What It Takes Read online

  Mike laughs, a shocked little noise, and pulls Andrew onto the dance floor with two hands around his waist. “Only if you really want me to be, honey.”

  °

  Milo tries not to watch, but for the first torturous thirty minutes, he does anyway. Andrew dances with Mike, and with another man, although still with them both; he’s boyish and awkward angles, but also so much pent up sensuality Milo hadn’t expected that it’s impossible to tear his eyes away. Every now and then their eyes meet and Andrew’s lips press into that little fuck you smile he gets, and it twists hard into Milo’s gut.

  He comes back with Mike and they all do another round of shots. Milo and Andrew do a marvelous and simultaneously shitty job of ignoring every bit of subtext. Milo sets his glass down on the damp table and breathes through the burn. Mike and Andrew do another, despite the look Milo gives Andrew, and then Andrew’s face flashes into a falsely, dazzlingly coy smile, looking right at Mike, letting himself be led back onto the floor. It’s definitely more crowded now, and they’re quickly swallowed by the throng of bodies. Milo tries to track them over the heads of the crowd, but it’s hard in this light. He checks his phone. The bar closes in an hour or so. He’ll check in on Andrew in twenty minutes.

  “Not having a good time, honey?” A tiny slip of man sidles up next to him. There’s no doubt he’s old enough to have earned that man title, despite being about two-thirds of Milo’s size. He doesn’t seem to be hitting on him—not that Milo would know if he were. At the very least, it didn’t look a thing like that guy Mike’s blatant approach.

  “Not especially,” he admits.

  “Saw you with that boy,” the man says. “I’m Roger, by the way.”

  “Milo.” He does that awkward hand wave thing again. He has got to stop doing that.

  “So what’s your story?” Roger gestures to the dance floor and Milo understands he’s referring to him and Andrew.

  Milo shrugs. “Best friend.”

  “Oh, it’s that thing,” Roger says, laughing. Milo feels a surge of annoyance.

  “No, not that thing.”

  “Oh honey.” Roger pats his shoulder. “Who do you think you’re fooling?” Milo feels himself turn a furious red. “I’m not trying to pry or anything. Just saying, one old queer to... well, you’re so fresh.” He smiles. “It’s gonna be okay.”

  Milo looks down at the sticky table, then up into the blinding lights. “I don’t know about that.” He doesn’t just mean Andrew.

  “Sad puppy.” Roger pats his shoulder. “Come dance. Nothing funny. Have some fun.”

  “I don’t—” Milo hangs back, feeling uncomfortable. Andrew is still somewhere out there, invisible and lithe and sweetly caustic. Milo’s made his bed, and it’s for the best. The alcohol and buzz of tonight’s confession, and how he’s fucking everything up, is messing with his thoughts enough that it doesn’t sound like the worst idea. “Okay. But I’ll suck.”

  “Babe, you’re in a room full of gay men; you’ll fit right in,” Roger quips, startling a laugh out of him.

  Ten laughing minutes later, feeling awkward but lighter and looser, he stumbles off the floor, waving at Roger and his friends and going back to his place at the bar. Andrew is nowhere to be seen, and the club is packed. Milo takes a second to gather his breath and then looks around, winding through the dancers to try to find him.

  It takes three looks for his brain to process that the guys making out in the corner are Andrew and Mike. Andrew is pressed against the wall, nearly invisible in the throbbing lights and the palpable energy of sex and uninhibited bodies. It’s a punch in the gut to see Andrew like that.

  Milo makes his way over. “Andrew,” he says loudly, poking his arm and trying very hard not to notice that Andrew is not just kissing this completely strange guy—he’s being kissed senseless.

  “What?” Andrew’s head lolls against the wall and turns toward him lazily. His lips are swollen, and he’s breathing hard and smiling.

  “We have to go soon,” he says. Andrew starts to giggle, then turns his face into Mike’s neck and laughs harder.

  “Relax, Milo. We have some time. Go have fun.” He wiggles his eyebrows and, without trying, manages to dismiss him completely. “I’ll meet you at the bar or text you when the shop starts to close, okay?”

  “Fine.” Milo is still for a second, unsure of his footing. Andrew gives him a kinder smile and then grabs his hand.

  “Let’s go dance, guys,” he sing-songs, pulling Mike and Milo behind him.

  Milo loses Andrew again not ten minutes later. He’s not surprised, considering how quickly dancing devolved into something more intense between Andrew and Mike; Milo turned around to smile and fake it when one of Roger’s buddies came up, and when he turned back around, Andrew was gone.

  “Don’t worry so much; you’ll get wrinkles,” one of them shouts. Milo fakes a smile and keeps moving in his disjointed marionette way and counts down the minutes until this whole thing is over.

  He waits by the bar for ten minutes. He texts Andrew, grows increasingly worried when he can’t find him, then blessedly upset: Upset is always easier than worried. He fires off a string of texts until finally he gets a response.

  Calm down. At the car.

  Milo stares at his phone. “You have got to be kidding me,” he mutters, then takes a breath. By the time he’s made his way out of the club, he’s talked himself calmer. Andrew’s not being the most thoughtful he could be, but he was pretty clearly pissed earlier, even if Milo doesn’t want to think about why. It was sweltering in the club, and he can understand if Andrew wanted some air.

  He finds Andrew draped against the side of the car, eyes on the stars, disheveled in a thoroughly sexy way Milo absolutely does not want to let himself acknowledge.

  “I was worried,” Miles says, unlocking the doors. Andrew folds his arms on the top of the car and looks at him, sleepy and mischievous. The streets are raucous with the purge of bars onto the uneven cobblestones.

  “I was having fun, weren’t you?” Andrew says so quietly it’s almost lost in the waves of voices laughing and singing and cat-calling.

  Taking deep breaths, Milo slides into the car and starts the engine. It’s his fault everything went down the way it did, really. Andrew opens his door and manages to get in. He’s had more to drink, Milo can tell; he’s all colt limbs and tequila smell. The quiet they make once Andrew closes the door seems louder than the bar.

  “Not really,” Milo admits.

  Andrew looks out the window. His hair is a riot. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. Well. I don’t know. I did have some fun.” Milo thinks of Roger and his friends and how they encouraged him to be foolish and dance and, for a tiny bit, push away what else was happening. Maybe he imagined having that with Andrew—a celebration of sorts, a kind of fun they never have at home. He can’t blame how the night went on Andrew. “Maybe next time I should come out to my best friend and let my feelings settle for at least a few hours before I go to a gay bar.”

  “Mulligan,” Andrew says wisely, then cracks up. His laughter has always been irresistible, and Milo finds himself chuckling too.

  They drive in silence. Milo’s had a while to sober up in the bar and is quite a bit bigger than Andrew; he’s hoping the drive will sober Andrew up, because sneaking into Andrew’s house will be one thing, but a drunk Andrew is a liability.

  Out of nowhere, Andrew starts to laugh. “Dick dock.” He wheezes between giggles.

  “What?”

  “I found out what it is,” Andrew says, slurring a little. “Under the dock where they have the Tea Dance, it’s where guys go cruising.”

  “Oh, did Mike tell you that?” Milo tries to erase any bitterness from his voice and ignore the tug in his stomach. He can’t tell if it’s interest or anxiety or both. Andrew laughs harder.

  “After a fashion.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that hand jobs are
the best; god, who knew it would be so much better than when you do it alone,” Andrew murmurs, then sighs. Milo almost swerves off the road.

  “What? You went and had—you did—I mean—Andrew!”

  “Oh, calm down, Mom.” Andrew shoots him a look.

  “You went under a dark dock, alone, with a complete stranger, to have sex?” Milo’s tries and fails not to shout.

  “Are you kidding? I’m not a little kid. You don’t get to judge me, or what I do.” Andrew’s voice is getting louder. He rarely shouts. His hand is wrapped around the handle of the door.

  “Leaving aside the fact that you are underage, drunk, in a strange place, not telling the only other person you were with where you were, you go off with a stranger and—”

  “What? Gave it away? Did it?” Andrew says in a dangerously sweet, taunting tone. “What am I supposed to do, Milo, save it for someone special?” The last is said so venomously it reverberates through the car like an electric storm, shocking through Milo. His whole body burns with anger and understanding and shame, because he knows exactly what Andrew is saying. It’s not only about acknowledging tonight, but also everything else, the things they don’t talk about, the thing Milo never lets himself feel. Andrew’s breath has picked up and his face is the sort of angry he almost never gets, the kind that Milo knows often degenerates into tears because Andrew is an angry crier. He feels a little sick, because he’s never been the one to do that to him.

  He turns off the headlights and coasts into Andrew’s drive, and they sit in the two o’clock in the morning darkness for a while, not moving.

  When he hears the hitch in breath that signals Andrew’s tears, Milo says, “Andrew—”

  “Don’t,” Andrew whispers, his voice broken and wet. He pulls himself out of the car and closes the door slowly. Milo does too. “Go home, Milo.”

  “What?” Milo feels more than a little sick before Andrew says that. “Andrew, wait; come on.”

  Andrew wobbles, then steadies himself. “I don’t want to see you right now.”

  “Andrew, you know I can’t go home. Please don’t—” It’s on the tip of his tongue; he’s scared because he can’t go home and because Andrew has never kicked him out, ever. He doesn’t want to admit he’s been keeping more secrets, not with Andrew white and tearstained and vibrating like this. But if he risks going home right now, he’s risking far more than the consequences Andrew knows about.

  “Go to Ted’s; isn’t that your lie?”

  “Andrew, I can’t and you know it. Please,” he says, trying to keep the begging fear out of his tone. “You don’t understand, it’s—” His voice breaks. “Worse.”

  The cicadas sing around them, and Andrew is unsteady in the moonlight.

  “Wait, what do you—?” Andrew swallows and closes his eyes. Milo can actually see him processing his words. “Oh, god,” he said finally. “Fuck. Milo—”

  “Please, Andrew,” he says, softly now. “I’m sorry I said those things, I’m sorry about tonight.”

  “You’ve been lying, haven’t you? About your dad?”

  “I—” Milo looks down.

  “All right, come on,” Andrew says. He’s definitely still angry, but seems willing to help Milo. “We are definitely talking about this in the morning.”

  Milo doesn’t respond, but takes Andrew’s arm when he trips over the gravel of the drive, and carefully helps make their way to Andrew’s back door.

  °

  Andrew wakes up wanting to throw up. His skin feels thin and sandpapered. He stumbles out of bed and trips over Milo, who is burrowed under a pile of blankets on the floor. “Wha—” he starts, then lurches toward the bathroom so he can empty acid from his stomach.

  “Hey.” Milo comes in quietly, gets him a cup of water with the small paper cups Andrew’s mom still stocks the bathroom with. Andrew doesn’t say anything; he sips his water carefully and closes his eyes. Milo wets a washcloth and wipes Andrew’s face. Everything hits his memory like a truck, and Andrew throws up the water.

  “Don’t be so nice to me,” he says hoarsely.

  “Stop it,” Milo says mildly, wiping his face again and pushing Andrew’s hair off his sweating forehead. “Are you going to stop being nice to me?”

  “No.” Andrew pushes Milo’s hand away. “But I think I’m still angry about some things.”

  Milo glances down and bites his lip and looks so young and vulnerable that Andrew has to breathe the anger out.

  “No—hey, no; I take it back.” He takes Milo’s hand, which is wet from the washcloth. He can never really be mad at Milo, not for long. Milo is so sensitive to anger directed at him, and god knows he’s so beautifully fucked up it’s hard for Andrew to blame him for his actions.

  “It’s okay if you are,” Milo says. “You should be.”

  “Hey—”

  “No, it’s okay. I wasn’t really that happy with you last night either.”

  Andrew looks into Milo’s eyes for a second before he has to look away. There are things they should talk about, and things he never wants to address again.

  “Do you want me to get you some crackers?” Milo asks. It’s a reprieve, for which Andrew is grateful.

  “No, I want to get into the shower because I’m gross, and maybe take some Advil and then go back to bed and then we’ll both talk some of this out.”

  “Okay.”

  Milo leaves and closes the door behind him. Andrew strips wearily and gets into a lukewarm shower. He remembers all of last night while washing gingerly, and tries unsuccessfully to sort a pile of data he’s not really prepared for. Some things he knows he has to shelve because the most important part is talking to Milo about his admission last night. His own behavior is last on his list of worries.

  °

  He finds Milo on the floor again, a blanket around his shoulders, flipping through Andrew’s copy of The Gunslinger that’s been left on his night stand.

  “Get off the floor and get into bed,” Andrew commands. He’s too tired for this shit.

  “Are you sure?”

  “You always sleep in my bed. It’s a fucking king; don’t be a martyr.”

  “That’s not... you made me sleep on the floor last night!”

  “I know, come on, I’m too hung over for this; let’s lie down. How are you feeling?”

  “I didn’t drink that much and I had a lot of water before bed,” Milo says with a shrug. “I got you some more.” There’s a glass on the night stand, too.

  “Thank you.” Andrew drinks slowly. “For taking care of me.”

  “It’s hardly a repayment for all the taking care of me you do.”

  “Don’t do that, Milo. We are never, ever going to do that I-owe-you thing. Ever.”

  Milo looks at the blinds, which are glowing with midmorning sunlight.

  “Don’t open them, please,” Andrew says as he settles back into his bed and snuggles under the covers. “My head is pounding. Lie down.”

  “Do you want to talk or go back to sleep?” Milo asks.

  “Talk.”

  “All right.” Milo squashes his face into the pillow.

  “What’s going on at home, Milo?”

  “It’s worse, is all.”

  “Worse how? How can he possibly treat you worse?” Andrew swallows down a rising nausea. “He’s hitting now, isn’t he?”

  “I mean, not like—it’s not exactly like that,” Milo hedges.

  “How is it like?”

  “Not all the time. A few slaps, or once or twice a little... worse. Mostly it’s… so hard to keep track of where I am in arguments when he’s angry. He has this way…”

  “This way?” Andrew prompts.

  “Of making me doubt what’s really happening. He’ll say or do something, or I will, and somehow in the argument or punishment he twists things and it’s like… I don’t know what really happened.”

  “Milo,” Andrew says softly, then roots around under the covers for Milo’s hand. His eyes burn. “Why d
idn’t you tell me?”

  “There’s nothing to be done. High school is as good as over. I’m almost out of here. I just want to get out; I can handle a little more of this.”

  “No,” Andrew says, steel in his voice, “I won’t let you.”

  “Andrew, you can’t. This isn’t like when we were kids. Nothing good will come from it. What can they do? It’s not a secret that things are shit. No one talks about it because it’s my Dad. He’s fucking Council Member James Graham. He owns half the town.”

  “Milo, he does not own half the town.”

  “You know what I mean, Drew.”

  Andrew closes his eyes for a minute. Living in a town with secrets that are badly kept because so many people are cowed by the presence of one influential man is the one thing about Santuit that disgusts him. When he opens his eyes, Milo’s are direct and pleading.

  “I’ve already gotten into USC. We have a summer left. Please help me get through this; that’s what I need.”

  “You didn’t tell because you didn’t trust me to keep it a secret,” Andrew whispers.

  “No. Not really. It’s just. I don’t know. A part of my brain knows he’s fucked up, he’s fucking me up, that this isn’t my fault. But another also knows that everything he’s done has pushed me to be a hard worker and to be determined. And he does love me, in his way, and sometimes that’s the worst because I want that and I hate that and hating someone you love makes you a terrible person.”

  “Milo, no. No, please don’t. You’re—you’re amazing and strong and it’s okay to feel like that.”

  “Just help me get through this, please.”

  “I will.” Andrew pulls Milo closer. “But if it gets worse, or... I don’t want you hurting.”

  “You know that’s not realistic right now.”

  “God, I’m so sorry,” Andrew says against Milo’s hair.

  “For what? This isn’t your fault.”

  “That you felt like you couldn’t trust me. For trying to kick you out last night. For last night.”

  “Stop, no. You didn’t... let’s forget last night,” Milo says. “And it’s not that I didn’t trust you. It’s hard not to feel ashamed.”