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries I made especially for tonight.
When I ring Wes’s doorbell, a tall blond lady in a pink sweatsuit answers.
“Oh, look at that red hair! You must be Dominique! I’m Wesley’s mom.” She takes my hand in both of hers. “Wesley has said wonderful things about you.”
“Oh…that’s nice of him,” I say, honestly a little shocked. Talking to his mom about me has got to be a good sign. It’s funny—his mom, with her big hair and pastel clothes, is so old-school Florida Fabulous while Wes is so understated. But I can see where Wes gets his sharp nose and cleft chin from.
Mrs. Gershwin leads me to the den, where Mr. Gershwin is hunched over some papers at his desk.
He’s also wearing a sweatsuit, this one in green and yellow. There’s no resemblance to Wes in his apple-shaped face and dark brown hair, but he does have those big blue eyes. Mr. Gershwin stands up to shake my hand and says he’s glad Wes has made a “good friend” and I should sit next to them from now on during meets. I’m positively beaming!
Mr. and Mrs. Gershwin are on the old side, probably eight to ten years older than my parents, but they’re smiley and vivacious and ask me all about Shorr and premed programs. I’m almost disappointed to leave them when Amy appears at the den door and motions for me to come with her. After I say my goodbyes and thank-you-for-having-meovers, I join Amy in the guest bathroom, which is decked out with jungle-print wallpaper and a gold papier-mâché parrot dangling from the ceiling.
“So,” she whispers, “you’re fashionably late.”
“Yeah, I know. I should have just asked you to pick me up. You all weren’t waiting for me to watch the movies, were you?”
“No, but…” She leans in close to me, her wavy black hair cresting over her shoulders as she bounces up and down excitedly. “Gersh asked me where you were, like, three times.”
My blood’s pounding in my ears. “Oh my God, really?” I whisper-shout to her.
“Yeah! He kept saying, ‘So where’s Dom? Shouldn’t she be here by now?’”
“Oh, Ames.” It’s hard to talk I’m smiling so widely. “You know, at the meet yesterday, he was walking to the sidelines to get some water, and he spotted me on the bleachers. He gave me the cutest smile and winked. Winking is much sexier than waving, right?”
“Coming from Gersh, that’s like a dozen roses.”
“Exactly! I think something could happen tonight if we could finally get some alone time. I know it’s only been three weeks—”
“Only three weeks? My patience runs out after three minutes.” Amy looks pensive for a moment, the way she does when she’s holding her palette before a blank canvas. Finally she says, “All right, I figured it out. There’s a guy here I wouldn’t mind hooking up with, so if all goes right, we’ll both be getting lucky.”
“What are you going to do?”
“No questions. Just follow my lead.”
We walk into the living room, packed with over twenty trackies spread out on couches, ottomans, armchairs, and the Persian rug. Wes grins bashfully as soon as he sees me.
“Hey, take a seat,” he says softly while sidling left to make room between him and Paul on the couch.
Meanwhile, Amy heads straight toward one of the discus throwers and seats herself on his lap as if they had been going out for months.
There’s a huge spread of Chinese food in front of me on the coffee table, but I’m too wired to eat with there being only an inch of airspace between Wes and me. Soon Wes stretches out his legs so his right ankle ends up resting against my left pinkie toe. It’s as if a bolt of electricity surges through me, and all systems are on high alert. I freeze, careful not to move but also unsure of my next move. I try to catch Amy’s eye to see if she noticed anything, but she’s totally preoccupied with her guy. I already know what she’d advise me to do, anyway.
I take a d
eep breath and am on the verge of returning a little foot pressure when Wes crosses his legs.
My heart sinks into my stomach. Maybe his touching me was completely unintentional after all.
At the end of the evening, after almost everyone else has gone, Amy tells Wes she’s bushed and wonders if he could drive me home since I’m so far out of her way. Wes says sure, adding he needs to fill up with gas anyway. I could kiss Amy for being so sympathetic to my cause.
A minute later she walks out with discus boy. Wes and I are left alone, and things are suddenly a little tense. We both know what the two of them are going to do now—it’s like they left behind a hookup vibe
that Amy, I’m sure, means for me to take advantage of.
“Hey, can you help me straighten up the living room before I drive you?” Wes asks me. “I don’t want my mom to wake up and walk in here and go ballistic over the mess.”
Great, you’re already talking about taking me home.
“Sure! I don’t need to get back right away, anyway,” I say, trying to sound chipper. I grab an empty takeout carton and start flattening it.
A few minutes later, after we’ve cleaned the coffee table with the DustBuster and taken out the trash, I pipe up, “So, it was cool to have us all over and order us dinner.”
“Yeah…I think my parents wish I were more, you know, social, so they do stuff like this a couple times a semester.”
“I’m glad I got to meet them; they were really nice. I like your house too.”
“Well, I can give you the fifty-cent tour if you’d like.”
I’d pay you a lot more than that if your bedroom is on the tour. “Yeah, that’d be great.”
On the way to the stairwell I trip over the hallway’s Persian runner and grunt like an ogre as my knees slam against the floor. I grab his arm so I don’t fall flat on my face.
He laughs. “Traveling by foot isn’t exactly your strong suit, is it?”
“Yeah. I don’t know why I’ve been so clumsy lately,” I mutter, trying not to sound like I’m going to die of embarrassment. I purposely take my time regaining my balance, though, releasing his arm at the last possible second.
From the outside, Wes’s house looks like a generic, beige stucco split-level home, but inside, each room is painted in a different pastel color, reminding me of Wes’s parents’ sweatsuits. There’s also a really cozy basement furnished with leather couches, Chinese lanterns, and even one of those stereos from the seventies with a turntable and dropdown spindle. What a great make-out room, I think.
Wes’s bedroom is on the last leg of our tour. It’s boyishly messy, with a tangle of papers, sneakers, and computer cables spread out over the powder blue carpet. Posters of Olympic runners hang above his stuffed bookshelves. Dozens of track trophies, plaques, and medals sit atop his dresser. The cutest part—he has Marvin the Martian bedsheets. I don’t know why, but I immediately wonder how many wet dreams he’s had on them, and how often he jacks off. I haven’t tried touching myself since the time Dad almost walked in on me, although I’ve thought about it.
“I really like your room,” I say, hoping he can’t read my mind.
“The best is this.” He points to the minifridge and fruit bowl underneath his desk. “I keep various stashes here, like Gatorades and energy bars.”
I am expecting him to lead me out of his room and take me home, but instead he breaks off two bananas, throws one to me, and sits down on the floor. So I sit down too, a few feet away from him.
After I peel the banana, it occurs to me that eating it normally might resemble performing a blow job. I want to look attractive, not trashy. So I break off bite-sized pieces with my fingers and pop them into my mouth one at a time.
Wes’s collie, who’s been following us the whole time, bounds onto his lap. I’m not really a pet person, but I figure I better make some kind of nice remark about the animal when I see how it makes Wes’s eyes light up.
“Jessica has to be the most darling dog on Earth,” I say, trying not to feel jealous as it crawls all over Wes. “You’ve had her since she was a puppy, right?”
“Yeah. She’ll be eleven soon.”
“It must have been good to have her with you through all your moves, if you were always making new friends.”
“Yeah, she was always there for me. Along with my books and my brother—well, until he went away to college.”
“Oh, is this him?” I ask, pointing to a framed photograph on Wes’s desk.
“Yep. That’s me and Art the Fart in the City. And that’s the Washington Square Arch behind us. My grandparents live a few blocks from there.”
“He looks like you.”
“I think he’d take that as an insult.”
I laugh and ask if he has any older family photos. Wes says his mom keeps them in the basement and that he’d be glad to show me. “Just promise not to trip walking down the stairs,” he adds, smiling over his shoulder. I’m glad he can joke around with me.
When we get to the basement I pluck an album from the shelf and start leafing through it on the hardwood floor. Wes kneels behind me and leans over my right shoulder so he can see. Somehow I work up the nerve to rock back so my right shoulder blade is ever so slightly resting against his chest.
“That’s Mom.” He points to a thirty-something blonde in a bikini. I can tell her hair color is natural in the picture, unlike its current shade of platinum.
“She used to be pretty,” I blurt out. “I mean, she still is.”
“Yeah. Dad picked a fox.”
I wonder if he considers me a “fox.”
He continues, “Here they are on their honeymoon on Captiva Island. My grandparents, the ones in SoHo, keep a condo on Captiva where they vacation sometimes.”
“Cool. My grandparents used to drive to Captiva once a week to eat at The Bubble Room. I don’t think Grandma’s been back, though, since Grandpa died.”
I turn the page and see more honeymoon pictures of Wes’s parents, this time with Wes’s brother as a two-year-old. Wes can tell I’m perplexed.
He explains, “They had Arthur before they got married. Mom was actually pregnant with me when they made it legal.”
“Oh,” I say, blushing as I thumb through the next few pages. I’ve always wondered if my parents had sex before they got married. I wonder if Wes has had sex yet. He’s a senior, a jock, and cute, so he’s the last person you’d expect to be a virgin. But he’s never mentioned having a girlfriend, not that you need to be in a relationship to get laid. I wish I could ask him how far he’s gone, but Amy says talking too much about past love lives can get you stuck in friend zone.
I flip to another page and find a picture of young Wes wearing a cone-shaped birthday hat and blowing out eight candles on a race car cake.
“You’re so cute! Are all these people your family?”
“No, these are the Skys, our neighbors from San Antonio. There’s the original Jessica, see?” Wes points to a pretty red-haired girl, about ten, sitting next to him. She’s probably a beauty queen now.
“Oh. So this is the girl next door with the dog-fur hair?”
“Yeah.” He chuckles. “Jess is also the one who got me into running. She and my brother would jog every morning, and I’d tag along. Now she runs track at Columbia University.”
“Very impressive. Do you guys, um, talk often?”
“Nah.”
Phew.
“But our families vacation together every spring break. This year we’re meeting in Paris. Jess is a French major, so she wants to practice speaking it.”
“Paris? That will be so much fun!” I pretend being excited for him, but I’m crushed he’s not going to be in town over break. I also can’t help wondering if Jessica is part of the reason he wants to go to college in New York.
As I continue flipping through party pictures, I ask when his birthday is.
“December twenty-second.”
“Get out!” I turn my head to his. Our lips are about eight
inches apart. “December twenty-second is my birthday! But wait, you’re probably eighteen, right?”
“Aren’t you?”
I shake my head. “Seventeen. They started me early because I was too mature for nursery school.”
“They started me late because I was too im mature.”
After we both laugh, I look back at the album, but all I can concentrate on are Wes’s breaths landing on the back of my neck. The heart beats an average of seventy times a minute. Right now mine is doing a hundred and twenty easy, and with each inhalation I’m drinking in Wes’s healthy, clean scent—a delicious combination of sweat and fabric softener. In biology we learned how animals can smell each other’s pheromones, chemical signals that prompt them to mate. I can almost hear my pheromones bouncing into Wes’s.
When we finish the album, Wes gets up to reshelve it. I take the opportunity to move this operation to the couch. He follows me but sits on the opposite side, holding his knees to his chest with his forearms.
Not exactly the most receptive pose.
We stare into space for a couple minutes before I say, “Mmm…I really like your house. I feel so at home here.”
Then out of nowhere Wes grins and makes the most promising statement of the evening. “I’m really happy you were able to come tonight.”
I rush in with, “Me too. I had a lot of fun.”
Wes shifts his position and leans toward me. My heart starts racing again and I instinctively wet my lips.
Then he stops and says, “I should take you home. I don’t want your dad to be mad at me for keeping you out late, him being the chief of police and everything.”
“Yeah,” I answer, attempting to sound indifferent. “I do have to be up in, like, five hours as it is to make Science Quiz practice.”
Wes is mute on the drive to my place, and I can’t think of anything not small-talky to say. So I close my eyes and pretend to sleep. When we get to my apartment building, he murmurs, “Dom? Dom?”
I am hoping he’ll try to wake me by gently nudging me. Or perhaps by kissing me. The moment is perfect.
Anatomy of a Boyfriend Page 4