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“I would have been fine on my own for a few hours.”
“It would have been half a day, at least, and maybe you would have. Or maybe you would have needed me. Peoplediefrom influenza and pneumonia, Nico, and you have both. It’s okay to need some help, and I’m happy to provide it.” I watch as Nico plucks at the front of my hoodie. Standing, I gesture to the chair. “Move over here, will you? I’ll wash the sheets and your clothes.”
He pulls the hoodie off reluctantly, dropping it on the floor. I strip the bed and throw the sheets there as well. Headingover to his closet, I pull out one of his own sweaters and bring it over to him. Smiling, a little sadly, he puts it on.
“Doesn’t smell like you,” he says, looking up at me. We stare at each other over the pile of laundry, each of us trying to silently convey things that would be best said out loud.
“Do you have extra sheets?” I’m pointed in the direction of the linen closet and the washing machine; snatching everything up off the floor, I leave the room to take care of it. He’s sitting right where I left him when I return, and watches silently as I remake the bed. I’m just about to ask him what he’d like to do now when my phone rings. Frowning, I stare down at my agent’s name on the screen.
“Do you need to get that?” Nico asks, watching me.
“It’s my agent,” I explain, and sit down on the side of the bed to answer it. Nico makes like he’s going to get up but I wave him back down; I could not possibly care less if he overheard my conversation. “Hello?”
“You got something you want to tell me?” The booming voice of Joel Street fills the room. Nico’s eyes flash to mine in surprise. Street isn’t known for his tact.
“Uhm, no?” Apparently, I do, or he wouldn’t be calling, but damned if I know what it is.
“You were at St. Bruno’s.”
“Oh, right. A friend of mine needed to be picked up from the hospital.” I remember, suddenly, those two guys standing by the front door.You’re Anthony Lawson, right?“Did somebody post a picture of me online?”
“Oh no, they posted a video. Two minutes and forty-two seconds of you helping your friend into your car. It’s a nice video, shows how much of a gentleman you are.”
Nico looks perplexed, clearly able to hear every word Street is saying. My heart sinks until it settles somewhere in thevicinity of my toes. I close my eyes and brace myself. “But that’s not all the video shows, is it?”
“Lawson, my man, you and I are cool and we’re always going to be cool. But I would have appreciated a little bit of a heads up on this one.”
“Tell me.” I keep my eyes closed and the phone clutched tight to my ear. I can’t bear to look at Nico right now.
“Like I said. Nice video: you and Nico Mackenzie leaving the hospital,” I sag at Nico’s name, all hope that I’d retained for his anonymity gone, “and you get him out of the wheelchair, give him a kiss, and help him into your car. Now, I can spin a story better than Stephen King himself, but I’m not a magician. If you want to sell theNico Mackenzie is my friendstory, ain’t nobody going to buy it. Everyone can see where your hand is, and that sweet little smooch.”
“On the cheek. I kissed him on the cheek.” Bending forward, I balance an elbow on my knee and cup a hand over my forehead.
“Lawson,” he draws out the syllables of my name so that it sounds like two separate words, “you ain’t looking at that man like he’s anything other than the love of your life, and I have two minutes and forty-two seconds of proof. Real talk, you and I, alright?”
“Fuck, Street, I’m sorry.”
“Video was posted half an hour ago. South Carolina, as of seven minutes ago, has been dubbed the gayest team in the NHL. I didn’t make that up, by the way, that’s the hashtag that is currently trending on Twitter. I won’t read off some of the others, and I’d like to advise you not to do your own investigating. So, I need to know, right now, how we are going to play this. We either piggyback off of Nichols’ announcement or we pretend that every bro in the world kisses his buddies like that.”
A soft touch on my shoulder alerts me to Nico’s presence beside me on the bed. I look over at him, fearing what I might find in those exquisite eyes. No anger, thank god, but a fair bit of distress and sorrow. With trepidation, I rest my hand on my leg, palm facing up; Nico slides his fingers between mine and squeezes.
“I don’t know, I need a second—." Street, a veritable bull in a china shop, doesn’t let me finish.
“You don’t have a second. Listen, I’m sorry. I am. This is the fucking pits, and I know that. You know that. Everybody who’s ever had their privacy violated knows that. But this is the world we live in, and people on the internet love to comment on other people’s lives because they’ve got nothing better to do with their own. If you don’t tell them something, they’re going to make up their own narrative.”
“I can’t just—fuck! I’m sorry.” I’m not sure who that apology is meant for—Street, or Nico, or myself. “I—I don’t know…say whatever you have to say to make people believe it’s platonic. It’s not the right time and we haven’t even…it’s not fair—."
Nico’s hand tightens painfully on mine, cutting me off and bringing my attention back to his wan face. He shakes his head. “It’s okay,” he whispers.
“Okay. I’ll get to work and have a proposal to you in an hour. Keep your phone on you. And for god’s sake, stay off the internet,” Street carries on but I’m only partially listening. Nico, pale-faced and glassy-eyed, has my full attention.
He shakes his head again, a little more forcefully. “It’s okay,” he says again.
“Street,” I say into the phone, interrupting the tirade. “Hold off on that for a second. For five minutes. I need to call you back, okay?”
Before he can argue, I hang up. My phone rings a second later and I mute it. I look at Nico—sick, miserable, handsome Nico—and have to force words around the lump of guilt lodged in my throat.
“I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.”
