Worth Waiting For

by Wendy Qualls

  “I…” Saturday after next. He’s expecting to be around that long? Paul pulled away slowly, sliding sideways to get out from between Brandon and the stove. “You mean, like, almost two weeks away?”

  Brandon shot him a puzzled look. “If you’re already busy, that’s no problem—I didn’t say yes yet.”

  “It’s not that, it’s…” Paul held up his hand to keep Brandon from coming closer. “You just—you presented this like it was some convenient thing while you happened to be in town. And now you’re inviting me to meet your mother.” A casual post-church invitation to lunch was one thing, but a pre-planned “meet the parents” date was something else entirely. Something Paul felt very sure he wasn’t ready for. Something that smacked of a permanence and a commitment he wasn’t entirely sure he would ever be ready for. “It just, you know? Taking me to meet your parents? You’ve been really upfront about how you don’t ‘do’ anything more than casual, and this feels like more than that.”

  Brandon opened his mouth, then closed it again. “You don’t want this to continue?” he finally said. “Because it’s clearly gone beyond a one-night stand at this point. I don’t bring my casual fucks back to my apartment for the weekend. Hell, not even for the whole night. I don’t cuddle with them on the couch, or spend time just playing games, or take them to church because I think they’re unhappy with the way their own church has always treated them and I care about their well-being. We may not be ‘dating’ in any formal sense, but I assumed we’d be able to still see each other sometimes even after I go back to Atlanta. Not just a week-long hookup. Turns out I want more than that with you—I thought I’d made that obvious.”

  Yeah, he had, and Paul had the sinking feeling it was entirely his own fault for not picking up on it earlier. He’d convinced himself he didn’t need a commitment when Brandon wasn’t offering one. He could scratch that annoying gay itch he’d been ignoring for so long since Brandon would be gone in a matter of weeks. Then he’d compounded it all by going along with Brandon for an entire weekend—staying at his stupid apartment, for goodness’ sake—all without ever having a conversation about what “this” was. What it was very clearly turning into. And it wasn’t something he could walk away from with no explanation, not now.

  Paul turned his back on Brandon, rather than answering, and pointedly focused his attention on the skillet. “You said you wanted this because you were bored and you were going to be in town for a week or two,” he said without looking up. “You said you liked not having to deal with someone else in the morning. We’ve had a week and it’s been fun and all, but it’s… I’m not looking for a boyfriend.”

  “I see.” Brandon’s tone was flat, empty, but Paul didn’t dare turn around.

  “I have enjoyed it.” Only fair to make that point perfectly clear.

  “I know,” Brandon answered. His footsteps retreated to the living room and changed to muffled rustling as he wandered around on the carpet instead of the kitchen’s linoleum floors. “You seemed like you were okay with this yesterday. Very okay with it, actually.”

  “I’ve got no complaints about your technique in bed.” Quite the opposite.

  The pacing stopped. “Then tell me I’m not imagining that you just pulled a fucking June Cleaver on me not five minutes ago,” Brandon demanded. “You were happy to see me, you kissed me back, you’re cooking me dinner. You didn’t have to do any of that. Do you see how you’re sending mixed signals here? Why I might have assumed we both want something more than a while-I’m-in-town-and-convenient fuck? Because I know you do, Paul. Don’t lie to me.”

  “It’s…” Damn it. “I’m just not in the market for a long-term thing. Not with a man, anyway.”

  Brandon’s sigh was nearly inaudible, but Paul was listening for it and caught it anyway. “You’re still chasing that ‘perfect family’ dream, then?” he asked quietly. “After everything.”

  Chasing and chasing and being with you means going in the wrong direction. Paul said nothing. The chicken looked done and the spinach was nearly wilted past the point of edibility. “Dinner’s ready.”

  The weight of Brandon’s gaze on Paul’s back was making his shoulder blades prickle. “Okay,” Brandon finally murmured, defeat in his tone. “You want to eat at the table? Or on the couch?”

  “Couch is fine.”

  They sat on opposite ends of the sofa and watched half of some terrible reality show because it was the first thing that came up when Paul turned on the TV and neither of them bothered going to the effort of changing it. The chicken was overcooked after all. Paul found himself wanting to tell Brandon about his day, but there was nothing much to say. Same old same old. They ate mostly in silence.

  “I should probably get some more work done,” Brandon announced when they were nearly finished and the TV show was over. “Get a head start for tomorrow.”

  “Use the kitchen table—there’s an outlet right there for your laptop if it needs to be charged.”

  “Thanks.” Brandon rinsed his plate and left it in the sink with the other dishes, then pulled out his computer. “I’ve still got to go through a ton of old spreadsheets to see if anything’s been altered—mind if I do the psychology department first? Since you’re here?” He focused overly intently on the process of plugging in the laptop and turning it on, not looking up to gauge Paul’s reaction to his question. “I mean, if you’d rather I leave you alone, I can do something else and we can talk about it tomorrow. An official meeting, if you want. Sticking with the original plan.”

  Crap. “Brandon, I—”

  “Or I guess—is it all right if I stay and work here? I don’t mean to assume. I can call the hotel if you’d rather have me out now. Thanks for dinner, by the way.”

  “Brandon.” Paul slid into the seat across from him and forced Brandon to meet his eye. “I’m not kicking you out; you’re welcome to stay. For as long as you’re working at St. Ben’s. I really do appreciate that you’re doing this for me, I’m just…”

  “I get it,” Brandon said softly. “I’m good enough for a casual fling but I’m not long-term material. You’re not the first to feel that way about me—I should be used to it by now. I’ve had practice getting over it, anyway. So thanks for letting me crash here in the meantime. I’ll try to get this job finished as soon as I can so I don’t impose too much.”

  “Wait.” Paul reached across the table and grabbed Brandon’s hand. Brandon startled a bit, but didn’t yank it away. “It’s not that, and you know it. You’re a wonderful guy and if I were looking for that, you’d be at the top of my list. This has been great. Eye-opening, even. But I can’t keep it up forever, and I’ve been upfront about that since the beginning. I’m sorry.”

  Brandon grimaced and dropped his eyes back down to his computer screen. “Thanks. I’ll deal, I suppose. Sorry for assuming too much.”

  Paul squeezed his hand and offered a pasted-on smile. Brandon returned it.

  * * * *

  They spent the next few hours in semi-awkward silence, apart from occasional questions about various spreadsheets and psychology department projects. Brandon only got up from his seat when he needed to get himself a drink or to use the bathroom. Paul played through a handful of missions of a first-person RPG without taking in more than a few words of the story. They both stood up by unspoken mutual accord somewhere around eleven o’clock.

  “You want to brush your teeth first?” Brandon asked. “I feel like I need a shower before I go to bed, so it might take me a bit.”

  “Sure. Thanks.” Paul raced through his nighttime routine, threw on some pajama pants, and curled up on what had become “his” side of the bed. Would Brandon want sex tonight? Paul wasn’t opposed—this had been a week of personal firsts, and most of the sex-related “firsts” were things he’d enjoy seconds and thirds and fifths of—but maybe Brandon wasn’t in the mood. Even just getting to sleep next to him would
help ease some of the tension, though. Paul lay in the near-dark and listened to the sound of the water running in the shower. Imagined what Brandon looked like when wet. Thanks to that little interlude in Atlanta, he knew exactly what he’d be seeing if he were in there with him. Not that his bathroom was anything to brag about, and not that two people would fit in his shower, but still.

  He was nearly asleep when Brandon finally came out. There was a click as Brandon turned off the hall light, then a long silence. Paul’s last waking thought was the realization that Brandon wasn’t coming to bed—a thought which was confirmed by the squeak of sofa springs. He must have still been mad enough to prefer the old, lumpy sofa to Paul’s bed as long as Paul was in it.

  The bed felt cold all night.

  Chapter 18

  Paul drifted through his morning lecture on autopilot. Usually he enjoyed this class because this section of students happened to be generally motivated to learn something, behaviorism was inherently interesting, and unlike Grace’s 8 AM section of the same course, almost nobody overslept a ten o’clock lecture. They were finally past the basics of Pavlov and Watson and up to the interesting bits like Tolman’s latent learning, which was obvious when you thought about it—surprise surprise, you can learn things by doing them regularly even if you never get a specific reward—but ended up being surprisingly revolutionary at the time. Logical, easy-to-understand eureka moments lent themselves well to undergraduates paying attention in class, which was good for everyone. Paul really had no excuse for being even more out of it than his students were.

  Well, he did—his thoughts were almost entirely on Brandon. Not a good excuse, but an excuse nonetheless. Brandon, who had smiled politely and thanked Paul when he offered to make their morning coffee and who had generally pretended everything was fine even though he’d slept on the hideously uncomfortable couch. There’d been an invisible wall between the two of them, though, and Paul hadn’t been able to break through. It was physically painful to think about, so why couldn’t Paul stop poking at it?

  It’s excuse enough. And maybe he wasn’t quite as energetic about his odd historical anecdotes and punny bad jokes as he usually tried to be—it’s not like his students were in a position to complain. Everyone did seem relieved when he released them a few minutes early, though. Maybe his teaching really was suffering more than he thought.

  “Hey, you!” Grace caught up to him in the hallway and flashed him a cheerful smile. “How go the behaviorists?”

  “About as well as expected.” She was wearing a mid-length floral sundress and low yellow heels. The outfit was probably a bit more summery than the weather would warrant, but it looked good on her. Not particularly “professional,” but good. Her hair was down in loose waves cascading over her shoulders, and all Paul could think was that she’d look right at home on a sunny Sunday morning at his parents’ church.

  “Have time for lunch?” she asked, falling into step with him. “I was on my way to grab a sandwich, but I’m not feeling picky. And I don’t have anything until two.”

  “Me either.” Paul checked the time on his phone, even though class got out at the same time each day and this late in the semester he really shouldn’t have had to look. Having someone to talk to would help keep his mind off the whatever-it-was with Brandon from the previous night. “I’m up for whatever—want to take our chances at the cafeteria?”

  Paul noticed the day had warmed up quite a bit over the course of the morning as they walked across the quad. Maybe the sundress wasn’t such an unseasonal choice after all. It was nice. Pleasant. And chatting with Grace was comfortable. They’d known each other long enough to have lost any awkwardness between them ages ago, but the psych department was spread out enough that they rarely got a chance to simply catch up. It’s not like there was a central water cooler to hang out around. Most of the time Paul didn’t mind—he had very little in common with most of the other faculty—but right now it was nice to trade mild gripes about schedules and students and school politics.

  “I heard you’re heading up the big secret project,” Grace said, nudging his shoulder with her own. “Did you make up with Dr. Kirsner, then?”

  “What pr—oh, the computer one?” The one I’m supposed to be working with Brandon on. “Didn’t really have much of a choice.”

  “Is it really some big super-secret thing?” She brushed a lock of hair out of her face and grabbed cafeteria trays for them. “There was a definite air of mystery surrounding the rumor—all I heard was that some consultant needed a ‘departmental liaison’ and Dr. Kirsner centered on you.”

  Paul shrugged. “He said I was best for the job because I’m the biggest slacker in the department and therefore I had the time. Not quite in those words, but you know how he is.”

  “Wish I didn’t.” She grimaced. “Is it that bad?”

  “It hasn’t been all that much work so far,” he answered. “Met with the consultant, who turned out to be a guy who’d been on my hall freshman year. Of all the weird coincidences. Anyway, he’s doing some sort of hocus-pocus with the whole university’s databases and needed someone who knew where all the bodies were buried. Or something.” He pasted a casual smile on his face. “May not even need me after all, he said. It’s probably nothing.”

  “Someone from our year? Here? Who?”

  “Do you remember Brandon Mercer? Little taller than me, dark hair, computer geek?” Amazing chest, gorgeous brown eyes, and a seriously tempting little smile that promises a multitude of sins? He very carefully shoved that last part back down into the recesses of his brain where it belonged.

  Grace pursed her lips. “His room was on the second floor next to the stairs? I didn’t get to y’all’s wing of the dorm much—I mostly spent time with the other girls—but I think I do know who you’re talking about. Transferred somewhere else early on through, is that right? All I remember about him was that he had a nice smile. And he was pretty outgoing for a comp sci major.”

  “Pretty outgoing for anybody,” Paul said. “He still is.”

  “I think it’s cool that you’re getting to reconnect.” She handed Paul his tray as they got in line. “I mean, I know you weren’t close, but sometimes it’s fun to see how people have changed.”

  You have no idea. All, Brandon had gotten sexier. The beard was a good look for him. And Paul was incapable of going ten seconds without mentally drooling over the man. Darn it.

  They got a table near the wall at the far end of the room. The dining hall was busy like usual around lunchtime, but most students tended to sit in the same general places each day and the farthest section ended up being unofficially reserved for faculty and grad students. Grace handed Paul a napkin (long-standing habit between them, since he invariably forgot to grab one on his way through the cashier’s line) and said a silent prayer before picking up her sandwich.

  “How’s Danielle doing?” she asked.

  “She’s good. In the States for a few weeks. My mom and dad are all in a dither because she met some guy who lives in the apartment across the hall from hers. She sounds positively giddy whenever she talks about him.”

  “Ooh!” Grace’s eyes lit up. “Someone French? She’s in Paris, right? Is it serious?”

  “French-Egyptian, and yes to both. I think my dad is disgusted she couldn’t find a literal American in Paris.”

  Grace snorted, coughed, then daintily covered her mouth until she finished her bite. “I can’t—wow, I mean, from all you’ve said about her I guess I can believe her finding a French guy, but that makes visiting the family hard. Good for her, though. Everyone deserves to have someone. Even if he’s French.”

  “You and my mom would get along great. I swear, Dad was about to blow a gasket, but Mom must have talked to him because I haven’t gotten any tearful calls from Danielle and it’s been a whole week now since she dropped the bomb on them. I went home that weekend and it was awkward
the whole time.”

  “That’s how it works at your house?” Grace winced. “I’ve always wished I had a sister. For that kind of thing. I mean, not that I’ve made all that many tearful phone calls home, but…”

  “Oh, I get you.” They’d had a good long talk a few years ago about what it was like to be a twin, and Grace had confessed to being insanely jealous that Paul had always had someone there for him. She’d even met Danielle a few times, over the years, although never anything more than a passing conversation. “I guess this is where I admit I haven’t made many either,” he added. “Maybe one or two. That I’ll admit.”

  Her eyes widened for a moment, and then she ducked her head and snickered. “Sorry, I just—I don’t see you as the whole melodramatic type. You’re always so…so …” She waved vaguely at him across the table. “You’re you. Unflappable, is that the right word? Dependable, maybe. I feel like I always know where I’m at with you.”

  I’m glad you do, because even I don’t usually know where I’m at, Paul’s inner voice snarked. Dependable? Unflappable? Those both sounded like good synonyms for boring. Paul’s sandwich churned unpleasantly in his stomach.

  “Boring” had its advantages, he reminded himself. It was safe, for one. And it didn’t get him in the middle of complicated relationship messes with people like Brandon Mercer, for another. The whole idea of having a family, settling down, moving gracefully into middle-age—those were “boring” at the core. And yet.

  “Speaking of types.” Grace set down the last remaining bite of her sandwich and leaned forward, as if she was about to tell him a secret. “The computer consultant you’re working with—Brandon—what do you think of him?”

  “Um.” Crap, isn’t that a loaded question. Paul quickly sorted through a whole variety of inappropriate answers until he finally settled on, “He’s nice, I guess?”