Sunset Park (26 page)

The fluttery feeling in my stomach was starting to become pathetic, but his serious face brightening at the sight of me was not something I could build defenses against.

He crossed the lobby with his down coat in his hand and a backward cap on his head, completely masking his tied-back hair.

“What are you doing here?”

“I went shopping with Karen after work, and I thought we could go home together.”

One of Raymond’s coworkers exited the suite. She shot us a curious glance, but Raymond completely ignored her, and she took the stairs down.

“Is it awkward that I showed up here?”

He made a face. “No. Who cares what these idiots think?”

“I dunno. You possibly, since you work here.”

“Not for long.” Raymond patted his pockets. “Shit, I forgot my keys. Hold this,” he said, shoving the bulk of his coat at me.

I gathered it in my arms, and he disappeared back inside. He wasn’t gone for more than a few seconds before the pocket of his coat vibrated and the blooping chime of a Facebook notification sounded. My curiosity was piqued, but I ignored it. At first. By the third chime, I had dug Raymond’s phone out and typed in the four digit unlock code—his mother’s birthday.

A chat bubble with Oli’s picture—him looking windblown and devilishly handsome at the top of some stupid mountain—stared up at me. I scowled. Going through Raymond’s phone was a terrible idea. Caleb had gone through my phone so much that I’d resorted to complex lock patterns because I considered it a huge invasion of privacy.

But Oli chatting with Raymond wasn’t normal, so I hesitated for half a beat before scrolling up to read the string of exchanges from the beginning of the chain.

Oliver: Hey gorgeous.

I had an instant and profound urge to go to Oliver’s apartment in the East Village and slit his throat.

Oliver: Busy?

Oliver: Raaay~mooond

Raymond: wtf do u want

The tightness in my chest loosened a bit.

Oliver: Entertainment. I’m bored at work.

Raymond: i dont entertain ppl

Oliver: Sure you do. I’ve been stalking your social media.

Raymond: uh ok

Oliver: I like the post-workout pics. I suggest uploading more.

Raymond: yea ill get on top of that right after i finish this invoice

I now had an instant and profound urge to molest Raymond.

Oliver: So serious. I like it.

Raymond: im sure u do

Oliver: We should hang out sometime.

Raymond: that prob wont happen

Oliver: Why not? Not interested?

Raymond: i have a busy life

Oliver: Busy with David?

“What are you doing?”

Shoving the phone back into the coat pocket was a fail. I missed the opening and dropped it on the floor with the Facebook chat still open. Wincing, I picked it up with a guilty smile. “Snooping?”

“Uh-huh.” Raymond grabbed his coat but not the phone. “Your boy Oli wants the D pretty bad.”

“Does he?”

When he just looked at me with an expectant smirk, I glanced down at the messages again.

Raymond: yea i asked him to be my bf but he said i wasnt gay enough for him. maybe u could put in a good word for me & mention those post-workout pics

I burst out laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Nah. I’m honest.” Raymond grabbed his phone and turned to the stairwell. “Let’s go.”

Raymond
was
honest, but that message had seemed more like hyperbole than his usual bluntness. As we went downstairs and stepped into the chilly night air, I wondered if I could ask about Oli’s responses without seeming thirsty for information.

I was determined to play it cool, but every time I set my eyes on Raymond, the embers of my infatuation set aflame again.

“Let’s go out,” Raymond suggested, pulling up short just outside of his building. “Tired of going home just to order in, smoke, and pass out.”

“Oh,” I said. “Where?”

“What are you in the mood for?”

Your dick in my mouth.
“Umm. I’ve been craving food from this Afghan place on St. Mark’s. I’ve been there before, and it’s nice.”

Raymond’s face became wary. “What kind of nice?”

I laughed again. As if he had anything to worry about. Even dressed in dark jeans and a sweater, he looked better than most people who spent thousands of dollars on their wardrobe just to make a good impression.

“Don’t worry, it’s not for fancy people. The interior is nice, though. Cozy. And we can smoke hookah.”

“Hookah is a waste of a big-ass bong, but okay.”

“It’s not a bong.”

“Whatever. We can get crazy with some apple-flavored smoke if that’s what you wanna do.”

“It’s all up to me?”

“Yup. You call the shots tonight.”

I didn’t know why that was, and I didn’t ask. Instead, I led him back to the R train and we rode it uptown to 8th Street.

St. Mark’s Place was crowded with the usual blend of posers, hipsters, and NYU students. I only knew the place had once been a haven for punks and alternative rocker kids because Oli got all woe is me about it, even though he’d transformed himself from a teen who had used safety pins instead of zippers to a guy who wouldn’t go anywhere without a shiny, wingtip shoe. The only surviving relics of that era seemed to be the street vendors selling pipes and bongs, a thrift shop that catered to the eccentric, and an overpriced punk rock boutique that I could not step in without feeling like an intruder.

“I used to cut school down here when I was a kid,” Raymond noted as we bypassed the new high-rise buildings that were being constructed along St. Mark’s Place. “Haven’t been back in a minute.”

“What did you do down here?”

Raymond gave a rolling shrug, eyes flicking over cramped doorways leading to narrow gift shops and eateries. “It didn’t used to be tourist central. There was a tattoo and piercing shop down those stairs that didn’t card me,” he said, jerking his chin across the street. The place he was talking about was almost hidden by a staircase leading up to a brownstone, and more stalls with snarky tourist gifts. One vendor was selling an array of neon wigs. “And The Continental was a venue for indie bands. Now it’s just some bar.”

“I didn’t take you for the indie band type,” I said. “Or I wouldn’t have before I scoped out your Spotify playlists.”

“You really do be snooping, don’t you?”

“I’m a curious person.”

“You’re a creeper.”

If only he knew just how creepy I could be. Like watching him sleep for a few minutes before waking him up in the morning (Raymond almost always hit snooze on his alarm enough times to actually be late), or wearing his hoodies or sweaters not just because the excess fabric was cozy, but because they smelled like him. But he hadn’t yet caught on to those things, and I wasn’t going to tell him.

We walked to the end of the block before veering down a short staircase to the Afghan restaurant. It was mostly empty except for a few couples sitting at the tables around the perimeter of the dim space, so I pleaded with the hostess to seat us at the elevated table by the window with the masses of cushions in lieu of chairs. It was swathed in gold and maroon, overly decadent, but it made me want to squish in next to Raymond instead of sitting across from him. I lingered by the side of the table until he rolled his eyes and scooted over to make room for me. Us sitting next to each other looked exceptionally gay, but Raymond either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

We ordered mantoo and ashe soup, two different kebabs, and a quorma dish to share. I also pointedly ignored Raymond’s snickers as I ordered peach flavored hookah. The hookah went mostly ignored while we sampled the food, primarily because eating off the same plate as Raymond in public was making me conscious of details I would have otherwise ignored. How his body was half turned to me, our knees pressed together, the way he leaned in to reach something and did not shy away when I automatically pushed back his hair. Many simple, easy moments that added up to a degree of implied intimacy only seen with couples.

“These people probably think we’re on a date,” I said once the plates were cleared. “We look like we’re together.”

Raymond looked at me as he exhaled a cloud of peach-scented smoke. “Your point being?”

“I don’t know. I thought it would bother you.”

“These people don’t care. It’s, like, queer central down here.”

I wrapped my lips around the mouthpiece, enjoying the dampness from his mouth. The taste washed over me, and the inhaling and exhaling soothed me.

I blew smoke into his face. He didn’t fan it away, and I thought he looked even more attractive in the dim, golden light with wisps of smoke hanging between us.

“Doesn’t it bother you if strangers think you’re with me?”

“No. And I don’t care what your friends think either.”

“But what about your own? I have to assume you wouldn’t be this close if we were around Chris or Sharky. You’re even leery of acting normal around your gay brother.”

Raymond shrugged wordlessly, and my little spark of hope snuffed out. He must have seen it in my expression, because he nudged me with his elbow.

“What’s that face for?”

“Nothing.”

“No one believes people who say
nothing
every time they’re asked what’s wrong.”

I set the hose to the hookah on the table and twisted so we were facing each other. His arm extended behind me, fingers curling around my upper arm.

“I’m just trying to figure you out,” I said. “Trying to understand how you think.”

“What’s there to figure out? You’re the one with the problem.”

He was right, but it didn’t stop me from being defensive.

“It’s true.” Raymond tilted his head against the fabric-draped wall, watching me beneath half-closed lids. “And I keep getting this feeling like you think I’m a problem because I’m not a safe bet, so we have to keep pretending like this is all just us being friends who mess around every now and again, even though that’s some bullshit.”

“We are friends who mess around every now and again.” I dropped the fork when he began rubbing my shoulder. “And you’re also not a safe bet. I’m sorry, but it’s true.”

“What, because I’m not Joe College with the MBA?”

“No,” I said sharply. “You’re starting to get on my nerves with this money stuff.”

“Yeah, right. Like me being a bum with a day job isn’t part of the problem?” Raymond flicked my earlobe with his finger. “I know you, and I know you want to be all set up right for the future, and I don’t factor into that as well as your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend anymore.”

“You just invite him to sleep in your bed.” There was a hint of steel in his tone, sharp enough to cut through my bullshit. “You let me turn you out while he was down the hall, but you still went back and spent the night with him, didn’t you? And I don’t see you wanting to spend the night in my room unless it’s an accident.”

Raymond started to move, but I put my arm over his shoulder, keeping him close. “First, I slept on the damn couch. And second, you really think I don’t want to wake up next to you?”

“I don’t know what I think about you. You like it when I fuck you. You like spending time with me. You told me you loved me.” Raymond flashed a tight smile when I tensed. “Yeah, I heard that. And I know you heard me. But you still left my bed that night.”

My heart was pounding. Everything was very surreal. The entire conversation seemed to be happening in another dimension, another place in time where Raymond would corner me and say these things. Reference… those words.

“I slept on the damn couch!”

“That’s not even the point, though.”

“What would you have me do?” I asked. “March in there and announce that we’d just fucked? Make a big spectacle of it?”

“No, you jackass. But you could have spent the night in my goddamned bed and then told the asshole how things were once he woke up. Why are you still trying to protect him? It’s just making him think he has a fucking chance.”

I huffed out a low breath and cast a cursory look around the restaurant. Only the waitress seemed to notice that we were having some kind of tiff, and she just shrugged her thin shoulders and turned away when she caught my eye. Not her business. I was sure she saw it all the time.

“I don’t have to hurt him just because I’m figuring things out with you.”

“You keep saying that,” Raymond said. “Figure it out, figuring things out—you ain’t figuring out shit. You’re just avoiding doing anything at all because you think I’m not what you need, even if you know you want me.”

“Why do you have to do this now? We were having a good time.”

“We’d have a better time if you stopped being a punk and let me be with you.”

My heart jackknifed in my chest. I clawed at the scramble of words in my head for a response, but could only stare at him silently. He must have taken it for a rejection, because his mouth tightened.

“I want us to work,” I managed. “I want to be with you without being afraid. This all just happened so fast, and I don’t know what to do.”

“It hasn’t been fast. It’s been building for months, and you know it.”

“How—”

“Oh, come on, man.” Raymond tapped his fingers against the table. “I’ve never treated anyone the way I treat you. Not even Crystal, and I figured eventually it would get there with her, but it never did. I never wanted to show anyone affection before you. Never wanted to meet their fucking friends or their parents, or even make enough of an effort to leave the house and take them out.”

I knew these things. Had known them ever since we’d compared notes about our pasts, but I’d still told myself it meant nothing. Too afraid to hope.

“Do you think maybe… it’s just because you preferred guys all along?”

This elicited an impatient glare from Raymond. “No.”