The Roommate Situation (32 page)

He smiles again. “That’s all right. Take your time.” He kisses me, then draws back. “What if one of these days, like, I wanted to try it, the other way around? On the bottom? Do you think you might be up for that? I’m not saying now. I’m not ready for it yet either.”

I hadn’t even thought of that—sliding into Derek while he lies under me, looking down and watching myself slide into him. A rush of blood out of my head makes me unsteady. I tighten my grip on him. “Yeah, I’d try that if you wanted it.”

“I’m not saying I definitely will.”

“I’m not saying I’ll definitely want that either.”

“But it might be worth a try one of these days,” he says. “Just to see.”

I like the sound of that: one of these days. It takes for granted that we’ll still be together one of these days. “It might,” I say and start to kiss him—and then it’s my turn to draw back. “Did your uncle ever talk about that stuff?”

His eyes widen a little. “Oh shit. No. I mean, not outside of jokes. We’ve never sat down and had a conversation about anal sex. Well, except for a couple of times when he’s said it’s one way to make sure you don’t get a girl pregnant. At which point Dad butts in to say, ‘But not a way to get out of using condoms,’ and levels this look at Dan.” He demonstrates the look now, squinch-eyed with one eyebrow arched.

“Does Dan not use them?”

“I don’t know. Probably does. I would. You know, if it was some guy I didn’t know.”

“But not with me?”

“What am I gonna get from you?” he asks. “Virgin cooties?”

“Everyone has to start somewhere,” I say.

He puts his forehead against mine, looking into my eyes. “I like that you started with your hand wrapped around my dick.”

“Like I said, everyone’s gotta start somewhere.” I slide my hand between us, over skin, over his leather belt, over the coarseness of denim. The hard ridge that strains the fabric warms quickly under the friction of my palm.

Pulling back to unzip his jeans, Derek says, “I vote we get this started off our feet.”

No argument here. I shuck down my own, stopping to toe off my sneakers, and by the time my clothes are heaped on the floor, Derek’s already in bed, holding up the covers for me to slide in.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

I’m vaguely, sort of, somewhat awake when water starts running on the other side of the wall. Derek’s bed had gotten too warm with the two of us spooned in it, so one of us had shoved the covers down at some point this morning. The air feels nice on my skin. I squirm closer to him, pressing my morning hard-on against his backside. It makes me think about what we talked about last night, about me fucking him one day. I don’t know a whole lot more about asses than I do vaginas, but at least I feel comfortable with Derek. And hot over Derek, in ways I hadn’t felt about Katie Duke or anyone else.

The water cuts off with a knocking of the pipes.

The bathroom door opens, creaking on its hinges.

I wonder what time it is. Sunlight peeks through gaps in the curtains.

I nuzzle my forehead into the nape of his neck. I’m not about to get up and go wandering around a strange house by myself, so I might as well make the most of staying in his room.

He moves a little. His hand reaches back; his fingers curl into my hair.

The rap of knuckles on the door by the end of the bed makes me jump in surprise.

“I’m making breakfast,” says a voice deeper than Derek’s but just as rasped along the edges. “You guys want bacon or sausage?”

Derek shifts onto his back, crowding me. I really don’t mind. To the door, he says, “Sausage is fine.”

“Yeah, so you said the other night” comes back.

My mouth goes wide. I clench my hand; unfortunately, Derek’s side is in it. He jumps a little, closing his hand over mine as he says, “I meant for breakfast.”

“Ride go okay?”

“Except for the speeding ticket, the wreck, and the DUI.”

“Good to know.”

A moment later, the rattling of pans and opening and closing of drawers comes up the hall. You know, I hadn’t even thought about how, going to Derek’s house, I’d be meeting his dad, and how his dad might or might not know about us, and how awkward any of that might be. I put my forehead against Derek’s shoulder blade and groan.

He laughs. “Don’t worry about it.”

“So he knows?”

“Yeah.”

Thank fucking God. “How’d that go?”

“Well, I didn’t end up packing my shit and leaving home.”

“You’re one up on me there.”

He untangles himself from me and sweeps last night’s jeans off the floor. “I gotta take a leak.”

“I’m right after you.” Because there’s no way I’m pulling on some clothes and heading out to the kitchen alone.

When I finally do wander in, with my teeth brushed and my hair in less disarray, Derek’s dad—the forty-year-old version of Derek, only taller and with a little bit of Derek’s grandmother’s gray showing—is sliding eggs onto a plate. Derek’s crossing the kitchen floor, carrying two mugs to a heavy old table that’s been set for three.

“Dad, Shane. Shane, Dave,” Derek says. “Have a seat.” He nods to a chair as he sets a mug of coffee in front of it.

“Thanks.”

“Hope you like your eggs scrambled and cooked to death,” Dave says. “Need any ketchup? Hot sauce?”

“No, I’m good. Thanks.”

“All right. I’ve gotta down this and get to work. Forgot to set the alarm last night.”

“Nice to see some things don’t change,” Derek says.

“Funny. I should be home by seven. As soon as Dan gets here, we can head out, have that first legal drink.”

“Legal drink?” I say, looking from Dave to Derek. “When’d you turn twenty-one?”

“About three hours ago,” Dave says around a bite of sausage. He’s leaning against the counter to eat, his plate in his hand. I hope it’s not because he doesn’t want to sit near his son’s gay-maybe boyfriend.

I look at Derek again. “You didn’t tell me it was your birthday.”

He shrugs, and Dave says, “Don’t worry. He’s always been low-key about them. We have to force him to celebrate.” He’s already cleaned off his plate. He shoves the last forkful into his mouth and heads to the sink.

I can barely taste my eggs. “Seriously,” I say to Derek, swallowing a mouthful down. “It’s your birthday?”

He nods.

“All right,” Dave says. “I’m out. See you guys tonight.”

When the front door bangs closed, I punch Derek across the table. “It’s your birthday.”

“Was that my ‘punch to grow a bunch’?”

I grin. “Is it working?”

He chomps off the end of a breakfast sausage, smiling back.

“I get to meet Dan tonight,” I say, dropping back in my chair.

“That you do.”

“Dan, Dave, Derek. I’m seeing a trend.”

“Doug, Dennis, Darryl. It’s a habit my family can’t seem to break.”

“What was your grandmother’s name?” I ask.

“Penny. The women don’t suffer the same fate.”

“So what would you name your son?”

“Dartagnan.”

I watch him a moment. “See, I can’t tell whether you’re pulling my leg or you mean it.”

“Demetri,” he says. “DeShane.”

“I’m starting to feel fortunate I can’t get pregnant.”

He smiles again.

“Dutch,” I say. “I’m serious. How cool a name would Dutch be?”

“Not…very?”

“So what are we doing today?”

“With the house to ourselves? Anything we want.” His grin’s irresistible.

* * * *

“Well, it’s like…I really want to meet your uncle,” I say. “But at the same time…since, like, I’m sleeping with you, and he’s, you know, gay…”

“Shit—is he?” Derek asks. He’s sitting on the other end of the couch, his hand on my ankles, which are in his lap.

I pull a foot away long enough to kick him.

“All right. To tell you the truth, I’m worried about the shit I’m gonna get about this too,” he says. “I only told Dad, but Dad’s probably already told Dan, and he’s probably gonna walk through that door ready to dish it out.”

I move my feet to the floor and sit up, one knee jammed against his leg. It’s nearly seven. The waiting’s killing me, but at the same time, I’d pay good money to slow time down. “Did you ever talk about the possibility of sleeping with guys with him before?”

“Only in the way you talk to kids about things, I guess.” He clasps my knee. “Then I was dating girls, and there wasn’t any reason to talk about it. I always wondered if he was secretly like,
‘Damn, score one for the other team.’
”

“Why don’t you like birthdays?”

“I don’t not like birthdays. I just…don’t go around shouting about mine. When’s yours?”

“April seventeenth.”

He shakes his head. “You’re such a young’un.”

I shove his shoulder.

“There he is,” Derek says, turning an ear toward the window.

“Which he?”

“Dan.”

“Shit.” I draw my knee away a little and cross my arms.

He laughs. “He’s not Smaug the dragon.”

Outside, a car door slams shut.

I try to smile, but there’s a lump in my throat. And my phone picks this moment to ring. I slip it out, see it’s my parents’ number—again—and put it back in my pocket just as the door swings open.

I hadn’t thought much about it looking at the picture Derek has in our room, but there’s a younger brother and an older brother, and as Dan comes in and wipes his shoes, saying, “Cold as fuck out there today,” I realize he’s the older brother.

“Wouldn’t know,” Derek says. “Haven’t left the house all day.”

“Lazy ass. Hi, I’m Dan.” He makes it into the room and sticks out his hand.

Like I’ve been taught, I get to my feet. “Shane.”

“Well, if it isn’t the birthday boy,” Dan says, ruffling Derek’s hair. “Guess I’m gonna have to stop calling you that now you’re the big two-one.” He drops into the only armchair in the room. “Oh.” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a card. “Happy birthday.”

Maybe Derek’s dad hasn’t told him yet.

As Derek slits open the envelope with the edge of his thumbnail, Dan says, “Heard you gave your dad a surprise the other night.”

So much for that hope.

Derek gives half a shrug, saying, “It is what it is,” as he opens the card. A couple of twenties slip out, and Derek catches them in his lap.

“Woulda been more,” Dan says, “but I’m sponsoring getting you drunk tonight.”

“It didn’t even need to be this much. Thanks.”

“How old are you, Shane?” he asks.

“Young enough to be a designated driver if you need one.”

He grins. “Might just take you up on that. Unless your old man has to work in the morning,” he says to Derek. “In which case he isn’t going to put back more than a coupla beers. You know him. So, what the hell—when’d you start sleeping with guys?”

Derek’s reading the card as he says, “I don’t know. October. September. When was it?” He looks toward me as he pushes the card back in the envelope.

“Pretty sure it was September.”

“There you go,” he says to Dan.

“And you said not a fucking word.”

“It didn’t come up.”

“Well
something
fucking came up!” He laughs.

This is
not
a conversation that would happen at my house.

Thinking I hear another car door shut, I lift up a little to look out the window. The truck we’d come here in is in the driveway, and Derek’s dad is coming up the walk.

“‘It didn’t come up,’” Dan says, swatting Derek.

And the door opens, saving me from any supremely embarrassing turn the conversation might have been about to take.

“Cold out,” Dave says as he wipes his shoes.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Derek’s uncle says. “I’m starving.”

“Let me go change.”

Oh great. The potentially mortification-inducing conversation can resume—but instead, as Dave heads up the hall, Dan says, leaning on his arm on the chair, “He’s not old enough to drink, but he’s old enough you won’t go to jail, right?”

“Shyeah. Relax.”

“He looks young.”

“Your eyes are just old,” Derek says.

To me, Dan says, “So what year are you?”

“This is my first.” And then we’re talking about majors—or my lack of caring what I major in at this point, unless I get into the music program. Dan’s advice is to take something I enjoy anyway, since I’ll be stuck studying it for four years. It doesn’t matter if it’s a degree directly related to a career. Companies, he says, hire people with degrees unrelated to their positions all the time.

“Do a writing major,” he says. “Creative writing, journalism, whatever. You’ll write better lyrics; you’ll write better résumé letters. Every job requires writing skills.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I say.

Then Dave’s back, and we’re ready to go.

* * * *

“Don’t do it,” Derek says.

Dan has a gleam in his eye. The Applebee’s is more crowded than I would have expected for this time of night. Waitresses squeeze by our chairs on their way past. The crowd’s loud. I doubt many of them would be able to hear the birthday chant over the hubbub.

“Don’t do it,” Derek’s dad says without looking up from the menu. “I don’t want a bunch a bunch of people singing and clapping around us either.”

“The both of you need to learn to lighten up and have some fun.” Dan flags our waitress.

“Are we ready to order?” she asks.

“I’ll have another one of these.” He gestures to his rum and coke. “And the birthday boy—”

“Oh! Is it your birthday?” she says.

Derek puts his forehead in his hand.

“—would like another Heineken.”

“All right,” Dave says. “I’m ready.” We order our meals, and the waitress gives Derek another smile as she collects our menus.

“You know how I’m gonna get you back for this?” Derek says to Dan.

“How?”

“If you’re gonna treat my birthday like the birthday you want to have, I’m gonna do the same for yours and completely ignore it.”

“Come on. You need to upgrade to liquor and loosen up a little.” Dan leans across the table, speaking in a mock conspiratorial voice. “Having a little fun won’t turn you into your mother.” He leans back. “Heard from her today?”

“Got a card yesterday with some postcards from Colorado stuck in it. She still wants me to move there.”