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The entire conversation had underscored the fact that me putting the moves on Noah was a shitty thing to do, since he needed this job. What if he’d only reciprocated because he felt pressured? I couldn’t let him feel like that. There was just no way. If the next couple of months passed with my body still lighting up like the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree whenever he was nearby, I’d make a move at that point. Until then, the ball was in his court.
I helped him make breakfast and then we went over the notes Mel had sent. I wasn’t to talk about the fight, what had preceded it, or anything legal. I also wasn’t to talk about the NFL. Other forbidden topics were my bisexuality and the names of any female flings I’d had in the past. Basically, nothing that could result in me fucking myself over with the law, my bosses, or anyone who didn’t want their names coming out of my mouth. I could do that.
Spence came over, and it was immediately apparent that he didn’t care about impressing me. He wore a white T-shirt, faded green cargo pants, and a pair of flip flops. His beard was a little longer than it had been in Saturday’s Skype session, but his eyes were sharp and flitted around quickly to take in every inch of the mansion.
“This place is intense,” he said as we headed inside. “Did you just move in?”
Here we went again.
“No. I just don’t decorate it.”
Spence did a double take. He laughed sort of skeptically. “Why not?”
“Because I only use fourish rooms.”
“Huh.”
Spence didn’t ask me anything further, which only prompted me to explain.
“It’s the first house I’d ever bought, and I figured I was supposed to buy the biggest and flashiest I could afford. Turns out that was a dumb fucking idea.”
He nodded. “Yeah. But I’d do the same. I mean, I got this job and instantly bought an apartment in Williamsburg. Now I’m house poor.”
“Heh. Fucking hipster.”
Spence laughed, appearing amused by this, and spent the next twenty minutes showing me a website that made fun of hipsters. I didn’t really know what to say about it, so I said nothing and primarily wondered why someone would dedicate their time to making fun of people on the Internet. Seemed like a shitty waste of energy. I’d rather swim and watch porn and watch Noah painstakingly sort mail.
“Not your cup of tea?” he asked, sliding his phone back into his pocket.
“Not really. Seems sort of fucked-up.”
Spence made another “huh” sound, and followed me around the house. I had no idea why I was giving him a tour other than I had nothing better to do. I was post-workout and usually spent the next couple of hours reviewing game tape, watching ESPN, and then trying to do the activities that the anger management counselor had suggested for me. Her new thing was journaling. She wanted me to write whenever I felt so pent up that I felt the need to punish my body some more in the gym.
It sounded frankly terrible, but I wasn’t sure how much of that was me not wanting to scrawl my horrific handwriting across paper and how much was my brain being infected by the hyper masculine bullshit that typically surrounded me. Real men don’t keep journals. But according to my homophobic peers, they didn’t suck dick either.
Just as the silence between us grew overly awkward, Noah walked in and flashed his politely charming smile. It was nothing like the blank-faced confusion he’d given me the day of his interview. Was I really that easy to dislike on sight?
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Noah. Gavin’s PA.”
“Spence.”
Spence took Noah’s hand. He wasn’t discreet about how closely he took stock of Noah, and I wondered if he was also on the rainbow spectrum or just trying to memorize the details for his article. Either way, he’d better get the description right. Tall, lean, soft, dark hair, big bright eyes, and the kind of half-assed business casual that amounted to a button-down with sloppily rolled up sleeves, Dickies, and old sneakers. Noah was adorable.
“Let me know if you guys need—”
“Don’t go,” I blurted. Both Spence and Noah looked at me sidelong. “I have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to do.” As soon as I said it, I felt like an idiot. Noah had agreed to be at the house while I was being interviewed. He hadn’t promised to stick by my side the entire time to hold my hand.
“Is he even supposed to do anything in particular?” Noah asked Spence. “I thought you were just hanging out.”
“Oh, I am. Gavin, feel free to go about your normal routine,” Spence said in a way that was reassuring. “I’ll just chillax.”
I brushed aside my animosity for people who said “chillax.” “You’re gonna be bored as fuck. All I’m going to do is analyze Sunday’s game.”
