Page 45 of Technical Advances

“I’ll be at Caitlin’s,” he let me know as he approached, muttering more softly as he passed, “all night.” I nodded in understanding before turning and following his movements as he exited the apartment, closing the door behind him while his thumb tapped on his phone with his other hand.

OMG, dude, Anson fucking Day is in our apartment! popped up on my screen practically as soon as the door closed. I shoved my phone in my pocket while I kicked off my shoes and tugged at the tie that had been bothering me for hours, leaving it, along with my keys, on the little catch-all table we kept by the front door.

Then I turned and faced the man himself. I was more used to seeing him without his glasses and was taken aback by them momentarily, despite the fact that he’d had them on throughout dinner. He looked so lost, a little scared, and very alone, standing there in front of the big screen.

Behind him, the baseball stadium erupted. Our intense eye contact broke as the noise drew us to the TV. Anson turned back as the announcer yelled, “Another homer for the shortstop Abbott Page!”

I was frozen in my spot, looking at his perfectly manicured ponytail. I could tell he was nervously running his palms up and down his jeans again, and I wanted to go to him, to reach out and take hold of his hands, to calm him.

“Fuck it,” I mumbled to myself as I headed the few steps from our entrance to the living room.

Anson continued to stare at the TV until I rounded in front of him, taking his hands just as I had wanted.

“Baseball,” he said distractedly. “Boston’s in Tampa,” he added as he looked down at my hands in his.

“Yeah. My roomie’s a big fan,” I explained, happy when his eyes met mine. I would never not appreciate how precious eye contact was with Anson Day.

“It’s on all the time in this house. My dad’s a fan too. Not of Boston, of course, he’s a fan of the Rattlers, but it’s like the one sport I know a little something about. I don’t hate it, unless you ask me to pick up a bat.”

I may have been rambling. “Dad made me try Little League one year. He was so excited because he really does love the sport. So I tried really hard. I wasn’t terrible; I mean”—I leaned in a little closer to him, squeezing his hands—“you just have to apply physics, right? But I hated playing. I’m not competitive like that, and I didn’t relate to the other kids on my team. I didn’t relate to most people when I was a kid,” I confessed, my energy waning. Part of me knew I shouldn’t be sharing so openly with Anson, but I couldn’t help myself.

“And I hated that I hated playing baseball because I felt like I was disappointing my dad. He figured it out, though. Asked me what I wanted to do instead, then found out that the Lego Store a few towns over held a club for kids my age. In the end, he just wanted me to be happy. It’s been a long time since I’ve disappointed my dad.

“I’m really sorry about how he acted tonight. Running all hot and cold like that. I wish … I just wish I understood what he’s so upset about.”

Anson dropped my hands and dropped to the couch. “Your dad’s a good man, Benji. He was when we were young, and he reminded me of that again tonight with how protective he was of you.”

“I’m a grown man, Anson; I don’t need his protection.” I tried not to sound petulant, just factual, because I knew that what my dad did, he did out of love. Anson spoke over me as I said it.

“I shouldn’t have come here.”

I sat on the coffee table opposite him, our knees practically touching. “Why did you?”

“I think you know why.” He swallowed his words, barely breathing them out. I waited, and he found my hands. It was so conflicting, feeling warm and safe while at the same time, holding his hands felt like the most dangerous thing in the world.

“These past few days have been torture, Benji. And I wish I understood here”—without letting go of my hand, he tapped his heart, taking my hand along for the ride—“why we can’t …” He paused before continuing, mid-thought, “… because I’ve missed seeing you so much. It’s only been a few days, yet I miss you so much.”

I let his words hang in the air between us as I tried to figure out how to solve the problematic equation that had been presented to us. I knew he was trying to figure it out himself. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, proving that simply existing in a room with Anson was better than not being near him. Baseball commentary droned on in the background. Apparently, Abbott Page was having a really good start to his season.

I thought being apart was the right thing, but seeing him sitting there, looking so distressed, it didn’t feel right at all. It didn’t feel like I was protecting him when I saw how upset he looked.

Silence lingered until we both spoke, one right after the other, his response barely leaving any daylight between it and my last word.

“Could there possibly be a way?” I whispered, afraid to speak it out loud.

“I’ve been doing some research. New Day…”

I jumped up.

“Yes! Exactly! That’s how you and I solve problems.” I walked over to the coat closet near the front door, feeling Anson’s questioning eyes on me the entire time.

“This is how we solve problems.” I smiled as I emerged from the closet, having fought jackets and sweatshirts, not to mention a floor full of boots and ratty sneakers, to find the large easel pad tucked along the back wall. I mostly worked on my computer, but occasionally I felt the need to jot out my thoughts longhand. Jake had purchased the huge sticky notepad after a brain blast had kept me up all night months earlier, scribbling on the entrance way wall for lack of a better option.

Jake had also bought the paint we would need to cover up my calculations, which he’d left for me to use.

I returned to the living room and slapped a piece of the sticky paper on the wall next to the TV, shutting it off manually.

“Benji? Do you want me to tell you what I found out?”