Emmett nodded and slunk away into the kitchen. He exhaled into the open fridge, atingle with nervous energy and crawling dread. His mind was telling him to play it cool, and the scars on his heart, to stay above it.Don’t read into it. Don’t get your hopes up. You already know how this ends.
Aaron was eating chips and salsa when Emmett found him. He took the bottle and said, “Thanks. What’re you drinking?”
Emmett eyed his Malibu and Diet Coke with embarrassment. “Tito’s.”
“Well, cheers.” They clinked. Emmett drank deeply, partly to loosen his nerves, but equally, in vehement need of its sugars.
They stepped aside to let one of Lizette’s cousins grab food. “Cool place,” Aaron said, looking around.
“It’s a shithole, but it’s home.”
“No, I like it. So close to the beach?”
“What part of town are you in again?”
“Hillcrest.”
“Right. Commute must be nice.”
Aaron nodded, studying the carpet. Emmett anticipated what was coming and wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
“Hey, sorry again about the museum job,” Aaron said. “Shitty how it all worked out. I feel like such a jerk.”
“Totally fine.”
Emmett was about to mention his promotion at the store, but before he could get the words out, Aaron continued, “Maybe it’s for the best. At least now we can do this without it being weird.”
“This?”
“Hang out.”
“Why would that be weird?”
Aaron smiled and shrugged. Showing none of his cards.
Bastard.
And yet for an hour he didn’t leave Emmett’s side except to pee and get more drinks. (Emmett bore the switch to vodka with self-loathing aplomb.) They talked, and laughed, and eased into companionable drunkenness.
Maybe more than companionable. Emmett felt the seams of his insecurity coming apart, allowing bits of his authentic self to show through—his humor, his light, his innate musicality, his body swaying to the beatof Lizette’s ass-shaking playlist—while Aaron reciprocated in his own way, communicating his affection with hints of trenchant humor and a blessing of little touches. A brush of their hands, a squeeze of Emmett’s shoulder as they laughed. Each one a surprise, a titillation, prompting a tickle of desire.
Emmett hungered, but not for food. Not even for sex.
He craved Aaron like he’d never craved a person before, and it scared him.
Then suddenly Aaron was stumbling away from him, Lizette dragging him back by the arm. “Come dance! Emmett, come on!”
“What do you say?” Aaron said, inviting Emmett to join.
He shook his head. His feet remained planted. It was etched into the part of his brain that governed self-preservation: to dance was to make his body visible, and to make it visible was to make himself vulnerable. Hank’s voice rose from the depths of his psyche to condemn him:That’s what happens when you don’t listen, sport. I only wanted what was best for you. For your health.
When he was thinner, none of that would bother him anymore.
When he was thinner, he would flirt and dance and live.
He watched on from a safe distance as Lizette’s cousin Oscar—a thin-limbed twink with gold hoop earrings, who barely ever looked at, let alone spoke to, Emmett, as if to ward off unwanted advances—danced backward up to Aaron, nestled against his crotch. Emmett sensed an instant tension between them. Aaron leaned in to whisper in Oscar’s ear.
A landslide of emotion unleashed inside Emmett. He was twenty-three again, in the Gaslamp Quarter, watching Chris and the guy Emmett was crushing on make fun of his boobs. He was seventeen again, at prom, dancing with Lizette and imagining she was Jake Butler, the only other out gay guy in the school, who hadn’t asked him. He was eight years old again, sobbing into his pillow because Hank caught him snacking and called him a fat fuck, and even though Emmett’s belly was full, he was so terribly, terribly Hungry.
