Even though that was ages ago and he was just a little kid of six, I can see that this is bearing heavily on him. It still pains him. And also, now I can see why Clara is always so worried when people are sick, especially when someone starts vomiting. She saw someone die, someone who shouldn’t have died, and she never forgot that. Just like her brother.

  “I’m sorry that happened to you,” I press my hand on his shoulder. I don’t even realize that I’ve kept it there a moment or two longer than I usually would have.

  I always thought Clara and Evan had an easy life, one without much trouble, or at least I feel like they didn’t need to struggle as much as the rest of us. Not that I’m holding it against them or anything. But, I got the feeling that all they needed to do was smile and the world was happy to give them whatever they wanted. Some people are just like that. Born under a lucky star, I guess. I never felt like I was, to be honest. Not unless you count my mother as a lucky star, and in a way, she was. As lucky as a mother could be for her son. She was.

  Now, hearing Evan’s story which shed some light on both his and Clara’s behavior, I realize that no one’s life is perfect, even though many like to pretend it is. I’ve stopped pretending, and from the looks of it, Evan has stopped pretending, too. Maybe we got more in common than I thought.

  This quiet, brooding young man I see before me is full of secrets, and for some reason, I want to find out about them. I want to nod in compassion (even though compassion isn’t something I’m prone to, many will vouch for this), but I want to do this for him. A part of me wants this weekend to last indefinitely. Why? I’m not sure myself.

  It might be the way he looks at me, not wanting anything. Just wanting me to listen, to be there. Nothing else. I don’t remember the last time someone looked at me without wanting something.

  “I don’t expect you to say anything,” he suddenly tells me. “But, thanks for listening. It feels nice to share it with someone…”

  It sounds like he wanted to add something else to that, but he stopped himself. My curiosity piqued. But, I stay silent. If he wanted to say it, he would have done it. That’s what I always think.

  I play the movie we agreed on, and at first, we’re both commenting on the stupidity of the characters, the superficiality of the plot and the idea that we’d probably do a better job of directing this piece of crap. Then, our conversation suddenly dies down. I don’t notice it at first. I’m still too busy dissecting the stupid plot of the movie. I yawn at some point, and as I raise my hand to my mouth, I feel something heavy bear down on my left shoulder.

  Evan’s asleep. His head has slumped down to his right, and now he’s leaning on my shoulder. I expect him to wake up and move. But, that doesn’t happen. His cheek burns my shoulder, as he breathes slowly, through his half-open mouth. I crack a little smile. He seems blissfully asleep. I don’t want to stir him awake. So, I just remain like that for the rest of the movie.

  At some point, I realize that it’s easier for me to lift my arm over his head and adjust him on my shoulder better. He doesn’t stir. Just adjusts himself more comfortably. It’s a hug unlike any other I’ve had before. It’s a hug of gentle arms that envelope you, but at the same time, it gives you space to breathe. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this close to someone. Even when there was a girl in my bed, sleeping on my chest, feeling my heartbeat with the palm of her hand, I was always unreachable. One of them called me a cocoon, and said that they’re all waiting for me to come out, but I don’t want to. Not while everyone’s looking. That made me laugh. It still does, actually.

  Now, with Evan near me, actually so close to me that he’s basically in my arms, I feel more awake somehow. There is a secret knowledge, arising from the very depths of my soul that tells me it would be alright if he wanted to wrap those same arms around me. I wouldn’t mind it. I wouldn’t say no.

  I think for the first time since I saw him again, I take a good, long look at him. His shoulders are broad and strong, inviting almost. Those denims fit him perfectly. When he smiles, there is a soft hint of something not masculine, not feminine even. It has the marks of both, but it doesn’t belong to either. While his smile is somewhere in between, his bone structure is rigid. Strong. All male. No doubt about that.

  While I stand out wherever I go (it’s mostly the tattoos, but I’ve been told more than once it’s just me), he doesn’t. He’s the type that blends in, allowing you not to notice him. But, that would be on you. What he has to offer isn’t solely on the surface. There’s so much more.

  Strangely, I smell his scent and it floods my brain with endorphins. Still, I don’t move. I remember how he tried to calm the situation down at the bar. He had already formed a decision in his mind. He could have just stayed quiet. But, he didn’t. He said something. He changed our fate in one single, blazing instant.

  Looking at him, I see a part of myself there. I see the equilibrium he’s yearning for, being so different from those around him, experiencing all the hormones and desires that go along with that blend between male and female. The faint lines on his face tell me he’s still on a journey of discovery, an experience that is equally external as much as it is internal. He wants to tell the world who he is. He doesn’t want to allow the world to define him. And, that is what it all boils down to. My mother was taught by life that she was the wife of a drunkard who would never let her amount to anything. But, she chose to view herself not as a wife of a deadbeat, but as a mother of a winner. Her words “I will always love you the way you are,” still linger on. I think they always will. Maybe she, in her infinite wisdom, knew something I’m only starting to figure out for myself now.

  My spirit hasn’t been a gentle, flowing river in a long time. Be water, my friend. That is, at least, what Bruce Lee has to say about life and overcoming obstacles, but that’s hard. That’s so fucking hard. To flow with peace and to bring harmony to yourself, and all those around you. It’s hard, but I think not impossible. This life leaves us drained and shaken too often. There are attacks coming from all sides.

  Looking at this young man here, I see myself. I really do. Only, the parts that I’ve known all along. But, what about the parts underneath the surface? What lies there, beneath?

  Shaking like never before, I breathe heavily. I’m weighing the decision, just like Evan did that night at the bar. Will it be as crucial? Only time will tell. Maybe it’s all about following your gut. Just do whatever feels good. That’s not always the best route, but at least you’re bound to have some fun along the way. Still shaking, watching the end credits of the movie on the TV, I dare to do it. I lean my head onto Evan’s, and I close my eyes.

  The movie stops, and I hear nothing but the sound of my own heartbeat. My eyes are closed, but there’s no blackness. The canvas of my dreams is all white, all hopeful. The quietness grows steadier, deeper. I drink in the silence. It chills me. It thrills me with possibilities I never saw before.

  I don’t fall asleep. Not yet, anyway. I reach out for the little lamp next to the couch, and turn it off. It’s fully dark now. Only thin strips of moonlight are oozing through the window, with the curtains still pushed to the side.

  I don’t move. I simply allow the moment to wash over me. And, for the time being, that is enough.

  Chapter 11

  I wake up first the following morning. My neck is all stiff from sleeping in a seated position, and I see that Evan has moved to the side, and he is still asleep on the small couch pillow on the other end.

  “Oh…” I sigh loudly, massaging the back of my neck, but that didn’t help much.

  I get up, and stretch my arms. Still nothing. I guess I’ll be stiff for the day. Evan is still asleep. I watch him for a few moments. I listen to the sound of his breathing. Instinctively, I take a step back. We were sitting together last night. Hugging. We were hugging. And, it wasn’t a friendly hug, either.

  My brain yells at me, but I can’t hear what it’s saying. It seems to think I’m a stupid idiot. My heart, the traitor, thinks otherwise. I shake my head, like those cartoon characters trying to shake the devil from their shoulder. I didn’t see a devil on my shoulder, but somehow, I knew it was there. Just like I know now. And, it’s telling me to back down. It’s telling me not to listen to that soft voice coming from my chest.

  Just walk away.

  I head over to the kitchen. I’m not really in the mood to make breakfast. We can eat out. He can have just plain toast or something there, with a cup of tea.

  I pretend not to know why I’m suddenly in such a rush to get out of the apartment. I go to take a quick shower, then tiptoe to my bedroom. I put on just a pair of jeans and a plain t-shirt. My keys jangle in my pockets, sounding it’s go time.

  When I return to the living room again, I see that Evan’s up.

  “Hey,” I tell him.

  I head over to the couch, but I change my mind at the last minute, and opt for the armchair instead. He gives me a surprised look, but I pretend not to notice.

  “Hey,” he repeats.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Much better, thanks,” he nods. “I think I could try to eat something proper today.”

  “Really? Great,” I say.

  “I was thinking, I could whip you up my famous breakfast lasagna. I just need to jump to the store for some - “

  “Actually, I was thinking we could eat out,” I interrupt him. “I mean, I appreciate the offer, I really do. But, you should still take it easy. Let me take you out somewhere, and you can whip up that breakfast lasagna tomorrow… or some other time.”

  There are always more choices than clues. Evan has no mask of coping. When he’s confused by something, it shows, painfully obvious on his face. Now, his face is completely fallen. His eyes stare right into mine, then the next minute, they are wandering. There has always been a familiarity to him. I couldn’t shake it now, even if I wanted to. But, I keep my distance, and he sees it.

  “Sure,” he finally agrees, but that confusion on his face is still a bouncing ball going left and right, always returning to the same initial position.

  We quickly get ready. The strange tension between us is palpable. I want it to go away, but I can’t shake it. It’s rooted inside of me, and it oozes outside, like a leak. At the breakfast diner, we sit opposite each other. I realize I’m feeling a little more relaxed now that we’re out, among people. Their eyes are giving me shelter. Like, nothing could happen here. Nothing that might push me over the edge and into the unknown, into something I never even suspected existed somewhere inside of me. For now, it’s easy just to push it aside. If I don’t think about it, it doesn’t exist.

  “Are you OK?” he asks me the dreaded question. I knew he would, eventually.

  He asks it casually, like he’s asking me about the weather today. I appreciate the tone. I appreciate that he’s not making it into a big deal. Because, it’s not. Is it?

  “Fine,” I nod, taking a bite of a blueberry muffin. “Just wish I remembered to move to my bed at some point last night instead of sleeping in a seated position. My neck is killing me.”

  Evan is slumped over the table that divides us. His brows furrow for just a moment. Then, his tense face relaxes.

  “I slept like a baby.”

  He digs into his eggs like a starving man. I guess he feels like one, too. Maybe he shouldn’t eat eggs for breakfast, but it’s his own choice. After all, isn’t everything our own choice? Millions of doors opening on a daily basis, and we choose which ones we walk through. No one pushes us through them.

  “You wanna spend the day outside? There’s a park just down the street, or maybe a mall…”

  “Not in a mood for crowds,” he says with mouth still full of eggs.

  “Park then, or the little lake, but we’ll need to take the car there. There’s this great bookstore by the lake, too. I’m sure you’d like it.”

  I keep on, talking about irrelevant things. It’s safer that way. Much easier, too. Because, I don’t want to be asked again if I’m alright. I also don’t want to be asked about last night. Nothing happened. I’m not even sure he knows what he did. Did he even do it on purpose? Probably not. I’m probably making a big deal out of nothing.

  We end up at the lake, then at the bookstore, then some light lunch down on Main Street. It looks like everyone is out for a walk, but I don’t mind. The crowd is sheltering me. Four walls might reveal something I’m not ready to think about. Not yet, at least. Maybe not ever.

  So, we continue to talk about this and that. Irrelevant stuff. I tell him that Sylvia Plath once visited that bookstore, and instead of buying some books, she left some of her own. That was still at the time when she wasn’t famous at all. The owner put them aside, deciding to sell them later on, but then she died, and the news of her infamous death spread throughout the US like wildfire. I’m surprised to hear that Evan knows all about it. He fills in the story for me, telling me about her putting her head in the oven and turning on the gas. I shudder at the thought. He goes on to tell me how she sealed the rooms that separated her and her sleeping children, with tape, towels and cloths, so that the carbon monoxide wouldn’t leak into their room.

  I always forget that he’s into those morbid details of someone’s life. Even as a kid, he loved Edgar Allan Poe, and even I who don’t really read that much, apart from a few favorites, know that he wrote about burying people alive, women returning from the grave for vengeance and people going batshit crazy. Fun stuff, but maybe not all that appropriate for a 14 or a 15 year old.

  I guess it was always the contrast. When you see him, you see a dork. I mean, you used to see a dork. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the pimply face that appeared at our doorstep one time, asking Clara for pimple cream that actually works. She gave him everything she had in her little medicine cabinet, as she herself was prone to breakouts as a teenager, and even now as an adult. Much less frequently, of course. That’s yet another story I never discovered the ending to. Did any of those creams work for him? I see he’s all cleared up now, but that could be mere hormones settling down.

  When we’re done with the bookstore, we take a walk down Main Street. He buys popcorn and throws half of it to the pigeons. I watch as he throws handfuls to them, and the birds fly towards him, begging for more with their bobbleheads and weirdly aimed eyes. For a moment, I return to last night. My shoulder feels empty without his head there. But, I shake it off quickly. What would I be doing with my arm around a young man’s neck, in the middle of Main Street?

  It ends up being a day of opposing needs. Every time that tiny voice from the empty cavern of my chest speaks out, a louder voice interferes. It’s impossible to answer. I’ve always heard of the term emotional hurricane. But, I never felt it. I never thought I would. I’m just not the emotional type. Clara knows it. All the women who’ve ever entered my life know it. Even if they’ve entered it for just a brief moment. They know it. I’m sure of that.

  With Evan, it’s different. It’s difficult. It’s like the winds of my emotions don’t know which way they’re blowing, or what they’re bringing with them. It’s a vortex, and one moment, it’s tempting to just jump in, but then, the other, I don’t dare do it. So, I stay on the edge, looking down. It’s a comical dance of sorts, with each side pulling away.

  We return to my apartment in a good mood. Much better than we left it in the morning, and that makes me glad. I’m sure he is, too.

  “Want some dinner?” I ask, checking the fridge. Not much choice, but I have a few ingredients that might be made into something quick, light and tasty.

  “Actually, if you don’t mind, I’ll just take a shower and go lie down…” he tells me, sounding a little melancholic. Or, maybe, it’s just me. He’s probably just tired.

  “OK, sure. That’s probably a good idea. I have the day off tomorrow, so we can go see whatever you want. I have no plans.”

  I arranged for my day off when I found out Evan was coming. Now, I’m not so sure it was the right thing to do, but not like I can back out on that. Never mind. I’ll make it into a day like today. Just keep both of us busy and entertained, and we’ll be fine.

  I start shuffling the channels on the TV a while later. It’s not that I’m in the mood to watch anything. It’s that the noise of something irrelevant helps me not think. I hear Evan finish up in the bathroom, and I expect him to come over. Instead, the door to the guestroom closes and it remains closed for the rest of the night.

  Chapter 12

  I slept like a baby that night. In the morning, I can almost hear my neck thanking me for a good night’s rest. My curtains are drawn to the sides, letting in fresh morning sunlight. I yawn lazily, wondering if Evan is up. I listen for a moment or two. Nothing. Probably still asleep. I grab my phone and see it’s only 8 am. Not too early, but not too late either. There’s no rush on a day off, anyway.

  The idea of a day off relaxes me. I slump down into the bed. My pillow still has my head’s indentation, and I easily rest into it once again. I take a deep, soothing breath. It’s a good thing Evan’s still here. Maybe spending another day together will crystalize this confusion, and I’ll finally realize that I just care for him deeply, like a brother. It’s all probably because he’s Clara’s kid brother, and this emotional connection has transferred onto me easily. Yes. That seems like a perfectly reasonable explanation. I shouldn’t have acted so strange and distant yesterday. But, luckily, I will get the chance to correct that today.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9