What It Takes (5 page)

It takes forty-seven minutes before he hones in on the truth that he has only one solution: They can pretend it never happened, and he can assure Andrew that nothing has to change. Because it can’t.

°

By the time Milo is finished, he feels like a limp rag. It’s only nine, so he has enough time to pull together a brunch—early lunch for him, breakfast for Andrew—and to gather himself together for the rest of the day Ted has planned for them. His body has been changing as he’s begun working harder in the pool and added resistance training; his mother took him to Boston for new clothes, a reward doled out by his father: longer pants because of his growth spurt, but mostly new shirts as he’s grown too broad for what he had. The reward was his father affirming that he knows best, and Milo is a tool of that proof, but at least he had a rare lunch with his mom.

Milo picks a green and gray plaid button down and worn jeans. He throws on a thick sweater and the scarf Andrew gave him for his last birthday. God only knows how late Andrew will be. Ten is early for him, and if Milo knows Andrew at all, he’ll be fussing for a good half hour trying to figure out what to wear.

In the pit of his stomach is an ice cold fear that Andrew might want more, or be hoping for—for a relationship. Or something. Milo hates the thought of hurting Andrew, but being with him like that—it’s not something he could ever do. Even if he did feel like that toward him, it would be reckless to risk what they have, when he knows he’d eventually hurt Andrew somehow.

°

In the light of day, Andrew still has no idea what he’s supposed to say or how he’s supposed to act. He takes special care with how he looks—neither an obviously over the top attempt to impress, nor so sloppy he’ll look like as if he’s trying to act as if he doesn’t care. As a result, he’s fifteen minutes late.

“As usual,” Milo says as his head pops out of the fort, “last one to the party.”

“Beauty sleep and all that,” Andrew says, their usual exchange going off without a hitch. It’s what they do: banter, understand each other’s flaws.

Milo disappears into the fort. Is his smile strained? It’s hard to tell, because Andrew is too nervous to get a good read on him.

Inside, Milo has food set out: sandwiches and fruit and a bag of cookies.

“Wow, you really went all out.” Andrew shuffles things around to make room for himself.

“Dad insisted I get up early for morning practice,” Milo says, already tearing into one sandwich. “So I had more time than I thought.”

“Fuck, Milo it’s the weekend!”

“Yeah well, he thinks I could improve my times by a few seconds in the next month if I ‘really commit.’”

Andrew’s jaw drops. “Are you kidding? Milo, you practice like two hours a day.”

“‘Half-assed attempts,’” Milo quotes, his mouth full of what looks like a bite of tuna fish. Andrew hates tuna. Milo swallows and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and pushes over Andrew’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Sure, it’s the favored sandwich of eight-year-olds, but that’s because it’s delicious and eight-year-olds are geniuses. Milo has three sandwiches set out for himself; he always eats at least twice as many as Andrew does, making up calories he burns swimming.

“He’s going to tire you into an early grave.” Andrew hands Milo a napkin and a Coke and gives an eye roll. Milo’s eyes are dark-ringed.

“Might not be so bad,” Milo jokes. “I’d finally get a break.”

“Milo,” Andrew says softly. “Don’t—”

“Oh, it’s okay,” Milo interrupts. “Don’t worry. I’m just tired. I’m sure Ted’s gonna pick at least one awful movie. I’ll catch a nap.”

Silence falls over them, pushing in through the window and door. It’s ridiculously cold to be out today, and it’s dumb for them to be here. Milo is exhausted, Andrew is unsure, and the spaces between them feel wrong. As if this isn’t the right time to talk about this. Maybe it never will be. He hopes that’s the case.

“Listen…”

“So…”

“Look, I don’t want things to be weird,” Andrew says when it’s obvious Milo isn’t going to speak.

“They don’t have to be.” Despite the silence that’s fallen, Milo’s voice is so soft it’s almost lost.

“I just…I don’t know what came over me. We—we can do the thing where it’s erased.” Andrew makes the familiar gesture, pretending to swipe away writing on a board. He does this often when Milo’s stuck on something his father has said to him, or when people throw insults at school.

“Andrew,” Milo says softly.

“No, no,” Andrew says, rushing and not looking at him and blushing. “As long as everything is really okay, can we call that a lapse in judgment?” He stresses the end. Milo doesn’t say anything, and Andrew refuses to look up.

“If that’s what you want,” Milo says after what seems like ten million years.

“Promise we’re still friends?”

“Come on, asshole.” Milo punches his shoulder lightly. “Of course.”

chapter four

O
ne day, out of the blue, Milo says, “Let’s go up to P-town.”

Andrew’s head pops up from where he’s been writing with his notebook on the floor. “Why P-town? Pity-the-Lonely-Gay night?”

Milo gives him a look, one of those looks Andrew can’t read. It’s one of Milo’s few ticks Andrew still hasn’t cracked.

“For
fun
,” Milo says as if Andrew’s being the densest person on the planet. “I’m sick of this place.” Face set in a frown, he kicks at Andrew’s table.

“You had me at fun.” Andrew pulls himself off the floor, ungainly and awkward from lying in an uncomfortable position. Milo’s shoulders have been set for trouble since he came over. Andrew asked what was up and only got one of those cold blue looks that mean Milo’s trying to bank something big and ugly. Sitting around Andrew’s house doing nothing isn’t going to burn that off. “When is this happening?”

“No time like the present?”

“I’m not showered, Milo! Are we asking other people to go? Isn’t it too late? What’s gotten into you? This is all wrong; I do the stupid things, you plan the details. You’ll—”

“Shhh, don’t ruin the romance,” Milo says and smiles when Andrew laughs helplessly, remembering that night at the diner when they were all slap-happy and dumb. Milo throws a pencil at him to get him moving. “I told my dad I had study group with Ted and got the coveted permission to stay over at his house. See? Plan.” Milo sticks his tongue out and crosses his arms.

Milo’s not really “allowed” to stay at Andrew’s any more. He’s been strongly discouraged from coming over or associating with him at all. Selfishly, Andrew appreciates that this is one of the few things Milo rebels against, although he’s sure he suffers for it sometimes.

“Go shower.” Milo flips through Andrew’s clothes. “I’ll find you something hot to wear.”

“God, you’d almost think you turned eighteen and became about fifty percent gay,” Andrew kids.

Milo’s hands pause.

“Har har.”

°

“I didn’t mean to offend you.” Andrew lingers by the door, so Milo makes a show of rolling his eyes and smiling.

“Go shower already,” he says, still flipping through Andrew’s shirts as if he’s really searching. Milo knows every shirt Andrew owns, and which look best on him. Unless Andrew has any other secrets hidden in here, flipping through shirts is serving only to calm Milo’s nerves. Tonight he wants to tell Andrew one of the secrets he’s been keeping, and while he knows it’s right, it’s still scary as hell.

“What about you?” Andrew collects underwear and an undershirt. “Are you going dressed in that?”

Milo looks down. He’s wearing a sort of ratty polo shirt and faded jeans. “No, I brought something. But I showered today. It’s a thing people do.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Andrews says, laughing and scrunching up his nose. “You know I’m a night showerer.”

“Go, go.” Milo pushes Andrew. Impatience twitches through him. He needs something new; he needs some fun, he needs to get away from himself and this oppressive town.

Besides, tonight is the night. He’s ninety percent sure he’s almost convinced that tonight he’s going to come out. Milo’s wondered how long he can keep this a secret from Andrew; their time in Santuit is almost at an end, and he could walk away without ever having to come out. He doesn’t have any desire to tell anyone else. He can’t rock any of the boats he’s trying to balance. In a few months, he’ll be out of here. He got his acceptance letter from the University of Southern California and he’s fully prepared to finally learn how to be
him
, and free and not scared any more, the minute he walks off the plane. Andrew isn’t wrong about Milo’s nature—Milo plans everything he can, because everything builds the scaffold to that ever-closer escape hatch.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t occasionally want to be surprising, or that he doesn’t need to burn out the itching in his skin that comes from holding everything ugly coiled so tightly in his body. He has many secrets, many barbs digging into him from all sides, and only one safe space where he can lessen the torture a little.

Milo wants Andrew to know because Andrew will always be a part of him, even when he’s across the country starting a new life. Milo was the first person Andrew came out to five years ago, and the trust he demonstrated was a dear gift—to know Andrew in a way no one else ever had. Milo wants to give this to Andrew, too. While Milo tries not to think about it and succeeds most of the time, he worries that Andrew might still have feelings for him. Despite their agreement to erase that one day over a year and a half ago—that one brilliant, stunning kiss—from their lives, its shape lingers inside the lines of Milo’s lips, a burning
what if
that frightens as much as beguiles. Sometimes he catches a glimpse of Andrew—the way his hair is butter-colored in the sunlight or how his limbs take on a fleeting grace that hints at the potential of Andrew’s future body—it can be anything—and
yearns
, wondering if Andrew’s lips taste like unanswered questions too.

Neither of them has ever pressured the other to think through what happened, because they’ve operated with the tacit understanding that Milo is straight. The truth is that he’s not unsure; there’s no maybe. He has passed the phase of denial he coasted on for years, and he’s traveled that road without ever hinting to Andrew, because it was Andrew’s kiss that truly began to erode the lies Milo had been telling himself. It woke him up, made it impossible for Milo to continue to ignore his own physical desire. Andrew’s kiss popped that numb little bubble, and in its wake fantasies of desire and love and sex all sharpened, until ignoring the truth became impossible.

He wants to share this with his best friend, but knows he’s walking a tightrope—on all sides he risks hurting Andrew. Somehow he has to fit in a smooth, non-hurtful or self-centered, “I’m gay, but hey, not for you,” sort of vibe. It’s not that he doesn’t think Andrew is attractive: he is really very much attractive. Not pretty, or classically good looking. But there’s something slinky and sensual to his movements, a delicate openness to his face when he’s at rest and something light and playful, most of the time.

Milo loves Andrew, too—maybe too much, and definitely in ways he doesn’t understand. Andrew is his ballast, and the thought of entertaining longing or desire for more seems like a spark too reckless. One wrong breath and Milo will have burned everything down.

°

“This is what you picked?” Andrew frowns at the outfit laid out on the bed.

“What?” Milo pulls on his own shirt. “Those jeans look really good on you.” Andrew flits a look at him, assesses Milo’s own outfit.

“Wow, that shirt is tight,” he says, swallows and turns away. Milo’s always been a bigger guy, naturally built like an athlete. But his muscles…
fuck
. “Have you stepped up training or something?”

Milo tugs at his shirt. “Yeah. New system I read about online, tailored for swimmers. Seems to be working.”

“Tell me about it,” Andrew whispers under his breath.

“Is it too tight?”

“Depends on how you feel about being hit on tonight,” Andrew jokes. He’s absorbed in his reflection, fiddling with his hair in the mirror. “Ugh, I can never get this to do what I want it to do under stress.”

“It looks great, you look great, come
on
,” Milo whines, spraying Andrew with cologne while he’s not looking, earning himself a yelp and a smacked arm.

Andrew gladly lets Milo drive his car; he hates driving, especially when he can play radio DJ and watch the scenery go by. He looks at Milo: the way the fading light before dusk changes the tone of his skin; the way the muscles of his arms stand out and his lips curl as he sings along, awfully, to the radio. Milo smiles at him, and Andrew flashes a brief one back, wonders how obvious he’s being, and looks back out the window at the slipping sand that spills onto the road and the ramshackle businesses along the road.

“So what got this bee in your bonnet?” he asks suddenly.

Milo shrugs. “You sound like my grandma.”

“Awesome; I like her. Let’s focus.”

“So... okay.” Milo clears his throat and his fingers tighten on the wheel. “I um, think I have something to tell you. But I’m—”

“Is everything okay?” Andrew interrupts, scanning his memory for any signs of additional distress Milo might have displayed in the last few months.

“Yeah. Well. I mean, um… whatever. But I—”

“What? You’re worrying me.”

Milo sighs and pulls into the parking lot of a restaurant with a giant crab on the roof. “I can’t do this and drive.”

“Okay,” Andrew says slowly, then unbuckles his belt and turns to face him. Milo’s face is a little drawn.

“So, I think I might be gay,” Milo blurts. “I mean, I know. I know I am.”

There’s a full minute of silence in the car while Andrew tries to work the words out. Static screeches in his ears, fleetingly numbing his reaction.
Focus
. He has a few seconds to control his face, to tamp down that sprout of irrational hope seeding despite the chaos, and be ultimately supportive.

“Um.” Andrew licks his lips and tries to pull himself together. That seedling wants to grow into something bigger, and he
can’t
let it
.
He looks at Milo’s face, which has morphed into something more vulnerable and worried. Hope is a hollow bell in his chest, ringing loud and dissonant; he wants to vibrate out of his skin with the inappropriateness of his own reactions. This is about Milo, not him. “You aren’t worried that I’m mad or something, are you?” he manages to say.

“I don’t know. Um, your face is doing... a thing,” Milo replies.

Reflexively Andrew puts his hands to his cheeks. His fingers are cold. Okay, so he definitely doesn’t have his face under control. “No, I... wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.” Andrew’s brain, sometimes faster than his mouth, is careening backward. “Maybe I should have had a clue.”

“Oh?”

“Well, for starters, you kissed me back.”

As soon as the words are out, Andrew slaps a hand over his traitor mouth. Talk about mouth working faster than brain,
fuck
.

“Calm down.” Milo takes his hand. “Breathe.”

“Shut up,” Andrew says weakly, then closes his eyes and sternly orders himself to pull himself together. “Right. So, wrong thing to say. I wasn’t expecting you to come out to me on the road on an impromptu trip to gay Mecca.” His eyes widen. “Oh my god, is that why we’re going? Are you, like, on the prowl?” His volume seems to be working up and not down. He takes another breath. There is definitely a good and bad way to react, and blind jealousy when he’s confronted with huge news that doesn’t actually change the way Milo feels about him is most definitely a bad reaction. Whatever might be growing in his chest, Andrew can’t pin its survival or growth on a few glances shared with a boy in so much trouble.

Milo laughs. “Oh god, no. I was just curious. And I wanted to go somewhere fun with you.”

“Okay.” Andrew orders his face to smile and thankfully, it obeys. He pulls himself together and takes a good long look at Milo. He still looks unsure, and so Andrew does what comes most naturally to him: swallows whatever feelings he’s having and focuses on Milo’s. “Hey, come here.” He pulls Milo into a hug. It’s comforting, if not precisely comfortable over the console and with Milo still buckled in.

“So,” Milo says, taking a breath and clearing his throat, “I know this is dumb, because it’s a given…”

Andrew shudders. Where is Milo going with this?

“But you promise we’re still friends?”

It’s through incredible strength that Andrew keeps his eyes open, smile on and resentment boiling invisibly inside. In five minutes Milo has turned everything around, and, silly dreamer that Andrew is, he gave himself three minutes to hope against all hope. It’s not Milo’s fault Andrew is so hopelessly in love. And that sharp, ugly spike slicing Andrew’s insides isn’t Milo’s fault either.

“
Duh
.” Andrew takes a breath and offers Milo a genuine smile. They’re still a ways from their destination, and it’s quiet in the car, mostly. It doesn’t take long for Andrew to realize the barbs spreading inside are a combination of jealousy, bitterness and anger.
Why
? Why does this have to happen? The biggest reason he’s used to comfort the ache of being in love with Milo was Milo’s inability to reciprocate his feelings. Only now that’s a barrier removed and still Andrew is no closer to getting what he most wants.

So now Andrew has to recalibrate. In this version of his life, Milo is gay, but
still
only wants to be friends. Milo’s friendship might leave him longing for something more, but not with anyone else. Andrew doesn’t want that love with anyone else. It’s not that he’s settling for only friendship. Andrew’s always thought that loving someone involved longing for something more. At least with Milo, Andrew will always want more from the person he loves the most.

°

“So I did my research,” Milo says as they approach the city. “What do you feel like? Dancing? Sitting around? A drag show?”

Andrew snorts in a laugh and shoots him a look. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know. I’m here for the ride. Just wanna take it in.”

“Okay.” Andrew thinks. “Dancing.”

Milo feels his eyebrow jump up, but doesn’t say anything. He bites his lip and when he glances over at Andrew he sees a small vibration in his shoulders. “Well, you are a natural, just ask that poor lamp—”

Andrew bursts out laughing, smacking the back of his hand against Milo’s arm. “We swore we’d never speak of it again.”

“No,
you
did. I did no such thing.”

Andrew gasps. “Oh my god, you liar! You’re the one who broke the lamp, not me! You made me swear never to say anything so my mom wouldn’t know.”

“But realistically—” Milo says through laughter, then stops laughing for a moment to breathe. “Can we talk about the fact that your mom had
just
been in the room, laughed at us and gone downstairs? I am
sure
she heard that lamp break as soon as she left.”