I said something in response, but it might have been in Italian. We’d been talking about that earlier, I was pretty sure. About his favorite movie. About Michael.
His hand was in my hair, stroking it, and I sighed my appreciation, and then that was all. I knew the couch was going to get me.
9
ELI
Iwas glad I had him take a shower before he came to my place so he was comfortable collapsing on my middle sectional. He needed the sleep, and looking down at him, leaning over the back of the sturdy piece of furniture, stroking his hair, I had the weirdest feeling. It felt good to have him here, in my house, for longer than an evening. It was strange, but whenever he left, it felt wrong, like he should have stayed. And though it made no sense, the resulting pain in my chest was real. I always had the urge to ask him to stay.
I was swimming in the deep end with him.
The whole not-wanting-to-be-separated thing was new. And maybe, if he were a woman, I would have thought,Oh, this means something. But maybe not. I didn’t know because I’d never felt it with anyone before. Even with Natalie, who’d been my impetus to move to Chicago; looking back on it now, it was the need for a change, not my need for her. The two of us had separate places even though I had, ostensibly, followed her. When she left the Windy City, it had never occurred to me to return to San Francisco. But now, with Cel, it seemed counterintuitive for us to be separated. And we were friends, yes, so maybe that was all it was, but I honestly had no clue. Plus, he had become one of my best friends. I was with him more than anyone else, and I didn’t want to mess up anything between us by asking him how he felt about me. Worst of all, if he felt the same—whatever that was—how would I take that? What level of freak-out over that would there be? I was straight, so…what did any of this mean?
Not that I had a problem with being bisexual; it had just never occurred to me that I might be. I’d never in my life had romantic feelings toward another man. Sure, I looked at women and got aroused, and the same could not be said for men, but once the physical act of making love was over, all I wanted to do was leave. Run. I didn’t want to stay and talk or watch TV or eat. I just wanted to go so I could call Cel and see if he wanted to get something for dinner or breakfast or brunch. Whenever it was, whatever time it was, I just wanted to be with Cel. I was beginning to wonder if it wasn’t the initial spark of lust that was important for me, but instead where my heart was leaning. And my heart wanted to curl up beside Cel and not go anywhere else.
My other friendships, like Jer, Miro, others, stopped at the end of the night or weekend or whatever it was we were doing. I said good night, they said good night, and…done. But with Cel, I wanted him to come home with me or stay with me so we could continue with whatever we were doing. And the weirdest part was, it could be nothing. We had once sat on opposite ends of my couch for three hours, him reading, me reading, not saying a word. But just the fact that he was there, in my space, and I could look over at him in his sweats and heavy socks and a long-sleeve T-shirt under blankets—he had to be under layers; he was always cold—gave me this overwhelming feeling of contentment like everything was right with the world.
The question was, then, what did I want from him? And was it fair to glare at the guys who looked at him, and keep glaring until they ran away with their tails tucked between their legs? Because I did that. When we were at clubs, or anywhere for that matter, when I saw men checking him out, I made it obvious that if they came any closer, crossed the room or sent over a drink, I would not be pleased.
It hadn’t been like that for our entire friendship. We used to both get laid and then reconvene the following morning, out, doing the walk of shame, for an early breakfast or late lunch, depending on the level of hangover. But lately, easily over the last eight months, I hadn’t been in anyone’s bed but my own, and I was the only one who ever slept there. And as many times as I’d shown up at his place at all hours of the night and morning, he wasn’t sleeping around either. So basically, we were friends, but more and not at the same time. He was probably just as confused as I was, but neither of us wanted to rock the boat.
Walking away from the couch,I went to the kitchen, drank the green tea I’d made for him, and then changed into running shorts and got on my treadmill for an hour. When I was done, I checked on him, and he was still passed out. Since I had to cool down before I took a shower, I used that time to unpack his stuff and put everything away in my guest room. I went back and forth on calling Ian, and finally gave up and got him on the second ring.
“Yeah?” he answered because he had terrible manners.
“You can’t greet a person?”
He made a noise that sounded like he was retching. “Hello? Eli? Is that you?”
“Fuck you.”
“See? What the fuck is the point of a greeting when you know who you’re talking to?”
I was quiet because now that I had him, I wasn’t sure what to ask. I was surprised at the knock on my door.
“Hold on,” I said quickly, darting fast and looking out through the peephole. I was surprised to find Ian there, waiting and yawning.
Hanging up, I opened the door.
“You could have said,” I snapped at him.
He shrugged and brushed by me into my apartment.
Closing the door, I rounded on him. “How did you get up here?”
“I have no idea,” he said snidely, patting the gun holster on his hip that his badge was attached to as well. “Whatever must have made them decide I was okay?”
He was infuriating.
Rolling his eyes, he left me, walked over to my sectionals, looked down at Cel for a moment, and then crossed back to me. “He’s sleeping hard. I’m glad.”
“Me too.”
“So, you called. What’d you want?”
“It doesn’t matter now. Why are you here?”
“I’m just checking in on you guys on my way home. You got a beer for me?”