Page 26 of Crossing Into Brooklyn

At least Jeremy has chosen somewhat benign stories to share. Yes, I once knocked on my sister’s door dressed as a man. When my brother-in-law answered, I told him I was there on behalf of Gays for God. That was a week after he complained about religious literature taped to the front door. My brother-in-law was so taken off guard, it took him a few minutes to realize it was me. I have to admit, it was funny.

“That belongs in a book,” Brooklyn says.

“Or a comedy show,” Jeremey offers.

“I was young,” I tell them. “And unafraid.”

“I wish I could have seen Dad’s face,” Jeremy says.

It was priceless. I laugh.

“Maybe you should write comedies,” Brooklyn suggests.

“I’m not that funny,” I reply.

“You could write a comedy with trolls or something,” Jeremy says.

“Trolls are not funny,” I tell him.

“They can be. Look at Shrek!” he says.

“Shrek is an ogre,” I correct him.

“What’s the difference?”

“Ogres eat humans,” I explain.

Jeremy stares at me.

“See?” I wink at him. I notice that Brooklyn is struggling to stifle a yawn. “It’s late,” I say. “I think it’s time for me to turn in.”

“Me too,” Brooklyn says.

“I guess that leaves more beer for me,” Jeremy tells us.

“Help yourself.” I turn to Brooklyn. “I’ll get you something to wear.”

“If I don’t see you before I leave, it was nice meeting you,” Brooklyn tells Jeremy.

“You too. I guess I’ll see you soon enough!”

“I guess so,” she agrees.

I gesture for Brooklyn to follow me upstairs. I show her to the small, blue-inspired bedroom. “You know where the bathroom is,” I say. “Give me a minute. I’ll get you something.”

I leave the room before Brooklyn can reply. I’m anxious to get her settled and get into my bed. I don’t want to linger in any bedroom with Brooklyn for longer than is essential. It’s not that I’m worried I will make a move. I fear she’ll see that I would like to make a move. I don’t want anything to strain our friendship. Experience tells me that attraction can strain the strongest friendship. Feelings? Feelings can break a decade’s long friendship in two. That’s also a lesson I don’t care to repeat. I rifle through a couple of drawers and settle on a pair of blue flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt with a Democratic donkey that can pass as a match. A few steps and I’m face to face with Brooklyn again.

“Thanks,” she says when I pass her the clothing.

“No problem. If you need anything, let me know.”

“I’ll be fine. Thank you for tonight.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Yeah, you did.”

I reply with a nod.

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