How to Be a Normal Person (25 page)

Casey arched an eyebrow. “Asexual?”

“What?” Gus said. “No. I don’t care about that. Are they all
hipsters
?”

“Josiah, Serge, and Xander can be—”

“Those are their
names
?” Gus asked, sounding scandalized. “Oh my god. Even their
names
are ironic! What the hell.”

“—called hipsters, yes,” Casey finished. “Do I have to remind you of your name again? It’s practically your birthright to become a hipster with that.”

“You take that back,” Gus said with a scowl.

“Never. They’re cool cats, man. Laid-back and everything.”

“And you want them to meet me?” Gus asked. “What happens when you guys all get together and start talking about indie bands that no one has ever heard of called things like Don’t Cry For Me, Anorexia or Aphrodite’s Back Fat? And then you’ll talk about how much you love British comedies more than American comedies because the British have sarcasm that is so much more
real
. And
no
, I don’t want to buy your patchouli-smelling hand soaps made from goat’s milk and flaxseed called ridiculous things like Morning Refresher. I use Ivory like everyone else!”

“That sounds like a lot of stereotyping,” Casey said, looking down at his phone.

“Is that the latest iPhone you’re texting on?” Gus asked. “How long did you stand in line for it the day it came out?”

“Thirteen hours, but I had to because my other iPhone was already eight months old and—oh. I see what you did there.” He grinned at Gus and squeezed his hand. “Well played, sir.”

“You walking cliché,” Gus said.

“It’s okay, you know.”

“What is?”

“To be nervous.”

Gus narrowed his eyes. “What? Shut up. I’m not nervous. What even. Pfft. I’m so chill, people think I’m Alaskan.”

“Whoa,” Casey breathed.

“Please forget I said that,” Gus said with a groan.

“I don’t think I can,” Casey said. “I’m so chill, people think I’m
Alaskan
. That, like, works. On so many levels. Sort of. I’m stealing that and putting it in a book. It’s mine now. You can’t have it back.”

“I don’t
want
it back.”

“Liar. You’re jealous because I’m so chill, people think I’m Alaskan.”

God bless him for trying. “This is going to be a disaster.”

“They’re going to like you because I like you,” Casey said. “And since I like you a lot, they’re probably going to end up being your new best friends.”

Gus rolled his eyes, trying hard to ignore that fuzzy warm feeling in his chest. “I’m pretty sure you’re the exception there, buddy.”

“Thank you,” Casey said, beaming.

“No, I didn’t mean—never mind. I don’t make the best first impression, Casey.”

Casey laughed. “When I met you, you walked in soaking wet carrying a ferret in a cage. Which ended up being pretty spot-on about you. You make the best first impressions out of anyone I’ve met.”

Gus sighed. It was hard to argue with someone when they apparently thought you were awesome. Gus didn’t have many people that thought that, so who was he to dispute it? No one, that’s who. “I really don’t have a choice in the matter, do I?”

“Not even for all the business dinners in Uruguay,” Casey said. “Besides, it’s only for a few days. And if it makes you feel better, we can introduce them to your friends, too.”

“My friends?” Gus asked, confused. “I don’t have any—oh no. Casey, no. Don’t you even think about it.”

“About what?” Casey asked. “Oh look. The We Three Queens just texted and said they most definitely have an evening free next weekend to go out to dinner. How fortuitous.”

This.

This was going to be a fucking nightmare.

Gus needed to research everything he could as soon as possible.

HOW TO
Meet Your Boyfriend’s Friends

So! You’ve made it to the point in the relationship where it’s time to meet the boyfriend’s friends. This can be a stressful time for anyone, given that his friends will likely act as judge, jury, and potentially a relationship executioner. If they don’t like you, there is the potential that could have an adverse effect on your relationship. But if you follow these easy steps, you’ll have no problem in making an impression that will last a lifetime!

Step 1: Do Your Homework

Find out as much information about them as possible before you meet them. The best way to go about this is to ask your boyfriend. It probably isn’t the best idea to attempt to stalk his friends, either online or in person. If you’re caught, that can be somewhat difficult to explain away. It’s better to find out about them from a reliable source.

IT WAS
two days before hipsters were set to descend upon Abby, Oregon. They were going to be staying at the only bed-and-breakfast in Abby, a little cottage owned by Leslie Von Patterson, she of the unicorn dreams and strawberry nightmares. There wasn’t enough room at Lottie’s house with Casey in the spare room for them to stay there. Gus thought about offering up his house, but realized that was a positively terrible idea (because he and Casey had yet to work up to staying overnight with each other, and what happened when Casey went home? Gus would have to
entertain
his friends and the very thought of such a thing made him sick to his stomach). Also, Mrs. Von Patterson’s bed-and-breakfast had dozens of pictures of unicorns hanging on the walls, so Gus was somewhat vindictively looking forward to that.

But still, he needed to be prepared. The Internet told him as much.

“So,” Gus said, going for casual and missing by at least a mile, “your friends. Tell me all about them. You know. Normal stuff. Like their fears and weaknesses. Not that I would exploit that at all. I just want to know. For science.”

Casey looked away from the TV nearest to him in the Emporium, currently playing
North by Northwest
because Casey knew Gus secretly thought Cary Grant was dreamy, though he would rather die than ever say those words. “Hmm,” Casey said. “For science.”

“Or something,” Gus said. “And what’s your word count so far?”

Casey scowled at him and glanced at his opened laptop. “Enough.”

“Your agent and your editor are going to yell at you again.”

“You can’t rush this level of literature,” Casey said.

“You’re writing a scene where Desmondo and Martindale are searching for Catarina in the Catacombs of Sadness,” Gus said. “You are the heir apparent to Tolstoy.”

Casey laughed. “Catacombs of Despair, Gus. Come on. You should have known that since you’re my number-one superfan.”

“No one should use the word
superfan
to describe me about anything,” Gus said. “It’s reprehensible and you should feel ashamed. Now, tell me all your friends’ secrets. I assume they all shop at thrift stores to find faded print T-shirts from the eighties.”

“This much is true,” Casey agreed. “One time, I found a Camp Easter Seal shirt from 1986 that they only wanted a dollar for. I would have paid at least three times that. That was a good day.”

“Yes, yes,” Gus said. “It sounds like all your dreams came true. Spill, Richards.”

Josiah was a waiter who was waiting for his big break as an actor. He’d had a few parts already, playing a cadaver of a procedural crime show that had fifty-seven spinoffs. He was also an audience member in an infomercial who questioned the validity of the host’s claim that the revolutionary blender could
actually
blend everything. He played the role with such gravitas that the producers apparently allowed him to ask a follow-up question about certain salsa recipes that came with the revolutionary blender. He’d then tried to ad-lib a line or two (“Wow, this blender would be perfect for
my
blended family!”) and was immediately escorted from the room.

Serge was a yoga instructor who had traveled around India for eight months trying to find out how to access his inner chakras, and had ended up in the hospital for three weeks with a rather explosive case of dysentery that caused his inner chakras to become his outer chakras in a most foul and disgusting manner. Having recuperated, he then decided yoga was his calling and opened his own yoga studio with his trust fund, telling anyone who would listen that he most certainly didn’t
want
to use that money built upon dark Ivy League promises and corporate greed, but he really had no choice in the matter. “He imported Italian tile for his studio,” Casey said. “I still haven’t stopped making fun of him for it. That was six years ago.”

And Xander. Xander, Xander, Xander. As Casey showed Gus pictures of them, sometimes all together, sometimes just individually, Gus noticed there seemed to be quite a few of Casey and Xander looking awfully cozy. Granted, it took a few minutes for Gus to notice this, given that he was distracted by the fact that they all had equally ridiculous facial hair (“Does he have a handlebar mustache?” Gus asked, looking at an egregiously filtered photo of Josiah. “Is he a villain from 1860 that’s going to tie me to train tracks if he doesn’t like me?” Casey laughed harder than Gus had ever seen before and felt oddly proud of himself). But there was more and more evidence that
something
was there.

It was pretty much nailed on the head when Casey tried to swipe past a picture where Xander and Casey were shown holding hands, walking in what looked to be some sort of Pride Parade. Casey was smiling at the camera, but Xander was smiling at Casey with a look that Gus knew well. It was fond and sweet and absurd, and it was one Gus had given Casey many times, whether he wanted to admit it or not. Just the sight of it caused a gnarly curl of jealousy to spike in Gustavo’s gut. He’d never been the jealous type before. Well, he’d never been in a position where jealousy was a relevant emotion. He quite hated the feeling. It felt needless and petty.

Gus could do this. He could play it cool.

“Did you bone him?” Gus asked.

Gus could
not
do this. He could
not
play it cool.

Casey choked. “Say again?”

“Um,” Gus said. “Nothing. Oh look, Cary Grant is running through the cornfield. Did you know that to film this scene, they had to—”

“Gus.”

“Yes, Casey.”

“Bone? Seriously?”

“Yeah. I regret ever using that word.”

Casey put down his phone and cocked his head at Gus. “We dated.”

“Great,” Gus said, even though it was not great at all. “I am so glad you’re one of those people who can be friends with your exes.”

“Really.”

Gus swallowed. “Yes. What does he do? Own a chain of independent coffee shops? Or does he work at an underground record store?”

“He’s a tattoo artist. He did most of my sleeves.”

“Even better,” Gus said. “Awesome.”

“Gus.”

“Yeah.”

“It was, like, a year ago. We were friends before and now we’re friends after.”

“Oh?” Gus asked, remembering to play it cool. “Ain’t no skin off my back, homeslice.”

“Sure, man,” Casey said easily. “It lasted a few months, didn’t work out, went back to the way it was. You don’t have to worry about anything.”

Gus glared. “I’m not worried about anything.”

Casey leaned in, eyes wide. “You gotta know, Gus. You’re my one and only boo.”

Casey laughed as Gus shoved his face away, demanding he never use that word again, oh my god.

STEP 2:
Pre-Meet Prep

Yes, it can be scary meeting new people. Yes, it can be even scarier when it is the friends of your boyfriend. But remember, your boyfriend chose
you
for a reason, and he chose his
friends
for a reason, so chances are, at least some of those reasons will intermingle. Before you go, make sure to think up topics of conversation so there are no awkward pauses and/or silences. Plan on not overwhelming the conversation. Make sure to ask the appropriate amount of follow-up questions, but wait for the answers and don’t override someone else when they are speaking. After all, you want to give them opportunities to get to know the marvelous wonder that is
you
as well. You’ve got this! You’re ready to meet!

Gus woke up the day of the meeting with a plan.

He could do this.

He could be the most normal sort of possibly maybe boyfriend in the history of the world.

He said, “Today is going to be an okay day.” Then, “No. Today is going to be an
awesome
day and I’m going to be
awesome
and everything will be
awesome
.”

He performed his exercise routine with great enthusiasm.

His muscles burned, and he broke a sweat.

He finished and stood.

He tore the previous day’s inspirational message off and read today’s.

You are a strong, confident individual and today’s the day you show it.

“Fuck yeah,” Gus said, almost fist-pumping the air until he realized he was not a teenager in a John Hughes film and it was definitely not normal.

“You got this,” he told his reflection as he undressed.

“You got this so hard,” he told his reflection after he’d showered.

He dressed with extra care, wearing Pastor Tommy’s nicest Hawaiian shirt he had, one that he’d actually purchased in Hawaii. It was deep ocean blue and the white print had flowers and vines that reminded Gus of Casey’s tattoos and—

(“It was the first thing I bought myself on that trip,” Pastor Tommy had told him. He would be dead twenty-nine days later, but neither of them knew it then. He wasn’t yet in the hospital, but it was close. “I was twenty-six and off that plane, trying to find the nearest alleyway where I could light up and I saw this
shirt
, man. Just hanging in the window of this little shop. I thought it was the nicest thing I’d ever seen. The color, you know? It reminded me of the ocean. There I was, on a fucking
island
,
surrounded by ocean
, and my first sight of it was this shirt. I wanted that shirt. I
needed
that shirt. I went in and the shop keep—her name was Ailani—she said that it was for
me
, you know? That the shirt was made for me. I bought it, even though I couldn’t really afford it. I bought it and its color has never really faded. I think it must be a magic shirt, you know? It must be
magic
because a
year to the day
after I bought that shirt, Gus,
a year to the day
after, you were born. It was nice, man. The shirt. But it’s nothing compared to you. You’re still the nicest thing I’ve ever seen.”)