A White Coat Is My Closet (29 page)

I lifted my cup to take a sip and imitated his serious tone. “If you’re really that concerned about my enjoyment,” I said before I swallowed innocently, “you would already have taken your pants off.”

Sergio just laughed. “I apologize. It was an oversight. My guests’ comforts always come first.”

I was consumed by a gentle warmth. The evening really had been perfect. We’d talked, we’d laughed, and we’d shared. In addition, the gelato was delicious and the cappuccino provided a marvelous finale to an exceptional dinner. When we had finished, we sat quietly on the couch. I was nestled comfortably under Sergio’s arm. He had dimmed the lights and lit a few candles. The colors on his paintings were softly illuminated by the candlelight.

I sank deeper into his embrace and admired the artwork. “I love the one of the clown. His expression is so sorrowful. It’s not just his makeup. You can see it in his eyes. And yet, the colors around him are so vibrant. The effect creates quite a contrast. It’s powerful.”

He too studied the painting. His expression became reflective. “I was going through a challenging period when I painted that. I suppose the clown’s face is representative of my struggles. His eyes reflect my uncertainty and pain.” He hugged me tighter. “But even during the worst of it, I somehow knew I’d get through. Without realizing it at the time, I think I chose the surrounding bright colors to signify my underlying optimism. It’s like the colors were beacons signaling the happiness waiting in my future. It’s funny—during that period of my life, painting was a distraction for me. It was an escape. Kind of ironic that the actual process of painting that damn clown ended up providing me with encouragement.” He continued to stare at the clown’s face as if lost in a memory.

I lifted the arm wrapped around my shoulder and pulled it more tightly against my chest. “Well, I’m no critic, but I think it’s amazing.” I kissed the skin of his wrist.

“I’m glad you like it.” Sergio laughed and kissed the top of my head gently. “Every artist needs a following. Now you’ve been promoted to president of my fan club.”

Out of nowhere, my stomach lurched. Sadly, it wasn’t unusual. The most innocuous comment could provoke my insecurities, and they would surge forth as if released from the depths of hell. Sergio wasn’t belittling me. Far from it. In fact, he couldn’t have been more gracious and admiring. He wasn’t responsible for making me feeling insecure. My insecurities came from decades of rigorously cultivated self-doubt, and they would rear their ugly heads without provocation or reason. Even more regrettably, expressing them invariably made people feel defensive. Historically, many a wonderful evening had been sabotaged by my spewing unpleasantries rooted in feeling insecure about myself.

“Sergio, I don’t even want to think about how many admirers you have in your fan club. Forget your paintings; your eyes alone could generate a ‘members only’ list that half of West Hollywood would sell their souls to be included on. Just thinking about it makes me want to go back and climb underneath my rock. I’m having trouble believing you even want me here.”

Sergio drew back and looked at me with an expression of genuine confusion. “What do you mean you can’t believe I want you here? You know I was joking about having a fan club. There is no list, and even if there was, it wouldn’t matter. What matters is that I invited you here because I wanted you here. Leave any other hang-ups at the door. And for the record, I’m pretty sure I didn’t pull you out from under a rock.” The anger that I had seen flare a few times before began to reveal itself again. “And what does that say about me? Do you think I choose the people I want to spend time with by turning over rocks?”

He pushed me forward so he could get up. When he was angry, his hands became even more animated and his eyes sparked with emotion. He stood directly in front of me and stared me down.

“What’s your game, Zack? You show up here, we have a great evening, you give me the impression that we’ve genuinely clicked, and then you say something that implies I’m nothing more than a player. You think the only reason you’re here is to enable me to put another notch in my bedpost? Is that it? If that’s what you think, I can assure you, you can wipe that idea right out of your head. I’m not that desperate.” He began to pace as he spoke, the cadence of his speech increasing and the volume getting louder. “Why do you think I went through the effort of making dinner? It didn’t occur to you that I thought you were a quality guy who I wanted to get to know better? You think my only goal here is to check your name off a list?” He turned and again stared at me. “A list that, by the way, exists only in your head. It doesn’t exist in mine.” He looked like he intended to say more, but he subsequently fell silent. He just left his gaze locked on mine, his jaw clenched, waiting for me to respond.

I, on the other hand, had fallen into a daze. I had no idea why I couldn’t have just kept my mouth shut. Seconds before, I had been enjoying one of the most amazing nights of my life. Sergio really was everything I was looking for in a guy: personable, funny, compassionate, insightful, and incredibly good-looking. The last thing I had intended by my comment was to offend him. Even sitting there, incredibly self-conscious under his angry stare, I was absolutely dumbfounded as to why the comment had come pouring out of my mouth. Most certainly, it had been motivated by panic. As enamored as I was with Sergio, being in his company also made me feel extraordinarily inadequate. He was good-looking, confident, and exuded sexuality from every pore—all qualities I felt I was completely lacking. Any self-esteem I had evolved from my confidence in my intellect. Not an attribute to apologize for but certainly not a huge allure for enticing a hunky guy into the bedroom. My inability to see myself as a reasonable catch also prevented me from accepting that a guy like Sergio would have even a modicum of pleasure in being with me. The byproduct of my insecurity? Open mouth and say something to deflect my feelings and ruthlessly obliterate the enjoyment of the moment.

I looked back at Sergio’s intense expression, but any attempt to form coherent words was impossible. I folded my hands across my lap and stared at them intently as if by contemplating them, the secrets of self-realization would magically be revealed. I racked my brain for an explanation that would justify the inappropriateness of my comment, but none came.

The volume of the silence became deafening. I felt like if I didn’t break it, I would be consumed by it. My whole world, all my insecurities, seemed to cascade into the spotlight of that single moment, but I was aware only of the tear that ran slowly down my cheek. How could I make Sergio understand that he’d done nothing wrong? It was simply that I was broken.

When a more eloquent explanation couldn’t be found, I looked up at him through tear-filled eyes and choked out an emotion-filled apology that was little more than a whisper. “I’m sorry. I’m an idiot.”

In another amazing transformation, Sergio’s demeanor immediately softened. Again, his anger seemed to dissipate instantaneously, and he sat down next to me and pulled me into his arms. “You can say that again. Where do those ridiculous comments come from anyway? Do you carry a bag of self-put-downs around on your shoulder? Can’t you just leave it at home for one night and enjoy the evening? Doesn’t carrying it around ever become a burden?”

The relief I felt crashed over me like a wave. As stupid as my comment had been, it apparently hadn’t caused Sergio to conclude that I truly was defective. I was too embarrassed to look directly at him. “I don’t know what possesses me to say things like that.” I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “I told you I was an idiot. I guess now I’m trying to prove it to you.” I looked at him out of the corner of my eye and forced a smile. “Did I succeed? Is it unanimous? Should you just call 911 and have me admitted to the psych unit? There must be a special ward for people who see what they want dangled in front of them and rather than grabbing it, they kick it over the cliff.” I turned my palms toward the ceiling and looked up, as if searching for an answer. “When will the craziness stop?” I put my elbows on my knees and cradled my head in my hands. “You must think I’m a complete loser.”

Sergio again reached out and pulled me against him. “Would you quit trying to tell me what I think of you? I’m thirty-two years old and have lived independently since I was eighteen. I haven’t needed someone to tell me what I should think for a long time, and I’m not about to let you start telling me now. The only one in this room who thinks you’re a loser is you.” He hugged me tighter. “I’m not exactly sure how you came to that conclusion, but I, for one, am pretty damned sure you’re wrong.” He gently grabbed my chin and turned my head so I was forced to look him in the eye. “And for the record, I’ve never been known to be wrong about these things. So,” he said before he kissed me on the cheek, “if you’re absolutely sure this pity party of yours is over, can we continue our wonderful evening?”

He stood up and reached for my hand. “Ideally, in the bedroom. Unless you’d prefer to eat more dessert.”

I stood and pulled him into a deep kiss. “I was kind of hoping
you
were the dessert.”

Sergio smiled. “I knew that, given enough time, you’d come up with an idea I agreed with.”

He pulled me toward the bedroom.

M
ONDAY
morning I was still floating on a cloud. With the exception of my brief psychotic break, the evening with Sergio had been sensational. When he pulled me into the bedroom, I was greeted by the most romantic welcome imaginable. Soft music filled the room, and it was illuminated by antique wrought-iron candelabras on either side of the bed. Each held three pillar candles. The bedspread was folded neatly on the foot of the bed, and the mattress was covered in soft ivory sheets. We kissed, embraced, and slowly undressed each other. Just prior to pushing me down onto the bed, Sergio stood naked in front of me. I reached out, let my hand slide slowly down his chest, and just looked at him. Had I been able to make a wish, I would have wanted time to stand still in just that second. I felt like I had died and gone to heaven. Handsome, sexy, understanding, gentle, and, in that moment, inexplicably mine. The night was a torrent of passion.

When we finally did sleep, I felt like I had been put into a medically induced coma. I lay on my side with Sergio pressed firmly against my back, his arm wrapped around my chest to pull me tightly into him. I was exhausted. In Sergio’s hands, I had been inspired to reach sexual heights I’d never before even thought imaginable. It felt like I’d participated in a climax marathon, but the exertion was indescribably satisfying. Mostly, however, I felt content. Like, perhaps for the first time I could remember, being in his arms, I felt like I really belonged. The feeling was simultaneously calming and intoxicating.

We had slept until late in the morning, had one more raucous toss in the hay, then jumped into the shower to get Sergio out the door in time. He was scheduled for a double shift that day. On Sunday, the restaurant served a special brunch. He was supposed to be floor manager for the brunch, then stay to work as headwaiter for the dinner shift. I suspected because we hadn’t officially fallen asleep until almost four in the morning, despite sleeping in, he still would be tired. I had volunteered to stay and wash the dishes from the night before, but Sergio rebuffed my offer. “You are my guest. There’s no way I’d relegate you to the cleanup detail. What kind of host would that make me? I’m Italian. When you extend a dinner invitation to someone, the guest isn’t expected to pay for his meal by being placed on kitchen detail. The very concept is appalling.”

I had tried to argue. “I wasn’t your guest, I was your date. There’s a difference, and it’s the least I can do. The dinner was incredible, and I will feel guilty knowing that after coming home from working a double shift, you’ll walk into a dirty kitchen. It would be my pleasure.”

Sergio responded by pushing me toward the door. “Don’t test me. Mention it once more, and the next time I invite you to dinner you’ll get a Pop-Tart on a paper plate. That will spare either of us any cleanup.”

I laughed but didn’t offer any additional protests. Before I opened the door, I turned and reached out with both arms to grab Sergio by the shoulders. “Make mine a chocolate Pop-Tart.” I smiled but then looked at him a little more seriously. “At the risk of sounding too corny, I just wanted to tell you that last night may well have been one of the best of my life.” I coughed. “Okay, not only corny but so sickeningly sweet you might require a shot of insulin.”

It was obvious Sergio didn’t get the joke, but I moved on without trying to clarify. “Forget it. I’m just trying to say I had an incredibly great time, and I hope to be able to see you again soon.” I pulled him closer and leaned in to kiss him. “There’s a strong possibility you could become habit-forming.”

Sergio responded to the kiss with passion and enthusiasm. When it broke, he was smiling at me. “I’m not the only one who might end up being a hard habit to break. You’ve got ‘addiction’ written all over you.” He smiled warmly. “Doesn’t that break some medical code of ethics? Promoting addiction?”