Gingerly, I lowered myself down on the brown sofa, half expecting it to sag into a pancake, but it held up well. Certainly better than the beds at the shelter.
“I, uh—”
“Look.” Cort swung around from his stance by the refrigerator. “You can cut the bullshit with me. I know you’re hungry, so don’t go hemmin’ and hawin’ like you need to decide anything other than mustard or mayo on your turkey. Got it?”
“Um, sure. Mayonnaise, please.”
My stomach couldn’t keep from growling as I watched him make the sandwiches. His lips twitched as he cut a tomato in thick slices and laid it on top of the meat before spreading the rolls with a layer of mayonnaise. With a bag of potato chips in one hand and the plate with a sandwich on the other, he strode back into the living room.
“Here. And if you want another, don’t hold back. I heard that growl all the way across the room.”
I tried not to look too eager as I accepted the paper plate from him. “Thanks.”
No Michelin five-star restaurant had ever served me a better meal than that turkey sandwich from Cort, and I tried not to wolf it down. But manners went out the window, and before Cort had finished half of his sandwich, I’d demolished the whole thing. Without a word, he handed me the potato chips, and I poured some on my plate.
“Oh, forgot the waters.” He bounded back to the kitchen, filled two glasses with ice, and ran the tap. “Nothing better than city water.”
I took the cold glass from him and after drinking it down, had to agree.
“Thank you. I don’t know why you’re being so nice to a complete stranger, but I appreciate it.”
“I read somewhere that strangers are just friends we ain’t met yet. And for all that the city is so big, it’s hard to meet people.”
Curious about his background, I crunched on a few chips before beginning my interrogation. I might no longer practice law, but the skill set, though rusty, remained. From the magazines strewn on his coffee table—Get Out,Gay New York, andMetrosource, plus his job dancing in that strip club, I figured out he was gay but had no desire to get into that discussion.
“How long have you lived in New York?”
“Over a year.”
“What made you come all the way out here?” In one of our earlier brief conversations he’d mentioned being from Texas. “Were you really a cowboy?”
A grin crossed his face as he tossed a few chips into his mouth. “Yep. I was a real cowboy. My daddy put me on a horse before I could walk. Rode my first bull when I was sixteen and got two broken ribs when he threw me. Mean fucker.” He snickered and took a drink.
“So,” I prodded. “What made you leave?” Part of Cort’s charm was his boyish innocence. His type helped little old ladies across the street and adopted abandoned puppies. I couldn’t imagine him angry, disillusioned, or hopeless.
The smile stretched thin. “I wanted to see what else there was outside of my small town.”
“And you picked so far away? Why not a big city in Texas, like Dallas or Houston?”
“I’m gonna get a beer. You want one?”
Oh, thank God.“Please.” Each day the need built up inside like a vicious beast, eating away at me, and I did whatever I could to soothe it. I’d become an expert at shoplifting from bodegas. The key was to always buy something, even if only a candy bar. Then they rarely suspected you had a bottle tucked into your underwear.
He handed me a beer from the six-pack he brought over, and I drank half of it down before he had a chance to sit. It spread through me, its beautiful coldness numbing the throb of emptiness. I finished it off and set it on the table. Cort had a strange expression on his face.
“Looks like you needed that.”
“I did.” One beer did very little for me now. I’d spent my entire twenties in a haze of vodka, fueled by cocaine and uppers, spending my trust fund as if the money was water. When the faucet turned off, the money dried up, I’d had to replace the Ketel One with Budweiser and wean myself off the drugs. Mostly.
“Want another?”
I nodded, trying like hell to keep my hands from trembling but failing as I snatched the can from him. It went down even easier than the first, and I knew I should stop and not guzzle it, but I couldn’t help myself. Sitting here with Cort in this tiny apartment, eating a sandwich off a paper plate, was a slap-in-the-face reminder of everything I’d lost. Ineededthis to forget.
The second beer hit me hard, a combination of nerves and little else in my stomach except that sandwich. I pushed aside the fear over what Cort might expect for giving me a place to stay tonight. I knew he’d want something. Everyone did. No one did anything for anyone out of the goodness of their heart.
The room spun, and I leaned back, the can slipping out of my hand.
“Whoa. Maybe you better stop there.” The sofa dipped next to me under Cort’s weight as he put a knee down to catch the almost empty can before it fell to the floor. His hand touched mine, and it was warm. The warmest thing to touch me in years.
