Christmas Kitsch (Hol) (MM) (20 page)

I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and crushed him against me, reassured when he grabbed my shoulders and wrapped one leg around my hips.

I was drowning, drowning, not able to breathe, but I didn’t want air, I wanted more of Oliver, and he seemed to want more of me, too. He dropped his leg and backed us up to the bed, and there was a moment’s awkwardness, arm, arm, knees bent, and then I was on top of him, both of us in sweats and hoodies and all.

I ground between his legs and he shoved his hands up under my sweatshirt, and together we kissed and kissed and frotted, our breaths harsh and hushed in each other’s ear.

Oh God. I needed him. That need tore through me . . . ripped away that layer of shiny I’d had since I’d crawled out of my dorm room bed, the one that made it look like Rusty was okay.

That quickly, tears were rushing my throat and my cum was rushing my balls and I was weeping, coming, uncontrolled in his arms, between his thighs, spewing warm and sticky inside my underwear.

Oliver grunted, bit my shoulder, and arched frantically against me. He wasn’t getting enough friction, I could tell, and I propped up on one knee so I could I reach between us. I slid my hand underneath his sweats, grasped him, and stroked. Once again, I could only feel him in my palm, but that was enough, because he bit my shoulder, made a sound like a mewling kitten, and came in my hand. I collapsed on top of him, burying my face in his shoulder and trying to hold onto myself since I suddenly felt so lost. The fronts of our sweats were gummy and kind of ick, but I couldn’t make myself move. My shoulders trembled for a minute. I had to get up, or I was going to lose it.

I rolled off him, but only got to the side of the bed before he stopped me, threading his hand with mine and rolling into my chest.

“Rusty?”

“Yeah?” Please let my voice not break. Please. Oh God, please.

“It would be okay if you didn’t move out, you know that right?”

My breath felt like it had shattered my lungs. “I have to,” I said, “I have to.”

“Rusty, I mean, my dad wouldn’t mind—”

“If I slept on your couch, Oliver?” I rolled away. “What kind of boyfriend would I be? What kind of grown-up would I be? We couldn’t sleep in the same bed, because kids don’t sleep in the same bed. We’d have to wait for your dad to fall asleep to get off, and that’s like being at home and beating off in the dark. And . . . and
worse
than that—”

Oliver rolled over to his side, and I rolled back, so we were looking at each other, our heads propped on our arms, our legs curled up so only our ankles and calves were dangling off the bed. It worked better for him than it did for me.

“What’s worse than that?” he asked, and he put his hand up on my cheek and rubbed a thumb under my eyes. We both knew his thumb came away wet.

“I need to make a home,” I said, not able to explain it. “I need a place. I can’t be your person if I don’t belong anywhere but your couch.” I took one of those deep breaths that shuddered my whole body, and he scooted closer, until his face was pressed up against my shoulder.

“What happened to me being your home?” he asked, and he was hurt, and I couldn’t fix it.

“You are my home,” I said, and it was true. “But I . . . I can’t ever expect you to live with me and . . . and make a life together, if I don’t have a place for us. I need to . . . how can you love me if I’m just some loser on your couch?”

And that last part broke me. I struggled to push myself up, but Oliver was tucking himself against me, scooting up so he could hold my head, folding me against his chest and kissing my temple while hot, angry, helpless tears trickled out because I refused to let them purge.

He had to work the next day, but his dad let me use his truck so I could take all the shit my folks had thrown on the lawn to the apartment. I signed the lease, grabbed the key, and wrote a check from the checking account I’d opened the day before using my savings. Then I moved my boxes of clothes, my football trophies, my posters, the knickknacks from my dresser, and the small television and DVD player I’d gotten for my fourteenth birthday into the apartment, where they sat forlornly in the living room while I looked around.

I stood there, checking out the small space and the crappy light, and thinking I should get some nails and put Rex’s quilt on the wall, since it was on top of the boxes, when I received a text.

It was Nic. She had a minimum day at school and wanted to visit me.

I cheered, right there in my empty living room.

One more excuse not to be alone in this shitty apartment.

I went to pick her up in the truck, and, after texting Oliver’s dad to make sure it was okay, we drove to West Sac, and the IKEA store.

Given I had groceries, utility deposits, incidentals, and (oh, for fuck’s sake, I didn’t even want to think about it) Christmas, I figured I had about $500 to spend on furniture. One futon, some sheets, and a chest of drawers to set the television on in the living room,
and
put the clothes in. Oh yeah, and coat hangers.

I could do this. I was prepared.

I was not prepared for how much fun she was in the passenger’s seat. She asked for details about Rex, details about Oliver’s aunts and uncles, details about the dogs, and details about the little girl cousins who ran around in velveteen dresses and fell asleep watching
Brave
.

“They’re all named Maria?” she said, her eyes big, and I told her about how all women were Mary and all men were Joseph, and she nodded.

“Yeah, that makes sense,” she said, and I figured to Nic, it did.

In return, she told me about how school hadn’t changed one single bit from what I remembered, and how the algebra teacher was still a woman-hating dick, and how the sophomore English teachers were a toss-up between the hippie woman teacher who passed everyone and the hard-assed, little black-haired guy who looked like he was wearing a sweater when he rolled up his sleeves.

I remembered these people, and I knew about the elevator in the two-story building where guys kept getting busted getting blowjobs, and how nobody sat down on the couch in the easy teacher’s room, because we all knew that thing would be seen from space if we ever put a black light on it.

Anyway, she was fun to talk to. As we turned off Highway 80, I actually took my balls in both hands and asked about our parents.

She sighed. “They . . . they don’t talk about you, not in front of me. They sort of pretend you’re still away at school, I think, and that their whole world is hunky-dory. It’s weird.”

Oh. Well, uhm. “Ouch.”

I had to park the truck sort of far out, because apparently furniture is the premium Christmas gift, and it never failed to amaze me how packed this place was. Maybe it was the child-care facility and restaurant. Maybe shopping for furniture made a great date if there was free day care, and a nice meal at the end. Either way, we got frickin’
lost
on our way through IKEA and if Nic hadn’t been able to read the damned map, we’d probably still be there. So, there we were. Futons, mattresses, dressers—I picked out stuff that looked like wood, but not mahogany or ebony because that shit didn’t look warm. They had sheets and pillowcases, but Nic told me you could get that stuff cheaper at Target, and I needed to save my money.

God. Felt like it took for-fucking-
ever,
but Nic made it fun, talking about her and me and Oliver on the futon, watching my little television, and how she’d bring my stereo, which she’d appropriated during the big Rusty purge, because she was pretty sure Mom and Dad had been going to give it to someone else.

As we were in the line, our big furniture pieces in boxes in the giant cart, I saw her texting furiously. Her shoulders drooped in relief, and I caught her eye. She shrugged.

“I convinced her I was shopping with friends. I told her they’d drop me off; she’s irritated, but it’s no big deal.”

Yeah, no big deal now would be the third degree later. I could have gotten away with it. I was starting to see that now. I’d gone off with my friends for hours—no texting, no nothing. Mom and Dad had said, “We trust you.” I was starting to wonder if that was actually code for, “We’re pretty sure we control you.” Nic wasn’t controllable, though. She had a mind of her own.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

Nicole’s smile was almost frightening. “Don’t worry about it, Rusty. If hanging out with you is the worst trouble I ever get into, they’re getting off lucky.”

I felt a sudden shaft of worry. “You won’t, will you?” I was nearing the cash register, and I pulled out my wallet. God. I was going to be down to subsistence pretty soon, and I didn’t have anything—not plates, not silverware, not even any food. That big yawning pit of the things I was giving up suddenly opened in front of my feet.

Then Nicole put her hand on my arm and smiled. “Get into trouble? No, Rusty. Don’t worry. I’m not gonna start cutting and going all emo on you. It’s much more fun to piss them off by doing things my teachers approve of.” Like being friends with her gay brother, or getting a liberal arts degree, or being more interested in arts than business. I got it. Nicole was smart enough that just being herself was rebellion. She didn’t need to go Danger Woman on me.

The pit closed up a little, got big enough to maybe jump over, or fill up with dirt, or swim across the muck in the bottom. I could do this.

I handed my card over and punched in my debit code and tried to still the shaking in my hands.

We got to the apartment with barely enough time for me to unload my big furniture boxes and drop Nicole off twenty-five feet from my parents’ driveway.

“Say hi to Estrella for me,” I told her, and she kissed my cheek before scrambling out of the truck.

“I’ll ask her to cook for you. She misses you.”

I flushed. “Even with the gay and everything?”

Nicole shrugged. “Yeah, she talks about lighting candles for you until you find your way to God, but she told me this morning that she wanted to cook tamales for you if I could find a way to get them to you. I think she loves you anyway.”

“Yeah?” Suddenly it was really important that someone else in that house did.

Nic paused at the door. “You know, when I’m grown-up, and I have kids of my own, they’re not going to ever have to ask that question. I’ll be by on Saturday. Mom thinks I’m going shopping with Jessica, but I’m totally bailing.”

“Okay, how will you—”

“Bye!”

I figured if she needed a ride she’d text, and waited until she got to the driveway before I pulled out. I didn’t have nearly the hard time driving the truck that Oliver did, but for some reason it felt like the thing was fighting me the entire way back to the apartment. I had to park on the street in front of the building, because I’d forgotten that Oliver had my car (which looked strange—maroon, not my first choice of a color), and he’d parked in my spot.

I had a hard time opening the door to the apartment because my hands were shaking in relief. Oliver was there. I wouldn’t have to be alone.

He was on the floor with the open futon box; he’d laid out all of the pieces and was reading the diagram for how to put it together. He had his nose wrinkled, and I didn’t blame him—those things never made any sense—but when I walked through the door and into the living room, he forgot about that shit and jumped up and ran into my arms.

I caught him and he hopped, wrapping his legs around my waist and pulling my head down for a kiss that I was happy to get lost in. After a few moments, though, I didn’t want to kiss anymore—I just wanted to hold, and I did. His legs slid to the floor and he let me bury my face in his neck.

“Rusty, you’re shaking,” he said, and I shook my head and managed a smile.

“Just glad to see you.”

“Yeah, Aunt Gloria gave me her spare key. She told me to have you return it to the office because they need it.”

He pulled it out of his pocket, and I took it and put it in my pocket.

Oliver grinned, the apostrophes at the corners of his mouth widening to parentheses. “Did you see?”

It seemed an obvious question, right? But when I said, “Yeah, how’re you doing on that?” he lost his mind.