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“I think you’re overestimating how interested people are in your life. Most people are too busy with their own lives. You’re not that fascinating.”
“Julie asked you about it, didn’t she?”
“She works with us every day. She’s my friend. This is insane. You mean we can’t ever go anywhere together? I don’t want to just sit in front of the TV every night. I’m not old enough for that yet. I’ll feel like a prisoner.”
He was pouting like a boy. That tactic had almost always worked in the past, but Paul had started to build up defenses to Ian’s face.
“Maybe you should call a friend and go out sometime,” Paul said. “You and I are together practically twenty-four hours a day. It might be a good idea for you to spend time with other friends.”
It was such a logical and perfect suggestion that Paul made it out of pure momentum. He wanted so much to put an end to the current discussion that he didn’t really think things through. Th
e last thing Paul wanted was for Ian to start going out with a bunch of fun, attractive young people. As soon as he said it, he hoped Ian would reject the idea.
“Maybe I will,” he said.
When they got home, Ian sat cross-legged on the futon and scrolled through names in his cell phone address book. Paul dug in the drawer for pizza menus, trying not to watch. Ian would scroll down to a name, then look up and furrow his brow in contemplation, then go back to scrolling. His list of numbers seemed fairly long. Whose numbers were they? Paul knew nothing about them. Every number in that phone became an old lover—a younger, more exciting, and sexier lover. Any one of them could take Ian’s life in a new direction with the right word or suggestion. That direction might not include Paul. He was beginning to wish he had just gone ahead and taken Ian to the restaurant in the first place.
Finally, Ian stopped scrolling. He squinted at the phone’s screen for a moment and chewed on the nail of his index finger. He finally pushed the send button, flipped his hair back, and put the phone to his ear. He tapped his left fingers on his knee as he waited for an answer.
“Hi, Ray?” he said. “It’s Ian.” Only “Ian.” No last name. “Yeah, I know. How are you?” Then Ian jumped to his feet and went into the bedroom.
Why was he taking the call in another room? Paul told himself it was none of his business what Ian and this Ray were talking about. It was natural to want privacy, wasn’t it? It didn’t mean anything.
He called and ordered the pizza. When he had finished, Ian was still on the phone. He heard laughter coming from the bedroom. They were laughing. What were they laughing about? Paul was consumed with the preposterous notion that the laughter was about him. (Would Ian really be laughing about Paul only a few feet away?) He drifted to the bedroom door, standing just close enough to hear Ian’s half of the conversation and just far enough to maintain plausible deniability if Ian suddenly walked out. He held the pizza menu up to his face and looked in its direction without focus. He was ashamed to be listening, but he could not help himself.
“Really? How is she? … You’re kidding, twins?! … No, I haven’t talked to him in ages. … Are you still in touch with Brad?”
Paul was relieved and disappointed: relieved that he had not heard anything incriminating but disappointed because he felt certain that he had simply missed the important part of the conversation—the part where Ian confessed that he was miserable with the old man and that he missed having fun with his friends.
Ian was still chatting when the delivery driver arrived. Paul paid for the pizza, put plates out on the table, sat, and waited. Finally, Ian emerged with a big smile on his face.
“I’m going to go out with my friend Ray tomorrow,” he said.
“Who is Ray?” Paul asked, hoping it did not sound like an inquisition.
“We were really good friends a while ago,” Ian said.
“What happened?”
“He tried to convince me I had a problem with alcohol. I told him to fuck off and mind his own business. Turns out one of us was right,” he said, grabbing two pieces of pizza and letting them flop onto his plate. “I was a little bit scared to call him, but he was actually glad to hear from me.”
“Well, that’s great. It’s good that you’re getting together,” Paul said.
The following evening Ian paced as he waited for Ray’s arrival. Ian looked radiant. He was wearing a shirt Paul had never seen him put on before. It was an Asian floral pattern reminiscent of tattoo art. It had the same intriguing mix of masculine and feminine aspects as Ian’s own face. His hair was neatly combed, his eyes were wide, and he was full of youth and energy. Paul felt dowdy and old.
When the bell rang, Ian went to the door. Paul did not follow him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ian greet the guest with a hug. A hug!
Ian led his friend into the living room. “This is Paul,” he said.
Ray was a nightmare. He was about Ian’s age, with dark curly hair and big brown eyes. He was of some vague ethnicity that Paul couldn’t quite place. Maybe half Indian or Hispanic or perhaps Middle Eastern. His beige skin was flawless. He was almost comically handsome. He might even have been better-looking than Ian, if such a thing were possible. Together they looked as though they were headed off to shoot an advertisement for designer jeans or men’s cologne.
“Ian told me so much about you,” Ray said, extending his hand.
Paul accepted it and replied with a forced smile, “Nice to meet you.”
“You must be pretty special,” Ray said. “To help Ian get his life together like that. A lot of us tried.”
“He is,” Ian said. His loving gaze failed to register with Paul, who was fully distracted by Ray.
