Infamous

by Jenny Holiday

  “Come inside,” Jesse said gruffly, after they’d stood, embracing silently for several long moments.

  Hunter hadn’t been able to hear anything but the harsh rush of his own breath, but once he stepped over the threshold, the rest of the world made itself known. That had always been the problem with Jesse and him, hadn’t it? The rest of the world.

  “You have people here.” God, he was so tired. He couldn’t deal with people. He started to pull himself away from Jesse, but Jesse held on.

  “Go upstairs.” He pressed his hand against the small of Hunter’s back and propelled him toward the stairs. “I’ll get rid of them.”

  Get rid of them? “You don’t have to do that, I’ll . . .”

  But he was gone. A couple seconds later, Jesse shouted, “Party’s over!” Then he clapped his hands. “Everybody out.”

  There was an explosion of confusion. Incredulous voices. A lot of indignant exclaiming about a video. Hunter went halfway up the stairs so as to be out of sight. He knew he’d have to face real life soon, but he . . . couldn’t deal with humanity right now.

  Jesse kept shouting, not angrily, but resolutely. “Sorry, guys, I love you, but get the fuck out.”

  Hunter sat down on a step as he realized the old attraction was right there. It hadn’t gone away. There was Jesse, doing his competent, bend-the-world-to-his-will thing, like nothing had changed. And the fact that he was doing it on Hunter’s behalf only made it worse.

  Well. He had no choice here. He was going to have to find a way to carry on this friendship, hiding the fact that he was secretly in love with his best friend. Because he might have no idea what the hell he was doing, but this homecoming had crystalized one thing in his mind: he couldn’t live without Jesse.

  As for how to actually find a way to carry on without getting his heart rebroken day after day, he’d figure it out later. Jesse would let him crash here tonight, and Hunter would get his shit together tomorrow. He was so tired. He just wanted to retreat to Jesse’s guest room and become unconscious.

  He watched as Jesse stood at the door while everyone left, deflecting both indignant complaints (Billy) and concerned inquiries (Beth). No one noticed him, perched as he was halfway up the dark stairway.

  Jesse held Amber back, though, and spoke into her ear for a long time. She visibly started at one point, but then her shock was replaced by a wide smile. He kept talking, and she kept nodding.

  When he was done whispering in her ear, she threw her arms around him and hugged him.

  Was it Hunter’s imagination, or did she spot him as she did so? Her face didn’t change much, but there was something there. Recognition. The tiniest whisper of a knowing smile.

  “I’ll talk to Tony tonight,” she said. “We’ll make it happen. I’ll text you when I know something.”

  “I think Rob was headed out of town,” Jesse said.

  “Not anymore he’s not.” Amber blew Jesse a kiss as she slipped out the door.

  Jesse turned. The light was on in the entryway, so he was fully illuminated in all his Jesse Jamison glory. His hair was a little shorter than it had been when Hunter had left, but everything else was the same. The frayed jeans, the faded, vintage Iron Maiden T-shirt.

  Hunter’s stomach flopped like it was a sentient creature. He had no earthly idea what Jesse was going to say to him. Would he be angry that Hunter had left so suddenly? Angry that Hunter was even here?

  “Come into the kitchen,” Jesse said. “I’m going to make you something to eat.”

  “You don’t have to do that. If I can just crash here tonight, tomorrow I’ll figure out—”

  “When was the last time you ate?”

  Hunter had to think about that. “I, ah, had some pretzels on the plane.”

  “The plane from where?”

  “Germany. They took us there to debrief after the evacuation.”

  Jesse turned and disappeared from view. “Come into the kitchen,” he called as he retreated. “I’m going to make you something to eat.”

  Hunter got up. When had he ever been able to resist Jesse?

  He followed Jesse to the kitchen and sat at the marble-topped island he knew so well from his time here.

  The kitchen was littered with party debris, but Jesse moved through it with cool efficiency. He produced a loaf of bread, a stack of that processed cheese that came in individual packages—Hunter hated that cheese—and plopped some butter in a frying pan.

  “Want a drink?”

  A drink. Hunter hadn’t had a drink since he’d left Toronto four months ago. He surveyed the empty beer bottles everywhere. “Do you have any wine?”

  Wordlessly, Jesse opened a cabinet. Hunter couldn’t look away from the long lines of his body as he reached for a wineglass on an upper shelf. His T-shirt rode up, and his jeans were loose enough that they hung low, exposing the top of one hip bone.

  Something stirred inside Hunter, started pricking through the blanket of fatigue he’d been carrying around.

  That strip of exposed skin disappeared as Jesse moved to the refrigerator and extracted a bottle of wine. He pivoted and placed the glass in front of Hunter, like he was a bartender. Filled it with pale-yellow liquid.

  Jesse stood and stared at Hunter. He seemed to be waiting for him to take a drink.

  The wine was tart and cold when it hit his tongue.

  Sauvignon blanc, his brain said, and he realized there was a whole history inside his head, a normal life he had lived that had contained things like sauvignon blanc instead of the wounds of war.

  They had made him see a shrink before he’d left Germany. She’d screened him for PTSD and all that and pronounced him basically fine. Told him it was normal to feel sad, overwhelmed, restless, guilty that he had escaped Syria when so many could not. He felt all those things. He’d been having nightmares, which she’d said was also normal. The shrink had told him things would probably get measurably better when he got home. As he took another sip of wine and the cool liquid paradoxically spread heat in his belly, he had the first glimmering that perhaps she had been right.

  Jesse was making a grilled cheese sandwich. The stove was situated so Jesse’s back was to Hunter as he worked. It occurred to Hunter that he’d never really seen Jesse cook, other than pancakes at the cottage. Jesse dined out. He ordered takeout.

  Jesse plated the sandwich and slid it across the island to him, then leaned back against the counter and stared at him.

  Hunter knew he wasn’t getting out of this without eating the sandwich, so he lifted it to his lips and took a bite.

  “Oh my God,” he said through that first gooey, buttery mouthful. It was so good. Crispy and oozy and hot, and suddenly he was famished. Suddenly he loved processed cheese.

  He wolfed it down in a few bites.

  Jesse smirked. “You want another one?”

  Hunter shook his head. Probably now was when Jesse would unleash a million questions at him. Get angry, even, for leaving without telling him. That he hadn’t so far had Hunter on edge.

  “What do you want?” Jesse asked.

  A good question. He had no idea. But for tonight . . . “I was hoping I could crash in your guest room.”

  Jesse nodded and pushed off the counter. Topped up Hunter’s wineglass, picked it up, and hitched his head toward the stairs.

  Jesse’s guest room, which had been Hunter’s for several months before he’d left town, was achingly familiar. It was small and cozy, filled entirely by a desk and a double bed. Hunter had brought his own bedding over when he’d vacated his apartment for Beth on the eve of the band’s tour, and it was still here. He must have forgotten it in a haze of heartbreak when he’d cleared his stuff out that day. There they were: his duvet, the perfectly calibrated pillows he favored. He was surprised Jesse had kept them around.

  Jesse set Hunter’s wine down on the nightstand. “You need anything? Something to sleep in? Toothbrush?”

  Hunter shook his head. He’d left all his stuff in Syria in
the chaos, and what he’d accumulated in Germany and wanted to keep, he’d shipped to himself at the hospital. There was a small toiletries bag in his backpack. He had no immediate needs. No material ones anyway.

  I need you to stay here with me.

  But he wasn’t allowed to need that, so he settled for being grateful there wasn’t going to be an interrogation this evening and that he could lie on a familiar bed and try to sleep.

  “Okay, then.” For a moment Hunter thought Jesse’s eyes had filled with tears, but it must have been a trick of the light. He rapped his chunky rings against the doorframe, just like he used to do at Hunter’s hospital office, and the sound sliced through Hunter, both painful and welcome. “Good night.”

  When Jesse awoke to shouting, his first thought was that he didn’t remember arming the alarm system last night. Which was weird, because he’d been diligent about security since Russell’s surprise visit last winter.

  But then he remembered why he’d forgotten.

  Hunter.

  Hunter, who was currently crying out as if in pain in the guest room.

  Jesse flew out of bed like it was on fire and tore down the hall.

  Hunter was having a nightmare, thrashing around in the bed. He wasn’t shouting anymore, just mumbling. Nothing Jesse could make out, but it was definitely distressed mumbling.

  “Hunter,” he said, trying to pitch his voice loud enough to cut through slumber but not loud enough to frighten. “Hunter.” He sat on the edge of the bed and laid a hand on Hunter’s shoulder.

  Hunter woke with a start. Shot up to a sitting position, his eyes wild, darting around the dark room. Violently shoved Jesse’s hand away.

  “It’s okay.” Jesse put his hands up in the air even though that was the opposite of what he wanted to do. “It’s me. It’s Jesse. You’re at my house. You’re having a nightmare.”

  Hunter’s body relaxed a little, but he started shaking, like he was freezing.

  Fuck this not-touching thing. If Hunter really didn’t want him to, he wouldn’t, but he had to try again. Moving slowly so Hunter could clearly see what he was doing and had the opportunity to object, he let his hand float back down and land on Hunter’s upper arm.

  This time, Hunter clasped his own hand over Jesse’s, as if he wanted to make sure it stayed there.

  Jesse opened his mouth to comfort, to reassure, but no words came. Instead, he pulled Hunter into his arms. Hugged him tightly, as if physical pressure could somehow ease the shaking.

  And eff him if it didn’t eventually work. As they sat there, Hunter’s breathing slowed. His body quieted.

  It might have been ten minutes later, it might have been an hour, when Hunter started to extricate himself. Jesse’s instinctual reaction was to tighten his grip, but he forced himself to go limp. He wanted to howl at the wrongness of letting go, but for now at least, he had to mind the boundaries. After tomorrow night, things might be different.

  But then, a miracle: Hunter hadn’t let go, not entirely. He’d just pulled away enough to shift his body. He wanted to lie down. He wanted . . . Jesse to lie down with him?

  “Stay?” Hunter whispered, the syllable tentative on his lips, almost embarrassed, like he didn’t think he should be asking but couldn’t help himself.

  A surge of . . . something moved through Jesse’s chest. Something he couldn’t name. He lay back, taking Hunter with him, keeping Hunter in his arms. Then, once they were situated, he used his foot to draw the comforter, which was scrunched down at the bottom of the bed, up enough that he could use one hand to grab it and cover them.

  “I’ve got you,” he whispered into Hunter’s hair. “I’ve got you.” He was supposed to be comforting Hunter, not vice versa, but a profound settling happened inside him, a surrender of effort and a laying down of worries.

  They didn’t speak after that. Just lay there holding each other in a bed that was too small for two grown men. It wasn’t sexual, not exactly. It had that potential—when Hunter was around, that potential was always there, simmering under the surface of whatever else was happening—but there was another, bigger sensation cresting inside him.

  It was whatever that surging feeling in his chest had been before.

  He knew what it was.

  Tomorrow, he would name it.

  When Hunter awoke, he felt . . . peaceful?

  He hadn’t felt this way for a long time.

  Peace was quickly replaced by embarrassment, though, as he remembered waking from the nightmare he’d been having off and on since the evacuation. But then, Jesse, with his warmth and silent surety, an unexpected anchor in the storm.

  As sheepish as he felt at having exposed himself so utterly, he couldn’t quite make himself regret it, because after Jesse had gotten into bed with him, Hunter had slept. He hadn’t done that for months. The psychologist had said the nightmares would fade with time.

  Apparently they also faded with Jesse.

  He picked up his phone from the nightstand to check the time. It was noon.

  “Ha!” He was giddy, awake, and, he realized with astonishment, content.

  Also hungry. Ravenously, distractingly hungry.

  He threw on his clothes from yesterday—he’d have to either buy some new stuff or take a cab to his storage locker. He peeked around Jesse’s bedroom door, which was ajar. It was empty.

  Downstairs, the place was still a mess, post-party, but the kitchen had been tidied.

  There was a note on the counter.

  Sleeping Beauty,

  We have a show tonight, if you can believe it. We’re doing one of those pop-up surprise shows. It’s at Massey Hall at eight. Will you please come? If you can’t manage it, I understand, but . . .

  There was a bunch of stuff crossed out then. Hunter held the note up to the light, intensely curious to read what Jesse had written, then deemed not right, but he couldn’t make anything out.

  It would mean a lot to me if you came. Amber is arranging a ticket for you. I don’t have your number (I think you changed it?), but if you text it to me, I’ll pass it on to her, and she’ll be in touch with details.

  Regardless, make yourself at home, crash here for as long as you need. I got a few staples, and there’s breakfast in the fridge. Don’t run off. Talk tonight.

  J.

  Hunter blinked, trying to process all this information. If he’d been asked yesterday if he wanted to go to a rock concert, the answer would most decidedly have been no. He felt much better today, but even so, the idea of a crowd of people shouting, of loud music blasting from speakers, was not appealing.

  But then he imagined Jesse at the front of that crowd.

  “It would mean a lot to me if you came.”

  Also: “Talk tonight.” Yes, they did need to talk. To clear the air once and for all between them, so they could move on. Yesterday had settled one question for him. He was incapable of not having Jesse in his life, so if Jesse would still have him as a friend, which seemed likely, Hunter would have to get on with the business of sublimating his feelings. It wasn’t ideal, but it was . . . life.

  So, all right. He was going to a rock concert tonight.

  He picked up his phone. It’s Hunter. Of course I’ll come tonight. And . . . sorry about last night.

  The reply came immediately.

  Good morning! Don’t be sorry. I’m not. Well, I am sorry I abandoned you. We have tons to do to get ready for this show tonight.

  Then another one.

  Did you eat breakfast? You should eat. I got stuff for you to eat.

  Hunter smiled. Cool your jets. I’m about to.

  Jesse must have gone out this morning because the fridge contained fancy deli breakfast sandwiches, and there was a box of assorted pastries on the counter. He took a bit of everything, along with a giant cup of coffee, to Jesse’s breakfast nook. It was cool but sunny outside, and the light streaming in from the skylight above energized him.

  Once full, he contemplated the rest of the day. He should
probably get in touch with Beth and figure out the living situation. Contact the HR office at the hospital and make a plan to return to work.

  Instead, he started cleaning up the remnants of last night’s party. He wasn’t even sure why. Jesse would object if he knew. But there was something about cleaning up the concrete mess in front of him that was immensely satisfying. To do something specific and finite and to see a pleasing result. Everything else could wait.

  It took him a couple of hours. He probably left the house cleaner than it had been to start with, and that made him smile.

  Then he went out to lunch, to the ramen place, in fact. He bought a newspaper to read while he ate.

  Bought some clothes to wear to the concert.

  Went back to Jesse’s and took a nap.

  It was all very surreal. But it all felt good, felt normal.

  When he was about to head underground to get on the subway, he fired off a text to Jesse for no reason other than that he wanted to.

  Hunter: Break a leg tonight.

  Jesse: You’re coming, right?

  Hunter: Yep. See you soon.

  Then he composed one more message. As lovely as the day had been, inhabiting Jesse’s empty house, going to the ramen shop, getting his land legs back, he knew this break from real life couldn’t go on forever. They had to have the talk. Kick the seesaw again—but he was feeling less aggressively metaphorical about things now.

  Hunter: I’m hoping we can talk after the show?

  Jesse: Yes. Absolutely.

  All right, then. Amazingly, less than twenty-four hours after his plane had touched down, he was off to a Jesse and the Joyride show.

  And what a show it was. It was unusual these days for Jesse and the guys to play such a small venue. As great as Jesse was at playing to large arenas, he was born to play a place like this. The nineteenth-century theater held a few thousand people, Hunter guessed, and was known for its intimacy. The small stage was close to the audience, and the balconies—Hunter was seated front row center in the first one—jutted way out over the main level, creating a cocoon effect.

  Jesse was killing it. “Well, hello,” he’d drawled after they’d ambled on stage. “Fancy meeting you here.” The crowd had gone wild, and the band had launched right into the opening song, a rip-roaring number that was one of their biggest hits. When it was over, he shrugged and said, “Sometimes you just feel like putting on a show.”