“Our clock is broken,” Mitch says, frowning in confusion. “It’s not really eight fifteen. Because, you know, it’s light outside.”
“Doesn’t matter. Bye.”
And I drag Amber and her taco right the hell out of there.
+
I wind up walking into Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Krafts alone, because Amber has a last-minute case of nerves and insists upon eating her one remaining taco outside in bitterly freezing peace. I can’t quite bring myself to take that away from her, so I amble on in on my own – and walk right into the midst of a show-stopping musical number.
There’s sweeping instrumentals, blaring so loud off the stereo that I’m surprised it hasn’t exploded in protest. Kristy and Cora are both standing on the counter and clasping hands, singing in dramatic tones.
At the realization that the door is open, they both freeze.
“Another gay workplace romance?” I say. “Really? You could at least try for originality, ya posers.”
“Oh, thank gosh,” Kristy says, hopping off the counter. “It’s just you.”
“It’s just me. What’s up, lady rebels?”
“Well, we’ve been here for a couple of hours and nobody had come in, so we waited ‘til Arthur went upstairs and—”
“I brought the Moulin Rouge soundtrack,” Cora grins.
“And she let me sing the Nicole Kidman parts!” Kristy says giddily.
“I’m Ewan McGregor,” Cora reports. “Which means I want to get all up in my own business. Kinky, right?”
“There’s no way Arthur can’t hear you guys,” I say, staring up at the ceiling. I’m pretty sure that the wrath of God should be causing it to tremble.
“I don’t think he minds,” Kristy says.
I respond with the only possible response, and that response is staring at her like she is friggin’ nuts.
“I know! It sounds crazy! But he’s all … relaxed, and cheerful. He called us upstairs like a half an hour ago, and I thought it was because we were in trouble. Our Lady Marmalade got a little bouncy. But then it was just to show us a really cute Weimaraner on the Puppy A Day website.”
Um. “What the hell?”
“It was going to Holly’s,” Cora says. “He attained spiritual peace. Or maybe you’re just an exceptionally badass lay.” She gives me this skeptical, scrutinizing look. It isn’t super-flattering.
“Unfortunately, Ewan McGregor, I can’t in good conscience wrench you away from your own business long enough to allow you to find out.”
That seems good enough for Cora. “Goddamn, I’m foxy.”
“Hey, Howie?” Kristy’s moved her way over to the front window.
“Yeah?”
“Why is Amber standing outside in the snow eating a taco?”
Oh, man. Having learned my lesson re: telling Kristy stuff about Amber that Amber doesn’t want anybody to know, I’m not sure how to answer. Finally, I solve the problem in signature Howie Jenkins style, which is code for ‘I say something random and dumb as hell.’ (It’s an art form, verging on a precise and perfect science.) “That’s just how they get things done in her homeland.”
“Isn’t her homeland here?”
Okay, so, not the best of my efforts. Deciding that at least a tiny scrap of truth is necessary, I say, “She’s coming in to talk to you.”
“Oh.” It’s not like she has some big, dramatic reaction. There’s no slow-mounting dread on her face, no gasping or fainting or hurling. But something gets a tiny bit less joyful and more measured in her expression, and I feel kinda bad. No one deserves to be stripped of their giddiness about singing the Nicole Kidman parts (I … guess), especially not Kristy.
“If … that’s okay.”
“Of course it is.” I believe her when she says it, at least.
“Why is there weirdness?” Cora demands, abandoning her solitary tango through the yarn aisle.
“No weirdness,” Kristy says, peppy as ever. She doesn’t waste any time in pulling the front door open and calling, “Oh my gosh, Amber, come in, it’s freezing out here!”
+
After a couple of minutes, I leave the ladies to their bonding. It becomes obvious pretty quick that no one’s going to start any hair-pulling or pillow fights: as soon as Amber comes in, she recognizes that there is Moulin Rougery at work, and this sends them all into a weird frenzy that I can’t understand. I go upstairs before any of them get the chance to recruit me into being the sitar midget dude.
“Weimeraners?” is how I greet Arthur.
He looks up from the computer screen. “Good morning to you, too.” He stands up and leans over the desk to kiss me hello. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”
“Yeah, well, that’s me.” I poke the A on his nametag. “I’m sneaky as hell. Just when you don’t expect to see me, bam. Plus, I’m doing the moral support thing. Amber’s atoning to Kristy by agreeing to go on a blind date with one of Fisticuffs Clifford’s bros.”
“What are the odds of you ever ceasing to refer to him as Fisticuffs Clifford?”
“Eensy.”
“I suspected as much.” He sighs gravely. “What about your brother?”
“Oh, the second he throws down the gauntlet, he’ll be Fisticuffs Dennis. No question.”
“Good to know. But I was thinking more along the lines of—”
“Her being crazy in love with him since the dawn of time?”
“Right. That.”
“Yeah,” I say. “That.”
He looks at me expectantly. It goes quiet. Downstairs, the Moulin Rouge instrumentals are still blaring; I can make out the fuzzy, happy sounds of girl chatter underneath it.
Arthur just keeps on staring at me with his pesky enthralling green eyes, backed up in their mission by the most formidably excellent eyelashes known to the whole history of man, and I can’t help it.
“Oh, it’s so fucking weird.” I sit down. It’s not the badassest of sittings down: there may be a hint of anguish, a tinge of floppy despair. Arthur sits down too. “Are you really sure you want to invoke this? Because really, for real: you, my gentleman, my scholar, are in for some grade-A insane irrational heavy self-centered panic-laden whoa-now-simmer-down-freakboy ramblitude.”
He rests his hands on the desk and clasps them, serious business style. “I consider myself duly warned.”
“Okay. Swell.” I look at him. He looks at me. I can hear singing from downstairs. “I – I know I should heartily encourage this new thing, this whole Amber-dating-some-miscreant thing. She’s been all stuck on Dennis since always, and it’s like – I get it. She’s twenty-two. She deserves to venture into the giddy world of pineless, two-sided lovin’. It’s not like I don’t wish that upon her. And Dennis is with Emily, and Dennis is all about the Emily, and Amber, she’s recognizing that and, I dunno. Manning up. In a girly way. Womanning up, and being practical, and moving on. And that … is good to do. But it kinda freaks me out.”
“That’s understandable, I think,” Arthur says. His tone of voice alone dials down my crazy like twenty percent. “You care about her, and it’s a big change.”
“Yeah. And it’s like – what are the odds that this guy is worthy to even stand in the same room as her, let alone do date-type things? But then it’s like … what if he is? What if he is like the full-on actual perfect Amber Clark dream fella, complete with … I dunno, cravat and white horse—”
“There probably won’t be a horse.”
“—Okay. Even horseless, though. Like – if he’s all epic-awesome-bitchin’-cool, then that changes stuff too. I mean, not like I’m jealous of her potential theoretical maybe cravat-wearing jolly splendid asshole boyfriend. It’s just—”
“You sort of are,” Arthur says knowingly.
“I sort of am,” I agree. “It’s like, she’s been … what I’ve got for such a long time. I don’t want Mystery John, Faithful Squire To Fisticuffs Clifford messing with that.”
“To be fair,” Arthur says, “you’v
e got me now. And Kristy, and Cora. That must be difficult for her to adjust to.”
Friggin’ fairness.
“Well,” I say, “yeah. There is definitely that.”
“And besides, it’s not only the two of you. You’ve known Mitch for awhile, haven’t—”
“Oh yeah,” I say, maybe with the slightest lack of jubilation. “Mitch.”
Arthur frowns. “Are you mad at Mitch?”
“What? No. Mitch is – Mitch is – Mitch is –” I don’t so much want to say it out loud. Saying it out loud makes it real. Still, Arthur is just sitting there, all attentive and there for me and handsome as hell, and it’s like, here’s somebody who will willingly listen to my psychotic madness so it doesn’t get the chance to just boil and fester until my brain somehow actually, literally explodes.
Possibly this is a good thing.
“I think,” I say, shifting my gaze to the ceiling so I don’t have to experience the torment of saying this directly to another human being, “Mitch might … have … thoughts …”
It’s right about here that I get tripped up.
“Um,” Arthur says after a long time, “well. I think so too. I mean, I always assumed so. Maybe on occasion he doesn’t precisely give off that vibe, but just because he’s subtle about having thoughts doesn’t mean—”
“Hey!” I drag my gaze down and bust out a chastising glare. “Uncool.”
“What?”
“Obviously he has thoughts. Just because he excels at exuding some doofery doesn’t mean that he’s not a genius. He is. A very specific, very undeniable kind of genius.”
“I believe you,” Arthur says – mostly, I think, because he is afraid not to.
“I just mean that specifically, he is having thoughts about … about …”
“Howie,” Arthur says, “you’re falling prey to your ellipses again.”
“Amber.” I spit it out. “He’s having Amber thoughts.”
“Of the romantic persuasion, you mean?”
“Oh! Ow. Okay, see: no. Going there, it’s a thing we can’t do. Human brains aren’t designed to withstand it. We are not – going to bust out the R word. Or the S word.”
“I didn’t say an S word—”
“Just. For future reference. ‘Sex.’ Don’t ever, ever say it in relation to them.”
“Noted.”
“Mitch never has serious feelings about girls,” I say woefully. “Like, he has girlfriends, and stuff, and he likes them, but it’s never this big deal. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him get all … like this. And it’s Amber. Not some jolly lass who loves, like, gummy bears and trampolines and gettin’ it on with whoever! That is a Mitch-quality woman. But Amber? And yet he just – I mean, it’s always been there in a way. He’s always totally loved her. But now it’s like – like, holy shit, what if he totally loves her?”
“Do you think Amber would ever be interested in him?”
“No. Except – Jesus, I dunno, maybe. He read some Coleridge, and she got all … there was a second there where I wouldn’t have been entirely surprised, had she thrown her panties at him.”
“Oh dear.”
“Uh, yeah.”
There’s a little bit of silence. There’s still music and cheerful talking downstairs. I take a little while to ponder whether I’m actually going to say the thing that’s been bugging me the most. Normally I wouldn’t, but normally, I don’t have Arthur to listen.
So I say it. “My mom is dating.”
“She is?”
“Yeah. One of my old professors.”
“Not the one that took five points off your Shakespeare paper?” Okay, so maybe I ranted about that to a few too many people.
“The very one.”
“Well, that’s Shakespearean in its cruel irony.”
“Right? Thank you.” Fuckin’ Herrick. Who, okay, I probably shouldn’t be harboring any (some-might-call-them-irrational) biases toward at the moment. “I didn’t know she was ready yet. I didn’t know she was even …” For some reason, I can’t find a word to end the sentence with.
Arthur doesn’t say anything. He looks at me, though – this really kind, really simple look. He’s here, and he’s listening. It is a strange and wonderful thing to have that.
“I don’t know what to do with it,” I say to my hands. “There’s a part of me that’s pissed off. And it’s like, how awful is that. Of course I want her to be happy. I just – I guess ever since it happened, I’ve always been thinking she wasn’t. Like, losing my dad just fucked her up, and she was … like, over, or something. I don’t know how to say it without sounding like an asshole. But I guess I got that wrong. And now I’m like, well, what the hell am I even doing hanging around here? Like, I thought I was doing her some great service, staying home. The dutiful baby boy. And now – whatever, I was just kidding myself into thinking I was doing something important for her. But it’s cool. She’s all better.”
I laugh a little. Not a ha-ha-funny laugh. “And then it’s like, I just want to friggin’ bash in my own brain for thinking like this. Because it’s a big deal for her. It must be. And I know she was nervous about telling me, and … and she’s probably scared about what I’ll think of him, and if I’ll like him, and if I’ll be okay that suddenly he’s just this huge part of her life. And it’s like … like, who the hell should be more sympathetic toward that than me?? That’s exactly what I’m asking her to do, with me and you. And if she just decided, ‘Okay, nope, that’s not gonna roll, I don’t think I find that idea entirely spiffy,’ then it would just … it would ruin me. Where do I get off deciding that I can feel shitty about her having this new person, when I need her to be okay with it? And it’s like, that’s sort of what I’m feeling with everybody, I guess. Not as bad with Amber and Mitch, but it’s still there. And, like, Mitch doesn’t even know. But when he does know, I need him to be all right with it, even though it wouldn’t surprise me if he got all weirded out and, like, thought I’d been secretly yearning to tap that all these many years of our friendship. If he like-likes Amber, or what the hell ever, I need to be okay with it. And instead I’m just like – why the hell did everyone pick now to suddenly change and get all brave? It sucks. Except for the part where, you know, it probably doesn’t suck. I suck for thinking it sucks.”
I’m so wrapped up in my pity soliloquy that it surprises me to look up and see Arthur’s not sitting at his desk anymore. He’s on his way over to me. He stops in front of me and kneels down, a little bit awkwardly. Arthur, he’s not much of a natural floor-sitter, with all his pesky inherent dignity. He takes one of my hands in his and looks right up at me.
“May I just remind you,” I say, “that you volunteered to listen.”
“Not necessary. I’m glad to.”
“You’re not glad to,” I protest, scoffing. “To be glad to is humanly impossible.”
“Well, then,” he says, smiling slightly, “I suppose I must be the pinnacle of human impossibility.”
“I’ve suspected it awhile,” I admit.
“This is going to be hideously trite,” he says. “Prepare yourself.”
“Prepared.”
“It’s Christmas. You love them. They love you. More than anything else, that’s what matters. Things will happen the way they happen, and you’ll sort out the way you feel about them, and it will be all right. And you’ll keep loving them, and they’ll keep loving you, and … God bless us, everyone.”
I consider this. “Kind of a weak ending.”
“I can’t help suspecting it would have resonated more if I were a sickly child in Victorian Britain,” he agrees wistfully.
“Hey, Arthur?”
“Yes?”
“You,” I say, brushing my thumb against his cheek, “are the flippin’ bomb.”
“Thank you,” he says, leaning into the touch. “Honestly, I was fishing for exactly that compliment.”
God, he is the best ever human.
“All right, boss man,” I say, c
lambering with an exceptional lack of grace down onto the floor next to him. Equality, and all that. He laughs. “Your turn.”
“What?”
“You got to listen to me. Now it’s Artie ramble time.”
“I don’t have anything to—”
“Nuh uh. Not gonna cut it. Come on, man, there must be something that’s bugging you at this point in time. And I am here to listen.”
“All right then,” he says, looking cheerfully pensive. I surreptitiously attempt to practice his I’m Here And I’m Listening And I’m The Best Damn Boyfriend Ever expression on my own face. He does it so well. But it must be possible, right? It’s not like he’s that crazy-talented.
He’s about to start talking, but then he stops and stares at me.
“What?” I say, trying not to let my face muscles shift too much. This is damn tricky.
“You look like you’re about to start playing the world’s saddest song on its tiniest little violin,” Arthur informs me. “And then hug a kitten, and paint a rainbow, and watch Titanic whilst weeping profusely.”
There’s a part of me that’s just proud he pulled off such a seamless (if dated) pop culture reference.
“Okay,” I say, abandoning that well-intentioned and horrifically under-appreciated plan, “you shut up and start bitching, Kraft.”
He does. “There’s the fact that this store isn’t much longer for this world, and I’m … oddly enough, coming to terms with it. There’s the stress that accompanies telling my parents about said development. I can’t quite fool myself into believing that that’s their dream holiday surprise. The moment I woke up this morning, I had a song stuck in my head: I was then afflicted with the very depressing realization that it was by that woman who spells her name with a dollar sign, and that I knew all of the words. Because my current place of residence is the futon in the living room of a pair of teenage girls. Not a recent development, but a harrowing one. Always, always harrowing. Then there’s the fact that I’m currently caught in quite the vicious struggle with Patrick over who’s going to get to keep the ottoman in our living room, which I have the distinct memory of paying five hundred dollars for. However, he just so happens to have the distinct memory of paying for it as well, and quite frankly, it’s all leading me to suspect that you were onto something with the whole ‘douchey’ label—”
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