What It Takes Page 6

  “It looks great, you look great, come on,” Milo whines, spraying Andrew with cologne while he’s not looking, earning himself a yelp and a smacked arm.

  Andrew gladly lets Milo drive his car; he hates driving, especially when he can play radio DJ and watch the scenery go by. He looks at Milo: the way the fading light before dusk changes the tone of his skin; the way the muscles of his arms stand out and his lips curl as he sings along, awfully, to the radio. Milo smiles at him, and Andrew flashes a brief one back, wonders how obvious he’s being, and looks back out the window at the slipping sand that spills onto the road and the ramshackle businesses along the road.

  “So what got this bee in your bonnet?” he asks suddenly.

  Milo shrugs. “You sound like my grandma.”

  “Awesome; I like her. Let’s focus.”

  “So... okay.” Milo clears his throat and his fingers tighten on the wheel. “I um, think I have something to tell you. But I’m—”

  “Is everything okay?” Andrew interrupts, scanning his memory for any signs of additional distress Milo might have displayed in the last few months.

  “Yeah. Well. I mean, um… whatever. But I—”

  “What? You’re worrying me.”

  Milo sighs and pulls into the parking lot of a restaurant with a giant crab on the roof. “I can’t do this and drive.”

  “Okay,” Andrew says slowly, then unbuckles his belt and turns to face him. Milo’s face is a little drawn.

  “So, I think I might be gay,” Milo blurts. “I mean, I know. I know I am.”

  There’s a full minute of silence in the car while Andrew tries to work the words out. Static screeches in his ears, fleetingly numbing his reaction. Focus. He has a few seconds to control his face, to tamp down that sprout of irrational hope seeding despite the chaos, and be ultimately supportive.

  “Um.” Andrew licks his lips and tries to pull himself together. That seedling wants to grow into something bigger, and he can’t let it. He looks at Milo’s face, which has morphed into something more vulnerable and worried. Hope is a hollow bell in his chest, ringing loud and dissonant; he wants to vibrate out of his skin with the inappropriateness of his own reactions. This is about Milo, not him. “You aren’t worried that I’m mad or something, are you?” he manages to say.

  “I don’t know. Um, your face is doing... a thing,” Milo replies.

  Reflexively Andrew puts his hands to his cheeks. His fingers are cold. Okay, so he definitely doesn’t have his face under control. “No, I... wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.” Andrew’s brain, sometimes faster than his mouth, is careening backward. “Maybe I should have had a clue.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, for starters, you kissed me back.”

  As soon as the words are out, Andrew slaps a hand over his traitor mouth. Talk about mouth working faster than brain, fuck.

  “Calm down.” Milo takes his hand. “Breathe.”

  “Shut up,” Andrew says weakly, then closes his eyes and sternly orders himself to pull himself together. “Right. So, wrong thing to say. I wasn’t expecting you to come out to me on the road on an impromptu trip to gay Mecca.” His eyes widen. “Oh my god, is that why we’re going? Are you, like, on the prowl?” His volume seems to be working up and not down. He takes another breath. There is definitely a good and bad way to react, and blind jealousy when he’s confronted with huge news that doesn’t actually change the way Milo feels about him is most definitely a bad reaction. Whatever might be growing in his chest, Andrew can’t pin its survival or growth on a few glances shared with a boy in so much trouble.

  Milo laughs. “Oh god, no. I was just curious. And I wanted to go somewhere fun with you.”

  “Okay.” Andrew orders his face to smile and thankfully, it obeys. He pulls himself together and takes a good long look at Milo. He still looks unsure, and so Andrew does what comes most naturally to him: swallows whatever feelings he’s having and focuses on Milo’s. “Hey, come here.” He pulls Milo into a hug. It’s comforting, if not precisely comfortable over the console and with Milo still buckled in.

  “So,” Milo says, taking a breath and clearing his throat, “I know this is dumb, because it’s a given…”

  Andrew shudders. Where is Milo going with this?

  “But you promise we’re still friends?”

  It’s through incredible strength that Andrew keeps his eyes open, smile on and resentment boiling invisibly inside. In five minutes Milo has turned everything around, and, silly dreamer that Andrew is, he gave himself three minutes to hope against all hope. It’s not Milo’s fault Andrew is so hopelessly in love. And that sharp, ugly spike slicing Andrew’s insides isn’t Milo’s fault either.

  “Duh.” Andrew takes a breath and offers Milo a genuine smile. They’re still a ways from their destination, and it’s quiet in the car, mostly. It doesn’t take long for Andrew to realize the barbs spreading inside are a combination of jealousy, bitterness and anger. Why? Why does this have to happen? The biggest reason he’s used to comfort the ache of being in love with Milo was Milo’s inability to reciprocate his feelings. Only now that’s a barrier removed and still Andrew is no closer to getting what he most wants.

  So now Andrew has to recalibrate. In this version of his life, Milo is gay, but still only wants to be friends. Milo’s friendship might leave him longing for something more, but not with anyone else. Andrew doesn’t want that love with anyone else. It’s not that he’s settling for only friendship. Andrew’s always thought that loving someone involved longing for something more. At least with Milo, Andrew will always want more from the person he loves the most.

  °

  “So I did my research,” Milo says as they approach the city. “What do you feel like? Dancing? Sitting around? A drag show?”

  Andrew snorts in a laugh and shoots him a look. “What do you want?”

  “I don’t know. I’m here for the ride. Just wanna take it in.”

  “Okay.” Andrew thinks. “Dancing.”

  Milo feels his eyebrow jump up, but doesn’t say anything. He bites his lip and when he glances over at Andrew he sees a small vibration in his shoulders. “Well, you are a natural, just ask that poor lamp—”

  Andrew bursts out laughing, smacking the back of his hand against Milo’s arm. “We swore we’d never speak of it again.”

  “No, you did. I did no such thing.”

  Andrew gasps. “Oh my god, you liar! You’re the one who broke the lamp, not me! You made me swear never to say anything so my mom wouldn’t know.”

  “But realistically—” Milo says through laughter, then stops laughing for a moment to breathe. “Can we talk about the fact that your mom had just been in the room, laughed at us and gone downstairs? I am sure she heard that lamp break as soon as she left.”

  “This is not the point.” Andrew crosses his legs. “The point is it is a thing we don’t speak of for fear of hurting your delicate feelings about your complete, furniture destroying, inability to dance—”

  “Mine! Oh my go—”

  “You’ve always been so shy about your skills,” Andrew says, gasping for breath. “Oh god, you have to stop; I might cry.”

  They trip over each other’s words and laughter. Milo’s smile is face-splitting—not just from one of his favorite memories, but because this moment is shimmering; it’s perfect. It’s them: Andrew catching the giggles the way he does, and Milo holding back his own laughter over a memory of a day no one else would see the humor in.

  “Given your unfortunate skills, dancing was not what I expected. Ow!” Milo rubs his arm where Andrew poked it. “You are a menace!” He grabs Andrew’s knee and squeezes hard, making Andrew squeal and flail.

  “Stop! Stop, stop. I’ll pee.” Andrew laughs. Milo stops, finally. “Oh my god, Milo, you can’t tickle someone while driving; we’ll end up dead!” Andrew says, catching his breath.

  “Not my fault,” Milo singsongs.

  “Uh…”

  “Well, mayb
e it would be a little my fault.”

  Andrew opens the car window, letting cool air rattle in suddenly, then closes it just as quickly. “I wanted some air,” he explains when he sees Milo’s look. His cheeks are red from laughing.

  “All-righty then,” Milo says, shrugging. They drive quietly with the low hum of the radio in the background.

  “How are we getting in anywhere?” Andrew asks.

  “Fake IDs!”

  “How old did you make me? I have a baby face.”

  “Twenty-one,” Milo replies. “I’m hoping they won’t be too picky, though.”

  “If you say so.” Andrew shrugs.

  The quiet in the car lingers, and Milo gets the strangest feeling that the laughter and ease of a moment ago is unspooling behind them along the highway. It’s overcast, the sun has set and the quiet in the car has become too still. When he looks at Andrew, he’s doing that thing he does, where his thumb picks at the nail of his index finger. It’s his thinking tell. No, not thinking. Mulling. Milo resists the urge to sigh. He knew Andrew would support him, but he also knew it would be hard for him.

  °

  Provincetown is... not what Milo expected, mostly because it’s so busy. The streets are full of people walking the sidewalks and down the middle of the road, laughing and weaving their way through traffic. It’s almost insane, trying to navigate and find a place to park.

  “There, there—” Andrew points to a meter. “Wait, I don‘t know if I have change for a meter.”

  “I brought money, no worries.”

  “Wow, you really planned ahead.”

  “Well, you know me—”

  “Cross your t’s and dot your i’s,” Andrew finishes for him, and they share a smile.

  Milo fishes the IDs he’s had made for them out of his wallet as soon as they’re parked. “Here.”

  “How did you get these? I had no idea you were such a deviant,” Andrew teases. The truth is Andrew might be the only person in the world who really knows how deeply rebellious Milo wants to be, and when the timing is right, is.

  “Secret’s in the sauce,” Milo says and winks. He’s feeding coins into the meter.

  “This is a prime example of how I should have known you were gay,” Andrew says with an eye roll.

  “What?”

  “You can quote from Fried Green Tomatoes without blinking an eye.”

  Milo laughs and bumps against him.

  “We’ll have to come back and feed the meter in two hours if we aren’t ready to go.”

  “Cool.” Andrew sets a reminder on his phone and nags Milo to do the same.

  °

  Milo gives him the names of a few places they can go, but Andrew tells him to pick; he’s not paying much attention. Instead, he absorbs it all, the myriad faces and the noise. There is a festival atmosphere, without the garish lights or the fried sweet smell. He watches a drag queen handing out fliers and a girl in a Rocky Horror costume teasing a group of guys gathered with arms slung over shoulders and hands slipped into back pockets. The air is buoyant. Andrew feels he could fit in perfectly. It’s a place for adventure, so far from his life that he feels as if he could slip out of his skin at any moment and become something new, brilliant and unfettered. The thought makes him hungry. I want to do it all.

  “I think we need to go this way,” Milo says, pointing past a row of shops: crafts and sex toys and a hamburger joint. Several pride flags flutter in the breeze. Two gorgeous men pass by, holding hands. Andrew laughs for no reason.

  “I’m just happy,” he says, when Milo gives him a curious glance. Milo smiles in return; not his fullest, but a real one—the proud one that appears when he knows he’s made Andrew happy. It’s a look Andrew knows is only for him; it’s a scrap he holds around his heart. It’s hope without hope. It’s enough, mostly.

  “Come on.” Andrew looks up at him and links their arms. “Let’s go do something wildly uncharacteristic.”

  “You’re gonna do your homework?” Milo jokes.

  “Oh, aren’t we the comedian.” Andrew follows when Milo tugs him along. The streets are haphazard and crowded enough that it’s a little confusing. In a store window Andrew sees the most neon orange T-shirt he’s ever encountered with the words DICK DOCK emblazoned on it. “What is that about?”

  Milo glances up and twitches and looks away. “I have no clue.”

  “I’ll ask someone. Maybe. Get a drink in me and we’ll see.” Andrew winks, and Milo offers him a shy smile. They’re both doing a marvelous job avoiding any undercurrents from their conversation. Definitely. Thinking about it doesn’t count as not avoiding, does it?

  The club is moderately busy. Andrew can only imagine what it must be like at peak season. As it is, it’s crowded, hot and full of men in all states of attire. There’s a five-second period when he suffers the extreme self-consciousness that comes from wanting to look at something and thinking he shouldn’t. He has the sense that he’s been dropped into a really bizarre episode of Queer as Folk.

  Unless it’s Milo-related, Andrew’s never been the martyr type. Fleeting seconds of doubt skitter into the dense air, and then he looks. He follows Milo to the bar and looks. He makes eye contact with some men. Not with others. He looks again. The whole goddamned place is a fucking feast for his eyes. It’s the land of honey. The floor is literally vibrating with the force of the music, through Andrew’s boots and body and coming out in a primal, unconscious movement that he thinks might soon end in a disastrous attempt at dancing.

  At the bar, Andrew lets Milo order him a drink. Everything is sticky and glittering and fabulous, except for maybe Milo. He’s beautiful, yes. He’s beautiful everywhere. In the strobe lighting his hair could be any color, a dark, empty palate, and his skin is a series of shadows, beautifully stretched over perfect bone structure. But he’s obviously uncomfortable.

  Andrew leans to shout into his ear. “You wanna leave?”

  Milo is sweating a little: Andrew can’t see it, but it is a scent he knows by memory: visceral, scorching memory. Heat rises through Andrew’s face.

  “No, no.” Milo shakes his head. “Getting my bearings. I’m feel a little zero-to-sixty right now.”

  I bet, Andrew thinks, not as kindly as he should, maybe. Milo hands him his shot glass and they clink them. “To dick docks,” Milo says, making Andrew almost choke on his shot.

  “What?” he finally says, wiping tequila residue from his lips and shuddering through his laughter.

  “I don’t know, it felt like it needed a toast.” Milo giggles. It’s a thing, for Andrew, seeing Milo like this. Robust, publicly stoic and possessor of classic good looks, he looks both completely out of place and totally natural, laughing boyishly, nose scrunched and eyes squinting.

  “Another?” Milo holds up his empty shot glass with its desiccated lime wedge.

  “No, let’s give it a second.”

  Milo leans back against the bar and watches the crowd; he seems to be thawing to the environment by degrees. His leg bounces in time to the bass-heavy club mix.

  “You gonna dance?” Andrew shouts, shoulder-bumping him.

  “No. You know what that looks like. Disaster.”

  “Ohh, honey you definitely have it in you,” Andrew says, low and flirting and joking. Only he’s not, a little bit. Sometimes, there’s a tiny thread of honesty to his interactions with Milo that he can easily convince himself doesn’t mean what he pretends it means.

  “You sure know how to make a man feel good,” Milo plays back and then laughs when Andrew does. “At what point in our lives will it not be weird to call ourselves men instead of boys?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you need someone to make a man of you,” Andrew lobs easily, eyes still on Milo’s. It’s this crazy discordant note, the way they are carrying their usual banter, only now it feels thicker because. Because. Because of the car and that hug, because of the shots and the press of beautiful, queer, sensual men around them. Milo doesn’t say anything, just looks, looks
at Andrew, and he could swear his skin throbs.

  “Excuse me,” a voice shouts directly behind Andrew, scaring him out of whatever the fuck that moment was. “I’m Mike.” He holds his hand out for Andrew to shake, and, caught off guard, Andrew does. Mike squeezes it for a beat too long; his lips are quirked as if he’s got the best secret. As if he knows Andrew’s secrets.

  “Uh, um. Andrew,” he finally says. He gestures to Milo. “Milo.”

  Milo waves awkwardly; Mike barely spares him a glance. There’s a long moment when nothing happens.

  “So you wanna dance or what?” Mike finally says.

  “Oh.” Andrew bites his lip, unsure. “I don’t—”

  Andrew looks at Milo for a clue; other than looking Mike over carefully, he betrays nothing. What might have been a thread stretching between them, maybe too taut and sudden, starts to shred.

  “Unless your boyfriend minds?” Mike slides a smile toward Milo that’s not entirely kind.

  “Not his boyfriend,” Milo says. “Go ahead; have fun.”

  Milo gives a one-shouldered shrug that reads indifferent and dismissive. It’s not. Andrew knows it’s not and for a second he’s really quite blindingly furious. That shrug is all he needs to confirm that Milo felt exactly what was happening between them a moment ago. That’s his pretend I don’t give a fuck shrug. That’s a shrug for everyone else. That’s the shrug that sheds his father’s words and hurt, dismisses expectations, gives the finger to things Milo might have to care about but isn’t up to coping with.

  Andrew isn’t sure if Milo was toying with him, if he’s being jerked around, or if Milo’s fears are speaking louder than the undercurrents Andrew is sure he felt. But that other undercurrent Andrew’s been dismissing since Milo came out to him and friend-zoned him clumsily flares up, too. Fine. Fine. Milo can fuck off. Andrew sends him the bitchiest, most obviously annoyed smile he can. Milo’s not stupid. It’s incredible, the two-gesture conversation they’ve had that no one else in the world would understand.

  Andrew turns to Mike, puts on the most innocent air he can, bites his lip in a totally different way, and nods. “I’ve never done this before,” he says into his ear. “You’ll be gentle, right?”