Always You

Chapter 1

The fiftieth-anniversary edition of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. A huge bowl of buttery popcorn. A warm blanket—spring is unusually chilly this year—a comfy couch, and the newest issue of my favorite science magazine for backup, what better way is there to spend a Friday evening? There isn’t, at least not for me, homebody extraordinaire, old Western movie lover, science teacher Thom Novak.

I’ve even foregone the beer tonight and instead settled for a giant glass of ice-cold soda.

“You’re such a party animal, Tommy-boy,” says Lee, my roommate and best friend since birth thirty-one years ago as he’s getting ready to leave for his date with his current and somewhat lengthy—at least for him—girlfriend, Debora. He’s dressed up: a nice black—instead of his usual plaid—button-up shirt stretches across his broad chest, and his favorite jeans look painted on his thick legs, showing off their power, every dip and curve of his muscles. The corduroy blazer that he bought at a bargain from his favorite second-hand store swings from his finger, ready to be put on when he walks out the door.

I drag my gaze away from his legs and glare at him. “I’m spending almost three hours alone with young Clint Eastwood. It doesn’t get better than that.” Blatant lie, my brain says. I’d much rather have Lee keep me company.

He throws back his head and laughs—giving me a peek of the protruding Adam’s apple under his beard line and his chest hair peeking out through the open collar—the happy sound filling every nook and cranny of our apartment.

I force myself to look away. Ogling one’s straight best friend isn’t allowed, no matter how much one wants to.

It’s his fault for being so ridiculously hot—wide shoulders, biceps larger than my head, abs padded slightly with a soft cuddly-looking layer, and thighs thicker than my waist push all my buttons—at least that’s what I tell myself, and the excuse sounds much better in my head than admitting I’m a walking cliché: the gay guy hopelessly head-over-heels for his straight best friend.

Some romance author—a good quality one, thank you—could have a field day with me and my story. Or I guess not, since I don’t foresee it having a happy ending. On the contrary, I’m expecting that Debora will start demanding stuff from Lee soon. A ring and a white dress, and most likely a few kids—for some reason, she strikes me as the type of person who would want three. The least she’ll demand is that they move in together since they’ve been going out for almost a year and she’s of the age when the biological clock starts ticking loudly.

But first, she needs to figure out that it’s crucial for her to be absolutely clear about what she wants because there isn’t a more emotionally oblivious guy in the whole world than Lee Conway. Subtlety never works on him; he’s the kind of guy who needs a huge sign saying Debora likes you and wants you to propose to get with the program, and I’m not even sure that would be enough.

Lee’s laughter dies down and he shakes his head, fondness shining from his eyes. “If you ever change your mind about wanting a relationship and allow a guy to snatch you up, he’s gonna be really f*****g jealous of Clint Eastwood.”

I look away, grab my popcorn bowl, and mutter, “You know how I feel about young Clint.”

“I do. Why do you think I bought you that Blu-ray in the first place?”

“Because you’re the best friend in the world?” I say, mimicking—all right, ridiculing—the exact tone of his voice when he gave it to me for my birthday last year.

He laughs again—always such a happy guy, laughing, smiling, and grinning at me all the time—and then he clasps my shoulder. “All right, my friend. I’ll leave you to your date. And remember the lecture your dad gave you on safe sex.” He guffaws, so damned happy with his joke, and saunters off.

I shake my head and chuckle. “Thanks for reminding me of the most awkward moment of my life,” I yell after him.

“That’s what friends are for,” he yells back, then the door slams shut and I’m alone.

Bloody, gorgeous i***t. He’s going to be the death of me.

“All right, Clint,” I tell the TV as I press PLAY on the remote. “I guess it’s just you and me.”

The movie sucks me in like it always does. I’ve probably seen it at least fifty times, but I never grow tired of it. Time flies, and soon I’m in the middle of the iconic, three-way standoff scene that never grows less nerve-racking, no matter how many times I see it. The bowl of popcorn is forgotten, and I’m hanging from the edge of the couch, entranced in the intensity of what’s happening on the screen. My heart pounds, agitated by the soundtrack, by the hands creeping closer to the revolvers, by cameras zooming in on Clint’s eyes, so when the door opens, then slams shut, I jump and almost end up plastered to the ceiling.

With a yelp, my hand flies to my chest, my heart slamming so loudly I can hear it in my ears. I press PAUSE and call, “Lee? You back already?”

I thought he was going to stay out late, and maybe even spend the night with Debora. He wouldn’t bring her here; he never hangs out with any of his girlfriends in our home. Not because we’re two sloppy bachelors living in filth—on the contrary, our apartment is always meticulously clean—but because he claims he prefers it that way. That this is our home—we’ve spent so much time and attention decorating it and making it perfect for the two of us—and he doesn’t want just anyone in our space.

I get no answer to my question, just a grunt. I scrunch my eyebrows at the unexpected sound; Lee is not a grunter. He’s happy and talkative and easy-going, and even if he’s had a fight with whatever girlfriend he’s with at the moment, he never takes it out on me. Something must have happened.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

Again, no answer. Instead, he wanders into the living room, and a first glance at him reveals nothing but a face deep in thought and his brown wavy hair that was smooth and perfect when he left looks like it’s exploded around his head, as though he put his fingers into a wall socket.

He sinks onto the couch next to me without a glance in my direction or a single word. He just keeps his gaze trained at the frozen image of Clint Eastwood’s face on the big-screen TV mounted on the wall.

“Hey.” I bump his shoulder with mine. “You okay?”

The bump yanks him out of his trance-like state and he looks at me. Still no smile, but his deep brown eyes flicker over my face. He meets my gaze—light green as a contrast of his dark—then follows the contours of my bearded jaw, takes in the messy curls hanging around my face. Lingering on my mouth, then trailing down to my neck. I feel like I’m a bug in a microscope, being studied. “Yeah,” he finally says.

What’s going on with him? “Did something happen with Debora?”

“Eh, no?”

He smiles, but it’s not the genuine grin that seems to start in the pit of his stomach, light up his body, and escape through his mouth and eyes. This is his polite smile; it would look perfectly normal to anyone else, anyone who’s not me, who hasn’t known him all his life. The lack of sunshine in his eyes makes my stomach drop to my knees. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

“Heh.”

Heh? That’s all I get? As I open my mouth to ask again, he elbows my side.

“Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to interrupt your favorite scene. Go ahead and start it from the beginning. I know you want to.” His smile widens, as though he realizes I can see right through him, and he makes a better effort to hide whatever’s going on.

And I relent. I know him well enough to know he’ll tell me sooner or later. He usually blurts out what’s on his mind immediately, so this evasiveness is strange. But once or twice over the years, he’s needed a little time to collect his thoughts before talking to me, so I’m giving it to him.

So I nod, lean back in my seat, and say, “Yeah. I bet you did it on purpose. Barging in on my date like that.”

The chuckle escaping him is real this time and alleviates my worries enough to do as he says; I restart the scene, and we watch the rest of the movie in silence.

But the inside of my head is anything but quiet; my thoughts are swirling as my brain is obsessing about the situation. Lee hates Westerns, especially The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. “It’s so f*****g slooooow, Thom. Watching paint dry is more action than this movie.”

But since he’s my best friend, he watches it with me when I ask him to. But never in silence; he will comment loudly about what happens on the screen and make biting comments with the sole purpose of making me laugh or rile me up until I bash him over his head with a throw pillow. And he would never miss a chance of teasing me for my crush on young Clint Eastwood; he will imitate my voice and say stuff like, “I was born fifty years too late for this stud muffin,” or something equally ridiculous.

But not today. Today he watches the rest of the movie without a single scathing comment or teasing nudge. He doesn’t even steal the rest of my popcorn. He just sits there. Silent. With his gaze trained on the screen as though it’s the most riveting thing he’s ever seen.

It’s strange.

It’s freaking me out, and I can’t concentrate for s**t on what’s happening. Instead, my brain starts running in circles. He’s never quiet around anyone, especially not me. On the contrary, whenever something’s got him upset or riled up, I’m the one he turns to. So why is he so weird now?

It must have something to do with me, that’s the only reason I can think of. Has he figured out what I feel about him?

The thought turns my spine into ice.

When the credits roll, he stretches his arms over his head with a groan, twists this way and that until something pops in his back, then he stands. “I’ll hit the hay. See you in the morning.” And without even a glance in my direction, he heads down the hallway and disappears into the bathroom.

I turn off the TV and the Blu-ray player, but I don’t get up. I sink deeper into the couch, staring at the black TV screen as though I’m expecting it to provide me with answers. And I listen to the familiar sounds coming from the bathroom. The shower running. The toilet flushing. The buzz of the electric toothbrush.

One thing I can’t hear is his off-key humming of his current favorite nineties grunge song—these last few weeks it’s been “Black” by Pearl Jam and I’m really getting fed up with that song and hope he’ll pick a new favorite soon—that usually accompanies his evening routine.

When he steps out of the bathroom a few minutes later, with only a towel hanging low on his hips and his wavy hair in a damp, almost black, halo around his head, he heads into his room without a glance at me. And for once, I don’t even notice the miles and miles of bronze skin on display, his beefy arms, or the way his muscles play under his skin when he moves. I don’t even sneak glances of his long thick legs I usually can’t take my eyes off.

I sink even deeper into the couch and fling my arm over my face, hiding my eyes.

What the f**k happened tonight that got him into this weird mood?

Worry sprouts roots deep in my gut, but I shake my head, trying to push it away. I heave a sigh as I get to my feet and clean up after my wild night on the couch.

But the concern stays put as I take a shower. As I dry off, untangling the long black tresses on my head that resembles a bird’s nest more than hair if left untended. As I trim my beard, moisturize my face, and brush my teeth. When I’m done, I keep staring at my mirror image, trying to find answers.

But maybe I’m over-reacting. We are all allowed off days, even those who very rarely have them. I nod at myself, grab the oversized T-shirt I love sleeping in, and pull it over my lean torso—the neckline so wide it slides down one shoulder—comb back my hair with my fingers and collect it into a high bun to keep it from trying to strangle me when I’m asleep.

But it’s no use. By the time I crawl into bed, the roots of worry have invaded me entirely, and there’s no way for me to silence my mind.

It takes me a long time to fall asleep that evening.