All the Better Part of Me

by Ringle, Molly

  At a curve in the freeway, Seattle’s skyline sparkled into view, shooting me full of the warm, excited feeling I always got when entering a city I liked.

  I’d been there before, of course. Most people who grew up in the Portland area had. And when Andy and Mitchell had moved up, I’d visited once. I’d met them at a restaurant for lunch, stayed a few hours, then returned to Portland since I was acting in a show that night. So I had never been to their apartment on Capitol Hill, where Andy was taking me.

  We took an exit off the interstate in the center of the city. Overpasses and skyscrapers towered above us.

  “That’s my building.” Andy nodded toward a handsome old brick structure fitted onto a triangular block. “Now comes the fun part: hunting the elusive parking spot.”

  We circled a few blocks, Andy prowling for a spot and me checking out the neighborhood and its pedestrians. The people looked young and counter-culture: a lot of piercings and emo- or hippie-styled hair. Capitol Hill was Seattle’s LGBTQ neighborhood, and the occasional pride flag sticker decorated a bumper or a window. I also spotted one young man kissing another before he got into a car at the curb. My gaze lingered on them. Would that be me if I ever got brave enough?

  Andy noticed them too, but took a more practical interpretation: “Oh hey, is he leaving? I’m totally stalking that spot.”

  We snagged the parking spot. In the cold drizzle, we each took one of my bags from the trunk and walked the two blocks to his building. While we talked about the ridiculous parking situation in the area, I shot glances at the mist of rain gathering on his hair and glasses, and wished I had the nerve to kiss him and feel the wet chill between our lips.

  He took me to his apartment on the fourth floor, turned on a light, and apologized for the weird blank spaces against some of the walls. “It’s where Peyton’s stuff was till yesterday. Then where Mitchell’s was before that.” He slid my luggage down next to a bookcase. “Now it’s where yours goes.”

  I wandered to the window, drawn by the dazzle of city lights through the slats of the blinds. “Wow, that is a nice view.”

  He came up beside me, tapping a colorful paper against his hand. “You can even see the Olympic Mountains when it’s clear. And a teeny bit of the bay.” He handed the paper to me. “Dinner idea. This place is good for takeout. I love the tacos; they’re not greasy. No sour cream.”

  He didn’t mind sour cream, but he’d remembered I hated it. Plus he remembered my saying, months earlier, that good Mexican food was hard to find in the UK and that I missed it. I took his word for it and chose tacos, and handed the menu back to him. “Maybe I’ll take a shower first.”

  “Cool. You do that, and I’ll get food. Your room’s down here.”

  He showed me into the room that had, until the other day, been Peyton’s, and an office before that. It was at the opposite end of the apartment from his bedroom, with (tiny) bathroom, (also tiny) kitchen, and (not terribly big) living room in between. It had a futon bed that folded up into a sofa, a city view from the windows, and the usual accoutrements of a guest room: novels and textbooks from college filling the shelves; a plain desk with a weird lamp on it, this one in the shape of an orange mushroom; and spare sheets and towels taking up half of the little closet.

  “It’s, like, ten times nicer than my flat in London,” I said in honesty.

  He grinned. “Get settled in. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

  The shower sorted me out, or at least mostly. I still felt tired, but nothing in me hurt anymore. I was also starving, and the artisan West Coast tacos Andy brought back were every bit as fabulous as promised: soft corn tortillas filled with marinated chicken and shredded vegetables with a lime-jalapeño dressing.

  “Who knew cabbage could actually be good?” I said, eating up the last shred as we sat on his sofa, plates on our laps, Comedy Central on TV.

  “Right?” he said. “I knew you’d like them.”

  And even with taco sauce on my fingers and jalapeño setting my mouth on fire, I wanted to put my plate down and slide over and kiss him. But I still didn’t.

  When I yawned for about the eighteenth time, Andy chuckled. “It’s, what, four a.m. in your time zone?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Go to bed, dude.”

  A sound plan. But as I finished brushing my teeth, I knew I couldn’t put it off another minute, let alone another day.

  I found him in the kitchen, slotting our plates into the dishwasher.

  “Hey,” he said. “All good? Need anything?”

  “All good. Just …” I caught him by the pocket of his sweatshirt and drew us together. “Thanks for putting me up.” I leaned down, slowly enough that he could dodge if he wanted, and kissed him on the lips.

  He didn’t dodge. He kissed me back, a brief peck. Then he leaned in and kissed me again. He slid his hands around my waist. With our mouths still locked, I let go of his hoodie and lifted my hands to bracket his face. I shut my eyes. My thumbs traced the stubble on his jaw. His lips felt so soft, his arms and body strong and solid. Absolutely a man I was kissing, clearly so, even with my eyes closed and my mind jet-lagged. And the pleasure of it sped through my veins and lit up every part of me on its way by.

  We pulled apart. I felt out of breath. He looked flushed, and stared at my mouth before blinking and finding my eyes again.

  “Yeah, I think this is going to work just fine,” he said.

  “Same.” I slid my hands down his chest before dropping them.

  He smiled. “Now go to bed before I jump you right here.”

  I slept awhile, then found myself wide awake at three a.m., thanks to jet lag. Light shone around the edges of the blinds in the guest room. I rolled over on the futon and pulled them aside to peek out. The city glowed in all colors, a thousand streetlights and windows and signs. Red bulbs blinked on the tops of skyscrapers and the Space Needle. I-5 rumbled continuously at the base of the hill.

  It was a different experience from being in the middle of London. London was bright and tightly packed too, but its buildings and hills were lower; the city sprawled outward rather than piling itself into a high-rising knot like this. Seattle was also far newer, which made it look shiny and crisp.

  Since I was awake, I checked email on my phone. I deleted spam and advertisements, and finally found replies from my parents. Dad answered first, a couple of paragraphs I skimmed rather than read. Your move seems sudden, but Seattle’s a good job market right now … talk to an employment agency; they’ll get you into a steady office job … housing is expensive, so don’t waste money; look for a good deal … your car is still here, so you should come get it now that you’re back in the Northwest.

  No congratulations, no “love” in the signature. Just “Dad.”

  Mom answered too: Where are you staying? And let us know when you want to get the car so we can see you!

  I turned off the phone without responding. I’d answer later and tell them I was staying with Andy, which wouldn’t be their favorite email of the day. Still, my parents wanted to see me. That made me smile. Maybe I did have a home to go back to like normal people.

  Sure, catching a bus down to Oregon, visiting them, and driving my car back would be a hassle. Plus I had to find a job—then another when that role ended, and another, and another, like every actor. I had to familiarize myself with Seattle and probably find my own place to live, at least after this month. In short, I had plenty of reasons to feel stressed.

  Nonetheless, contentment sprawled through me instead. I could guess why.

  I stretched my arms up as high as they’d go. With Andy, I still had several frontiers to explore and possibly fail at—or, at the other extreme, a whole new side of myself to drag out of the closet and into the light. But that kiss had been amazing, an essentially perfect kiss, and a perfect kiss can make you feel like the rest of life is about to fall effortlessly into place.

  I pulled the string to lift the blinds and sat on the futon with m
y knees drawn up, admiring the bright city in the night.

  CHAPTER 19: LET’S GO TO BED

  IN THE MORNING, ANDY GAVE ME A SET OF SPARE KEYS TO THE APARTMENT AND TOOK OFF TO WORK, though not before a lingering moment from both of us, in which we were obviously tempted to kiss goodbye. Instead we just grinned like idiots, then he left.

  To occupy myself till evening, I explored Capitol Hill, bookmarked audition notices, shaped up my resume, and emailed my parents: I’m staying with Andy. He lives here, and I can save money by splitting rent. I figured they’d be paralyzed into silence between the two tempting options of saving money and getting me away from my gay friend. Indeed, they didn’t answer all day.

  After Andy came home, we went out for Thai food. We split the check—like friends, not dates—but took mints from the tray and popped them into our mouths on the walk home with studied casualness and no eye contact.

  At the apartment, I left my shoes and jacket by the door and plunked myself down in the center of the sofa, leaving exactly enough room for anyone who might want to make out with me.

  Andy switched on a lamp beside the TV and sauntered closer. “Can I just say, you’ve gotten way better at kissing since you were fifteen.”

  I folded my hands behind my head. “Yeah, thanks, I’m a professional now, you know.”

  He laughed. Our gazes met, and I kept mine locked onto his until he took the hint and sat next to me, knocking against my elbow familiarly.

  I let my arm drop around his shoulders.

  “Ah, classic move,” he teased. He wriggled up against me, then lifted his face. His voice dropped into the intimate range. “Did you want to do it again?”

  My heart beat fast. I nodded.

  I leaned in and kissed him. Our lips sank into the same perfect fit they had found the night before. My arm curled closer around his shoulders. I enjoyed it for several seconds, then paused to ask, “So wait, you’ve been remembering it as a terrible kiss? When we were fifteen?”

  “I never said ‘terrible.’ I just said you’ve improved.” He poked his finger into a frayed spot on my T-shirt. “I’ve always been glad I got to kiss you then. Even though it ended the way it did.”

  “Me too.”

  We hadn’t talked about the immediate aftermath in the past, other than him asking at our locker the next morning if I’d gotten in trouble. I’d wanted to know more, but had always felt too awkward to bring it up. Now, at last, I could.

  “Were you freaking out that day when you left?” I asked. “After they caught us?”

  He lowered his lashes with a smile. “I was shaking so hard I thought I was having some kind of seizure. I was sure they were going to tell my parents. This was it; I was getting outed. Everyone was going to hear, and by school the next day, the whole world would know. But you didn’t tell.” He suffused the last four words with wonder.

  “Even if I’d told them, they still would’ve grounded me for a month. Might as well just get one of us in trouble instead of both of us.”

  “Still. You win all the best-friend awards.” He heaved a sigh. “I’ve always wondered what would’ve happened if they hadn’t come home when they did. My greatest regret. Also my fantasy scenario for, like, years there.”

  So he had imagined it. “Really. Show me what you would’ve done. If they hadn’t come home.”

  He laughed, low and suggestive, as if to say You’re not ready for that. But he took off his glasses, set them on the coffee table, and wriggled back into my embrace. “Well, for starters …”

  He tilted his head and kissed me, a full open-mouth snog, shoving his hand up to bury it in my hair. I surrendered, closing my eyes. We breathed, tasted, sank into each other.

  Finally, I was doing this: breaking past my single-kiss record and clocking minutes on end of making out with another guy. In the past, trying a move I’d been fantasizing about hadn’t always lived up to my hopes, but on this lucky occasion it actually surpassed them. Though we stayed seated upright and kept our clothes on, my hormones were fizzing and sparking happily.

  The feel and taste of him quickened my breath and was making my hands do hungry things like dive into his hair, or pull aside his collar so I could suck on his neck. He apparently didn’t mind one bit, given he was doing the same things back to me.

  After a while, I touched the newly minted love bite above his collarbone. “Left a mark. Sorry.”

  “Hmm. Revenge.” He latched his mouth onto the side of my neck.

  Shivers ran through me. I closed my eyes and ran my hand into his messed-up hair.

  “I’m no expert,” he murmured against my skin, “but this seems a little more than ‘bi-curious.’”

  “I think you’re right. Let’s upgrade to plain old ‘bi.’” He sat up and poked my nose with his finger. “Click. Upgrade installing.”

  “Oh my God, you are such a geek.” Grinning, I snared his mouth in another kiss.

  “So how different is it really?” he managed, between kisses. “From making out with a woman.”

  “Only the ways I expected.” I palmed his jaw. “I can feel some stubble.” I trailed my hand across his chest, flat except for the nipple I could feel through his button-down shirt. “No boobs. That kind of thing.”

  “Mm, but some of us do enjoy having our nipples played with.”

  “Yeah?” I returned my fingers to circle the spot, feeling it harden. “So do some women. See, not that different.”

  He groaned as I touched him, which of course made me keep doing it. I slid my tongue into his mouth.

  “And you taste like a guy,” I said against his lips. “Not sure how, exactly. But it’s good. Either way is good.”

  “‘Either way is good.’ Sounds bisexual, all right.” We kept snogging and nipple-stroking a minute or two more. Then I pounced—lazily and slowly, but nonetheless a pounce. He landed on his back on the sofa, and I shifted into alignment on top of him.

  I pressed my hips down. “You feel different in this position too.”

  “Yeah?” He gave a slight lift of his pelvis in answer. “Pretty strange?”

  “Pretty hot.”

  “Mm. Agreed.” He wrapped his legs around me and relaxed.

  I let my head sink to his shoulder. We lay twined together, eyes shut.

  “Still jet-lagged?” he said.

  “Yeah. Tired. Plus, the hills around here, oh my God.”

  “Walking in Seattle is an instant gym membership.” His fingertips ran up and down my vertebrae. “Anyway. I definitely don’t want to freak you out, so a slow pace is probably good if you want to pause for the night. Or … whenever you’ve had enough, that’s cool too. I’m your friend. That doesn’t change.”

  I would have taken it as a lack of interest except for how affectionately he was embracing me, and how I could feel physical evidence that he wouldn’t mind continuing. He was only giving me an easy out, considerate as ever.

  Part of me ached to keep at it. But it was also true that jet lag had its talons deep in me, and that taking it slow was the smart option. There were still lots of steps I could completely screw up, especially when dazed with jet lag, which might test the patience of my remarkably accommodating best friend.

  “Guess we should pause,” I said. “But I wouldn’t mind picking up again tomorrow night.”

  He gave my earlobe a bite. “I’ll be right here. Hopefully in this same position.”

  I wedged my face into the hollow between his neck and the couch cushions. Funny how I was already so comfortable with him. On top of him, even.

  But of course I was comfortable. He was Andy.

  “Humans are weird,” I mumbled.

  “Hmm?”

  “That it’s possible to feel lust and sleepiness at the same time.”

  He chuckled, still holding me as if he didn’t mind being crushed beneath me. “Yep. We can even have sex in our sleep.”

  “Which is what you’ll be dealing with if I stay here much longer.”

  He brok
e into full laughter, shaking me.

  I kissed his neck. Then I groaned in complaint. “Argh. I have to find a job.”

  “You will. You just got here.” He stroked my back.

  My fingers found his shirt’s hem, at our waists, and curled beneath it, taking refuge against his warm skin. “But at least I’m finally doing this,” I said into his shoulder.

  His arms and legs tightened around me, and he responded with a sigh that could only be interpreted as bliss.

  When I said I had to find a job, I actually meant jobs, plural. Not only sequentially, one acting gig after another, but a non-acting job at the same time, to help pay the bills. The film in London had been unusual in giving me both full-time work and high wages; most acting roles were part-time and low pay. Even for the couple of years I’d belonged to a theater troupe in Portland, I’d worked other jobs on the side: painting houses, moving furniture, waiting tables, washing dishes, serving espresso, answering phones as an office temp. The office jobs usually paid best, but also sucked the life out of my soul the worst. I preferred even the food-service industry to those.

  So in addition to making a list of auditions to attend and sending emails of introduction to theaters and talent agencies, I looked up nearby businesses seeking part-time help and spent hours filling out online applications.

  I told Andy about my tedious day as we trekked up a steep sidewalk toward Broadway for dinner.

  “I could see getting a barista job within the month, at least,” I said. “But a theater part, without knowing anyone here yet in the industry … I’m probably back to the usual stats of getting turned down for twenty auditions before I hit lucky with one.”

  “But have you mentioned you were just in a movie in London? That should get their attention.”

  “Yeah, it’s on my resume, but even people who’ve won Tonys or Emmys can still have trouble landing their next role. It’s brutal.” A city bus thundered past, reminding me of additional issues. “Also I need to figure out the bus system.”