Serpentine Walls (14 page)

“Hey.” Matthew stopped and turned around, and Pete panicked, realizing he had no idea what to say. “Um. Oh, crap, this is lame. I feel weird about what happened at your party.”
There. I said it.

“What?”

Oh, great, do I have to spell it out?
“You know, the—when you walked in the pantry and me and Aidan….”
Kill me now.
Pete felt his cheeks flushing.

“Oh, that. It’s cool. Parker and I have a saying: what happens at the blue house, stays at the blue house.” Matthew smiled at him. “I missed you at the costume judging. I guess you and Aidan couldn’t stay, huh?” He resumed playing.

“Oh. Yeah, well, Aidan had to go. And then I—I mean, we didn’t leave together or—um.” He trailed off, feeling stupid about trying to explain himself to Matthew.

“It’s all fine, Pete. Really.”

Pete relaxed, dropping his shoulders, which he hadn’t realized were hunched up, as Matthew started in on a haunting melody.

“What’s that?”

“A piece from Schumann’s
Carnaval
. He called it ‘Chopin’ because he wrote it as an homage to him.”

“It’s beautiful.”

Pete sat in silence, listening to Matthew play through the piece and then begin something that sounded like Bach. All of his tension from before had drained away. He felt safe, like he was in a cocoon of music where nothing bad could happen.

Matthew’s fingers on the keys were long and slender, and Pete found himself wondering how Matthew would be in bed.
God, stop
, he told himself. Aidan was a hopeless enough crush as it was. He didn’t need to be adding Matthew to the list. Matthew was great, and Pete was very attracted to him, but despite the way they sometimes flirted with each other, he hadn’t made any moves.
Hell, he might not even be gay
.

After a half hour of Matthew playing, they went to Newcomb Hall for Americanos and sat at a small table to drink them.

“Did you get the rest of your screenplay done?” Matthew asked.

“Yep. I’m glad now that we decided to have the whole thing happen in Gregory’s bedroom.”

“Oh, yeah. The flashbacks would have been cool, but it would’ve been complicated to film. Have you talked to Parker about the part?”

“Yeah. He wants to do it. Thanks for the suggestion.”

“No problem. Despite appearances, he’s a good actor, and I think he’ll be perfect for Gregory. So, next is storyboarding the shots. E-mail me the screenplay, and how about we get together at the bagel shop on Tuesday.”

“Okay. How are your classes going?”

“Fine.” Matthew put down his cup and rubbed his hands together. “Got a ton of work done on my thesis today, thank God. Had to lock myself in the library.”

“You know, when I first heard you were a grad student in art, I thought you’d be holed up somewhere painting.”

Matthew laughed. “In a garret! A veritable Van Gogh! Naw, I love art, but I’m really not that good at producing it. Except for making films. And this Art and Architectural History program is amazing.”

“Cool. But if you’re doing that, how come you’re also a TA for the filmmaking class?”

“Because I love it and the professor knows me so she let me do it.”

“Wow.”

“What?”

Pete watched the barista steam milk for another latte, trying to figure out how to express the awesomeness that was Matthew. “Just—I don’t know. You do all this stuff, you’re in graduate school, you have great parties. And you’re helping me and probably a ton of other people.”

Matthew smiled and tilted his head, like
no big deal
.

“I know!” Pete said. “You were a Boy Scout, right?”

“Maybe. But I’ll never admit it.”

“Come on. I bet you were an Eagle Scout.”

“Even if I was, I’m not too fond of the Boy Scouts anymore. Homophobic assholes.”

“Yeah. Guess I’ll never get to be a den mother, or whatever it’s called.”

“Or a scoutmaster. And neither will I.” Pete waited for him to say more, because this was as close as Matthew had come to outright saying that he was gay. Matthew glanced at his phone. “It’s getting pretty late. I need to get home soon.”

Pete sat back, feeling weirdly hesitant to press Matthew for details on his sexual orientation, let alone his love life, but
damn
. He really wanted to know if he had a chance in hell of ever getting together with him.

They left Newcomb and were strolling along Rugby Road when Matthew asked, “Got any fun plans for Thanksgiving?”

“Naw. Hanging out with John and spending as little time with my family as possible.”

“Oh. Right.” Pete had told Matthew about his parents splitting up.

Pete cleared his throat and feigned a careless shrug. “My dad is taking his new girlfriend to Puerto Vallarta for the holiday.”

“Man, that must be awful for your mom. And you.”

“Yeah.” Pete glanced over to find Matthew looking at him, blue eyes so kind and sympathetic that he could barely stand it. “But anyway, you going home for Thanksgiving?”

“Oh, yeah. My mom would kill me if I didn’t come. I’m elected to make the cornbread stuffing this year.”

“Sounds fun. Where’s home?”

“Reston. How about you?”

“Arlington.”

They paused, having reached Pete’s street. Matthew smiled down at Pete under the streetlight. “Hey, thanks for the company tonight. I liked you listening to me play.”

“No problem. I liked hearing you. It was very relaxing.”

Matthew’s expression grew teasing. “So you’re saying I put you to sleep? Anytime you have insomnia, I’m there for you, dude.”

“Not
that
relaxing, dude. So, Tuesday at the bagel shop?”

“Absolutely. See you then.”

Pete felt warmed by Matthew’s merry smile as he gave him a mock salute and set off down the sidewalk.

“W
HEN
do we eat?” Nate stuck his finger into the dish of mashed potatoes sitting on the stove.

“Outta there!” Missy cried, slapping at his hand. “Not ’til two.”

“Two? I’m starving, dude!”

“Eat an apple. Or some yogurt,” Mom said, leaning into the oven to baste the turkey. “Have you finished setting the table?”

“Almost.”

“Meaning not at all,” Missy said. “I swear, Nate, you’re such a slug.”

“Jeez, would ya get off my back for once?”

“I’ll do it.” Pete walked out to the dining room, happy to escape the kitchen and his bickering siblings. He could still hear them, though.

“Nate should, the lazy slob!” Missy complained loudly.

“Hey! Stop with the insults!”

“I will when you raise a finger to help out around here.”

“Stop it, both of you!” His mother’s voice was tinged with weariness.

Pete stuck his head into the kitchen and said, “Nate, come here.”

Nate slouched into the dining room, muttering, “She started it.”

“Over here.” Pete yanked open the silverware drawer at the top of the sideboard. “Grab some forks and knives and go to town.” He picked up a stack of plates.

“I mean it.” Nate scowled as he got a handful of silverware. “She’s been on my fucking case all day, man. All
week
.”

“Yeah.” Pete started to set the table. “So, how’s school?”

“Okay.” Nate slammed the silverware down next to each plate, still looking like a thundercloud.

“Senior year, man,” Pete continued, hoping to divert him from his upset with Missy. “Have you been applying to colleges?”

“Just Nova and Mason.”

“Really? Why not U.Va. or Tech? Your grades should be good enough.”

“Too expensive, now that Mom and Dad—” Nate frowned. “Whatever.”

“What? Fuck, man, that’s just wrong. Dad should be able to pay.”

“He told me not to count on it.”

“Jesus!” Pete bit back the bitter words he wanted to spew about Dad and took a deep breath. “You should apply anyway. What about a basketball scholarship?”

“Not good enough for that. I already tried.”

“Oh. Well, apply to the ones you want to go to, is what I say. We can worry about the money later.”

“Worry about what money?” Missy had come in with a bunch of cloth napkins, and she placed them on the table.

Pete was about to answer when Mom entered carrying some glasses. “Nothing. Forget it.” He took the glasses and asked her, “When are Austin and Rob getting here?”

“Two o’clock. Thanks for setting the table, kids. The food’s under control, so I think I’m going to go lie down for a while.”

The three of them watched as she walked down the hallway to her bedroom and shut the door behind her.

“This is officially the most fucked-up Thanksgiving ever,” Missy said with a scowl.

“Really? What about the time you threw up on Great-aunt Hazel’s shoes?” Pete smirked at her, pulling one of her red curls.

“Or the time Uncle Andy got drunk and smashed Rob’s science project when he fell on top of it?” Nate added.

“True.” Missy quirked a sad smile. “I guess it’s a good thing it’s just us this year.”

“I guess.” Pete thought about Aunt Barb praying over them before they ate, head bowed piously.

“So, what were you guys talking about? What money?”

“For Nate’s college. Have you heard that Dad won’t pay for anything but local?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard. That’s what comes of being the last of five kids. They couldn’t afford for me to go where I wanted either.”

Pete stared at her. “Well, shit, I never knew that. I thought you wanted to go to Mason.”

“No big deal. Like I said, it’s good I went there, given all the crap that’s happened this year.”

“I’m gonna shoot some hoops,” Nate announced and was out of the room before either of them could say a word.

Missy heaved a sigh.

“Want some wine?” Pete asked.

“Yeah, sure. Let’s go raid Dad’s wine collection.”

“He didn’t take his precious wine along with everything else?” Pete followed Missy into the kitchen, where she opened the door to the walk-in pantry.

“Voila.” She gestured to a wooden holder containing a large number of wine bottles stacked on their sides. “Don’t ask me why he didn’t take ’em. Maybe Mallory doesn’t like wine.”

Pete leaned over and grabbed a few bottles at random, getting a vivid memory of Dad at dinner, making a big production out of opening the wine and instructing them on “bouquet” and “nose” in that booming voice of his. It was fucking weird not having him around.

“What should we have? Red or white?” He inspected the label of the bottle in his right hand. “French Bordeaux, 1996. Wow. Let’s have this.”

“Yeah, okay. It must be good if it’s that old, right?”

Pete was opening the wine when voices drifted in from the living room. A moment later, Rob and his wife, Jennifer, walked in, bearing wrapped bowls of food.

“Well, brother Pete! I was beginning to forget what you look like, it’s been so long.”

Stifling a retort about Rob missing the garage sale, Pete inclined his head at him and Jennifer. “Hey.”

“You guys look fancy,” Missy said.

It was true. Compared to the rest of them, they were dressed up. Rob wore a suit jacket, button-down shirt, and a sharply pressed pair of slacks, while Jennifer had on a nice dress and a fancy sweater with beads on the shoulders that sparkled in the kitchen light as she removed the Saran wrap from the salad bowl.

Maybe they went to church this morning, mused Pete. Did churches even have Thanksgiving Day services? Rob was so zealous about everyone he knew being saved that he probably took every opportunity he could to pray for their salvation.

“Wine? So early?” Rob bent over to get a closer look at the label. “Hey, is this from Dad’s collection?”

“So what if it is?” Pete asked.

“I don’t think Dad would like you drinking his wine.”

Pete narrowed his eyes at Rob, a flash of anger running through him, wondering when he had turned into such a tightass. “I don’t really care what Dad thinks. But you can call him in Puerto Vallarta if you’re so worried about it.”

“Don’t be a dick,” Rob said, flushing red.

“Dad’s the dick—so get off my back.”

“Rob.” Jennifer raised her eyebrows at him, her manicured fingernails tapping the sides of the salad bowl. Everything about her was perfectly in place, her hair curling around her shoulders just so, and Pete got a sudden urge to smash something.

When Missy and Jennifer started talking about the food and Rob went to stand beside his wife, putting his arm around her waist, Pete poured himself a large glass of the Bordeaux and left the kitchen for the downstairs rec room. After watching the football game for several minutes, he gave up on TV and went into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

He twirled around aimlessly on his desk chair as he sipped the wine. It wasn’t bad, but he couldn’t tell the difference between this 1996 stuff and the wine he got at Trader Joe’s. Dad would be quite disappointed in him. Yawning, he moved to his bed, setting the wineglass on his bedside table, and picked up his guitar. After playing “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” he was attempting “Maybe I’m Amazed” when he heard a soft knock on his door.

“Yo.”

The door opened, and Austin stood there, wineglass in one hand, the bottle of Bordeaux in the other. Pete smiled.

“It’s my bro, the wine stealer,” Austin said with a smirk as he walked over and topped off Pete’s glass. His brown hair was tied back in a ponytail, he had on jeans and a black T-shirt under a cool leather jacket, and Pete was really fucking glad to see him. “Here.” He picked up Pete’s glass and held it out to him. “Help me kill this bottle so we can open another.”

“Don’t let Rob hear you say that.”

“He already did.”

Pete chuckled. They saluted each other with their glasses and drank.

“Shove over.” Austin joined him on the bed, resting against the headboard and stretching out his legs with a grunt. “This is gonna be one strange Thanksgiving.”

“You got that right. Hey, congrats on the election.”

“Thanks. I’m happy it’s over and I can have a life again.”

“And a job.”

“Yeah, that too. Wanna smoke?” Austin produced a joint from the pocket of his leather jacket.