Shy (5 page)

“You do?”

“Jesus, Frank, why do you think Jerry and the dick sent you over here?”

“I thought they just didn’t want me over
there
.”

“Hmm,” I said. “There might be a bit of truth in that too.”

Frank was eyeing me like maybe he thought I was pulling his leg. Not that I wouldn’t mind.

“You?” he asked again, pushing his hair away from his forehead so as to look at me a little closer. “But you’re not shy.”

This was too much even for me. “Good grief, Frank. Pull your head out of your ass. Haven’t you noticed that you and I are about as conversational as a couple of pumpkins sitting in a cornfield?”

(I was in Indiana once. I know they have pumpkins sitting in cornfields, although I think they pronounce them “punkins,” and I know those pumpkins or punkins or whatever the hell they are don’t do a whole lot of talking, although now that I think about it, maybe they talk their little stems off when no farmers or gay tourists are around, so maybe they really
do
talk more than Frank and I, in which case my little
bon mot
was actually misapplied. Isn’t it funny how I can jabber on forever inside my head over such inconsequential things as pumpkins and cornfields when what I really wanted to say was this…)

“I used to think I was the shyest person in the world, Frank. I now know that is not the case.
You
are the shyest person in the world. I can’t tell you how relieved that makes me.”

Frank looked like I had punched him in the gut. Suddenly his eyes were those of a trapped animal. He gently slid Pedro off his lap, eliciting a couple of growls, and pushed himself up from the sofa. “I think I’d better go. Thanks for the beers. I just remembered something I really need to be doing.”

He glanced around for his suitcase, spotted it, and went for it like a drowning man heading for a life jacket.

But I beat him to it, scooping the suitcase off the floor and holding it behind my back.

“Come on, Frank. Sit down. I wasn’t trying to make fun of you. What I said is true. I
do
suffer from shyness just like you. That’s the only reason Jerry and Stanley sent you over here. They thought we would both be more comfortable going to the party if we didn’t have to go alone. Misery loves company and all that, you know? In their own clumsy fashion, the dick and the asshole were trying to be nice.”

Yeah, right. I was amazed I could say that with a straight face.

Frank was looking more uncomfortable by the minute. He couldn’t leave because I was holding his suitcase with all his worldly possessions in it and he was too nice a guy to simply knock my lights out and grab the suitcase and run. Besides, the poor guy really had nowhere to go. And no way to
get
there even if he did have somewhere to go. He wasn’t driving. He must have come in a cab.

“Did you cab it here?” I asked.

Frank looked down at his shoe tops. “Couldn’t afford a cab. I took the bus.”

My apartment was about a mile from the bus stop. Jeez, the poor guy schlepped that suitcase all the way across town just because his brother the dick was too selfish and too lazy to pick him up and drive him over here. I was getting madder at Jerry and Stanley with every passing minute.

“Frank, sit down. Please. We need to talk, okay? We need to get past all this shyness bullshit and just
talk
.
I’m going to put your suitcase right here by the door, then I’m going to get us a couple more beers
.
After I say what I have to say, I won’t stop you if you still want to go. Okay? Is that a deal? Will you stick around long enough to just hear me out? Huh?”

Frank nodded, dragging his eyes up from his shoe tops to center them on my face. I could see the effort it took him to do that one simple thing. God, his eyes were so green. And leery. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

He didn’t sound like he was too thrilled about the idea, so I kept a close eye on him while I hurried off to the kitchen to pluck a couple more beers from the fridge. And all the time I was keeping that close eye on my houseguest through the kitchen door, I was wondering just what the hell I was going to say to make him feel more at ease.

At that very moment, it dawned on me that I didn’t want him to leave, because I really, really liked Frank Wells.

Good Lord, I thought. For the first time in two years, Jerry wasn’t in my head at all. He must have fallen out through my mouth the first time my jaw gaped open at the sight of Frank.

Well, wasn’t
that
an unexpected turn of events! Even for an insane person.

I found myself almost smiling as I popped the tops on two new beers and headed back to the living room, snagging a humongous bag of chips along the way, just in case Frank hadn’t eaten.

I swallowed my “almost” smile fast enough when I saw the look on Frank’s face. Apparently in the time it had taken me to scuttle off to the kitchen and convince myself I had a blossoming case of the hots for Frank Wells, Frank had dredged up the intestinal fortitude to get good and pissed off.

Golly. Believe it or not, that made him even sexier.

Chapter 4

“I’
M
NOT
hungry,” Frank snapped.

“So don’t eat,” I snapped back. “Who said these chips were for you, anyway? Maybe they’re for me. Maybe they’re for Pedro. Who the hell said they were for you?”

Going into alpha-male hyperdrive, I tore the bag open a smidgeon too forcefully and chips flew everywhere. The last time I saw Pedro move so fast was when I dropped two pounds of hamburger on the kitchen floor while making meatballs. He was all over those chips like black on a bowling ball. Frank scooped him off the floor before he could eat more than a pound or two, and once again he shook his finger in Pedro’s face. “No! Bad dog! No!”

This time Pedro took that flapping digit as an insult and bit it. Frank yelped, stuck his wounded finger in his mouth, and dropped Pedro like a sack of laundry. Pedro scooped up another mouthful of chips while the opportunity presented itself, after which he took a moment to hike up his back leg and pee all over Frank’s foot as a sort of
coup de grace
. He then sauntered off with his curly tail arched across his back, looking for all the world like a little general who has just won the war and damn well knew it.

Frank shook his head and grinned, watching Pedro stalk off. Then he looked down at his dripping tennis shoe and his grin widened. He turned to me, plucked one of the beers from my hand, and clinked his bottle against mine.

“Cheers,” he said. He didn’t seem to be pissed off any longer.

“Is your whole family nuts, Frank, or just you and your brother?”

“You need to train your dog, Tom. Those salty chips are bad for him. He isn’t housebroken very well either, in case you hadn’t noticed. And since you ask, my whole family is nuts, except for my brother, Stanley. Stanley is beyond nuts. Stanley’s an asshole. But I think you already know that.”

Then he looked down at his sodden sneaker again, and for the first time, I witnessed the young man laugh. Freely. Without the restraints of SAD holding him back.

That laugh was a beautiful thing to watch. I got so lost in enjoying it that it took me a minute to realize my dog had just peed on this guy’s foot and maybe I should do something to atone for that breach of etiquette.

I dropped to my knees in front of Frank and his laughter died so fast I thought he must have swallowed his tongue. I looked up and saw him gazing down at me wide-eyed, as I kneeled there in front of him. It was obvious what he thought I was going to do. And if I had only consumed a few more beers on this fine afternoon I might have done it. As it was, I merely said, “Don’t worry. I’m not going for your crotch. Maybe later, if you’re good.”

Frank opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. I took that as a good sign.

Trying to ignore the proximity of my face to Frank’s fly, I untied his shoes and slipped them off his feet, one at a time, rather like the prince doing his foot-sizing thing with Cinderella’s glass slipper, only backward. I handled Frank’s beat-up old Reeboks like they were glass too. Very gingerly. But that was only because they were covered with dog pee. I wasn’t afraid I would hurt them or anything. They looked like he had trudged the Appalachian Trail wearing them. In both directions. In the mud. About the only thing that could have made those shoes look worse would have been running them through a garbage disposal.

“I’m going to clean these for you, Frank. It’s the least I can do.”

When I realized Pedro had sprayed one of Frank’s socks too, I gently gripped his ankles one by one and tugged his socks off as well. His hand came out to rest itself on my shoulder so he wouldn’t lose his balance. I liked the feel of that hand there. I liked it a lot. I also enjoyed the sight of his bare feet smack in front of my face. They were lovely feet. Tan and sinewy with little tufts of black hair over the big toes. I got a glimpse of fuzzy ankles too. I love fuzzy ankles.

Frank’s embarrassment seemed to swoop back in like a raucous flock of sea gulls dive-bombing a dead fish. “You don’t have to do that. It’s okay. Really.”

“Too late.” I grinned, hauling myself to my feet, holding out the reeking shoes and socks like a fistful of Emmy awards. “I’ll just toss these in the washer. They’ll be clean and dry by the time we have to go to the party.”

Just mentioning the party was like throwing water on a campfire. Frank looked worried all over again in the space of a heartbeat. He also looked like he wanted to say something.

“What?” I asked, sensing his hesitation.

He hemmed and hawed around for a moment, then finally came out with it. “As long as you’re washing those, can you throw in a few other things too?” He glanced at his battered suitcase still standing by the front door. “I’ve been in town three days, and well—”

I was so thrilled we were being friendly with each other that I would have been happy to do anything he wanted. While washing his clothes wasn’t exactly what I really had in mind, it seemed like a promising place to start.

“Hell,” I said. “Slip everything off. I’ll wash it all. Won’t take but a few minutes.”

Frank laughed again. This time I think he was laughing at the hopeful look on my face, thinking maybe my houseguest was about to strip down to his underpants and even possibly
beyond
.
But apparently that would have been another feat that would require more than three beers to accomplish.

“No, there’s just a few things. Where’s the washer?”

Frank grabbed his suitcase and followed me down the hall to where my stackable washer and dryer stood in an out-of-the-way corner like a stocky sneak thief trying to look inconspicuous. I dropped in the shoes and socks. After first removing a shower bag filled with personal hygiene crap and a couple of manila envelopes stuffed with God knows what, Frank hefted the suitcase up and tipped everything else he owned in after the shoes.

“I guess you’re not big on sorting,” I commented.

To which Frank said, “It’s a waste of time. Just set that sucker on
fumigate
. Everything will come out fine.”

“Are you sure you’re gay?” I asked. I never knew a gay person in my life who didn’t know how to properly sort laundry. Or make a bed.

Frank looked surprised. “Who said I was gay?”

Oops. “Your brother. I’m sorry. You mean you’re not?” That would explain a lot, I thought.

Frank took a couple of beats to think it over, then shrugged. “No. I am. I just didn’t know Stanley had told you.”

“Did you know
I
was gay?” I asked.

Frank laughed again. This time there wasn’t much charity in it. “Yeah, although I think I would have figured it out pretty quick anyway. That little comment about my crotch was pretty much a dead giveaway. Plus you’re not exactly lumberjack material.”

If he hadn’t been so damned right, I would have been offended.

T
WO
beers later we were feeling very little pain, although I did see Frank keeping a nervous eye on the clock. It was obvious that he wasn’t looking forward to the goddamn party any more than I was. The dryer rumbled comfortingly in the background while Pedro snored from the back of the couch where he was perched like a sleeping parrot. All was forgiven apparently. In Pedro’s mind at least. And Frank’s too, I guess, since he had his arm draped along the back of the sofa with Pedro’s chin resting on the back of his hand. They were friends again. All was right with the world.

Frank and I weren’t bumping heads so much either. Our two cases of social anxiety disorder seemed to have found a demilitarized zone where we could pretty much be ourselves with less danger of our shared psychoses reaching out to slap us mute. On a social level, I had not talked this much with anyone in months. Frank seemed to be enjoying himself too.

God bless booze.

“So what are you going to do as far as making a living goes?” I asked, downing the last dregs of my fifth beer and seriously considering going for a sixth. “Do you have any job prospects lined up?”