by Daryl Banner
Except we haven’t been sleeping in the same bed. And he still hasn’t taken off my clothes. And with the exception of one time when we were kissing in the dorm lounge last spring and my hand found his tented jeans where I began to massage his cock. He moaned into my mouth, almost like a whimper, and then he stopped kissing me and said he had a project he needed to get done.
“Did something happen over the summer?” I ask him suddenly.
He swallows hard and shakes his head no.
It’s like trying to coax the truth out of a child. “Did … you want to see me over the summer?”
“Did you want to see me?” he counters.
“Yes,” I answer automatically. “I thought about you a lot, too. You remember opening night of that one movie with the minotaur and that big beefy guy from that racing series? I saw this guy who showed up in costume for the midnight premier, and he looked like you, so I snuck a picture and sent it to you, and it made me think—”
“He didn’t look anything like me.”
“He was tall. And … had reddish hair.”
“Brown. He was ugly.”
“Well you’re not ugly. I … think you’re … really cute.” The words are a bit difficult to find; I’ve never been good with boy flattery or flirting, as my history might indicate at once.
He doesn’t say anything back. He just sucks in his lips and stares ahead, dead-eyed. His hands sit motionless in his lap and he’s slumped over like an old leather jacket in a chair.
“Anyway,” I go on, persisting through his sulkiness, “that guy made me think about you, and I suddenly wished I had a friend to go see all these movies with. Someone to share popcorn and soda and—”
“Friend,” he murmurs, one dead little word.
I find myself stunned a bit. Am I doing this all wrong? I bite my lip, then backpedal with a few dead little words of my own. “It would have been nice to have my boyfriend there. That’s what I meant. Someone to cuddle in the theater with and … I mean, do you know how cold we keep it in there?”
“Sam …”
“Sixty-eight degrees. That’s how cold.”
“I think we make better friends.”
My heart chooses now to start racing, as if I didn’t see this coming from the very start. Despite the utter lack of passion within me when I sit next to Tomas on the bed, I’m reaching for him with my mind, clinging to the idea of having a boyfriend, because somehow, having none at all is so much worse than being alone. I haven’t been alone in so long. I’ve gotten used to having a body that I could invite over and cuddle with. I’ve gotten used to his presence, even if we don’t have sex or feel anything romantic at all. I don’t care how cold that sounds.
My hand is still on his back. As long as it’s there, he won’t leave me. “Tomas, let’s think this through a bit more.”
“I’ve thought a lot already. I told you.”
I push on, ignoring the made-up-his-mind-already look on his face. “We spent a summer apart, pretty much. It’s our senior year and you’re very stressed out.” He’s totally not stressed out. All of his moodiness is because of us, and I know that now. “Once this year is finished, we’re going to be free from Klangburg, and we’ll have degrees in our hands, and—”
“And we’ll have no reason left to pretend to be into each other.”
My mouth is hanging open with whatever words I was about to say. He punches me in the gut with his own, sending all the air out of me.
Isn’t it strange, how when someone tells you a truth that you’ve already known but have actively been ignoring for a countless amount of time, it still comes as a painful, heartrending surprise?
“You’re a good person, Sam,” he tells me.
“Not really,” I mumble, feeling a tickle in my chest, a tickle that must be my heart breaking—if that’s what heartbreak feels like.
“I think we should end things while we still … like each other. I like you. I’ve always liked you. But maybe I don’t know how to be your boyfriend.”
“No, you’re great,” I say halfheartedly, my mouth working in slow motion. “You’re the … the best.”
“I guess we can still hang out or whatever,” he goes on, not hearing me. “But … maybe we should be, like, more honest or something. We should date other people and, like, come to each other for support. We can collaborate on music. We can watch shows, or …” His eyes go blank as he thinks about whatever else we can do as friends.
Which is literally a list of things we already do.
Except date other people.
“Was it something I did?” I ask. “Did I hurt you? Was it that night at the play?”
The question surprises us both, even though I asked it. It was a long time ago, and I’m choosing now to bring it up. Tomas’s eyes flash, but he doesn’t turn to face me, still staring off at nothing. He takes in a big, deep breath, then just utters, “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
“You saw me kissing another guy,” I remind him, as if I’m actually trying to make him more riled than he is. I’m frustrated by how calmly he’s trying to end things. Don’t all relationships end in arguing and hurt feelings and finger pointing? “Maybe … Maybe you haven’t been able to trust me ever since. Maybe this is all on me. Maybe I ruined—”
“We weren’t really going out or anything, Sam. We … had basically just met.” He licks his lips. They still look dry. “It isn’t either of us. Or it’s both of us. It doesn’t matter. I don’t think I should be the one.”
“The one what?” I ask.
“To take your virginity.”
I’m officially rendered speechless. Is he saying …? “Tomas, is that the reason you haven’t—? That we haven’t—?”
“Yeah.”
I’m still gathering my words. And thoughts. And everything else that just went tumbling to the floor at his admission. “All … All this time, you haven’t wanted to have sex with me because you don’t want to be the first?” I’m feeling a tickle of anger now. “Why? What does it matter?”
“It matters,” he states plainly.
“But … I’ve been waiting.” My hands are on my chest. I’m staring at him, dumbfounded. I want to blame him for everything suddenly. “All this time, I’ve wanted it, clearly, obviously, and—”
“Not with me.” He shakes his head quickly. “I’m not … N-No,” he stammers, closing his eyes and turning away slightly.
“Not what?” I press. “Speak up.”
“I can’t handle that … that kind of responsibility. You need someone who feels the music the way you do. You need—”
“We feel the music,” I lie through my teeth. “We …”
Then something happens. All of my conviction dies at the tip of my wordless tongue. There suddenly seems to be no more room between us for any more bullshit or covering up or denial. I feel weightless at once, staring at Tomas and hearing the truth singing in my ears, the truth in the cold, unexciting silence that swells between us.
I choose different words: “You’re right.” I drop my gaze to my lap, picking at my fingernails. “You’re … You’re totally right.”
“This is a good thing,” he assures me. “We’ll be happier this way.”
And it’s my dad leaving me all over again. It’s my dad telling me this is a good thing, this is what’s necessary, this is how we survive. We chase dreams until there’s no floor left beneath our feet. We chase the passion, and if it’s not there, we waste no time and look ahead to the sun, letting the chaotic touch of wind and wild guide our next careless, reckless move.
“Do you want me to hold you?” he whispers.
“In a friendly way,” I suggest as his arm comes around me. I realize after a moment that it feels the same as all the other times he ever held me: like the arm of a friend.
Chapter 23
Dmitri
I should be concerned, but she’s disappeared in the past, so I figure something’s just going on and s
he needs her space.
Sam, that is.
There was a period last spring semester when she was twisted up in Tomas’s panic attacks over final exams—and a particular symphonic recital—that I didn’t even see or hear from her for the entirety of March and the better half of April. Then there were a couple of weeks during the summer when I didn’t hear a single peep from her either.
So I let her have her space, wherever she is. And I hope she’s doing alright, especially if her silence is related to her boyfriend at all. Tomas isn’t a bad guy, and I’ve come to realize that fact the few times all of us ran into each other at some event or another. In fact, if he swung my way and I was single, I might be tempted to ask him out.
Is that weird? To think that? Of my best friend’s boyfriend?
Also, I haven’t really heard anything from my sister Devin past the two times she actually did have lunch with me. I think she’s really trying to exercise this whole “freshman independence” thing. I feel so oddly useless. She’s probably made a hundred friends, joined thirteen clubs, and is running for president of the Honor Society for all I know. She’s always been so driven.
“You look cute, Romeo.”
I’m pulled from my thoughts at the sound of Riley’s voice from the hall. I didn’t realize she was staring through the bathroom door, which is cracked open. This house we’re at is some friend of Brant’s who lives two streets over from his childhood home. The bathroom door doesn’t close all the way and has no lock. Talk about a nice, secure feeling when you’re trying to sneak away to drop some kids off at the pool.
“The neck is tight,” I complain, “and I’m Shakespeare.”
She slips in through the door. Her gown is long and flowing and white, but for the spidery red wound at her belly where she stabbed herself. Her hair is an elegant arrangement of blonde curls and flowers, and her makeup is exquisitely detailed. She’s a dream.
“Dmitri, you’ve been called Romeo about twenty times tonight. Just give in and call a poison-chugging spade a spade.”
“I wrote you into existence,” I warn her with a smirk. “I’m the one holding the pen.”
“Then by that same logic, you killed me as well,” she points out.
“You killed yourself, actually.”
“Only due to an unfortunate miscommunication resulting in you killing yourself.”
“No. I’m Shakespeare. Not Romeo. I’m the writer.”
“And I’m not a writer?” She comes up to my back and hugs me from behind, then puts her face against the side of my shoulder as we stare at ourselves in the bathroom mirror. “Maybe I should tell people I’m Virginia Woolf instead. Didn’t she die horribly, or was that just all of her characters?”
“Ah, the original George R. R. Martin,” I murmur, leaning my head on Riley’s as we observe our reflections. “I doubt she stabbed her belly.”
“Drowning, I think.”
“Stones in her pockets. Walked into a river. Now I remember.”
“Me too.”
“I honestly doubt anyone at this party would know the difference. It’s all Brant’s friends from high school or something,” I remind her.
She gives me a little squeeze, then whispers, “Isn’t it a bit weird that we’re not being the couple, and instead being character and author?”
Brant appears in the doorway so suddenly, I shriek out in surprise and Riley pulls from me to grab a blow-dryer for use as a weapon in the same instant. He’s got a huge brown permed head of hair and a palette hanging from his left hand. “Whose friends? My friends?”
I catch my breath from the terrifying reveal. “Hey, Bob,” I mumble to him. “Kinda scared the shit out of me.”
“Life’s full of happy accidents,” Brant replies with a smile. “Anyone seen Nell?”
“In the backyard,” answers Riley. “Just came from there and was about to head back after retrieving my tragic lover.”
“Author,” I growl.
Brant nods, then says, “For the record, you can’t do anything to my hair that hasn’t already been done to it with that weapon of yours.”
Riley sets down the blow-dryer, apparently not realizing she was still brandishing it. “It’s a wig. You aren’t fooling anyone.”
Brant leans in and brings down his voice. “Nell and I are gonna be staying at my parents’ tonight. Eric’s out with violinist boy. So, you two got the apartment if you wanna have a tragic sex scene afterwards.”
“Noted,” I say with a roll of my eye.
Riley pushes at my back. “C’mon, Romeo. Let’s get out of this stuffy bathroom. I need another daiquiri. This just isn’t a proper Halloween unless I can’t feel my eyelashes.”
“You can feel them normally??” asks Brant as he goes.
I pull Riley close to me as we head down the stairs and through a mishmash of laughing, drinking characters from all edges of literature and existence. The sliding glass doors by the kitchen open into the backyard, which is considerably less crowded. Since this house is on a corner, one of the fences sports a wide-open gate through which an undead Mario and Luigi are handing out candy to passersby.
We find Nell sitting in a swing hanging from a tree by the patio. She’s wearing a brown bodysuit with leaves and branches embroidered down its length. She has red and brown leaves set in her black hair, which Riley helped her put in. The Queen of Darkness that is Nell isn’t really the type to sit still while a girlfriend braids and preens her hair, so it’s quite evident that she was being a good sport in indulging Riley.
“Hey there, my happy little tree,” says Brant, moving to her backside and pulling her against him. “Is that a branch down there, or—?”
“Nah, I’m just happy to see you,” she deadpans, then gives me a smirk as she tells him, “Wanna give me a little push, Bob?”
He grins, then obliges, pushing the swing.
I fold my arms, watching them. “Can we take a second to appreciate what’s happening before our eyes? Bob Ross is pushing a happy little tree, in a happy little swing, hanging from a happy little tree.”
Soon, a drunken Edward Scissorhands who happens to be a friend of Brant’s “from the good ol’ days” joins our nook of the backyard followed by a guy who clearly had no desire to dress in any form of a costume, wearing just a plain red t-shirt and jeans. The six of us, after having a laugh about some kids who apparently tried to sneak into the party to steal our beer earlier, head inside to enjoy a few more drinks.
I have to catch myself a few times staring at Riley because she’s more loose tonight than I ever remember seeing her. She laughs so hard at one point that she snorts, then slaps her mouth and looks around, watery eyed, and says something about needing a babysitter. I put my arm around her and she slips away to get another drink. I tell myself it’s because she’s drunk and I try not to take it personally, but the more inebriated she gets, the more distance I feel.
“Sure you can handle another of those?” I ask her quietly.
Her answer comes in a shout. “Yeah, Dad! I think I can manage!” She giggles suddenly, falls against my body, then looks up into my eyes and says, “Sorry, I get really, really, really, really, really obnoxious when I drink. Please don’t judge me in the morning.”
But what about judging you tonight?
Even after I cut myself off from alcohol two hours ago, she’s still going for another fruity drink by the time one in the morning hits. Brant shoots me a look across the room, quirks an eyebrow and nods at her as if to ask if everything’s okay. I give an honest shrug.
Since Brant and Nell just have to walk to his old house, we leave them at the party when Riley decides she’s had quite enough. Never mind whether I was ready to go or not. I call an Uber while we’re sitting on the curb. No kids are out anymore, and the only activity on the whole street seems to come from the house we just left, which bleats and hums with the noise of drunken partying and loud music. I take a minute to admire what a laidback suburb Brant’s parents must live in, consider
ing the lack of police showing up or complaining neighbors knocking on the door. They must either be used to this or not care.
But I’m not used to Riley in this state. How did I never know she was such a heavy drinker? She always acts so conservative in public, but had no regard whatsoever tonight.
I don’t know why, but I’m afraid to ask her what’s wrong. Even if all I want to ask is if she wants to share a slice of Eric’s birthday cake from a week ago, I feel like she’s going to pull out Juliet’s knife and start yelling at me about some random thing I did last week that pissed her off. Then I’ll be on the news the next morning: “Shakespearean Tragedy On Halloween.” Romeo brutally stabbed to death by his Juliet over a tragic misunderstanding involving cake.
I toss a little line into the water. “You alright, Riley?”
“That’s not my name,” she slurs, staring up at the empty night sky.
I smirk. “Juliet? Virginia Woolf? Which did you settle on?”
“Riley is my middle name,” she clarifies sweetly. “My first name is actually Beth. Elizabeth Riley Hansen.”
Color me a shade of surprised. Shakespearean plot twist in act five. “Seriously?”
“Yep.”
“Well, that’s … interesting.”
“Tonight’s the night for fun facts,” Riley says playfully. “And here’s another. Ready? My family’s Mormon.”
I can’t tell if she’s being serious.
Riley, even in her drunkenness, seems to pick up on that. “What?” she pushes. “Don’t believe me? Ask any of my three brothers or my two sisters. Maybe you can meet them at Thanksgiving if you’re free.”
Now is she serious? Am I really going to finally meet her family after all this time? “I didn’t know you had all those siblings, either.”
“I also have an intense fear of cats.” She chuckles. “One of them bit me on the shoulder really hard when I was six. No damn explanation except that I thought the damn thing was going for my neck. I have a fear of vampires, too. Goes hand-in-hand. Cats are vampires. Vampires are cats. They all want to bite me. I don’t care how sweetly they purr.”