Cal was an object of fascination at the mini-party, which rapidly morphed into less of a mini-party and more of a I hope I’ve built up enough goodwill with the neighbors that they don’t call the cops kind of thing. That was Nicole’s fault. I had ordered her to tell no one about Caleb Bright’s invitation, and she had selectively not heard the order and told a dozen of her work friends about the “big deal author” coming to our house.
And suddenly the street was lined with cars and we had thirty people, at least, milling around our cramped home and postage stamp of a yard. Furio was terrified. He kept emerging from under the bed, whining, running, searching for us, and hiding again.
I wouldn’t have blamed Cal if he had gotten under the bed himself. Instead, he bore the attention with gentlemanly grace. I brought him drinks and tried my best to steer him away from people, but no matter where we went, there was someone, someone slightly uninhibited by alcohol, asking if he was The Author.
It didn’t help that he stood out like a sore thumb. The expensive denim, the leather jacket, the height, the good looks, the ponytail only he could pull off—there was no hiding him. “I’m so sorry,” I kept mumbling.
“Michael, it’s fine,” he kept replying.
But it was not fine. He had only agreed to attend the party out of guilt—the same reason, no doubt, that he’d held forth about his ex-wife in the car. My tantrum on Monday and my absence on Wednesday had actually worried him, and so he was trying to appease me.
I felt like scum.
The worst part of the evening began when someone broke a glass in the kitchen and Nicole asked me to clean it up. I had to abandon Cal for a full fifteen minutes. When I returned to the packed living room, I saw that a girl—a friend of Nicole—was literally dancing on Cal. He wasn’t dancing; he was holding his beer and leaning against the wall. But she was going crazy all over him, showing off her moves, grinding on him in ways that had to be destroying his will to live.
I knew how he hated to be touched. I wanted to shove her away, on his behalf.
I pushed through the crowd, watching Cal with drowning eyes.
“There you are!” I stammered when I reached him. “I was looking for you.”
The girl, I thought her name was Kristin, had enough sense and sobriety to stop dancing when I appeared. She laid a hand on Cal’s arm, though, like a claim.
“Hey, Mike,” she said. “Great party.”
Cal smiled evenly at me. “Did you get the kitchen under control?” He seemed relaxed, bored even. Maybe it was the calm before the storm.
“Yeah. Some of the glass went under the fridge, so.”
“What a pain.” He was on his fifth or sixth beer, which meant nothing, really. I had seen him put away half a bottle of whiskey and walk a straight line to the bathroom.
“Did someone break a glass?” Maybe-Kristin said too loudly. “Freaking drunks. Seriously, there’s some people who need to be cut off!”
“I agree,” I said, staring at her.
Cal grinned faintly. I couldn’t get a read on him. Maybe he had taken a powerful antipsychotic, or maybe he was actually enjoying himself.
“Did you want to see my stream setup now?” I ventured. “Remember I wanted to show you, in the office?”
“Sure, if you like.”
“No, you’re not stealing him yet!” Maybe-Kristin sulked. “We were just talking about his books.”
Yes, I had definitely seen her talking about his books with her butt on his crotch.
“Well”—I looked between them—“whenever, I mean ...”
“Later, then,” Cal murmured. “I’d love to see it, Michael.”
I had thrown him a life preserver and he had tossed it back in my face, which could only mean that he was enjoying Maybe-Kristin’s butt on his crotch. Which seemed impossible. I gave him one more careful look before wandering away.
Could it be that, all this time, Cal had only needed to get laid? Would he go home with Maybe-Kristin? Or was he trying to prove, to the nth degree, that he was having a good time at my party? That last thought was intolerable.
I got myself a new beer, chugged it, got another, and found Nicole.
Maybe Cal, even in my own home, didn’t want to be around me. Maybe I was somehow more annoying than Maybe-Kristin.
“Kristin is adorable with Cal,” Nicole said.
So she was Definitely-Kristin.
“Yeah, I guess. I hope she isn’t bugging him.”
“Are you kidding? Look at them.”
I glanced over. Kristin had removed Cal’s hair tie and was finger-combing the long pieces. He was laughing, albeit inattentively.
“How much has she had to drink?”
“Mike, she’s fine.” Nicole frowned at me.
“Okay, okay. I’m just looking out for my friend.”
“I don’t think he needs any help. Also, why didn’t you tell me he’s so ...” She blinked a few times. “I don’t know. He’s crazy fit.”
Fit. My own girlfriend wanted to say Cal was hot, but instead she said fit. Someday, with a bunch of aliases, I would write a scathing blog post about tonight. No one would be spared, except for Cal. Cal would be suffering quietly on his cross while Kristin played with his hair and danced against his crotch. Saint Caleb. Caleb the martyr.
I drank too much and mingled. I tried to keep an eye on Cal, in case he should need extraction, but I lost track of him again around midnight. The party had thinned by then. I turned down and slowed down the music—Radiohead, Elliott Smith, and Bon Iver—and a few people migrated outside to smoke.
“Did Kristin go home?” I asked Nicole. I was hoping, praying, that Cal hadn’t gone home with her. I knew that I had passive-aggressively pushed him into talking about his ex-wife and attending my stupid party, and I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I had also indirectly driven him into a one-night stand.
“Um, I don’t think so?” Nicole swayed and held my shoulder for support. “Maybe she went outside? I’m not sure.”
I pulled on my coat and went out to the deck. The cold air sobered me a little.
A cluster of people sat and sprawled in the grass around our fire pit. The smell of weed mingled with the smell of campfire and the smell of autumn. I recognized Cal’s figure in the flickering light. Kristin hit a pipe and exhaled the smoke into his mouth, which I thought people only did in movies. Then he took a hit and passed it.
I gripped the deck railing so tightly that my hands went numb.
Kristin was halfway draped over Cal. She whispered in his ear and started to kiss his neck. His dark eyes suddenly flickered to mine and he smiled.
My face went from cold to hot in a second.
I lifted my hand, waved lamely, as if I had just seen him. As if I hadn’t been watching. His smile broadened slowly. He seemed so detached from what Kristin was doing. His hands were planted in the grass, arms braced, and he leaned back as if he were sitting there alone, enjoying the night.
I couldn’t look away.
He held my gaze while Kristin’s mouth moved over his throat.
My pulse beat louder and louder in my ears.
He wasn’t smiling anymore, and there was something new and indecipherable in his gaze. When he finally dismissed Kristin, it was like she had never existed. He stood and she slipped off his lap and he just walked away.
Dick move, I thought. So why did I want to cheer?
He came directly to me. “I’m tired,” he said.
“Lemme ... yeah. Gimme five seconds.” I kicked everyone out of my house and yard, including Kristin, and picked up around the couch as well as I could. Cal tried to help, stacking a few cups. “Please, don’t.” I was slurring.
He shrugged and took his bag to the bathroom.
I knew it would be a mistake to try to apologize further or engage him at all, but I wanted to make sure he got settled. A good night’s sleep was the least I could offer him.
I put two pillows and a sheet and blanket on the couch. I turned off the lamp and left on the kitchen light, which cast a dim glow down the hall.
I carried as many dishes and as much trash out of the room as I could, and then, on my third trip back, I found him stretched belly down on the couch, the blanket draped around his waist, arms folded on the pillow. His head was turned away. I couldn’t tell if he was asleep or just very still.
His bare back seemed impossibly long. His hair was a liquid black spill.
He propped himself up on his forearms and gazed at me.
“Go to bed, Michael,” he said after a while, and I fled.
When I climbed under the covers beside Nicole, I pressed myself ardently, impatiently against her. She mumbled something and rolled away. I slid a hand between her legs and she said, “Babe, I’m not in the mood,” in such a way that I knew she was shutting me down in her sleep.