Mike and Winston - 9. Chapter 9

Tuesday, as far as Mike was concerned, was over. A little indulgence at lunch was probably called for. He took the overpriced smoothie with his burger and fries to one of the empty tables that overlooked the bustle of Telegraph Avenue. There was a light breeze. Towards the campus entrance, there were several skateboarders trying to do tricks on a wheelchair ramp. Eye candy, Mike thought with a faint smile.

The two midterms had gone as well—or as badly—as he had expected. His legs had felt very weak when he had finally emerged from the dim lecture hall and peered at the early afternoon. The lawns were a fierce green, and the concrete walks and buildings almost looked like marble. If he had been less tired, he would have said it was beautiful.

He was halfway through his smoothie when someone slipped into the seat across from him.

“Hey!” Mike said, surprised. “What’s up?”

“Hey,” said Dan. “How’d the midterms go?”

“No idea. You’re in a suit.”

“Yeah, I forgot to tell you last week—I’m skipping work today. I’ve a model UN thing.”

“You do model UN?”

“Yeah.”

Mike nodded, impressed. “Good luck.”

Dan fidgeted. “So, uh, have you thought about the rooming thing?”

Mike swallowed his mouthful. “About that—yes, I have thinking about it.” Dan waited. “I think it’d be great to room with you, but there’s something I should tell you first.”

Dan shifted. “Yeah?”

Mike concentrated on Dan’s eyebrows. He had beautiful eyebrows. The next two words came more easily than he thought they would, perhaps because he had not expected that he would actually say them. “I’m gay.”

Dan’s two beautiful eyebrows shot up. “You’re gay?”

Mike nodded.

Dan sat back, face blank. “You don’t really look gay.”

“I don’t think you can really tell by looking,” Mike said, hoping that his voice sounded at least passably light.

“Well, some people just kind of… look gay, you know? Like you see on TV, with—” Dan flapped his arms. “Limp wrists and everything.” A pause. “I’ve an uncle who’s gay, actually—my mother’s side, and he’s, uh, pretty gay, with, uh, you know.” He repeated the odd flappy-arm movement. “Limp wrists and everything.”

There was an awkward silence. Dan was looking distinctly embarrassed, his face oddly flushed, and Mike was trying to process everything he had heard. “So…” Mike paused. “Are you okay with it?”

Dan nodded. “Yeah, I mean…” He chuckled. “My mom would stop talking to me if she knew I was being an ass about it.” He brought his thumb to his mouth and chewed nervously on the nail before he realized what he was doing and stopped. “Although—”

The truth or not the truth? Mike smiled wanly. “You’re not worried that I’m going to… do anything to you, are you?”

Dan shook his head quickly. “No! Nothing like that.” He grinned. “Of course not.”

Years ago, his mother’s ignorance had taught him the necessity of hiding. Poor Dan. Poor him. Mike knew he would not be able to help coveting, not when the object of his covetousness was before him in all its constant and unreachable splendor. But it did not have to be a disaster. If he had to move out again, at least he would avoid spending more time than was necessary with Jonas. Waking up that morning half-choked on marijuana fumes had seen to that resolution.

“So does the offer still stand?”

Dan grinned. “You bet it does.”

“Good. I was—well. I didn’t know if you’d be okay with it.”

“No worries, man.”

“Actually,” Mike said, “I just came out to my parents over the weekend.”

Dan’s eyes widened. “You serious?”

Mike nodded, unable to keep from smiling, even if only a little bit. For the first time, he felt the barest hint of satisfaction about what he had done. He had come out. He had faced the truth.

“You know, my uncle came out to my grandparents when I was in high school. It was like a war.”

Mike chuckled. “That’s not far from the truth.”

They finished Mike’s fries together in companionable silence.

“You can move in tonight if you want,” said Dan. “I’ll be finished with Model UN at around eight, so you can give me a call.”

“Do I know your cell?”

“Oh, wait…”

Maybe things would not go so badly after all, Mike thought a few hours later, entering data into Professor Hubbell’s computer. On the way in, he had taken the time to read the rest of the comics on the door, and not just the one that had caught his eye the first time he had come. “Q: What’s the difference between a psychologist and a magician? A: A psychologist pulls habits out of rats!” The next one made him smile a bit more. “Psychiatrists do it on the couch. And for at least fifty dollars a session.”

Jonas was still gone when Mike returned. He wondered if the girlfriend split was a made-up story to get extra storage space. The fact that there was not enough room to comfortably open his suitcase made packing more difficult than he had expected. Mike made sure to flip through every twice, just to verify that none of his socks or underwear had gotten buried under one of Jonas’s many leather trousers. He supposed he would leave a note on the table. The rent for the rest of the month had already been paid for. He was finished.

It was not yet eight. He would have dinner after the move, Mike decided. Dan had a kitchen, he remembered. They could cook. Mike tried to picture it—himself and Dan, eating dinner, watching television on a sofa, the very picture of two male buddies. For a moment he felt almost sick with uncertainty. He knew almost nothing about Dan; there was only a feeling, as there had been one, stronger, with Winston. And Winston was gone.

He had managed to resist it for the entire afternoon, and it probably did not matter that he was doing it now. He hesitated, still, before turning on his laptop. The wait went slowly. He made sure to get his password right the first time.

Maybe at the beginning of the year, he would have felt more bewildered and miserable than he did now. It was funny how the pieces of his life had ended up coming together at once. His parents, his loneliness, the jagged remnants of memories of Petch—everything had come to a head and broken against the present in ways that, had he been looking from the right angle or for the right things, were long expected. Winston, though, had been a surprise. Maybe a year from now, two years, he would be able to look back and see everything he could not. For now, he would content himself to being resigned, to thinking about it only as much as it was bearable. That was all. In a few minutes, he would leave this bed, where he had made love in that all-too-brief time. The sun would slant the final rays of the day across the familiar street. There would be no reason ever to return.

Mike glanced at his screen. His heart clenched. He stared for a long moment before clicking on the email. There was only one line:

Can you meet me at 8:00 in the coffee shop? Winston

Eight o clock—that was now. Dan was waiting for him. He could not do it, and he had already half-buried the memories, the abrasions, the—

Mike got up. He threw on a sweater and hurried out the door. Then he backpedaled and fired off a one-word email: Yes.

“Dan?” he said as he jogged down the stairs. “Yeah, it’s me. Uh, I’m actually caught up in… something, so I can’t move my stuff right now—would nine be okay? Thanks. Sorry about this… Yeah. See you later.”

Winston was late again. Mike waited impatiently, uncertain whether or not to order something to drink. He wondered if Winston got his email. Maybe the network server was taking its own sweet time. Or maybe Winston had decided to call it off without telling him. He would not be surprised, Mike thought with more than a hint of bitterness.

It was five minutes past the hour when Mike spotted Winston coming up the sidewalk. Mike looked away quickly, feeling his face stretched in a smile. A madman might have charged in with a gun, and he knew he would still be smiling.

But the warmth disappeared an instant later. Winston was probably here to formalize the breakup, Mike thought. His body numbed at the notion. Oddly, he had not thought of it until now. How could he have been so stupid?

“Hey,” Winston said.

Mike nodded. “What’s up?”

Winston shrugged. “Nothing really.” He raised his hand and summoned a waitress. “A cappuccino, please. No cream.”

“I guess you got my emails,” Mike said.

Winston nodded.

“So I guess you know everything that’s happened to me, then.”

Winston took a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry.”

Mike narrowed his eyes. The other man did sound genuine. Mike examined the familiar face, the contrite frown, and let out a breath. He took the hand that Winston had reached tentatively across the table. “Yeah, whatever.”

“I couldn’t do it.”

“Why?”

“Michelle’s pregnant.”

“What?”

“One of the condoms broke a few weeks back.” Winston was looking away. Mike felt a tug in his hand, and he let go of the other man’s hand. In a flash, he could see the rest of the conversation written in that one gesture. “She suspected the whole time she was at the science camp and got so impatient that she did the test in a McDonald’s bathroom.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Winston said. “She’s really happy. I couldn’t take that from her.”

Mike felt something clawing its way up his throat. “Yeah.” They were silent. He was frozen, paralyzed, but he knew that he had to get in the next word before Winston did. “You can’t not tell her.”

Winston stiffened.

“You can’t do that—not to her, and not to your kid. If you’re still going to—you know—”

“I won’t.”

Mike stopped. “You won’t?”

Winston shook his head. “I’m stopping.”

“Yeah,” said Mike. He could not help sounding sarcastic. “Yeah—now, maybe, but what about after five years, when every day it’s baseball games or dance lessons, and Michelle wants another son, or another daughter? How can you certain the stress won’t get to you, and you won’t want to sneak off for a bit of sex on the side?”

Winston shook his head again. “It won’t be that way.”

“But you don’t even love her! Sorry,” he said quickly, when he saw Winston’s shoulders tightening, “you love her, sure, but even if you do—especially if you do—you can’t…”

“Mike, you’re asking me to break Michelle’s heart right after she’s gotten what she’s wanted more than anything else in this world. You don’t understand—”

“Bullshit!” Mike hissed. “My parents are getting divorced because my dad was cheating on my mom while he was on his business trips in Europe. I just found out this weekend.”

Winston’s face blanked. “I’m sorry.”

“My dad didn’t do much for me since I was nine, and I can’t really remember from before that, but I’ll never forgive him for what he did to my mom.” He held onto the fire for a moment, before he felt it collapse. “Look, Winston, don’t do this to yourself. It’s a bad idea.”

Winston shook his head. He was pale. “I can’t do this—”

“You can, you can.” He tried to latch onto the doubt in Winston’s voice, tried to pull it out with both hands into a realization Winston was stubbornly unwilling to make. “Look at me, Winston. Listen to me. You have to do this—now, or else—” He stopped.

For a moment, it looked as though Winston might agree. But then Winston sat back and pulled out his wallet.

Mike stared. “What’re you doing?”

“I can’t,” Winston said, voice quiet. “I have to go.”

“No—”

“Mike, let go,” Winston muttered. “There’s people watching. You’re making a scene.”

Mike flinched and took in the stares from the coffee shop. He felt a blush swamp his face; this was one place he was not going back to anytime soon, he decided. Winston was already on the pavement before Mike jumped out of his seat and hurtled out of the shop.

“Hey,” Mike said. He had caught up after half of block of dodging passers-by. “Winston? Talk to me. Please.”

They were nearing the train station. Mike doubled his pace and tried to face the other man. He could make out little of Winston’s expression, but he could not help trying.

“Listen, you do what you want. I don’t care. Just—email me if you ever need anything, okay?”

They were next to the escalators now. He had a few more moments before they would reach the lower level. Already he could hear the rush of wind from the approaching train.

“I’m going to send you my cell number. I want you to call me if you ever need to.” He added, desperately, “I mean it. Just call, please.”

They were at the ticket stands. Winston had not even looked up. Mike felt his stomach sinking.

“Just—as a friend.”

His words were half drowned by the roar coming from the tunnel. Mike watched, frozen in place, as Winston put in his ticket and crossed the barrier. It was only when he felt several irritated passengers behind him that Mike moved aside, standing with his hands on the cold metal bars. The train was coming. Mike’s eyes flickered in its direction before glancing back at Winston.

He had to try one last time.

“As a friend, Winston!” Mike shouted.

He could not tell if the other man once turned to look at him before the doors closed, and the train shuttled back into darkness.

Mike was tired. He was tired and numb and wished he could go home. So much for that. He climbed out of the station and walked aimlessly towards his flat. He wanted to be back in his old bed and sleep, then wake up for a breakfast that he knew his mother would have made while he was resting. His face scrunched up, and he let the tears come because he was too tired to fight. He walked quickly, staying quiet, and was relieved that he managed to compose himself enough to lift his face by the time he reached the street crossing.

It was only half past eight when he got back to the flat, but he could not bear to go in. He would not be able to stand Jonas’s clutter and the cracked, claustrophobic walls. Why couldn’t Winston see that he was slowly drowning himself? He knew the answer, of course. Winston did see it, but was choosing to do nothing. So why couldn’t Winston face up to the truth? Why? Maybe Mike was wrong. Maybe he was missing something basic. After all, all he knew about life were some rudimentary economics and how best to masturbate in secret. Maybe he was nothing more than a fool.

The sun had set some time ago, but the sky to the west still held some color. A dying shade of red. Maybe, for now, Mike decided, he would think of nothing except his own breathing. He would go down the pavement, take in the strange air of the city with every breath, and mingle it with his own. Just breathe—breathe and hope that someday, perhaps, there would be a resolution where he knew that none was possible.