Where Do I Start?

by Chase Taylor Hackett

  Tell him what, exactly?

  Tell him how I feel.

  Wow. Just the thought of that gave me a cold sweat. People talk about panic attacks; maybe this was one. I even shuddered a little.

  “So,” Marco said, “you want to go out?”

  “Not really.”

  “We could pick up some hot guy, bring him back, and screw his brains out?” he suggested hopefully.

  “Tempting as that sounds, Marco, no.”

  We watched a little more TV.

  “You used to be a lot more fun, bro.”

  “I know.”

  I should do it anyway, I thought. The thing with Roger, I mean, not the three-way with Marco. I should cowboy up, as Florence Night-sweats said. I should randomly pick a day, and then, if I haven’t heard from him by then, I’ll just hang out in his apartment until he comes home, and—what? Ambush him?

  Marco was pointing at the TV.

  “You’ll like this guy, Fletch. So damned hot.”

  “I guess.”

  “I hope they win. Them or the other ones.”

  Dance, dance commercial.

  “You really like this stuff?” I said of the TV show.

  “Are you kidding me? Everybody loves this show. Why?”

  “I know a nice-looking lawyer I could fix you up with,” I suggested. “If he’s not available now, he will be soon.” It was the least I could do for Jeffrey. A couple nights of reality TV with Marco, and Jeff’s little broken heart would feel lots better. A few other parts wouldn’t feel so bad either.

  Who were these stars supposed to be, anyway? I’d never heard of them.

  “So how long you gonna keep this up?” Marco asked.

  “Which?”

  “Waiting for Mr. Rogers to drop trou.”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t know. And I don’t know what I’ll do if it comes to nothing.”

  “All onna conna some guy who’s not interested. Move on, my man.”

  “Can’t.”

  “I think it’s making you crazy.”

  “I know it’s making me crazy. And broke too. That hipster dog walker I bribed? It occurred to her that I must have my reasons for buying her off—and she insisted I cough up another fifty dollars a week, or she will suddenly make herself available to walk the dog again.”

  “Peace, love, and gouge thy neighbor.”

  “She’s also threatened to explain exactly who paid her off not to walk the dog.”

  “I could ask my uncle Phil to talk to her. It would be no problem. You remember Uncle Phil?” It’s a cliché, but Marco’s family knows people, and I’m sure Uncle Phil could explain to the greedy little slacker that it was not a wise business practice to put the bite on a friend of the Campobassos.

  “That’s okay. And you’re right, it can’t go on for much longer.”

  We watched a samba.

  “That looks like fun,” I said of the dance.

  Marco’s hand migrated over to my thigh.

  “Dude, I’m not some sixteen-year-old girl at the movies.” I moved his hand.

  “You sure act like one,” he grumbled.

  “Shut up and eat your popcorn.”

  Interview of sweating, panting dancers. The guy was way pretty. But not like Roger.

  Wait a minute. Just wait a cotton-picking minute, whatever that means.

  I looked at the samba boy again. Big mess of black hair, fiendish green eyes, cheeks flushed, dimples, big grin, delicious lips, shirt open, washboard abs, chest heaving, sweating—everything about this guy was unbelievably hot. And I was—bored? Marco was right, something was clearly wrong with me.

  Ambush. I liked the ambush idea. I won’t say anything. No words, I’ll just pounce. As soon as Dweeb comes through the door, I’ll grab his adorable face in both hands and I will kiss him like crazy from his hairline to his collarbone. And just when he wants me to keep going—– I’ll split. He likes to think about things? I’ll just leave him standing there, so he can think about things. His turn for a little circumspection.

  “So,” Marco said, interrupting my plan, “are you like never gonna have sex again for like the rest of your entire life or somethin’?”

  “That’s not exactly the plan, no, but I’m not going to have sex until I want it.”

  “Dude, you know you want it.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

  Puh-lease.

  “What are you going to do? Rape me?”

  He sat up and looked at me.

  “Fletch! That would be like soooo hot! And if you want, you can rape me back! How’s that for an offer?”

  “That’s messed up. You know that, don’t you.”

  “Seriously, you’re like the saddest story I ever heard. You’re totally dick-whipped, and you’re not even getting any dick.”

  “Pathetic, i’n it?”

  “It’s sweet that you’re saving it for this guy, but the guy you’re saving it for doesn’t want it.”

  A little harsh but completely true. I should say something, to acknowledge his keen insight and mature, thoughtful observation.

  “Shut up,” I said.

  Time for somebody else to samba, or maybe it was a cha-cha. Beats me. I should pay more attention.

  Of course what happens if I pounce, and he fights like a demon and tells me to get the hell out of his life? Again? It was a possibility. Maybe I needed to circumspect this a little more.

  “Hey,” Marco said, trying again. “You know if it doesn’t work out, and you know, you don’t hook up with the Roger again, I’ve been thinking. I’ve been thinking about moving actually.”

  “You mean—leave this house? Are you nuts? Leave your ma’s cooking?”

  “I’m thinking about leaving the city.”

  It was my turn to sit up and take notice.

  “I know it seems crazy and scary, but I’ve never been anywhere. I got some money, and you remember my cousin Joey—you met him—Little Joey’s Joey? He’s been out in L.A. for a year and he loves it. He’s got a house with an extra bedroom and everything.”

  “L.A?”

  “Think about it. We’ll buy a used car—”

  “I can’t drive.”

  “Me either! It’ll be a blast! We’re young and footloose. Why not? You’ve never been anywhere either.”

  “Fire Island doesn’t count?” I said, smiling.

  “Fire island most definitely does not count.” He smiled back. “C’mon, think about it. You and me in a brand-new city. Great weather. Lots of sun, lots of skin, lots of beautiful dudes, dude.”

  My knee-jerk reaction was “no way,” but…I really had no idea what I would do if Roger decided to shut me out completely. New York just might be unbearable. I knew I couldn’t go back to being the little concu-boy that I was in August. And aside from Roger and Marco, there was nothing to keep me here.

  California. Probably a better idea than jumping off the GW Bridge, which was another option.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  “You mean it?” He was surprised.

  “I mean—I’ll think about it.”

  “Okay!”

  “Thanks.”

  “What for?”

  “For asking me.”

  “Shut up.”

  There was more dancing. You’d think a professional boxer would be able to move better than that, but there you go.

  Monday. This was Thursday. I would give him until Monday, and if I haven’t heard from Roger by then, I would do it. The pouncing, I mean. And screw the consequences.

  “So, you just want to watch some porn and jerk off or what?”

  “You know what?” I got up from the bed. “You’re a gorgeous hunk of man, and I love you madly, but I’m gonna go.” I kissed him on his beautiful, thick Itali
an hair on his beautiful, thick Italian head. “You obviously need to take care of something. Watch some porn; have some fun.” I pulled my high-tops back on and started tying up the laces.

  I wasn’t angry, it wasn’t his fault. Not that long ago I would have happily shoved my jeans down, and—showtime!

  “You can stay and watch, if you want.”

  I just couldn’t anymore.

  “I’ll call you.”

  Chapter 37

  The End of the Story

  Roger

  I’d come home a little early. When I got there, there was no Haggis. Unless he’d decided to let himself out and go party with the French bulldogs from downstairs, he must be out with Fletch.

  Fletch. I hadn’t seen him in two weeks. I guess I’d been avoiding him. Of course I’d been avoiding him. Carefully avoiding him. I hadn’t called him after my go-round with Jeff, as I kind of said I would, and I hadn’t called him since. We’d traded a couple texts about the dog, but that was it. I guess I didn’t really know how to handle Fletch in a post-Jeff world.

  What was I afraid of? I didn’t know.

  Now it seemed like it was time—which didn’t mean I wasn’t still scared, because I was. But even I can only put things off for so long, and truth to tell—I sort of missed him. Sort of missed him a lot. I found myself thinking of things to tell Fletch when I saw him, and then I deliberately didn’t see him. Which, when I thought about it, didn’t really make much sense. So here I was, intentionally home early enough to find Fletch.

  I heard his key in the door, and he and the dog came in.

  “Hey,” I said.

  He jumped about a foot.

  “Whoa! Man-oh-man, you scared me!”

  “That’s funny. In the whole time I’ve known you, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you startled.”

  The dog wandered past me into the kitchen, giving me one ankle bump and two miniscule wags of his tail as he went by, and that was it. Love you too, Hags.

  “It’s just—” Fletch started to say. “I was going to—I mean I had this all planned out—differently.”

  “Had what all planned out?”

  “Nothing. It’s just—”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to rattle you.”

  “You know how you like to have things all laid out in advance and how you hate it when something—usually me—comes along and wrecks it?”

  “Oh hell yes.”

  “Today—it’s the other way around. That’s all.”

  “You—want me to leave?” I offered.

  “It’s okay. I’ll wing it. Remember me? The spontaneous one. So. Hey, Dweeb.”

  “Hey.”

  “I’ve kinda missed you.”

  “Thanks.” I blushed, but I liked hearing that. I liked hearing it way more than I should. “Me too. I mean, I’ve kinda missed you too.”

  “So what are you doing home?” He glanced at his watch.

  “Couldn’t stand it another minute. It’s okay, not even my secretary will notice. And honest? I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Good. I’d decided I was going to hang out here ’til you got home—I wanted to talk to you too.”

  “How’s your hand?”

  “Much better thanks! The stitches are gone, and you can see, the swelling’s nearly gone too.” He pressed it with his index finger.

  “Will it scar badly?”

  “Just enough to remind me.”

  “A souvenir of Dr. Scruffy.”

  “Or something. Oh damn it!” he said suddenly, interrupting himself. “Speaking of remembering, there was something I wanted to bring you. I can’t believe I forgot, unless…” He rummaged a little frantically through his bag. “No, I left it on the little table right by the door—so I wouldn’t forget it. Damn!”

  “What is it?”

  “A surprise.”

  “Fletch, you know how I—”

  “Not a bad surprise, I promise. I’ll have to bring it tomorrow, you’ll see. Hey, did somebody steal some of your CDs? That shelf didn’t used to be empty.”

  I looked around.

  “I guess Jeff came by and picked up his stuff. No more Lady Gaga, I’m afraid. Or is it the other one?”

  “Oh. So.” He changed the dog’s water. “What happened to Jeff?”

  He was trying to sound casual.

  “We had a little chat, and I told him that—on a going-forward basis—he should go fuck himself.”

  Fletch stood up from setting the water bowl down.

  “Really.”

  “In point of fact. And before you think another thought, stop right there.”

  “What?”

  “I know you, and I know what you’re thinking, and in about three minutes one of us is going to have his pants around his ankles—but forget it.”

  “Okay! Okay!” He put his hands up in surrender and went to sit—but he had to tug at his pants to accommodate what was already going on down there.

  “Unbelievable,” I said, trying not to look at what he was adjusting. “Get a grip.” Fletch’s eyebrows leaped about two inches at this tiny hint of an innuendo. “Stop it.” I sat on the couch, and he moved to sit next to me. “Over there.” I pointed to the other end of the couch.

  We each had a leg bent up on the couch so we could look at each other. I wasn’t sure what I was doing here.

  “You can’t be totally surprised about it. Jeff, I mean.”

  “No—but what about you? You okay with that?”

  “Yeah, I am. I seem to be totally okay with that. I suppose if I’m honest, I’ve been wanting to dump him for a while, but I kept thinking he should have to do something to deserve it. Giving him the heave-ho just because I’d decided I didn’t much like him didn’t seem fair somehow?”

  “Only you.”

  “Yeah, I know. Lately he’s been a total dick, and then that thing with the detective? So that sort of solved itself.”

  “So. No Cancun?”

  “I know! To think I was this close to getting golf lessons.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “Not well. I tried to keep things quiet and not have a huge knock-down-drag-’em-out, but in the end he pissed me off so much. I said some awful things.”

  “Good for you.”

  I hadn’t been particularly eager to thrash things out with Jeff—but he had forced the issue, and I’d told him. È finita. Das Ende. And although he had been the one pushing to have the conversation, he couldn’t quite take it in. It was obviously his first time as a dumpee instead of dumper.

  “There’s no way on earth you are breaking up with me; that’s just not happening.”

  Seriously, that’s what he said. Reason enough to dump somebody right there, wasn’t it?

  “Jeffrey—”

  “I get it. You’re pissed at me.”

  “I’m trying not to be, but you’re not making it easy.”

  You’ve figured out by now that I don’t do nasty very well, so I wanted to keep this as un-nasty as I could. I told him I thought we had different interests, different ambitions, blah-blah-blah, but poor Jeffrey’s little frat-boy brain could only see this as a competition, and it was a competition that he had lost. Worse than that? He’d lost to Fletch. That was simply unacceptable.

  “Never imagined you’d go for sex and a body over brains.”

  My patience was just about done, but I tried again.

  “This isn’t the big game, you against Fletch. This isn’t a case, Fletch v. Jeff, Second Circuit, or whatever. It’s just you and I. I’m not choosing Fletch over you. I’m choosing: Not. You. I’m sorry if that’s harsh.”

  “Honestly, I never saw that illiterate piece of street trash as a serious rival.”

  “Okay, Jeffrey, now you’re pissing me off.”

  “You u
sed to call me Jeff.”

  “Yeah, and it was stupid. Sorry for that too.”

  “So you’re passing on me in favor of your well-hung rent boy.”

  “I assume you’re still talking about Fletch, and no, that’s not what’s happening. Fletch has nothing to do with it!”

  “What a lie.”

  Was it? Maybe. Okay, probably. I don’t know.

  “So that’s it, after everything that’s happened between you and I.”

  Not sure why that was the thing that did it, but that did it.

  “Between you and me, you pompous fuck!” So much for outward calm. “Everything about you is wrong! You hate dogs—”

  “I don’t hate dogs.”

  “You love practicing law, and you love schmoozing, and you want me to love schmoozing, and I hate schmoozing! You hate the violin, classical music, string quartets, and I bet, if you were really totally honest, you’d probably admit you don’t even like me. If that weren’t enough, you went to school for nineteen years and still don’t understand how to use the accusative case! So. Here it is. I’ll always treasure this time we shared, now for the love of all that’s holy, take your goddamn Lady Gaga CDs and go!”

  “Katy Perry!”

  “Same! Thing!”

  “I don’t want to speak ill of the dead…” That was Fletch, pulling me back from the fight with Jeffrey that I really didn’t need to relive.

  “Yeah, me either. So what did you want to talk to me about?”

  “Me? Um—no-no-no. You first.”

  “Okay. Well, you know how you said you’d tell me everything I wanted to know.”

  “I’m going to regret saying that, aren’t I.”

  “Probably.”

  “So. What do you want to know?”

  “I think it’s time—tell me about Frank Szyfranski.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “Where do I even start?”

  “It doesn’t really matter—just start.”

  And he did. He gave a deep sigh, and he told me.

  Only child of a single mother. She was blond and blue-eyed, like him, and beautiful. And with a ton of problems. They lived in the projects; they lived in shelters; they lived with her boyfriends; they lived on the street.