Cross Currents

By Adam Phillips

Part Four

16.  Aftermaths

Matt and I were on the beach by the campfire.  It started out the same:  he sang his song, walked after me when I got up from the fire, and pulled me into a hug; and as before, I kissed him twice...

And he pushed me away from him, so hard that I tripped and fell.

He kicked sand at me and yelled, at the top of his lungs, "Why the fuck did you do that? You've ruined everything, you disgusting pervert!  Now I have to hang out with a queer-boy for nine goddamn months; why don't you just fall off the earth and fuckin' die?"

I looked at the beach sand and grabbed a handful of it, and when I squeezed, droplets of water leaked from it and dripped onto the ground.

Staring downward, I mumbled, "I'm sorry.  I love you.  I can't help it."

"Well, that's your goddamn problem, faggot," he hissed. "Why'd you have to go and make it mine?  You just couldn't fuckin' leave it alone.  I'm not like you, you queer fuck."

"Go away, then," I said, wearily, standing up and walking away from him.

He walked over to me, got in my face, and scowled as he said, "I wouldn't give you the satisfaction, freak.  You're gonna see yourself in my face every goddamn day until we're outta here!"

I pushed him out of the way, and stormed up the shoreline, yelling, "Just fuckin' leave me alone!  Just fuckin' leave me alone! Just fuckin'..."

"Dude, wake up!"

I heard my brother Danny's voice in the darkness.  He was holding me by the shoulders, shaking me gently, and looking at me with concern.  "Andy...wow, man, you've been having a nightmare.  I was sound asleep and I heard you all the way from my room.  You're gonna wake the whole house, bro."

After the fog had cleared for me a little bit, I said, "I'm all right.  Go back to bed."

He looked at me wide-eyed and said, "What the hell did you dream that made you go off like that?"

I thought about the dream and shuddered. "Half of me died," I said.

He look so startled that I had to smile.  Relieved to see that, he chuckled quietly and asked, "Which half?"

The smile left as I looked into his face.  "The only half that matters," I replied.

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But the remaining half still had to see Matt, had to hear his voice, had to talk to him at least once in a while.

And on Friday evenings I'd have to stand under the stadium lights and make myself a target for whatever he threw at me.

So Friday evening I suited up, went into "game-time" mode, took the field, and went to work.

I worked well.  

When it was all over, I sat with my teammates, exhausted, in the locker room.

"Eight receptions. A hundred seventy-five yards. Three touchdowns.  I'd call that a pretty good night, Phillips...so I'm thinking this belongs to you."  Coach Hayes tossed me the game ball.

He'd been making his weekly after-game remarks, commenting on individual performances, when he'd started in on mine.  I'd been happy with my game, but I'd felt it was a total team effort.  I hadn't expected this.  

My teammates went nuts with applause and whistles.  Ryan yelled out, "Fuckin' A!"  Several of the guys pounded me with slaps on the back.

"Andy was on from the first snap," Coach continued.  "He put it all out on the field tonight.  Out-hustling defenses, running good routes, watching his quarterback, giving Price a target over and over."

"Thanks, Coach," I said, with some embarrassment.

"I"m just saying it the way it was," he said.  "You boys warming the bench could learn something from Andy's hustle out there tonight."

He set his clipboard down on the nearest bench.  "The Lions are a better team than we are.  Thank God they're a non-district team, because they're gonna take their district without breakin' a sweat.  But that didn't matter to Phillips tonight.  He had the fire and he wasn't gonna be stopped.  They came out flat and we exploited it.  It's about heart, gentlemen.  That's the difference-maker."

He walked toward his office door, then stopped and turned back toward us.  "Okay, that's it," he said, dismissing the team. "See you Monday."  Everybody began undressing and heading to the showers.

I have to admit that I enjoyed the moment.  Who wouldn't?   It was a night to remember; I played far above my level of ability, and I knew the compliments didn't track with my actual skills.  I wouldn't have a night like this again.

I was standing in front of my locker, stripped down to my jock, when Matt walked over.  "Whoo-hoo," he yelled, as he high-fived me.  "Twenty-one-zip, boy.  Three goddam touchdowns, you stud!  You and me, we were on all fuckin' night!  Dude—I wanna have your babies!"  He put an arm over my shoulder, pulled me into him, and kissed me noisily on the cheek.  The locker room echoed with my teammates' laughter.  Apparently they thought Matt was a comic genius.

I winced, pulled away, and sat down on the bench in front of my locker.  I didn't want to take off my jock with him right there.  But his locker was next to mine, and that was that.  He started taking off his gear until he was standing there next to me completely naked.

Staring at the floor, trying to work through my discomfort, I picked up the thread of his previous remarks. "You threw it right into my hands all night; it wasn't that hard."

He sat down next to me, arched an eyebrow, grinned, and said "Yeah, I can give it just as good as I can take it, don'tcha think?"

I looked around to see who might have heard his remark, but our area had cleared out.  Quietly, I said, "Jesus, Matt—shut the fuck up."  I stood up, still not looking at him, pushed my jock down and immediately wrapped my towel around my waist and headed toward the showers.

Matt threw his towel around his neck and followed me.  "Lighten up," he said, frowning a little.  "It was just a little joke, and anyway, the joke's on me, right?"

So, I thought bitterly, when it's all said and done, it's a joke.  

I looked at him and said, "Let's just drop it, okay?"

"Whatever, man," he said, shrugging, as we hung our towels on the hooks outside the showers and walked in.  He picked a nozzle close to the entrance and began to try to engage me in small talk.  

I tried to appear marginally interested.  We talked a little bit about the game, although Matt was doing most of the talking.  As he was soaping his armpits, he said, "Hey, get Angie and come with me and Lindsey to Whataburger; we haven't gotten to hang since the beach, dude."

"I don't know," I said.  "I think I'm just gonna go on home.  I'm kinda tired, and anyway, Angie said something about spending some time with Julie after the game."  Julie was a friend who'd just been dumped by her boyfriend for another girl, and Angie wanted to cheer her up.  "I think I'll just go home and go to bed."

Matt's eyes searched mine.  I forced myself to hold his gaze, and tried to smile.

"Okay," he said.  "Maybe tomorrow, then."

I stared at the water running into the shower's floor drain.

"Yeah," I said quietly.  "Maybe tomorrow."

"Well, anyway," he said, with enthusiasm, "You had it goin' on tonight.  It was the most fun I've had out there this season."  

"Hey, you were the guy with the arm," I said.  "I just tried to be where you sent it."  And with that, I grabbed my bottle of shampoo, turned off my shower, and walked back to my locker.

--------------------------------

I tossed and turned in bed again that night, as I had the whole week.  I didn't like what my dreams had been telling me lately.

I finally fell asleep around four in the morning.

When I got up a few hours later, I went down to the kitchen to grab something to eat.  Mom usually did grocery shopping on Saturday morning, so she was out. Danny was watching TV; Beth had spent the night at a friend's house and wasn't home yet.

I poured a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, threw some milk on it, and ate it without a lot of enthusiasm.  I had something I needed to do this morning.

After I'd put my dishes in the dishwasher, I went into the study, where I found my dad busy at his computer.

"Dad?"

He turned in his chair to look at me.  "Morning, Andy," he said, smiling.  "Does it feel as good this morning as it did last night?"

"I had a good game," I said.  "That'll stay with me until the next practice, anyway."

He laughed.  "What's on your mind?"

I stared into his face for a long time.  Finally I said, "I need to talk to you.  It's kind of personal.  Do you have the time?"

"Of course," he answered.  He stood up, walked over to the door of the study, and closed it.  "Sit down," he said.  "What is it?"

As I pulled up a chair, I took a deep breath and said, "This is gonna be hard to talk about, so I'm just gonna have to jump right in and not pretty it up, okay?"

"Absolutely," he said.  "I don't know any other way to do it when it's like that."

I thought for a minute, trying to choose my words ahead of time. "Here's what it is," I began. "We don't really talk about this kind of stuff but I know you and Mom know that I...well, that I'm not a virgin."

My dad smiled a little, and said, "No, that's not news.  And we've talked about it before in general terms.  I know you remember both of us talking to you about respect, and about how sex shouldn't be about using people."

I fidgeted in my chair a little.  "I think I've probably done more of that than I'd like to admit."

"That doesn't shock me either," he said.  "You're a good-looking young man, and I expect it comes to you pretty easy.  And I know you haven't spent many weekends alone since you started high school.  There have been lots of different girls on lots of different weekends."

"I know," I said, uneasy with this topic.  "But I'm with Angie now," I said in my defense, "and it feels different.  I'm not just f...I'm not just using her."

"You've been dating her for several months now," he said.  "That is a change for you."

I nodded, and went on.

"This isn't really about her" I said.  "I need to tell you about something that happened, and I don't know if I can."

"I understand," he said.  "Take your time. You know how it rolls with me."

I did know; that's why I was there.  "Okay, Dad," I told him.  "I...I don't know how else to do this but to come right out and say it: on the beach trip last weekend Matt and I had sex—I mean, we had sex with each other. And it's freakin' me out."

My dad's eyebrows arched in surprise, and he stared intently into my face for what felt like forever.

Finally he said, "Let me say this first, because we can't go further in this talk if this isn't clear.  Over the years you've done very little to disappoint, or anger, or shame me. And if you're worried that this might be one of those times, then let me put your mind at rest.  I can't say I'm not a little shocked.  But I'm not outraged, or scandalized, or angry, or ashamed.  And a part of me is not totally surprised.  So—are we okay for starters?"

I felt my shoulders loosen.  "Yeah, we're good.  Thanks."

"That being said," he continued, "I'm concerned about you.  I can tell it's something that's troubling you.  And I guess it puts into motion some variables, some unknowns, in an area of your life that's been important over the years.  I understand why it's hard to talk about.  So would you mind if I took the lead and asked you the questions?"

"No, not at all," I said.  "In fact, I was hoping you would, because I don't even know how to keep it from jumbling all up."

"All right," he said.  "I guess the first thing I want to ask is this:  Andy, do you think you're gay?  Is that what's troubling you?"

"No, I'm not," I said.  "But I don't really know what I am, and I guess that's sort of fuc—sort of messing with my head."  

I hesitated, trying to find a way to explain it.  "Girls do it for me, more than boys.  Always have.  But over the last few years, I...well, I've been noticing guys some in that way."

I got up and paced.  "I don't know.  I usually just shake it off and go on.  It's not like it's always on my mind, except when...Well, with Matt, I...we...it's a lot of things that just came together.  And it just all got to be...I don't know, it's like something hit critical mass."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"You know what it's been like with me and Matt over the years," I said.

"I know that you boys have a deep love for each other," he said.  "And you know that all of us in this family love Matt.  He's almost like another son."

"Right," I said.  "Matt's been a part of our family, basically.  Well, we were drinking and stuff," I continued, judiciously avoiding the reference to smoking the weed, "and we were camped out on the beach, and all of a sudden it just all washed over me that after graduation I may never see him again."

"I don't think that's likely," Dad said. "But things are about to change for you; for all of you seniors."

"That's right," I replied.  "Anyway, we were sitting around a campfire and Matt had his guitar, and he started singing some sappy ol' song, and it just...it just hit me like a truckload of bricks fell on me.  And I just kept thinking,  'This is the end for us.  I may never be at the beach with him like this again.'  Stuff like that."

I felt my dad's eyes on me.

"I couldn't handle it any more," I continued.  "His stupid sad-ass song.  And the stuff I was thinking.  I stood up and walked away from him.  I was gonna lose it and I didn't want him to see that.  But he did see it, and it's like he knew what it was about.  He came up to me and gave me a hug."

I felt my throat begin to tighten, and my face got hot.  "I...before I knew what happened, I kissed him on the neck.  Twice."

I frowned.  "I don't know how it happened.  It just...it's like it just came out of me.  I was just so blown away, and with the beer and the weed and everything..."

He grimaced at the mention of the weed, and I cringed inwardly.  Damn.

Before he had a chance to say anything, I said, "I know you don't like me smokin' dope, but save it for another time, okay?  I just...it was all too much."

I stared at the floor for a minute, then looked back up and went on.

"I pulled away from him and started apologizing like everything; but he pulled me back to him and said it was okay.  Then he said he wasn't like that, but he knew it about me for a long time."  I could feel my muscles tighten as I heard those words reverberate in my head again.  "I told him I wasn't gay. And he said he knew that, but he still knew that I wanted him."

I paused for a minute, gathered my courage, then looked straight into my father's eyes and said, "Jesus, Dad, he told me it was okay, and he told me he wanted me to do it.  He said he wanted to give that to me because he owed me.  So, I...well, I guess we...we did stuff."

I sat back down, closed my eyes, and tried to get my breath back under control.

After a minute, my dad said, "I don't want to get into crass details, but I think you're going a little over the top.  You're not the only straight guys who have ever traded hand-jobs, or whatever you did."

"Dad," I said, a little annoyed, "that's not what this is about.  It's not about what we did.  What's bugging me is..."

He interrupted me.  "I guess I'm actually surprised that it's something that's happened so late with you.  A lot of best friends go through periods of exp..."

I sighed with exasperation; how could he be so fucking obtuse?  Before he'd completed his sentence, I blurted out,  "Dammit, Dad, would you listen to me?  I fuckin' gave him a blowjob, and then I fucked him, okay?"

I stopped for a moment to look into his eyes.  I knew my dad; but this was scary new ground.  I smiled bitterly and said, "So, are you ashamed of having a gay son?"

He looked at me. "You're gay, then?"

"No, I don't guess I am," I said, "but something's weird with me."

He was quiet for a minute, then he said, "Andy, don't tell me you've never heard of bisexuality."

"Yeah, I've heard of it," I said.  "I just never thought much about it because I mostly like girls."

"Sexual orientation is much more complicated than most people realize," he said.  "In the first place, even a completely straight man is capable of responding to another man under the right conditions.  But there's so much more variability in a person's sexuality than just gay or straight.  I'll give you some things to read about it. But don't trouble yourself so much about it.  You talk like you already have a pretty good sense of your sexuality.  It doesn't sound like you've been lying to yourself; it sounds like you've been slowly discovering something additional about yourself."

"Yeah, that's right, I guess." I said.  "I never thought about guys in that way, much, but over the last few years, I don't know, sometimes in the locker room and shit...times like that, I'd...I'd see the guys and think...I don't know what I'd think, really. I just had some reactions.  And I guess I mostly just ran from that.  But it's not like I had to do much running, because I was mostly always interested in the girls."

I stopped, searching for the words.

"But that other part was there, and I don't know, it sort of got mixed into my feelings about Matt.  It's so damn complicated and confusing..."

My dad smiled.  "As I said, it sounds to me as though you understand yourself pretty well. You're primarily straight; but you've been discovering that you respond sexually to guys too.  It's not that uncommon."

He walked over to his bookshelf, and after searching a little, pulled two books off the shelf and laid them on his desk.

"Researchers have tried different methods of representing the variety of ways people experience sexuality," he continued. "Kinsey back in the fifties.  More recently, Fritz Klein, and Michael Storms, and several others, have added to our understanding of this material. Here's a book by each of those last two," he said, pointing to his desk.  "Take them and read them."  

He sat back down.  "People who study these things have come to understand that we all vary widely in how we respond physically to the two genders.  There are many so-called 'straight' men who are capable of physical response to other men.  Guys just don't talk about it much; in fact, some men who are sexually responsive to men can get through their whole lives without coming into much conscious awareness of it.  You just had the misfortune of growing up in this household, where introspection and reflection come right along with the weekly chores."

I laughed a little.  What he said made sense, and not just theoretically: I was living it.  And he was right; I knew who I was.  I just needed to let it go. Still, I told myself, what I was or wasn't--that wasn't the issue.  It was Matt, and what I saw in his eyes when he looked at me now.  That was the issue.  The day after, he'd told me it was all okay.  The days after that, though, his eyes told me something else.

And then there was the dream...

But dad had launched into "professor" mode.  "Beyond that," he continued, "there's a good bit of literature in Western culture that portrays men who are good friends in ways that have a definite sensual overtones.  For one man to be deeply bonded to another male, like best friends often are, given that sexuality is such a strong part of us as physical beings...well, it's not all that surprising that deep friendships sometimes have sexual dimensions."

I thought about that for a minute, then said, "You're probably right on all that.  But that's not what I wanted to talk about.  I mean, it kinda freaks me out, but I guess if I notice guys that way, well, I notice 'em that way.  Not much control over that. What's really messing me up is that Matt said he's known for a long time.  And he let me do the second thing, the...the lovemaking...because he said he owed it to me for being there for him all these years."

I was glad I couldn't see myself in a mirror at the moment, because the anguish must have been showing on my face.  "I...shit!  Why did I let him let me?  I just...I needed him so much that night.  And now..."

I couldn't finish.

My dad put a hand on my shoulder.  "Now what?  It's important how that sentence finishes.  Do you think Matt regrets what he did?  Is he pushing you away?  Do you think you've damaged things between you?"

"Well, I don't know what he regrets, or if he regrets anything," I said.  "But I just think...I just feel like every time he looks at me ever since we got back, it's like he wishes he could be somewhere else, but he's got to hang around me because he owes me, like he has to be loyal to his poor pathetic queer friend."

Dad frowned.  "Has he said anything like that to you?"

I sat back down.  "No.  He'd never do that.  But if he's known it for a long time...hell, how the fuck can he have known it?  I fuckin' didn't even know it!"

"I hear that you're upset," he said, "But I'll bet you can get through this without the expletives."

"Okay," I said.  "Sorry.  But I guess it's that last part that's bugging me more than what we actually did.  He went out of his way to tell me he knew I loved him like that; and he went out of his way to tell me he's not like that.  Jesus, Dad, I know he's not; he didn't need to say it!  Like that was news?  The only reason he said it is because he wanted to make sure I didn't think he was a freak like me.  And then he went and threw me a pity-fuck!  I'm sorry; that's what it was!  I just...God, I wish I could take that night back.  Now every time he looks at me it feels like he's examining some disgusting fuckin' virus under a microscope.  And if he ever gets to mentioning anything about it, he tries to pass it off like it's this big hilarious thing.  Poor Andy, the big queer football-playing jock; ain't it a hoot?  He was even joking about it to me after the game!"

"I don't believe he'd be cruel to you like that, son," he said.  "To tell everyone a joke at your expense..."

I cut him off.  "No, it wasn't like that.  That's not what I mean.  It was just something he said to me.  And it wasn't cruel.  It was just...well, it was like he wants to make like it's this big funny joke and I'm some strange little...hell, I don't know," I said, trailing off.

My dad walked around behind my chair and began massaging my shoulders.  I took a deep breath and clenched my entire body.

"Think about what you're saying," he told me.  "If he's known for a long time, why would he be thinking differently about you now?  You're not thinking logically here."

"It's because I gave into it," I said in anguish.  "Now every time he looks at me, he's thinking I want to jump him.  And he's gonna resent me because he...he let me do that."

Dad gave me a pat on the shoulder and sat down in the chair next to mine.  "I think you're wrong," he said gently.  "In the first place, I think you're doing some projecting.  And I'm not happy about what it says regarding some of your own feelings about gay people."

"Dad," I began to protest, "I'm talking about what he thinks, not what I think.  You know I...I mean, y'all raised us not to..."

"Yes, we did," he interrupted, "but sometimes attitudes get sucked up from elsewhere, and I don't like what I'm hearing.  If he said those things you say he did about you being there for him all these years, then what you're thinking about him is just wrong.  It sounds to me like you're projecting some feelings you have about gay people onto him."

He paused for a minute to give me a chance to think about what he said, then went on.  "But you don't need a lecture on homophobia.  What you need is a reminder about your friend.  Son, Matt thinks the world of you and I just don't believe there's any way he's thinking those things you're saying.  If you made him as uncomfortable as you think you did, there's no way he'd have let you get...get intimate with him like that."

He smiled and continued.  "Maybe he said what he said about not being like that because he was afraid he would fail you, afraid he wouldn't be able to give you what you needed from him, the way you've always given him what he's needed from you."

"But, dammit, I don't want anything but what we've always already had," I said.  "It was perfect until this whole thing fu--messed things up."

His face grew serious.  "I'll say it again: I think you need to be very careful that you're not the one messing things up.  I think you're projecting some feelings and thoughts onto Matt that just aren't there."

I sighed.  This was going nowhere.  Dad was not going to get it.  Something was different with Matt.  I don't care how much sense my dad was making; he wasn't there with me to see it, to feel it, when Matt was around lately.  I needed him to help me figure out what to do, not just to dish out understanding and tell me everything was going to be okay.

But I appreciated that he was trying to make me feel better.  

He said, "You and Matt have grown to love each other over the years.  And for whatever reason, you experienced a physical dimension to that.  I know Matt's not a rocket scientist, but he's an incredibly intuitive boy.  And he knows you like the back of his own hand, just the way you know him.  I'm sure he picked up on some signals you didn't even know you were sending.  When you made your move, Andy, I think all he was trying to do was reassure you it was okay."

He looked at me with an odd expression on his face, as if he were debating whether or not to keep talking.  Then he said, "I'll tell you something about myself that you don't know.  When I was in college I went through a period when I was a freshman where I was doing some things with my roommate.  We had gotten really close, and were best friends that year.  It started after an intramural football game we were playing.  I never did anything like that before or after—and I was dating a girl at the time--but it's not anything I'm ashamed of, and I still look back on the memories as good ones."

My mouth must have opened wide enough to drive Matt's van through.  My dad smiled and ruffled my hair.  "I don't know whether there's a genetic tendency in these things, and I don't know whether or not it's something most guys feel at one time or another.  But from everything I've learned, I know it's not all that uncommon.  And you know that if you were totally, one-hundred-percent gay, I'd love you and support you.  But I think you shouldn't worry so much about the labels.  You know who you are; that's not what this is about.   

"Matt may feel that you're different from him, somewhat, on this matter of attractions.  And he's probably right.  But think about what he let you do, son.  If the thought of it totally disgusted him, he wouldn't have done it.  He may not feel the pull of guys quite like you do.  But lovemaking with you, at least, is something he was willing to do, so that means he's not completely unresponsive in that way, at least not with you.

"And as for you," he continued, "It's as I said.  You know how you feel and you know how you respond, and you need to let yourself off the hook.  The love between you and Matt is good and it's strong.  You're overthinking this.  I'm sure you'll be fine."

I wasn't so sure.  To me it seemed clear that every time we were with each other now, Matt was sizing me up, trying to figure out how to treat me.  Trying to figure out how to disengage without being the bad guy. Laughing off the intensity of my feelings. Cracking gross jokes with me about that weekend. Avoiding my feelings toward him.

But damned if my dad wasn't trying to love me right out of my confusion and hurt.  I smiled--unconvinced and not feeling any better-- and said,  "Thanks, Dad."

He smiled slightly, and patted me on the shoulder, and said, "You need to let Matt off the hook, too."

I got up and gave him a hug, and said--more to make him feel good than to convey any honest emotion--"Thanks for talking to me.  I feel better."

I just wish I had been able to do what he told me to do.

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Angie and I went out to dinner that evening, and afterwards we went to our favorite park, grabbed a spot of grass by the small lake, spread out a quilt, and sat down on it, enjoying the evening breeze.  She was enjoying it, at any rate.  I wasn't enjoying much of anything: I had something to tell her, and the only thing I was feeling was dread.  After tonight, I thought, I might not have a girlfriend.

"Angie," I began, "I need to talk to you about something."

I went through the events of the last weekend.  I was scared to tell her, but I knew I couldn't keep it from her either.  So I laid it all out, keeping my words confined to the story.  Not once did I try to reassure her that I loved her, because I figured that was obvious.  Not once did I try to reassure her that what happened with Matt didn't mean anything to me, because I figured that was a lie.

She listened quietly while I talked.  When I finished, she took my hand and said, "What do you want me to say, Andy?"

I looked at her.  "Do you want to break up with me?"

"That depends," she said.  "Do you want to break up with me?"

"God, no," I said.  "I love you.  I...it's just that I figured if I told you the truth--"

She smiled a little; there was just the hint of a sad edge to her smile.  "The truth--"

"Andy," she began, "I've known for a long time that you're in love with Matt."

My stomach fell out and hit the ground.  My head grew light.  I compensated by getting angry.

"I'm not gay," I said, my voice laced with indignation.  "You of all people should know that."

"I didn't say you were gay, did I?"  she replied.  "Words..."  

She gazed off into the distance for a moment, then looked at me. "What I said was I knew you're in love with Matt."

My temper began to escalate.  "How can you say that? I'm in love with you."

Her expression didn't change.  "So?"

"So," I said angrily, "if I'm in love with you, and you know that, then stop talking shit about me being in love with Matt."

She didn't miss a beat.  "Are you saying you're not in love with him?"

Seconds ticked by; seconds which told everything that needed to be told.

Finally I said, hanging my head, "How could you know?  How could anybody know?  Is it that obvious?  God, do people think--"

"I'm not 'people,'" she said.  "No, 'people' don't think anything.  But I'm your girlfriend.  And you've been on my radar for longer than I've been your girlfriend."

She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.  "You work hard at your game face," she said with a smile.  "But I know there's something else under the big tough guy.  And I gotta tell you, I really, really like the big tough guy, but it's the 'something else' that got me interested in the first place."

I laughed a little.  "Well, damn," I said.  "I thought I had you totally fooled like everyone else.  Not."

"You don't have me fooled about shit, tough guy," she said, grinning.  "Anyway, I always liked you and Matt.  I always thought you were both a little different.  Now Matt's a great guy, but it was you..." her voice trailed off.

"Andy," she began again, "all those years where I kept my distance from you, I was interested.  Even while I was dating other guys, even through different boyfriends, you were on my mind.  I thought you were so smart, and so strong.  I didn't like the way you were all over the girls; I didn't want to be played.  But I still thought about you a lot.  And I made it a point to try to understand things about you, and about Matt, because you two were always so tight. And I realized some things.  Not things that are a secret to anybody else, I guess.  I mean, everybody knows about Matt's brother, and about Matt's dad leaving.  But I put it together that you got something from each other."

She smiled and took my hand.  "Matt depends on you.  You've helped him through some big-time hurt, I'll bet.  And he's been good for you, too.  He pulls you out of your head.  Otherwise you'd take life way too seriously.  A lot of love grows out of that kind of give-and-take."

I was about to say something in protest when she went on.  "That's nothing unusual.  Look at Justin and Ethan; Ruben and Ryan.  Guys do that, maybe even more than girls.  Every guy on the football team, seems like, has a best bud he feels closest to."  

I nodded in agreement.

"But with you two there was something else, something deeper," she said.  "And it just came to me one day, what it was.  I never even really thought about it in sexual terms.  What came to me was that you two were in love with each other.  So I knew about the two of you before you and I ever went on a date."

I thought back to those two odd remarks she'd made that first time I asked her out.  She'd said in passing, "I like Matt a lot," and I'd said, "me too," and when she responded, "I know," something in her voice suggested she'd made more of the sentence than I'd intended.  Then, not two minutes later, talking about him again, she'd said, "Matt, well, mostly he's just a sweet guy.  But I don't need to tell you that."

I shook off those memories and protested, "But nothing happened before this. How can you say you knew all this when there was nothing to know until last weekend?"

She looked at me as if she were a mother having to explain something complicated to a two-year-old.  "Andy, last weekend wouldn't have happened if there was nothing to know."

I didn't know how to answer that.

She kissed me on the cheek again.  "Sometimes I can see it in your eyes when the two of you are together.  That's all.  It's nothing I could put my finger on, and if I hadn't been so...if I hadn't been kind of interested in you anyway, I might not have noticed.  Also, there's this: did you know that Kevin's gay?"

I was stunned.  Angie's brother was a sophomore in college and he had been a star wide receiver on the football team back in high school.

I said, "No way!  Nobody thought he was gay when he was here."

"He came out in college," she replied.  "He has a boyfriend on the team with him up there.  They've been together a long time now and Kevin brings him here a lot when he comes home.  Mom was fine with it.  Dad is too, but it took him a while.  I think he was thinking about the family name dying out.  Anyway, the way those two look at each other--that's what I see in your eyes when you look at Matt."

"Look, Angie," I said hoarsely, "you're making it sound like I--"

She frowned.  "You're the one who's making all the assumptions, not me.  Why do you have to make it so complicated?  I'm not trying to make it sound like anything.  I'm only trying to tell you that I knew it at some level all along.  And it doesn't matter to me." 

I stared at her, trying to decide if she was telling the truth.  I must have had "doubtful" written all over my face, because she sighed, exasperated, and said, "I went out with you, didn't I?  We're together.  I love you.  It's okay.  So let it go.  Or are you trying to tell me you want to break up with me and go off and be with him?"

"Shit, no," I said. "I'm trying to tell you that you are so off-base that the opposite is true.  I don't think he likes me anymore, and he's just putting up with me and trying to be friends out of his stupid-ass sense of loyalty."

She sighed.  "You're wrong.  But let's drop that for now and focus on us. Do you love me?"

I took her in my arms and kissed her slowly, insistently.  Then, afterwards, I said, "You know I love you."

She smiled, put a hand down at my crotch, and began running her hand up and down the bulge there.  "Do you like making love to me?"

I grinned and said, "I think you know the answer to that; you got it right in your hand, in fact."

"Then I don't see why I should want to break up with you," she said.  "And I think you need to stop torturing yourself about it.  Answer this question, and be honest.  Did you like making love to him?"

"Yeah, I did," I said quietly.

"Did he like it?"

"I...I don't know," I said.  "He seemed to at the time.  And he says it's okay.  It's just—"

"What did he tell you?"

I frowned.  "He told me he was glad I was there for him when he needed me.  He told me he was glad I loved him, even like that.  He told me he'd known for a long time."  I paused for a minute, and shrugged.  "But he told me he's not like me," I said.  "Like I'm some kind of freak or something.  I think I've fucked up everything, and he's gonna look at me different forever. It'll never be the same."

"Is that what he said?" she asked.

"No," I said. "In fact he said just the opposite.  He said nothing's changed."

"Then I'm happy for you," she said.

"But I don't think I believe him," I said.

"Stop it," she said.  "You're the one with the problem."

"Oh, good," I said.  "So both of you think I'm a freak."

Her eyes narrowed and she scowled at me.  "That's not what I'm saying and you know it.  I'm saying he doesn't have problems with you:  you have problems with you."

"That's a crock of shit," I said.  "I'm no queer-basher, and anyway, I'm not gay!"

"Would you listen to yourself?" she said.  "You need to step back and take a hard look at how you're reacting to all this.  You are way off the deep end," she said sternly.  "And I don't think you're all over the top about this because it means you're gay.  What I think it means is that you should think about what you really feel about people like my brother."

I shook my head.  I am not a homophobe, I said to myself.  Geez, she sounds like my dad!  Neither of them get it.  Why the hell would I be so upset unless I had something to be upset about?  Can't she see I'm dying here?  I've lost my best friend because I allowed something to happen that I never should have.  And now because I let it happen, I'm paying for it, and all they can tell me is "you're making this up."

Softening, she said, "You should be happy.  There's not enough love in the world anyway, Andy.  Appreciate what you have with Matt.  And stop what you're doing and leave it alone; you're gonna make trouble where there's no trouble to make."

I sighed, and kissed her.  I wasn't convinced; in fact, I didn't believe it for a minute.  But I couldn't think any more, and at least now it was all out in the open with Angie. I couldn't believe how she'd handled it; I had half-expected this to be the end for us.

It was dark, and the park was empty.  I took her in my arms and kissed her.  We started making out, and before too long, we were naked.  

The lovemaking was good, and it was strong.

I just wish I had been able to do what she told me to do.

17.  Wipeout

On Sunday night the next weekend, I was working on a math assignment when Danny stuck his head into my bedroom.

"Hey, buttface.  Phone's for you.  It's Matt."  He stood in my doorway, waiting for a response from me.

I flipped him the bird and said, "Okay, already.  I got it.  Go do whatever it was you were doing.  Then get some Kleenex and clean up the mess."

He laughed and said, "Fuck you," then went down the hall towards his room.

Immobilized, I stared at my phone for about a minute.  Danny called out from his room, "Pick up, Andy, so I can hang up."

Finally I walked to my nightstand, picked up the receiver, and said, "Hey."

Matt's voice, resonant and jovial, sang to me through the wires.  "Hey yourself.  Where you been all weekend?"

I swallowed hard.  "I...I was tired Saturday and just hung around the house, did chores and shit.  Then Angie and I went out to a movie and stuff."

He said, "We were gonna pick up the girls and spend Saturday at the lake, I thought."

"I know, Matt," I said, "but I never said it was a for-sure thing.  I didn't know you even really wanted to do it.  I just thought you..." I couldn't finish.

He sounded annoyed. "You thought what?  Hell, I wanted to get out there; I told you I did.  Why would you think I didn't want to?"

"Look," I said, "I never even got around to telling Angie about it.  Anyway, I was fuckin' tired after Friday night.  And I didn't sleep worth shit."

The line was silent for a minute.  Then he said, "Well, why didn't you at least call me and tell me?  I thought it was a plan.  I was waiting for you to call."

I snarled into the phone, "Then why didn't you fuckin' call, if it was that big a deal?"

"Look, goddammit," he said, "If you think just because I..."

The line went quiet again.  After a gap that felt like forever, I heard him say, "All right.  No big deal.  I wasn't trying to rip on you."

"Okay, then," I said back to him.  "You shoulda just called Ruben and Ryan, or Ethan and Justin, or some of the other guys if you wanted to go."

"Whatever," he mumbled.  After still another long silence, he spoke again.  "Andy?"

"What?"

"Are you...I mean, is everything..." He stopped in mid-sentence.

"I need some help," he said finally.  "My math homework is fuckin' with my head, and I just called to see if you had some time to look at it with me.  You...Shit, I don't know, it's always easier to understand when you walk me through it."

"Well...okay," I said.  "I can be over in about fifteen minutes."

He said, "You don't have to get out, I could just come over there."

"No.  Don't," I said, too quickly.  "I mean, it's fine.  I wanted to get out anyway.  But Matt...you got to handle up on your business by yourself pretty soon, don't you think?  I'm not gonna be around next year."

There was a tinge of indignation in his voice as he said, "Look, Andy, I wasn't asking for a free pass through college, I was asking for an explanation on a problem or two.  Not next year; right now.  And you may not believe it, but I'm probably not too stupid to do college without you."

I winced.  I hadn't meant to imply that.  "Anyway," he said, "it was just a thought.  If it's too much trouble, don't worry about it.  I'll set up an appointment with Mrs. Evans tomorrow."

"No, man, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that," I said.  "And it's fine.  I need a change of scenery anyway. I can be over in about fifteen minutes."

"Thanks," he said.   "We'll just stick to business, okay?  Probably it'll only take a half hour if I'm not being a total moron."

I smiled a little.  "You're not a moron, Matt."

"That's right.  I'm not," he said.  "I pick up on things just fine."  He paused; the subtext hammered me.  But I ignored it; he wasn't gonna make this about me.  I said, "I'll see you in fifteen, then."

"Okay, bye."

Stick to business.  Right.  Well, I thought angrily, I guess I'm not too disgusting for him to call me over to help him with his math.

---------------------

Six weeks went by.  We hung out once in a while, for small bits of time.  But I'd continued finding reasons to avoid him.  When his eyes met mine, I didn't know what I saw anymore.  Was it low-grade disgust?  Or had I just become a curiosity, an oddity, a freak?  Sometimes when we were hanging out, he didn't seem any different from the way he'd always been.  At other times, I felt like a bug in a specimen jar.

By the end of football season, Friday nights on the football field amounted to the largest block of time I ever spent with him on a consistent basis.  I didn't want him to feel any obligation to continue being best friends just because he felt he owed me something.  So I found reasons to hang out more with my other teammates, reasons to need to be with Angie, reasons to need to study.  

Reasons to stay away from him.

We ended football season with a decent record and just missed being district champs.  Our teamwork on the field, his and mine, was direct, powerful, and effective.  It was the one area where I wasn't afraid to let him in.  But week after week, when the game was over, after we'd all gotten showered and dressed, as often as not I had somewhere else to be, something else to do. Something that didn't include him.

At first, he tried to get me to talk about what was going on.  His efforts never failed to make me angry.  He was the one with the fucking problem, why was he trying to act like I was the one ruining things?  What the fuck did he want from me?  

Actually, I thought I knew.  What he wanted was for me to stop loving him the way I did.  What he wanted was for me to be somebody I could never be.  He resented me for taking his best friend away from him and putting some weird queer guy in his place.  

Well, fuck him.  If he couldn't deal with it, fuck him.  I couldn't take back that night on the beach, but I never ever did anything to make him think I'd make a move on him.  The only thing preventing us from being back to normal was Matt, I thought.  And I wasn't going to let him guilt me into feeling that this was all my fault, that I was the one bringing problems into our friendship.  So whenever he started asking me if something was wrong, trying to make things my fault, I'd always answer those questions by insisting that there was nothing wrong; I was "just busy."  I "had to spend time with Angie."  I "needed to study."  I was "tired."  I "wanted to do some stuff with all the guys" ("after all, they're my friends too.").

All perfectly legitimate reasons. Nope, nothing wrong here.

Gradually, he stopped asking, stopped waiting for me to show up in the parking lot after school, stopped phoning me for the late-night "I-need-a-break-from-homework" run to the Sonic.  At school, we were cordial in the halls.  Once in a while I'd help him with his studies.  Occasionally he'd come over and we'd shoot some hoops.  But I spent most of my leisure time with either Angie or the other guys from the team.  I didn’t want to have to feel his condescension every time I looked at him.

-------------------------

Mid-December came.  Matt and I hadn't spoken in three weeks, hadn't hung out together in about a month.

That week, the week before Christmas break, I came down with the flu Sunday night.  My fever shot up, my head stopped up, and I ached all over.  I was out of school on Monday and Tuesday, and I was scheduled for a doctor's appointment on Wednesday.  The days were bad enough; the nights were intolerable.  My fever soared at night.  Aspirin helped, but I was chilled to the bone from the fever.

Tuesday night, I was lying in bed in the dark. I was wearing just a pair of boxers--I never felt comfortable sleeping in more.  My fever was high.  I'd just taken a couple of aspirin, but they hadn't gone to work.  And even with the blankets pulled up around me, I was so cold I couldn't sleep.  As I lay there shivering, I heard my door creak open and saw light from the hall pour into my room. I rolled over to face the door so I could see who had come in.

Matt was standing in the doorway with a stack of books in his arms.  I nodded at him; he nodded back as he set the books on my desk.  He closed my door and walked back over to my bed.

"What's up with you?" he asked quietly.

"I can't fuckin' get warm," I said.  "I have a fuckin' three-hundred degree fever and I'm so goddam cold that I can't even get to sleep."

He stared at me for a minute longer, not speaking.  Then he sat down on my bed and pulled his shoes off.  I watched, uncomprehending, as he stood up and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"What the fuck are you doing?"  I asked.

He laid his shirt over my chair, then unbuckled his belt, slipped his jeans down over his hips, and stepped out of them, laying them on top of his shirt. He stood at the foot of my bed, naked except for his boxers. "Shut up and move over," he said quietly.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I repeated, obeying him nonetheless.

"You're cold," he said, as he slipped into my bed.  "You're sick.  This'll work. Turn over."  I turned onto my left side again.  And he pulled himself in close to me, his chest against my back, his arms around my upper body, his legs entwined with mine.

"You'll get sick, moron," I said over my shoulder.  "Nobody asked you to..."

He rubbed my shoulders gently, interrupting me as he replied, "Nobody had to.  Ever.  Now try to sleep."

His warmth flowed into me.  As he held me, I stopped shivering, and began to relax and let sleep take me.  Lying next to him, with his body against mine, wrapped in his arms, I felt warm for the first time since Sunday.

Maybe since September.

And, warmed, I slept.

When I woke up Wednesday morning, he was gone.  I tried to consider what it all meant, but I didn't have the energy.  Around eight-thirty my mom knocked and came into my room. "I have to go to work, Andy," she said, "but you have an appointment with Doctor Harrison at nine-thirty; how do you feel?  Can you drive yourself?"

"I'm better," I said, "but not great.  Good enough to drive, though."  My fever had broken some time in the night.  I hesitated for a minute, then asked her, "Hey, what did Matt say to you when he stopped by last night?"

She frowned.  "Matt wasn't here.  You must have had a high fever."

Perplexed, I stared at her.  It had seemed so real.  "Well, whatever.  Go on to work, I'll be fine," I said.

"Okay," she said.  "Call me if you need me."

Just as I opened my mouth to say "okay," I saw the stack of books on my desk.  When she left the room, I got up and walked over to them.  There was a piece of notebook paper on top of the stack.  He'd scribbled a note on it:

I checked with all your teachers.  Look on the back.  I wrote down your makeup assignments.  I think I got all the handouts and books.  Get well.

The bottom of the paper was torn off.

But he'd had the sheet on top of my stack of books when he wrote the note, and indentations from each letter had been pressed into the cover of the top book.  There had been two more sentences, sentences he'd torn off.  I could make out the words from the impressions left on the book cover:

Please stop doing what you're doing.  It hurts.

My chest heaved.

But I wasn't going to be weak.  I'm not the problem here, I said to myself.  I don't care how nice it was.

As if to emphasize the point, his words from that September evening came back to me:  "I'm not like you," I heard him say; and as if to reinforce that, I saw the Dream-Matt in my head, curling his lip, and adding with a sneer, "you queer fuck."

----------------------

I started feeling lots better on Thursday.  There was a lot to catch up on, though.  School had recessed for Winter Break, and I had lots of back-assignments and study to take care of.  The high school soccer team was going to be participating in a tournament over the break, and there were a couple of practices called for Monday and Tuesday, the 22nd and 23rd.  I wasn't in the best of shape and wasn't really looking forward to the workout.

And on top of it all, I hadn't gotten all my Christmas shopping done.

I was restless, thinking about all the stuff on my plate. I needed a physical outlet. I wasn't completely well, but I hadn't exercised in days.  On Saturday I called up Justin and Ethan, who were behind on their Christmas shopping too.  We decided to meet at the Rec Center for some basketball; after that, we'd hit the mall and finish our shopping.  The company would make it more tolerable; I was never a big fan of shopping.  I enjoyed giving gifts, but I never liked the boredom of trekking from store to store.

I got in a good workout on the basketball court.  We showered and hit the mall.  When we got there, we split up and agreed to meet an hour later.  I bought presents for my family and picked out a beautiful silver anklet for Angie.  By the time I'd gotten Angie's gift it was time to meet up with my friends.  We met outside the sporting-goods store at the agreed-upon time.  After a brief conversation Ethan said, "Let's go to the food court and grab some pizza and Coke.  Then maybe we could go back to the Rec and play some racquetball or something, if your sick ass is up to it."

'Well, I’m up for grabbing some food,' I said, "and racquetball sounds good.  But I'm not finished yet.  I got one more thing to get."

We got our food and sat down to eat it.  Justin started asking me about the soccer team and how I thought we'd do.  That led to a discussion of athletic scholarships and college, which led to a discussion about Matt getting some serious looks from some colleges for a football scholarship.  Ethan was talking enthusiastically about Matt's throwing arm and his ability to scramble, when he stopped and said, "You know, I haven't seen you two hanging as much lately.  What's up with that?"

"Nothing," I said, stirring my Coke with my straw.

"Just seems like...I mean, why aren't you doing all this mall-hopping with him?"

"I don't know," I said.  "He has shit to do, maybe."

Justin eyed me with suspicion.  "Did y'all get into it over something?"

"You'd have to ask him," I muttered, then added quickly, "No.  Don’t.  Let it go, okay?  It's nothing."

"Okay.  Sorry, man; none of my business," he said.  "Anyway, it's not like me and my bitch over here don't like your company," he grinned, pointing at Ethan.  "It's just that if you don't patch it up with Matt, he may leave me and try to move in on you, and I'd be big-time fuckin' sad, then, 'cause nobody sucks dick as good as Ethan."  He slapped Ethan on the back and broke into a laughing fit.  Ethan shot him both fingers, but even though the joke was on him, he couldn't keep from laughing.  

I wasn't quite as entertained.

"Well, if you boys want to stay here and work on your comedy routine," I said, "you gotta do it without me."  I got up to leave;  I still had one gift to go.

"Always somebody in the crowd with no sense of humor," Justin said, grinning, as he and Ethan followed me.  "So I'll give you a chance to show me something you do have.  Let's see if you can beat my ass at racquetball.  Like that's gonna happen in your weakened condition."

We didn't return to the subject of Matt for the rest of the day.

-------------------------

Christmas Day came.  I spent the day with my family.  We opened our presents in the morning; then we went to church and spent the rest of the day with my mom's parents in Fort Worth.  We got back home about eight o'clock that evening.

I had one more person I needed to see.  I went up to my room, grabbed a small wrapped present, and made my way out the front door.

The mechanics of separating two lives that had once been close weren't easy.  The past kept tripping me up.  Memories and expectations complicated my resolve to avoid Matt’s accusing eyes.  I thought about that as I got into my car and drove over to his house.  

We'd gotten each other Christmas presents and birthday presents every year since we were ten. I understood that he didn't feel so good about me any more, and I was definitely uncomfortable around him.  But it's not as though we'd talked about anything, acknowledged that things were different.  And you didn't just stop giving Christmas presents.  That would be calling attention to the elephant in the living room.  

We'd had one halting, painful conversation on the matter of Christmas presents a few weeks earlier in the hall at school.  He'd brought it up.  I figured he was looking for a way out, some way to pull back from me without making a spectacle of it.  After an excruciating half-attempt to come to some mutually palatable decision, he'd said, "I know we both got to be saving up for next year.  Let's just get each other CDs, okay?  Just get me a CD."  He thought for a minute, and laughed and said, "Get me some of your fancy-ass classical shit--something you think I could learn to like.  Then when I hear it next year at college it'll remind me..." his smile faltered momentarily, but he recovered quickly. "It'll make me seem all sophisticated.  I'll be able to tell people what it is, and damn, will they be impressed!"

"Yeah, reading the front cover of a CD that you own is pretty impressive," I said, grinning.

He looked at me, stopped walking, and his smile faded again.  "I'll get you a CD I want you to have too," he said quietly.  Then, as quickly as it had faded, his smile was back, lighting up his face.  We started walking again. "I'll get you something totally unexpected," he said as we got close to our classroom, "and you'll have to love it; that's the rule that goes with this present.  We're required to love the CD that we get."

"I've loved every other dumb-ass thing you've ever gotten me," I said; "why would this be any different?"

"Well, that's it, then," he said.  "CDs all around, and no pissing and moaning about what we pick."

Outside the classroom door, things grew uncomfortable, as they often did lately.  I tried to think of something else to say.  "Hey, would you be interested in coming by tomorrow some time and maybe going to the Rec and playing some racquetball?  I haven't hardly done shit since football, and I gotta get conditioned for soccer season."

He said quietly, "Yeah, I'd like that."  With that we walked into class and sat down.  

We ended up going the next afternoon, and for once we actually had a good time.  

This was typical of the fits and starts we had during that time period:  once in a while, it seemed as though maybe things would work themselves out.  It felt good.  Almost normal again.  But then I'd catch him gazing at me, or I'd hear something in his tone of voice when he talked to me. Then the dream I had back in September would come back to me, and I knew that with the way he felt about me now, things would never be normal again.

I reflected on all that as I drove to his house with his present.  When I got there, Matt's mom let me in, and I went up to his room.

He was watching TV; when he looked up and saw me, he smiled a little, and said, "Hey, Andy."   He saw the gift in my hand and said, "All right!  My holiday dose of culture; what did you get me?"

"You’ll have to open it and see," I said.  "What did you get me?"

He got up and went to his closet and brought back a gift bag with a card attached.

Damn, I thought.  I'll bet he wrote something.  I didn't even get a card for him.

"You go first," he said, looking nervously at me.

I slid the card out of its envelope, read it, and doubled over with laughter.  It was a raunchy card about Santa fucking the reindeer.  Trying to regain composure, I asked, "Where did you get that?"

"New Fine Arts," he said.  I raised my eyebrows; he grinned.  The New Fine Arts Theater was an upscale porno shop in Dallas.  "Have you ever been in there?"

"No," I said.

"Well, I gotta tell you about it some time.  Anyway, open it."

I looked in the bag and pulled out the CD.  It was a CD from an older metal band, Extreme.  The CD's name was "Pornograffiti."

I looked at the picture on the cover.  "A hair band, Matt?  Didn't this come out when we were, like, ten?"

"Hey; I put a lot of thought into this," he said.  "No pissing and moaning, remember the rules? You take it home and listen to it.  You'll learn to like it.  You're too much into the damn college-music bands.  Listen to it until your brain sucks it in.  It'll be good for you!"

"Okay, I'll give 'em a chance," I said.  "Thanks, man."  

I fell silent; the air was thick with what once was.  I tried to speak, but my voice caught in my throat.

Matt came to my rescue.  "All right--hand it over."

I gave it to him and he tore into the wrapping.  "Bach. Brandenburgische Kon..." he trailed off, unsure of himself.

"Brandenburg Concertos," I said.  "Concerti, actually, I guess, is the plural.   Numbers One through Three.  The group is headed by a guy named Pinnock, using the kind of instruments they had during Bach’s day instead of modern instruments.  It's a kick in the ass, Matt.  You'll like it if you give it a chance.  Especially the third one."

He looked at me.  "You think?"

"I know you will," I said.  "Let me listen to it with you and I'll help you..."

I stopped.  "Maybe you can give it a few listens and we could talk about it some day.  Oh, and be sure to read the liner notes.  It’ll help you get the piece."

A look of exasperation passed over his face.  "Andy," he began, "look, man, I wish you'd just..."

Then he seemed to change his mind about what he was going to say, and sighed.  

"Thanks.  Yeah, I’ll listen to it.  If you gave it to me, it's gotta be cool.  You Da Man with the classical shit."

"Damn right," I said, uneasily.

I needed to leave.

"We can hang out some over break, if you want," he offered.

If I want?  Don’t do me any favors, I thought bitterly.

"Yeah, sure," I said.  "I'll call you."

He looked me straight in the eye and said, "No, you won't."

Twenty seconds passed as we stared into each other’s eyes.

I lowered my gaze to the floor.  "I will, Matt," I said quietly.

"Okay, then," he said.  "Or maybe I’ll call you."

"That would be fine," I said.  

I turned to leave.

“Merry Christmas, Andy," he said.

I looked back at him "Thanks, man," I said.  "You, too.  Look, we’ll get together some during the holidays.  
I mean it."

He smiled.  "Of course we will."

------------------------

I did spend some time with him during the break.  Usually at the rec center or at his house, playing video games.  We kept it light, superficial.  It’s odd to say that, because in a way, we’d usually kept things light and superficial throughout the years of our friendship. But these days, the good-times attitude seemed forced.

My heart was never far from broken.  I knew I couldn't--shouldn't--love him.  Not the way I did.  I knew he didn't want that, didn't want me to be that way, wished I wasn't that way.  I'd worked for months pulling my love for him back into myself and shutting it tightly in a box.  I didn't hold that against him--but why did he have to feel the way he did about me?  Why did he have to make me feel like a germ?  And since he did, why did he insist on going through the motions of being friends?  He clearly no longer had the heart for it.  I didn't know the answers to any of these things, and I didn't know what to do about it. And while I was angry about his attitude toward me, I didn't want things all fucked up the way they were now.

New Year's Eve found us together, with our dates, at a party hosted by Kathryn Squires, one of the cheerleaders.  

When the clock struck midnight, after we'd kissed our women, I pulled him away and we stepped into the back yard.  I took a chair by the pool and motioned for him to sit next to me.

When he'd gotten settled in, I said to him, "I just needed to say something.  I needed to ask for something."

"Go ahead," he said.

"Matt," I began, "we can find a way, can't we?  I mean, with one semester left?"

He looked at me with surprise, then said quietly,  "We can do whatever you need."

Whatever I need?  I bristled.  He was the one with the problem.  He was the one who was all bent out of shape about me.  And I didn't need his pity or his solicitude or his charity-friendship.  

Well, at least he doesn't totally hate me, I thought.  He's trying; why can't I just do my best to live with it?

Because I didn't want whatever it was between us to have to be about "trying."  It never had to be like that before.  And I hated having him feel that I was defective, hated him for making me feel that I was defective.

I said, "Can we please not keep making a big deal out of this?  Why does that...that night...why does that have to keep fuckin' things up? Can't we just go on from there?  We hit a bump.  Can't we just move on down the road?  We do okay, and then you always...I mean, I don't see why..."

I don't see why you can't let me love you and not treat me like a virus for it, I thought.  But what I said was,  "Look. Just be my friend, okay?  Why should it be so hard?  I'm not any different from how I've ever been."

"You're full of shit," he said angrily.  "You keep acting like..."

He stopped, and I watched him struggle to get hold of his temper. He took a deep, ragged breath, and said, "I'm sorry.  Of course I can be your friend.  I've always been your friend.  I'll do what you want.  Just show me how you want me to be your friend and I'll do that.”

"There's nothing to show," I said.  "I just want it to be like it used to be, back before..." I choked on the thought and tried to say it another way.  "I just want you not to always be lookin' at me like you..."  My voice trailed off; I was too ashamed to say it out loud.  Finally I looked down at the ground and said, quietly, "I want it like it's always been."

I raised my head; he was staring at me.  I grew uncomfortable watching him as he studied my face.  

Finally he said, "You don't even know what you're doing, do you?"

"I'm not fuckin' doing anything," I said indignantly. "I told you what I want and I don't see what the big deal is.  You'll either do it or you won't."

"Andy," he said with a tenderness that caught me off-guard, "you're lying.  You're lying to me, but worst of all, you're lying to yourself.  I know you don't mean to be and I know you don't think you are, but you are."   He put his hand on my shoulder.  "But I'm tired, dude.  I'm tired of doing this by myself.  So we'll play it your way.  Sure.  I can make it like it's always been."

"I'm not fuckin' lying, and I don't know what the hell you're talking about," I said.  "But I don't care about all that. We can get past it.  Just stop making a big deal out of things."

"All right; whatever you want," he said quietly.  "Happy New Year, then."  He smiled at me, sort of.  It looked for all the world like a wounded smile, and that pissed me off.   "I'll try to show you," he said.  "But I'll do what you want."

Show me what? I thought.  But I wasn't in any shape to get into it.  Ever again.  I'd said my piece and he'd said he'd do what I wanted.  Best to leave it at that.

"Happy New Year," I said.

We went back into the house, found our dates, and began following the new rules.


-----------------------------------------------------
Copyright 2003-2007 by Adam Phillips

18.  Beached

Throughout the spring semester, we saw each other once a week or so.  We worked hard on keeping it fun and keeping our mouths shut.  We'd enacted a conspiracy for the new year, and we both did what we could to keep it going.  

It was a fucked-up mess.

His part in the conspiracy was to let me think that everything had been all his fault, to pretend he was now changing his ways so we'd get through the rest of the year without too much pain.  My part was to pretend that I actually believed that he still wanted to be my friend.

I tried to act happy.  This was, after all, what I'd asked for.

The year shot by.  NCAA signing day came; I accepted athletic and academic scholarships.  I'd be playing soccer at a well-respected but small liberal arts college a few hours away from Dallas.  I'd gotten some looks from universities back east for my academics, but I didn't want to go far from home, and I wanted to play soccer.  The college I chose fit both criteria.  Matt had also been given a significant scholarship to play football for a university up north that had been looking at him since the previous year.  When we signed on the dotted line, another piece of the past let go, and we pointed ourselves toward the next chapter of our lives.

As the semester went on, Matt chose the year's new Posse members.  I knew that when spring got here, so would the Posse beach trips.  I had already decided I wouldn't have time for the beach anymore.

The last weekend in February, I was over at Angie's studying. She was sitting at her desk, and I was stretched out on her floor with my books and papers.  Her parents had gone to a concert at Bass Hall in Fort Worth.  Over the past month or so, we'd been talking together about our impending graduation; it seemed to me that all the seniors, in ways distinctive to each of them, were gradually disengaging from this place that had dominated their lives for so many years.

At one point in the evening, she looked up from her homework and said out of nowhere, "Andy, I think we need to talk."

I took a deep breath, sat up, and said, "Okay."

She closed her book.  "It's coming down fast, isn't it?"

"Huh?"

"Graduation. Leaving. Starting over somewhere else."

"Oh," I said.  "Yeah, I guess it is."

She looked at me sadly, and said, "I love you."

I went over to her, pulled her into me, and kissed her for a long time. Then, pulling away, I said,  "I love you too."

She sighed.  A tear fell.  "High school romances..."

"I love you more than that," I said firmly.

"Maybe," she said.  "But what do we know?  We're going off to different schools.  It might as well be different planets.  You know that's true."

"Yeah, it is," I said softly.

"I've been thinking about this," she said.  "It's gonna hurt no matter what and no matter when.  God, I don't want us to just leave things like they are, like we're this great happily-ever-after couple, and then we go off to college and gradually the whole thing just dies.  That would kill me."  

She began crying softly.

I held her in my arms.  "What are you saying?"

"I think we need to break up," she said.  "I think we need to do it now, and put some distance between us."

I didn't know what to say.  It wasn't as though I hadn't been thinking along those lines myself.

"I don't know what's going to happen in my life," she said.  "I know what I want to do; and I...I wish I could...could have you with me forever," she sobbed.  "But with everything so different next year..."

My heart was in my throat.  "Angie, you don't have to tell me," I said. "I think you're right."  

Silence hung in the air between us.  Then I leaned in and kissed her.  We kissed for several minutes; desperation pulled us together tightly.

Finally, pulling away from me, she sat down on her bed.  "I think I could love you forever," she said.  "How would we know, though?  Let's make a clean break now, while we still can.  I...maybe someday we'll find our way back to each other if it's meant to be."

Battling for composure, I said, "I fuckin' hate this."

"I do too," she said.

She began to unhook the chain from her neck that held the promise ring I'd given her. "Take this."

"No," I said, stricken.  "God, no.  Keep it.  Take it off your neck, okay, but please...keep it."

She nodded, crying.  Then she stood up and walked over to her closet, and put the ring in her jewelry box.

I had to summon the will power to hang tough, because part of me was reeling, wondering how many more things I'd have to lose before my senior year was over.

I took her in my arms and began kissing her again.  My hands moved up her back, and down to her hips.  Tomorrow would be what it had to be; tonight I needed her.

"Angie," I said, "I want to make love to you one last time."

She smiled through her tears, and caressed my back and my butt as she held me close.  Then she began unbuttoning my shirt.  "I haven't ever loved anybody this much," she told me.  "Always remember that."

We undressed each other slowly, tenderly.

She pulled me into her bed, and we made love.

The sex was bittersweet; I'd never experienced it like that before.

After it was over, lying next to her, I said, "I'll always love you."

She put her hand in my hair and stroked my head, then moved lower to my neck and back, and then down to my butt.  As she caressed me, she kissed me on the chest and said, "Don't forget me next year."

I swallowed hard.  "I'll never forget you.  Ever."

Too soon, the clock downstairs struck midnight.  It was time to go.  I got up and began getting dressed.  "How are we gonna do this at school?" I asked.  "How can we be around each other without..."

"I don't know," she said.  "We're in so many of the same things.  We can't just shut each other out.  It's not like I want to avoid you or never think about you.  I just have to dial it all down, you know?  And so do you.  Let's keep it friendly at school.  And we can be together when our friends do stuff together.  But don't come over any more, okay?  And don't call." She wiped her eyes with her hands.

Blinking back the wetness in my own eyes, I said, "God, I can't believe how fuckin' hard this is."

"I know," she answered.  "But you know it's right."

"Yeah."  I put my shoes on and stood up to leave.  She walked me to the front door, and before I opened it and walked away, I pulled her to me one last time and kissed her; it was long, and passionate, and so sweet.

She broke the kiss and pulled away from me, crying softly. "Go now; please. I can't take any more of this.  I'll see you in school Monday, okay?"

"Okay," I said.

And with that I opened her front door, walked through it, and closed it behind me for the final time.

-------------------

Breaking up with Angie accelerated the process of disengaging myself from the world as I knew it and getting ready for a new life.  From that point on, I began walking through my current life as if it was something of a ghost town.  Things began to seem less real.

During the final months of the school year I watched myself from a distance, going through the motions of my last days of high school.  I hung out with Matt once in a while, in a hopeless attempt to make the most out of the time that we had left together.  I gave spring soccer season everything I had, and threw myself into my studies. I went to parties, spent time with my young Varsity Bro, and did my part to organize the Posse beach trips--trips I'd decided I wouldn't be taking.  But there was an odd, detached quality to all my efforts. In everything I did, a numbness had settled in on me.  

I came to appreciate that quality, and I cultivated it.

Late in April, Matt came over to the house one Thursday afternoon.  I was playing a video game; my door was open and he walked right in.  "Hey," I said.

He came in and sat on my bed, watching me play.

When I finished, I powered down the machine and turned to look at him.  He nodded, wordlessly.

"What?"

"I came to talk to you about something," he said tentatively.

"What is it?"

"I want to ask you something," he said.  "I'm gonna cut to the chase, bro.  I want to know if it's okay if I ask Angie out."

The surprise must have shown on my face, because he quickly added, "I'm not talking anything serious.  I mean...well, that's not right, exactly. I don't mean I'd be just playing around.  She's a nice girl."

I nodded, staring at my hands as he continued.  "We talked about the two of you.  I want to get to know her better.  And she and I--we have something in common."

I looked up at him.  Something blazed in his eyes, something that was daring me to take him on over that line.

But the fight, the passion, had drained out of me over the past few months.

"We're not together anymore," I said coldly.  "I got no say over who she dates.  I got no say over who you date either."  I turned back to my video game.

"You fuckin' do," he said, bitterness flaring up suddenly in his voice.

I ignored it.  "You want my blessing?  Fine.  You have it.  Go ahead and ask her out," I said.

He scowled at me. "Look, asshole--"

"Give it a rest," I said, dismissing him as I pressed the "power" button on my game machine. "I'm not interested.  Go ahead and ask her out."

He sighed deeply.  "Andy, why, why, why do you keep"—

I turned back, ready for a fight. Why do I keep calling you on your attitude?  Well, fuck that.  I threw it back at him: "What the hell are you talking about?"

He saw the look in my eyes and shrugged his shoulders.  "Nothing," he said.  

After a moment, he continued. "Okay, then, I'm taking that as a 'yes' from you.  Just remember I asked."

"You asked," I replied, summoning all the indifference I could.  "I said it was fine.  What's the problem?"

 "Like you don't know," he said, as he walked out.

---------------------

In May, a number of our classmates threw senior parties.  I'd just as soon have been left alone, but it seemed rude to crawl into a hole and ignore these people I'd spent ten years with.  So invariably I'd find myself at places where Matt and Angie had come with each other.  

I can't say I was jealous or angry.  I can't say I felt much of anything.  I was past grief.  Miles past it, on into something else I didn't even know how to define.

Matt and Angie dated for a while, but a couple of weeks before graduation time they stopped seeing each other.  At a party right before graduation, I asked Angie about it once when we had a moment together.

"He's nice," she said.  "But we don't have anything in common.  Not much, anyway."

She paused.

"We could never be alone together.  Even when we were alone.  There was always someone else there with us.  Haunting us both."

I looked up at her.

"Andy, what are you doing?" she asked quietly.

"I'm doing what I thought we both decided on," I said.

"I'm not talking about with me," she said.

She turned her head slightly; I followed her eyes as they stopped, momentarily, on Matt.  He was laughing and joking with a small crowd across the room.  She turned back to look at me, her face a silent accusation.

I stared into her eyes.  "Sometimes things happen you can't fix," I said.  "I got no control over the way people think about me."

"You're wrong," she said quietly.  "You're wrong about so much."

"What do you know about it?" I said, glaring at her.

"More than you do," she said, glaring right back at me.  "A hell of a lot more, apparently."

"Yeah, well, you're free to think what you want," I said.  "I know what I know."

About that time Jessica Hanson came up and started talking her usual drivel, rescuing me.  I listened politely for awhile then walked off to talk to somebody else.

-------------------------------

Graduation weekend came.  At the baccalaureate ceremony, Matt gave the class president's address.  He hadn't even asked me to help him with it.  He hadn't needed to.  It was warm and sincere, and it said what it was supposed to say.  Angie gave the salutatory address.  She did a fine job, as always. I was proud of both of them.

The graduation ceremony was held the next day in the big stadium at SMU.  I don't remember much about it.  I smiled when Matt and Angie crossed the stage; we'd made it to the end.  

I went to a graduation party that night.  I spent the entire evening by myself, drinking Jack-and-Coke.  People came up to me to talk all night.  Over and over again. Rehashing ten years.  Reminiscing, laughing at old times, old times that would have ripped into me like a knife in the gut if I hadn't developed a real talent lately for going numb.  So I endured all that, along with everyone asking me endlessly about where I was headed, about where Matt was headed.  I said enough to be polite, and kept pouring the booze down. Matt and I made eye contact across the room several times.  A nod, a smile, a thumbs-up sign.

My best friend that evening was Jack Daniel's.  It didn't talk back; it didn't stare at me or accost me with silent accusations; and its only desire was to float me above the pain.

I don't remember driving home.  

The next morning I was awakened by Danny.  "Move, asshole," he said, kicking me.

I was lying in the hall upstairs outside the bathroom door.

"God, how much did you have to drink?  I can smell it all over you," he said.  "Get the fuck up and go to bed; I don't want to have to hear Dad come up here and rag on your sorry ass."

I forced myself off the floor, and dragged myself back toward my room.  Danny called out, "Andy."

"What?" I muttered.

"You been walking around like a fuckin' zombie for weeks, and now you just lay there drunk on your goddam ass, blocking the door to the bathroom.  What the fuck is wrong with you, anyway?"

I thought back on Danny waking me from my nightmare last September.  "I already told you," I mumbled.  I fell into my bed and slept.

The clock radio came on at noon.

I know all there is to know about the crying game;
I've had my share of the crying game.
First there are kisses,
Then there are sighs,
And then before
You know where you are,
You're saying good-bye...
Don't want no more of the crying game.

I slammed the radio off, and, steeling myself, climbed out of bed.  I walked to the bathroom and threw down a couple of aspirin to dull the ache in my head.

----------------------------------

Max Miller was the head soccer coach of the team I'd be playing for in the fall.  The Monday morning after graduation he called me on the phone.

"Congratulations on your graduation," he said.  You ready to play college soccer?"

"Absolutely, sir."

"Excellent," he said.  "I'm calling all the incoming freshman just to let all of you know what we expect from you for the summer."

"Okay," I said.

"Soccer season begins early, and I'll need you boys in shape when you hit campus," he explained.  "I'm mailing you a workout regimen.  It's mostly cardio, but I want you to do some weight training at a gym this summer.  Can you still work out in your high school's weight room?"

"Yes, I can," I replied.

"Good," he said.  "Now about the cardio.  If you'll do what the sheet says you'll be in good shape.  If you don't, the first month of practice is going to be pure hell.  I think you'll find college-level soccer a step up from your high school play."

"That won't take much," I joked.

Max laughed.  "Good point," he said.  "Never mind the high school team.  I know you've had good coaching in club soccer.  The main difference from club is that the game is going to be faster and you'll need to be in top cardio shape from the moment you hit the field come August.  Every year I have freshmen who don't believe me, and they don't make it through August workouts.  Can I trust you to believe me?"

"Yes, sir," I said.

"Good.  I need you here on campus the first Sunday in August.  Classes won't start until the end of the month, but I'm going to assemble the team for an afternoon orientation meeting that first Sunday afternoon, and attendance is mandatory."

"I'll be there, Coach," I said. "And I'll be in shape."

"All right then," he said.

I hung up the phone.  Things are finished here, I thought; my new world just called.  

It was a relief to have one coming.

I spent as much time as I could outdoors that summer.  When I wasn't conditioning, I was doing landscaping and lawn-maintenance work, making a wad of money to set aside for my first year in college.  The heat was oppressive, and there was no coastline in sight; Dallas was landlocked, and I was beached.

That suited me fine.  

I worked on my body and worked at my job; I got up early, went hard at it, and rolled into my bed early at night.  I dated a few girls, and had a little sex. Mainly I tried to focus on the future.

But I couldn't shut the past out completely.  Things kept coming up to remind me that it still claimed me.

Years before, Matt and I had planned to throw the Mother of All Graduation Parties on the beach on July 4 after our senior year.  In fact, we'd pledged to each other that after we'd gone our separate ways we'd come back every summer and make it a yearly blow-out, inviting all our friends from the old days.  For this first one, we'd already been told by Ruben's parents that we could use their condo; we'd rent several adjacent condos for guests.

Both of us had planned and saved for this party for a couple of years now.  We'd been putting money into a savings account for the occasion, and our parents had even been helping out with some significant contributions.

It wasn't something I could walk away from.  The past was like that; it seemed easy--inevitable--to walk toward something new, but not nearly so easy to shrug off all that had come before.

So throughout April, May, and June, we stumbled and sputtered through making arrangements, setting things up, deciding on who was coming, and all the other deadly details that required us to be together, think together, talk together. And somehow we got the thing planned.  

Finally, the day came.  I'd agreed to go down with Matt a day ahead.  Ruben would be coming up the next morning.  

We drove down in his van with a whole load of supplies.  The conversation was light and not too strained, though dotted with our now-characteristic stops and starts.

As we crossed over onto the island, I could feel my chest tightening.  The dread increased as we got closer, and as we parked at the condo and began to unload, I couldn't say a word.  

Matt was also uncharacteristically silent.

We made our way to the third floor and walked down the corridor to the condo.  I put the key in the lock and opened the door.

When I looked into the condo, September sledgehammered back into me.  The wind left me, and a moan escaped my lips.  

Nervously, I looked back at Matt.  Our eyes locked for a moment.

I turned back toward the condo and moved further in; my eyes went toward the sliding glass door to the balcony.

I could see beyond the balcony.

I could see the beach.  

Just about the time it became too much to deal with, the familiar numbness descended on me, and from that point through nearly the whole rest of our stay, I didn't feel much of anything.

We got the place set up.  Matt took the front bedroom and I took the back. Then we threw on some beachwear and walked down to the ocean.  We swam a little, and then we walked along the beach, talking quietly.  Never about anything of consequence:  Summer jobs; starting college; what we thought of our new coaches; communication we'd had with them; what they'd asked of us during the summer months; who we'd been out with during the summer.

It was almost scripted, and it barely scratched the surface.  I could have done it in my sleep.

As evening fell, we went inside and played a little poker, watched a little TV, drank a couple of beers.  I went to bed around midnight; about thirty minutes later, I saw the rest of the lights go out as Matt turned in for the evening.

The next day drifted along for me in the same anesthetized haze.  Ruben showed up around eleven.  And as the guests arrived late that afternoon, I pressed some internal "party mode" button and went through the motions of smiling, laughing, welcoming, joking, drinking.

Angie came with Justin; it barely registered with me.

The party was a big success and everybody had a great time.  And why not?  The Dynamic Duo knew how to throw a fuckin' party.

Only once did my facade falter.

Toward the end of the evening, after the party had started to mellow, we were all sitting around a campfire on the beach.  Matt had his acoustic guitar out and was entertaining the crowd with a sing-along, pulling songs from his famous punk setlist.  The group was drunk enough to participate in the singing.  Somebody called out, "Do one by yourself, Price."  The rest of the crowd shouted and clapped in agreement.

Matt thought for a minute, then said, "Okay, I'll do one, but not by myself."  He looked over at me.  "Andy, get your ass over here."  

He motioned with his head for me to come over and join him.  As the group cheered, I squirmed.  I had no intention of doing it.  

I walked over to him, sat down next to him, and said under my breath, "This is your gig and you're on your own here.  I'm not singin' with you."

"Yeah, you are; it's a duet," he said.   "You'll know it."

I didn't want to make a scene over it.  As I shrugged in acquiescence, he turned back to the group, and said, "This one goes kinda high, so it'll show you what a woman I am."  Everybody laughed.

He took his guitar in hand, and began plucking out a plaintive intro that jolted me out of my numbed state:  It was a ballad--"More Than Words"--from the Extreme CD he'd gotten me for Christmas.  

"Take the low part," he whispered, as he sang the opening lines.

Saying "I love you"
Is not the words I want to hear from you.
It's not that I want you not to say;
But if you only knew
How easy it would be
To show me how you feel!

My heart was racing.  What the fuck was he doing?  The tender melody was battering the door of months' worth of my defenses.  

The low part was coming up, so I tried to get a grip.  I took a breath and joined him for on the next lines:

More than words
Is all you have to do to make it real;
Then you wouldn't have to say that you love me,
'Cause I'd already know.

I stopped singing as he took the over the solo.  Turmoil churned inside me.

He kept looking at me as he sang.  Goddammit, why was he always fuckin' looking at me?

What would you do if my heart was torn in two?
More than words to show you feel
That your love for me is real.

What would you say if I took those words away?
Then you couldn't make things new
Just by saying "I love you."

Wracked with pain, I sang my part anyway.  I knew the harmony and the lyrics by heart.  But every line came at me as an assault, as his eyes seemed to search the depths of mine.  

I turned my head away from him and toward the crowd as the next verse started.

Now that I've tried to talk to you and make you understand,
All you have to do is close your eyes,
And just reach out your hand,
And touch me--
Hold me close; don't ever let me go.
More than words
Is all I ever needed you to show;
Then you wouldn't have to say that you love me,
'Cause I'd already know.

The lyrics went into recap, and the song wound down.  Matt's final guitar licks were note-perfect, and his tenor voice was plaintive and true.  

After we'd finished, there was an awed silence.  Then the group went nuts, cheering and clapping.  He looked at me and smiled.  

God, it was an anguished smile--a smile that held a thousand accusations, a thousand pardons, a thousand hurt questions...and utter incomprehension.

It felt like I'd been punched in the gut.  And I felt naked and exposed.  A tear went down my cheek and I quickly wiped it away, hoping nobody noticed.  Hoping above all that he hadn't noticed.  Nobody did; they were too busy cheering. And he was too busy acknowledging his crowd.

But though I could shake the urge to cry, I couldn't shake the impact.

A lightning bolt ripped through my brain: Could I have been wrong all this time?

Before I could carry myself off with that question, a part of me I knew and nurtured well stepped in and spoke up with force.

Get a grip, goddammit.  Whatever it is you're imagining about him, you need to forget it.  You know what he thinks of you.

From somewhere else in my head, another opinion tried to push its way out:  But did you see how he looked at you? And what about the song?  Why did he...

I sighed.  I had to stop living in the past.  Matt and I were history, and none of it was my fault.  I wasn't ashamed of who I was and how I felt about him, and it wasn't my problem that he couldn't deal with it. The numbness washed back over me.  I wasn't going to let him hurt me with my love for him.  I'd wrapped that love up and pushed it away from the soft center of me months ago.  

I smiled my perfect lie of a smile back at him, and shook hands with him in a perfect betrayal of the "secret handshake" we'd always used with each other.  Then I got up and walked away.  

I walked back to the condo, went into my bedroom, closed the door, climbed into bed, and turned off the light.

----------------------------------

We wound the trip down without incident.  The next day came, and we cleaned things up, said goodbye to our guests and saw them off, then packed up and began the drive home.

Conversation on the way back was much the way it had been on the way down.  I drove most of the way home this time.  When he dropped me off at my house, he got out with me and helped me unload my stuff onto the front porch.  After we'd finished I walked with him back to his van.

Climbing into the driver's seat, he grinned at me and said, "Wow, bro; we did it.  It was a great time, don't you think?"

"I think everybody had a blast, Matt," I said softly.

"Man.  Our senior party.  All those years when we'd talked about it.  Seemed like it would never happen, right?" His words were questions.  Requests.  But I didn't know what it was he was asking.

"Yeah, I guess so," I said, looking down at the pavement.

A leaden silence threatened to intervene.  I stepped in to fill it.  Looking up at him, I said, "I guess we gotta start saving for next year, right?"

He smiled again.  "Yeah.  Man, we'll have lots of new stuff to catch each other up on.  It'll be even better than this one, because..."

He paused and cleared his throat.  "Anyway.  I'm headin' home.  Talk to you later."

"Later," I said.  

As I walked to the porch, I shook off the beach sand.

----------------------------------------------

July came to an end.  I was due at college for training camp the next week.  Matt was due at his university for training camp a week before that.

The night before he was scheduled to leave, he called me up.  It had been two weeks since we'd last spoken.

"Hey, Andy."

"Hi, Matt."

"Well, tomorrow's the day, I guess," he said.

"Yeah, I know," I said slowly.

Neither of us seemed to be able to continue.

Finally he said, "My mom's out of town with her job and she won't be back for a week.  She's gonna fly up and see me when I've gotten settled in for a week or so.  We've already said our goodbyes and there's nobody here to..."

He paused.

"Look, I'm mostly loaded up; I got just a few final things to go.  I'm probably gonna leave around ten tomorrow morning.  Do you think you could--I mean, would you come by early and spend a couple of hours with me?  You know, help me pack the last stuff, and just...I don't know...just...just kind of be here when I leave?"

"Of course," I said quietly.

"I know you hate gettin' up early, but I..."

He fell silent again.

I said, "I'll come around eight, okay?"

"I'd like that," he said.

Another silence.

"Andy..."

"Matt," I said, jumping in before he'd had a chance to say more, "I know what you feel and I've already dealt with it.  Let's leave it alone, bro. It doesn't matter.  We're movin' on.  You don't owe me any explanation or any words or anything, and it wouldn't change much anyway."

"I don't owe you?" he said.  I heard him take in a sharp breath.

After another suffocating pause, he said, "I'm glad you're coming tomorrow."

"I'll see you then," I said, and hung up.

-------------------------

We talked friendly and laughed a lot that next morning;  there were dim echoes of the old days.  But as I walked the final few items out to Matt's van, and as I watched his room transform from a dwelling-place to a museum, a dark cloud of regret descended on me. With every step I took, with every item picked up and loaded into his van, with every trivial word exchanged between us, I wanted to beg him to forgive me--forgive me for loving him, forgive me for being someone who made him uncomfortable.

But it was too late.  And it was all a moot point.  We were leaving the road we'd walked together and were heading out on new--and separate--ones.

And anyway, I couldn't fix the bad feelings he had about me just by wishing he didn't have them.

Over and over again during those two hours, I tightened and tensed and held myself in check, in control.  I would not--could not--lose it in front of Matt.

Finally the van was packed and the hour had come.  We closed his front door behind us and walked toward his van.

As we stood by the van, he shuffled his feet, stared at the ground, jingled the keys in his pocket. Then, looking up at me, he said, "Well,..."  

And suddenly, I realized, in a horrible flash of insight, that I had been wrong.  

All the conflict, all the pain, all the waste; all the hatred for "not being like him": it had never come from him; it had always come from me.

And, looking at him, I began to have some comprehension of how he must have felt over the past year.

Ten years collapsed in ten seconds, and as I stood there, looking at him, the scene merged with one from a different time and place:

I looked up at his face; his steel-blue eyes locked onto mine and held us both there, frozen. There was no sound, no movement, for what must have been forty-five seconds, as his piercing eyes both took in my compassion and silently expressed his own deep devastation.

We moved toward each other at the same time and embraced stiffly, awkwardly.  He slapped me on the back, held the embrace for a bit, and then pulled away.  He smiled, wiped the corner of his left eye with a finger, and said, "I'll e-mail you.  You got my cell number.  Or I'll catch you on IM; you know, make sure you're studying.'"

"You know it," I said, blinking back tears and laughing a little, "but I think it'll be the other way around."

We smiled at each other awkwardly.  "I'll always be your friend, Andy," he said, looking me in the eyes.

I couldn't meet his stare for long.  I looked down at the ground and said quietly, "I know."

And for the first time since September, I believed it.

Which made it worse.

He climbed into the van and rolled down the window.  "Good-bye, Andy," he said.

"'Bye, Matt," I said.  I held my hand out to him; he gripped it tightly.  Desperately.

I made myself let him go.

I stood in his driveway as he backed out of it.  Then I stepped out into the street and watched as he drove away. His van seemed to get smaller and smaller, until finally it disappeared from view altogether.

I walked slowly toward the front door of his house and tried the handle.  He'd forgotten to lock it.

I stepped in and slowly made my way up to his room.

I stood in the doorway, stari