Shy (4 page)

I watched, still amazed, as Pedro gave Frank’s fingertips a friendly lick, then leaped straight up into Frank’s arms as if the two were long-lost buddies.

If I had been the one to say “Now, now, mustn’t do that,” Pedro would have pooped in my cornflakes.

Frank clutched Pedro to his chest, gave him a kiss on the top of his little apple-shaped head, then shot a glance in my direction. His shyness returned in a heartbeat.

“Fucking dog,” was all I could think to say, and Frank smiled, flashing teeth that were so white it made me want to lick them. He gave Pedro another peck on the head, and my heart did a little skitter to see those perfect lips pucker up in a kiss. I tried my damnedest not to imagine that kiss directed to the head of my pecker. God, I’m a horrible person.

Frank was wearing a battered Van Halen T-shirt which must have been older than he was and a pair of black Levi’s that had faded to sepia. The knees were out, and the flash of skin I glimpsed through the knee holes was just as brown and fuzzy as the kid’s arms, which sported some very nice biceps, I noticed. Not that Frank Wells was muscle-
bound.
He was actually kind of a little guy, but very, very cute and very, very well constructed.

I love cute little fuzzy guys with muscles. Just saying.

I was still holding the suitcase. Frank looked at it, then looked at me. His voice was as soft and warm as flannel. “Sorry. I checked out of the hotel so I had to bring the bag with me. Don’t worry, I’m not moving in or anything.”

Shit,
I thought.
Why not?
But the words I chose to
speak
were, “I wasn’t worried.”

“Oh.” He looked embarrassed again. He snuggled his face into Pedro’s neck and looked around the apartment. I could feel his discomfort growing once more.

Simply knowing Frank’s SAD was worse than mine wasn’t enough to make my own case of SAD fall by the wayside. It came thundering back like a herd of buffalo stomping through a chandelier store. Maybe not as debilitating as Frank’s, but just as nerve-wrenching nevertheless.

“Um, sit down, Frank. Oh wait. Formalities first.” I stuck out my hand. “I’m Tom Morgan. It’s nice to meet you.”

Frank blushed, his ears turning bright red as he juggled Pedro around in an attempt to stick out his hand without dropping my dog on its head. “Frank Wells,” he said. “Nice to meet you too.”

When we shook hands, his fingers were as cold as mine. Again, I could feel the sweat forming at my hairline, one of those preliminary symptoms that usually heralds a full-fledged attack of jitters. I forced myself to ignore it. No easy feat. “Sit down, Frank. Make yourself comfortable. That piece of crap mongrel you’re holding is called Pedro. Don’t be surprised if he poops in your shirt pocket. He has sneaky bowels.”

Frank hoisted Pedro up in front of his face and looked him dead in the eyes. “You wouldn’t do that, would you, short stuff?”

Pedro licked his nose. Lucky mutt.

While Frank sat rather stiffly on the edge of the sofa (well away from the wet spot, by good fortune), I headed to the fridge for beers, figuring a little alcohol could only improve the situation. I snagged a T-shirt from the back of a chair as I went and found myself hoping that Frank Wells would be inordinately disappointed when I slipped it over my head and covered up my naked chest.

Chapter 3

I
PIDDLED
around in the kitchen trying to decide whether to serve the beer in bottles
à la butch
, or in crystal stemware
à la fruitcup
.
I
finally deciding that
butch
was the way to go. Not because I
was
butch by any long stretch of the imagination, although I thought Frank had the potential to be, but because I knew that we were both so nervous we would be tipping over stemware left and right like two lumberjacks mowing down an old growth forest, and those crystal glasses cost me thirty bucks a pop. I can be insane and still be frugal, for heaven’s sake. I do work at a bank, after all.

Slyly glancing back through my kitchen door into the living room, I managed to sneak a closer look at my ex-lover’s new lover’s younger brother, Frank Wells. It dawned on me that perhaps Frank’s scruffy style of dress, with his outdated Van Halen T-shirt and his rumpled, raggedy jeans, was maybe a wee bit more than the casual fashion statement it seemed to be. Looking at his shoes, especially, and my mother always told me that to truly judge a man you have to study his shoes. (This was a bit of advice my mother should have known was a lie since my own father, who by all accounts was a very snappy dresser, had turned out to be the schmuck of the century, taking a powder as he did halfway between my conception and my birth, never to be seen again). So, playing by my mother’s rule book, I was quick to note that Frank’s Reeboks were in the same sad condition as the old Reeboks I wore to paint in. Maybe even a little shabbier than my old Reeboks. In other words, I would rather have died a lingering death a million times over than wear those shoes to meet anyone for the first time. Especially a
gay
someone. We all know how snooty and judgmental gays can be.

I didn’t think Frank Wells could be one of those people who honestly don’t care about their appearance. People who don’t care about their appearance have a much too healthy outlook on life to ever suffer from social anxiety disorder. People who don’t care about their appearance are actually
normal
,
for goodness sake. Well. Compared to people like me. Who aren’t. Normal.

Suddenly, being a bit of a snoot myself, I found myself wondering what other articles of sartorial splendor lay hidden inside that battered suitcase Frank was hauling around. Admittedly, for all I knew there could have been two or three Armani suits in there, but I didn’t think so. I had known Frank Wells for all of two minutes and I have to say I already felt I
knew
him pretty well. We had a common denominator, Frank and I, and that common denominator spoke worlds about a person’s psyche. SAD does not jump on the backs of normal people. It simply doesn’t.

No. Somewhere deep inside, Frank Wells was just as damaged as I was. And I already found myself liking the guy all the more because of it. Birds of a feather, and all that.

Frank was starting to look like he was thinking of maybe making a run for the front door and jumping ship if I didn’t show up pretty soon, so I thumbtacked what I hoped was an Emily Post smile to my face and sauntered back into the living room, beers in hand, mouth going a mile a minute.

Sometimes to keep social anxiety disorder at bay, you just have to talk its hind legs off.

“So how long have you been in town, Frank? San Diego must be quite a change from what you’re used to. Pigs and chickens and stuff, right? I mean you came from a farm, right? Indiana, was it? That must be a great way to grow up, although it didn’t make your brother any more likable. The guy’s a miserable putz, but then I’m sure you’re aware of that. Stole my lover right out from under me, the son of a bitch.”

By the time Frank reached out to take one of the proffered beers from my hand he was beginning to look a little shell-shocked. My tirades sometimes have that effect on people. Never slows me down, though. I just keep right on talking. Suicidally, sometimes.

“Not that I’m calling your mother a bitch, you understand. When I call your brother a
son
of a bitch, I’m just using the term colloquially. At least I
think
it’s colloquially. I mean, well hell, Frank, you know what I mean.” I could feel sweat popping out on my forehead. Uh-oh. “What hotel were you staying at? Probably pretty expensive, huh? I’m surprised you aren’t staying with your asshole brother and my asshole ex. I’ll bet Stanley didn’t offer to put you up though, did he? No. He wouldn’t. God, I hate that guy. So I understand you’re twenty-four. How’s that working out for you? I’m twenty-seven, you know. Well, almost twenty-seven and a half, or I will be in six months.”

My mouth ran down at about the same time Frank finished pouring his entire beer down his throat, all in three glugs. He was probably hoping for a quick death from alcohol poisoning, or at least the good fortune to drown himself in it, but I think I would need to be serving something a little stronger and a little deeper than beer for that to take place, much to Frank’s disappointment, I’m sure.

I was about to start talking again, I couldn’t help myself, but Pedro growled at me so I flipped my mouth shut like a mailbox lid and let a blessed silence descend upon the room. Chihuahuas aren’t so dumb.

One thing about talking yourself into a hole, when you do finally shut up, you at least stop settling deeper.

I could see Frank trying to work up the courage to speak. What a pair, I thought. He can’t talk and I can’t shut up.

Pedro did three quick turns in Frank’s lap, finally found a comfortable position, and settled in for a nap, after giving me one last look that seemed to say “behave yourself.” Frank rested his hand protectively across Pedro’s back. He may not have bonded with me yet, but Frank had quickly become friends with my dog. Probably a good sign.

“No, he didn’t offer,” was all Frank said.

“Stanley?” I asked.

Frank nodded sadly. “Yeah. You were right, what you said earlier.”

“What’d I say?”

“You said Stanley was a dick.”

“Did I? Did I say that?” God, I’m such an ass. Of course I said it. I say it every five minutes to anybody who will listen.

Frank nodded and looked rather sadly at his empty beer bottle. I understood that look completely. Standing over him, I tipped my own beer down my throat, then did an about-face and sashayed off to the kitchen for a couple more. I figured Frank and I had some serious drinking to do if we were ever to actually settle into a normal conversation. SAD people don’t just have conversations, you know. They don’t just
chat
. Ever. Normal people can casually spill their guts. SAD people eviscerate themselves in an attempt to
look
casual as they are spilling their guts. For SAD people, nothing is without pain.

Thus the alcohol.

Plus we actually had a party to attend later. God knows, that would require even
more
alcohol. For
both
of us.

Yep. If I was any sort of judge, things were shaping up to be a pretty drunken Saturday all around. Should prove interesting.

F
RANK
and I were well into our third round of beers, and we had hardly spoken six words to each other during the last two. Pedro was still snoring away in Frank’s lap. He had a little drool dribbling out onto Frank’s crotch, which put me in mind of other body fluids, and that thought made me squirm around in my seat. God, I’m a slut. Of course, I’m a
non-practicing
slut, too shy to be anything else, unlike Jerry and Stanley who practice being a slut every chance they get, apparently, since they had practiced
me
right out of a relationship. That’s not to say that I wouldn’t
mind
being a practicing slut if I were built for it, but unfortunately I’m not. All my sluttiness pretty much goes on inside my head. To derail this train of thought from dragging me any further into the doldrums, I said, “I thought you were allergic to dogs, Frank.”

Frank looked down fondly at his crotch. (Not unlike the way I was looking at it.) “I am,” he said. “Pedro seems to be an exception. Maybe it’s the short hair. Or the fact that he’s so little. Plus he smells like he just had a bath.”

Pedro growled in his sleep at the word “bath” and we both grinned.

I figured the beers must be working their magic. Those were the most words I had heard Frank string together since I dragged him through my front door. I liked the sound of his voice.

“I like the sound of your voice,” I said, surprising myself. Lord, the beers must be working on me too.

Frank blinked and his ears turned red again, but he seemed pleased. “Thanks.”

Frank still looked like he was sitting on eggshells. “Kick your shoes off,” I told him. “We have a few hours to kill before the party. Might as well relax.”

Little worry lines immediately popped up between Frank’s fabulously green eyes. His ears got redder. I wondered if they were going to burst into flames.

Frank cleared his throat like a nervous rabbi about to deliver a scathing sermon to two thousand pissed-off Nazis with bazookas. Other than myself, I have never in my life seen anyone look so uncomfortable as Frank did at that moment. Frank’s voice was so soft that I actually had to lean forward and stop guzzling beer to hear the words coming out of his mouth. “I don’t think I can go to the party, Tom. I’m not ready for that much confrontation. I-I have some issues with shyness.”

I realized then that Frank did not know that I knew about his little problem. And if he thought I didn’t know about
his
problem, then perhaps he didn’t know about
mine
.

“Frank, Jerry told me about your issues with shyness. You suffer from social anxiety disorder. So do I.”