In the Middle of Somewhere (39 page)

“Uh-oh. Thou hast not seen rage like the rage of a Ginger sans bagel and coffee.”

“Seriously. So, I drop the bagel and I’m just like swearing a blue streak, right? And that’s when he comes in the door. And he looks at glasses guy behind the counter in horror—like, what the hell did you do to make this lady lose her shit. Glasses guy’s kind of terrified, so I say, ‘Oh, no, it was my fault; I just dropped my bagel,’ thinking he’d nod and smile. But he walked behind the counter and made me another bagel and cream cheese, then put it in a bag with three other bagels and filled up a to-go container of cream cheese—that awesome chive stuff. And he hands it to me and says—get this: ‘Just in case the vagaries of your day find you needing another one.’ I mean, who the fuck says that? At first I thought, ruh roh: potential overly sincere Renaissance festival douchebag? But then he winked at me. A really filthy, flirtatious wink. And, of course, I went back for another bagel the next day.”

“That’s hot, Ginge. So, you’ve met his family?”

“Oh, not intentionally. Turns out glasses guy is his cousin and his dad comes by to fix stuff in the shop all the time. His mom sometimes brings him lunch. It’s hilarious. Every time he’s all, ‘Mom, I make food here,’ and she’s like, ‘give your mother a kiss and shut your mouth.’ Priceless, babycakes! Anyway, they’re so nice.”

“So, why don’t you have Thanksgiving with him? What’s his name, by the way, so I don’t just think of him as Josh Homme—or as The Ginger, which would be confusing.”

“His name’s Christopher. And I don’t know. I think it’s too soon. Like, he’ll be having dinner at his parents’ and we only started dating a couple of weeks ago, so.”

“You could always invite him over for a postdinner Thanksgiving burrito at your place,” I offer.

“Huh. Not a bad idea, sweetie. Not a bad idea at all.”

“C
AN
YOU
grab some butter?” Rex asks me.

We’re at the grocery store buying some last-minute additions for Thanksgiving dinner. Or, security items, really, since Rex has planned about three alternate dinner menus. Really, I have no idea what we’ll be eating, except that there’s a turkey, which I got back to his house yesterday to find in the sink.

We’ve already been to an indoor farmer’s market about twenty miles from here that Rex apparently frequents, where I embarrassed myself in front of several vendors and Rex by buying fennel because I thought it was the celery Rex sent me to get, so god knows why he’s asking me to pick up anything. Still, I can hardly fuck up butter, can I?

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Rex says, “I need unsalted. I should’ve told you to get the red package.”

The box I’m holding is blue.

“Never mind. We’ll just grab it when we get over there,” Rex says, obviously writing me off as a shopping buddy entirely. Doesn’t matter. I’m pretty content to trail along behind him while he looks at food. He dragged me out of bed at six this morning to get to the farmer’s market before they could sell out of… whatever he bought there. He made three pies last night as well as some kind of sauce for something. And I’ve never seen him so excited as when we were wandering through the market. It feels strangely domestic. I’ve never cared about cooking, obviously. But I haven’t really cared that much about eating either. I mean, it’s a necessary thing that sometimes tastes good, but especially when I’m by myself, it’s just a chore. An interruption, like laundry or cleaning.

But Rex makes cooking and eating feel like part of my life—our lives. He expresses something of himself through cooking. Not just his personality, but his care. It’s like he cares about what I eat—if it’s healthy, if I like it. And so everything to do with it feels important. Even grocery shopping. Because I can feel him looking at the food the way you’d look at a shelter dog or something: as a thing that might come home with you, if it’s the right fit. Something that will be incorporated into our lives. Life. Our life.

It’s all there in the way he chooses an onion or a bagful of apples, his attention totally focused on it. I can see the path from apples in the store to apple pie. Can see his hands kneading the pie crust. And I realize that the more I pay attention to Rex as he moves through the store, the less I think about myself. The less I notice if people are staring at me and the less I wonder what they’re thinking. The less I pay attention to who sees when I knock over a pyramid of limes.

I noticed that this week, when we were talking. When I paid close attention to Rex, it was like I escaped the present. Kind of like I do when I’m reading. It’s so fucked. I started reading and making up stories to escape how shitty things were. Then, that habit made it hard for me to be back in the real world—hard to connect with anyone. Which made me super self-conscious and want to escape. Jesus. Anyway, I’ve decided that if I’m going to escape, it’s better to escape into Rex than into a fantasy world where no one will ever find me.

T
HE
SECOND
we’ve unloaded the groceries, Rex remembers something he forgot and runs back out to get it. Will and Leo are coming over to help us cook, and Rex promised them breakfast, so I’m going to give it a go. Rex didn’t look impressed by this idea when I yelled it to him as he was walking out the door, but he gave me a resigned smile of what I can only assume is the thank-god-I-bought-extra-eggs variety and nodded, so I guess that’s that.

I’ve seen him make pancakes and I know I can look up a recipe online, so I think it’ll be fine. I’m not even going to try eggs again because I still can’t figure out how they tasted so disgusting the last time, and I’m not risking it again. Pancakes and bacon and then Rex will put us all to work on dinner.

The bacon is in and I’m pouring the first pancake into the pan when Leo and Will show up, bickering.

“It’s set in the eighties,” Will is saying. “That does
not
qualify as historical fiction, even if you didn’t happen to live through the decade. Wait.” He freezes, looking shocked. “Oh my Christ, you really
didn’t
live through any of the eighties, did you?”

Leo rolls his eyes and walks over to me.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Daniel! Thanks for inviting me!” He’s practically bouncing in place. Well, the kid definitely has manners.

“Ask the professor,” Will continues. “Daniel, a book set in the eighties is
not
historical fiction, right? Tell him, please.”

“When was it written?”

“2009,” Leo says.

“Actually, I probably would call that historical fiction, because—” I start to say.

“Oh, shut up; no one asked you,” Will grumbles.

“Um,” Leo says, “I think your pancake’s—”

“Shit!” I yell. My pancake is black and smoking in the pan.

“Let me guess,” Will says. “You’re used to letting people cook for you?”

Before I can throttle Will, I scrape the remains of my poor pancake into the trash and put the pan in the sink.

“What’s this?” Leo asks, peeking into the pot on the stove.

“Hemlock,” Will mutters.

“Oh my holy god,” Leo says, sounding genuinely upset.

“What?” I ask, thinking he burned himself or something.

“Are you
boiling
bacon?

“Um. Is that wrong?” I say.

“Argh! I want to
punch
you!” Leo says.

“Sadly, we all know you can’t,” Will says, elbowing him out of the way and using tongs to pull a piece of bacon out of the water. It definitely doesn’t look the way it does at the diner.

“Bacon, bacon,” Leo chants, like some demented, carnivorous monk.

“Why the fuck would you boil bacon?” Will asks.

“Um. I thought it would be like hot dogs?”

“Jesus Christ, you boil hot dogs. You poor thing. I take it all back. Thank god Rex found you.”

“Thank god Rex found him, why?” Rex asks, walking in the door.

“Rex,” Leo says plaintively. “I—he—and—he
boiled
the bacon.”

Rex looks in the pot and then looks at me and bursts out laughing.

“I didn’t know!” I say.

Rex puts his hands on my cheeks and kisses me, shaking his head.

“Why don’t you, um, pick some music for us,” he offers, running his hands through my hair fondly. To Leo, he says, “I have more bacon.”

“Oh, thank you,” Leo says worshipfully.

“Shouldn’t you be at your parents’ house,” I mutter, and walk into the living room to pick some records.

“H
EY
, D
AD
,”
I say, my phone on speaker while I arrange cheese and crackers on a plate in the living room, the only food-related job Rex will give me. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Hiya, Dan,” my dad says, and I can hear the roar of football on the television in the background and my brothers yelling at the screen.

“How are you?” I ask.

“Oh, fine, fine. You know. Same as always. How’s the car?”

“It’s fine,” I say. Which isn’t entirely true. It keeps stalling out if I don’t drive it every day. Though I don’t really need a car to get from my apartment to campus and around town, it’s nice to be able to drive to Rex’s now that it’s cold.

“Hey, shithead, throw another empty beer can at that TV and I’ll throw a full one at your head!” my dad yells. Has to be at Brian, who has a habit of throwing things at the TV when sports don’t go his way. “So, you’re okay?” my dad asks me.

“Yeah, I’m good, Dad. I just wanted to wish you and the guys happy Thanksgiving.”

“Boys,” my dad calls, “your brother’s on the phone.”

There’s a long pause.

“Hey, Daniel.” It’s Sam. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Thanks, Sam. How’s everything going?”

“Fine, thanks,” he says. “Liza’s bringing a turkey over in a bit since these idiots were drunk by 10:00 a.m. and didn’t even order chicken.”

We always used to get fried chicken from this cheap place about ten blocks from my dad’s house on Thanksgiving.

“That’s nice. How’s Liza?”

“She’s fine. Good. Work’s busy.”

There’s a long pause.

“All right, kid, well, I’ll see you later,” Sam says, and hangs up.

My phone beeps with the disconnection.

“You okay?” Rex asks, sliding an arm around my chest.

“Um, yeah. I’m done,” I say, gesturing to the cheese plate.

“Okay,” Rex says, but he holds me against him for another minute and I breathe in his comforting smell.

Dinner is delicious—of course. Leo turned out to be quite the little helper and I can tell he liked feeling like he had something to do. He never says why he’s here with us instead of at his parents’ house, but I’m glad he is. At one point, he started asking everyone to tell about their best Thanksgiving ever. Rex was silent and I caught Will’s eye and all three of us started cracking up at the same time.

“What?” Leo asked, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he was probably the only one of us who had a single happy Thanksgiving memory.

Will took Leo home around ten, and Rex and I exhaustedly abandoned the dishes until tomorrow, choosing to take Marilyn for a walk instead.

It’s beautiful out. Cold and sharp, but with no wind, so you can smell everything. By the light of the moon I can just see Marilyn as she trots ahead and circles back to us, joyfully peeing on trees and nipping at low-hanging branches.

Rex has his arm around my shoulders and I feel so fucking peaceful. It doesn’t hurt that I’m also full and wearing Rex’s heaviest sweater and coat.

Marilyn stops to contemplate a bush and I find myself pushed up against the strong trunk of a tree, with Rex in front of me.

“We have got to stop meeting like this,” I say.

He huffs out a laugh and kisses me, one hand pulling off my hat to tangle in my hair. Rex really likes to touch my hair. He kisses my neck and then both cheeks. Then he kind of sags against me, hugging me and the tree. He says something, but it’s so muffled by my shoulder that I can’t hear him.

“What’s that?”

“I said, I’m really glad you’re here. That we did this.” I think he means Thanksgiving dinner, but I’m not totally sure.

“Me too,” I say. “It’s actually the only time I’ve ever eaten turkey. That wasn’t in a sandwich, I mean.”

As I’m about to say something incredibly sappy, my phone makes a loud and unfamiliar sound.

“What the?”

It’s a text, but I always keep my phone on vibrate.

Rex chuckles.

“Will.”

“Huh?”

“I bet Will changed your ringtone. He does that. It’s a gesture of goodwill, I promise.”

“Some fucking gesture,” I grumble as I open the text. And immediately grin, tilting the phone to show Rex.

There, lying against Ginger’s purple velvet couch, is a naked (and red-haired) chest. And on it, a huge, half-eaten Thanksgiving burrito.

December

T
HE
LAST
week of classes, my students are in the usual frenzy, flooding my office hours for help with their final papers, writing me desperate e-mails at 3:00 a.m. (probably from the library) to beg for extensions, and falling asleep in strange contortions in the middle of classes. Usually, I kind of like this final week. It feels buzzy with the promise of winter break and the end of another semester. Unfortunately, this semester, in addition to grading all my final papers, I also have to read all the essays for that damned committee I accidentally volunteered for.

As a result, I’ve been locking myself in my office every day since classes ended. I can’t bear trying to work in my shithole of an apartment. It’s dark, depressing, and, now, freezing. I do have to smile every time I see the table Rex built, though, which looks amusingly out of place among my otherwise disposable furniture.

Rex. I can’t stop thinking about him. It’s like once we started spending more and more time together I got addicted to him or something. Everything reminds me of him or of something I want to tell him. I keep starting to text him things and then deleting them because I don’t want to inundate him. I asked him about texting tentatively last week. I wasn’t sure if, given plenty of time to read them, texts would be fine for him, or if he wouldn’t like them. He said he’d never texted with anyone so he didn’t know, but he was happy to try. I promised him that I wouldn’t care about his spelling, which he’s very self-conscious about. So, finally, this morning, after accidentally falling asleep and spending the night in my office, I sent him a simple, if sappy, text:
Hi. I miss you.