A White Coat Is My Closet (26 page)

I was so enthused about seeing Sergio the next day that even getting caught in traffic at the corner of Crescent Heights and Melrose did little to sour my mood. Hell with it; I’d run in the dark if I had to. The adrenaline from my excitement alone would get me to the top of the mountain with minimal effort, and besides, I was determined to start looking my best. No way would I allow love handles to even think about colonizing a little homestead on my sides. I was on a determined track for a true six-pack.

The run was invigorating, and when I arrived back home I found my roommate Christian busily making dinner. His boyfriend Brent was also there. They had only been dating about two months, so although the relationship was relatively new, they seemed genuinely happy about having found each other. When I walked into the kitchen, I wasn’t surprised to find them both wearing almost identical shit-eating grins.

Christian was the first to speak. “Hey, Zack. What’s up? We were just about to eat dinner but made plenty. You want to join us?”

“And horn in on your date? I wouldn’t think of it. First of all, I wouldn’t dream of being a third wheel, and secondly, I couldn’t forgive myself if I were to be responsible for interrupting this ancient mating ritual.”

Brent chimed in before Christian could answer. “Don’t sweat it, Zack. We made way more food than we can eat by ourselves, and besides, I guarantee we’re gonna mate later whether you eat with us or not.” He gave Christian a salacious smile.

We all laughed. “Okay, let me clarify: I don’t want to be a voyeur should you guys get yourselves all worked up and decide to mate right here on top of the dinner table.”

“Wow, sounds hot, Zack.” Brent reached for Christian’s hand. “What do you say, babe? Isn’t it your turn to cover me in spaghetti sauce?”

Christian grinned. “No, we used spaghetti sauce last time. Tonight we were going to use the caramel sauce and marshmallows.” He leaned over and kissed Brent gently on the lips. “Just wait until you see where I intend to put the cherry.”

“Okay, guys,” I bellowed. “Too much information. I’m going to have to stick needles in my eyes to rid my brain of that visual. Keep your dicks in your pants long enough for me to make a salad. I’ll be out of your way in a second. Then, at least spread plastic before either the spaghetti, the caramel, or the marshmallows begin to fly. I don’t want to have to clean body fluids or refrigerator contents off the upholstery.”

Christian and Brent slowly released hands and broke the warm stare they’d been sharing. Christian said, “Seriously, Zack, eat with us. Or at least share some of our salad. It’s already made, and I feel like I haven’t seen you in over a week. Besides, we both want to be brought up to date as to what’s going on with your new Italian stallion.” He grinned. “Anything scandalous to report?”

Being hungry and actually too tired to take the initiative to make my own salad, I accepted the invitation and pulled out a chair to sit down. “Well, nothing involving caramel sauce, if that’s what you’re asking. But,” I said as I took the napkin that Christian handed me and unfolded it onto my lap, “we do have a date tomorrow night. He’s making me dinner.”

In reality, it felt good to share my enthusiasm about Sergio with someone. As roommates, Christian and I were close, but our call schedules prevented us from seeing much of each other. He was a resident in internal medicine, and though he wasn’t on call as frequently as I was, his hours were brutal as well. In addition, in order to spend more time with Brent, he occasionally went from the hospital directly to Brent’s apartment, so on those days, our only communication was through notes posted on the refrigerator.

Christian brought the rest of the food to the table and sat down next to Brent. They locked hands again briefly, but then, in order to allow Brent to pick up his utensils, Christian dropped his hand to Brent’s thigh.

I watched their interchange and reflected on how much better my living situation had become. During my internship, I had had roommates as well. They were graduate students from other departments within the medical center, but they were both straight, and I wasn’t out to them. That year had been agonizing. I was working horrific hours, was invariably made to feel incompetent in my first rotations at the hospital, and never felt like I could completely relax when I came home. I recognized that much of my misery was self-imposed, but at the time I felt powerless to change it. I hadn’t really been fearful that my roommates would have thought less of me had they known I was gay, it just felt too risky. We moved in some of the same professional circles, and I didn’t want them disclosing personal information about me to people who I wouldn’t want to have it. In addition, my parents occasionally came down to visit, and I didn’t want my roommates volunteering tidbits about my private life that I was disinclined to willingly share. As a consequence, my whole living situation felt extremely claustrophobic.

During my last year of medical school, I had begun venturing out. That was when I had met Declan and our amazing friendship had blossomed. When we first met on the beach, there was initially an attraction between us, but because Declan had just ended a six-month relationship a few days before, he had zero inclination to start dating again. By the time he had recovered from the breakup, the foundation for a wonderful friendship had already been laid, so neither of us looked back. We became best friends, and the friendship continued not only to endure but to represent the rock in our lives that we both frequently leaned on for support. Romantic interests would come and go, but we’d found stability in one another.

During my first few years of residency, though I had precious little free time, I would on occasion venture out into West Hollywood. Mostly it would be with Declan and other friends of ours. Back then, when I would actually hook up, I would have to awkwardly explain why going back to my place was impossible: “I have straight roommates.” “They don’t know about me.” “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.” Even to my ears it sounded tedious and juvenile. As untenable as it was, however, my life with straight roommates was my reality, and there seemed to be few alternatives. I mostly remembered it feeling oppressive and depressing.

That was why, in my last year of residency, moving in with Christian and Jeff had been so liberating. They were both friends of mine, they were both gay, and we were all immersed in the medical education system. No one could better understand the tribulations of our lives better than one another. We were sympathetic to the challenges we were all having to endure, understood the grueling time commitment being residents required, and supported one another in the quest for the perfect guy. Or at least supported one another in the quest for mind-blowing sex. Now, if I was fortunate enough to hook up, the only caution I would have to offer my date was “Keep your voice down, I have roommates.” Or to give the impression of being less uptight I would sometimes tease to impart the same message. “Because I have roommates, I’m going to have to try to be quieter. I’m so good in bed that I sometimes scream my own name.” I hadn’t said that recently, though. It was a good icebreaker, but it set up some unrealistic expectations. Lots of pressure to take someone to bed and have them anticipating a Cirque du Soleil performance.

Now, though my life continued to be inordinately busy, coming home was a pleasure. Rather than feeling like an outcast, home was a welcoming sanctuary where I was free to be myself and supported by caring friends. The feeling was more liberating than could be described. As compared to my previous living situations, it felt as if I’d been paroled from jail.

Christian and Brent and I ate, teased, shared some of the frustrations we had recently been feeling, and regaled one another with stories of our mutual friends’ dating catastrophes. They also pressed me for more details about Sergio. I couldn’t help making it obvious that I was pretty smitten, but I nonetheless tried to maintain a low profile. In reality, Sergio and I had only recently begun dating, and it was way too early to predict if the relationship had potential. The fact that I already felt head over heels was sometimes just an omen that I was destined to suffer a monumental disappointment. So, though I sat there talking to them about Sergio and expending a huge effort to keep my expectations in check, I was sure my enthusiasm was seeping out all over the place.

After I finished dinner, I washed my plate and began reaching for the cookware to clean up. Christian, however, refused my offer to help. “Go to bed. We’ve got this covered. You were on call last night, and you need to rest up for your big date tomorrow. Besides,” he said, smiling, “Brent and I were going to fill the sink with bubbles, get naked, and have our own little soap and suds party.” Brent carried his plate over to the sink, wrapped his arms around Christian, and broke out into a huge grin.

“Someone is going to be squeaky clean, though I can’t say I can guarantee the condition of the dishes.”

I laughed and rolled my eyes. “Thanks for dinner, guys. The meal was great. But given your intended festivities, I might never eat off those plates again. From here on out, it will be disposable paper products for me. The vision of one of you using your hairy ass as a sponge is downright revolting.”

Christian just laughed harder. “Wait until you see what I intend to use as a bottle brush.”

“Good night,” I shouted. “If I hear any more, I’m gonna have horrible nightmares and will develop such a dish phobia I’ll become anorexic.”

I disappeared into my room and closed the door. Laughter and thoughts of Sergio engulfed my mind in the mere seconds it took me to fall asleep.

I
HAD
written Sergio’s address on a little piece of paper and had it clutched between my fingers as I slowly navigated down South Manhattan Place. It was a street a few blocks west of Western Avenue, and he said that he lived between Third Street and Sixth. I compared the numbers on the buildings to the number written on the paper. I had to be getting close. He’d instructed me to leave my car in the red zone with the flashers on. Once I’d parked, I should run up to the intercom at the main entrance and enter his apartment code, then he would open the security gate to the subterranean parking lot. He said the two spaces clearly designated for guest parking were almost always empty, and I should park in one of them. Easy enough.

When I identified his building ahead on the right, I swung into the red zone flanked by driveways on either side. I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror, then jumped out to alert Sergio that I had arrived by punching his code into the intercom. I reminded myself that I should run the brush through my hair one last time after I had parked in the lot. We hadn’t seen each other for a week, and I wanted to make a good impression. Sergio said he would take the elevator down into the lot to meet me. Apparently, the elevator could only be accessed by using a tenant’s key. I laughed. Maximum security.

The gate swung open. I drove from street level down into the garage and located the empty spaces in the back without difficulty. Again, I looked in the mirror, ran the brush through my hair, and gave my collar a tug to straighten the creases. I stared at my reflection and practiced an unassuming smile. Maybe not Brad Pitt but certainly not Chicken Little either. The bike ride from the week before had left me with a slight tan, my hair had cooperated, and the shirt I had chosen complemented my eyes.
Fuck it. This is as good as it is going to get.

As I was getting out of my car, the elevator door opened. I silently congratulated myself on the timing. I wouldn’t have wanted Sergio to catch me preening.

I grabbed the bottle of wine out of the passenger’s seat, slammed the door shut, then looked up to see Sergio approaching. The second our eyes met, my breath was taken away. Knowing I would see him did little to buffer my reaction. I was overwhelmed by how incredible he looked: dark hair, olive skin, captivating eyes, radiant smile, confident stride, emanating an aura of sex appeal seldom achieved even in Calvin Klein underwear ads. I tried to surreptitiously lean my hand against the car door handle but was really reaching for it to hold myself up. It took a behemoth effort to speak and have my voice come out as more than a soft whisper.

“Hey, Sergio. You make one fine-looking chef. Heck with dinner—I might just want to spend all night in the kitchen.”

In a few strides, he was standing within arm’s reach of me. He still hadn’t spoken. He stood quietly in front of me, his smile getting increasingly warm, and he ran his thumb across my cheek. When he did speak, his voice was gentle and teasing. “Oh yeah, you’re gonna eat. I have to introduce you to what real Italian food tastes like.” He continued to stroke my cheek and let his fingers creep behind my neck to pull me forward. “We might, however, have to discuss dessert. I suddenly find myself craving something a little more American.” He leaned forward and took my mouth in his.

The kiss was rich, seductive, and quick. No sooner had I wrapped my arms around him and gotten the wine bottle pressed into his back than he drew back and smiled. “Welcome to my home.” He smiled self-consciously. “Or, at least welcome to my garage. Come on up. I’ve got some things on the stove that I don’t want to burn.” He let his hand slide down my back, but in doing so, he caught my hand in his and started pulling me toward the elevator. “I’m on the third floor. It’s perfect because the building is only three stories high. No one above me, so no heavy footsteps clomping across my ceiling.”