Chapter 15

 

 

IT WAS only a couple of weeks later when Casey came to Gus and said seven words that struck fear into the very heart of him. And things had been going so well, too. They’d kissed a couple of more times, hugged a whole hell of a lot more, skirted around the need to call each other boyfriends (and god, didn’t that sound juvenile), had gotten stoned again (well, Casey had; Gus was still trying to escape the knowing looks from the women in his life). It was a shame, that this was all coming crashing down and that Gus was going to have to sell his house and move away, never to be seen again.

“So, my friends want to meet you.”

Now, it shouldn’t have to be said that Gustavo Tiberius had never found himself to be in this position before. If any of his past dalliances had been any indication, he was the love ’em and leave ’em type (and by love ’em and leave ’em, he meant that he awkwardly sexed ’em and then ran home to overanalyze every single part of the interaction only to decide to never do it again).

But now, he found himself in a relationship of sorts, the kind where you went out to dinner, texted, shared pot cookies, and apparently met friends. Gus thought maybe this is what normal people did, but he couldn’t quite figure out how normal could be so goddamn terrifying. When he had been abnormal, weird, and strange, he had never had to worry about anything like this. He had his routine down to a science. Sure, maybe he had been a little bit lonely, but who wasn’t these days? Loneliness seemed a small price to pay to avoid situations like this. After all, he—

“Gus.”

Gus looked at Casey, who was standing in front of the counter at the Emporium, looking amused. “What?”

“You okay?”

Absolutely not. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Why?”

“Because I told you my friends wanted to meet you, and you got this look of horror on your face, and for the last four minutes, you’ve been staring at the wall making these tiny little noises at the back of your throat.”

Gus scowled. “I did not.”

“You sounded like a frightened kitten,” Casey said. “I almost recorded it. I bet I could have sold it and made at least forty dollars.”

“I was not making frightened kitten noises,” Gus said. “That was Harry S. Truman.”

“The ferret with merit has been asleep since I got here,” Casey pointed out.

Sure enough, Harry S. Truman was sleeping in his cage. “Traitor,” Gus muttered.

Casey reached out and took Gus’s hand in his own, tugging on his fingers in a way that had become a habit of his. Gus couldn’t say that he minded it one bit, but he did have to keep up appearances, after all. He sighed the sigh of the heavily put upon, but Casey grinned right through it, no longer falling for Gus’s bullshit.

It was one of the worst things that had ever happened to Gus.

Seriously.

That bastard.

“How am I supposed to meet them?” Gus asked with a frown. “Aren’t they all in LA? Because I’ll tell you right now, I’m not going to LA. That’s where the Kardashians live, and ever since you made me watch them on TV, I am convinced they are the worst people in the world and are scary and will eat my soul if they find me.”

“Well,” Casey said. “We can’t have that happen. And I didn’t make you watch shit, man. All I did was turn on the TV and it was already on that channel. You watch it all the time, don’t front.”

“I don’t,” Gus insisted. “Harry S. Truman must have sat on the channel changer. He does stuff like that. Ferrets are notorious for wanting to watch trashy reality shows. I read encyclopedias. I should know.”

“Someone’s a little defensive.”

“You’re defensive.”

Casey waited, a smirk on his face.

“Okay,” Gus allowed. “That wasn’t one of my better comebacks.”

“I still like you,” Casey said, patting his hand. “So much so that I won’t make you go to LA. In fact, you won’t even need to leave Abby. Because they’re coming here.”

Gus held in the gasp he felt bubbling in his throat because he was not a gasper, even if the situation was dramatic enough to be one. Instead, he said, “Are they all… you know. Like you?”

Casey arched an eyebrow. “Asexual?”

“What?” Gus said. “No. I don’t care about that. Are they all hipsters?”

“Josiah, Serge, and Xander can be—”

“Those are their names?” Gus asked, sounding scandalized. “Oh my god. Even their names are ironic! What the hell.”

“—called hipsters, yes,” Casey finished. “Do I have to remind you of your name again? It’s practically your birthright to become a hipster with that.”

“You take that back,” Gus said with a scowl.

“Never. They’re cool cats, man. Laid-back and everything.”

“And you want them to meet me?” Gus asked. “What happens when you guys all get together and start talking about indie bands that no one has ever heard of called things like Don’t Cry For Me, Anorexia or Aphrodite’s Back Fat? And then you’ll talk about how much you love British comedies more than American comedies because the British have sarcasm that is so much more real. And no, I don’t want to buy your patchouli-smelling hand soaps made from goat’s milk and flaxseed called ridiculous things like Morning Refresher. I use Ivory like everyone else!”

“That sounds like a lot of stereotyping,” Casey said, looking down at his phone.

“Is that the latest iPhone you’re texting on?” Gus asked. “How long did you stand in line for it the day it came out?”

“Thirteen hours, but I had to because my other iPhone was already eight months old and—oh. I see what you did there.” He grinned at Gus and squeezed his hand. “Well played, sir.”

“You walking cliché,” Gus said.

“It’s okay, you know.”

“What is?”

“To be nervous.”

Gus narrowed his eyes. “What? Shut up. I’m not nervous. What even. Pfft. I’m so chill, people think I’m Alaskan.”

“Whoa,” Casey breathed.

“Please forget I said that,” Gus said with a groan.

“I don’t think I can,” Casey said. “I’m so chill, people think I’m Alaskan. That, like, works. On so many levels. Sort of. I’m stealing that and putting it in a book. It’s mine now. You can’t have it back.”

“I don’t want it back.”

“Liar. You’re jealous because I’m so chill, people think I’m Alaskan.”

God bless him for trying. “This is going to be a disaster.”

“They’re going to like you because I like you,” Casey said. “And since I like you a lot, they’re probably going to end up being your new best friends.”

Gus rolled his eyes, trying hard to ignore that fuzzy warm feeling in his chest. “I’m pretty sure you’re the exception there, buddy.”

“Thank you,” Casey said, beaming.

“No, I didn’t mean—never mind. I don’t make the best first impression, Casey.”

Casey laughed. “When I met you, you walked in soaking wet carrying a ferret in a cage. Which ended up being pretty spot-on about you. You make the best first impressions out of anyone I’ve met.”

Gus sighed. It was hard to argue with someone when they apparently thought you were awesome. Gus didn’t have many people that thought that, so who was he to dispute it? No one, that’s who. “I really don’t have a choice in the matter, do I?”

“Not even for all the business dinners in Uruguay,” Casey said. “Besides, it’s only for a few days. And if it makes you feel better, we can introduce them to your friends, too.”

“My friends?” Gus asked, confused. “I don’t have any—oh no. Casey, no. Don’t you even think about it.”

“About what?” Casey asked. “Oh look. The We Three Queens just texted and said they most definitely have an evening free next weekend to go out to dinner. How fortuitous.”

This.

This was going to be a fucking nightmare.

Gus needed to research everything he could as soon as possible.

 

 

HOW TO Meet Your Boyfriend’s Friends

So! You’ve made it to the point in the relationship where it’s time to meet the boyfriend’s friends. This can be a stressful time for anyone, given that his friends will likely act as judge, jury, and potentially a relationship executioner. If they don’t like you, there is the potential that could have an adverse effect on your relationship. But if you follow these easy steps, you’ll have no problem in making an impression that will last a lifetime!

Step 1: Do Your Homework

Find out as much information about them as possible before you meet them. The best way to go about this is to ask your boyfriend. It probably isn’t the best idea to attempt to stalk his friends, either online or in person. If you’re caught, that can be somewhat difficult to explain away. It’s better to find out about them from a reliable source.

 

 

IT WAS two days before hipsters were set to descend upon Abby, Oregon. They were going to be staying at the only bed-and-breakfast in Abby, a little cottage owned by Leslie Von Patterson, she of the unicorn dreams and strawberry nightmares. There wasn’t enough room at Lottie’s house with Casey in the spare room for them to stay there. Gus thought about offering up his house, but realized that was a positively terrible idea (because he and Casey had yet to work up to staying overnight with each other, and what happened when Casey went home? Gus would have to entertain his friends and the very thought of such a thing made him sick to his stomach). Also, Mrs. Von Patterson’s bed-and-breakfast had dozens of pictures of unicorns hanging on the walls, so Gus was somewhat vindictively looking forward to that.

But still, he needed to be prepared. The Internet told him as much.

“So,” Gus said, going for casual and missing by at least a mile, “your friends. Tell me all about them. You know. Normal stuff. Like their fears and weaknesses. Not that I would exploit that at all. I just want to know. For science.”

Casey looked away from the TV nearest to him in the Emporium, currently playing North by Northwest because Casey knew Gus secretly thought Cary Grant was dreamy, though he would rather die than ever say those words. “Hmm,” Casey said. “For science.”

“Or something,” Gus said. “And what’s your word count so far?”

Casey scowled at him and glanced at his opened laptop. “Enough.”

“Your agent and your editor are going to yell at you again.”

“You can’t rush this level of literature,” Casey said.

“You’re writing a scene where Desmondo and Martindale are searching for Catarina in the Catacombs of Sadness,” Gus said. “You are the heir apparent to Tolstoy.”

Casey laughed. “Catacombs of Despair, Gus. Come on. You should have known that since you’re my number-one superfan.”

“No one should use the word superfan to describe me about anything,” Gus said. “It’s reprehensible and you should feel ashamed. Now, tell me all your friends’ secrets. I assume they all shop at thrift stores to find faded print T-shirts from the eighties.”

“This much is true,” Casey agreed. “One time, I found a Camp Easter Seal shirt from 1986 that they only wanted a dollar for. I would have paid at least three times that. That was a good day.”

“Yes, yes,” Gus said. “It sounds like all your dreams came true. Spill, Richards.”

Josiah was a waiter who was waiting for his big break as an actor. He’d had a few parts already, playing a cadaver of a procedural crime show that had fifty-seven spinoffs. He was also an audience member in an infomercial who questioned the validity of the host’s claim that the revolutionary blender could actually blend everything. He played the role with such gravitas that the producers apparently allowed him to ask a follow-up question about certain salsa recipes that came with the revolutionary blender. He’d then tried to ad-lib a line or two (“Wow, this blender would be perfect for my blended family!”) and was immediately escorted from the room.

Serge was a yoga instructor who had traveled around India for eight months trying to find out how to access his inner chakras, and had ended up in the hospital for three weeks with a rather explosive case of dysentery that caused his inner chakras to become his outer chakras in a most foul and disgusting manner. Having recuperated, he then decided yoga was his calling and opened his own yoga studio with his trust fund, telling anyone who would listen that he most certainly didn’t want to use that money built upon dark Ivy League promises and corporate greed, but he really had no choice in the matter. “He imported Italian tile for his studio,” Casey said. “I still haven’t stopped making fun of him for it. That was six years ago.”

And Xander. Xander, Xander, Xander. As Casey showed Gus pictures of them, sometimes all together, sometimes just individually, Gus noticed there seemed to be quite a few of Casey and Xander looking awfully cozy. Granted, it took a few minutes for Gus to notice this, given that he was distracted by the fact that they all had equally ridiculous facial hair (“Does he have a handlebar mustache?” Gus asked, looking at an egregiously filtered photo of Josiah. “Is he a villain from 1860 that’s going to tie me to train tracks if he doesn’t like me?” Casey laughed harder than Gus had ever seen before and felt oddly proud of himself). But there was more and more evidence that something was there.

It was pretty much nailed on the head when Casey tried to swipe past a picture where Xander and Casey were shown holding hands, walking in what looked to be some sort of Pride Parade. Casey was smiling at the camera, but Xander was smiling at Casey with a look that Gus knew well. It was fond and sweet and absurd, and it was one Gus had given Casey many times, whether he wanted to admit it or not. Just the sight of it caused a gnarly curl of jealousy to spike in Gustavo’s gut. He’d never been the jealous type before. Well, he’d never been in a position where jealousy was a relevant emotion. He quite hated the feeling. It felt needless and petty.

Gus could do this. He could play it cool.

“Did you bone him?” Gus asked.

Gus could not do this. He could not play it cool.

Casey choked. “Say again?”

“Um,” Gus said. “Nothing. Oh look, Cary Grant is running through the cornfield. Did you know that to film this scene, they had to—”

“Gus.”

“Yes, Casey.”

“Bone? Seriously?”

“Yeah. I regret ever using that word.”

Casey put down his phone and cocked his head at Gus. “We dated.”

“Great,” Gus said, even though it was not great at all. “I am so glad you’re one of those people who can be friends with your exes.”

“Really.”

Gus swallowed. “Yes. What does he do? Own a chain of independent coffee shops? Or does he work at an underground record store?”

“He’s a tattoo artist. He did most of my sleeves.”

“Even better,” Gus said. “Awesome.”

“Gus.”

“Yeah.”

“It was, like, a year ago. We were friends before and now we’re friends after.”

“Oh?” Gus asked, remembering to play it cool. “Ain’t no skin off my back, homeslice.”

“Sure, man,” Casey said easily. “It lasted a few months, didn’t work out, went back to the way it was. You don’t have to worry about anything.”

Gus glared. “I’m not worried about anything.”

Casey leaned in, eyes wide. “You gotta know, Gus. You’re my one and only boo.”

Casey laughed as Gus shoved his face away, demanding he never use that word again, oh my god.

 

 

STEP 2: Pre-Meet Prep

Yes, it can be scary meeting new people. Yes, it can be even scarier when it is the friends of your boyfriend. But remember, your boyfriend chose you for a reason, and he chose his friends for a reason, so chances are, at least some of those reasons will intermingle. Before you go, make sure to think up topics of conversation so there are no awkward pauses and/or silences. Plan on not overwhelming the conversation. Make sure to ask the appropriate amount of follow-up questions, but wait for the answers and don’t override someone else when they are speaking. After all, you want to give them opportunities to get to know the marvelous wonder that is you as well. You’ve got this! You’re ready to meet!

 

Gus woke up the day of the meeting with a plan.

He could do this.

He could be the most normal sort of possibly maybe boyfriend in the history of the world.

He said, “Today is going to be an okay day.” Then, “No. Today is going to be an awesome day and I’m going to be awesome and everything will be awesome.”

He performed his exercise routine with great enthusiasm.

His muscles burned, and he broke a sweat.

He finished and stood.

He tore the previous day’s inspirational message off and read today’s.

You are a strong, confident individual and today’s the day you show it.

“Fuck yeah,” Gus said, almost fist-pumping the air until he realized he was not a teenager in a John Hughes film and it was definitely not normal.

“You got this,” he told his reflection as he undressed.

“You got this so hard,” he told his reflection after he’d showered.

He dressed with extra care, wearing Pastor Tommy’s nicest Hawaiian shirt he had, one that he’d actually purchased in Hawaii. It was deep ocean blue and the white print had flowers and vines that reminded Gus of Casey’s tattoos and—

(“It was the first thing I bought myself on that trip,” Pastor Tommy had told him. He would be dead twenty-nine days later, but neither of them knew it then. He wasn’t yet in the hospital, but it was close. “I was twenty-six and off that plane, trying to find the nearest alleyway where I could light up and I saw this shirt, man. Just hanging in the window of this little shop. I thought it was the nicest thing I’d ever seen. The color, you know? It reminded me of the ocean. There I was, on a fucking island, surrounded by ocean, and my first sight of it was this shirt. I wanted that shirt. I needed that shirt. I went in and the shop keep—her name was Ailani—she said that it was for me, you know? That the shirt was made for me. I bought it, even though I couldn’t really afford it. I bought it and its color has never really faded. I think it must be a magic shirt, you know? It must be magic because a year to the day after I bought that shirt, Gus, a year to the day after, you were born. It was nice, man. The shirt. But it’s nothing compared to you. You’re still the nicest thing I’ve ever seen.”)

“I’ve got this,” Gus said. “Because I am strong and confident and today is the day I show it.”

He ate his apple.

Harry S. Truman played with his pellets.

They left the house.

Casey came around the counter at the coffee shop and hugged him as tightly as he ever had.

He said, “God, you look good, Gustavo.”

Gus said, “Yeah, Casey. You do too, okay? You do too.”

Lottie gagged in the background.

Gus got his coffee and was ready for his day.

He was so distracted at 11:54 that he didn’t hear the We Three Queens walking into the Emporium until they were upon him.

“What are you looking at flashcards for?” Bertha asked.

Gus screamed, the notecards falling out of his hand as he jumped.

“Whoa,” Bernice said. “That certainly was high-pitched for a man.”

“Gus is special that way,” Betty said as she scooped up the cards off the counter.

“I’m not special,” Gus said stiffly, trying to calm his thundering heart. “And I wasn’t scared. I was doing an accurate impression of scream queens in horror movies from the 1980s. That was Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween.”

“Uh-huh,” Betty said. “Gus, why does this card say so what are your thoughts on airplanes? And, as a follow-up, have you ever eaten turtle? I haven’t because that sounds disgusting.”

“Uhh,” Gus said.

“Oh,” Bernice said. “I want to read one.” She grabbed a card out of Betty’s hand and her brow furrowed as she read. “Do you ever wonder what it would be like to go bowling on the moon? And, as a follow-up, do you like Diet Dr. Pepper? I don’t, because it tastes disgusting.”

“Uhh,” Gus said.

“My turn,” Bertha said, randomly picking out another card. “Have you ever gotten into a conflict that could have been avoided by a dance-off? And, as a follow-up, what is your opinion on Michael Bay? I think he’s disgusting.” She sighed. “Oh, Gus.”

“This shit is hysterical,” Bernice said, flipping through more notecards. “Gus, in case you don’t know, you’re my third-favorite person in this room. And my first-favorite man.”

“Thanks,” Gus said. “I think.”

“You’ll be fine,” Bernice said. “We’ll take Harry S. Truman just like we planned. You’ll go and wow the boys at lunch, and then tonight, we’ll all get together for dinner, all of us in the same room, all of us with our individual personalities, and it will be fine.”

Gus whimpered.

“Cadet!” Betty said. “Inspirational message for the day!”

Gus was now slightly hysterical because he was supposed to meet Casey and his friends at Lottie’s Lattes in fifteen minutes. Casey had texted him that they’d just gotten back from picking them up at the airport in Eugene. “I am strong and brave and confident and everyone can see it!” he said, sounding anything but.

“Damn right,” Betty said.

“Hear, hear!” Bertha cried.

“Did you find out more about DesRinaDale like I asked?” Bernice hissed. “Or am I gonna have to cut you?”

Bertha and Betty glared at her.

“Oh right,” Bernice said, rolling her eyes. “Now is not the time. It’s never the time. I’ll show you the time. You’ll see. You’ll all see—”

“It’s going to be great,” Bertha said to Gus. “I promise. Casey adores you and if his friends are anything like him, they’ll see just how wonderful of a person you are, okay?”

“And if they’re not like him,” Betty said, cracking her knuckles, “then we’ll make sure they’re run out of town by sunset. You belong to the We Three Queens, Gustavo Tiberius. No one messes with what belongs to the club. I’m not above taking a crowbar to some kneecaps if needed.”

Surely Gus shouldn’t have been as comforted by that as he was.

“It’ll be fine,” Bernice said. “You’ll see.”

 

 

IT WAS not fine.

Granted, it started out fine, but then it escalated rather quickly until Gus was in the middle of a situation he could only describe as what the fuck. And it totally wasn’t his fault.

Well. Mostly.

He told himself he wasn’t going to be intimidated as he walked that long, lonely walk from the Emporium across the street to Lottie’s Lattes. He thought he understood now what inmates must feel like while walking toward their execution. He tried to think back as to what his last meal would have been. He’d eaten the apple that morning. Oh. Barf Asschiladas TV dinner last night (he really needed to stop buying that). Casey had been writing, and Gus had been on his own. If he’d known, he might have indulged in some beef jerky after. Now, it was far too late. He was going to be hung in front of a firing squad while sitting in an electric chair and being lethally injected.

Gus was not a drama queen. He absolutely was not. He was normal. Normal people didn’t almost have meltdowns over walking across the street and—

He stopped because there was a small crowd gathered in front of Lottie’s Lattes.

This couldn’t possibly be anything good. “What’s going on?”

Margo Montana turned and eyed him coolly from the back of the crowd. “Hello, Mr. Tiberius. Impregnated any women lately?”

“You keep quiet,” Gus hissed at her. “I brought the book back just fine!” And he had, after having read it cover to cover. He’d felt bad about checking out the book and not reading it, so he’d spent a few nights reading it instead of the encyclopedias. By the time he’d finished, he’d decided that having children sounded like it was very sticky and wet and therefore a terrible idea. Gustavo Tiberius did not like to be sticky and wet.

“I know,” she said. “I wore rubber gloves when I went through it to check for damage. I was surprised. I expected it to be covered in evidence of your debauchery.”

Gus groaned. “I don’t have time for this. What the hell are you all staring at?”

She arched an eyebrow. “You don’t know?”

“They’re like the cover models for the romance books I read,” Mrs. Havisham said, coming up beside Margo Montana. “I want to go inside and devour them whole.”

“Gross,” Gus said, taking a step back in case whatever had infected them would transfer to him too. It had to be some new contagion he hadn’t yet heard of.

“Seriously,” Mrs. Von Patterson said, face slightly flushed. “I’m old enough to be their mothers but I want to show them with age comes experience. And that wouldn’t be the only thing that comes.”

“Please stop talking,” Gus said. “Now.”

“They’re with Casey,” Margo Montana said. “Just talking with him.” Her eyes narrowed. “You know who they are, don’t you?”

“You do?” Mrs. Havisham said. “You know them? Tell us! Tell us everything you know.”

“You’ll have to warn them,” Mrs. Von Patterson said seriously. “When you go in there. Tell them this town is filled with cougars on the prowl. But that it’s definitely okay to feed the wild animals.”

All three women curled their hands into claws, baring their teeth and hissing at him.

“Bad touch,” Gus cried, trying to back away as they reached for him. “Bad touch!”

“Seriously,” Margo Montana said. “I’d like to show them my bad touch.”

“I’d like them to bad touch me,” Mrs. Havisham said.

“They would look so good on my unicorn-printed sheets,” Mrs. Von Patterson breathed.

Gus thought it prudent that he vacate the immediate area before he became caught in their menopausal crosshairs and was forced to participate in the stalking of prey. He decided the best idea would be to run the way he’d come from and to lock the doors of the Emporium behind him and wait at least three weeks before leaving.

However, that didn’t quite work out.

“Gus!” Casey said, coming out of the coffee shop. “Whoa. This is a lot of people.”

“Meep,” Gus said.

Casey pushed through cougar town and stood before Gus, that lazy smile on his face. “Hey, man. Thought I heard you out here. You ready to come in?”

“Funny thing, that,” Gus said. “That business meeting in Uruguay got moved to right now. I have to fly out. Darn. I’m so sad that I can’t go inside with you. Bye.”

“What business does he have in Uruguay?” Mrs. Von Patterson whispered.

“And also, where is Uruguay?” Mrs. Havisham said.

“It’s probably sex trafficking,” Margo Montana said. “And it’s in Africa.”

“It’s not sex trafficking,” Gus growled. “And it’s in South America. Jesus. You work in a library. Open a book for once that’s not called Tawdry Confessions of My Cowboy Lover.”

Casey’s eyes went wide. “Tawdry confessions of my what?”

“I’m not very good at thinking up titles on the spot,” Gus admitted.

“Are you kidding?” he asked incredulously. “That was amazing, man. I am going to write a new book just so I can use that as a title.”

“New book?” Mrs. Havisham asked.

“You’re an author?” Mrs. Von Patterson asked.

“I work in the library,” Margo Montana all but purred. “I adore the written word. And your friends. Perhaps we could combine both somehow? They can write on me.”

“That sounds nice,” Casey said. “But I’m asexual, Xander and Serge are gay, and Josiah is demisexual.”

“I don’t know what any of that means,” Margo Montana said.

“Demi means half,” Mrs. Von Patterson said, sounding very proud of herself. “He’s half sexual. Bisexual. He likes men and busty women like myself.”

“Not even close,” Casey said. “Have a good day!”

And he pulled Gus by the arm into Lottie’s Lattes.

“That was awkward,” Gus said. “You should lock the door so they don’t follow you in and attempt to kidnap you to their older-lady sex dungeon. God knows what sort of horrors you’ll find down there. I bet everything is made of silicone, old copies of Cosmo, and desperation.”

“Silicone, Cosmo, and desperation?” a voice said from behind me. “Well, then. This is certainly an interesting little town you’ve found yourself in, Casey.”

Gus swallowed thickly and turned to face the hipster horde from hell.

Goddamn fucking alliteration.