Milo drives me home in near silence, though it’s not for lack of trying to converse. He makes several innocuous comments to drum up conversation, but I’m resistant to each attempt. I’m not looking for a return to normalcy. I know we’re well beyond that stage and into the I’ve-royally-fucked-this-up portion of our acquaintanceship—or friendship—or whatever the fuck we have. No amount of avoiding the topic is going to erase the fact that I dipped mid-discussion, sprinted my fucking ass off into the trees, and was later found screaming at the apparent silence to stop. Things are not looking well for me. On some level, I appreciate Milo not wanting to address the skyscraper in the room, but it all feels a bit futile. After fifteen minutes, Milo seems to realize this and stops trying. We listen to pop’s top-forty radio instead. A wash of electronic beeps and blips with the uncanny ability to suck the remaining life out of the air.
Finally, we pull up at my condo, and I relax some at the sight of familiarity. I can sulk in solitude now. Thank God.
Why?
I furrow my brow, aggrieved by my own errant thoughts. Wallowing is best done in isolation—I’m testament to that—and wallow I will, once I’m inside. Once the door is locked. Once I know this is over.
It should’ve never started.
I know I shouldn’t have said any of those things to him on the path. It’s not his fault. I know he was just asking, but I knew better. And yes, maybe he hadn’t immediately turned away like I expected him to—he ran after me and somehow made the tapping go away. But eventually he will turn away. All the more quickly, now that he knows what he’s dealing with.
I was killing it on my own—I can do so again. Predictability can be satisfying. Find the pipe and get those naked men back on my screen. We’ll be out before nine.
The Jetta dies.
Milo lifts his hand. For a brief moment, it hovers in place like he might reach for mine. But then he opens his door instead and steps outside.
Is he going to walk me inside?
I glance up at the clouds, still hanging there above us. Rolling languidly over one another.
Maybe I don’t have to be alone.
My door opens and Milo is standing there smiling down at me. That heartbreakingly beautiful smile. How could I have been angry at him before? It’s utterly impossible. I undo my seat belt and slide out.
He lets the door fall closed behind me. The car beeps as it locks.
“Do you want to come in?” my voice asks.
“If you don’t mind,” he says.
“I don’t.”
Searching my keys, I select the one for the front door. The deadbolt slides out of place. The door creaks as it opens. Darkness. I flip the switch. Yellow light floods the entryway. I step in. Milo follows and the door closes behind him.
“This is it,” I say, gesturing around with one hand.
“Worth the wait,” he says, and follows me deeper into my home. To our left, the stairs climb to the upper floor, where I’m all too aware my bedroom waits. The expectations are a clusterfuck I’m unwilling to contemplate at the moment, preferring to veer away from acknowledging them by not giving him a tour.
We step down into the living room.
“Feel free to sit,” I say, gesturing to my worn sofa.
“You like to read, don’t you?” he says, nodding toward my bookshelves. I have two of them—inherited from Aunt Evora—in the faux 1970s oak stylings of yesteryear. But they do the job just fine. Each stands taller than me and is absolutely stuffed with an assortment of hardbounds and paperbacks.
“Yeah,” I admit. “There are more upstairs. It’s pretty much the only thing I do consistently.”
“Good thing it’s kind of your job, then, huh?” He winks at me before sitting down on the sofa.
“Are you cold or anything?”
“No, I’m very comfortable.”
“I can get you—”
“It’s perfect,” he says. “Will you join me?”
“Oh, yeah. Of course.” I sit down too, close enough to be in arm’s reach but not so close that our bodies are touching. Before he can say anything, I blurt out the first suggestion that comes to mind. “Do you want to watch a movie or something?”
“That sounds like a great idea.”
So we do. At first, we have a little difficulty picking something to watch out of the literal millions of movies available on streaming services. Milo’s tastes lean toward either emotional dramas with very serious themes or raunchy comedies that require absolutely zero brain power to view, while I’m generally more of an action film fan or a horror junky. The more blood, the better is my general rule of thumb. Eventually, we stumble upon something outside both our wheelhouses that somehow satisfies all our collective criteria: a gay science fiction romance about a space innkeeper who drops everything to find a man that had stayed at his stellar hotel for one evening. It’s ridiculous in the best vein of self-aware storytelling, and we find ourselves laughing and cheering with every unpredictable twist of the plot. Amid the campy hijinks, I even forget the shitstorm that was this morning. When it finishes, we order pizza, open a cheap bottle of wine I have on the rack, and immediately elect to find another film. Sadly, our first pick seems to be a one of a kind. But though the fantasy film we settle on next about a soul-collector isn’t quite as entertaining, I do look up halfway through, pleased to find Milo’s arm around me. Without allowing myself a moment to hesitate, I lean into him and finish the movie resting against his shoulder.
By the time the credits roll, the world is well and dark. The pizza box sits empty on the coffee table, as do two empty bottles. I spend a moment breathing in his scent—spiced and warm—before realizing myself and sitting up.
“Hey—”
“That was a fun one,” I say, grabbing the remote and exiting out of the film before the service can automatically start the next recommendation.
“Where are you going?”
“Can I get you anything?”
Playing host seems like an easy way to put off whatever’s supposed to come next.
“More water, if you’ve got it,” he says in a breezy, conversational tone. He stands as I grab our glasses, meandering over to my bookshelves. There’s nothing very interesting there, so I figure it can’t hurt for him to look around.
In the kitchen, I commence filling our cups in the sink. While I do so, I sneak a peek at Milo through the doorway. He’s busy perusing the shelves still, eyes roaming over the dozens of fiction titles. Horror, most of them, some fantasy thrown in. A few literary novels for good measure. Somewhere in there is a dictionary I’ve had for longer than I’ve been alive and maybe a reference book or two about critiquing fiction.
I marvel at him while he looks, wishing I could be the type of person who found this sort of thing easy. The way it should be. At the risk of sounding mawkish—well, fuck it. Milo is extraordinarily good-looking. I’ve known this ever since I first laid eyes on him in the office gym, but it’s even more apparent now that I have the chance to check him out unobserved and under the spell of an entire bottle of wine. His eyes are like gemstones despite the lackluster lighting, twinkling green as he reads the titles. His nose is prominent but straight, his jaw as sharp as the pages of any of the books on the shelves. Without his jacket, I can see how the shirt he wears hugs his slim frame. A waist I could dream about wrapping my arms around accentuated by his wide leather belt. The jeans he’s wearing—striking evidence that God might be a homosexual—hug his ample ass and broad thighs. How could I have waited so long to let him inside my home?
Water spills over my hand as the cup overflows. Reluctantly, I turn my attention back to our glasses.
“Did you like what you saw?”
“What?” I ask, surprised. Panicking, I dump the whole glass before realizing I meant to keep most of the water.
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Milo laughs. “You might not be as inconspicuous as you think.”
I turn my face away, feeling heat rush into my cheeks. Fuck. He knew I was looking at him? “Sorry. I didn’t…”
Mean to. But that would be a lie.
“No, no!” he says, darting to my side. “I was joking. I’m not offended. By all means, please look.”
I grit my teeth and hold out the newly filled glass for him.
Of course I was going to get caught staring.
“I’ve stolen glances too when you weren’t looking,” he says gently. “I hope you also don’t mind.”
The statement catches me off guard, and I lock eyes with him inquisitively. Some of the heat recedes.
“I don’t mind,” I say. I might even be hopeful.
He smiles, accepting the glass. But he doesn’t take a drink. Instead, he sets it down on the counter. “Then hopefully, this will be okay too.”
Hands on either side of my face, he leans forward and kisses me. Whereas our first kiss had been short and sweet, this one is much more. His lips press against mine, passionate and lingering, soft but firm. It steals my breath away, coating my mind with a numbing sensation that obliterates thought for the moment. All I want are his lips and for him to keep kissing, kissing, kissing me.
My hand releases the other glass, leaving it sitting empty underneath the faucet. Milo leads me backward until I’m against the inner corner of the counter, my hands resting against the cool Formica surface to steady myself. I can feel the stubble of his five-o-clock shadow against my skin, the side of his nose against my own. In one swift movement, he seizes me around the waist and hoists me up onto the counter, reverses the tilt of our heads. I wind my hands around the back of his head, wanting more of him, feeling his thick hair between my fingers. He’s still holding me by the waist, standing between my parted knees.
“I want you,” he whispers, moving his lips to my neck. Then he grips the bottom of my shirt and pulls it over my head. It catches briefly on my ear, but he’s slick about it, adjusting before the snag lasts for too long. I’m suddenly aware of the cold, aware of my bare skin. How it’s not quite warm enough in the house to be this naked.
I sit up straighter, hoping to flatten some of the creases in my stomach.
Milo doesn’t seem to notice. He’s kissing my neck again, hungrier now the longer we go on.
He hasn’t noticed yet, but he will.
Wanting to stay in the moment, I slide off the counter. Standing, I feel better about my stomach, and I don’t think I’ve pulled Milo out of his zone. If anything, he seems more determined. His hunger drives me. I let him slide me up against the refrigerator, and I can feel the hardness in his jeans.
“I want you,” I respond. I grab the hem of his shirt and hoist it up. I can’t quite get it over his head, so he helps me, giggling a little as he does so. His willingness to let humor into the situation amid the lust is helpful. I don’t feel so inept. That his laughter doesn’t detract from the heat in his eyes encourages me to continue.
I lunge forward, leading him out of the kitchen with desperate kisses. I want to run my hands over every square inch of his toned torso. Marvel at the work he’s done to his own body even if I can’t compare. He doesn’t seem to mind.
In the living room, he seizes me about the waist again, but this time he carries me over to the sofa. I can feel the strength in his arms, the flex of his muscles as I soar through the air. Just before he can set me down on the cushions though, I become too heavy and he drops me the last few inches. The furniture squeaks as it slides. Milo lets out another little giggle, but this time I feel a twinge of shame. On the television, something has started playing, but I have no desire to find out what it is or how to turn it off. It’s background noise, something I can use to calm my mind.
Milo’s face hovers over me, lips parted, breath heavy, eyes focused and horny. My heart races, waiting for him to lower himself onto me. Waiting to feel the weight of his body on mine. He complies slowly—so painfully slow. Never breaking eye contact. Until his figure has completely eclipsed the overhead light. His broad shoulders, arms to either side of my head, lean torso sliding down onto mine.
Below our waists, his hardness presses against me through his jeans. He’s so swollen—practically begging to be released from his trappings. The pressure of his body against mine causes a cringey, involuntary whimper to escape my lips.
This is wrong.
It’s not wrong. It feels so amazing. Lying here beneath him on my couch, his obvious carnal desire to have me. Whatever tricks my mind might want to play, I can’t deny his arousal. He wants me.
But you shouldn’t have him. This is wrong.
No, those are Aunt Evora’s words. That’s what she tries to tell me every time she drops some hint about a woman I should go on a date with. That’s not her being correct, that’s her not understanding that this—what Milo and I feel—is fine.
This is fine.
But it’s also why your parents disowned you.
I inhale sharply, feeling a sudden ache in my chest. Whether it’s immoral or not, that last thought is the truth. If this wasn’t what I wanted, if I could deny myself these feelings, then I’d still have my family. I’d still have my parents. I wouldn’t have forced this schism to materialize between my mother and father and their children. We’d still be celebrating birthdays and Christmases together. They’d be coming over for impromptu dinners and not my aunt. I wouldn’t be searching her offhanded comments for updates on their well-being. Dores could’ve visited them with her daughter without feeling any guilt or the need to try and mend the broken familial bond. If I didn’t feel this need then maybe that weight wouldn’t have been on Dores’ shoulders. Maybe she could’ve been happier. Maybe she wouldn’t have had the shadow of responsibility looming over her. Maybe she wouldn’t have felt the need to shield me from the truth of her illness because she thought I was too fragile. Maybe we would’ve all been happy together. Maybe she would still be alive.
“No!” The cry escapes me. All traces of my sexual engagement are gone. Instead, I’m lost and confused and horrified by my own reversal.
It takes Milo a moment to realize what’s happened, but I see his face change. Immediately, the lust disappears, replaced by that same frustrating pity—I don’t want your pity, I want you to want me—as well as irritation. He backs away. The prominence in his pants lingers, but I know soon that will be gone too. I want to grab for him, pull him on top of me again so that I might get back to that place before it all went wrong, but I also don’t want him near me, and the dichotomy is infuriating.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“No.” This time a whisper. I look around, seeing nothing but the empty room.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“No.”
A sparrow figurine perched precariously on one of the shelves falls to the ground with a dull thud.
“Felix.”
“No! Stop!” I shout. I am completely and utterly disgusted with myself. This is the second time today that I’ve felt yanked out of a desirable situation by my own head, and I am entirely fed up.
“Okay,” Milo says, hands raised in an attempt to calm me. The way he’s poised now, I can see the perfect shape of his abdominal muscles, bringing into sharp awareness how my own bare torso is weak and undefined. Seizing hold of the only thing I can control, I dart into the kitchen. The room spins as I snatch my shirt off the counter.
“Wait, Felix,” Milo says, coming after me. By the time I’ve pulled my shirt on, he’s grabbed his own from the floor and is doing the same.
I try to move around him, but where Milo is standing, he blocks the doorway.
“Excuse me,” I mutter.
“Felix, please. Can we talk about this?”
“I don’t need to talk about it, I just want to get out of the kitchen.”
“But where are you going to go?”
“I don’t know, I just need to—”
“Felix. Stop.” He grabs my hand, and reluctantly I stop trying to go around him. I can still feel the presence. The tapping hasn’t returned, but the presence is there, lingering in the shadows. I turn my head, trying to find the source of the feeling, but I can’t see anything.
That’s because there’s nothing there. You’re imagining it.
But the article said it would keep getting worse.
Nothing will keep getting worse. I just need to stop thinking about all this.
“What is happening?” he asks.
“Nothing is happening.”
“Really? Because if that’s the case, then all I’m getting is you don’t want me here.”
I grunt in frustration. “I do. I do want you here. Okay?”
“So then why do you keep pushing me away? What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine.”
“No. You’re not.”
“Really, it’s okay.”
“Felix, you went sprinting away from me on the path earlier. When I found you, you were covering your ears and screaming. Now, in the middle of—well, in the middle of something else, it’s like you became another person. I’m not mad that you changed your mind about having sex, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t feeling rejected.”
“We weren’t going to have sex,” I say, unsure if I mean that or not.
Milo looks back and forth between my eyes. “Regardless of what we were going to do,” he says, “the way you’re acting concerns me.”
“Then maybe you need to stop being concerned.”
“It’s a little fucking late for that.”
“I’m sure you won’t have too many problems moving on from me.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m sure there are plenty of people out there who would love to be with you.” The words are spilling out of me in a spiteful stream of drunken vitriol. I hate every pointed syllable, but I can’t stop. I know even as I say them that I don’t mean the words, not really. “With your sculpted body, and your charming smile, and you just show up all spontaneous and thoughtful and just—just so fucking perfect.”
“Felix!”
“What am I supposed to offer?”
Now I stop myself, breathing heavily and staring him in the eyes. I’m burning with shame, but my frustration hasn’t ebbed. It should be aimed at me, but it’s much easier to take it out on someone else.
“Will you listen to me for one second?” Milo asks, his voice low. The layer of anger in his tone startles me. I haven’t heard his anger before. Even if he’s not threatening me, acknowledging it now awakens a familiar fear. But I don’t want to be afraid of him. I don’t want to actually cause him pain. “This isn’t some fling for me.”
I relax my stance, backing away so that we can speak more freely.
“I like you, Felix,” he says. “I really, really like you. But I think it’s pretty obvious that something’s going on.”
“I’m not—”
“Please, don’t deny it.” His palms are open toward me. The anger has vanished. “I’m not running away,” he says. “I’m here with you, but I need you to acknowledge that you’re going through something.”
My head hangs, unable to hold his gaze.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s not you, I just can’t.”
Images are flashing through my mind. Dores at the funeral. Dores the last time I saw her, when she told me that watching Mariana grow was both the happiest aspect of her life and the saddest. Aunt Evora bringing me a gift the first Christmas after I came out to the family. Sitting my parents down in the living room with Dores standing in the doorway; the moment wasn’t for her but she was prepared to step in when the situation called for it. The only boy I ever had in my dormitory, who shoved me into the wall when I told him I wasn’t ready for him to touch me that way. Dores, on the day I graduated high school, telling me without telling me outright that I should be anyone I wanted to be in college.
“I’m broken.”
I wait for him to tell me I’m wrong, to deny what I feel is true inside. I wait for Milo to reassure me that everything is okay and I just need to look past the wall that’s been built around my mind.
But he doesn’t.
He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he approaches calmly and wraps me in a comforting embrace.
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