Calling Calling Calling Me

by Natasha Washington

  He kissed Josh’s temple. They had to go back to real life today, and Patrick didn’t want to go back. He wanted to keep Josh in this bed forever, to see the sun cut stripes across his shoulders, to touch him under the blankets and watch his eyelids flutter.

  As if on cue, his phone buzzed on the bedside table. He reached for it and read the text from Freddy: Are you ever bringing Josh back or are you stealing him forever?

  Patrick smirked and texted back: Give me one good reason we should come back.

  There was a pause of about thirty seconds, and then his phone buzzed again.

  I’ll give you two. Mike says Josh owes him twenty bucks, Freddy said. Also, we like you.

  Patrick laughed so hard, he woke Josh. Josh reached across and pressed his hand over Patrick’s mouth to shut him up. Patrick bit his palm, and Josh sighed the sigh of the world-weary.

  “We need to get up,” Patrick said. “If we get up, there’s brunch in our future.”

  Josh’s hair was a mess. He cracked one eye open and said, “You are annoyingly awake in the morning.”

  “It’s almost eleven,” Patrick observed. “I had important text messages.”

  “Mmm,” Josh said, and closed one hand around air. “Coffee, where is it?”

  “Get your ass out of bed and we’ll get you some,” Patrick said.

  “Oh, I see how it is. We’re at the stage where you’re taking me for granted and so you don’t bring me coffee anymore,” Josh mumbled, and Patrick rolled over and kissed Josh’s neck, licking over his collarbone, muffling his laughter in his shoulder.

  “I get it,” Josh continued. “This is the part of the relationship where you stop trying to impress me, and I get lazy and cynical, and soon we won’t go out anymore, and—”

  “I want to buy you some eggs,” Patrick said. “Can I buy you some eggs? And, like, a muffin?”

  Josh’s smile was wide. He cocked his head to one side and pushed one of Patrick’s disobedient hairs out of his eyes. “You’re kind of incredible.”

  Patrick kissed Josh’s nose, then the corner of his mouth. “Right back at ya, handsome.”

  Patrick’s phone buzzed again. Josh rolled his eyes, and Patrick lifted his phone to check his messages.

  You and Josh should have babies, Freddy had written, and name them Bambi and Alabaster

  Patrick laughed and showed Josh his phone. Josh’s eyes widened.

  “Well,” Patrick said. “That’s a thing.”

  “It certainly is,” Josh said. “Don’t tell my mom about this idea. She’ll fixate.”

  Patrick thumbed over Josh’s jawline where he was growing stubble.

  “Thank you,” Patrick said, “for showing me your world.”

  Josh turned to kiss Patrick’s hand. “Not my world,” he whispered. “Ours.”

  36

  Patrick left for Fresno a couple days before Christmas, which meant Josh woke up on Christmas Day alone.

  It felt wrong.

  He was used to waking up next to Patrick now, their limbs twisted together and sweat-slick, Patrick breathing soft against his neck, cheeks flushed and lips parted.

  Patrick looked like an angel in his sleep, and every morning that Josh woke up next to him, he wanted to do dirty, dirty things to him.

  But today it was Christmas, and Josh woke up alone because Patrick was in Fresno with his family. It wasn’t fair or rational that Josh was pissed about this, but he was.

  Meanwhile, Josh was in his old bedroom, staying at his parents’ place so he could have more time with Isaiah before he left for New York. It didn’t really feel like his bedroom anymore—he hadn’t lived here for almost four years, and he’d taken most of the stuff he cared about with him when he moved out. His parents weren’t sentimental types. It was mostly a guest room now, the bedspread a generic blue cloud print, the walls painted over a mild yellow.

  When Josh lived here, he’d covered every square inch with posters for bands and musicals and movies, ticket stubs pasted over the spaces in between. It drove his mom crazy. Don’t you want a little open space? she’d asked. But he liked the crazy collage of it, the mess. He liked how it told his story, how it kept him surrounded, snug and insulated by all his favorite things.

  Josh rubbed at his eyes. He could hear Isaiah saying something outside the door, muffled through the wood, and then there was a loud thump-thump-thump.

  “Are you kicking my door, fucker?” Josh said.

  Isaiah shoved the door open as if that was an invitation. Josh was pretty sure Isaiah had never asked for permission to come into his room in his life.

  “I was going to kick it in,” Isaiah said, shrugging, “but it’s Christmas.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Time to get your ass out of bed,” Isaiah said. He tossed a stuffed snowman at Josh and hit him square in the face.

  “My boyfriend is a way better alarm clock than you are,” Josh informed him.

  Isaiah wrinkled his nose. “TMI, bro.”

  “I didn’t even—”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Isaiah said, tapping his temple. “I’m your brother.”

  “That doesn’t mean we’re psychic twins, you freak,” Josh muttered.

  “Get your ass out of bed,” Isaiah repeated. “There are presents!”

  He trotted out of the room and slammed the door. Josh heard him clatter down the stairs, and then a boisterous version of “Santa Baby” started up on the stereo.

  Josh flopped down on his bed. He sighed. He usually loved Christmas. He loved the smell of pine and wood smoke, the glittery light displays in windows, the drunken Santas stumbling through the streets, the way San Francisco glowed even more than it did the rest of the year.

  This year, though, Christmas felt…anticlimactic.

  His phone buzzed. He grasped for it, digging it out from under his sheets.

  stop moping, i can feel you moping from here

  Josh felt a smile push at the corners of his mouth. He tapped the screen to call and lifted it to his ear.

  “It’s so early, Josh,” Patrick said when he answered.

  His voice was scratchy the way it often was in the mornings. Josh could picture him: the uneven swoop of his hair, the marks of the pillowcase pressed into his cheek.

  “Isaiah informs me that it is time to get my ass out of bed,” Josh said. “Also, I miss you.”

  “I miss you too,” Patrick said. “But seriously, don’t mope. You’re going to see me in, like…two days.”

  “Three days,” Josh said. “I’ll never survive.”

  “Somehow I think you will,” Patrick said, sounding amused.

  “How is Fresno?” Josh asked.

  There was a weighted pause.

  “Better,” Patrick finally said. “It’s definitely better.”

  Josh felt those words, warm, at the center of his chest. Patrick deserved better. He deserved a hometown that didn’t haunt him and a family he didn’t feel he had to hide from.

  “Hopefully it isn’t so good that you’re thinking about staying,” Josh said.

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” Patrick said. “I said it was better, not that it was super-awesome and fabulous.”

  Josh found himself smiling. “In case you need any motivation to return to the city by the bay, I want you to know that I dreamed about you last night,” he said. “I dreamed I was licking you all over your—”

  “Oh my God,” Patrick said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “We are not doing this at, like, seven a.m. on Christmas morning.”

  “Why not?” Josh said. “If we were together, I would totally be Christmas fucking you.”

  He could hear Patrick suck in a breath. “Josh—”

  “My dream didn’t even get that far,” Josh complained. “I was just licking you, down over your stomach…that scar on your hip, tracing it, teasing you. You were breathing hard, that hot way you do when—”

  “Josh,” Patrick said again, but this time it sounded le
ss like a warning and more like a provocation.

  “—you’re so turned on you can’t even talk, which, like, you have to be really turned on for that to happen because you are not exactly the stoic type, let’s be honest—”

  He could hear Patrick huff out a breath with feigned indignation, but Josh knew he was right. It was his favorite part: that moment when the sarcasm fell away, when Patrick forgot to be self-conscious and went all breathless and flushed, when his eyes got wide and dark, and he bit his lips until they were red…

  “—but I love it, I love you like that,” Josh said. “I love when I can get you to beg, when you clench your hands into fists, when you twist the sheets because you’re trying so hard not to push me down and make me take it—”

  “Josh, will you please stop having phone sex with your boyfriend so we can have our family Christmas?” Isaiah said loudly outside of Josh’s door.

  “Motherfucker,” Josh swore, nearly dropping the phone. He could hear Patrick’s breath hitch. “I have to go.”

  “I hate you,” Patrick muttered.

  “I’m sorry, Isaiah is—”

  “I’m going to lie here and jerk off, just so you know,” Patrick said. “I’m already naked, and it’s going to feel so good, and I’m going to think about you Christmas fucking me, and I’m going to have to cover my face with a pillow when I come because I’m going to scream your name so loud.”

  Josh had to press his palm into his dick through his pajama pants to keep from ruining them. He swallowed and tried to slow the rapid beat of his heart.

  “Jesus,” he said. “You never talk like that.”

  “Yeah, well,” Patrick said, “Merry Christmas.”

  He hung up.

  Josh breathed through his nose and spent a few glorious moments meditating on the ways he could kill his brother.

  * * *

  Presents with his family seemed more subdued than usual. They could all feel the imminence of Isaiah’s departure, and that reality hung in the air, heavy and sad. Their mom had gotten Isaiah every guidebook on New York City that existed, it seemed, and their dad prefaced his yearly gift of Brooks Brothers sweaters by saying they would “make Isaiah stand out from all those Brooklyn hipsters.”

  “You all are acting like I’m leaving and I’m never coming back or something,” Isaiah said. “I’m going to come back.”

  “A few times a year, maybe,” their mom said. “If we’re lucky.”

  “I’ll be back more than that,” Isaiah said. “I still have friends here, and I’ll miss you.”

  “Not as much as we will miss you,” their mom said, her voice trembling.

  “Is it a contest?” Isaiah said. “By the way, you literally get me the wrong size sweater every year, Dad.”

  “I always think you’re smaller than you are,” their dad said. “I can’t help it that you’ve broadened.”

  Isaiah sighed. “I can feel the guilt in the air,” he said. “You know this makes sense for the band, and for Lucy, and—”

  “It’s not guilt, sweetheart,” their mom put in. “We love you and we want you to be happy, even if it means you have to leave.”

  We want you to be happy. Josh heard the words echo in his mind. Maybe that was what the questions and the nagging had been about over the last few years. Josh had always taken it as a criticism or a guilt trip: Why are you like this? Why can’t you be different? But all along what they’d been really asking was: Is this what makes you happy?

  “Well, good,” Isaiah said. “Because sometimes you have to do the scary thing in order to be happy.”

  * * *

  Josh checked his texts and found three from Alexis, each one progressively more intoxicated. Taneisha had sent him a picture of her dog wearing reindeer antlers, and Alan was busy composing the world’s filthiest parody of “Angels We Have Heard on High” via Twitter. His Facebook feed was predictably filled with many pictures of adorable children opening presents, pets in Santa hats, and some truly incredible holiday sweaters.

  Josh helped his mom set up the refreshment table for the party and dragged Isaiah’s old keyboard into the living room, then left a series of messages on Patrick’s voicemail. Taken together they contained “The Twelve Days of Patrick-mas,” an original composition that began with “Twelve twinks a twinkling,” and ended with “and a drag queen wearing a deep V.”

  He was pretty proud of himself.

  The house filled with relatives—cousins he hadn’t seen in a year, his crazy aunt and his crazier uncle, an assortment of significant others he couldn’t keep straight—and for a few hours the boisterous carousing drowned out any thoughts of missing Patrick. Isaiah played awesome chill wave versions of Christmas classics, and a couple glasses of champagne in, Josh joined him on a duet or…five. Josh was kind of a slut for a duet.

  During a sloppy, off-key group version of “White Christmas,” Josh caught Isaiah’s eye across the room. Isaiah winked and smiled.

  Isaiah was less free with his smiles than Josh, always having been the quieter, steadier of the two of them. Josh felt a cozy warmth flood through him that had nothing to do with the crackling fire in the fireplace.

  Fast forward an hour and everyone was giving their slightly tipsy goodbyes and disappearing into the misty December night. Soon there was only Isaiah and Josh, clearing wine glasses off tables and plates off the floor, the house quiet except for the tinkle of dishes and the soft murmur of the stereo turned down low.

  Everything ends, Josh thought, putting the last dirty dish in the dishwasher, and he watched Isaiah flick a towel over the granite countertop, his face hidden in shadow.

  “We’ve got tomorrow, yeah?” he said, and Isaiah looked up at him, eyes wide, and nodded.

  * * *

  Josh slept in. He only woke up in the late morning because his phone was buzzing next to his cheek. He fumbled around and managed to answer it, still groggy and half-dreaming.

  “’Lo?”

  “Hey,” Isaiah said. “I waited around, but you slept forever. You should come meet me.”

  Josh blinked, trying to clear his head. “What?”

  “We have the day, right?” Isaiah said. “I’m at that hipster brunch place over in the Sunset. Get up and I’ll buy you breakfast.”

  Josh perked up at that. “Pancakes?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Isaiah said. “But I’m not apologizing for anything.”

  “Dude, of course not,” Josh said, mouth twitching. “A life filled with apologies—”

  “—is a sorry-ass life,” Isaiah finished. “Get out of bed, bro. Greet the day.”

  He hung up.

  Josh lay there for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, watching light move across it. He flicked through his phone, reading messages from Alan (dude I got this thing from my grandma that—you gotta see it, it looks like a sex toy. I mean, it’s not but still—) and Artemis (you’re still an idiot. this had been a psa) and Alexis (whoa so yer lips are rlyz softbb im druuunk?).

  He thought about how he needed to text Ramon. He felt like an asshole about what had happened between them, but he still wasn’t sure what to say.

  He climbed out of bed, took a quick shower, threw on a hoodie and some jeans, and caught the Muni to the high numbered streets. He found Isaiah drinking black coffee and guarding their table from an onslaught of twenty-somethings in skinny jeans and square-rimmed glasses.

  “Hey, sorry,” Josh said. “I was up late.”

  “More phone sex?” Isaiah asked, signaling for the waiter, and Josh blushed. “You’re honeymooning, it’s cool. Enjoy it, dude.”

  “I am enjoying it,” Josh said.

  Isaiah stirred his coffee with a spoon and fixed his eyes on Josh. “It’s awesome to see you this happy with somebody,” he said. “You know I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever make it past the week mark. What’s different?”

  It took Josh a moment to answer, his mind a jumble of memories and sensations and moments.

  He thought about
Patrick at that train station right before Thanksgiving, hands stuffed in his pockets, hunched against the damp November chill. He remembered the way Patrick’s eyes sparkled when he looked up at him, mouth crooked with a smile he was trying to hold in.

  I think I’ll keep you, he’d said, and in that moment Josh knew he had never wanted anything as much as he wanted that.

  “He changes me,” Josh said. “When I’m with him, I’m more like how I want to be.”

  Isaiah stared at him for a moment, expression unreadable. “That is so cheesy, man,” he said.

  Josh flicked Isaiah on the back of his hand, and Isaiah reached across the table and messed up his hair.

  “It’s true, though,” Josh said.

  “It’s great,” Isaiah said. “I’m not knocking it, dude. I’m getting married.”

  Josh had a sudden, terrifying vision of him and Patrick in matching tuxedos. It made him feel nauseous and ecstatic all at once.

  “Oh, fuck,” Isaiah said, blinking at Josh. “You just thought about it.”

  “Whatever,” Josh muttered, flushing an even more deep pink. “Shut up!”

  Isaiah laughed at him, laughed until the waiter came over and Josh informed him, “This asshole will have some motherfucking eggs.”

  * * *

  Isaiah left before Josh woke up the next morning. When he picked up his phone, he saw the text that said: No goodbyes, no tears, no sleep ‘til Brooklyn. See you on the other coast, broheim.

  Josh smiled, but he felt it in his chest: the ache of change, like muscle memory, the body adjusting to movements it wasn’t used to making yet.

  He said his goodbyes to his parents and decided to walk back to the Castro, his backpack slung over one shoulder. It was sunny and cool. He turned his face up toward the light and breathed.

  He’d meant what he said to Isaiah. Being with Patrick had changed him. He felt different. As if the world had opened up.

  When he got to the Victorian that housed his apartment, he sat on the front stoop and took out his phone. Do the scary thing, he told himself.