“Okay.”
“Don’t smile like that. Smugness doesn’t become you.”
“Okay.”
“Scoot the fuck over. You’re hogging the bed.”
“I can’t move myself. I’ll split my stitches.”
After some maneuvering, I lay down next to him and used my arm as a pillow. The other hand was firmly attached to the remote control. I flipped to baseball. “Do you even like sports?”
“Hockey.” He took the remote and replaced it with his hand. We watched most of the third inning before he spoke again. “Austin, about being exclusive.” My stomach tied itself into knots.
“Yeah?”
“It’s not the end of the world if you want to change that.”
“That what you want?” What the fuck?
“You are just out. It’s too soon for you to be exclusive.”
Because he sounded so tired, I held my anger in check. “Is that so?”
He blew out roughly. “You’re angry. Again.”
“You’re telling me how I feel. Again.”
“Just think about it.”
“Think about fucking anything that moves until I can decide if I want to be exclusive to someone? How many dicks do I have to suck to get to the center of my gayness?”
“Or dating or just being with men like you. It doesn’t have to be reduced to fucking. But yeah, you’re going from gay to relationship in two weeks.” His heart monitor accelerated. I needed to control my anger and not perpetuate or escalate the argument.
I squeezed his hand and scooted until on my side, facing him. “Listen to me, because this is about as serious as I get.” His nose twitched, nostrils flaring. I forgot what I was going to say when the epiphany hit. “Your Tourette’s,” I said, smiling in wonder.
His face became icy still. “Fuck off.”
I laughed and kissed his nose. “That’s why you give those glacial looks. You’re controlling your twitches.”
“Not just twitches, Austin. You have this idealism that’s just not realistic when it comes to me. My nose twitches. My nostrils flare. I clear my throat twenty or thirty times an hour. I get facial ticks. Sometimes I bark. Still think it’s so cute?” The monitor ticked louder.
I did think it was cute. To me, everything about Peter was cute. But my nose was broken and that was his go-to appendage when he was pissed off. I decided to ignore his question for now. “When I was sixteen my grandfather told me he’d cut me out of his will if I saw my faggot friend ever again. I think he and my dad knew what I hadn’t admitted to myself.” The burrow of Peter’s brows amused me. “I didn’t care. Not about the money. Not ever about the money.” I dragged my arm from under my head and smoothed out his brow with my thumb, willing him to relax. “It wasn’t until after Jesse died, when I was vulnerable, that he struck.
“He was astute. A genius lawyer. He figured me out and how to get to me. ‘Just you remember, boy, fags live alone and die alone. And anyone associated with them. Do you want a family? Don’t you want a normal life? Or do you want to die alone? Hear me, boy?’”
It hurt when Peter pulled back from my hand, turning his face to the ceiling. I guess I had my answer, but maybe I needed the nail driven in further to fully appreciate how much I was alienating him with my commitment issues. Which were less issues than needs. “He knew what I was, and he knew that I needed to be part of a family more than I needed to be myself.”
“Austin—”
“So I really don’t need to fuck a bunch of men to figure out who I am and what I want, Peter. I just need to fuck one.”
“Okay.”
I exhaled at Peter’s universal word for an excited yes. “Okay,” I said.
“I come with a lot of baggage.”
“And a colostomy bag.” He gaped at me. I lifted his sheet and looked at his stomach. “Seriously, that’s gross.”
He reached up and flicked me on the nose. “Ow! Christ!” My eyes were watering, and my nose throbbing, but I was smiling as I leaned in and kissed him.
“God, you’re an ass.” He laughed.
I Might As Well Grow a Vagina with All This Sharing
Nurses awakened us at four to check his abdomen for infection, and I decided to stay awake so I could pick up his mother at six. The nurse lifted his gown and prodded his stomach. The small bullet hole was patched, but the slash from sternum to below his belly button was panic inducing. I avoided looking at his wounds and used the time to catch him up on the case.
“So all of those people are dead?” Peter asked.
“The seven women and men who shared the safe house with the girl were killed, along with four more at the whorehouse, they think. None of the cops was part of that, so they say, and Leila isn’t talking anytime soon. They haven’t found the bodies yet.”