I took a seat, and Pop poured us each a cup of tea. I normally never drank tea, but it’d definitely be easier on my gut than coffee at the moment. I stirred the chicken noodle soup in the bowl—Campbell’s, can’t go wrong with the classics—then asked, “Do you think I made a mistake?”
Pop took a sip of tea, set his mug down, then tapped his own cheek. “You missed a patch here.”
“I did?” I touched my face before saying, “No—I mean—with Neil.”
“No.” Finality and no room for argument.
I looked down at the soup again, hacking the noodles in half with the side of my spoon. “What about with Calvin?”
“What do you mean?” Pop’s tone softened at the mention of Calvin’s name.
I shrugged but didn’t look up. “I haven’t seen him since he spent Christmas with us. He’s got my phone number, but has only texted me a few times. He’s got a copy of my keys, but hasn’t used them. December was a batshit-crazy whirlwind of a month, but heknows…. I told him I wanted to date. I mean, is the polite ghosting my answer?” I glanced up over the rims of my glasses.
Pop leaned across the table, put his hand on my wrist, and gave it a firm squeeze. “I think you’ve been through a lot, Sebastian, and should take it slow for a while.”
I let the spoon clatter against the rim of the bowl, took my glasses off, and wiped my face on the sleeve of my shirt.
“Calvin too,” Pop continued. “He was shot. And you said he came out to his family—hey, kiddo.” Pop stood and moved toward me. He leaned over, wrapped his arms around my shoulders, and pulled me against his chest as I started sobbing like a fucking baby. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I like him so much,” I said, turning to bury my face against Pop. “I never felt this with Marcus or Brian or—even Neil. But every day I don’t hear from Calvin… I feel like I’m going to die.”
“That’s probably the flu.”
I choked out a laugh, pulled back, and coughed into the crook of my arm. “You’re right. It’s the fever talking.”
Pop fixed my hair while saying, “I see how he looks at you, Sebastian. He might need some space and some time to figure himself out, but I don’t think Calvin’s going anywhere.”
As he took a step back, I grabbed his hand and asked with a forced lightness in my tone, “Speaking of Calvin looking at me… um… are his eyes green or blue? I know they can’t be brown, right? Too light.”
“Blue,” Pop answered with a nod.
“Blue like what?”
He was thoughtful for a moment, then smiled inwardly. I’d asked this question a lot when I was a kid: Like what? Color meant nothing to me, so when I asked,blue like what, I could learn to associate. When I was little, I think that inquiry bothered Pop. It hurt him, as a parent, to see his child struggle to fit into a world that seemed to have no place for him. But eventually, Dad grew to understand why it was an important question for me, how it helped me—at least, how it helped on an intellectual and emotional level, that is.
“Blue like the sky in spring,” he answered. “Just after sunrise.”
Pop fussed over me for a few more relentless hours before admitting he had to go home to pick up Maggie, his pit bull princess who lunged her fifty pounds of muscle at me on the regular because sheliked me, for their afternoon volunteer hours at a pittie rescue uptown. Once he was out the door, I migrated to the couch for the afternoon portion of death and decay. I lay sprawled on my side, my toes poking out from underneath a throw blanket, alternating wads of tissue shoved up either nostril when they, at random, became the Niagara Falls of mucus.
And I had to wonder why I was single? Jesus Christ….
At some point, the documentary I’d been half watching on the history of jazz in America had ended and reruns ofAntiques Roadshowhad begun. Neil and I had rarely seen eye-to-eye when it came to sharing the television. I liked black-and-white movies, and my absolute favorites were silent films, starring the likes of Harold Lloyd, Mary Pickford, and my personal favorite, unconventional silver screen heartthrob, Buster Keaton. Neil liked ’80s horror and slasher films. I know—the suits and BMW make itso obviouswhat a little bad boy he is. But movies likeThe Fly,A Nightmare on Elm Street,The Evil Dead—he was crazy for those, so he’d not been too keen on the TV’s default channel being PBS. He said I got obsessive aboutAntiques Roadshowthe way some people did aboutJeopardy!, and that arguing with the television over appraisals was weird.
Because Jeff Goldblum being turned into a monstrous fly was fuckingnormal.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table, and I considered ignoring it. It was going to be Max or Pop checking in for the nth time, but I figured they’d keep texting if I didn’t respond and then I’d never get to rot in peace. I leaned over, grabbed the cell, and brought it close to my face.
Calvin Winter.
I felt my heart kick into overdrive and immediately lodge itself into my throat.
Happy New Year’s Eve, baby. Any plans?
He called me baby. That was good. That was great, in fact. I hadn’t realized what a sucker I was for terms of endearment until Calvin had called me sweetheart and baby. And he wouldn’t be asking about my plans if he wasn’t interested, right? There was no reason for polite small talk in a text that he initiated.
I carefully pecked out a response.
You too. No pln. Udder wether.
