Worth Waiting For

by Wendy Qualls

  “Fuck, yes,” he ground out. “Going to lube myself up nice and pretty for you, letting you watch. And then I’m going to sit on your cock and ride you until you can’t even remember your own name. My ass is going to be the best thing you’ve ever had your dick in, I promise you that—going to make you beg for mercy before I let you come. I might even give it to you. Eventually. After I’ve ridden you long and easy and then fast and brutal and then so slow I’m almost not moving, so you think you’re practically ready to die if I don’t finally push you over that last little bit. Going to make you come so damn hard—”

  “Stop.” Too much, too much, too—Paul squeezed his eyes closed and fought to regain his equilibrium. “Brandon, I don’t—”

  “You haven’t,” Brandon corrected. “That doesn’t mean you can’t. That’s what you want me for, isn’t it? A convenient hole? Well I’m willing. And I’m an excellent teacher—”

  “No.” Paul turned his head to the side, sucked in air like he’d never have oxygen again. It felt like he wouldn’t. “It’s not like that; you know it isn’t. Just because—”

  “I’m not going to balk just because you’ve never fucked someone’s the ass before,” Brandon retorted. “You said it yourself: I’m just good for getting off with. This is a ‘mutually beneficial thing,’ and I know we’d both mutually benefit from me getting to ride your cock. I’m going to show you what you’ll be missing when you go marry some quiet little Christian girl who’ll never touch you like I’m doing right the fuck now.” He punctuated his statement with a little grind and twist, planting both hands on Paul’s rear and pulling the two of them tightly together. “This is why you want me—”

  “I said stop!”

  Brandon froze for a long moment, then stiffly backed away with his hands up in surrender. “Fine. Fuck it—fine. You don’t even want me for that anymore—I can take a hint.”

  Paul struggled with his shirt cuffs, eventually managed to get his hands free. Brandon was just standing there looking stormy. Paul ran his fingers through his hair—a gesture he tried not to do anymore, since it made his hair stick up in stupid little tufts—and attempted to sort through the minefield of his thoughts.

  Brandon is angry? Check. Disappointed? Paul took in the line of Brandon’s stance, his crossed arms, his posture. Possibly. Probably. Hurt and embarrassed? Yeah, a bit. Brandon was glaring, now, but Paul didn’t think he was imagining the hint of pain in his eyes. Okay, a lot. Ashamed that he pushed too hard and didn’t read Paul’s (admittedly garbled) body language well enough? Or was it because Paul had turned him down?

  “Look,” Paul said quietly. “It’s not that I don’t want you—”

  Brandon interrupted with a dismissive snort.

  “Hey,” Paul snapped. “I told you upfront that I didn’t do that stuff. I’m not going to be some item on your damn bucket list. I didn’t do it with Christopher and I’m definitely not going to do it with you to indulge your little temper tantrum—”

  “You know what? Fuck you.” Brandon grabbed his undershirt and pulled it back on, then retrieved his button-down and shoved his arms through the sleeves without bothering to fasten it back up again. “I’ll be in touch if I need anything more from you for work—otherwise, you might as well delete my number.”

  Hell. “Brandon—”

  “Shove it,” Brandon growled. “I’m headed back to my hotel.”

  “But you canceled—”

  “I’ll find another one.”

  And with that, Brandon grabbed his briefcase and stormed out the door.

  Chapter 21

  Paul went to bed alone. Woke up alone, showered alone, ate breakfast alone. There was a brief period in which he was not alone, when one of his students finally came to his Wednesday morning office hours and consented to pick a topic for her final paper, but after that he was alone again. Paul reviewed his lesson plans for the next three weeks, checked his e-mail every ten minutes, and gave what was probably the finest intro to developmental psychology lecture in the history of St. Ben’s. He polished his funding paperwork until it practically gleamed, wrote his cover e-mail, attached the proposal, and reread it one last time. And then paused when he got to the section outlining the necessity of his study.

  Decision-making is frequently necessary in situations that offer inadequate data to accurately predict the statistical probability of desired outcomes. The somatic-marker hypothesis holds that such decisions are affected by emotions, physiological affective states, which then consciously or unconsciously interact with future perception to influence the illusion of statistical certainty. The importance of further study…

  Paul grimaced. In other words, people are terrible at predicting what’s going to happen when their emotions are in play. He pretty much knew the entire experimental justification word-for-word by now—knew all the research standing behind it, knew the ins and outs of every paper in this corner of his field—but never had it hit him before that he was included in that generalization. Never really had a decision worth analyzing before, either. Not since choosing this topic to dedicate his research to, anyway. Breaking up with Christopher had been more of a necessity than a decision, and everything else had essentially been one smooth progression flowing from the initial declaration of “I want to study psychology someday” all the way back in high school.

  Staying with Brandon would require giving up everything, though. That’s what it really came down to. And the cool, rational part of his brain kept reminding him that he didn’t really know Brandon that well, not truly, especially after spending a total of less than two weeks together after a full decade apart. It was completely illogical to be missing him so terribly—they’d survived without each other for ten years, and then for eighteen years before that. What if Brandon turned out to have some terrible, hidden secret? An ex-wife and a kid hidden away in Minnesota, maybe. Or a prison record. Or a history of dating naïve guys, coaxing them out of their closets, and then abandoning them as soon as they cut ties with all the homophobic friends and family members in their lives.

  Yeah right. He was working himself up into a ridiculous state, all because Brandon Mercer turned out to be the man of his dreams—dreams he’d never wanted to acknowledge he had in the first place. Dreams he couldn’t afford.

  “Paul?”

  Paul shook off his reverie and returned Grace’s smile with one of his own. “Hey.”

  “Hi.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and ducked into the room. “Happened to see you were here and I wanted to ask—have you talked to that consultant yet? About the play?”

  “I haven’t seen him yet today,” Paul answered truthfully. “Probably safest to assume it’s a ‘no,’ though—he’s been pretty busy.”

  “Oh.” Her face fell. “I was starting to really look forward to it. I guess, um… Let me know if you get the chance? Or if you want to go without him.” Her eyes widened and she immediately began to backpedal. “I mean, doesn’t have to be a date—”

  “Thanks,” he said, before she could make the moment even more awkward. “I’ll let you know when I have an answer for you.”

  “Thanks, I’m holding you to that. I appreciate how you’re always so reliable.” She made an aborted movement, probably an impulsive handshake, but she thought better of it. “I should get going, I guess. Class in ten minutes.”

  “Me too.” Paul threw his notes for his two o’clock seminar into his briefcase and stood up. “I hope at the very least you and your friend will get to see the play.” And I need a long walk, alone, before I can decide anything else.

  * * * *

  He headed from his seminar directly to his car, and from there to his usual park. Once again the hiking trails were nearly empty, despite the gorgeous weather. Sunny and warm just to spite me. It was a stupid thought, but Paul was grumpy enough to half believe it. He walked until he was exhausted, until he was well and
truly sweating through his gray dress trousers, which were in no way appropriate for hiking, but he hadn’t wanted to take the time to go home and change. If he went home, he’d end up putting his things on the table (where Brandon had eaten) and sitting down on the sofa (where Brandon had slept) and staring at his game collection (which Brandon had called “impressive”) and never getting back up again. How had Brandon managed to so thoroughly infiltrate his life in less than two weeks?

  Oh right—because Paul had no life. Ninety-five percent of his time was spent either at work or hanging out in his apartment. No friends outside of St. Ben’s, no hobbies, no thrilling secret identity going out to fight crime, nothing. His life was in a holding pattern, had been for years, and he’d been too blind to realize it.

  Paul slowed to a stop at the trailhead and forced himself to drink about a cup and a half of lukewarm, rusty-pipe-flavored water from the park drinking fountain before collapsing onto one of the picnic benches near the parking lot. He was sweaty enough for his work clothes to be sticking to his skin, which meant he was probably dehydrated—not going home to change meant not bringing his own water bottle, either. The drinking fountain was usually a last resort, but it was a nice amenity to have available for days like today.

  “Thought I’d find you out walking.”

  Paul jumped about a foot in the air and whirled around.

  “You look hot—I bought you a bottle of water on the way. Here.” Christopher held out a Dasani with a tight smile. When Paul didn’t move to take it from him, he set it down on the picnic table between them as if ambushing your ex with bottled drinks was a totally normal and expected part of anyone’s day.

  “Christopher, what are you doing here?” Paul asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Christopher sat on the bench next to Paul and leaned back against the table, his body facing away from Paul but invading his personal space nonetheless. “You had a rough day, so you came here to think like you always used to do. Boyfriend troubles will do that—he’s not much of a hiker, then, I assume?”

  Paul suppressed his immediate instinct to panic. “Sorry, who?”

  Christopher laughed. It sounded forced and fake. “Brandon Mercer? The guy you’ve let stick his dick in you? Really, if I’d known you were that desperate for some action, I would have come to see you sooner. It’s been a while.”

  Paul’s gut roiled at the look on Christopher’s face. “What?” He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Christopher. Why are you here? Why are you following me?”

  “Because you need me.” Christopher crossed his arms and cocked his head to the side, a mannerism Paul had seen him do countless times in the past. “Who’s going to take care of you otherwise: you? Your boyfriend?” He nodded toward Paul’s sweat-stained work clothes. “You can’t even do something as simple as wearing actual exercise clothes when you’re going for a walk. You forgot to bring water. You’re lucky I remembered, otherwise you’d have to do with that lizard-flavored piss that comes out of the public fountain. And I know how you hate that.”

  “I…” Paul glanced over Christopher’s shoulder at the mostly-empty parking lot. Nobody there to overhear them, although that didn’t mean someone couldn’t drive up at any minute. As stupid as the idea was, it made Paul feel a bit safer—even if Christopher was completely batshit insane, he surely wouldn’t risk doing anything violent in a semi-public place, would he?

  “Look, you don’t need to pretend with me,” Christopher continued when it became apparent Paul wasn’t falling all over himself to thank him. “I know you’re lonely. I know you miss us living together. And even though you don’t deserve it, I forgive you for going out and slutting it up the moment my back was turned. Brandon Mercer has kind of a long history of fucking random men, you know—him condescending to suck you off doesn’t make you special.”

  “Have you been…” Paul opted against spying. “Checking up on me?”

  Christopher barked out a canned laugh. Playing the all-around nice guy role, like Paul had just been making a joke that fell flat. “I do still care about you,” he said. “Look. I know we all make mistakes. It’s part of being human. And you needed some time to realize how miserable you are alone. But I know you, and you deserve more than some traveling faggot who will have completely forgotten about you the next time he’s dick-deep in some other faggot’s ass. You’re better than that. We both are. I was giving you some time to come around, but then I realized you probably didn’t know I would be willing to take you back. I’m here to tell you now—I really do forgive you, Paul.” He dropped a heavy hand on Paul’s knee and squeezed it. The gesture was practically paternal. “My new apartment is bigger than our old one—plenty of space for your videogames and all your nerd crap. It’s much better than your current place. Being on the first floor isn’t safe, you know—leaving all those games in plain view is pretty much asking to have your window smashed in and your collection stolen.”

  Crap. Crapity crap crap. Still nobody around in the parking lot. He should have recognized Christopher’s car—there it was, an omnipresent white Ford Focus, just like the millions of others out there. Paul had eventually stopped expecting them all to be Christopher’s, but maybe he should have been paying better attention. Was Christopher threatening him, or was he seriously delusional? He’s making it sound like our breakup was merely some big misunderstanding, a ‘phase’ I was going through. No mention of how I finally got up the courage to kick him out and change the locks.

  “Hey.” Christopher squeezed Paul’s knee again, and Paul couldn’t suppress his flinch. “You’re still acting like you have to think about it.”

  No. No thinking required. Paul pulled his knee away and twisted so there was a bit more space between them. “It wasn’t a mistake,” he said with a good deal more bravado than he felt. “We’re not—we’re not compatible. God, it was so obvious! How did you not notice?”

  “What, because you’re trying out playing gay?” Christopher rolled his eyes. “I got over that ages ago.”

  “Oh, I’m playing gay? You’re the one trying to talk me into moving in with you.”

  “Because it’s…fuck.” Christopher put his hand back in his own lap where it belonged, but he would have rather been shaking some sense into Paul. “It’s not like that, and you know it.”

  “Right—how, exactly?” Paul took the opportunity to scoot backward a few more inches and turn so they were facing each other. “Because from here, it looks like you don’t have a lot of room to talk.”

  “It’s different,” Christopher insisted. “You and I, we just work. We come home and you play your videogames and I surf the internet and we trade off cooking dinner. We’re just roommates who like to get off on occasion. It’s not like either of us are going to go get our ear pierced or start listening to chick music or go march in some faggy pride parade—none of that gay stuff. You’re trying to pretend for your new fling, but it’s not going to work because you’re not the kind of flaming fucktoy he usually goes for. Seriously, have you seen his friends’ Facebook pages? Half of them are drag queens.”

  He looks so earnest. That was the one thing surfacing above the maelstrom of Paul’s thoughts. Christopher seemed to truly believe that Paul was just going through some sort of experimental gay phase and would give up on it sooner or later. And that he’d come crying back for whatever scraps of attention Christopher could be bothered to give him.

  And then it hit him: He probably would have, eventually, if it hadn’t been for Brandon. If he’d known he’d be facing decades upon decades of being in the closet, of dithering over whether he could pretend to be straight enough to date someone like Grace (who really deserved better) or whether he’d have to constantly deflect attention from his sad lack of a personal life. Eventually he’d have said “screw it” and settled down with Christopher—or someone like him—and maybe he’d have called it a “relationship” and maybe not, but he�
��d have been miserable. Because no “we’re roommates, mostly” scenario could possibly be as good as waking up next to Brandon every day. Or of watching Brandon smile that little smile of his and seeing that glow in his eyes that meant he was truly, honestly happy they were in each other’s presence right that very second. Of shower sex and sofa sex and bedroom sex with Brandon who in the end didn’t want Paul for some random one-night stand. Who wanted to hold his hand in public, who wanted them to both enjoy themselves in bed, who could hold his own in a first-person shooter and couldn’t cook for crap and was practically a zombie before his first cup of coffee in the morning. And if Paul didn’t call and apologize today, as soon as possible, Brandon might go back to Atlanta and then the chance would be lost.

  Christopher was watching him with his head slightly cocked to one side again, assessing him. Waiting for an answer.

  “I’m taken, Christopher,” Paul said firmly. “Sorry.”

  “Oh, that’s a damn lie,” Christopher said, a hint of a sneer in his tone. “You’re not sorry at all, are you? You’re thinking about fucking him right now. Even knowing that he’s going to leave you.”

  “Then I’ll have to go chase him, won’t I?” Paul stood up, mentally willing Christopher to take the hint already. “Look, I know you think you’re looking out for me, but please don’t. I don’t need your protection.”

  Christopher looked pointedly at the still-untouched bottle of Dasani sitting on the table next to them. “He’s never going to understand you like I do. To look after you.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “You’ll throw everything away to go play house with some big-city faggot?”

  Right, enough of that. Paul picked up the Dasani and tossed it into Christopher’s lap. “Looks like it,” he said. “I’m heading out. I don’t want to hear from you again.”