I quickly spin and fiddle with a loose piece of yarn on the cuff of my sweater.
He walks over and takes an apple out of the basket on the kitchen table and bites into it with a loud crunch.
Help yourself.
My chest is tight because I sense he’s withholding information. I get the feeling he gets off on this kind of macabre power play.
“What? Is it Jordan? Something about Jordan, right?”
“Yes.” He takes another casual bite of the apple and smacking his lips together as he chews before continuing. “I want you to know I’m doing everything I can to help you. I made some calls yesterday to see if we could delay the court date. I pulled in as many favors for you as I could,” He pauses to shake his head. “But, they won’t budge. Mostly, they think you need to be in a more stable living situation.”
“More stable? How is this not stable?” I look around the apartment. Bruce is meticulous. This place could be a show model for the damn complex. “I’m in a good neighborhood. We keep the place spotless.”
Just don’t go in my room. Canvases are stacked and leaning everywhere. I have sheets all over the floor, splattered with paint, and my clothes are heaped inside the closet in wads and crumpled balls.
“Yes, more stable. They think you need to be on your own. Not living with a homo.” The disdain in his voice makes me sick.
I cross my arms and squint at him, hoping he takes the hint and dials that down.
“This is a nice apartment. Bruce is a roommate and a great human.”
“I’m just here to give you the truth, sweetheart.” He’s back on his feet, stepping toward me, his voice full of patriarchal condescension, and settles his hands on my shoulders.
“So, what should I do? I can’t afford to move out. I could never afford a place as nice as this.”
“Well, that’s what we need to think about. You need to show the court you’re stable and have the means to provide. They like normalcy. I will never tell anyone about your other job, either. That would lose the case for you for sure.” I can’t believe when he smiles and takes another bite of the apple.
“Should I quit the club? I need that money, but I’ll quit dancing if it will help.” I hate the desperate choke in my voice. I realize I’m still clutching the strap of my backpack. I drop it to the floor and lower myself in a heap onto the sofa.
“Why are you dressed like that? Why aren’t you wearing your scrubs?” Jeremy ignores my question.
“Like what?” I smooth the sweater down and cross my legs because his intense stare is making me feel like I’m on the stage wearing my wings.
“Those jeans. A sweater. You look nice.” He squints his face in disapproval when he sees my mismatched socks. “Where were you?” He closes the space between us, and I pull my arms around my waist.
“What should I do about the other job?” I don’t really care to discuss where I was, and I want to stick to the more important topic. “Should I quit or what?” I snap at him, trying to redirect the conversation.
“No, don’t quit. You need the money. Just understand, I’ll keep that between us. I’ll keep that a secret. You can trust me. Just . . .” He sets the half-eaten apple bite-side down on the coffee table and looks directly at my chest before lifting his eyes to meet mine. “Start thinking about making a more stable presentation. We have to present the very best version of you we can.”
I feel almost like he is touching me with his eyes, and an unpleasant tension rises in my stomach.
I also see something distinctive in the front of his khaki pants, and a panic begins to bubble up. He’s let me know in the last few months that he would like our friendship to be more, but I just haven’t been ready for anything like that. Clearly, he is.
In one day, I’ve created two very visible erections. I’m completely unsure how I feel about that.
I want him to leave. He’s never given me a reason to be frightened of him, but right now a rush of heat is covering my cheeks, and my ears are ringing. I feel cornered.
“Well, okay. Thanks. I’ll see what I can do to find my own place.”
He puts the backs of his fingers to his lips. I can’t be sure if he is covering up a smile or just wiping away the remnants of the apple’s juice.
“Good.” He puts both his hands on his cheeks. “Just start thinking of ways to make you the best version of you we can.” He drops his hands by his side, spins and flops down on the sofa next to me.
If he says “we” one more time, I’m going to kick him. I’m not some damn science fair group project.