We Are Lost and Found Page 15
My breath comes out uneven, my muscles taut as guitar strings.
What does it feel like? It feels like I’ve turned to smoke.
It feels like everything.
When I don’t answer—can’t answer—Gabriel snaps me with his shirt and walks to my room to get a new one from his bag.
I’ve screwed this up. I should have asked Connor… No, not Connor. I should have asked Becky more questions or James or bought some magazines. Or something. There is no way I’m going to be able to hide the fact that I have no idea what I’m doing.
When Gabriel comes back in a blue T-shirt and starts throwing food together, I’m too keyed up to eat.
Then he glances at the clock and asks to use the phone.
I’m puzzled until he says, I try to call Sophia to say good night if I’m not there to put her to bed. Ever since Papa died, she has nightmares.
Of course, I say. He stretches the phone into the living room and calls. Murmurs in Spanish in a tone of voice I haven’t heard him use before.
It feels wrong to be so damned turned on by his devotion to his little sister.
After dinner, I take the phone off the hook. I can always tell my mom I forgot to put it back and deal with the fallout later.
We head to my room, and I stare at my boom box.
I should have made a tape.
Music for losing your virginity.
Safely. Of course.
Whatever that means.
At least I know where the condoms are. Not that I want to start with anything that needs condoms. At least I don’t think I do.
I put on Echo and the Bunnymen and then pull the tape and play Spandau Ballet, “True.”
Gabriel wraps his arms around me, and we’re dancing so slowly that we’re barely moving, and I can feel him hard against me and it’s the sexiest, most wonderful, most terrifying thing ever.
He dances us over to the bed and looks into my eyes.
I think he’s going to say something about how much he wants me, how good he feels or something.
Instead, he says, I hope you don’t mind if we use condoms. I’ve been with a lot of guys, and I want to keep you safe.
My heart stops.
The night bleeds away.
We lie in my bed, which has never felt so small, and I can feel my pulse beating as loudly as the bass leaking in the window from the cars stuck at the light outside.
I know that star, Gabriel says, pointing up at the ceiling.
Well, it is yours, I choke out.
Michael, he says. Talk to me.
I sit up. Look at the unopened condoms on the nightstand. Rake my hand through my hair. How many is a lot? I ask before I can stop myself.
We sit on my floor drinking coffee laced with my mom’s cooking brandy. Me out of a Yankees’ mug of my dad’s (if he only knew), while Gabriel’s hands are wrapped around one from St. Sebastian’s (if they only knew).
Gabriel is in gray sweatpants and no shirt, and when my tired eyes keep straying to his abs, I tear them away to watch the twenty black jelly bands he twists on his wrist as he tells me that yes, he’s been with a bunch of guys, but no, he doesn’t have anything, and that when he was talking about being safe he was really thinking about gonorrhea or something as if that’s supposed to make me feel better.
I know you haven’t been with anyone, he says. I only wanted to make sure we were careful.
I know, I say.
And I do. This is exactly what that pamphlet talked about. Caring about someone means wanting to keep them safe. Wanting to keep yourself safe. I can’t blame Gabriel for that. But I can’t form those words out loud, either.
Thank you, I say. But…
Michael, he says. I want to be with you. Not just for sex; you matter to me.
My pulse races again with his words, but then he leans up to kiss me, and I pull back without thinking. But you’ve been with a lot of guys just for sex, I repeat. My voice comes out in a monotone.
I think of him hanging out at the type of places that Connor goes to. Think of him at the parties and at the baths.
And I’m so damned conflicted because he’s only living his life.
But…
This is different than watching a memorial in Central Park.
This is different than watching someone interviewed on television.
This is different than James worrying about the people he knows, although I think I get his fear now.
This is Gabriel—my Gabriel—no, not mine. Gabriel who has slept with a lot of guys, and who the hell knows if even one of them is sick?
Do you want me to leave? he asks.
My thoughts are spinning as fast as a disco ball, a whirling dervish, a tornado.
He isn’t sick. I trust him when he tells me that. At least I think I do.
But that could change. The being sick part, not the trust.
Or maybe that too.
I don’t want a life dictated by fear.
But I’m not an idiot.
I’m half in love with him. More than half.
But at the moment, I’m not sure I want to be.
Talk to me, Michael. Talk to me, he says over and over in so many ways. But I’m empty of words. Empty of everything.
His eyes are on the floor.
I’ve never seen Gabriel without his swagger. It makes him look young. It makes me want to put my arms around him and tell him it’s all okay. But I don’t know how to make it okay.
After he dresses and packs, he stares at me as if he wants me to say something to stop him.
You don’t have to go, I try. But my voice doesn’t sound anything close to sincere.
He pauses at the door, bag slung over his shoulder, gives me a sad smile.
I’ll see you around, I hope, he says and walks out, leaving me with an unconsummated kiss on my lips. I’m left with only the sound of blood rushing through my veins overlaid on top of the silence. So much silence.
I pace. Trapped.
Is this how James feels? Is this the fear that he’s letting dictate his life? Am I stuck with this too, then?
Is fear just another type of disease?
I never should have invited Gabriel over in the first place. What was I thinking, anyhow?
I miss him. I want him.
What if he calls?
I turn the phone ringer back on.
Why did I let him leave?
The phone rings, and I hold my breath.
If Gabriel asks to come back, will I let him? What do I say?
I don’t know, but I race to answer before he gives up.
Only, it isn’t Gabriel.
I know where I’ve seen your boyfriend before, my brother says. Ask him about the back room at Beat Box.
My mouth goes dry, and I hang up without uttering a sound.
When I was nine and Connor was thirteen, my parents went to a convention my dad’s company was holding in New Jersey. It was the first time I remember them leaving us at home together for a whole day.
As soon as they left, we parked ourselves in the living room, watched tons of bad TV, and ate everything we could find in the kitchen despite having promised Mom to only have sandwiches and two of the Jiffy Pops she’d left out on the counter for us.
Then, it started to rain and got dark. Connor was excited to be in charge, and I was nervous to be left alone with only my brother, but I couldn’t tell him that, so I kept to my room, listening to records and reading Archie comics.
Connor wanted to snoop through Mom and Dad’s bedroom, but I was too afraid to get caught and I started to cry; only Connor made fun of me, so I locked myself in the bathroom and he couldn’t get the door open and I had to stay there until my parents came home.
I feel the same way now, and I have to get out.
But I guess not everything can go wrong at once. When I call from across the street, James is the one to pick up the phone.
I manage a strangled, Can I come up? And when I reach the door, James is already there.
We stand, frozen. James looks concerned and I feel jittery, as if I’ve been pushed onto the third rail.
I search for something profound to say to explain my showing up with no warning, for showing up at all.
James brushes his hair out of his eyes and looks me over. Five years from now, you won’t even remember this day, he says and pulls me upstairs.
James makes tea, gives me a joint, pulls the curtains, and puts some hypnotic Eno album on his turntable.
He dims the lights and says, We can talk or not. Your call.
I inhale deeply and imagine the smoke searing what’s left of my heart. When I exhale, I fumble through the story in a burst of blue haze.
James hesitates. What exactly is it that you’re upset with him for? he asks carefully.
I know it’s a valid question, even if I don’t want to think my anger might be caused by hurt feelings. Did I want Gabriel sitting home waiting to see me and no one else?
I can’t be mad at him for the condoms, I say. I had some too.
I don’t tell James they were a gift from Becky, but I do say: I had them, just in case. You know. Because it seemed like the right thing to do, but I didn’t really think of him as someone who might need to use them because…
Disappointment, James says. You had this idea of how things would go and that changed.
But what if one of the guys he’s fooled around with is sick? I say as I watch the smoke dance around the ceiling, What if he’s caught something? What if condoms aren’t enough, anyhow? What if even kissing someone is enough to get infected?
James pauses, and I expect him to say something along the lines of, Well, then, we’re all fucked. But instead, he quietly says, And now you understand where I am.
Is it horrible that I still think I’m in love with him? I ask after a minute.
Of course not. Besides, ultimately, everything is about love, James says, taking the joint from me. He takes a hit, then stubs it out, says, Friends. Family. Even art.
You really think so? I ask, the pot making me brave.
Sometimes I think I’m in love with the whole world, he says, looking up at me through his lashes as if he’s confessing something. Maybe that’s part of the problem, I’m terrified of missing out on what comes next. When I heard about Steven…
It’s like it’s real now, I interrupt.
It was always real, Michael. Don’t fool yourself.
I know the joint has gone to my head, but still I’m aware James and I have never spoken this way before. Not really.
He fiddles with a strand of crystal beads around his wrist and says, The way I look at it, you have your sights set on someone who cares enough to try to protect you. There are worse things.
The hitch in his voice makes me wonder if Steven knew he was sick and almost had sex with James, anyhow. And what that would have meant.
I do admire Gabriel, James continues, for being honest with you, but I’m the last person who can tell you what to do.
I try to decide whether I agree with James or not. Maybe out of everyone, he’s actually the best person to tell me what to do. Before I can argue, though, James shrugs and says, Perhaps you should be asking Becky, and then we both dissolve in sad, stoned laughter.
I go home. I have to go home because if I’m not there when my parents get back, who knows what will happen.
But everything has changed. I see Gabriel’s indentation on my pillow. Find his hair in the shower. Smell his soap on my sheets.
And I realize that even Echo is off limits until I get my head together.
Where is left for me?
I avoid the phone. But every time it rings, I *69 it to see who called, knowing there will be hell to pay when my parents get the bill.
Connor.
Connor.
A number I don’t recognize.
And finally, Gabriel.
None of them leave messages, so I make up fake ones in my head from Gabriel, like I’m sorry. I was joking, I’d never sleep with random guys “just for sex” when I knew I was going to be seeing you.
Then the me in my head gets mad at the Gabriel in there. You weren’t supposed to turn into my brother, I yell. You should have figured this out before you came up to me at the club. Before you kissed me and asked me out and came to spend the night with me.
And then I get mad at myself, because who am I to tell him to get his shit together when I can’t deal with my own?
My parents aren’t due back for another four hours. I waste two of them watching shit TV and pretending to play guitar.
I wish I was one of those people who could turn pain into art, but I can’t play well when my mind is a mess.
Then there’s a sharp knock on the door.
My mind races. James went to rehearsal. Becky wouldn’t come over knowing that Gabriel was supposed to be here. Maybe it’s Mrs. Wyatt from down the hall, checking to see if my mom can watch her cat.
I try to ignore it, but the pounding continues.
I drag myself up and open the door without even looking through the peephole, almost hoping it’s some deranged killer who can put me out of my misery.
What the hell, dickhead? my brother says. How many freaking times do I need to call before you answer the phone?
I don’t want a lecture, particularly not one from Connor, but before I can slam the door closed, he’s pushed himself into the living room.
Dad isn’t back yet, right? he asks, his eyes shifting as if he’s realizing all of a sudden that this could have gone badly for him.
What do you want? I ask, turning and retreating to my room.
Connor follows and stands blocking the doorway with his outstretched arms. He looks better than he has in weeks. Healthier. Taller, if that’s possible. I realize it’s been actual years since he’s been in the apartment. For all of my comments about him moving home, I’m not sure he even fits here anymore. It’s like he’s too big, too loud, too Connor.
What do you want? I ask again as he scans the room, looking for changes. Or perhaps looking to see what’s stayed the same.
I wanted to keep you from doing something stupid, he says. Did you screw him?
You can leave at any—I start to say, but Connor pushes me up against the back of the door, my hanging robe thankfully cushioning the blow.
I’m not messing around, he yells, face scrunched up, way too close to mine. Answer me, he demands. Did you have sex with him?
I push my brother back as hard as I can and walk under his arm. Man, I say, going for the jugular, you sound just like Dad.
This stops him as I knew it would. I can see his legs shake, the blood drain from his face, his breath hitch.
Don’t be a little shit, Michael, he says, but his quivering voice doesn’t match the force of his words.
He walks over and sits on my bed, leans over elbows to knees.
Please, please, please, tell me you didn’t have sex with him, my brother pleads. That you didn’t let him have sex with you.
Since when do you care about my sex life? I ask, wishing I had a sex life for him to care about. Or not to care about. Whatever.
He rubs the back of his neck and looks at the floor when he answers, Since my little brother is chasing the ass of someone I saw go in the back room at Beat Box a few months ago with Matt Sloan. And since Matt Sloan died yesterday in the fucking AIDS ward at fucking St. Vincent’s.
I walk into the living
room to try to clear my head. My stomach threatens to puke up the coffee that’s still floating around in there.
Gabriel isn’t sick, I say to Connor who has followed me, but it’s hard to hear any conviction in my voice.
And you know this because he told you? Connor asks. How the hell would he even know? Just because he’s fine now, doesn’t mean he’ll be fine tomorrow. Don’t you get it? No one even knows how this thing spreads.
I glare at my brother who is trying to be the voice of reason, and my head spins, disoriented by the sudden reversal of our relationship as much as anything else.
Look, I say, I trust him.
But then I wonder, if that’s true, wouldn’t he still be here?
And I remember what that booklet said. It isn’t about knowing your partners, it’s about a disease that doesn’t care if he’s a good guy who loves his little sister.
Connor sighs and looks for someplace to sit. Choosing a blue patterned chair we didn’t have the last time he was here, he says, Michael, I’m not saying he’s a jerk or anything. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s been putting himself out there. We all have. Stop thinking with your dick for ten minutes and find someone else.
Like you’re one to talk, I throw back.
For a minute he looks hurt, and I know I’ve gone too far. Connor, I ask finally, dreading his answer. Are you okay?
My brother holds my eyes for a minute. Answer me, I think. But he doesn’t, he just throws me a bottle of pills.
What is this? I ask.
Antibiotics, he says. Someone told me they might help fend off an infection. Or help if you have one. Or something.
The bottle is unmarked, and I’m too afraid to ask where he got them. I throw it back and say, It doesn’t matter. Gabriel and I didn’t have sex, and I don’t know if I’m even going to see him again.
Connor’s shoulders relax, and he allows himself a moment to look relieved. Then he tosses the pills back to me again.
Keep them, he says, back to his usual attitude. I’m sure you’re going to pop your cherry at some point.
I don’t exactly throw Connor out; but I assist him in finding the door.