by Courtney Lux
Trip puts on his underwear and his pants, but he doesn’t bother with his shirt. He sits on the edge of the breakfast bar and drinks ice water while Nate busies himself brewing coffee and cracking eggs into a pan.
Rather than drive Nate crazy by stealing bites out of the pan on the stove or fussing with the drawers again, Trip stays in his spot on the counter and watches Nate shift around the kitchen in a routine that is clearly more comfortable for him than having another person in his apartment. Trip wonders about him, about serious, sweet Nate and the boy in his picture who looks more likely to crack an egg over Trip’s head for the sheer silliness of it than to monitor them quietly while they fry in a pan. “Why’d you go into business? Number-crunching just really get you going or something?”
Nate pushes eggs out of the pan and onto two plates. “Seemed like it made sense at the time.”
“Hmmm, there’s that signature deeply-rooted passion everyone loves so much in you, Nathaniel.” Trip scoots an inch out of the way when Nate places a set of forks and napkins on the counter beside him.
Nate looks at him sharply before pulling down a couple of coffee mugs. “It’s a good career path. There’s opportunity for upward mobility and financial security and all that.”
Trip waves his glass at Nate’s back. “You seem more flat-lined than anything, pal.”
Nate holds a plate in each hand. “I don’t have to feed you breakfast.”
“No, you don’t,” Trip agrees. He grabs a fork and a napkin before shifting off of his place on the counter and into a seat at the breakfast bar.
Nate stares at him before dropping a plate in front of him with a resigned sigh. “You want coffee?”
Trip nods fast, his fork already in hand. He takes a bite of eggs and moans. “Nathaniel, the sex was good, but Jesus Christ, you’re a fucking master when it comes to breakfast.”
That earns him a coffee cup beside his plate. “You want cream or anything for your coffee?”
Trip shakes his head, too invested in his plate to care about much else just now. He doesn’t remember the last time he ate something this good.
Nate stands on the other side of the breakfast bar and eats standing up. His gaze remains fixed more on Trip than on his plate. “You want anything else to drink? Milk? Green juice?”
Trip meets his eyes. “Look at you, Nathaniel, you can make jokes. This whole single and unemployed thing is doing wonders for you already.”
Nate lowers his fork to the counter. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“Aw, come on, this isn’t so bad. Good shower, good food.” Trip points his fork at himself. “And a great fuck. Admit it, this hasn’t been a half-bad fifteen hours for you.”
“I guess not.” Nate lifts his coffee mug, stares into it before taking a drink. “I think I’m gonna sign up for a marathon.”
“Yeah?” Trip’s nearly cleared his plate. He puts his fork down long enough to take a drink from his coffee cup. He makes a mental note to let Nate know his coffee is almost as good as his food.
Nate’s checking something on his cell phone. “Yeah, maybe do some 5Ks along the way. I’ll work my way up to it.”
“D’ you just really need a way to make yourself miserable or what?” Trip sets back to work on what’s left of his toast, but he keeps an eye on Nate.
“I like running.” Nate glances at Trip’s empty plate and drops his piece of toast onto it. “Do you run or do, like, sports or whatever?”
“Are we getting to know each other again?” Trip accepts the offered toast, points it at Nate. “Is this what happens on those dating websites? You just ask each other questions until someone mans up and asks the other guy if he can suck his dick?”
“Kind of.” Nate goes back to the stove and pulls the frying pan from the stovetop. He twists on the kitchen faucet. Trip finishes off Nate’s toast and offers the plates for washing, but Nate waves him off. “They can go in the dishwasher. It’s on your left.”
Trip puts the plates and forks in the dishwasher before returning to his spot at the breakfast bar to nurse what’s left of his coffee. “I got into fights and slung meth for my dad. Do those count as hobbies?”
Nate twists to look at him, no doubt checking for any sign of a joke. Apparently he doesn’t know what to make of Trip’s smirk and he doesn’t want to ask, so he turns his attention to drying the frying pan with a dishtowel before replacing it in a cabinet beside the stove. “You played guitar, didn’t you? That’s a thing.”
“It’s something.” Trip turns to check on his guitar. It’s tucked safely into a corner beside the couch where he left it the night before.
“You’re good.” Nate’s drying his hands on the dishtowel. He folds it into a neat rectangle before draping it back over the handle of the oven door. “You want to be a musician?”
“I want to stop playing twenty fuckin’ questions.” Trip drains his coffee mug before sitting back in his chair. He’s showered, well fed and well fucked, and it is without a doubt the most comfortable he’s felt in a very long time. This deal with Nate, so far, is turning out to be a good one, but he’s not interested in getting too intimate, explaining the details of his life. This is business. “I do believe I promised you some entertainment.”
Nate throws away the coffee filter and fusses with the empty pot. “I don’t know if I want any.”
“Nathaniel, we’re making your life some semblance of interesting and a deal’s a deal. I owe you for breakfast, and I don’t like being in the red with people.” Trip shoves himself upright and jogs up the steps to Nate’s bedroom to hunt for his shirt.
Nate scrubs down the rest of the kitchen; his gaze follows Trip while he moves around the apartment collecting the rest of his things. He offers no commentary other than to offer a toothbrush still in its plastic wrapping. He scowls when Trip asks if he’s got a whole drawer full of unused toothbrushes for random fucks.
“It’s from the dentist. I was keeping it until I needed to replace mine.”
“You sure? Thought I spotted some condoms in that drawer, too.”
Nate ignores him and stands in the bathroom doorway while he brushes his teeth. Trip keeps wandering the apartment, curious about records and coffee table books and art prints. When they finish brushing their teeth, Trip doesn’t know what to do with the toothbrush. Nate takes it from him and puts it in the drawer beside his. Trip wants to make a joke about it, but he can’t find the words, so he ventures toward the front door.
Trip pulls the box of Nate’s personal items from the closet. “What do you actually truly want out of this box of shit?”
“What?” Nate is still busy turning off lights and picking at an invisible spot on the countertop. “Why?”
Trip sits down on the floor so fast that it makes his hips and both knees pop. He opts to ignore the ache and the look of concern Nate turns his way. He rifles through the box with quick hands and pulls out a couple of framed pictures, a wedding announcement and a penlight. He is, after all, a professional at choosing which items are worth holding on to. “I have a personal soft spot for these things in particular, but if there’s anything else you want, decide now.”
“Fine, I’ll play along.” Nate gives up on the counter and comes to crouch beside the box. He frowns into the mess Trip has made before pulling out a pair of headphones, the plant in a yellow ceramic pot and a pen that looks fairly nice, though Trip doesn’t have much knowledge on what constitutes a nice pen. Nate puts the pen back into the box. “There, you happy?”
“Practically a kid at Christmas. You sure that’s everything you want?” Trip looks into the box again and then back up at Nate. When Nate nods, Trip springs back to his feet, his chosen items abandoned on the floor beside the closet. He ignores Nate’s protests and leaves him behind to lock the door and make sure the lights are off before he joins Trip at the elevator.
Nate holds out a black zip-up sweatshirt as they get into the elevator. There’s a logo for Pine View Resort complete with a crop of screen-printed Douglas firs printed on the upper left corner.
Trip shifts the box in his arms. “You can’t carry that for yourself? My arms are kind of full over here.”
“I just checked the weather.” Nate’s still holding the sweatshirt out to Trip, looking as if he’s slightly embarrassed. “It’s cold and you’re in short sleeves.”
“I’m supposed to wear it?” Trip is still staring at the sweatshirt, suddenly uncomfortable.
“Yeah,” Nate replies. “Stick out your arm.”
Trip shifts the box to balance between his left arm and hip and does as he’s told. He jumps when Nate shifts the jacket over his wrist and up his shoulder. Nate meets his eyes, seeming confused, but Trip just grins back. “I’d think you’d like undressing me more than adding more layers.”
“Maybe later.” Nate pulls the sweatshirt over Trip’s other arm and pulls the sleeve up onto his shoulder before reaching for the zipper. Trip holds the box away from his body to make room for Nate’s hand. He nips at Nate’s fingers when they reach his chest.
Nate snaps his hand back. He nods at the box in Trip’s arms. “What’re you doing with that, anyway?”
“You’ll see.” Trip winks. He steps off the elevator and moves out onto the sidewalk.
Despite the glare of the sun and a nearly cloudless sky, Nate had been right about the weather. The air is cold with the first true bite of fall and it stings Trip’s ears and nose. The sweatshirt is too big, and one shoulder keeps falling down to his elbow, but Trip is warm, and the fleece inside the sleeves is soft against his skin.
Nate follows Trip down the sidewalk with the same slightly depressed look he’s always got. He reminds Trip of a children’s book character, though he can’t remember whom. His mother didn’t read all that much and he didn’t pay attention well in school.
Trip parades them south and then east. They pass coffee shops, bars and apartment buildings and walk beneath scaffolding in a seeming endless expanse of construction. Trip watches as the buildings grow shorter and then taller again as they near the edge of the island, and then they are stepping into Carl Schurz Park. The sun shines brighter here outside of the shadow of the buildings and it lights Trip’s shoulders in warm patches through the branches of the trees lining the sidewalk. The park is alive with people, as so much of New York constantly is, although it’s a weekday afternoon. Nannies push infants in strollers, nurses in powder-blue scrubs shuffle along slowly beside elderly women hunched over walkers, and teenagers dressed in school-issued gym uniforms sprint down the expanse of cobblestones in front of the river, shouting happily to one another.
Trip passes all of these people and finally pauses beside the guardrail in front of the river. He turns to look at Nate. “You ready?”
“For what?” Nate looks longingly at several joggers in Under Armour and Nike shoes running past them.
Trip drops the box on the sidewalk with a loud thump before turning to peer over the edge of the barricade. The river stretches out long and wide, swirling past Roosevelt Island on the opposite bank. The water below churns in dark eddies; the occasional branch or piece of garbage drifts past in a current that Trip thinks is probably swifter than it appears from so high above. “We are giving this shit a good old-fashioned river burial.”
Nate looks back and forth between the box at his feet and Trip, who’s leaning over the barricade to get a better look at the water below. “Excuse me?”
Trip pulls himself up so he’s sitting on the edge of the barricade, swinging his feet. “You need me to spell it out for you even clearer? Pick up the fuckin’ box and toss it in the river.”
“Pretty sure that’s illegal.” Nate points at the pavement. “Get down, would you? I’ll hang out with you, but let’s go do something different.”
“Like what?” Trip rests his palms on the edge of the barricade and gets his feet under himself. When he’s sure he’s steady enough, he lets go and straightens up to stand on the metal bar. “We gonna go balance checkbooks or brood over bad books all day?”
Nate jolts forward and reaches a hand toward Trip as if intent on grabbing him. He must think better of it because he drops his hands and stares at Trip. “Christ, Trip, could you please just get down?”
Trip pretends to wobble on his perch with his weight shifting from his left foot to his right and his arms outstretched. “Would sure be a good distraction from the whole ‘fired and dumped in the same month’ thing if I fell in, wouldn’t it? I can’t swim.”
“I’d rather you didn’t fall in.” Nate holds out his hand, palm up. He peers down at the water and swallows dryly. “Seriously, please get down. I’ve got a thing about heights and you’re about to give me a freaking heart attack.”
Trip studies Nate’s outstretched hand before taking it and jumping back down onto the sidewalk. “You’re no fun at all, you know that?”
“I’ll get over it.” Nate’s shoulders go looser. He turns slightly pale while he peers at the water below. “I may not be fun, but at least I’m not the idiot who was five seconds from falling into the East River.”
“Relax, it was a joke. I’m fine.” Nate’s fun to push, but Trip is uncomfortable and agitated under the sudden concern.
Nate stares at him in silence. He lifts the box before turning to the water. “All of it?”
“You gotta decent arm on you?” Trip raises an eyebrow. He claps his hands together when Nate nods to confirm that, yes, he can throw. “Make that shit fly, Nathaniel.”
Nate hesitates before turning the box upside down. His things land with an anticlimactic plop in the water below. Most of it floats.
Trip leans over the rail, but he keeps his feet planted on the ground. “That was not nearly as exciting as I thought it would be. Do you feel better?”
“Not really, no.” Nate watches his things get carried away with the current. “You think you can get fined or arrested for doing that?”
“Maybe. Dunno.” Trip glances around them, but they haven’t attracted any spectators and there isn’t a cop in sight. “I really thought that would have been more fun, or at least seemed symbolic or something. You look like a guy who appreciates symbolic gestures.”
“I’d rather still have my job and all of my things on my desk.” Nate’s watching the water and he looks even more put out.
Trip leans back on the rail. “Where’s the river go, you s’pose?”
“Flows both ways, so either Long Island Sound or New York Bay, then out to the Atlantic, I guess.” Nate’s squinting at where his things have disappeared. “Technically not even a river. It’s a strait.”
“Well, ain’t you a regular encyclopedia of knowledge?” Trip turns his gaze back to Nate.
Nate meets his eyes briefly before looking back out toward the water, mumbling, “I read a book about it.”
“About the East River?” Trip contemplates sitting on the bars again, but he doesn’t want to deal with Nate’s fussing, so he stays where he is. “A whole fuckin’ book on nothing but a cesspool of a river that’s apparently not even a river?”
Nate straightens up. “Taught me something, didn’t it?”
“I guess.” Trip pushes himself off the barricade and pivots on his heel. “Onward to bigger and better things then.”
Nate follows after him, his phone in hand. “Where to?”
“We’re gonna get drunk.” Trip pulls the sleeve of his borrowed sweatshirt back onto his shoulder. It falls right back down again.
“It’s barely eight.” Nate’s gaze is still on his phone, but he spares Trip a brief look while they’re halted at a stoplight. When Trip raises his eyebrows in a sign of “So what?” Nate sighs. “It’s a weekday. Nothing’s going to even be open.”
“We could go
back to your apartment and have sex again.” Trip eyes the cars farther down the street. He’s fairly sure he can make it across the road before they reach the intersection. “By the time we’re finished, maybe you’ll be less you and relax enough to have some fun with me.”
Nate catches a handful of Trip’s shirt and tugs him back onto the sidewalk as the blare and fade of a car horn tears past them. “You have some sort of death wish? And I’m still not drinking on a Wednesday morning. I’m unemployed, not an alcoholic.”
“They make a decent coupling, though, don’t they?” Trip retorts. “I didn’t hear you object to the sex either, just saying.”
Nate’s cheeks flush red. He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Don’t you want to… I don’t know, go do something else for a bit? Like, an activity or whatever.”
“We have been doing activities. We showered and ate breakfast and dumped your shit in the not-river. Pretty sure sex constitutes an activity, too, by the way.”
Nate waits until they’re safely across the street to speak again. “What about the Met?”
“What about it?” Trip kicks at an acorn on the sidewalk. It skitters ahead of him, and he kicks it again when they’ve caught up to it.
“There’s, um, there’s this Caravaggio exhibit I heard was supposed to be pretty good. Would you maybe want to go for a bit?” Nate focuses on the acorn still making a path ahead of them. “I mean, like, with me. Now. Or the Whitney is a little further down, but—”
Trip kicks the acorn one last time before twisting to walk backward and face Nate. “You know, for a guy who was pretty damn comfortable literally licking my asshole last night, you sure do get tongue-tied asking if I want to go stare at some pictures with you.”
Nate jolts to a stop, cheeks scarlet.
“You blush a lot, too.” Trip pulls the sleeve of the sweatshirt up again. He zips it up closer to his neck. “Nothin’ wrong with that. I like red. It’s a good color on you.”