"I'm sure you didn't look like one. Did she smile, or say anything to give you an indication she thought you were cute?"
I was glad to hear Mel's snicker. "Yeah, sort of. I'm not sure what to make of it."
"Then I think you need to go back again and find out."
"I don't know. Can we talk about something else? I haven't … ." He huffed into the receiver as he paused. "I haven't dated anyone in over four years. I've spent all my time with you, because you've always accepted me for who I am. What if I've gone through all this only to find out no one wants to be with me? What if I'm alone the rest of my life?" I could hear his emotion, and it stirred my own. Mel was not a crier by nature.
"Mel, don't. We always said we can't dwell on what-ifs. I've been alone for twenty-six years."
"At least you've had dates."
"Dates with losers who found my personality repulsive! You and I have to keep trying. My soul mate is out there, somewhere, and so is yours. I have to believe that!"
He took in a long shaky breath and said, "Look, my dinner's done. I gotta go."
"Okay. Bye."
"Later."
I hung up and set my phone on the table. His situation bothered me because it wasn't so much different than mine, but scarier. Yet I worried more over the hurt I heard in his voice. Hope was something I had to give him, but what if he finally gave up on it? I didn't have answers for myself, let alone for Mel. I picked my phone back up and texted: I'm sorry, Mel. I'm sure things will work out for you. Go see Cindy at work one more time. Just try.
Don't apologize, you're right. I know I need to approach her, but I'm scared.
I know. I love you like a brother.
:) Thank you, Grant.
This time when I put the phone down, at least I didn't feel like there was unfinished business. I never wanted to go to sleep knowing one of my friends was mad at me, let alone my best friend. Mel would be okay.
I ate dinner alone and contemplated painting my bedroom next.
I VENTURED to The Home Depot to pick out paint colors. I figured there had to be one in the area, so I pulled it up on Google. I might not know my new town, but how different could it be from other towns? I mean, really. I found it, and an hour later I came home with twenty-seven different color cards because I couldn't decide on a shade while I was there. I liked blue, but did I want a blue bedroom? I taped three different blues in one spot to stare at and other colors on different spots on the wall: beige, green, yellow, and even purple. If the color I painted my kitchen said a lot about me as a person, as Mrs. Snyder had suggested, then what did the color in my bedroom suggest? I guess if I painted my bedroom black or bloodred people might mistake me for a vampire, but would green suggest one aspect of my personality and blue another? I wasn't sure, so I thought I would mull it over for a while.
Right now, the entire house was painted white, except for the kitchen. I didn't care for white. My mother's house was all white. Having a different color was my mind's subconscious way of declaring separation. It wasn't like I'd thought, when I had painted my kitchen, "I'm going to paint this salmon so I am completely different from my mom!" No, I didn't think about that at all. I liked the salmon. Mel had given me some dishes for my first new place, and they had salmon-colored flecks in the design along the edge. I'd been in an apartment before, but since I'd spent most of my time over at Mel's, I just hadn't expended the effort to paint it.
This newest new place felt different. It was small, with only a kitchen, bedroom, and dining/living room combination. No basement. No porch. No real storage. I had described it as a three-room house, but I did have a bathroom and a closet. It had come with a couch, which I hated, and a dining room table, which was okay. I wanted to furnish it myself as soon as I saved up some money. I used to have some, but two years ago Mel and I had gone on a trip to Ireland and spent quite a lot traveling around and staying in different counties. It had been worth it, but I had to save up again.
All day Sunday I must have taken out my phone a hundred times wondering if I should text Tristan. He'd given me his phone number, but should I call him the very next day? I didn't want to appear desperate. I didn't have to call him. I had other friends.
My other friends lived an hour away, but I could still do things with them.
BY MONDAY afternoon, I still hadn't texted, and I felt strange when Tristan came in with a deposit. He was as pleasant as ever, his half smile cajoling me into an uncomfortable semierect state that made me regret wearing the tight trousers I'd chosen. Luckily, if I stood at the counter, no one could see the front of my pants until things had settled down.
BY FRIDAY, Tristan must have waited long enough. After handing me his stack of disorganized bills and checks, he asked again about the beer. "I waited for that text. Either you don't want to have a beer with me, or you lost my number. Either way is fine, but you could have said you weren't interested. I'll still talk to you, even if you don't want to hang out."
How should I word my answer? It wasn't as if I didn't like him. It was the thought of spending time with him outside the bank that made me nervous. I had difficulty controlling my anatomy. What if, while we were chatting, I popped one? His voice did wash over me in the way a hot cup of tea does on a snowy January Sunday. It soothed. How could I go out with him for a beer, which I had never drunk, and talk, when I still could not think of him solely as a friend?
"I'm sorry. I do want to have that beer. I was going to text you … but then I didn't." It wasn't a lie. I had punched his numbers in my phone and saved them, I just hadn't used them.
"Oh. Okay. Well, what are you doing Saturday night?" Tristan asked, tucking his receipts into his wallet.
"I work until noon. Then I'm helping my mother hang some shelves on her wall. It'll probably take all day, and she offered to make me dinner."
His lips moved but could not quite make that half smile I was used to. He was disappointed, and I felt bad for allowing it to happen. He was trying, but I had not. "I'm free Sunday," I offered.
There's that dangerous smile I sooo should not love!
"Okay. Sunday."
I took out my phone after glancing around for anyone who could fuss at me for texting during work. "Just so there's no doubt"-I pressed Send-"I sent you a text."
"You saved my number," he marveled.
"Of course I did."
I heard his phone chime. He took it out and smiled. "Thanks. I was convinced you threw it away after I gave it to you at the gym, thinking I was a deranged stalker."
"Nope. I intended to text. But time slipped away, and here we are on Friday." Time, and the fact I didn't know how to be friends with a straight guy who turned me on with his smile. I was so screwed.
"I know how it is. I get very busy myself. Well, I guess I'll see you on Sunday, since you'll be working while I'm at the gym." Did he really sound disappointed, or was that me?
"Yup. Sunday."
Tristan walked away, and another customer walked up to my window before I had a second to run over our conversation in my head. He had seemed different this time. Happier. I waved off the notion and punched in the account numbers. I couldn't think about Tristan. It was dangerous to think about Tristan. It was wrong to think about Tristan. He was my friend. I could handle one beer without crying myself to sleep over the irony of finding the perfect guy only for him to be straight. No, I would amend that. All the perfect-looking guys I'd ever met had happened to be straight. The only ones who'd been interested in me were the imperfect ones with more flaws than I had.
Just once, I'd like to find a perfect gay man!
Chapter 4: Wet Dreams, Anticipation, And Completely Blowing The Date That Wasn't A Date But Was
HE CLIMBED over my body, sweaty and nervous, separating my thighs with his knee. He pulled my leg up and over one shoulder as he positioned his throbbing cock at my entrance. I felt him waiting, pressing slightly yet not enough to breach. Then suddenly, he thrust hard and filled me with … .
My body convulsed as I panted myself awake. I blinked uncomprehendingly as my eyes adjusted to the moonlight streaming in through the bedroom window. I was in my bed. Alone. Tristan wasn't here. The tingling in my groin alerted me to what had happened, and I slapped myself on the forehead.
"Crap," I mumbled, reaching down under the covers to confirm. "I just shot my wad." I lay there a second, but as the moments ticked I became more aware of the wetness in my underwear. "Shit!" I grumbled, throwing the blankets back and storming to the bathroom.