Page 65 of Hot Mess Express
Maybe I said just the right thing to get his gears clicking.
Around us, the town seems to have closed down for the night, especially after eleven o’clock on a Thursday. Every window’s dark and all the storefronts are locked up.
“You go for walks at night?” I ask. “Deadsville around here.”
“Good time to clear your head.” Anthony stops at a bench and drops onto it. “Favorite bench, this creaky ol’ guy right here.”
I stand in front of him, hands in my pockets. “I gave Trey your flyer, by the way.”
He’s already slouched against the bench, getting comfortable, one leg sticking way out, the other tucked under him. “That so?”
“He told me before I left to meet you that he’d already called your dad and signed up. See? You gave a good pitch.”
“I know I give good pitches.” He straightens up suddenly. “I’m a harder worker than you think. Why aren’t you sittin’ down?” He slaps the spot next to him. “Get off your feet. Makin’ me nervous.”
Funny, how he says that. I’d assume sitting right next to him on that little bench would make him even more nervous.Judging from the funny way he’s breathing, something’s been churning around in his mind ever since we left the theater. Maybe it has something to do with him sitting in my lap for half the climax of the movie. The second the credits started rolling, he bounced off of me like my crotch grew cactus needles and couldn’t be out of the theater fast enough. His excuse was he needed to take a leak. So did I, to be fair. But I knew there was something else going on. Even as we found ourselves in a public bathroom—for the second time—then washing our hands at neighboring sinks, I felt the seismic waves of tension rippling off of the jumpy guy.
Maybe he’s not used to dealing with these feelings sober.
I should be sensitive with him.
I take a seat on the bench. Behind us, the lamp posts from the Spruce Park shine with honeyed-white pools of light over the thin pathways that cut through the grass and cleanly-trimmed bushes. Crickets are screeching their wings together noisily tonight, filling all the space between our words.
“Sorry for usin’ you like a seat,” he mumbles. “I should’ve … y’know …asked your permissionfirst.”
I can’t tell if he’s mocking me, but I chuckle anyway. “No big deal. You had my permission. Was it as comfy as you said?”
“Sure, yeah, like sittin’ on a … a slab of … military muscle.” His face cringes after the words leave his lips, and he looks away, his cheeks flushing.
His heart must be racing. I can visibly see his breaths coming out funny, the way his lips seem to tremble between his words.
“Did, uh,youlike it?” he then asks, flipping it onto me.
“Other than my leg falling asleep, guess it wasn’t half bad.”
“You probably enjoyed it too much,” he teases. “Don’t lie.”
I can’t figure him out. Is he trying to get me to say something? “Sure,” I decide to answer, like a little experiment.“It was comfy. It’s been a while since anyone’s … well, sat on my lap.”
“Really?” He tries to laugh at that, but it only comes out as an airy snort. “You have a … You’ve had a lot of … people on your lap in your life or … or s-somethin’?”
He’s talking in circles. Avoiding the point. Too afraid to dive into what he really wants to ask. He stares off into the street as we talk, too, like he can’t bear to look me in the eye.
I noticed his foot is nervously bouncing on the ground, too.
Just like mine does when I’m anxious about something.
Another thing we’ve got in common, I guess.
“Anthony …” I start. “If there’s something you want to say …”
His foot stops at once.
He turns to me. “Can I … t-try something?”
I lift my eyebrows, startled by the sudden vulnerability in his voice, the way he shifted from a dismissive man to an innocent kid full of fears and excitement.
I guess he really has been working something out in his head.
