“I don’t think you’re so serious,” I tell him. We’re sitting on the futon, leaning against each other.
“Yes, well,” he says, “most people haven’t been fondled by me in a supply closet.”
“Sucks to be most people,” I declare, and he laughs.
I tell him that Jurassic Park is my favorite movie of all time but I have always told people it’s Scarface, because I wanted to watch it when I was twelve and my parents wouldn’t let me and this is my obscure and lasting revenge. I tell him about the fact that whenever Dennis and I played Jurassic Park, I had to be the dinosaur and he got to be Sam Neill, and he always, always wound up killing me even though as a dinosaur, that was kind of supposed to be my job. He never even let velociraptor-me win. I tell him about my dad’s string of “So, Howard, got a girlfriend yet?” jokes that weren’t jokes, how that started in seventh grade and just kept going. I tell him about trying pot and hating it; getting drunk and hating it; being glad that Amber was my best friend, because having to prove myself to her didn’t mean doing a bunch of dumb shit, it meant reading Lord of the Flies for English class instead of watching the movie version. I tell him about the girls I liked – liked with grand, futile, faraway passion – and how I always wanted to back away on the rare occasion that they got close. But him, I want him close. He’s the only person who hasn’t made me feel like I’m off, or built wrong; meant only for the futile and faraway. We’re both raspy-voiced now, spent on talking. He looks at me like he wants to be kissing me; I beat him to it and kiss him first.
We’re the greatest kind of mess, kissing and laughing at nothing in particular, hands trying to be everywhere all at once, hard and happy against each other. I remember, in the dim corner of my brain that hasn’t been switched off yet by Arthur’s touch, this poem I had to read for a class ages ago, one I liked the concept of, something about liking your body with someone else’s body because suddenly it’s so new a thing. I can’t believe I’m thinking about poems right now. Then again, maybe these are the moments that poems are for.
“There’s one last thing I should tell you,” I say. “I got this job to get laid.”
He laughs.
“No,” I say, but I’m laughing too, because it’s the world’s stupidest idea and because somehow, somehow, it looks like it worked anyway, “seriously. That was my master plan. I don’t really—ohh—” Hands in good places, “—I don’t really care so much about arts and crafts supplies.”
“No,” he says in mock-disbelief, breathing the word into my neck.
“Shocking but true!”
“That’s a horrible plan,” Arthur says, “on so many levels.” He kisses me, his hands sneaking up my shirt. “But well done. Congratulations.”
“I didn’t think it would be you,” I say, a little Arthur-drunk, not pausing to wonder whether this is the best of confessions.
He pulls back to look at me. “Disappointed?”
“Hell no,” I say, eloquent beyond measure. But God, do I mean it. I put my hand on his face. He turns his head to kiss my palm.
“Are you – are you ready for this?” he asks, suddenly serious. It seems like the most unnecessary question in the history of earth, especially from someone who’s lying on top of me; I feel like my readiness is pretty fucking obvious. But the fact that he bothers to ask, when I can tell that he’s not exactly unready himself – the guy’s a prince. I’ll never get used to being this lucky.
“Not at all,” I reply. Never has sarcasm been quite so sarcastic. “And I’d really appreciate it if you’d quit trying to steal my virtue.”
He looks so earnestly concerned. “Really?”
“No,” I say, kissing his jaw, “not really. Not really, y’know, at all.”
“Well,” he says; a smile curves his mouth, promising wonderful acts of misbehavior, “in that case—”
And, well.
I like my body when it’s with his body.
Chapter Twenty
I get woken up by a dim buzzing sound. After a few seconds, I realize it’s my phone going off.
It buzzes again.
“Nuisance,” Arthur grumbles.
Trust him to get even fancier in his word choice when he’s sleeping.
“On it, buddy,” I promise, kissing him on the shoulder. He makes an inarticulate, happy little moaning noise that I most definitely do not hate. I get up, then scan the room for my boxers and get them on. There’s just some inherent wrongness to me walking around Kristy’s living space naked. Then I set off on a mighty search for my pants, which I eventually discover underneath the futon. Sorry, pants. You serve me well, by and large, but when you gotta go, you gotta go.
I dig my phone out of my back pocket to find a text from Mitch. It’s a pleasant surprise, really. In that it’s not from Amber, and it hasn’t found a way to work that character limit into a creatively gruesome description of my imminent doom.
Then I read said message from Mitch. And what it says is, ‘Ambers sleepin on me.’
Well. Fuck, fuck, fuckin’ fuckity fuck, why.
But maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe it’s perfectly innocent – like Amber developed some shiny new narcolepsy while she was out on a brisk morning stroll (in this totally plausible scenario, Amber is a secret brisk morning stroller), and Mitch just happened to be there to get conked out on. That’s a thing, right? That’s totally possible. I’m pretty sure I saw that episode of House.
So I keep my cool, and I text back, ‘Where are you?’
La dee da. I wait. I glance around. I look at Arthur, who’s got his eyes obstinately squeezed shut.
My phone buzzes again.
“Really quite irritating,” mumbles Arthur.
“Sorry, sorry,” I reply distractedly. Mitch’s message: ‘My room.’
Oh, shit. That’s it. I’m out of here. I have to get down there and—and – and—
And what? Fight Mitch for Amber’s honor? I can’t do that! He’s Mitchy! The Mitchman! We’re bros! Bros before hos. I can’t break that ancient creed. Plagues with locusts would befall me.
But Amber. Jesus. I am struck by this sudden, frighteningly intense brotherly desire to pummel any swine who’d dare touch her.
Well, this is just inconvenient.
I gotta get over there. Right away. And – I dunno. Stop them? Turn back time? Fill them with shame for doing something so unholy? Something. I gotta do something. I think the last one sounds good.
I put my pants on. Sure, I almost fall over in the process – Mitch! Amber! MitchandAmber, Biblically, all the wayly – but I persevere. I start scouting around for my good buddy shirt, and discover that it’s lying a foot or so from Arthur’s head.
“What’re you doing?” Arthur asks, still sleepy-toned.
Oh, Artie. How little you can comprehend the depravity. “My best friends did it.”
“What?” he groans, opening his eyes.
“Amber. Mitch. They did it. They got their sexy on. Beast, two backs, the whole deal. And now she is sleeping on him, and I gotta go and—and—” And what? “I gotta just – deal. With this.”
“All right,” Arthur says slowly, squinting up at me.
“Sorry,” I add, upon the realization that me taking off the instant he wakes up maybe isn’t the most ideal of mornings after. “Love ‘em and leave ‘em. Kind of my deal.”
“Mmm. Adorable.”
“That I am.” I squat down on the floor to kiss him. “Thanks for noticing.”
“It’s a bit of a chore,” he says with perfect seriousness, “but someone has to, I suppose.”
+
I happen to like Mitch’s apartment. It’s got a kind of admirable purity. Which is to say: it is, on every level, absolutely friggin’ disgusting. Every square inch of it is a shrine to the deepest pitfalls of slovenly man-being. Once, on a search for a clean cup, I found dirty socks in the dishwasher. And this wasn’t simple messiness; no, there was logic there. Mitch figured that since he didn’t have a washing machine
and he really needed some clean socks, not to mention some clean dishes – well, two birds. One stone.
They were still dirty ‘cause he forgot to actually run the dishwasher.
He eats Cheetos for breakfast. He has Transformers sheets. He buys new underwear instead of doing laundry. The dishwasher thing was an uncommon instance of domestic initiative. Mitchell is a parentless man (in a moved-out way, not a Dickens orphan way), and he never wastes an opportunity to reap the benefits.
It’s nasty, but it’s kinda badass too.
Amber’s been there a handful of times to watch movies and stuff. She’s always a graceful little lady, but in the presence of such squalor, she gets goddamn queenly. She always sits up really straight on the couch with her legs crossed, like she’s trying to touch as little of the surrounding filth as possible. Then she exclaims disgustedly about it all the way home.
The fact that she’s not only come here voluntarily, but ventured into Mitch’s bedroom—
Oh, Jesus Christ, it’s so bad.
And her car’s in the driveway. Either it’s true, or the Mitchman went to some seriously great lengths to sell this prank.
Considering he couldn’t even follow through with the dishwasher thing …
I ring the doorbell, not really sure whether there’s any point to doing it. Mitch can’t be too busy with Amber, right? He did take the time to text me. So obviously they’re not too wrapped up in – stuff – Oh, God, stuff, Mitch and Amber and stuff—
The door swings open, and I feel a powerful surge of relief. Ha! He’s out of the bedroom. Maybe I’ll tie him to something so he can’t go back—
But it’s not Mitch. It’s his roommate, Rudy, a guy whose life motto so decrees that just because it’s ten in the morning, that doesn’t mean it’s not time for beer pong. Thankfully, it’s only like seven right now, so that’s not a concern quite yet. (A few shame-drenched instances were enough to prove that I’m not made of the stuff of beer pong champions.) Rudy’s about a foot taller than me, heavyset, very bearded, and, at the present moment, wearing nothing but boxers. Oh, my ceaseless luck.
“Heyyyy hey heyyy, Howie!” He lets out a booming laugh and claps me on the shoulder. I don’t fall over. It’s a hard enough slap that my not falling over seems notable. Respect, bitches.
“Morning, Rudy,” I reply as pleasantly as I can. As soon as I step inside, my eyes land on Mitch’s bedroom door. It’s shut. “How’s it goin’?”
“Oh, ya know, ya know.” Rudy tends to say the same stuff over and over again. It is, I suppose, easier than having to think up a bunch of new words. “This is Ashley.”
I look over to see a sleepy-looking blonde in a tight t-shirt and panties sauntering into the room.
“Er. Hi, Ashley.”
“Hey,” she drawls, not bothering to look at me, as she comes over and slips her arms around Rudy. She starts massaging his awkwardly, tremendously bare chest. It’s something I feel like I shouldn’t be witnessing.
“You lookin’ for Mitchy?” Rudy asks, tearing his eyes away from his lady friend.
“Yes indeed.”
“Dude’s still in his room, but hey, I don’t know if I’d go a-knockin’, you know what I mean. He’s got a chick in there.”
Hearing Amber referred to as a chick – a chick – threatens to boil my blood.
“It’s that chick you guys are friends with, actually. The pissed off one!” He chortles. “Maybe she’s a little less pissed off now, since she got a little EeEE-ErrR-EEEE-ERRRR!” As if this squeaky, abstract sexonym isn’t enough, he also includes a helpful hand gesture. Adorable.
“Wow, that’s great, bud. Listen, I really gotta … get in there.”
“Why? You late for your threesome?” Rudy bursts into booming laughter at his own irresistible wit, and Ashley joins in with a vacant, honking sound just a smidge less ladylike than a donkey bray.
“Yeah, actually,” I say. “You called that one, Rudes.”
“Ha ha ha,” Rudy chuckles to himself. “Threesome. That’s sick.”
No doubt one of the greatest minds of our time. Nay – all time.
I navigate my way across the living room. At one point, I step in a bowl of Fruit Loops, but I trek bravely on. When I reach Mitch’s door, I take a moment to prepare myself for the horrors that await me on the other side. Then I knock.
“Howie?”
“Yeah, man,” I say. I sound nervous. It’s allowed. I am fucking nervous.
“Uh. Come in?” Such hesitancy.
Oh, shit, they’re naked, aren’t they?
I fight back the urge to squeeze my eyes shut, and I push the door open.
It’s horrendous! It’s appalling! It’s—
… not actually so bad.
Sure, they’re on Mitch’s bed, but they’re clothed.
Thank you, Jesus. We should hang out more.
Not only that, but they just don’t look very … snuggly. Amber is fast asleep, her head burrowed into Mitch’s shoulder. She’s got one arm draped across his chest, but it doesn’t seem, like, deliberate, or amorous. She hasn’t been taking lessons from Ashley in chest-fondling.
Mitch is perhaps the most reassuring sight of all. He’s sitting up really straight – like, somebody put a leather-bound tome on his head, because this guy’s posture is ace. He looks almost frozen, like Amber’s a bomb instead of an Amber and she’ll burst into Ambereens (a little-known smithereen-variant) if he moves a muscle. He’s staring down at her like he’s not really sure what to do.
At the sound of me walking in, he looks up.
“SHHH,” he whispers. It is perhaps the most exaggerated and ineffectual of all whispers. “SHE’S SLEEPING.”
He very carefully points at Amber.
“Yeah,” I say, just a shade quieter than my normal voice. “I noticed.”
“DUDE.” Oh, this whisper. This whisper needs to be knighted for hilariousness. “SHE’S SLEEPING.”
“She can sleep through anything,” I inform him. “You could push her off the bed and she’d probably, like, turn over and yawn.”
Mitch frowns. “OH.”
He stares thoughtfully down at Amber again.
“Well,” he concludes, disposing of Sir Hilarious Whisper, “it’s okay. This isn’t that bad.”
“How long have you been sitting like this?”
“Uh.” He glances around the room before finally fixating on the dresser. The drawers are all open, barfing out random articles of clothing. “Alarm clock’s in the second drawer down, I think. Unless I moved it to the bathroom—”
“It’s like seven.”
“Oh.” Mitch ponders. “I dunno, like nine hours, then.”
I stare at him. “Nine hours? You’ve been sitting like that for nine hours?”
“I sorta fell asleep for awhile,” he says. “It was totally cool, man.”
Uh. “Why the hell did you let Amber sleep on you for nine hours?”
“Well, she was really bummed out.”
Ahh, welcome home, horrible sinking feeling of guilt. Seriously, man, it’s been too long. You don’t call, you don’t write—
“Oh yeah?” I ask, striving to seem casual. “Why’s that?”
Mitch gives me a stern look. It’s so out of place on him that my first impulse is to laugh. Except then I realize just how dire a force it would take to drive Mitch to make that face, and all the funny evaporates. It leaves a lot of dark, foreboding feelings.
“Okay,” I sigh. “Me.”
“Yeah,” Mitch agrees, frowning. “You left her alone with Dennis and Emily! Uncool.”
“I had something to—” Okay, him going this long without looking goofily happy, it’s just wrong. It’s freaking me out so much I can’t even rock an excuse right. “What did she say?”
“I dunno,” Mitch says, going suddenly cryptic. “Stuff.”
“She told you about Dennis and Emily,” I surmise.
“Well,” Mitch says, all reluctant, “yeah.”
�
��And …?” I press.
It’s quiet for a really long time. Amber sighs faintly and buries her head a little deeper in Mitch’s shoulder.
“I don’t think I can tell you, man,” Mitch says at last.
That just seems weird. Incorrect. Mitch and Amber have never exactly been a special twosome. They’re friends because I’m friends with both of them. They don’t actually have anything in common. Sure, they’ve been together sans me lots of times in the past, but, like, not in a way where they were actual, legit friends.
They’re not actual, legit friends, are they?
“She would have told me anyway,” I try to reason with him. Surely he’ll see the light. He’s a little on the doofy side, Mitchy, but he’s not stupid. “So you might as well—”
“She couldn’t tell you, though,” Mitch points out, still frowny. “’Cause you went off with Kristy.”
I groan. “Dude—”
“She talked to me about some stuff. And I listened to her. And then she fell asleep on me. That’s pretty much it, man.”
I look down at Amber. The fact that Mitch seems to think he has to protect her from me, it doesn’t make me feel bright and shiny with delight. She’s my best friend, for Christ’s sake.
“How much does she hate me?” I ask.
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