The Other Guy (12 page)

By some divine intercession, if some fans were to be believed, our football team traipsed their way to the Super Bowl that winter. Although I normally retained only a passing interest in the sport, the championship fervor that had overtaken our city and Hal's mind persuaded me to throw a Super Bowl party, in the mistaken belief that it might be fun.

Having invited Hal, obviously, and a few people I was friendly with at work, it took me another few days to decide to ask Nate to come as well. It would've been weird not to, given that he now occasionally spent a few consecutive nights at my place, and I at his, but I was always a little wary of mixing social circles, besides which nobody knew we were even involved.

There were moments when I was fiercely proud that Nate was mine, but only to myself. We had been together for a good month now, and I hadn't told anyone, save Linnea, and then only because keeping secrets from her was an exercise in futility.

For reasons I couldn't properly articulate, I hadn't been able to bring myself to broach the subject with Hal, probably some of the same reasons I hadn't done it with my parents either.

Fear of recrimination, fear of him seeing me differently and not liking what he saw, fear of what that might mean for our friendship? I didn't know, and the more time that passed with my inexplicable reluctance getting in the way, the more I felt as though I couldn't bring it up at all.

Hal came over early on Sunday with a couple of extra chairs and to help out with whatever preparations needed to be done, though that mostly involved him being glued to the pregame analyses on TV.

In the meantime I puttered around the kitchen looking for things that could masquerade as serving platters and starting on a batch of guacamole.

There are few talents I have to boast of, but making guacamole happens to be one of them. I know, it's a gift.
With half an avocado in one hand, I hacked the base edge of a large knife into the seed and twisted to pit it, but my hand slipped, and the blade slid down my palm instead. Instantly, a bright line of blood appeared across the heel of my hand.
"Shit," I cursed. The avocado half in my hand splatted onto the chopping board.
Hal came into the kitchen on hearing me swear, his face blanching a little when he saw me holding a bloody hand underneath the kitchen faucet. "Jesus," he said. "You have any first aid stuff?"
"Yeah, in my bathroom. Check the right drawer," I called over my shoulder as he hurried into my bedroom toward the en suite.
Removing my hand from the water, I gingerly dabbed at the wound with a paper towel, holding it up high so the blood would flow in reverse of the cut. It actually wasn't that bad; the cut wasn't very deep at all.
Hal came back with a tube of antiseptic ointment and a couple of large adhesive bandages, and hovered nearby in stoic concern while I dressed the wound.
"Okay, that looks good," I said, inspecting my hand from several angles to make sure the bandage's sticky edges had been well placed.
"I guess that means no guac?" Hal said.
I arched an eyebrow at him. "You still have two functioning hands, buddy."
"I was kinda hoping you wouldn't notice," he said, sighing, even as he picked up the abandoned avocado and scooped the meat out of it.
Under my strict tutelage, the guacamole managed to come together, just in time for the first knock at the door.
Almost everyone else turned up in quick succession after that, hands full of beer and assortments of heart-unhealthy victuals. With each new arrival, I began to grow more anxious about having invited Nate. What if nobody liked him? What if they did? What if they asked
questions
? I wasn't prepared for questions.
A few minutes after kick-off, Nate arrived, fashionably late and the last of the lot. I opened the door, and out of habit he leaned in for a quick kiss hello, but I panicked and shied away, casting a stealthy glance at the other guests huddled in the living room, who weren't paying any attention to the latecomer anyway.
"Hey, you made it!" I said, several shades too brightly in an attempt to make up for my slight.
Nate saw right through me, however, a small frown forming between his eyebrows. He blinked it away and held up a six-pack, amber bottles clinking softly. "I brought beer," he said, sounding a little wary.
"Great!" I said, still operating on a thousand watts too many.
Familiar enough by now with my apartment, Nate took the beers to the kitchen to stick them in the fridge, and I followed him anxiously, offering my bottle opening services when he removed one from the carrier for himself.
He spied my bandaged palm, a crease marring his forehead in concern. "Hey," he said, lifting my wrist gently, "what happened to your hand?"
Hal walked in at that moment, saying something about chips, and I yanked my hand out of Nate's grasp.
"Nothing," I muttered quickly. "Just a cut."
On sighting Nate, Hal set his chip problem aside and stretched a friendly hand out to him. "Hey, I'm Hal. Don't think we've met before."
Nate shook it. "Nate. Nice to meet you."
"Yeah, you too," Hal said. "So you work at the speech clinic too?"
"Uh, no," Nate said, casting a quick, dubious glance my way. "I'm a photographer."
"He's the uncle of one of my former clients," I interjected, stupidly.
"Cool," Hal said, in his typically taciturn fashion. "Em, where are the chips?"
As I directed him to the top shelf of the pantry, I could practically feel the ire that had clouded over Nate's face come at me in tsunami-grade waves. It was a wonder I managed to remain on my feet at all.
Maybe inviting him hadn't been such a good idea. Maybe not telling one of my best friends about his existence had been an even worse idea.
Keeping up hosting appearances, I ushered Nate out to the living room to meet the rest of the party. He did his part to play the perfect guest and happy football fan, and did it exceedingly well, but I suspected it would take more than a few touchdowns and finger foods to win his good humor back.
The game itself did nothing to help the situation along, as our team, having mysteriously lost the favor of the football gods, received a sound drubbing as early as the first quarter and never won the advantage back.
As the game wore on, my suspicions were confirmed. Although outwardly Nate seemed to enjoy himself just as much as the others did, cheering when cheering was warranted, groaning at bad calls, striking up friendly conversations with the rest of the guys when the clock was stopped, his irritation with me was palpable.
The others seemed not to notice it, but then they hadn't spent months obsessing over him like I had. I noticed it all. It was in the set of his shoulders, in the ripped label of the beer bottle in his hands, in the shifting of his jaw, and I spent most of the game wondering how to make it go away.
At the same time, I couldn't help my own budding irritation with Nate for being annoyed with me in the first place. We'd been together for only a month; it wasn't like I was going to take out a double-page spread in the Tribune to wax lyrical about it. I still didn't know where it was going, or if there was a somewhere it could even go.
The party wound down somewhat early, thanks to our team's dismal performance. One by one, my guests drifted out into the night, nursing varying degrees of grief at our collective loss, leaving only Hal and Nate by the time we officially lost the game by more than twenty points.
I had a feeling Nate was staying only out of spite, like if he stuck around long enough I'd finally admit that he existed in my life in a capacity greater than 'uncle of former client'.
Hal made a half-hearted offer to help me clean up, but I waved him off, sending him home with some of the leftover beer and unopened snacks. He seemed glad to go; I wasn't sure if it was because he sensed the tension between me and Nate, or if he was just looking forward to getting back home to drown his football sorrows in peace.
As soon as I shut the door behind his retreating back, I turned to Nate with my hands up in preemptive surrender. "Okay, I'm sorry," I said.
Nate stood a few feet away, his arms folded across his chest. "For what?" he said levelly, the light of a challenge in his eyes.
I must have been hoping that he'd just accept the apology and we'd be done with it, because the question took me by surprise.
"Um," I said.
"Look, it's not a trick question," he said, sounding tired, as though he'd had this conversation before, "and I'm not trying to pull some passive-aggressive bullshit on you. I know you know I'm mad."
"Yeah. I'm sorry," I said again, and Nate waited while I gathered my thoughts. It took me a minute to find the words for them. "I-- You and Hal are both important to me, and uh, you know where Hal stands in my life, but I told him nothing about you. That was unfair of me, diminishing your importance by omission."
As stilted as it was, I meant it, and the admission seemed to leach some of the irritation out of him, his shoulders relaxing a little.
"But why are you keeping it from him, from everyone?" Nate asked. "I mean, are you-- Are you ashamed of me, or...?"
"No," I said at once, astounded that the thought had even crossed his mind. "Oh my god, no. Jesus, Nate, you're one of the most incredible people I've ever met."
He gave a minute tilt of his head as if to indicate his agreement, and we both laughed a little, easing some of the strain from the room.
I took a couple of steps toward him. "Look, this is kinda hard for me, you know? It's all really... new. I mean, before you, I never even really considered the possibility of being with another guy."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," I said. "And, you know, I'm almost thirty. Figuring this out now at this point in my life? It takes a bit of getting used to."
Nate nodded, though I didn't expect him to fully understand. He'd found his bravery nearly fifteen years ago; I still wasn't sure if I had any to find. It was one thing to admit it to myself, and another entirely to show everybody else a part of me I had kept hidden for so long. Once it was unearthed, there was no putting it back.
"I just need some time to work it out with myself first," I continued. "But it's definitely not you; you're great. Seriously."
"Okay," he said, reaching an arm out to me. He was sounding more like himself now, a playful confidence coloring his tone as his hand landed on my shoulder. "But just so you know, saying any variation of 'it's not you, it's me' kind of makes it sound like you're trying to break up with someone."
I leaned into him. "You'd think I would've figured that out by now considering how many times it's been said to me."
"They were right, though, all those times," Nate said. "Because who would willingly give you up, unless they had severe mental problems of their own?"
I laughed. "Well, if that isn't the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me."
"I'm serious," Nate said, his fingers playing with the curls behind my ear. "You, my friend, are a heartbreaker."
"That's not-- No," I said, bemused. "Are you sure you're not confusing me with you? Because you're the one with the tallness and handsome face and a wardrobe not carried over from ten years ago."
"Nope, not confused," he said. He pinched my cheek and I flapped his hand away. "You're going to break my heart someday and you won't even realize it."
He said it so lightly that it could have only been a joke, but something in his face, something focused but fleeting, made me think he actually believed it.
"Well," I said, for lack of anything better to say, "that day is not today."
Nate smiled. He picked up my injured hand, tracing the outline of the bandage with a curious finger, now that he could do it without me freaking out again. "What did happen here?"
I lifted one shoulder to indicate that it wasn't worth mentioning, but then added, "I was just trying to pit an avocado. The knife slipped."
He shook his head. "Man, those avocados will
kill
you. I did the same thing once, sliced my thumb open," he said, showing me a light, thin scar along the length of its pad. "Blood everywhere. I had to get six stitches."
"Oh, are we one-upping each other on injuries now?"
"What? I'm just saying it hurt like a bitch, man. Six stitches!" he said, cradling his hand close to his chest as if the wound was fresh. "That damn avocado; I've never forgiven it."
"Aw," I said, doing my worst impression of a babying voice. "Poor little Nate. Does he need Emory to kiss it better?"
Nate stuck his hand out. "Yes, please."
On impulse, I sucked one of his fingers into my mouth instead, greatly enjoying the look on his face as I slowly released it.
Accepting the challenge, he leaned in close, his breath warm on my ear, his lips barely brushing my skin. "You know," he said, his voice the silk of melted chocolate, "since you're just wantonly dispensing treatment for old wounds, I think I should tell you about this one time when I fell on my dick, so..."
I burst into laughter, shoving his shoulder. "Fuck off," I laughed.
He matched my grin, and pulled me to him again. We came together, tasting the smiles on each other's lips, wrapped in the joy of the moment, in the joy of being us.
And later on, for the sake of thoroughness, I applied my medical expertise to his old injury, and in the end, we agreed that he would probably need repeated treatments. You can never be too careful about these things.

Afforded the leeway of taking my time to come to terms with what our relationship meant in the context of the entirety of my life, my procrastination skills kicked into high gear, and I spent the next two months avoiding the topic at all costs.

Nate occasionally talked around it, occasionally asked after Hal and other friends, dropping hints in the hopes of getting in return something better than the ambiguity I kept giving him. But they never quite went anywhere; he seemed wary of pushing me, in case I pushed too hard back.

I knew he was getting a little impatient with me for it, though. Hell, I would get impatient with me, too, especially considering how much time he had let me simmer with it, considering how accommodating and supportive he was being.

Although I recognized -- and quite guiltily, I might add -that I was taking advantage of his goodwill, I still couldn't actually bring myself to do anything about it, crippled in the fear of losing everyone I cared about in the process.

I was safe where I was, here in my neat, compartmentalized cubbyhole, small and safe, out of sight and out of judgment. I had gone so long, worked so hard at being not different that letting that go felt like walking too many miles in someone else's shoes; those belonged to an Emory who wasn't so afraid of being wrong, of being a disappointment. I couldn’t imagine being him. There were so many things to fear, and I feared all of them.