When Everything Is Blue(27)

I button up the one nice collared shirt I own. It’s way too small, tight along the back so I can’t pull my arms forward all the way. The cuffs only make it halfway down my forearms, but I don’t have time to go somewhere to get another one. I roll up the sleeves, grab my tie, and head out to the kitchen to see if my mom can knot it for me.

My mom sees me and tries to hide a smile behind her dainty little hand. My mom and sister are cute little things, and I take after my dad—tall and gangly and slightly awkward, though I’m pretty slim, whereas my dad has been packing a little extra poundage around the middle lately.

“Theo, you can’t wear that,” she says, shaking her head with sympathy. She feels sorry for me, either because I’m growing faster than she can keep me in clothes or because I’m the idiot who didn’t realize it.

I glance down. “Is it really that noticeable?”

“You look like you’re twelve years old. Lift up your arms.” I do, and the shirt comes up above my navel.

“Go put on something else.”

I go back to my room and ransack my closet, but all I come up with is a faded striped shirt that looks like it’s been worn about a million times before. I come out with it on. This time it’s my sister who gives me shit.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she says all snottily. She’s wearing this slinky black number that makes her look about thirty-five years old. Makeup, straightened hair. Man, her boobs have really grown too.

“Go borrow something from Chris,” she says dismissively.

“No.” The last thing I want to do is go over there and ask for a favor.

“Dad’s going to be here any minute,” she huffs. “There’s no way he’s going to let you go out with us dressed like that.”

She’s right. I pull off my shirt and throw it on the table, run back to my room for an undershirt and tie, then jog downstairs and over to Chris’s house. Maybe he won’t be home. Then I can say I did everything I could to make it happen. Maybe I can skip dinner with my dad altogether.

I knock twice, and Chris answers the door almost immediately.

“Hey.” He looks me up and down and seems to pick up on my urgency.

“Can I—”

“Yeah, of course.” He opens the door wide and leads me upstairs to his suite of rooms, which includes a bedroom, a game room, a palatial bathroom, and a walk-in closet that’s about the size of my bedroom. I follow him into the closet, and he surveys his collection of menswear. I don’t bother looking. I’ll take whatever he gives me.

He pulls a blue shirt off the hanger and hands it to me. “This one’s a little big on me,” he says. “Matches your eyes.”

It does match my eyes, almost exactly. It’s kind of weird that he noticed, but I appreciate his efficiency. I toss the tie on the bed and pull the shirt on, buttoning it up as fast as I can, including the cuffs. I tuck it into my pants and redo my belt, glance up in the mirror. It fits. Fantástico!

“Damn, Theo,” he says. “When’d you get so handsome?”

That sets off a burning sensation deep in my belly that radiates outward, a telegram to the enemy line. I imagine a block of ice around my crotch, deep-freezing everything within it. I chalk up his comment to him messing with me because it’s dangerous to read into things like that.

I loop the tie around my collar with shaking hands and fumble it because I’ve only worn a tie a half-dozen times in my life. I know my dad’s about to pull up to the curb any minute, and I want to look like I have my shit together even though I feel like the opposite.

“Stop,” Chris says. “You’ll strangle yourself.” He comes over and carefully unravels my tie. I go still—fugue state—just staring at him, my upper lip sweating a little because he’s so close I can smell him, taste him. I inhale deeper even though I know I shouldn’t, and it sets my every nerve on edge. His tongue is doing that little pokey thing out the side of his mouth as he knots my tie. Please, not now, I tell my junk, which doesn’t seem to care that I’m begging. These pants are thin, and with terror I realize a huge hard-on has been erected in Chris’s name. There’s no hiding it. I bend my knees a little and curl inward so I don’t sexually assault him, praying he doesn’t have the sense to look down.

“There,” he says, patting my shoulders. His gaze flickers to my mouth, and I wipe the beaded sweat from my upper lip. Our eyes meet, and it feels different—time slows and gravity presses down on us more urgently. It’s like we’re meeting again for the first time. Does he see me differently now? Does he want me too? I still my breath so as not to spook him, but he only flashes his cocky grin and turns me toward the mirror.

“Not bad, huh?” he says as if to defuse the situation.

“Yeah, not bad.” I clear my throat and tamp down the disappointment threatening to consume me. He’s right, though, I do look pretty hot. Maybe that was all it was between us, a friendly appreciation. I’d totally get with myself, I think, and then laugh on the inside because I already have, many times over.

“Thanks, Chris.” I sigh a little and feel like I’m never able to express my gratitude to him. He’s gotten me out of so many jams. Then, because I don’t want my feelings to erupt like my uncontrollable boner, I get back to business. “Is this one of those shirts that needs to be dry-cleaned?” A lot of his nicer clothes have all these rules for washing. I keep throwing his old clothes into our dryer, and they come out looking like doll clothes.