Chapter Two
Theo
His name is Mr. Woodcock
Do I have a bullseye on my forehead?
That’s a rhetorical question, by the way, because I must since shit keeps being thrown at me and sticking to me from every part of my life. I just can’t seem to catch a break right now.
It hasn’t always been this way. I’m normally an upbeat positive person and things have gone my way, until recently. I’m hard working. Ambitious. I do right by others. I provide a hand to old ladies crossing the street. I don’t take myself too seriously. And I’m a good friend, son and nephew.
And I thought I was a good boyfriend, too. Thoughtful, loving, attentive, giving in bed.
Apparently though, that wasn’t enough for Alyssa, my girlfriend of two years, whom I lived with for one, to stay with me. She recently kicked me out of the apartment we shared together in Lincoln Park when she told me that I wasn’t successful enough for her standards and she no longer was in love with me.
Whomp.
That’s the sound of more shit thrown at my targeted head.
Since Alyssa is still in grad school and her dad was funding half of the apartment costs, I had to leave. And let me tell you, it’s not easy for a struggling actor and playwright in between gigs, without much as a dime saved, to find a suitable apartment in Chicago.
There’s no way I had enough money saved to cover first and last month’s rent for a new place. So, for the last few weeks, I’ve been couch surfing, working out deals with friends and anyone else who can take me in while I finish writing my play.
It’s been a fate worse than death. Worse even than a death in a Shakespeare play.
Do you know how embarrassing it is at age twenty-six to ask a friend if you can crash at their place? I’ve had to dig so deep into my contact lists that I’m practically going back to my peewee baseball team roster. People my age are generally shacked up, having kids or already living with a plethora of roommates. They don’t have the time or space for someone to live in their homes, even temporarily.
Thankfully, fate intervened and there was a break in the clouds two nights ago when I ran into my old college roommate from Northwestern, Patrick. It was seriously one of those passing on the streets kind of things and we ended up having a few beers together.
The craziest opportunity presented itself. Like the tides were turning in my shit luck life. Pat informed me that his job is taking him to China for two months and he has a walk-up apartment and a four-legged bestie that needs to be cared for while he’s gone.
He asked if I was good with dogs, and I said, “well of course I am!” when in all honestly, I’ve never had one in my life. But how hard could it be to feed and walk a dog? And from how Pat described his pup, the dog is small and housetrained.
So I jumped at the chance because it was exactly what I needed to help me get out of this shitty slump and get back on my feet again.
It’s like pennies from heaven and the soft landing I needed.
Last night, it was just like old times between me and Pat. Which means he drank me under the table. I was sloshed by the second round and am feeling every single ounce of malt liquor we drank last night.
Pat, however, is whistling cheerfully in his kitchen as I pad in wearing only my pajama bottoms and bare feet, rubbing my head at the temples. Patrick is at the counter, his packed bags on the floor by the door, making some last minute notes on my To Do list.
He lifts his head and quirks a brow suggestively. “Good thing I’m leaving. Not sure I could stand seeing your naked chest every morning without wanting to lick it.”
My eyes drift down to my exposed torso, my hand absently rubbing over the wiry hairs until I realize what he means. I laugh, prudishly covering my chest and waist with my arms, gasping in horror.
“I feel so violated,” I joke, searching in a cupboard for a coffee cup and an aspirin.
I’m not homophobic in the least and have never been at all concerned about being hit on by anyone. Although we lost touch for several years, Patrick and I have been friends since our freshman year, and that was before and after he came out that second semester of college.
We had many latenight talks, drunk on whatever liquor we had available, where he promised that he didn’t find me attractive and wouldn’t lust over me. Although he did admit to admiring my ass a few times.
Whatever. I was never weirded out by it, because I’m secure in my own sexuality. But we did make a pact to communicate and share the space in our dorm room when it came to hook-ups. That stuff I didn’t particularly want to see.
Swinging around the island, I pour myself some coffee and chug down the pill. I turn and lean back against the counter, one ankle over the other, enjoying each scalding sip of the rich coffee. That’s one thing about Patrick. He has fine taste in everything. From his high-end apartment, to his imported Italian roasts.
“Okay, I think I have everything down. You know Woody’s food and walk schedule, but I understand if your schedule ends up a little different during the workweek. As long as you can let Joey know, she can take him outside to pee if you’ve got a gig or something.”
When I quirk my brow in question, he laughs.
