Chapter FOUR

 

 

David

 

THIS WAS the third time I’d moved in three years of living in New York City, and I was still completely helpless when it came to packing. Raymond and I had finalized the lease on the apartment in Sunset Park almost a month ago, and were set to move next weekend, but I was still lost in a sea of semipacked clothing, full cabinets, and unlabeled boxes. The mess and the lack of organization triggered my anxiety, and I’d taken to avoiding my own apartment for days at a time.

“Just send Caleb back his half of the stuff, and you’ll be fine.”

“I can’t,” I despaired. “He bought an apartment on Spruce Street and got all new furniture.”

“He replaced everything?” Karen’s tinny voice floated up from where I’d angled my phone on the kitchen counter.

We were supposed to be on FaceTime, but Karen kept getting a good view of the back of my head as I surveyed the chaotic apartment. Everything was everywhere, and it made me want to die.

“Yes. According to Charles, he and Caleb did a tour of various furniture boutiques and Caleb just… picked out a couple of showrooms. His new place is in some superfancy building with crazy views of the city.”

“Sheesh. I forget he has a trust fund padding his salary. Did he used to spend money like that when you were around?”

“No, but I think he knew it made me uncomfortable.”

I’d attempted to hide my discomfort with Caleb’s wealth, but he’d picked up on it right away and had stopped insisting on paying for everything. I’d tried to keep up, but plastic money wasn’t as good as green paper when you didn’t have the confidence that the massive debt would be paid off. These days I even experienced buyer’s remorse when charging sushi and shoes—my only real luxuries.

“Karen, come help me,” I pleaded. “I’ll never finish by the weekend.”

“I can’t. I took Ms. Price up on the offer to teach that online summer school course, and now I have a million things to grade.”

“I told you it was going to be horrible.” It wasn’t exactly true. Michael had warned me it would be horrible, and I’d repeated his advice. “Ugh. Maybe I should pay movers.”

“That’s stupid. Just ask Raymond to come help you.”

That just showed how little people understood my soon-to-be roommate. Asking him to drive into Manhattan would take unmentionable amounts of begging, bribing, and guilt-tripping that I did not have the time or patience to conduct. Suggesting that he take the train would only result in incredulous scoffs and sass for days. His sass was cute, but not when I was floundering in overpriced Cole Haan shoes without the matching boxes, and damning evidence from way too many trips to Bloomingdale’s. When had I had the time to buy all of this crap?

“That,” I said with precision, “is a terrible idea.”

“Why? I bet he’d do it if he knew how stressed out you were.”

“That’s because you don’t know Raymond.”

“I know everything from his favorite food to his blood type, David. You talk about him more than I talk about my kid.”

I was tempted to nail her with a dirty look, but she’d notice the flush that had undoubtedly risen to my face. Keeping my back to the screen, I picked up a box of Ziploc bags and wondered if I could fit my size nines inside. It would be better than chucking them all in a large cardboard box. “Since when did I tell you his blood type?”

“I don’t remember how it came up. I think it was during the blood drive. You said he was a universal donor.”

This time I did glare back at her grinning face. “You made it sound like I was just rambling on about him!”

“Ohh, I’m sorry.” She adopted a look of fake innocence. “You didn’t start rambling on about him until after that came up!”

I flipped her off, and she cracked up, clapping her hands and getting a real riot out of making fun of my crush on Raymond. The more I tried to convince people that I wasn’t into him, the less they believed me. The only person who didn’t think it was hilarious was Michael, and that was because he’d rather jump off the Brooklyn Bridge than find out I was attracted to his little brother. Overprotective bastard.

“This has been a real hoot,” I said, “but I’m going to go have a panic attack in private.”

“Sorry, sorry. It’s cute, that’s all.” Karen was still chuckling but managed to look semiapologetic. “Anyway, if you’re still getting nothing done by the end of the week, we can get Oli or Charles to come. Okay?”

“’Kay.”

I waved at her and ended the call. It was a nice offer, but waiting until Friday to get shit done, when I’d scheduled the moving van for Saturday, might result in an actual panic attack. In times like these, I despaired not having reliable friends or a boyfriend. I’d met plenty of people over the past three years, but I didn’t have the kind of bond with any of them that would lead to them dropping everything in order to lend a hand. It would only result in a lot of “I wish you’d told me earlier” and “I would but I’m meeting so-and-so,” because that seemed to be how friendship worked for on-the-go twentysomethings in New York. Or at least the ones I’d managed to befriend.

Swallowing my sense of bitter abandonment, I grabbed my phone. Bribing Raymond was a lot better than being shot down by my supposed besties.

 

David: What are you doing?

 

Raymond responded almost instantly. It was a delightful new habit.

 

Raymond: about to play handball. what’s up?

 

I sucked my lip into my mouth, looked around and then back at the phone.

 

David: You’ll be at the park for a while?

Raymond: yes. wtf do you want, you stalker

 

Ha. I’d show him a stalker.

 

David: Nothing. Just bored.

 

He didn’t answer, but I hadn’t expected him to. As long as he stayed at the park, it was fine.

I swapped my short shorts for a pair of skinny jeans, grabbed my wallet and keys, and headed to Eighth Avenue to jump on the train to Queens.

 

 

DODGING THE throngs of shoppers on Jamaica Avenue, I made my way to King’s Park. The walk was short, but on such a hot day I regretted changing out of my shorts. If people didn’t like seeing dude-thighs, that was their problem, but too late now. I’d have to suffer in the hopes Raymond caved to my wheedling and drove me back to Chelsea, where he could nag me until I got my butt in gear and packed.

I had a vague idea of where the handball courts were located because of the park’s proximity to the Rodriguez’s house, but it still took ten minutes of wandering through the surprisingly expansive green space before I walked in the right direction. Bypassing a gazebo and a small playground, I followed the hollow thunks of a ball hitting concrete and located the court at the far end of the park.

In the middle of the afternoon on a summer day, the court was crowded with sweaty bodies, but I easily picked out Raymond from the cluster of people within the gated area. He wasn’t the only good-looking guy playing, but he immediately drew my attention. He was the tallest of the players, his body lean and defined with his sandy skin glowing in the hot afternoon sun. Corded muscles rippled up his arms and down his abs as he brushed back strands of dark hair escaping a rapidly loosening knot.

Determined to not drool over Raymond any more than I did on a regular day, I paused several feet away from the entrance and looked around. The perimeter of the court was lined with people just standing and watching. A few might have been waiting their turn to play, but a group of teenage girls were blatantly ogling the guys. Considering the top-notch eye candy prancing around, I didn’t blame them. With his damned tattoos and gorgeous hair, Raymond had to be a prime target for scoping.

And if I went over there to wait for him, I’d look like I was doing the same.

My unscheduled visit now seemed like a stupid idea.

Suddenly apprehensive of my appearance, I snagged a spot on a nearby bench and tried not to pay too much attention to the courts. It was nigh impossible. Every time I heard the stupid thunk of the ball, my eyes drew back to Raymond. As much as he and Michael resembled each other, there were significant differences I had obsessively catalogued since first meeting Raymond. While both brothers were in amazing shape, Raymond was leaner, his hair was a little lighter—I liked to imagine it was because he spent so much time in the sun—and his features a little more delicate, even if he spent a large percentage of his life trying to look as mean as possible.

And then there were the tattoos. I had spent an entire happy hour describing each one to Karen—the yo soy boricua tattoo with the Puerto Rican flag draped over the figure of a Taino warrior, the word fearless on the inside of his bicep, a memorial tattoo for his mother, an intricately drawn skull with the words memento mori etched into it, and Spanish words written along his side that translated to exhale the past.

I could probably draw those tattoos from memory alone. I brought the jokes on myself. I really did.

Shifting on the bench, I tried to think of something to do, but there was nothing. I didn’t smoke, hadn’t brought my Kindle along, and my phone was on its last leg of battery life. All I could do was watch groups of children chase each other, or alternate between watching the handball court and a boring soccer game going on nearby.

I drew a couple of curious stares from people walking through the line of benches, but no one seemed too interested in what I was doing, no matter my blond whiteness. With the way Raymond acted, you’d think people would have chased me out of the park. I’d always suspected his reluctance to bring me around was more his issue than anyone else’s. It was the only reason I was wasting my damned time loitering on a bench instead of walking over and tapping him on the shoulder.

After nearly twenty minutes of rethinking my life choices, the jingle of a Mister Softee ice cream truck sounded, and a good chunk of the crowd scampered to the opposite end of the park. Including some of the adults.

I finally made my way to the gate.

Raymond’s back was to me as he stood in the middle of the court gathering the straying strands of his hair, but the guy next to him noticed me right away. He was a little taller than me, stocky but solid-looking, and had a baby face that was ruined by the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

“You, uh… wanna play a game?” He grinned, flashing dimples.

“Nope. Handball isn’t my area of expertise.”

For a second, Raymond went still, but then he finished tying back his hair as if he hadn’t recognized my voice. I scowled.

“So… do you want a cigarette or something?”

“I’m friends with your friend.”

It was a stupid thing to say. But how was I supposed to explain myself? I didn’t even know if Raymond had told any of his friends that I existed, let alone that we would be living together for the foreseeable future. The guy glanced at Raymond, returned his gaze to me, then shot Raymond a slick smile.

“Hey, Ray, I didn’t know you liked that sweet stuff.”

So. Original.

I opened my mouth to say something bitchy, but the words died in my throat before I could unleash the full extent of my vitriol. Raymond was giving his buddy such a malignant stare that I was sure he was about to cock back his fist and break the guy’s jaw.

“What the fuck did you say?”

The guy didn’t stop smiling, but his mouth wilted. “Who’s your friend?”

Raymond just kept staring at him, all bad attitude and murderous intent, making me increasingly nervous the longer his angry silence lasted. His friend picked up on the imminent doom and raised his hands in surrender.

“Damn, I’m sorry! Get a sense of humor.”

“Get better jokes, or you’re going to find yourself on the wrong side of my fist.”

“Okaaay!” I ambled up and stuck my hand in the annoying guy’s face. “Hi, I’m David.”

He shook it gingerly, maybe wondering if it would get him in trouble. “Chris. This touchy asshole’s best friend. I was just joking, man.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” I forced a grin and nudged Raymond’s arm. “I am sweet, but unfortunately not Raymond’s flavor. Trust me—I already tried.” Raymond switched his stare from Chris to me. At least this time he looked like he was willing me to shut up rather than to die on the spot. “I also work with his brother.”

“Oh, you’re that guy. Yeah, yeah, I know about you.” Chris sized me up again. “He didn’t mention you’re—” He faltered when the hate stare landed on him again. “—blond.”

This was getting comical. The poor bastard.

“My family is embarrassingly Anglo. Raymond knows I have a serious case of melanin envy.”

Chris’s laugh was more genuine this time. “Raymond doesn’t bring up shit, so don’t feel too bad. I didn’t even know about his girl.”

“Girl?” I cocked a brow at Raymond. “What girl?”

“She wasn’t ever my girl,” Raymond replied. “This fucker has no clue what he’s talking about, as usual.”

“Yo, you and Crystal have been hooking up—”

“Ohhh, Crystal.” I knew about Crystal. His regular hookup. Nothing serious, or so he had said….

“—for years, and all of a sudden she rocks up to Nelson’s crib with some cop guy. I was, like, what the hell? I thought you was bringing Ray to the party?”

Raymond grabbed the ball and bounced it against the concrete. The muscles in his arm flexed each time it slapped against his palm.

“I didn’t know they’d been hanging out for years,” I said.

“Yup. Off and on since we was in high school. I thought for sure they’d get married or he’d knock her up or something.”

“Well, as Beyoncé said,” I started, “he should have put a ring on it.”

“Raymond can’t afford no ring.”

The bouncing stopped. Raymond grabbed Chris’s shoulder and shoved him in the direction of the entrance. “Why don’t you go get yourself a fucking ice cream cone?”

“Hey, good idea!” Chris grinned again, wider and more mischievous than before. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. “You want anything, David?”

“¡Vete, pendejo!” Raymond gave Chris a harsher shove. He glared at his friend’s back until Chris sauntered off toward the ice cream truck. Raymond picked up a sleeveless jersey from the ground, yanked it over his head, and indicated for me to follow him.

“What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

Raymond led me in the opposite direction Chris had gone. “Congrats. You surprised me.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know my presence was offensive. I tried to un-gay myself for you and everything!”

“Uh-huh. Yeah. Un-gay.” Raymond reached out to tug one of the belt loops in my skinny jeans, illustrating how poor my effort had been. “You and your Beyoncé quotes.”

He had a point.

“Fine. I’m sorry I showed up. I know you don’t want me around your friends.”

Raymond kept walking, and I wondered what the big deal was. I’d basically outed myself to Chris, and the guy hadn’t batted an eyelash. Unless he’d thought I was just going along with the joke. Besides, if these people had grown up with Raymond, they’d also grown up with Michael. I didn’t understand why Raymond would be ashamed of an openly gay roommate when he’d grown up with a gay older brother. I added it to my list of to-be-solved Raymond mysteries and told myself not to get hung up on it, but my spirits sank anyway. I’d begged him for months to meet my friends, and he couldn’t even bear the idea of me exchanging a few words with one of his.

I kept my eyes on my shoes, strongly debated going back home alone, and wondered why I hadn’t seen this coming before blissfully hopping on the train. I was so busy moping that I kept moodily examining my shabby shoes when he stopped walking for a moment. He was probably trying to find the quickest and most deserted route out of the park and to his house so nobody else would see me.

“Here.”

I looked up to find a small paper cup full of shaved ice shoved in my face.

“Take it, motherfucker.”

“Oh! Sorry.” I took the cup and glanced at the vendor. He was scraping away at a block of ice for Raymond’s cup.

I was basic enough to allow a mouthful of coconut-and-cherry-flavored ice to chase away my sorrows. If Raymond was ashamed of me, he wouldn’t be buying me piraguas, would he?

“I love these.”

“I know.” Raymond gave the vendor three bucks and started walking again. “And they don’t have them near where you live now.”

“Maybe in Sunset,” I said.

“Doubt it. You’re more likely to find a churro vendor over there.”

“That’s true.”

I followed him to one of the park’s few gazebos—a construction in serious need of sprucing up but still a welcome relief from the burning sun. We settled on the scarred, wooden floor. He leaned against the wall and finished his ice, looking at me without voicing his thoughts. He did it a lot. Kept all of his opinions and thoughts to himself unless it was absolutely necessary to divulge them. Or unless it was rude, and he felt like being an ass.

Raymond was one of those people who held direct eye contact for long periods of time without the barest hint of discomfort. It had unnerved me at first, but now I liked it. Even if his silent staring encouraged the whisper in my head that insisted this felt a little bit like adolescent courtship. Buying me ices in the park and then taking me somewhere private—how sweet. Unfortunately the locale likely had more to do with him wanting to hide me from his friends than anything else.

“Are you that embarrassed of me, Raymond?”

“Nope.”

“Then why are we hiding in this gazebo?”

He licked a stray drip of red syrup from his index finger. “Because I want to sit in the shade, you idiot.”

“I think you’re a liar. You’re embarrassed that I showed up because I’m so blond and gay.”

“Yeah? I didn’t know you were a psychic.” Raymond threw his balled-up cup at my face. “All I asked is why you’re here. No need to get dramatic like a teenage boy with a Linkin Park CD.”

“You also gave me the death glare of doom. You wouldn’t even let me talk to your friend!”

“Because he kept talking shit about me and Crystal.”

I finished my ice, doing more licking than biting since he was dead set on watching me the entire time. The way his eyes followed the path of my tongue reminded me of our conversation in the new apartment. The one where Raymond had admitted to being curious before proving it with filthy, rough-trade porn. Bi-curious. The very notion was so far-fetched that I kept telling myself it had to be an elaborate practical joke. But it wasn’t. I could tell by the way his body had reacted to the video, and even now—the way he watched me so openly, not caring how it came off or what I thought about his attention. Either he was curious about what else a guy could do with his tongue, or he was just hard up.

“So…,” I drawled, “are you bent out of shape over that Crystal girl?”

Raymond snorted. “No.”

“Are you sure? You’re in a mood.”

“Nothing to be upset over. We had a good thing for what it was.”

I waited for him to elaborate and gestured broadly when he didn’t. “And what sort of thing was that?”

Raymond tilted his head against the wall. “I had the good weed, she did all the talking, I had the video games, and she sucked my dick after I spent an hour making her come.”

“An hour?”

His lips curled in a dirty smile. “Women can come all night. And I’m good with my fingers.”

I knew the tone and the lowered pitch of his voice wasn’t meant for me, but my dick didn’t care. It twitched and hardened when Raymond wet his lower lip. I followed the movement, transfixed by the sheen of saliva that stayed behind. He had to know the effect he was having on me with only a few words.

I wore my arousal on my face like a badge, flushing like a kid who had never talked to a pretty girl before. Or in this case, a hot guy. Raymond wasn’t stupid—he knew exactly what he did to me and what he did to everyone with the inclination to look at him twice. But the steadiness in his gaze made it clear he didn’t mind.

I couldn’t believe it. Bi-curious.

“Sounds like a good setup.” I dragged my fingers over the floorboards. My fingertips rubbed against deep ruts and the thinner, more deliberate scratches of someone carving their name into the wood. “Maybe she was waiting for you to make it official instead of a casual thing.”

“Nah.” The moment broke with a simple, sardonic syllable. “I was a good fuck, but I’m not official material. She got herself a real grown-up man with a real grown-up job. Good for the long term. If she comes back to me, it will only be so I can make her squirt.”

“That is so pessimistic. You are morose today.”

“I’m being realistic,” he replied with a shrug. “I know what I’m good for, and I know what I can offer. Not much.”

I wanted to argue, but I always hesitated when it came to Raymond. Once, when his brother had been spiraling from grief after the death of their father, I’d tried to be supportive, and Michael had told me in no uncertain terms that there was no way I could understand how he felt. There was no way I could relate to him or find the right thing to say. Swallowing the reality of that statement had burned down my throat, and I always remembered it at times like this.

What did I know about either of their pasts? Why they felt the way they did about certain things? Not much. Especially Raymond, who didn’t even realize how guarded he could be. If he decided that something wasn’t worth talking about, he cast it away into an abyss with the rest of his undiscussed feelings.

So I shook my head and tried to figure out the patterns of the scratches so I could make out the name. That was better than looking into his eyes without the courage to argue what he was saying.

“All right, change the subject.” Raymond grasped my elbow, tugging me a little closer. “And put that lip away. I can’t deal with the pouting.”

“Too bad. You just shit all over my mood. I was happy to see you until you turned into Debbie Downer.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fragile little fuck.”

I scooted even closer, keeping just enough distance so it wasn’t obvious I was craving his proximity. If we were alone, he’d let me lie all over him. It had been that way from the start—since the weekend after we’d visited Michael in rehab. I’d offered to make him dinner at the house and wound up staying later than anticipated. We’d smoked together for the first time, and he’d talked about his mother and Michael. About finding his father dead. I’d hugged him without thinking twice, and at first, he’d been hesitant. So wary of giving me the wrong idea. But loneliness and despair had buckled his tough-guy facade, and he hadn’t pushed me away.

Just one hug, and he’d melted against me as though it was the first one he’d had in years. All of his armor, his unflappable hard-ass bio ware, had fallen away until he was clutching me as I held him. I’d tried to absorb all the fear and sadness that he’d let me take. Nothing more had happened, but that had been enough. I’d stuck around ever since. And the cuddling became a habit that we never talked about or acknowledged. It was just our thing. And I wanted it now. I think he did too. My hand slid closer to his, our fingers just slightly touching, and he draped his arm against one of the support beams to idly toy with my hair.

“You came all the way over here because you want to convince me in person to pack your shit.”

I smirked. “Maybe.”

“Uh-huh.” Raymond’s thumb dragged along the ridge of my ear. “So you think just me and you are going to get it all done ourselves?”

“It will take a long time,” I admitted. “But you’ll do a better job. You’ll come up with a plan and be organized and strategic. I just need you to tell me what to do, and then I’ll do it. Can you do that for me? Please?”

The dirty smile returned. “Claro.”

I snorted and hit his hand. “Seriously. Will you help me?”

“What’s in it for me?”

“My eternal devotion.” Raymond rolled his eyes, but I took the risk of sliding my hand through his entirely. “My undying affection? Come on, Raymond. Please. I don’t want to have to call anyone else. I can’t depend on them.”

I don’t know what it was about those particular words that got him to crack, but he released a long-suffering sigh and sifted his hand through my hair once before getting to his feet. I found myself eye-level with his crotch, which wasn’t an unpleasant place to be. “Fine. But you owe me.”

I pulled myself up and brushed the back of my pants. “What will I owe you?”

“Don’t know,” Raymond said, heading down the stairs of the gazebo. “But I’ll think of something.”

A desperate part of me wanted that to be an innuendo, but I had a feeling he was just going to demand food. Either way, I’d give him my devotion and affection whether he wanted it or not. Whether he ever admitted to wanting it or not.

I glanced down at the floorboards again and was finally able to make out the carved words without Raymond’s shadow darkening the floor.

In large unsteady slashes, it read: Nunzio & Michael ’94.

I couldn’t help but smile. If Michael and Nunzio could find happiness, I had no doubt that Raymond could as well. Even if he didn’t let it come easily.