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7
Maggie couldn’t stop laughing.She shoved on Harry’s arm. “Stop it! You’re terrible.”
It was his night off, and since Harry only ever had one night a week, he always wanted to do something together. Even though she had the home visit the next day with her shouldn’t-be-so-handsome, eccentric, state-appointed psychiatrist, she couldn’t let Harry down. It was their tradition.
And like every week, they did the same exact thing.
She got a six pack of beer—one for her and five for Harry—and ordered a ridiculous amount of Chinese food. Sometimes Harry would rustle up some weed. They’d put on some terrible 70s horror film from Harry’s extensive Troma collection.
And even though they did the same exact thing every time, they always had an absolute blast. Tonight was no exception. She was sprawled out on his sofa on her side. He was sitting on the floor, his head leaning back against her stomach.
It was nice. Sure, they were two nutjobs living in a slummy halfway home, but it was nice. It made her smile. Apparently, she didn’t need much to be happy. Just good company and something to look forward to.
Oh. And Chinese food. She knew it was ostensibly gross and inauthentic—she lived on the edge of Chinatown, and there was a lovely restaurant two doors up from their building—so she had plenty of opportunity to get the real stuff.
Actual Chinese food was fantastic, even if she never really knew what the hell she had ordered half the time. She had thought about learning Mandarin to communicate with her basically-neighbors, but quickly learned it was way, way over her head. But politeness went a long way, and they always smiled at her and waved, and she always smiled and waved back.
But even though it was fake, the terrible, greasy, fried, overly sauced, puffy, drippy, Americanized stuff was cathartic and wonderful. Namely because it was terrible, greasy, fried, overly sauced, puffy, and drippy.
It held a special place in her heart. Yeah, like my ventricles.
She reached out and stroked Harry’s hair. He grunted and leaned into her touch. She smiled at him and began scratching at his scalp. She knew how much he liked that. Any normal single guy probably would have made a move on her by now. But he hadn’t, which was a bit strange. But then again, she was a bit strange. Don’t be so egotistical. Maybe he’s just not into you. That’s a thing that can happen, y’know. Be glad you have a friend.
There was still the loneliness that clawed at the back of her mind, no matter how much time she spent with Harry. Even when she was sitting next to him, she felt…kind of alone. She probably just wanted to jump into bed with him to try to stave off the cold ache. Not that he wasn’t appealing.
Mutual insanity aside, Harry was attractive, big, buff, strong, a good friend, and funny—all the things a potential lover should be. He checked the boxes. I guess he could also be loaded. Like one of those terrible “billionaire romance” book tropes. Oh, well. C’est la vie. “Hey, Harry?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you ever…I don’t know. Get lonely?”
“Sure. Who doesn’t?” He shut his eyes, still enjoying her playing with his hair and scratching his scalp.
“Right, but. I mean. Like. Um.” She sighed. This was awkward, and she was terrible. “I really love our friendship, and I don’t want to do anything stupid…but…I mean, even if it doesn’t go anywhere…” She hesitated, then ripped the bandage off. “Maybe it might be nice to not be so lonely all the time?”
“Oh.” Harry turned to look at her. He rested his arm on the sofa and smiled at her. But it wasn’t an excited smile. It wasn’t a cheeky, flirty one. It wasn’t one that said, I was waiting for you to ask me. It was a smile that said, oh, honey, I’m so sorry.
She sighed. Her face felt like it was on fire. She flopped onto her back and shut her eyes. “Forget I said anything.” She wanted to crawl inside her hoodie and die.
“No! No. I mean. I’m flattered. I really am.” He put his hand on her arm. “Maggie, it’s just that…I just…I can’t. I literally can’t.”
She looked over at him curiously. Now it was his turn to look ashamed. He turned to face away from her, his back to the sofa, and lowered his head. She reached out and hugged him, resting her chin on his shoulder. “Hey. It’s all right.” Maybe it was the medication. Or maybe it was his own disorder. It wasn’t her right to ask.
He placed his hands on her arms and tilted his head against hers. “I’ve never really…been that into people. I don’t know. Even before I got sick, it’s always been this way. It’s weird. Here I am, right? Big and handsome. Girls stare at me—guys too. And I just…don’t care. I used to fake it. But it’s hard to fake sexual attraction to people. Things just don’t work, y’know? And I don’t like feeling like I’m somehow…lesser because of it.” He sighed. “The whole world is about fucking, and here I am, not caring if my dick fell off. I just don’t care. And that makes me some kind of freak.”
“I don’t think you’re lesser. Not at all. Doesn’t make you wrong. Just makes you who you are.” She smiled. “Besides, we’re both freaks. So, who cares?”
He smirked. “Gideon thinks I have borderline Asperger’s and sexual dysphoria. But he’s also a shithead, so I don’t want to believe anything he says.”
“You really don’t like him, huh?” She chuckled. “You could get a different psychiatrist, you know.”
“Nah. Not worth it. I don’t really care.”
“If you say so.” She kissed his cheek. “Are we good?”
“Yeah. You don’t care I’m a dickless wonder?”
“Not in the slightest.” She squeezed him tighter for a second before letting him go. “I think the word for you is ‘asexual,’ by the way.”
