Could it also include Drew in a different role?
Drew sets his tray down, tugging at the hem of his skirt, trying to make sure it doesn’t ride up too far. Which is impossible. I can see the edges of his baby-blue boxer briefs beneath the lattice of his stretched-to-the-max fishnets. I never noticed how thick and bitable his thighs were before.
Drew says something I don’t catch because I’m attempting to shake the thought of what the heat of his skin might feel like in that spot. In the face of all this other change, I sense my feelings for Drew growing larger and louder inside my chest. Impossible to ignore. My brain itching for stimulation, newness, andhim.
“It won’t be all bad.” Drew rolls so he’s on his side, looking up at me, finger absent-mindedly toying with the dangling string on my hoodie. Like he’s a tabby cat. A really cute tabby cat in a silly costume.
“How so?”
“It won’t be all bad because,” Drew says, “all the attention will be on CeeCee.”
“You say that like it’s a good thing.”
“It is a good thing,” he says, “since it means there will be so many regimented activities and meals and photo ops. Not to mention the open bar and the dancing. I’m merely trying to point out that you won’t be the one in the big white dress.”
“So I shouldn’t show up in my flawless recreation of Princess Di’s wedding gown—train, veil, and all?” That would add a whole new dimension to the black-sheep role I’ve been given in the Baker family.
“You would certainly turn heads.” Drew lies back, splayed out across my bedspread, the fabric of his costume pulling tighter, and tighter, and…
“Like you in that costume,” I say without thinking.
“Oh, uh, thanks.” He’s blushing so hard as he sits up.
We let my words lie between us. I can tell I’ve surprised him, and I know for certain I’ve surprised myself.
“Want to help me make dinner? I got all the ingredients for Bolognese,” Drew says. It’s clear he’s flustered and trying to change the subject. I don’t blame him. I’ve made an immaculately awkward mess in as little words as possible.
“My favorite,” I chirp like I’m newly surprised by his thoughtfulness and completely undisturbed by what I just said.
I leave behind my blanket cocoon and my trashy TV show (and maybe my neediness too) to help him boil, slice, and simmer.
He sheds his nurse outfit before we start, which is a bit of a bummer but understandable. He trades it out for sweats and a crewneck that says “Open a Book. Open Your Heart.”
It’s been a while since we’ve done this together. Our work shifts are always in opposition. He spends his days at the store. I spend my nights at the club. When we catch a rare moment with each other, we’re smoking a bowl on the fire escape or binging the latest episode ofDrag Racein our brief period of overlap.
These last few days have reminded me what our true dynamic is like. As Drew readies the meat sauce in a large silver pot and I prepare a few pieces of garlic toast in our toaster oven, I really lay it all out for myself.
We live together. We’re cooking together. We take trips upstate together to pick apples and take in the fall foliage. The only parts of a relationship we don’t do are the kissing or the sexing. And not all queer relationships even have those parts…
If I’m rethinking my career, maybe I could rethink my relationship with Drew too. A desk job would mean we’d both be home nights, I’d have a steadier stream of income, and the pressure to perform wouldn’t hit so hard.
I’ve already said something out of left field tonight. Why not add another big swing?
“Drew?” I ask, as he taste tests his creation,mmmswithout a self-conscious care, and then meets my eyes. Happy. “What would you say if…I asked you to be my date to CeeCee’s wedding?” He chokes on the meat sauce in his mouth, eyes widening to alarming proportions. I haven’t seen him this shocked since he found out mass market books were going to be made bigger and his whole shelf aesthetic was going to be ruined. “Jeez, you don’t need to gag over it. A simple no would’ve sufficed.”
Grabbing the nearby dish towel, he wipes his mouth, blue eyeswatery. “That wasn’t a no-choke”—he pauses to cough and catch his breath—“That was a…was a surprised choke. A really surprised choke.” He’s blushing again now.
“A good surprised or a bad surprised?” I ask, ready to backtrack at a moment’s notice should he answer in the negative. My nervous heart skips several beats.
He bites his lip before saying, “Are surprises usually good or bad?”
“Uh, yeah? Getting a brand-new car for your eighteenth birthday: good surprise. Finding out you have chlamydia after having sex on the second date: bad surprise.” I don’t add that I speak from experience. On both accounts.
“Good point.” He looks all stern and sensible. It’s infuriatingly wonderful. While he mulls this over, he moves to the fridge, produces a freezer pack of peas, and wraps it in a clean dish towel—blue with a floral pattern. His long deliberation makes me wilt, until he presses the makeshift ice pack gently to the center of my face, certain not to cause me any undue harm, and grins. “Are you serious about this?”
“As serious as I am about scoring tickets to Matteo Lane’s next tour, yes.” I shoot him with my best pity-me eyes. Damn, as someone who hates getting them, I certainly have no qualms about inflicting them on others. “I need a buffer. Please, be my buffer.”
“The four words every man longs to hear.” His eyes drift away.
