by N. R. Walker
“You know a lot about books.”
“I do.” He swallowed hard, and that was apparently all he was going to say on that subject.
“I like your scarf today,” I said.
He laughed and looked down at the ends of the scarf and ran it through his fingers. “Thanks. I like to add a little colour to an otherwise drab uniform.”
“It matches, every day,” I said.
“Of course it does.” He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “I’m gay. Of course it fucking matches.”
I snorted out a laugh. “I like it. That it matches, that is.”
“I like that you have such eclectic taste in books, and I like that you save me a seat.” He shook his head like he couldn’t believe he’d just said that.
The bus turned onto Cleveland. “Um. This is my stop.” He turned his knees to the aisle, giving me room to get out. I stood and fixed my messenger bag over my shoulder. “I like that you like those things.”
“Tomorrow then,” he said, his cheeks pinking up nicely.
“Tomorrow.”
Michael took one look at me, handed me my coffee, and narrowed his eyes. “Okay, spill the deets. What happened?”
“What do you mean?” I feigned ignorance.
He held out his hand, counting off his fingers. “You’re happy, for one. Two, I know that smile. That smile tells me something happened with, I’m assuming, your bus guy. And three, you can’t lie for shit.”
There was no point denying it. “We’ve been talking. On the bus. But just for five minutes, each day. That’s it. Nothing too exciting. But…”
“But?”
“But he’s interesting. And he’s cute.”
“And he’s asexual?”
I frowned up at him. “Not that it matters, but yes. Well, we haven’t discussed it since the meeting, but he went to a support group for asexuals and he had a bit of a freak-out because he realised it was his truth, so yes. I’m thinking he is.”
“I just don’t want to see you go through all that shit again, that’s all.”
“I know. And I appreciate that. But it shouldn’t matter.”
“But it kind of does.”
I sighed and let my agreement go unsaid. We both knew he was right.
“Maybe you should ask him,” Michael said before sipping his coffee. He left me alone with that, and I knew he had a point.
“Maybe I should.”
I lifted my bag onto my lap and Jordan smiled as he sat next to me. He wore a red scarf today, matching his red shoes, and the colour complemented the pink of his cheeks perfectly.
“Good afternoon,” I said, unable to hide my smile. I ignored the feeling in my belly that felt a lot like butterflies.
“Hi,” he replied. “Thanks again for the seat. It’s cold out there today.”
“It is,” I said, nodding to the dark and gloomy Sydney sky. “Makes running in the evenings a bit brisk.”
“You run?” he asked. “Like, willingly? For fun?”
“Well, I don’t know if fun is the right word. Exercise, mostly. It helps to clear my head, and I do enjoy it, so maybe a little bit of fun. I take it you’re not a fan.”
“Hmm, running,” he pondered. “Actually, I run late for most things. I run my mouth off all the time. I have a run-in with some arsehole customers on the regular. I run errands. Oh, and I have actually had to run to the bathroom a few times, which is why I now no longer eat dairy.”
I laughed at that.
Smiling, he added, “Wasn’t pretty. But general running for cardiovascular exercise, not so much.”
The bus stopped at the lights at Cleveland Street and my stop was up next, so if I wanted to ask him about the asexual thing, I needed to do it now.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Uh, sure,” he said, making it sound like a question. “I have soy in my coffee, if you’re wondering about the dairy thing. Sometimes almond milk if I want to live dangerously.”
I snorted. “That wasn’t my question, but it’s good to know, thanks.”
He looked at me and I suddenly found the stitching on my messenger bag really interesting. The traffic lights turned green and we rumbled around the corner. Dammit, I needed more time…
“Your question?” he prompted. “I mean, it’s no big deal. I get asked questions all the time. Like just today, I got asked why Sun-Beams May Be Extracted From Cucumbers, But The Process Is Tedious wasn’t included in all state libraries. Not completely random, but throw in the fact it was a guy literally wearing a tin foil hat who asked… And they look at me like I’m the one with a problem.”
I blinked at that and considered asking what the fuck because how was that, in anyone’s definition, not random, but the bus was pulling up at the kerb. “Well, damn. That was my question. Now I feel stupid.”
He gawped at me until he realised I was smiling. “Your question was about Sun-Beams May Be Extracted From Cucumbers, But The Process Is Tedious?”
“Yes. How uncanny that someone should think to ask it before me.”
“You are joking, right?”
“Yes.”
“Sarcasm is in the self-help section, by the way.”
“Self-help?”
“Yes, so you can pull your head out of your own arse.”
I barked out a laugh. “Are you always so funny?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. There’s a fine line between comedy and horror. It could go either way.”
The doors opened and I had to get up. “Sorry, this is my stop.”
“Oh, sure.” He swung his legs out so I could slip past. “Was the ‘are you always so funny’ question your actual question?”
I stopped in the aisle. “No.” I had two seconds to move or I’d be walking back to my place from wherever the next stop was. “It can wait till tomorrow.”
He looked suddenly horrified. “No, it can’t. Do you know what that kind of waiting will do to me? I’ll be like the critter in Ice Age who chases that damn acorn for four movies.”
I laughed, but I really did have to get off. I climbed off before the bus driver could shut me in, and when I looked up at the window where he was sitting, his face was priceless.
“Tomorrow,” I called out.
He narrowed his eyes, his mouth open. I didn’t have to hear what he said. I could read his lips just fine.
Motherfucker.
Chapter Five
Jordan
“Do you know what kind of torture that is?” I asked Merry as I slid a pile of books onto the trolley. I’d barely slept a wink, and I’d let every possible conceivable question he might want to ask me run through my mind. I’d also talked pretty much non-stop at Merry since she arrived at work. By the way she’d stopped trying not to roll her eyes and sigh, I gathered she was over hearing about it. But this was driving me insane.
So as my best friend, it was only right she was driven up the wall too.
“Well, it’s not like waterboarding or the old bamboo under the fingernail kind of torture,” I allowed. “It’s more like a dripping tap that you can’t shut off. Like a constant drip, drip, drip. Or when you’re trying to think of the name of a song but you can’t because you can’t remember who sang it or any of the lyrics, only that you think it was in a movie where some guy holds up a stereo or fist pumps the air or something. Like that Simple Minds song and you could have sworn it was John Cusack in Say Anything, and you can’t think of it for days—it drives you motherfucking crazy—only to find out it was really Judd Nelson at the end of The Breakfast Club.”
Merry held up a book like it was a shield. “Do you know what my favourite part of a book is?” she asked, her face stoic. She didn’t give me time to change gears in the conversation.
“Huh?”
“My favourite part of any well-written book is that it will have a beginning,” she said. “And a middle, and a goddamn end, Jordan. An ending! Which is what this conversation is lacking. They’re magical. Maybe you can try it.�
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“I hate you. And I take back what I said about your cardigan. It’s not cute. It’s hideous.”
“Of course it is.”
“Anyway, as I was saying, and this is the end so you can shut your taco-hole. He’s going to ask me something, and he’s given me twenty-four hours to think about all the possible scenarios. What if it’s something revoltingly embarrassing? I’ll need to change buses and possibly wear a disguise. Which brings me right back to his lack of social media presence. No one under the age of thirty doesn’t have some kind of social media thing. And Hennessy, the name. It sounds made up, doesn’t it? I’m convinced he’s in the witness protection program, in which case I’ll probably blow his cover. Or what if he’s actually an undercover cop? No,” I said, answering my own question. “They would have set up fake profiles as part of his new persona, surely.”
Merry took a long breath and sagged. “For the love of everything that is good in this world, Jordan, he’s not in the witness protection program. He’s not an undercover cop. He’s just a guy. A normal guy with an unusual name, who happens to catch the same bus you do. Who happened to be at the same local support group meeting as you. You’re overthinking this, and you’re going to give yourself an ulcer. For all you know, the grand and mysterious question he’s going to ask you is where you bought your shoes from. Or which restaurant you’d recommend for a date night with his husband. Or—”
“His husband? Why is he married? And why am I going out on a date night with his husband?”
Merry closed her eyes slowly and bowed her head, taking in a deep breath before she looked up at me. “You’re not going on the date night with his husband.”
“How do you know he’s married?”
“I don’t,” she replied. “But you don’t either. That’s my point. Stop overthinking this. For all you know, he won’t even be on the bus this afternoon and you’ll never see him again and this burning question will remain a mystery forever and you’ll die of old age still wondering what he was going to ask you.”
My mouth fell open and it took me a good ten seconds before I could speak. “Why would you say that?! Was it your mission today to come to work and inflict physical pain on me like that?”
She deflated. “Yes. It was my sole mission. It’s my life mission, actually. My cover’s blown. I’ve been recruited to infiltrate your social circle, just like Hennessy the Headphone Guy, to ensure harm is inflicted upon you daily.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “I knew it.”
She dumped her pile of returns onto my trolley. “You can put these away. I’m exhausted from this conversation.”
Then I felt bad. “I was just joking. I really do like your cardigan.”
She sighed the mother of all sighs. “Jordan, no matter what he asks you and no matter what comes from it, I can tell you’re already hopeful and invested, and I don’t want to see you get hurt, but even if he’s not interested in you like that, I think you could have a real good friend in him. Someone who understands you, who understands your relationship problems because chances are, he’s been through the same.”
“What are you saying?”
“If he plays the ‘just-friends’ card, that is still a good thing.”
“Well, yeah…” I made a face. “Of course. I can see that.”
She pursed her lips. “Jordan.”
“No, I get it. I do. I can be friends with an undercover, asexual cop in the witness protection program.” Then something occurred to me. “Oh God, what if he’s not really asexual?”
“If he said he is, then he is. It’s not something people lie about. And if he did lie about it—” She gave a serious nod. “—then we’ll kneecap that motherfucker.”
“Merry!” Mrs Mullhearn said from behind us. “Language!”
I burst out laughing and quickly pushed the trolley of returns away, abandoning Merry to cop a lecture about appropriate language and acceptable vernacular in the workplace. I smiled the entire time, though my ears burned. Like a motherfucker.
Waiting for the bus was like waiting for Christmas morning to see if Santa Claus either delivered the best present ever or if he merrily burst your bubble, depending on whether you’ve been naughty or nice, and Lord knows that could go either way. At any rate, I was either going to be thrilled or disappointed. I doubted there was a middle ground even if what Merry said made sense—and it did. My brain was the studious, logical type that could see very rationally that gaining a new friend who was also asexual and gay could be like the best thing ever. But my heart, on the other hand, was the blind drunk one, stumbling around in the dark, belting out 80s hits like “What About Me” and “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go”.
My brain and my heart very rarely saw eye to eye, which explained my string of failed relationships well enough. Well, that and the fact that me being asexual was an issue. It never started out as an issue, but as things progressed and time went on, it sure as hell became one.
But Hennessy wasn’t like them.
So, as the bus pulled in, my heart was dressed in neon Lycra, a bottle in one hand and a microphone in the other, singing Deniece Williams’ “Let’s Hear It For The Boy” while my brain was stoic, arms crossed, working on some algorithm or genius equation that would determine indisputably, unequivocally, that I was the dumbest motherfucker on the planet for even entertaining the idea that Hennessy would be one, single. And two, remotely interested in me.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped onto the bus and couldn’t even bring myself to scan the faces. Because what if Merry had jinxed me and he wasn’t on the bus at all, and I’d have to somehow survive the weekend—or God forbid, the rest of my miserable existence—without knowing what he wanted to ask me.
But then my stupid heart broke out with Bonnie Tyler’s “Turn Around Bright Eyes” so of course I turned around and there he was… smiling at me.
But the bus was full and he had a window seat. The lady sitting next to him was the sweet old dear that I had to apologise to for dropping the mofo-bomb, though by the way she shot me a look of disdain, I was sure she thought I was evil, and I didn’t fancy standing right next to her while I attempted to talk to Hennessy. It was going to be embarrassing enough without the judgemental audience mumbling ten Hail Marys under her breath.
So I gave Hennessy an apologetic smile and had to stand toward the front, holding onto the railing. And I put my head down and did some deep breathing, because as it turned out, the worst possible scenario did occur. I thought him not being on the bus would be the worst, but oh no, him being right fucking there but not being able to speak to him, that was the worst.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” someone said, as they tried to weave their way through the people standing up. Keeping my head down, I shuffled forward a little, not that I could really go anywhere. I apologised to the poor woman sitting in front of me for the almost lap dance, but a warm hand on my back made me spin around.
And sweet baby Jesus in a manger, those eyes. “Hey,” Hennessy said, really close and really sweet.
Every suave line I’d ever read evaporated from my mind. My traitorous brain had taken the bottle of vodka from my heart and was chugging away, leaving me to my own devices. “Hi,” I said. Not even remotely manly, but more of a breathy, smiley, nervous sound which wasn’t embarrassing at all. He was so close, and as the bus jostled, he bumped into me and put his hand on my arm to steady himself.
“I uh, I was hoping,” he said, then broke out in a grin, like he was embarrassed or nervous or something that didn’t make sense. “I had to offer your seat to that lady.”
Why the hell was he nervous and flustered, and why was he blushing a little, and his hand was still on my arm? Nothing made sense, because my brain was now doing the drunken hula dance with a Mai Tai in each hand on a tropical beach singing the words horribly wrong to the Beach Boys’ “Kokomo”, a million miles away from where I needed it to be.
This was going to be a disaster.
“Are you oka
y?” he asked.
“Oh sure. I’m just… I was going to stand by your seat, but the lady who you were sitting next to thinks I’m the antichrist and it’s Bonnie Tyler’s fault I even looked for you, but now the Beach Boys are involved. God, I need to stop talking.”
He stared at me and I shook my head, internally kicking myself. And you just wait, brain. I’ll give you fucking “Aruba, Jamaica, oh I wanna take ya.”
He was now looking at me like he had serious concerns for my mental health. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “I’m just really nervous and you were going to ask me something yesterday but you didn’t and I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours freaking out and I’m pretty sure Merry is—” His expression was growing more concerned so I stopped talking. “Not relevant to this conversation, sorry. You were going to ask me something. Please put me out of my misery.”
He smiled and the bus came to a stop and he brushed up against me again. He didn’t apologise, which could either mean he wasn’t sorry for the physical contact or he was a mannerless jerk, and I hoped to all the gods it was the first.
“Yes, I did want to ask you something,” he said. “And there’s no right or wrong answer. You need to do what you’re comfortable in doing. I don’t want to influence your decision.”
The bus jolted forward again as we took a right at Cleveland. Shit his stop was next. “If you don’t just spit it out, I’m pretty sure Merry will hunt you down. Not sure she can take much more of me not knowing what you were going to ask me.”
“You told her?”
“Of course. I might have mentioned it once. Or eighty-seven times.”
He looked out the window and made a face when he saw his stop was coming up. “I just wanted to know,” he said. “You know, the support group I run?”
“Yes.”
An amazing explosion of blush coloured his cheeks. “Well, I was just wondering if you were thinking of coming back.”
“Oh.” I couldn’t have hidden my disappointment if I tried. Of course it was about his meeting. It wasn’t about me at all. “I was planning to, yeah. Do you like need to know for numbers or something? Because that’s fair. Or if you need to change venues because we got interrupted by the drunk, horny couple. Oh God, did I make someone feel uncomfortable with all my crying and you need to tell me that it’s probably for the best if I don’t come back? Because you can just tell me. I’ll understand.”