Mixtape: A Love Song Anthology
Page 37
“You guys are the best part of my week.” With a shaking hand, Jerry invites us inside his quiet, orderly house.
Noticing Jerry’s pile of books, Shane asks, “Did you catch the trailer for Sunset?” He’s referring to the movie based on the blockbuster book.
We know Jerry doesn’t want to talk about doctor’s appointments, medicine, or health, so we talk about everything but. Movies, books, music, video games, history, and sports are always safe, distracting topics.
“No! It’s out? I’ll have to search for it.”
“I’ll send you the link. It was such a great read.” With a few keystrokes, Shane texts him the YouTube hyperlink.
“Thanks. I can’t wait to see it.”
We chat a while longer and leave. I’m feeling marginally better. The perspective of delivering meals helps. Donating my time forces me to confront something other than my own problems, which is the best thing I could possibly do. My relationship status becomes insignificant compared to handing a frail, elderly man a meal because he has no other support to help him. Maybe my whatever with Shane can work out, or, as much as it depresses me, maybe I’ll find someone else. After all, he’s not the only person I’ve ever kissed. I did try a few girls at parties, but they weren’t for me. But maybe there’s another guy . . .
Ha. Not after ten years of silently falling for Shane.
I just need to accept the fact he’s going to marry Kim and his feelings for me aren’t strong enough to risk everything and show the world.
No big deal.
Okay, it’s a big fucking deal. But apparently that isn’t enough. With my next thoughts, the temperature in my body rises. Maybe I’m the one in denial, not him. I accuse him of ignoring what he feels, but maybe he genuinely wants to have a forever relationship with Kim. I need to quit whatever I’ve been doing. Whatever happened in the gym? That was just a mistake.
Like he said.
Back to being friends. While I don’t want Shane out of my life, I don’t want him ruling my thoughts either. Better to try to make things go back to normal. “Did you see that Twitter feud between . . .?” I ask.
He grins. “No. What happened?”
I explain the latest celebrity gossip, and we continue on our route, delivering meals to Mrs. Nielson and Mr. Sternitzke. Greg. Johnny. And the rest of the clients.
As we turn in to the Meals on Wheels parking lot after finishing our rounds, I ask, “Want to come shoe shopping with me after this?”
My stomach flutters, wondering if this is a bad idea. Or if it’s a step toward a new friendship.
“Sure.” He parks and gets a faraway look in his eyes. “Remember when we were little and got new school shoes? They made me run faster.”
“Definitely.”
“That was the best feeling.”
If I get new ones, am I going to be able to run so fast I can catch up to him? Or should I turn in the other direction and flee?
* * *
After shoe shopping and noshing at the Mongolian BBQ place, we head to my house and play Call of Duty for hours. I’m happy spending an entirely normal day with him. Back to being the best friends we always were—except for the slip-ups we’re not discussing.
When it’s time for dinner, I talk him into pizza—he normally subsists on protein powder and macronutrients—although he skips the beer.
“I’m not touching alcohol forever. For at least a week,” he vows with a wry smile.
We turn on Netflix and plop on the couch to binge watch Vikings. Shane slumps on one side. I lie down with my feet hanging over the other edge, my head close to his thigh.
“These guys are brutal,” he says admiringly.
“I know. They just hack at each other. Swash, swash, swash. Buckle, buckle, buckle. Guess that’s what happens when men are in charge. We practically kill each other rather than . . .” My voice trails off. Rather than admit our feelings. Rather than apologize. Rather than talk through what’s wrong.
Instead, we don’t talk about it at all.
Whatever it is.
Shane tilts his head at my unfinished thought, but doesn’t ask anything else. He must know what I meant.
After a while, he mindlessly runs his nails through my hair.
I stiffen my back. While I want to loll like a puppy, I’m scared if I acknowledge what he’s doing, he’ll stop.
Maybe he doesn’t know it.
Maybe it doesn’t mean anything.
Maybe I need to not think about it in addition to not talking about it.
We’ve always been like this. Like magnets. We can’t help but touch each other. Then one of us gets freaked and pulls back.
Although this is just a head scratch. Like a back rub. No big deal.
He goes from scratching my head to pulling strands of my hair, like he’s giving my head acupuncture. Again, I want to sigh with happiness, but I’m holding my breath, not wanting him to know how much I like this.
I’m serious about not reading into things. I’m just gonna let him be.
His legs spread slightly as he slides farther down in the couch, and his thigh pushes against the top of my head. His fingers walk down my forehead, and one brushes up and down my nose, caressing it.
I close my eyes.
Now I know he’s doing this on purpose, as his fingertips lightly outline my face, massaging it gently. Making me feel attended to. He circles my lips with his fingertip, over and over again.
“Randy,” he whispers. My eyelids open and gaze at him. He’s got scorching heat behind his eyes, licking his lips, then biting the lower one.
Dammit. I thought we weren’t doing this. I thought he’d made his decision, and it wasn’t me. I thought I’d made my decision, and I wasn’t letting him toss me around like his plaything.
I thought we’d straightened everything out.
But, let me tell you.
It’s really hard to have scruples when the love of your life is gazing at you like he wants to kiss you.
Of course I’m getting thick down there. I’m sure he is, too.
He leans down.
He’s going to kiss me.
Fuck.
Fuckity, fuck, fuck.
What do I do?
Do I push him back?
I don’t want to.
Even if it’s wrong.
His phone on the coffee table buzzes. We jerk away from each other. I scoot down toward my end of the couch, and he straightens, picking up his phone.
“It’s,” he clears his throat, “it’s Kim.” He frowns. “She wants to know what I’m wearing.”
Oh, Shane, you oblivious fuck.
I’m going to hell for this, but I love it that he has no clue what she’s doing. I grab the phone out of his hand. He’d written, Hey. Why? Sweats. My fingers sweep across the screen. Oh, baby, what are you wearing?
Kim’s quick to notice the change in tone. Randy??!!!
Chuckling to Shane, I say, “I think your fiancée wants to sext you. Any interest?”
He turns beet red and adjusts his pants. “Uh, no. Sorry.”
“I’ll respond,” I say. I type, Hey, girl. Hey.
The three dots on the screen turn to the message, Sorry to bug you. I’ll message you later.
By my count, he missed taking her to the airport, talked to her at the gym for five minutes, and shut her down twice. All he texts her is, K.
I grab the phone and text her goodbye. Then we move away from each other and watch the rest of the show in silence. It’s not the same comfort we had earlier today. There’s a charge to the air we don’t want to disturb.
Because it might explode.
We binge watch the show until I fall asleep. When I wake up, Shane’s gone.
* * *
The next day, I meet Shane in the student union to buy books and figure out where our classes are located. When I find him, he’s in an area set up with booths for different clubs—pottery, ro
wing, Manga, student government, and so on.
“Hey,” I say. “Wanna get some lunch?”
“Sure.” He pulls out a printout of his schedule. “Most of my classes are in the Accounting Department. Where are yours? We can walk there after lunch.”
We head to the cafeteria, but as we pass the pride booth, the cute guy behind the table smiles at me. “Heyyy.”
I wave.
“Oh, are you two together?” He gestures between me and Shane.
Shane and I answer at the same time.
“Yes.”
“No.”
Gritting his teeth, Shane glowers at him.
The guy behind the table leans back his chair, unrepentant at throwing a grenade between us. He shrugs. “Sorry, I just assumed you two—”
Shane hustles so fast out of the building, I’m glad I have on my new shoes to keep up with him. He dashes over to an alcove where we’re hidden in the shadows, and he starts pacing like a manic wind-up toy, back and forth. Back and forth. Wringing his hands.
“Randy. I . . . I can’t do this. We can’t do this. I’ve given Kim a promise ring.”
“That you felt forced to give her.”
His silence is admission.
“And you don’t want to marry her.”
He clenches his eyes. “She’s a good friend.”
“If you were a better friend, you wouldn’t have asked her.”
Letting out his breath, he says, “I thought it was a good idea. I thought if we made it formal, everything would work out.”
My head shakes so hard I think it’s going to fall off. “Face facts, Shane. It’s not.”
“Maybe so,” he whispers. “But I can’t have someone think I’m,” he points his thumb toward the student union, “like that. We can’t give off that vibe. Someone will figure it out. We don’t live in San Francisco. It’s Iowa.”
I let out an exasperated yelp. “So, what? People are out all the time! It’s not as big of a deal as it used to be.”
“Lower your voice,” he hisses. “Just because two guys can kiss on TV doesn’t mean this town’s ready to see us walking down the street holding hands. The default is hetero, haven’t you noticed? It’s still hard to be out.”
“Again, I say so what? I’d be proud to be with you. We can figure it out together.” I step closer to him, blocking his pacing. He looks up to me with anguished eyes that slice my guts. I scrub my hand over my face and decide just to lay it out. “Shane. I love you. I’ve loved you my entire life.”
Emotions chokes his voice. “Look. Randy—”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I say, “Break up with Kim. You don’t want to marry her, and you know it.”
“I can’t do it. This isn’t how I’ve been raised.” Shane winces. “My parents will disown me.”
I curse under my breath. “They’ll get used to it.”
He grabs his hair and pulls it skyward. “What will Kim say? What will everyone say?”
My hands ball into fists, my nails scoring my palms. The pain focuses me, because otherwise I’d be yelling a lot louder. My words come out impatient and low. “I don’t think Kim wants to marry you. You surprised her, and she doesn’t want to hurt you. As for everyone else? If I tried to save you from what everyone would say about you, I’d never succeed. People are always going to say shit. It doesn’t matter. Whatever we have together is way more important than what some other person says about us.”
He shakes his head, scrunching his eyes closed tight.
I keep talking. “You’re scared to be yourself. You need to admit who you are on your own. No one can do it for you. But if you won’t admit it to yourself, you won’t admit it to me. So instead, you’re going to marry your sweet, beautiful ‘girlfriend.’”—I have to use air quotes—”in a passionless ceremony that will be the epitome of nice, while underneath there’s nothing nice about it.”
His nostrils flare, and his chin lifts up defiantly. “That’s not true. I love Kim.”
“We both love Kim, but not that way.”
I step forward, wanting to hold his hands, to hug him, to do something to comfort him. But I can’t. “I’ve loved you my entire life.”
“Randy.” He’s sweating, his muscles jumping under his skin. He whispers, “Even if I wanted to be with you, I couldn’t.”
He didn’t hit me physically, but the punch in the gut feels just the same. Tears well in my eyes, and I shake my head.
I can’t. I won’t. No more. He needs to face it. Face us. “Whatever this is? It hurts too much.”
Through his teeth, he grits out, “We. Can’t. Do. This.” His palms press to his eyes.
My voice is barely audible. “There’s only so many times I can be rejected, and I can’t do it anymore. We can’t do this to each other. Until you figure out that trying to please other people will please no one, you need to stay away from me. If you want to find me, you know where I live. Otherwise, I have to leave.”
I turn and walk away.
* * *
That night, I halfway expect my phone to ring with Shane drunk at the bar, but it doesn’t ring. In between my tears and a good portion of a six pack, I weave into my room and open my closet. Reaching up to the top shelf, I pull out an Adidas shoe box from ten years ago.
Carefully I lift off the lid, like I’m opening a treasure trove, and breathe in the dusty, rose petal smell of memories.
Those tickets from Mamma Mia? They’re in here, along with the program. And I think about how he held me.
My thick fingers rifle through the ephemera.
The stub from every movie I’ve ever seen with Shane. And we’ve seen a lot.
All of his school photos. From skinny kid to braces to bad haircuts to my ideal.
Printed routes from Meals on Wheels. So we remember who we’ve served.
Every wristband from the Iowa State Fair, although that reminds me of too much butter.
All the birthday cards he’s ever given me. Every Christmas card. Every word he’s written in his uppercase, neat writing, almost like an architect’s font.
Prom pictures of the three of us. “Best friends forever,” Kim wrote.
Yeah, right. More like two assholes and a beautiful princess.
A strip of pictures from a photo booth. He’s laughing, and I’m making a face.
I sit with the memories of him until my head hurts. My body hurts. My soul hurts.
Carefully I place the lid back on and put it back up in the closet, where it will stay. While I could burn them, I won’t.
I’ll just lock them safely away.
That night, my dreams are a void, like I’m falling backward onto the bench press, but there’s no support, and no one to spot my fall.
I start school by myself, find all my classes, and eat alone every day. Between classes, I think I see him, but I don’t.
I switch my day for Meals on Wheels. When Jerry asks where Shane is, I can’t answer him. I don’t know.
Jerry looks at me with understanding and then talks about video games to distract me.
Days pass by, and I feel like an empty cup. I don’t know if I’ll ever be full again.
Every moment I go without seeing him, it’s like those commercials with the dog waiting for his master to come home. I’m thumping my tail at my door longing for him to burst through.
Is it pathetic? Yes.
Do I care that it’s pathetic? No.
Do I care about him? Oh, God. Yes.
But this time, I mean it. I’ve had enough of his denial.
He needs to come to me.
I’m worth fighting for.
I hope.
* * *
In the middle of the night about a week after school starts, my phone rings, lighting up next to my face, which is smushed into my pillow, as usual.
Shane calling.
Why did he pick now, of all times, to try me?
Is he drunk?
My mind doesn’t want me to answer the call, but my heart and body betray me, forcing my fingers to slide the button.
His voice comes through hoarse and scratchy over the line. “I’m outside your door.”
I throw my hands up, and in doing so toss my phone across the room.
Pinching my lips together, I breathe in and out.
Do I want to see him?
My hand scrubs over my face. I sit on my bed. I get up. I take my time walking down the hall to my front door.
When I open it, Shane stands on my doorstep, rubbing the back of his neck. At the sight of him, all my muscles go rigid.
“Can I come in?”
I cross my arms over my chest.
If he’s here to make amends, I’ll let him do it. But if he’s here for any other reason, I’ll show him the way out.
His eyes are overly bright, his arms curled over his head. “I, uh.”
Without saying a word, I just stare at him.
The pain in his eyes makes me think he’s here to make amends. He begins again. “Please. Can I come in?”
Nodding, I step back. “Hey.” My voice sounds raspy.
He walks in and shuts the door behind him. “Hey.” Shifting his weight from side to side, his eyes lock on me, but I can’t read them. “I, uh.”
I don’t move. I can’t.
But someone has to give.
“Having trouble talking? Would it help if you wrote it down?”
While he glares at me, a smile still tugs at the side of his lips. “You’re not making this easy.”
“Making what easy?”
I just don’t want to get my hopes up.
Shane shakes his head, closing his eyes, with that grin on his face. But his hands betray his nerves. He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I’ve done some thinking. I can’t marry Kim. It’s not fair to any of us. I was just . . . scared.” Tears glisten in his eyes. “I’m so fucking sorry. For everything. I’m sorry to her. I’m sorry to you. I’m going to tell her. In person.”
“What?”
“She deserves to know as soon as possible. I’m not waiting until she gets home.”
I can’t say anything. I don’t want to. Blood pulses in my ears.
“I surprised her. You’re right. She doesn’t want to marry me. She’s never hinted at anything like that. She treats us both as friends. But it doesn’t matter. She . . . I . . . we need to break it off. I’m breaking it off.”