The Right Words (19 page)

“No salsa?”

“I overheated it. It needs to cool down again. Told you I’m a terrible cook.” He looked adorably chagrined, so I hid my smile and snacked on chips with my wine.

For some reason, the simple offering tasted better than anything I’d had in a long time. I wondered if it was the company and quickly shook my head. What was wrong with me? I spent an admittedly odd day with the guy I formerly worked for and topped it off by rolling out of his bed a few minutes ago. How could I explain any of this to my therapist? What did any of it mean? How was I supposed to begin to figure out what came next now?

It was too confusing.

“Cheers.” He clinked his glass of water against my wineglass and flashed me a cheerful grin. He must have seen something in my expression because he tilted my chin with his thumb and studied my face for clues. “What is it?”

“Nothing. This is weird, I guess.” I took another sip and looked out the window to the dark ocean at night. Bright streetlamps and the headlights of cars whizzing by broke the dark canvas, giving energy to an otherwise stark landscape.

“It’s only weird if we let it be.” Michael stepped away and returned with the bowl of salsa. “Here, try this now. It’s cooled down a bit.”

I picked up another chip. “It’s amazing. A little spicy, but very good.”

“Spicy? I don’t think so. Well maybe. I’m probably immune now. Wait ’til you try the tamales. One is carne asada and the other is chili verde, which is very spicy the way my mom makes it.”

“It’s usually best for me to avoid anything crazy. My digestive tract, well… you get the picture.” I blushed furiously and took another sip.

Michael burst into laughter, a relaxed, happy sound that made me smile in spite of the fact I was the cause.

“You are a funny guy.”

“How?”

“You’re very… real. I guess that’s the best word. Real. It’s refreshing.”

I smiled brightly at the compliment. In LA, everyone knew it was a big fucking deal to be called “real.” We were in the land of phony. Making something look authentic was better than
being
authentic to most people here. I think it’s one of the reasons I left for San Francisco. I didn’t fake anything well.

Michael set a plateful of tamales between us and handed me silverware, a napkin, and a couple of clean plates before he joined me at the counter. I placed the napkin on my lap and watched him carefully to figure out how one ate a tamale. He unwrapped the outside and set it aside before picking up his fork and diving in. Easy enough. I followed along but used my fork to take off a portion of the outside. I wondered what it was. It was thin but hard. It must be edible. I picked up my knife, cut into the tamale, and took my first bite. My eyes widened.

Not edible. Or at least not good. I couldn’t help the pained expression on my face as I reached for my napkin. Yuck. I spit out the offending piece of food and took a quick sip of wine before I caught Michael’s grin from the corner of my eye.

“Good, huh?”

“Uh….”

“Want to try it without the corn husk?”

“Corn husk? Oh my God! Why didn’t you tell me? Blech. Sorry, but ew.” I downed half of my wine while Michael chortled merrily beside me, wiping tears from his eyes. “I’m good with chips and salsa.”

“Let me help you, Lukey. Geez. Here’s how you do it. You unwrapped the whole husk from the tamale, and—”

“So it isn’t part of the tamale? And why are you using your fingers? That’s kinda gross.”

“Shh. No talking. The husk holds the good stuff inside, but you don’t eat it, honey. And you’re welcome to use a fork to unwrap it. Fingers work faster. Watch the maestro.”

Michael quickly unwrapped one and cut into it with the side of his fork before raising it to my mouth.

“Open up.”

I made a face. I wasn’t sure I wanted it anymore.

“Now,
cariño
.” He gave me a stern look most parents reserved for wayward children. I obeyed but folded my arms over my chest defensively.

It tasted… good.

“Not bad.” I nodded as I picked up my own fork and took a second bite.

“I’ll send along your high praise. Just so you know, it’s a big deal to have them in the month of October. My mom and my sisters make them once a year usually. They’re part of our Christmas tradition.”

“Why do you have them, then?”

“My mom knows they’re my favorite, so she made a special batch for me when I got injured. The thing is, they don’t make a dozen or two at a time. They literally make hundreds. I’m sure they scaled back but it’s part of the reason my freezer is packed with these little fuckers.”

I chuckled at his expression. He was obviously pleased to have his favorite meal and yet overwhelmed by the scope of their affection as translated by a hundred or more frozen tamales. When I told him my observation he became quiet.

“See, Luke? I might complain about them being underfoot and trying to fatten me up with an endless supply of lard-laden food, but what am I going to do when they stop? When they’re too disgusted to be bothered?”

I pushed my plate away at the word
lard
and stared at his furrowed brow. His thoughts were dark and sad now. I didn’t know what to say. It would be cruel to offer meaningless platitudes. As much as I wanted to assure him things would work out, what did I know? I didn’t have a freezer full of food made with love by well-meaning family members. Hell, I didn’t have a freezer of my own at the moment, and my mother didn’t cook any better than me.

He’d been right all along. We came from different places. I leaned over and brushed my hand along his back and laid my head on his shoulder. I didn’t have words but hopefully I could offer comfort by being there.

W
E
SPENT
the evening staring out at the clear night sky, talking about everything from favorite holidays to cartoons we loved as kids. It was pleasant and easy conversation. Michael made me laugh with his over-the-top, incredulous expressions when I admitted I’d never watched an episode of
He-Man
in my life. “How is that even possible?” We weighed the many differences of our childhoods via television and movies we remembered. The comparisons were lighthearted, but they spoke of a vast divide. We really were nothing alike. We didn’t share any common interest nor could we reminisce over like experiences. It should have been awkward and a little uncomfortable, but it wasn’t. It was fun.

“So what cartoons did you watch?”

“I’m not telling.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll make fun of me.” I took a moment to study my fingernails, though I was very aware of the hunky man sitting next to me staring at me with a mischievous smile on his handsome mug.

“Oh. This’s gotta be good. Come on. You can tell me. I won’t laugh.” He coughed and muttered “much” loudly.

“Obviously you aren’t mature enough to know,” I said primly.

“I am. I’m all kinds of mature. C’mon. I’ll go first.”

“You already said your favorite was
He-Man
,” I reminded him.

“No. I loved that show, but my all-time favorite was
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
.”

I burst into a round of giggles at his superior tone. “That’s pretty geeky.”

“Not back in the day. That was a killer show! Your turn.”

“Fine. I liked….” I mumbled the show’s name.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.” His eyes twinkled merrily. I could tell he was ready to pounce and give me the hard time he was sure I deserved. May as well get it over with, I mused.

“
The Smurfs
.”

I wasn’t disappointed. Michael cackled like a hyena, clutching his side and wiping tears from the corner of his eyes.

“You’re a cartoon bully,” I reprimanded crossly.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh, but it’s cute. That’s all. You’re so… I don’t know. You say things most people wouldn’t share and it’s very… refreshing.”

I smiled at the compliment and instantly forgave him for teasing me. “It’s funny you noticed that.”

“Noticed what?”

“My tendency to share things I shouldn’t. I come by it honestly. I’m a million times better than my mom, but I still end up wishing I could eat my words every once in a while. Whatever. It feels good to be back! When I was with Neil, I was more… cautious, I s’pose. He didn’t approve of inappropriate conversation.”

“What did he consider inappropriate?” Michael was still smiling, but there was a soothing quality to the gesture as though he were willing me not to get lost in a bad memory.

“Everything. He was a lot older than me, and I think I was a novelty that wore off. I wished I’d caught on sooner.”

“The important thing is that you did catch on. And it sounds like you’ve figured yourself out again.”

This time my grin was ear to ear.

When I yawned for the third time, Michael took my hand and led me back to his bedroom, where we took turns exploring each other for a second time. I held him tightly in the aftermath of our joint release and marveled at how fucking good it felt to be in his arms. I fell asleep on his chest and didn’t stir until his warm hands woke me the following morning. He stroked and fondled, sucked and tasted, eliciting a sensual avalanche of desire. Michael was relentlessly passionate. I could have happily spent the entire day in his huge bed, but we both had things to do, and he wanted to get an early start.

T
HE
SUN
was cresting over the mountains as we drove southbound past the Los Angeles airport. We sipped at the coffee we’d purchased back in Santa Monica and made idle chitchat to pass the time. When traffic came to a standstill a half hour into the drive, Michael cursed and headed toward the nearest exit.

“What are you doing? This isn’t a safe neighborhood. Why are we getting off here?”

Michael turned slightly in his seat and frowned. “What are you talking about? This is a completely safe area. I know it very well. In fact….” He made a right turn and pointed to something in the distance I couldn’t see. “I’m going to show you something.”

“You’re always showing me something. What could it be now?” I checked my watch impatiently. Didn’t he have things to do?

“You’ll see. Stop asking so many questions. I’ll get you back to your plumber in plenty of time.”

“He’s not my plumber. He’s yours. I quit, remember?”

“No. I didn’t accept your resignation, so you’ve still got responsibilities to attend to, but we’ll be bac—”

“I told you I can’t deal wit—”

“Luke.”

He’d pulled the car into a gigantic empty parking lot and came to a stop near an enormous steel gate.

“Luke. Nothing changed because you met Tonio. We aren’t going to concoct some stupid scheme with you in a wig or hire some random girl for me to kiss. It’s business as usual. I’m working on my knee, you’re working on the house. All right?”

I stared at him for a long moment, thinking he was fond of oversimplifying while I had the exact opposite problem.

“I want to agree with you, but now we’ve slept together and—”

“Luke, last night and this morning were amazing, but I’m—”

“Hey.” I put a hand up to stop him. I didn’t want to hear all the reasons this wouldn’t work. I didn’t want them said aloud. “I’m not suggesting you run away with me over a blowjob or three. I just don’t want things to be weirder than they already are.”

“It’s only weird if we let it be. We won’t. Okay?” He waited for me to nod before continuing. “Good, ’cause there’s a plumber with a crack problem at my place and you’re the guy I want on the job.”

“Ha. Ha.”

“C’mon. I want you to see something. Showing is better than telling,” he said with a wink.

“Where are we?” I had a fairly good idea. What I really wanted to know was why.

“Just come.”

I climbed out of the car and stretched my arms over my head as I waited for Michael to get his cane from the backseat. When he stood nearby without it, I guessed this was another show of machismo. Part of me wanted to scold him and tell him to go easy, but I saw the fire and determination in his eyes. If there was a way to will his knee to heal faster, he’d figure it out. I offered a wan smile instead and gestured for him to lead the way.

Michael waved a transponder under a security panel off to the side of the huge outside gates and opened a heavy steel door leading to a wide, empty corridor. A groundskeeper driving a maintenance cart saw us and shouted something in Spanish. Michael laughed and walked toward the man, who immediately cut the engine, jumped off the cart, and wrapped Michael in a warm hug. They had a brief conversation entirely in Spanish, but the hand gestures toward Michael’s knee and the field visible from the corridor filled in the gaps. I stood by with my hands in my pockets and kept quiet, assuming Michael wouldn’t introduce me anyway.

But he did.

“Jorge, this is my friend, Luke. Luke, this is Jorge, king of the field.”

Jorge smiled widely and offered his hand for me to shake. We didn’t speak the same language, but I could tell he wasn’t looking at me wondering what the fuck I was doing with Michael. He was friendly and obviously happy to see him. I watched as Jorge gestured toward the cart and then the field. Michael responded in Spanish and gently nudged my elbow, indicating for me to follow as the two men headed toward a second locked gate. Jorge used a card key to open the partition before waving a good-bye and leaving us to enter on our own.

Michael took a deep, cleansing breath and walked toward the sunlit greenery. He didn’t stop until he reached the final railing separating the first row of spectator seating from the enormous field. He flashed a brilliant grin at me and spread his arms wide.

“What do you think?”

Interesting question. To me, it looked like a dewy-wet danger zone. A certain hazard for the uncoordinated or those concerned about the integrity of their canvas sneakers. No doubt there were divots and endless opportunities for a klutz like me to sprain his ankle or worse. However, I knew that wasn’t the response he was looking for. I was sure he’d listen to my gripes and roll his eyes, but there was more behind the inquiry than a request for my humble opinion.