When I get upstairs, he’s shuffling through a bunch of papers. “They have takeout menus. Do you want to go out and grab something to eat? Or order a pizza?”
I remember our afternoon a few months back: burritos, TV, the couch.
“Let’s do pizza.”
“Pepperoni? Sausage? Both?”
I laugh. “One or the other.”
Ben picks up the menu, and a half hour later pizza, garlic knots, and vats of Pepsi and Dr Pepper show up at the door. We spread it all out on a towel on one of the beds and sit cross-legged, having a picnic.
“God, it’s good to be out of the car,” I say.
“Yeah. Sometimes after a tour, my ass vibrates for days.”
“Too bad it’s not one of those motels with the vibrating beds; you could keep the magic going.”
“I’ve never actually seen one of those,” Ben says.
“No, me neither. I actually haven’t stayed in that many motels.” The truth is, I can count on one hand the number of nights I’ve stayed in a hotel or motel. Tricia wasn’t one for vacations. Most of the trips I’ve taken have been with the Garcias, and we usually went camping or stayed with their relatives.
“So not many opportunities to share a motel room with a guy before?” Ben asks lightly as he pays an inordinate amount of attention to his pizza crust.
“None.”
“So you’ve never shared a room before?” Ben asks. “With a guy?” He seems strangely shy.
“I’ve never shared anything with a guy before.”
Ben looks up from his crust and stares me in the face, like he’s trying to determine exactly what I’m saying. I hold his stare, letting my look answer the question. His eyes, a soft blue, like the empty swimming pool outside, widen in surprise.
“Not anything?”
“Nope.”
“Not even . . . a pizza?”
“Oh, I’ve eaten pizza with guys before. But I’ve never shared one. There’s a big difference.”
“There is?”
I nod.
“So what about now?”
“What about now?”
He looks at me.
“What’s it look like?” I ask.
His brow crumples, a squall of confusion, as if he’s not sure we’re talking about pizza anymore. He glances at the corpse of the pie. “It looks like you had two slices and I had four and you don’t like pepperoni as much as I do.”
I nod, acknowledging the greasy pile of pepperoni I’ve picked off.
“And that this is all happening in a motel room that we’re both sitting in,” he continues.
I nod again. For a moment I’m reminded of the pledge I made never to sleep under the same roof as him. Maybe he is too. Obviously, tonight I’m breaking that, though the truth is, I broke it in spirit a while ago. And none of it seems to matter anymore.
“So what does that mean?” he asks. He’s trying to sound casual, but he looks eager, and very young.