You Know Me Well(8)

But Mark doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t move. So I turn toward where he’s looking and I finally spot Ryan, who is now across the room from us. He’s with a few cute college boys, one with thick black glasses, another in a ski cap, and another who I can only see from the back, tattoos peeking out of his shirtsleeves, one hand holding a glass of beer, the other hand settled in the curve of Ryan’s back. One song fades into the next and Tattoo Boy and his friends are feeling it. He turns, takes a few gulps of beer, sets the glass on a nearby table, and starts moving with the rhythm.

I’ve probably kept Mark to myself for too long. Here he is, out in the city on the kickoff of the year’s gayest week, winning underwear contests, the object of quite a few lustful gazes, and I’ve trapped him in a corner with my crisis.

“You should go over there,” I say, but Mark doesn’t even seem to hear me. That despair I mentioned I was feeling? It’s like it has suddenly become contagious, taken over Mark’s entire body. His shoulders are slumped; his breathing seems labored.

“What is it?” I ask him. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Ryan,” he says, so quietly I can barely hear him. “He’s dancing.”





3





MARK


Someone is pulling me back to the bar. The bartender is giving me an envelope with fifty-seven singles in it and a gift certificate to a dry-cleaning service. Ryan isn’t even watching. Katie’s watching. Plenty of other guys are watching. But Ryan’s on the dance floor, leaning into this guy whose arms are covered in words I can’t read.

He’s not doing it to hurt me. I have to believe that. He’s doing it to make himself happy. Which just happens to hurt me.

I take my envelope and push my way back to Katie. Guys are putting their hands on my shoulder, telling me congratulations, using that as an excuse to put their hands on my shoulder, to see if I will stop and smile and maybe take things from there. I’m not stupid. I know this. I know I’m supposed to want this.

This room is so full of possibilities, I can imagine Ryan telling me.

Technically true. But the thing about possibilities: There are some you want much more than others. Or only one you want much more than everything else.

“What did you get?” Katie asks when I’m back beside her. I show her. She looks disappointed.

“Maybe you’re supposed to get the bills dry-cleaned?” she says. “Lord only knows where they’ve been.”

I notice the dry cleaner is called Pride Dry Cleaning. A few jokes pop into my head—I can imagine what stains they’re good at getting out or They specialize in rainbows—but all the jokes are in Ryan’s voice, not mine.

The dance floor is getting more crowded. I can’t see him.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” Katie says, “but are you two … together? Because if you are, that’s definitely a foul.”

“No, we’re not,” I tell her. And then I think, Fuck it. “Only, sometimes we are.”

“Your poor heart,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “Something like that.”

I see him now. He’s dancing with all three of them. I think of molecules, and how they’re attached. I could probably join in. It’s not like they’ve paired off.

“Should I go over there?” I ask.

“I have no idea.” Katie studies the situation for a moment. “I think if I were him, I’d have to try really hard to avoid looking over here. He’s like one of those waiters who’s all attention during the meal, and then when you need the check, he’ll glance every single direction except yours. You know what I mean? And if that’s the case, then I’d say you probably shouldn’t go over there.”

A Florence song comes on. I love Florence. Ryan knows this. If he doesn’t look for me during a Florence song, I am screwed.

I look over.

He’s started to sing along. But not to me.

“Oh man,” I say. The tattooed guy isn’t singing back. But he’s listening. He’s enjoying it. They’re both enjoying it.

And as they’re enjoying it, this shirtless guy comes up to me, smiling like I know him.

I steal a glimpse of his chest, his abs. He looks like someone who may have dabbled in porn.

“Do I know you?” I yell over the song.

“No, but don’t you want to?” he asks.

“Really?” Katie says.

But Johnny No Shirt isn’t listening to her. He’s focusing on me. Really. Intently.

“What are you doing?” he asks, more conversational now.

Where is your shirt? I want to ask. I mean, did he come here shirtless? Like, on the street? Or is there a shirt locker somewhere?

He has to be in his twenties. At least. And that’s just not me.

“I’m heading out,” I tell him. “Sorry.”

This only makes him lean in closer. Playfully. Like, to the point that his jeans are touching mine.

“We have a girl to find,” I say. “Violet. Maybe you’ve, um, seen her?”

He takes my hand and starts to guide it to his back pocket.

“She’s right here,” he says, smiling.

“No no no no no,” Katie interrupts. “Thou shalt not take her name in that vein.” He steps back and lets go, finally hearing her. She looks me in the eye. “As I see it, Mark, you’re at a crossroads here, and there are at least three options you can follow. Well, four, because there’s always the option of doing none of the options. I am not advocating one over the other. I just need to know what to do.”