Estelle looks up and eyes my feet. “Mother fu—”
“Estelle!” Eric throws up his hands.
She rolls her eyes. “Oh my, golly pie! Better?”
“No, not really.”
“Then, motherfuck, those look better on you than they do on me. Keep them. I can’t possibly wear them again after seeing them on you.” Before I can protest, she is already up and pulling at my shirt. “Are you sure about this shirt, though? I’m not convinced the vintage Coke thing is really working for you.”
I look down. This is what I get for not paying attention to what I’d yanked out of the clothing pile. “No, this… I’m not wearing this out. I hadn’t really figured out what to wear yet.”
Estelle whips around and roots through the mess on the bed, surely for far longer than she would have had to if I actually shopped and paid attention to fashion trends. Finally she reaches into her giant bag. “Here. This will be awesome on you. Man, if I had your tits, I’d be wearing this shirt every day.” She tosses a pale blue top over to me. “It’s freakishly warm tonight for October, and tomorrow we’re supposed to get snow, so enjoy the good weather and show off that body.”
“Estelle, I can’t possibly—”
“Yes, you can,” Eric says. “She appears to have twenty-seven outfits in that bag, so take some weight off her shoulder.”
“Eric, turn around,” Estelle instructs. “You’re still a boy.”
“Thanks, darling.”
I put on her shirt. My scar is totally uncovered, but I decide that I’m not going to let this stop me. No one has complimented me the way these two have, and… and… and I’m having fun. I feel good. “So what do we think?” I raise my hands up and pose.
Eric turns back around. “Well, Miss Just A Friend, you look great.” He winks.
“You do. Damn hottie. Now, let’s go. If we’re late, Sabin will tear us all a new one.” Estelle throws her giant purse over her shoulder and leads the way out.
I cannot wait for this play to be over. Sabin is fantastic, very spirited and skilled onstage. He is not the problem. The college auditorium, however, seems to be doubling as a sauna. I shift in my seat and fan myself with the program. I know rationally that the temperature is fine in here. Nobody else looks overheated. Estelle, on my right, is the picture of relaxed and cool, and Eric, on her right, hasn’t taken his eyes off the stage.
The source of my sweating and discomfort is sitting about four inches away from me on my left. Chris’s upper arm has brushed against me no less than fifteen times. Given that I don’t have many, or really any, friends, I should be focusing on this play so that I can come up with specific compliments for my new pal Sabin. Instead, it is all I can do to keep looking straight ahead. I realize that if I steal one look at Chris, I might come unglued. Of course, there is no reason to think that he is feeling my presence the way that I feel his. But every time that he laughs at a line from the play or mutters to himself—or, for Christ’s sakes, sniffs—I practically shudder with lust.
If I believed in God or was religious to any degree, I might argue that these crazy physical sensations are punishment for masturbating. For masturbating a lot. I think that I may have an addiction. A sex-maniac beast has awoken, and I am a horny mess nearly all the time. I almost feel surprised that I haven’t yet grabbed Estelle and shoved my tongue down that beautiful girl’s throat. I’d probably get further with Estelle than I did with her brother.
Oh my God. What is wrong with me?
The thing is, while Estelle seems incredibly cool, I am not interested in her. Or Sabin. Or any of the other hundred people in this auditorium. What I want is to feel Chris’s arms around me again. I want to go back to that day last month by the lake. Maybe minus the bizarre blurting out that my parents are dead and the flashbacks that left me defenseless in his arms. Or go back to that moment in his room when he pushed my hair out of my face, when his breathing had became ragged. What I wouldn’t give to be able to rip off that button-down shirt of his right this second and feel his chest again.…
Not that I would know what the hell to do with him if given the opportunity to take off more than his shirt. I hardly have a wealth of experience to work from. It is probably better that nothing else is going to happen between us and that I am alone in this nearly excruciating ache. At least this way he never has to know how inexperienced I really am.
“Excuse me. Can I squeeze past you?” says a bleached-blond guy who stops at our aisle. “Sorry. Hey, Chris, how you doin’? I know, I know. I’m majorly late.” He’s in a wrinkled shirt and jeans and is noticeably good-looking. He squeezes in front of us to reach the empty seat next to Eric.
“Reliably majorly late,” Chris jokes. He leans his head toward me, touching his arm to mine again. “That’s Eric’s boyfriend, Zachary. You’ll like him. Cool kid.”
It’s hard to think now, but if I don’t say anything, then he’ll pull away. I come up with an ordinary enough response. “How long have they been dating?”
“Since early last year.”
I turn my head a bit. Not enough to meet his eyes, though. My heart is pounding.
“It’s good that we all like Zach so much,” Chris whispers. “I can’t imagine one of us dating someone the others didn’t approve of.”
“You guys watch out for one another,” I say.
“Of course. Don’t you and your brother?”
“We used to. Not so much anymore.”
Chris pauses. “I’m sorry.”
