Chapter 3

I rub my chin, “I held off telling my parents so long because of my mom. I think my dad doesn’t care one way or the other. Don’t get me wrong, it wouldn’t be his preference. He wouldn’t be cheering me on or anything. He just wouldn’t be bothered. My mom is a different story. She is most definitely bothered. She finds my sexuality to be a choice. A choice that she can’t understand. Countless times she has said to me, ‘Aiden, for the life of me I just can’t imagine why anyone in their right mind would decide to—’ And then she stops because Dad shoots her a look or puts a hand on her shoulder. This is the same woman who, when my sister’s marriage turned bad, said, ‘You have to live with the consequences of your own bad decisions’.”

I say, “You. Same question.”

“You know I’m an only child. My mom is cool. I only waited so long to tell her because I figured she already knew. When it comes to her son, she just knows things. She always has. But when I moved in with Colvin, I felt I should formally proclaim my identity. I was right. She already knew. She has the power to just look me in the eyes and know what’s going on. She even knew that I had broken up with Colvin before I said the words. She saw it, heard it and felt it. She mailed me my favorite homemade brownies.”

“That’s sweet.” I can’t help but notice he doesn’t mention his father. I remember that his father left at an early age. I choose not to probe at that.

He asks me, “You said you’ve been on maybe three dates in your whole life. What’s holding you back?”

We were always honest in our late night, after dark talks and I choose honesty tonight too. “I’m always afraid that my personality won’t be big enough. That I am not enough.”

He scoffs, “That’s ridiculous.”

I scoff back, “Look at you. Your personality fills the room. I could never…” I trail off.

“Aiden, think back to the day we met.”

“I didn’t actually save your life. It’s an exaggerated part of a funny story.”

“Right, because you are smart and funny. But what I was going to say is that you made me let you call me ‘Leopold’. To this day, sixteen years later, you are the only person on earth who calls me Leopold. You’ve got plenty of personality.”

I blush from the compliment. “If I’m getting too personal too fast, don’t answer. Why did you break up with Colvin?”

He stands, leaves the room and returns a moment later with two beers, handing me one. “I wanted to know that we were moving toward something. Commitment, marriage, adoption… He didn’t. At least not with me. And I wasn’t willing to wait for something that we both knew would never happen.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Are you two still friends?”

He shakes his head. “A clean break. I’m an all or nothing kind of a guy.”

Leopold does go all-in on life. That’s how I remember him.

He says, “Let’s spice this up a little. I’m guessing that with only three scattered dates under your belt, you were never in a long term relationship. Tell me about your most erotic sexual experience.”

I blush again, “Um. I pick dare.”

He cracks up, “This isn’t high school. We’re not playing Truth Or Dare. Besides, I can come up with some pretty creative dares. You might not want to test me.”

I bet he can. I steel myself and say, “I am a thirty four year old virgin.”

He doesn’t laugh and he rallies quickly, “I’ll tweak the question. Describe your favorite sexual fantasy.”

“Oh my God! Our college talks never crossed these lines.”

“Because we were both in the closet. Neither of us asked such questions because we wouldn’t want to answer them.”

True enough. I say, “My wildest fantasy involves handcuffs, a battery powered prostate stimulator, a blindfold, a sexy naked man, a ball gag, a flesh light and three hours on the clock.”

From his perspective, I’ve always been shy conservative Aiden. I think I just shocked him. He gasps, “Oh my God!”

I ask him, “So, mister superstar closeted athlete. In college, who did you have a secret crush on?”

He sets his beer down on the coffee table. “Okay.” He clears his throat. “I liked you.”

I laugh, “I’m being serious.”

He inches closer to me and puts his hand on my knee. His touch is electric and I almost drop my bottle.

“I am too. I liked you. It’s the real reason I didn’t want to room with you for a second year. I didn’t think I could take another nine months pretending I didn’t feel the way I felt. It wasn’t logical. On paper we were a complete mismatch. I didn’t choose it. But nonetheless…”

I swallow hard. “I… I mean, I… Me too.”

“We’re not closeted teenagers anymore.”

“But we are roommates again. This is a complication that—”

He snatches my beer out of my hands and sets it next to his, “I dare you to take your shirt off.”

I’ve always hidden my body. It’s not like I’m ashamed, I’m just not proud. I spend no time at the gym. I lift no weights. I do no crunches. I have no muscles. I can’t compare to Leopold. Besides, we’re not doing dares. I tell him so.

He looks me right in the eyes, “Fine. Here’s your question: Will you kindly remove your shirt?”

A smile plays at my lips. Fucking loopholes. I sigh and pull off my shirt. I feel very exposed. Leopold does not laugh. He does stare. Intensely. But he does not laugh.

He says, “I dare you to—”

He’s not talking anymore because I dive at him and suddenly his mouth is full of my tongue.

We didn’t do it. Not “it” anyway. He did manage to wrangle my shirt off of me and we rolled around on the sofa making out like we never did in college. We were all arms and chests and skin and lips and tongues until the sun set and the room turned dark. I could feel his hardness against my thigh as I am sure he felt mine against his. But our pants stayed on. He was right, we are roommates. And we’re grownups. We can control ourselves long enough to think this through. We need to be sure before we rush in and screw everything up.

But every time I try to think rationally, I irrationally remember what his mouth feels like on mine. How he felt in my arms. Even what his feet felt like in my lap during the movie last week. And if I close my eyes, I picture him shirtless. I’d never seen him without a shirt before. No, he’s not a sculpted athlete, but I don’t want him to be. He is perfect as he is. His contours were brilliant. His neck, his collarbones and his navel were my favorite spots. I can’t shake them from my head.

It’s Wednesday, the next night, and it’s Aiden’s turn to make dinner. He said he was making his famous chicken and broccoli pasta so I ate a light lunch today.

He’s on his phone when I walk in. Who makes phone calls anymore? He’s saying, “I’ll ask. I’m sure it’ll be fine. If not, we’ll stay in a hotel.”

A hotel? What is he talking about? I step out of my shoes as he ends his call.

“That was my sister. She needs me to watch her kids all weekend.”

I remember he said something about that a few days ago. “She has an out of town work thing, right?”

“So you’ll be at her place with your nephews from Friday night to Monday morning. That’s what you said.”

He looks down at his feet, “That had been the original plan. But her apartment building is having some kind of plumbing emergency or something and they are re-piping the whole complex. They’ll have no water for three days.”

“Maybe your parents should take their grandkids for the weekend. They have a house, right?”

He looks up, “They don’t do that kind of thing.”

“Could I sleep on the sofa for a few nights? Brody can take my bed and I have an air mattress for Austin. If it’s too much trouble I can take them to a hotel. They’re kids. They won’t mind. It would be an adventure.”

I had actually forgotten that he was supposed to go to his sister’s house for the weekend and sit with his nephews. I was hoping that he and I could spend the weekend deciding that sometimes acting impulsively is a good thing. I wanted to spend all day Saturday exploring his collarbones and all day Sunday discovering where the treasure trail that traveled from his perfect innie belly button led as it disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

I sigh. Maybe next weekend. I say, “That’s a ridiculous waste of money. Of course they can stay for the weekend. And Aiden, you’re not my guest. This is your apartment too.”

“Are you sure? Kids have a way of taking over everything. Feel free to hang out with other friends or whatever.”

“I do have a work social thing on Friday, but otherwise, I’ll be around.”

I leave school one period early on Friday to pick up Austin and Brody by their dismissal times. Fortunately, their schools are across the street from each other and they get out fifteen minutes apart.

Dinner is just the three of us tonight because Leopold has some kind of work outing. We order in burgers and fries.

Brody has about eight thousand questions: What happened to my old apartment? Where is Vivian? Why do I live here now? Do I live alone? Why do grownups sometimes have roommates? If I ever get a pet would I consider a lizard? Can he come with me to Vivian’s wedding? Is Vivian still my friend? Do I like my new roommate? Do I like my new roommate more than Vivian? Can he sleep over here again sometime? When does my roommate get home? Can we play Monopoly tonight?

Austin listens to every question and answer, but he hardly says a word. I’m not surprised. He’s the older brother and he has a lot on his mind.

Apparently my new apartment meets with Brody’s approval. He decides he likes it. After we eat, we play a highly competitive game of Monopoly. Austin is still not particularly talkative and I know why. I need to find some time to talk to him alone before the weekend is over. Too bad Brody has long outgrown naps. Maybe I can get Leopold to distract him at some point.

It takes two hours, but finally Brody wins the game. I’m making hot chocolate while Brody packs up Monopoly and Austin deals out cards for Help Your Neighbor. I’m not sure how much he’s enjoying the games, but the distraction can’t hurt. Plus, he’s a good big brother. If nothing else, he’ll play for Brody’s sake.

Just then, I hear the door open. Leopold appears in the kitchen doorway and surveys the scene. I pass out cups of cocoa to the kids and split mine between two mugs, handing one to Leopold. He takes it with a reluctant smile. I tell him, “This is Austin and this is Brody. Boys, this is—”

He cuts in, “I’m Leo.”

I stick him in the ribs with my elbow and he almost spills his cocoa. But I don’t make an issue of it. Fine. Maybe I like it that I’m still the only person to call him Leopold. Let him be Leo to everyone else.

I tell him, “You’re just in time for our favorite card game.”

When I walked through the door the first thing I noticed was three pairs of shoes neatly lined up along the wall. Aiden’s size ten VANS, next to size seven Nike high-tops, next to size three Adidas classics. Something about the row of shoes in descending sizes both caused a lump to form in my throat and a smile to materialize on my face. I added my size twelves to the head of the row. It was like a family of shoes.

I was hardly through the door before Aiden shoved a mug of cocoa into my hands and roped me into playing some card game I’d never played before. He had little eight year old Brody explain the rules to me while he made another batch of cocoa. He said, “Brody likes to explain things,” and he winked at me. He was right. Brody gave me a thorough dissertation on the game’s objective and how to play. He sure was an adorable kid.

Austin was a fine looking young man too. I think Aiden said Austin is twelve. He just wasn’t very talkative. He played along mostly in silence, only speaking when absolutely necessary. He seemed a little young to be a surly teenager. Did he not like me? Did he not like his Uncle Aiden? Did he just not want to be here? I found him to be borderline rude.

When the game ended, Brody had won, I was in second place, Austin came in third and Uncle Aiden was last. It should have occurred to me, but it didn’t. They’re just kids and I should have let Austin beat me. I’m sure Aiden came in last on purpose. But isn’t twelve years old too old to pout about losing a game? And that’s what Austin seemed to be doing. Pouting.