Page 78 of A Much Younger Man
Chapter Eighteen
Later that evening,Beck reclaimed his spot on the redwood table, played my guitar, and smoked a joint he’d gotten from one of his dog-sitting clients. I wondered which one, because I sure couldn’t picture any of them getting lit.
The world was a very strange place. I couldn’t offer him a beer, but for some reason watching him smoke didn’t bother me. I thought then that my priorities had to be a bit skewed.
Mist shrouded the lawn around the landscape lights, which added a mystical quality to the scene—also to the music Beck seemed inspired to play. I didn’t think it was too cold to enjoy the sea-scented air, but Beck had asked to borrow one of my jackets. My insides tightened pleasantly again at the sight of him wearing my clothes.
I recognized the piece he played but couldn’t place it at first. It took me until the chorus to realize it was “Black Hole Sun.” He played “Everlong” and “Sultans of Swing.” Music simply escaped him into the darkness beyond reach of the patio lights. The air shivered with beautiful noise. He was the elven prince I’d compared him to before, and he had captured me in some sacred sylvan space. After a while, the rhythmic thud of his knuckles against the guitar replaced my heartbeat.
Was he truly self-taught? A boy whose parents were absorbed in the health of their critically ill child might be left to his own entertainment a lot. Maybe he’d even been left alone entirely, a latchkey kid, sacrificed to the family’s need to split their time between a teen who could conceivably care for himself and a very young, very ill child.
Adolescents don’t need their parents less, at least in my experience. I spent a lot of time pretending, though. I pushed my parents away, hoping they’d push right back, and they had.
I looked at Beck and wondered, who looked after you when you needed it? Is that why you’re not afraid to ask a stranger to take care of you now? Is that why you need nurturing so badly? Because you had to learn to do everything else by yourself?
How many thousands of hours of practice had he put in? How many hours of YouTube videos had he watched, stopping and rewinding and repeating, doing it over and over again to get that good?
For the first time in my life, something beautiful hurt my eyes. The sheer complicated perfection of someone made me want to weep, and it was Beck.
Beck, who I wanted to feed, to nurture, to protect.
Beck, who I wanted to fuck, and suck, and pleasure.
Beck, who I wanted to own despite my shame. Despite my conscience.
I got myself a second beer. He took a hit from his blunt, blew blue smoke into the air, and laughed at something. Only he knew what it was. He started playing “Thinking Out Loud,” and I sang the lyrics. His expression was hilarious as if Callie had suddenly broken into the chorus of an Italian opera.
“No shit?” He put his hand to his ear. “Sing it, Boomer.”
That little brat.
Then I thought, why not sing? This wasn’t reality. This was a fantasy. My life had turned into a contemporary musical or an episode of “Carpool Karaoke,” so why not sing whatever he plays? Because things were that easy with Beck.
It was midnight by the time he put his guitar down, and by then I was thirsty for him. The silence between us begged to be filled, but I didn’t know how. Beck’s self-confidence, his swagger, enticed me. I wanted what he had. Comfort with the things he desired. Self-knowledge. The courage to ask for what he wanted. The ability to spot someone who might give it to him.
On the way inside, I took his hand. He shot me a smile that tried to be older than time but wasn’t. He made me fifteen again. Just as unsure. Just as emotionally unproven as I was during my first-ever kiss with a boy I liked.
“I don’t understand any of this,” I told him.
He leaned against the refrigerator and pulled me to him by my belt loops. “Do you have to understand things to enjoy them?”
“What do you want from me, Beck?”
“Everything.” He kissed the tip of my nose. “Anything.”
I pressed my forehead to his. “What does that even mean?”
“What if”—he cupped my face between his hands—“I asked you to take care of me.”
“Like Tug?”
“No, not like Tug,” he whispered. “Everything is different with you.”
“Because we fuck?”
He shook his head. “Because I want to take care of you too.”
“Ah, Jesus, Beck.”I want that.
