Page 25 of The Kiss Principle

Zé had watched the whole exchange without saying a word, his face unreadable.

“Well?” I said.

“Auggie got you that shirt.”

“Thanks a fucking lot.”

His smile slipped out, and he studied me for a moment. Then he undid the topmost button of my shirt.

“I’m not Magic Mike,” I said.

“Why am I not surprised you’ve seen that movie?”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

He ducked his head as he took me by the wrist, but the smile was bigger now. He cuffed one sleeve. His hands were steady and warm, and he took his time.

“I saw the previews, that’s all.”

“Bull. Shit.”

I laughed in spite of myself, and he was grinning as he worked on my other sleeve. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I listened to his breathing and the rustle of the shirt.

“Don’t you have any friends?” I asked.

His hands stopped moving, frozen in the act of adjusting my sleeve. Then he said, “A few.”

“Shit, that’s not what I meant.”

When he looked up, his face was unreadable again. He smoothed a hand down my chest. I was painfully aware of the belly I was carrying around, how it pulled the shirt out. He followed the curve of my body, and when he reached the hem of the shirt, he straightened it. Then he stepped back and said, “You look handsome.”

“I meant—I don’t know, I was thinking about how nice you were being, and I don’t have any friends because I’m an asshole,like this ripped-open, plundered asshole, and so then I thought but you’re nice, so you should have friends, but you’re here most nights, and you’re here weekends, and I was trying to ask if you needed more time off.”

“No,” Zé said, “you weren’t.”

“Well, I thought of it when I was trying to cover my ass, so it still technically counts.”

“Did you say ‘plundered’?”

“I figure that’s pretty close, right? Like an asshole, but an asshole that’s tore up. Wrecked. Shredded.”

He was fighting a smile; you could tell because the corner of his mouth gave him away. “I don’t like it when you talk about yourself that way.”

“I was literally an asshole to you five seconds ago.”

“You asked me a question without thinking about how it sounded, Fernando. I’m not made of glass. Trust me, you’ll know when I’m upset.”

But I thought maybe he was upset. Not with me. But the question had bothered him, and now that I’d said it out loud, it bothered me too. He was young. He was undeniably attractive. He was sweet. He was a dick-balls nerd. And he was gay. Why wasn’t he out partying? Why wasn’t he out hooking up and trolling for dick and living Augustus’s wet dream (or what had been his wet dream before he’d found his pet dinosaur)? He’d make someone happy; the thought came through like the first clear note of a bell. Like this, sharing a life together, he’d make someone incredibly happy. Happy to come home and spend an hour hearing about his day with Igz. Happy to come home and spend the next hour telling him every fucking thing that was wrong with the Dodgers’ current lineup. Happy to look over on a commercial break, to see him falling asleep at the end of the sofa, the way his lips were parted and his breathing was smoothand slow, and tell him to get his ass up and go to bed. And instead, he was here.

For a moment, I felt confused by the thought. Of course he was here. He was supposed to be here.

“You have friends,” Zé said, and at first, I didn’t understand what he was saying. Then I remembered the conversation; it felt like it had happened hours ago. “Lou loves you. And it sounds like her wife loves you too. And I’m sure you have other friends.”

“I don’t.”

“I’m your friend.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

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