The Understatement of the Year Page 15

  Rachel put her mouth next to my ear. “Maybe it’s something that people say, because it sounds better than ‘I’m totally clueless.’”

  I kissed her cheek again. “Whichever.”

  “You know, I don’t like seeing Skippy with another guy,” she said.

  I took the high road, as usual. Although it was getting old. “I met Ross over the summer. He seems like a pretty good guy.”

  Rachel smiled. “I’m sure you’re right, but I was trying to be loyal. Is your friend straight? Daphne is working it pretty hard.”

  I took a peek over my shoulder, where the two of them were slow-dancing. “Not sure where he stands,” I said. And neither is he.

  Eventually the music picked up again, and we all danced ourselves silly. It had been a while since I’d had a night out like this, and I’d forgotten what dancing was for. It was such a release. (Like sex, only not as messy, and with less heartbreak.) The music coursed through me, and I stopped thinking and let myself just feel.

  When we needed a break, Graham bought a couple more beers. Standing side by side, we propped up a wall beside the dancers, alternately swallowing the beer and pressing the cool bottles to our faces.

  When Graham tipped his chin up to drain the bottle, I had an involuntary flashback to the sight of those lips wrapped around a certain part of my anatomy.

  Dayum. That image was burned on my brain, and chance of a repeat was slim. But at least I had the one memory.

  We stashed our bottles on a ledge when the Communards version of “Don’t Leave Me This Way” started up. Like Gaga’s “Born this Way,” it had been adopted as a gay anthem. Skippy boogied over to me with a serious look in those smoky eyes. Back in the day, we’d danced to this song all the time.

  He yanked me by the hand, and I went along with it. Dancing to this track meant raising your arms up every time the vocalist shouted “Awwwwwwww BABY!” With hands in the air, there were a lot of hip collisions, and frat-style beer gut bumps. It was sweaty and silly and glorious. Dancing wasn’t supposed to take itself too seriously. Skippy was in front of me, and Graham was behind me. I could feel him up against my ass. That was a new development. So I slipped a hand behind me and gave Graham’s fly a single caress. If he wanted a night at the gay bar, I’d make sure he got the whole experience.

  What are friends for, right?

  A moment later, his hand landed on my backside, tracing the seam of my pants. Oh, man. Payback was a bitch. So I took an experimental half step back, tucking my ass against his crotch. If he didn’t like it, all he had to do was move away from me.

  He didn’t move away.

  Faster than you could say “horny much?” his hand slid onto my hip. And then a Maroon Five song came on. I leaned back against Graham. And as Adam Levine’s voice crooned from the speakers, Graham and I were giving each other the Moves Like Jagger.

  It was a sweaty, heated business. I ground my hips to the beat, and Graham’s body went right along with me, pulsing wherever the music took us. One song dissolved into another, and then another. Around us, glistening bodies torqued and jived. The longer we moved, the hotter I felt. It was getting late, but I didn’t want the night to end. I’d never danced with Graham in my life, and I probably never would again.

  But eventually the DJ decided to take things down a few notches. The music slowed to a heartbeat pace, and Madonna began singing an old one, “Crazy for You.” All around us, couples curled into one another, arms finding purchase. Lips finding lips.

  “We should split, right?” I panted into Graham’s ear.

  He nodded immediately, as I knew he would. There was no way we could go full-frontal in a slow dance and still pretend that tonight was just some crazy when-in-Rome kind of situation.

  I wanted to, though. I wanted to pull his chest to mine, and press my face into his neck. It’s just dancing, I could tell myself. But it would be a lie. No matter what label I put on it, and no matter how stupid it made me, I still wanted Graham.

  Yep. Time to go home.

  “I’m going to tell the other guys that we’re out of here. Meet you by the door?” He nodded again. So I threaded through the crowd, finding Skippy and Ross beside our old table, guzzling water. “We’re going to head out,” I said.

  “Stowe tomorrow?” Skippy asked between gulps. Then he refilled the glass from a pitcher they’d acquired somehow.

  “I dunno,” I said, wondering if there was time for snowboarding. Probably not. “I’ll have to see when Graham wants to get back.” I snagged Skippy’s water glass from his hand and brought it to my lips. But I’d only managed a sip when his fingers closed tightly around my wrist, his eyes going wide. I didn’t understand why he’d object to my getting some water. “You have a whole pitcher,” I argued.

  But water was not Skippy’s problem. “What did you call him?”

  Oh, fuck. I tried to shrug off the question, shaking his hand off me and draining the glass.

  But Skippy wasn’t having it. “You cannot be serious. That’s your Michigan guy?” He took the empty glass from my hand and set it down. Then he took my face in both of his hands. “You cannot get involved with a guy who fucked you over when you had three broken ribs and internal bleeding.” His dark eyes glittered with righteous indignation.

  For a second time, I pushed his hands off me. “Guess what? You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.” Fuck, that sounded bitter. And we both knew it.

  He blinked at me for a beat. “Rikky, Jesus. Be careful.”

  “Yes, Dad.” Even though I knew he really did care about me, I still didn’t want to hear it. We can’t all have a Skippy and Ross love story, with a cute apartment and a poodle curled up on the rug. Their Instagram selfies were so cheerful that I could hardly look.

  From a few feet away, Ross was watching us, a wary look on his face. I was too pissed off to say a polite goodnight to either of them. I gave Ross a kind of salute, and Skippy a look of irritation. Then I made my way back through the dancing bodies toward the door. Graham pushed it open when he saw me coming.

  Outside, the temperature had descended to negative freeze-your-nuts-off, but it felt good against my sweaty skin. As we approached the truck, I noticed that there were two gay couples bookending it — one making out against the car parked behind us, and the other lip-locked beside the car parked in front of us.

  It was hook-up o’clock, because Guerrilla Night was drawing to a close.

  We climbed into the truck. When my door slammed, one half of the couple in front of us raised his eyes to check if we were about to run him down. But his partner, a short little guy, grabbed his jacket and pulled him back into the kiss.

  Graham sat in the passenger seat, just staring at them.

  Rubbing my cold hands together, and still distracted by the argument I’d had with Skippy, it took me a minute to realize where Graham’s thoughts were probably headed. Kissing in public had been lethal to our friendship. And here we were, literally surrounded by men who weren’t afraid to let the kisses fly.

  “Welcome to Vermont,” I said.

  He said nothing. His eyes were still trained on the couple in front of us. I flipped on the truck’s headlights, which illuminated them. But I couldn’t tell if Graham was really watching, or if he was far away, inside a memory.

  Either way, I knew what we had to do. “Come here,” I whispered.

  He gave a slow shake of his head. “Bad idea.”

  But it wasn’t a bad idea. It was a powerful one. Five years ago, two boys had kissed in a car. And a bunch of assholes turned that moment into a life-altering disaster. But right now, two grown men could kiss in a car. And then go home to play one more game of RealStix like it was no big deal.

  I stretched one hand across the seat to take Graham’s. But he wouldn’t look at me, even when I gave his arm a tug. “Come here,” I said. “Or I’m coming over there.” The truck had a bench seat, so it would be easy to make good on that threat.

  He looked at me then, a war
ning on his face.

  “It’s just a kiss,” I whispered, rubbing his big hand in mine. “Do this for me.” I pulled him toward me again.

  He came almost willingly.

  Slowly, we eased closer, our eyes locked on one another, until I could feel his breath on my face. I closed the final inches between us, just ghosting my lips over his on the first pass. I saw his Adam’s apple bob nervously. So I was gentle when I cupped the back of his head, pulling him in. I pressed my lips to his, tasting musk and beer. Mmm… My kiss was slow. Appreciative.

  After several beats of my heart, he relaxed into the kiss, melting for me. I licked into his mouth then. If I was only getting a kiss, I wanted to make it a good one. On the first wet slide of tongue against tongue, Graham made an achy little sound in the back of his throat.

  Heaven.

  Leaning in, I wrapped him in my arms. This wasn’t like the frantic, tequila-soaked mashup after the Saint B's game. This time, I could feel us both holding tightly to our control. And even though my body wouldn’t have minded an escalation, we both knew that it wasn’t going to happen. This kiss was all about heartache. It was deep and sweet and sad. My chest fluttered with disbelief that I was holding him, and kissing him. Each moist slide of his lips against mine undid me a little more.

  It was possibly the best kiss I’d ever had.

  But eventually, the car in front of us roared to life, its taillights bathing the truck’s cab in bright red glow. With the moment broken, Graham eased back, and I let him go. As the other car pulled away and drove off, the sound of its motor faded. We were left alone with our own silence. Graham put his elbow on the window and looked away from me, already lost inside his own head. So I cranked the engine. As I let the engine heat up, I rubbed my own lips together. They were swollen and tender from Graham’s stubble.

  I began the drive home. There was a nearly full moon tonight, which lit the snowy fields outside Burlington with an otherworldly, bluish glow.

  “Some of that music was pretty dubious,” Graham said eventually.

  “Yeah,” I chuckled. “If you want to be queer, you have to be okay with dance tunes.”

  “One point for being straight, then,” he said.

  I didn’t even reply, because that was such a sad way to think.

  We pulled up to Gran’s brightly lit house. Graham looked up at the house, and then over at me. In the dark, he studied me. “Rik,” he whispered. “I had fun tonight.”

  “Me too, G.”

  He moved then, hitching across the seat to reach me. “One more,” he breathed. “For old time’s sake.” Then he turned my face toward his, capturing my mouth in a kiss.

  Stupid or not, I just went with it. If you stripped away all the confusion and the old heartaches, I’d had an almost perfect day. And this right here was pretty much all I’d ever wanted from Graham. I wanted his friendship, and then I wanted him to reach for me at the end of the night. So for those few minutes, I had everything.

  The kiss got heated. Graham’s hands wandered over my chest, and I wrapped my arms around his big shoulders. The size of him was a real turn-on. Hell. Everything about him was a real turn-on. The more we kissed, the harder I got.

  I let my mouth wander down his gorgeous jaw. And I’d begun tasting the skin on the side of his neck when he let out a big, frustrated sigh. Reluctantly I sat back, checking his face.

  “We’d better go in,” he said. “Your grandmother is going to wonder why we didn’t come inside.”

  Slowly, I passed my palm over the whiskers on his cheek. “G, if she’s not asleep, she’ll just assume we were making out in the truck. And she won’t think less of you for it.”

  But we both already knew that didn’t matter to Graham. Without another word, he opened the door and got out. The idea of someone suspecting us was a barrier that he simply could not get past.

  When I jumped out of the truck, I had to adjust myself inside my too-tight jeans. My body really wanted to get Graham alone. The problem was, there was no place on Earth alone enough for Graham.

  — Graham

  The next morning I woke up with a start, briefly confused about where I was. The sun shone through an unfamiliar window. I pulled my phone off Mrs. Rikker’s sewing table and saw that it was almost ten. That wasn’t terribly surprising, because I often slept late. More interestingly, after falling head first into the guest bed at around one in the morning, I hadn’t woken up even once. Weird. Usually I spent part of the night tracing the ceiling beams, going a few rounds with the demons in my head.

  Sitting up, I shoveled my drowsy limbs into my clothes. Then I followed the voices into the kitchen.

  “He lives,” Rikker said when I shuffled in. He was standing at the counter, grating cheese into a pile on a wooden cutting board.

  I cleared my sleepy throat. “Sorry. I slept hard.”

  On her way between the open refrigerator and the stove, his Grandmother patted me on the arm. “Nothing to be sorry for. You’re on vacation.” She set a dozen eggs on the counter and opened the carton. “Do you eat eggs, Graham?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Rikker reached over his head and fetched a mug, which he filled with coffee from a pot in front of him. This he handed back to me without comment. Then he picked up the cheese grater again.

  I took a deep gulp of the coffee and began to feel almost human. “Can I do anything to help?”

  “Just stand there lookin’ pretty,” Rikker drawled. Then he flashed me a wicked grin.

  I pulled a face. But God, that smile was disarming. When he aimed it at me, I would probably do anything he asked.

  Anything except the one thing that mattered. Anything except love him the way he deserved.

  “If you boys are here for another two hours, I can send you back with meatballs in tomato sauce,” Grandma Rikker said. She was cracking eggs into a mixing bowl.

  “I’m free then,” Rikker said. “What do you think, G? Do we need to leave before noon?”

  Sometime yesterday he’d begun calling me “G” again, just like the old days. I liked it. “There’s no rush,” I told him. “I’ll need to grab a shower at some point, but that’s the only thing on my to-do list.”

  Rikker lifted his chin toward the stairs. “You can go now. Breakfast will be another fifteen minutes.”

  As I climbed the stairs, I could hear Rikker and his grandmother gossiping.

  “Was that boyfriend of Daphne’s there? The one with the bar through his eyebrow, who says ‘fuck’ every other word?”

  “Bruno?” Rikker chuckled. “Didn’t see him. So maybe he’s out of the picture.”

  “Maybe she came to her senses. Daphne’s a smart girl. I always hoped she was just experimenting on him.”

  “I hope so too.”

  My time in Vermont came to an end before I was ready. A couple of hours later, Grandma Rikker drove us to the rental car place, and Rikker went inside to pick up his reservation. I leaned forward from the back seat of the truck to thank her for having me as a guest.

  She swiveled around, squeezing my forearm. “Any time, dear. I wish you boys had more vacation days. I really do. These last few years with John have been such a gift to me.”

  I smiled, because you couldn’t look at the love in her watery blue eyes and not smile. “I’m sure it isn’t always sunshine and roses,” I said, trying for a joke. “He probably leaves the toilet seat up.”

  “I had two boys before him,” she said, patting my arm. “I don’t even notice anymore.”

  I saw Rikker coming outside again with a set of keys in his hand. “I think we’re all set to go,” I said.

  But when I went to open the door, she grabbed my hand. “You take care of yourself, Michael Graham,” she insisted.

  “I will,” I said.

  “And don’t forget to vent the plastic containers before you nuke those meatballs I made you boys. So they don’t explode.”

  Chuckling, I got out. “Thanks for everything!”


  She blew me a kiss after I slammed the door.

  “I want to do that again some time,” I admitted when we were on the road. “Your grandma’s place is so relaxing.” Rikker was so quiet after I said it that I had to wonder if I’d overstepped. “I mean… I had fun. That’s all.”

  “I did, too,” he said quickly. “But I think it’s fascinating that you say you were practically climbing the walls at home, yet Gran’s place is like an oasis. Because she’s the only person in the world who probably suspects you of being gay.” His eyes flicked over to give me a glance. “Because you’re visiting me. Not for any other reason. But that’s, like, backwards. No?”

  When I opened my mouth to argue, absolutely nothing came out. Because Rikker was right. Most of the time I walked around in a panic trying to act like a straight guy. In Vermont, I spent my time twerking at a queer dance party and making out with my gay friend in his grandmother’s truck. Then I slept for nine hours straight and woke up feeling like a superhero. It didn’t make a lick of sense.

  “What did your parents say about my news story?” he asked suddenly. “Did they see it?”

  I gave a big sigh. During the days I’d been at home, I’d ducked out of several conversations about those damned articles. “They said people were talking about it at church. That’s where my mother heard about it.”

  “But what did your mom say about me? Was she, like, shocked or anything?”

  “She didn’t seem shocked,” I said slowly. This whole topic freaked me right out. “She asked me if you were okay, and if I thought that Coach handled it well. I told her I thought so. Both things.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah.” The truth was that Mom tried to talk to me about it. But I ran out of the room every time it came up. And I sure as hell didn’t tell her about the Saint B’s game.

  “What do you think your mom would say to me if I walked into your house right now?” he pressed.

  “Um… hello John?” I didn’t like where this conversation was headed. Because it didn’t matter that my parents weren’t bigots like Rikker’s parents. I didn’t want to be their gay son.