The ETA From You to Me

by Zimmerman, L

  So he talked.

  “So, dude,” Grant began, glancing down when Clayton turned to look at him, “Where did you come from? Have you been here long? You know, I’ve been in Spring Valley, like, my entire life, man. I guess that’s why I make an awesome dispatcher--because I totally grew up here and I know where everything is. I mean, I don’t have photographic memory, but like... I almost always know how long its going to be for a driver to get there. I make some mad ETAs like that, even though there’s math involved, right?” Grant barely waited for Clayton to give him an amused nod before he was off again.

  “Yeah, I mean, mileage and stuff is a form of math. I’m not actually that great at math--I was thinking I could have dyscalculia, which is a legitimate thing, by the way. I shit you not, man.” The waiter came over with their drinks, and Grant continued to ramble while fighting with his straw.

  “It’s like dyslexia, but with numbers. I’m not saying I have dyslexia, I’m good with words and spelling--I was thinking about being an English teacher, but then I realized that I’d be dealing with hormonal teenagers. I could barely handle my buddy, Adam, when he started dating Jessica. So I’m getting my gen education degree. Do you have a degree?”

  Clayton’s ‘I’m really amused but I don’t want you to think I’m a smiley kinda guy’ smirk was back on his face, absently glancing over the liquor menu. Grant grabbed the wrapper for his straw, fiddling with it.

  Grant realized he could have possibly insulted the man’s intelligence, and struggled to instantly amend that. “I mean, that’s okay if you don’t, I’m not saying you have to have one. I had some scholarship and I didn’t wanna throw the money away--I’m not saying I’m super smart or anything either.” He smoothed out the wrapper, folding it into an accordion.

  “I’m pretty ADD, so they had me on Adderall in high school, and, man, I will tell you now, that stuff was like steroids for your brain or something. I would get mad focused on an assignment and just zing through it,” Grant made a jerky hand motion to signify how fast he was actually zinging through his assignments and then grabbed Clayton’s straw wrapper to fold that one as well, “and I’m pretty sure it made my dad’s life way easier because, y’know, being a cop is tough shit, but if your kid has good grades, it looks good on you. Not that I’m saying I represent my dad, but I’m pretty sure he felt that way.” Unfolding the wrappers, Grant smoothed them out and then started braiding them.

  “Which is why I think he’s happy that I’m in college, cuz he knows I’m not out doing drugs or having promiscuous sex with people of unknown origin.” Grant muttered, undoing the braid and then attempting to make an origami heart. Clayton reached out, snatching the wrappers away from Grant and placing them next to his elbow and out of Grant's reach.

  Affronted, Grant leaned forward to grab them back, only for Clayton to smack the top of his hand as if reprimanding a child. Grant jerked his hand back, releasing a dramatically hurt noise and holding the appendage to his chest.

  Clayton stared, and Grant realized that he maybe, probably, had rambled way too much and the guy was only here to get some free food, not to have his head talked off. Mentally cursing himself, Grant lowered his hand and picked nervously at his fingernails, trying not to bring them up to his mouth and nibble on the ones that were getting too long. He slouched down in his seat, embarrassed.

  A loud sigh of, “drama queen,” from Clayton made Grant peek up to see the straw wrappers being slid back in his direction. Grant tried his hardest not to light up like a Christmas tree, but he was pretty sure he failed miserably.

  Returning to his task of trying to make a crappy origami heart, Grant forced himself to stay quiet so as not to bother Clayton any more than he already had.

  It was Clayton who spoke next, huffing through his nose and sitting back in his booth seat to watch Grant with detached interest. “So, you’re in school.”

  It was like giving a twinkie to a man trapped in a zombie apocalypse, and Grant latched onto the chance to redeem himself. He sat up, wiping his palms on his thighs. “Yeah, I mean. I’m in school full time and you know I’m working weekends--which is good because I can pretty much get my homework done when there aren’t too many runs or anything, so I’m not ever really that bored…” Grant sat his elbows on the table, amending that statement, “except when I am, which is why I like to bring my laptop and my DS. Do you play any video games?”

  “Not really, no.” Clayton took a swig of his water, which prompted Grant to suck down half of his soda in one go, because he was suddenly very thirsty.

  “What about internet games?”

  Clayton was starting to look just the tiniest bit uncomfortable, thumbing the rim of his cup and giving Grant a crooked shrug. “I don’t go online much.”

  Horrified, Grant twisted his palm out in the universal hand motion for ‘what even,’ and struggled to see if Clayton was actually telling the truth. Clayton‘s eyebrows did their little awkward bobbing thing and Grant was overcome with the urge to reach out with his thumb and pet one. Instead, he released a shocked sound.

  “Oh my god, dude. How?”

  Clayton laughed, most likely at the horrified expression on Grant's face, and then glanced up when the waiter came by to refill Grant's drink for a second time. “I like to read books… I go hiking a lot.”

  “Hiking? Here?”

  “We’re not too far from the mountains.” Clayton pointed out dryly, his lips twitching spastically like he had some physical illness that made him incapable of smiling more than once an hour.

  “You must have an ass of steel.” Grant told him seriously.

  Clayton snorted, rolling his eyes, probably because Grant was really bad at not acting interested and it was possible that he thought Grant was a complete headcase who needed to be dosed up with ridiculous amounts of klonopin and kept inside all day.

  Grant struggled to prove him wrong--despite the fact that Clayton hadn’t actually said any of this--and threw his hands out in desperation. “I mean, not that I would look or anything right because, hey, no homo, right? Not that I’m saying you don’t have an ass of steel, I’m sure you have a great--”

  “Grant, chill out.”

  “Sorry!” Grant squeaked, ducking down to sip at his soda and taking a painfully long moment to chase his straw around the rim with his tongue, looking everywhere but at Clayton.

  Huffing softly, Clayton shook his head and sat up when the waiter appeared with their food. Grant was instantly grabbing for his wings, digging in with gusto. Clayton did the same, only with a tad more restraint.

  Within seconds, Grant had his cheeks stuffed with food, licking his lips and trying to fit a second boneless wing into his mouth because sweet Jesus these things were tasty. He looked up in time to see Clayton watching him with a disturbed look on his face, halfway to bringing a forkful of steak to his mouth.

  “What?” Grant felt painfully self conscious, chewing slower and slower until he finally stopped altogether.

  Clayton made a pained noise in the back of his throat, “You’re … like a chipmunk.”

  Flustered, Grant stared back at his food, swallowing and grumbling, “chipmunks are awesome anyway,” under his breath. Clayton snorted softly, rolling his eyes and going back to eating his own meal.

  Grant was only halfway through his dinner when he realized that the two sodas he’d chugged had already passed through his system. He excused himself, hop-walking his way to the bathroom. He returned to see that his plate suddenly had a good handful of fries that hadn’t been there before.

  A quick glance to Clayton’s own plate showed a significant depletion in his fry community, which made Grant really want to comment, but he already had a habit of pushing things that needed to be left alone. It was the exact reason he was rather lacking in the relationship department, which was also why he kept his mouth shut and sat down without a single word on the subject.

  Clayton’s shoulders sagged just the tiniest bit and Grant quickly resumed stuffi
ng his face.

  When they were done eating and Grant had paid the bill, (with Clayton tossing down $5 for the tip) they headed back out to the truck. Clayton pulled his GPS from its cradle, shoving it at Grant with instructions to type in his address. There was minimal chatter on the CB radio, enough for Clayton to turn on the actual radio and fill the truck with the soft sound of the classic rock station. Grant knew what a silent cue was to keep his mouth shut, and so he sat back and watched the scenery fly by.

  Pulling into Grant's driveway, Clayton shut off the radio and dug his phone out of the breast pocket of his uniform, shoving it at Grant. Startled, Grant fumbled with it for a second and then stared at Clayton in hopes that he would elaborate the action.

  “You need a ride in tomorrow, right?” Clayton’s eyebrow bob came back again and man, this guy really had no other way to express his emotions, did he? Grant nodded, and Clayton gestured to the phone. “Be outside at seven thirty tomorrow so I can pick you up on my way in.”

  “Dude,” Grant breathed, a grin overtaking his face, “You are awesome,” he tapped his number into Clayton’s phone, adding, “more than awesome,” after a prolonged moment. He was pretty sure that Clayton had just preened at the words, because the guy’s chest puffed out the tiniest bit when he shifted in his seat.

  Adorable.

  Grant shot himself a quick text message from Clayton’s phone to save his number, wondering if this meant they could start venturing into the realm of friends, and not just coworkers.

  Clayton’s hand came into Grant's line of vision, breaking him out of his thoughts and prompting Grant to return his phone.

  Grant dropped the cell into Clayton’s palm, unbuckling his seat belt and grabbing his laptop back from the floor. “So… yeah. Thanks for the ride, and for fixing my jeep tomorrow, and for the ride tomorrow… and for generally not being a dick like I know a lot of the drivers take infinite pleasure from doing. All of which I totally appreciate, by the way.”

  Grant fiddled with the door handle, not really wanting to leave but kind of wanting to run very far away, where he could live on a cloud of marshmallows and fully functional brain-to-mouth filters.

  “I know I’m like… the kid of the group, but that totally isn’t cool when they’re all like, ‘oh, stupid kid,’ when I fuck up--‘cause everyone fucks up, and I don’t want you guys to think I’m smarter or anything, but age has nothing to do with the stuff like doing your job right. I mean, I’ve been working there for like, almost three years, and I never hear about any real complaints or anything, so I must be doing something ri--”

  “Grant.”

  Grant's mouth snapped shut, eyes going wide in mild horror (partially at the fact that everything that had just come out of his mouth was practically one agonizing run-on sentence, partially because he somehow lacked the ability to stop himself from rambling until Clayton did it for him) and gripping to the door handle.

  “You’re fine. Get the fuck out of my truck so I can go sleep.”

  “Oh. Fuck. Sorry, I mean. yeah. Sorry.” Grant shoved the door open, scrambling out of the truck without another word, because another word from Grant was actually more of a perpetual diarrhea of incomprehensible language that only served to dig a deeper hole. A hole that Grant was pretty sure was almost all the way to China, by now.

  He didn’t bother to watch Clayton pull out of the driveway, slipping inside of his house and waving at his father, who was seated at the couch with a glass of whiskey and a mound of paperwork before him.

  Grant's father slipped his glasses down, giving Grant a thoughtful look. “Classes run late?”

  Grant shouldered his school bag, fiddling with the loop of his belt and suddenly feeling so anxious that he had a fleeting concern that he might have had a xenomorph implanted into his stomach that was ready to explode out in a fit of bloody and violent horror film glory.

  “Oh, no. My jeep broke down. I had one of the drivers pick me up and take it to the garage. They’re gonna fix it tomorrow, and we stopped on the way back to get food.”

  There was a moment in which Grant's father stared far longer than necessary, reaching up and completely removing his glasses. “You okay, Grant?”

  Of course, his dad was a cop and had those creepy perceptive powers that Brad Pitt was completely lacking in the movie Seven. Which was okay, Seven was an awesome movie anyway.

  “I think I’m having an existential gay crisis.”

  It was almost disconcerting how his dad barely batted an eye, pushing his glasses back up his nose with a soft, “oh,” and then grabbing his whiskey and taking a swig. “Well… have fun with that.”

  “Wow, dude.” Grant jerked his head and arm in opposite directions, expecting at least some form of consolation from his father and getting nothing but a raised whiskey glass. Apparently his father was toasting to Grant's inability to comprehend what his own hormones were doing. “Totally not feeling the love here,” he added under his breath, walking past the couch and up the stairs.

  He had homework to do anyway.

  Except somehow homework is apparently really hard to do when all he can think about is how much he wants to lick Clayton’s abs.

  And hips.

  And shoulders.

  Collarbone, too.

  All of which somehow leads to the passing consideration if it would be possible for Clayton’s stubble to give him rug burn, which--in turn--ended with such thoughts that had Grant coming to the startling realization that he was actually incredibly lewd.

  With another moment of self-clarity that was spiraling towards his second crisis of the evening, Grant popped an Adderall and turned on his Xbox for a good, long round of killing zombies.

  Chapter 3

  Grant didn’t wake up to his phone ringing; in retrospect, he really wished that he had. Well….. either woken up, or at least gone to bed wearing something other than just his boxers.

  As it was, Grant happened to be happily ensconced in the land of dreams and rainbows when something wrapped around his arm like the jaws of an agitated, toothless crocodile and began to shake him in firm tugs.

  “Grant. Wake the fuck up,” someone snarled angrily, shaking him again. Actually, that someone sounded a lot like Clayton--which would just be silly because that would mean that Clayton was in his house.

  “Grant. I swear to God, I will drag your ass out of bed.”

  Grant instantly snapped his eyes open, halfway curled into a fetal position with his quilt cuddled and wrapped intricately around his body like some sort of bondage porno. Grant, being the eloquent, controlled man that he was, released an undignified shriek, jerking so hard in Clayton’s grasp that the upper half of his body completely slid off of the bed. His head thudded onto the toe of Clayton’s boot, feet trapped in an elaborate boy-scout style tangle of sheets with his good-morning-you-have-no-sex-life boner standing half mast inside of his boxers.

  “Clayton?!” Grant struggled to comprehend the situation, staring up the length of Clayton’s sinfully long body (mother of god) and finding himself the subject of a bemused stare.

  “Your dad let me in, which, by the way, you’re going to be late for work because I sat outside for fifteen minutes trying to get you to answer your phone. Also, I didn‘t take you for a natural blond.”

  He was confused, until Grant realized that Clayton was staring at his stomach and the happy trail leading from his belly button and down into his boxers.

  “Oh my god.” Grant then took that exact moment to realize that he was literally lying at Clayton’s feet with a half-woodie, and glanced down.

  Yeah, it was actually pretty hard not to notice.

  Which meant Clayton could probably see-- “… OH MY GOD.” Grant flopped around like a dying fish to try and get off of the bed, half-rolling, half-falling until he was on the ground completely. He grabbed his sheets, wrapping them around his hips and breathing out another mortified, “oh my god,” before hightailing it out of his room lest he die of complete and utter hu
miliation.

  He could hear Clayton’s laughter even after he shut the bathroom door.

  By the time Grant was out of the bathroom, Clayton was no longer upstairs. He hurried to get dressed, grabbing his laptop bag that served as more of a Marry Poppins satchel of things-to-keep-him-entertained, and jogging down the stairs. Clayton wasn’t in the living room, probably in his truck, and Grant rushed for the door.

  “Grant!” his dad called from the kitchen. Grant looked up just in time to shriek and barely catch the flying projectile of a tupperware container, shooting his smirking father a dirty look and wave before he ducked out of the house.

  He resisted the urge to yell back at his father that the man could seriously hurt someone like that. Grant knew of at least three cases consisting of death-via-tupperware that had all ended miserably. The internet had told him so.