In the Middle of Somewhere (16 page)

And the biggest thing wrong with me: why, even now, does my whole body feel pulled toward Rex when I was just touching him a minute ago?

Before I can let myself think about it, I walk to the bathroom and knock on the door.

“Yeah,” Rex says over the shower.

I open the door slowly and there he is, the sharp lines of shoulder and leg softened by steam and glass.

“Can I?” I ask, gesturing to the shower.

“Course,” he says. “You don’t have to ask.” But of
course
I have to ask. You don’t just get in the shower with someone.

The water’s a little hotter than I like and I can feel my skin turning pink almost immediately. Rex puts a hand on my hip and draws me toward him. I go to kiss him, but he stops me with a hand on my palm. He pulls us tight together, his body hot and slick from the water. He wraps his arms around my shoulders and runs a hand up and down my spine, making me squirm closer to him.

“Look,” he says. “It’s been a while since I’ve done all this. I know I can be a little…. I just like touching you, but I didn’t mean to overstep. Okay?”

He’s looking right into my eyes and he’s so big and solid that I find myself telling him the truth.

“I’ve never done this before.”

He pulls back like I scalded him.

“Wait, you mean last night was your first—”

“No! No, no. I mean
this
. The kiss and shower together and sleep over thing. I’ve never done that.”

He looks puzzled.

“You’ve never dated someone before?”

I sigh, relieved he’s supplied the word.

“Well. No. Well—I went out on a date once, but it didn’t go so well. So, I don’t know how it goes, really, or if I’m any good at it.” I look down and watch the water swirling down Rex’s drain. It’s easier to talk in here, like the sound of the water takes the edge of fear off my voice.

Rex regards me, frowning slightly.

“Well, here’s how it goes,” he says. “I’m going to take you to breakfast. Then we’re going to jump your car. Then I’m going to ask you out on a date. Are you free Thursday night?”

“I thought asking me out on a date was going to come after jumping my car?”

“Just getting my ducks in a row,” he says, and squeezes my shoulder. “What do you say, dinner on Thursday night?”

I nod and take a deep breath. I can do this, right? It’s just dinner.

“I
CAN
’
T
do this,” I tell Ginger.

It’s late and I should be in bed, but I’ve missed a dozen calls from her since Sunday, no doubt wanting to know how my night with Rex went, so I picked up when she called.

“Dandelion!” she says. “Tell me everything. Don’t leave anything out. Can’t do what?”

“I’m supposed to meet Rex for dinner tomorrow,” I tell her. “And it’s definitely a date.”

“No, no, no,” she says, irritated. “You don’t get to skip right to the telling me your problems part. You have to start with something like, ‘Oh, Ginger, let me tell you all about my date instead of ignoring your calls for four days,’ or, ‘Ginger, let me tell you how good the lumberjack is in bed.’ Got it?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Excellent. So, how was your date on Saturday night?”

“It was good.”

“Seriously? That’s what I get from you?”

“Do you think I’m a pessimist?” I ask her, staring at the pile of papers I’m only halfway through grading.

“Yes,” she says. “Well, I think you’re a pessimist where you’re concerned. You tend to be pretty realistic about other people’s shit. Why? Did he tell you you’re a pessimist? Because you know how I feel about dudes who tell you who you are on a first date. Control freak abusers.”

“No, he didn’t say anything about it. I just—I keep doing this thing where I think a nice thought about Rex and then my brain thinks, like, ‘It’s never going to work.’”

“Well, sweetie, that voice in your head is the same one that said you could never go to college. It’s the same one that told you not to bother applying to grad school because they’d never want you. It’s the same one that told you all the other students thought you were stupid when you first started.”

“They did think I was stupid when I started.”

“Well, they were asshole snobs. And, anyway, you proved to them it wasn’t true. So you just have to prove it to this voice too.”

“I don’t know how to do this. What do I talk about? What if we actually hate each other?”

“Um, Daniel. You don’t hate each other. You had a date the other night and, even though you apparently
refuse
to tell me about it, it went well enough that you’re having another one tomorrow. And I
know
you didn’t ask him, so he must have liked you enough that he at least wants to see you again.”

“I could have been the one to ask him,” I grumble.

“Um, sure, pumpkin; whatever you say.” She pauses, then her voice changes. “Come oooooon,
please
tell me about the date?”

“He rescued me from a snowstorm and cooked me dinner and I spent the night, and then he took me out to breakfast. And he said he used to be really shy, but I totally didn’t get that from him until breakfast when we went to the diner and he was really tongue-tied ordering. It was kinda sweet.”

“It’s October.”

“Uh. Yeah.”

“How was there a snowstorm in October?”

“Right! Michigan, man. Fucking Michigan.”

“Oh. Right. So, wow, you spent the night? Were you drunk?”

“No. Bitch.”

“Hunh,” she says, like that explained something. “Okay, so how was it? The sex, I mean, obviously.”

“Dude, it was really good. He’s… I dunno, magnetic or something.”

She’s quiet for a while and my mind drifts to Rex’s big hands on me. The way he pulled me close to him in the shower after I told him I’d have dinner with him, his strong hips flexing into mine, our erections sliding together in the steamy heat. The way he grabbed my ass, grinding us together, his chest hair scraping my nipples. The way he bit down on my throat like I was a kitten trying to wander away, and pulled me up into him, hard. The way he kissed me, tongue everywhere, hands everywhere, our cocks straining together until we both grabbed them at the same time, jerking white heat on our stomachs and chests and leaning against each other as the water washed it all away.

“Earth to Daniel,” Ginger is nearly shouting into the phone.

“What!”

“Oh my god, you’re thinking about having sex with him
right
now.”

“Guilty,” I laugh.

“Fuck, that’s so hot,” she says.

“What?”

“Sweet cheeks, you’ve fucked the lead singers of bands on international tours and never said anything more than, ‘He looked taller onstage,’ or, ‘Yeah, nice guy.’ If you’re sitting there right now fantasizing about sex you had with the lumberjack to the point where you don’t hear me
yelling
your name, then I
know
it was hot. God, I’m so jealous. I want a lumberjack.”

“He’s not a lumberjack. And you should be.”

“Uuunnghhh,” she groans.

“Hey, any highlights from the shop lately?”

“Oh my god,
yes
. You remember that really tall, skinny guy who had me do the vertebrae tattoo down his spine?”

“Yeah, the one you kept calling Skeletor, thinking you were funny until Megan told you Skeletor is actually big and blue and muscular?”

“Yeah,” she mumbles. “
Anyway
, he came back in and he wants me to do his whole skeleton. Like, every bone, little by little.”

“That’s awesome,” I tell her. Ginger likes large-scale projects and she loves doing realistic black and gray. “Did you start?”

“Yeah, I did his left arm. It’s gonna be sick. Not sure when he’ll have the cash for more, but I’m totally into it.”

“Sweet. Hey, my brother hasn’t come back in, has he?”

“No,” she scoffs. “Definitely scared him away. Asshole. Have you talked to them recently?”

“It may shock you to know that none of them have sent so much as a text message since I left.”

“Sorry, babycakes.”

“No surprise,” I say. And it’s not, really. It’s not like I’ve been thinking about my dad and my brothers much or anything. I mean, most of my contact with them in the last few years has been cursory and everything before that was them messing with me, since they found out I was gay. No. Before they found out. Still, I hadn’t even realized I was hoping maybe now that we had some space between us, they’d…. What—miss me? Nah. But… wonder if I was okay? Maybe.

“Listen,” Ginger says, “it’s their fucking loss, you hear me? You just don’t worry about them. You just do your teaching and write your book and forget about them. Go on your date. Talk about whatever you want. Oh, and ask lots of questions. And don’t swear.”

“What?”

“Just, you know, don’t swear too much. It’s not polite on a date.”

“What are you, a fucking matchmaker?”

“Just, don’t say ‘fuck’ every five seconds, okay, asshole? It’s crude. And it shows you don’t have respect for your date.”

“Girl, you’re crazy.” But I like when she tells me shit like that. It feels like the kind of scolding that someone who cares about you gives.

“Where are you going for dinner?”

“Some Italian place near campus. I mean, this town only has, like, four restaurants.”

“Don’t wear a white shirt, in case you get sauce on it.”

“Dude, I don’t even own a white shirt.” Not since the one I bought for my interview got covered in Marilyn’s blood, anyway.

“Oh, right. Well, you know what I mean. When I went to La Dolce with that Andrew guy last year, I wore my white jacket—you know, the cloth biker-style one?—and I sprayed tomato sauce all over it. Looked like I’d been in a shoot-out. Not a good look. Just saying.”

“God, I forgot about Andrew. He was such a tool.”

“True that. Anyway: learn from my mistakes, young Jedi.”

“No white. Check.”

“Hey, D?”

“Hmm.”

“I can tell you like the lumberjack. Just… be yourself, huh? Like, your actual self. The way you are with me. Not the way you are with your brothers. Or with Richard.”

“And how am I with them?” It comes out snippier than I meant it.

“You’re just really… guarded. Quick to throw down. You know.”

“Whatever,” I mutter.

“I’m serious. It may not work out with him, sure. And that’s fine. Just… give him a chance.”

“Message received,” I tell her with a sigh.

“I adore you,” she says in the voice I can never resist.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Go draw on someone.”

“Bye, babycakes.”

M
Y
CONVERSATION
with Ginger has been on my mind all day, so when I run home to change before meeting Rex, I call the auto shop. It’s about 5:00 p.m., so they’ll probably all be there. I’ll just say a quick hello, check in; no big deal.

“Pat’s,” a gruff voice says on the eighth ring.

“Luther?” I say. “It’s Daniel.”

“Oh, hey, kid. How’s tricks?”

“Pretty good,” I say. “Weird to be out of the city and all. How’s Maria and the kids?”

“Oh, good, good, you know.”

“Great. Hey, listen, are any of them around?”

“Yep, here’s Sam. Bye, kid.”

“Daniel?” Sam sounds a little surprised to hear from me, but not unfriendly. We don’t really have anything in common, but he always gave me the least shit. Most likely just because he’s the oldest and didn’t want to waste his time.

“How’s it going, bro?” I ask.

“Not bad,” he says, and starts talking about some new car he’s working on. It’s like I never left. My brothers all do this. They know I don’t care about cars but they don’t have anything else to say. So I let him talk while I pull on jeans and change my shirt.

“Liza good? She still working at the florist?”

“Yup. She’s fine. Bugging me about kids.”

“Do you want kids?”

“Eh, you know. We’ll see. Anyway, kid, gotta run. Here’s Pop.”

“Daniel?” My dad says it in the same voice as Sam, like he’s surprised to hear from me, even though it’s been over a month since I left. “How’s the car running?” I roll my eyes, forcing myself to remember what Ginger said: that this is my dad’s way of making sure I’m okay.

“Battery died when we had a snowstorm,” I say.

“In October?”

“Pretty far north here, Pop,” I say patiently.

“Hmm. Well, it could be—”

I cut him off, forestalling what would otherwise be a twenty-minute disquisition on what the other problems with the car might be.

“It’s okay, Dad. It was just the battery. I jumped it and it’s fine now.”

“All right, then.”

“How’s business?” This is the only thing I ever ask my dad about because it’s the only question he’ll ever really answer.

“Busy right now,” he says. “Folks trying to get everything shipshape before winter. And god bless the Streets Department for never paving a damned pothole until it’s screwed the alignment on half the cars in the city. It’ll slow down, though. Always does.”

He pauses and I can hear the familiar soundscape of the garage: the grind of hydraulics, the hiss of the power washer, the clank of metal dropped on concrete. As if in sympathy, the ghost smells of oil, lube, and hot metal tickle my sinuses.

“So,” my dad continues, “you need something?”

“What? No. Just wanted to check in. See how you guys are.”

“Oh,” my dad says. “Well, that’s fine. Uh, here’s your brother, then. Bye, son.”

“Brian?” I ask.

“No, it’s me. What’s going on?”

“Hey, Colin,” I say. “How’s it going?”