by Mia Kerick
I scramble up beside him and wedge my newly skinny body between Liam and the couch. He sighs and I remember the sound so well that it makes me smile. “You always sigh….”
“I sigh when I want something I just can’t have.” He sighs again. I’m too drunk to wonder about his remark. Well, almost too drunk.
I face the high back of the couch, and I wish so much I could turn around and push my face against the softness of Liam’s T-shirt but in doing that I’d be going to a place where I wasn’t invited. It would be almost like asking for a kiss, at a minimum, and since neither one of us is gay that would be too weird. So I cross my arms in front of my chest and enjoy the feeling of being spooned by a person with whom I feel safe. I, however, find it difficult to talk myself out of being aroused, which gives me another reason to be thankful that I’m not pushed up against him, face to face. My not so little secret would surely then be revealed. And true to form, I blame my stiff dick on my drunken state.
I lie there with him, listening closely for his steady heartbeat, and enjoying the intimacy. Strangely, being close to Liam also brings me back to memories of times I got close to Ginny. She too liked to spoon me from behind. I smile, thinking I must be very “spoonable.” Liam’s chin drops onto my shoulder, returning me to the here and now, and his dependable arms work their way around my shoulders. I don’t think I could ask for anything more.
But as my eyes start to blink and close, I let myself wonder what it is that he wants enough to make him sigh.
8
Despite a nasty hangover, this is the best Saturday I’ve had in months.
“Aaaahhhh! I’m never gonna live this down—I forgot all about calling my mother last night. She probably thinks you’re Ted Bundy and you took me to your evil dungeon to roast me and eat my flesh and make a scarf out of my skin.”
“You’re mixing up your serial killers. I’m pretty sure they’d be offended if they knew.” Liam smiles and I notice that his teeth are not only chalk white but are also perfectly straight, and I’m surprised. I have a hard time picturing him as a twelve-year-old boy with awkward silver braces decorated with red, white, and blue elastics, or as an adult wearing whitening strips. This last thought reminds me of the organic cinnamon-flavored whitening strips his marketing group was working on before the shooting and I fight the urge to dig a hole in the sand and stick my head into it. Memories of the shooting still have this kind of effect on me.
“What’s the matter, Jase?” On the white sandy beach in front of our cozy cottage, we’re lying on matching pink bath towels, heads and feet in the sand. We spent the morning alternately swimming and eating dry toast, thanks to the ocean in our front yard and a loaf of bread left in the freezer by the cottage’s former guests. “What just crossed your mind?”
“You don’t want to know, Liam. In any case, I’m going to reply to Mom’s twenty-seven texts.”
He lets me off the hook and laughs. “You don’t want to hold off until she reaches the round number of thirty? I don’t think you’ll have to wait very long at this rate.”
I shake my head. “Knowing my mother, she’s had a tracking device implanted in my cell phone. She’ll show up here if I don’t let her know I’m okay.”
“It’s cool that she loves you so much.” His expression changes drastically. Not in a good way, either.
I wonder about this change, but just shrug and send off the “I’m okay, Ma, so don’t panic” text.
“I thought I’d treat you to a burger tonight. Tommy said there’s a great little pub just up the street; we might catch the Red Sox game. They’re playing Toronto, I think.”
We watched a lot of baseball in the (un)safe house. I just think it.
“Come on. We can go for the happy hour dinner special. Man cannot live on bread—or in our case, toast—alone.” He gets up and then offers me his hand. I take it and we run into the cottage to rinse off the sand.
***
The Beachcomber Bar and Grille is not only a lively pub that serves fine seafood, it’s also a pick-up joint. At least it is at happy hour. Liam’s friend Tommy forgot to mention this minor detail. Based on the steady hum of hormones flying through the air, I have a sneaking suspicion that Liam is going to learn the lesson of not asking Tommy the right questions about local eating establishments the hard way. And because I’m only twenty and I don’t have a fake ID, and therefore I’m not drinking, Liam has decided to toss back virgin lemonades right along beside me. In any case, our heads are clear, which turns out to be a good thing.
“Go ahead and have a beer. I don’t mind.” There’s no need for both of us to stay sober. “You can get toasted and I can drive the Charger back to the cottage tonight.”
“I had too much ‘toast’ this morning.” Liam smiles and his teeth look even whiter thanks to all the sun he got on his face today. “And besides, last night left me kinda thirsty for non-alcoholic beverages.”
We did wake up quite hung over. “Point taken.” Nonetheless, we sit at the bar so we can watch the Sox game on the widescreen television.
“I don’t think I’ve see you two hunky spunk wankers in here before.” I think this dark-haired girl is trying to be flirtatious but I can’t be sure. Maybe it’s because I’m totally out of practice with the ladies.
“I don’t know about you, but I’d remember these guys.” The girl’s blonde friend says, right before she begins to purr. And her purring is loud enough to be heard above the sound of the game, which is on surround sound. Auditorily, she resembles an extremely horny tigress.
I’m embarrassed to admit that I hadn’t even noticed that there were girls in the bar, but they apparently have taken notice of us. The gorgeous, shiny-lipped blue-eyed blonde and her sultry, dark-haired friend are suddenly standing beside us. And they have the same look in their eyes as Mom does when she’s shopping for clothing. Which one do I prefer? And which would look better on me? But instead of sizing up sweaters, these girls are sizing up Liam and me.
Liam is a complete gentleman. He stands up and offers his stool and I follow suit. The two girls switch places as they seemingly—and silently—have decided that the dark-haired one is to be mine and the blonde is for Liam. They sit down as the bartender approaches.
“Can we buy you a couple of drinks?” Liam asks smoothly.
I feel a stinging sensation in my heart, wondering if Liam is a ladies’ man, and I lift my hand to pat my chest, but nothing’s there, except for my cotton T-shirt.
“Why thank you. I could go for a Long Island Iced Tea,” says blondie, as she further unbuttons her already very unbuttoned, snug purple blouse. My gaze, along with that of Liam and the bartender, slides into the deep crevice.
“Make that two Long Islands. And Missy, it looks like you got yourself a bearded boob inspector,” my dark-haired girl chimes in with a husky chuckle, and then winks at Liam.
Liam, the bearded boob inspector. It has a certain ring… and I don’t like it.
“You boys aren’t drinking!” Liam’s girl observes, placing one delicate hand on top of her shiny O-shaped lips, indicating what appears to be sheer surprise.
“Missy Rose, they must go to AA, or something?” She pokes a pointy jet-black nail into my face. “Well, are you guys alcoholics, or what?” My girl is slightly less-than-tactful. Okay, more than slightly… she is large red wagon and a five-gallon bucket less than tactful.
I’m tongue-tied. Unaccustomed to the bar scene, I can think of no direct or indirect way of answering her.
Liam is quick with a comeback. “No. We just had too much to drink last night and so we’re taking it easy tonight.”
“You alien ball sacks got yourself girlfriends?” My girl is also obviously much more comfortable with the creative use of crude language, than Liam’s. She looks right at into my eyes. “Don’t you understand plain English—I asked if you’re seeing somebody?” And that’s when I see Ginny in my mind’s eye. Tonight’s vision of my dear departed is more detailed than in any of my
previous visions, of which there have been many. Her long dreads are tucked up under a black beanie and her exotic face is flushed with what she used to refer to as “major pissed-off-ness at the world’s fucking ignorance.” Yup, my image of Ginny is rolling her eyes and shaking her head. And I know exactly what she’s thinking, Are you for real, Jase? You’re gonna go and get horizontal with this foul-mouthed piece of trash who thinks she’s a smart ass?
Liam steps up beside me and one of his dependable arms encircles my shoulders. “He’s recently lost an important relationship in his life.” I think you could call this a big-time-bail-out. “So what we’re having here is a guys’ night out.”
“Well, that sounds like fun!!” Liam’s girl reminds me of a cheerleader. She pumps her arms, as if shouting, “Go team, go!”
“Hmmm…” Lola is deep in thought. “I think we know how to make a couple of jizz kings’ night out even more fun….” Ginny is right. This girl’s mind might be in the gutter but she definitely needs a new urban-language thesaurus. Her word choice is nauseating. “I’m Lola and she’s Missy Rose, some call us Bourne Sperm Riders.”
Ewwww. Still, I reach out to shake Lola’s hand. She apparently has a different idea. Lola pops off of the bar stool and next thing I know, I’m wearing her like an overcoat.
Liam steps back and shakes Missy Rose’s perfect little pale fingers that happen to be decorated with bubblegum pink nail polish, complete with tiny, stuck-on sparkle-roses. “I’m Liam, and this is my buddy, Jason. And like I said… it’s a guys’ night out.” He says the last part slowly and firmly.
“Jason… hmmm? I like that name… oh, yeah…. Jayzee! Jay Zee! Jay Zeeeeeee!” Lola, who already seems too well in her cups, or in other words, drunk off her fine ass, lifts her Long Island Iced Tea from the bar and swigs down at least half in a single gulp. If she didn’t belch so loudly afterward, it would have been impressive. “It’s such a frigging shaft bender when they put too much ice in these things!” She swirls the remaining liquid around in the glass, and then looks past it at me. “Want a sip?”
I shake my head. “Uh… no, thank you.”
Where Lola is Miss Merriam Webster of Foul Language, Missy Rose is highly skilled at playing the sexy card. “So, Mr. Muscles… you have got to be the biggest and strongest guy in here!” She flashes her baby blues and then reaches up to pinch Liam’s biceps. “How much can you bench press? Don’t be shy, and tell sweet little Missy Rose….”
Little… maybe. Sweet? I don’t think so.
Liam and I are by now wide-eyed, slightly disgusted, and I can’t speak for him, but I’m honestly intimidated by their feminine fierceness. These two girls are like a bad comedy act—they can’t be for real. Surreptitiously, I glance around the pub for Ashton Kutcher, or at a minimum for a hidden video camera, thinking we have to be getting punked. But when I look into Lola’s sly dark eyes, there’s no sign of trickery.
And when Liam and I catch eyes, we can’t help but burst into nervous laughter.
“What’s so funny, tit-torch?” Lola doesn’t like being laughed at. “College guys just think they’re God’s gift to classy young ladies like me and Missy here! Well, we’re in college too, ya know!”
“Lola, calm down, they’re just trying to have a good time.” Missy Rose strokes Liam’s arms for real this time. And soon her pink fingernails are sliding his cool black suspenders right off his bulky shoulders! “I can show you a better time, Liam… if you give me half a chance.”
And all of a sudden this isn’t fun any more. Liam is looking down into Missy Rose’s face and is freaking smiling, which twists my guts. So maybe his smile is nervous and uncomfortable as pig in a bacon bits packaging plant, but it’s a smile nonetheless. And Lola looks pissed off and at the same time horny as hell, and she actually has the gall to grab for my alien ball sack, which were her exact words.
Liam is in her face in a split second. “Hands off, lady.” He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t lay a finger on her, although he looks like he wants to. He steps up between us, which is a challenge because, as I said before, I’m pretty much wearing Lola like outerwear, and informs her that I’m unavailable. “He’s with me.”
I’ve been claimed.
By a guy.
And how do I feel about this?
I feel confused, combined with surprise.
And a lot relieved. Especially when Lola screams, “You guys are nothing but puke stains!”
But is relieved enough to do what we’re apparently now doing—leaving this pub together, arm-in-arm?
9
Sitting in Liam’s car in the Beachcomber Bar and Grille parking lot, both of us are staring out open windows in opposite directions.
“I’m sorry. I was totally out of line back there.” As usual, Liam speaks first. He is definitely the icebreaker in this relationship.
“How do you mean, out of line?”
“Maybe you wanted to get busy with Lady Lola of Trash-Mouth Mountain, and I blew it for you.”
I laugh. “You didn’t blow anything for me, Liam. Lady Lola actually scares me. But hot little Missy Rose… she sure has a thing for you. I think you were destined for an evening of wild fun and games… but you had to step in and save my pearly white ass.” I lean toward him so that I can nudge him with my elbow. “Not that I’m counting, but now you’ve saved me three times, huh?”
“Missy Rose isn’t my type.” Liam doesn’t laugh, and he’s more uncomfortable than I’ve ever seen him. “Let’s get outta here.”
He starts up the car and speeds south on Shore Road.
“I had a vision of Ginny when we were in the pub,” I tell him as he drives.
“You did?”
“Yeah. And she wasn’t pleased with the quality of the girl who was trying to hook up with me.” Liam cracks a smile, and I’m relieved. “Ginny thought she was the only one allowed to get away with excessive profanity.”
He is starting to relax. “I thought I ruined your chance of getting laid.”
“Really, Liam? You know me by now. Does Lola really seem like my kind of girl?” I’m truly interested in his answer.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Not at all.” He’s blushing. “She’s pretty much the polar opposite of how I see you.”
“And how do you see me?” I can’t believe I ask him this, and from his stunned expression, neither can he.
He doesn’t say anything until he pulls into the first casual restaurant we come across. “Let’s see if there’s a long wait for dinner.”
I can’t believe he ignored my question because he’s not a mean-spirited man, and I want to know why. But I’m not one to push an issue, so I decide to bide my time. “Sounds good to me.”
Once we’re settled on the bar stools, I wait for him to start explaining. Why did he need to go on this trip with me, like he said on the day he invited me to come along? And what does he see when he looks at me? These questions fit together well, and the answers would clue me in on Liam’s strong motivation to help me. But Liam voluntarily explains nothing and we end up talking about the big problems that the Red Sox must overcome if they want to be contenders next year.
I’m an avoider of all things painful and Liam is a secret-keeper. Neither of us seems particularly willing to change this status.
***
Back at the cottage, we grab a six-pack of beer, snap on the television, and again retreat to the oversized floral couch, tonight sitting shoulder-to-shoulder rather than on opposite ends. Is this an instant replay of last night? I’m not sure if that’s what I want.
After forty-five minutes of small talk and beer-drinking—favorite pro sports teams, bands we’ve seen live, dorm room assignments for next year—we’re both buzzed and starting to relax. And I feel daring.
Daring is not an adjective I’d normally use to describe myself. The most daring things I’ve ever done actually all involve going along with the grand schemes of other people. Following them. Daring is simply not how I’m programmed. But tonight
I step out of my comfort zone, and I’m not sure what I hope to accomplish by doing this. But strangely, I do it anyway.
“You never told me if you have a girlfriend.” The skin on my face burns with embarrassment at having made such a bold statement.
He turns and looks at me very directly. His high blond spikes are doing that slumping-to-the-left thing they do at night, and his expression has lost some of its sharpness. “You never asked.”
“Well, consider yourself asked.”
“I’m not sure there’s a clear cut answer.” He turns all the way toward me and he lifts one arm to the back of the couch.
“I want it anyways.” I’ve never been so persistent in terms of getting the information I want from a reluctant person. Usually, I allow people to unfold at their own pace, in terms of telling me what they want me to know about them. “So tell me.”
“I’m much better at showing than telling.”
And with those cryptic words, where he fully avoids the subject of his dating history, he leans forward and kisses me squarely on the lips. It’s a chaste kiss filled with the promise of more that will be far less innocent. But he pauses a moment, probably waiting to see if I’ll punch him out or shove him away because he made his move. And when I do neither—not because the urge to shove him is absent, but because I’m so tangled in confusion regarding my very sexual identity—he places his hands on either side of my face and leans forward to kiss me again.
This time his kiss is soft and moist and unrushed. He pulls back just slightly before he cocks his head and comes at my mouth again from a different angle. I have no idea if I’m responding or if I’m merely doing what I do best: riding the wave. But thoughts of Ginny, of Lola, and of the first girl I kissed in grade school behind the town baseball dugout, are swirling around haphazardly like hurricane winds in my mind. And when I notice the scratch of his beard against my chin, the single word gay surfaces in my brain