Always Never Yours(42)

I hear the front door open and glance over at Anthony. Eric walks in, and it’s clear he’s come from some practice or game. He’s wearing a green and white jersey with ROGERS written on the back. I grin. Of course Anthony thinks Roger is a sexy name. He and Eric exchange quick heys before Eric tilts his head in the direction of the kitchen. “Smells awesome. I’m pumped for some carne asada.”

I watch Anthony to gauge his reaction. “Yeah, man. It’ll be . . . tight,” he says, wincing. I wince with him. He’s trying, but the nerdy thespian in him can’t pull off bro-talk.

They head onto the deck outside the kitchen, and the four of us congregate awkwardly around the grill. “Hey, Eric,” I say, mostly to break the silence. “You remember Owen from the party, right?”

Anthony’s obviously just recalled that Owen’s presently cooking dinner and darts over to take back the tongs.

“Yeah,” Eric says. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much,” Owen starts. “Good to see you again,” he adds like he’s trying to keep the conversation going. Eric nods, and the silence returns. I try to think of everything I know about Eric, searching for possible conversation topics. Busboy, possibly gay, not into Melissa from the party . . . and that’s it. Not exactly the greatest pre-dinner topics.

Eric fortunately saves us. He glances toward the table, then calls to Anthony, “Could I help with anything?”

“Drinks,” Anthony gets out. “There’s soda in the garage you could go grab.” He sounds as relieved as I feel to have something to say.

I make a split-second decision. “I’ll show you where,” I say, leading Eric into the living room and toward the garage.

We find a couple two-liter bottles of root beer on the wire shelves next to a bicycle hanging on hooks from the ceiling. While Eric’s hefting the bottles down, I nervously wait by the door, weighing my words. I have no idea how to broach this topic.

“You know, whatever might happen tonight, Owen and I won’t say a word to anyone,” I blurt, and immediately I wince, regretting how presumptuous and insensitive that came out. What if I’ve crossed into territory he didn’t want to tread? I wonder for a horrible moment if I’m completely wrong about him and I’ve misinterpreted his comments, his interactions with Anthony.

Eric falters, hand on one bottle, then gradually places it on the floor. “I appreciate that, Megan,” he says finally. “There are things about me I wouldn’t want my all-boys, Catholic school to know.”

I nod, relieved. “Which, by the way,” I venture with half a smile, leaning an elbow on the shelves, “an all-boys school? That’s got to be either a dream come true for you, or a complete nightmare.”

Eric laughs, his posture relaxing a little. “It’s a nightmare, trust me. I’ve never really . . .” his voice grows quieter, heavier. “I’ve never had the chance to do this before.”

I stand up straighter. The comment catches me, and it takes me a moment to figure out why. I can’t imagine going to Eric’s school, balancing everything he has to every day, and I know I’d be eager to experience this side of myself if I were in his position. But Anthony’s not just some boy-shaped experience to be had. I won’t let him be used or get hurt. “If you’re only interested in Anthony because you’ve never had a boyfriend,” I begin, “and he’s an easy secret to keep from your friends—”

Eric cuts me off. “It’s not that,” he says decisively. “It’s about him.”

I permit him a smile. “Well, then I have to give you the obligatory best-friend speech,” I go on. “Anthony’s serious when it comes to relationships, and he’s been hurt before. He really likes you.” Eric’s expression softens. “Don’t screw this up,” I finish.

I pick up the root beer and walk out without waiting for him to reply.

“Dinner’s about ready,” Anthony calls when I’m back in the kitchen. “Everyone should sit, and I’ll bring it out.”

We head to the round dinner table where I’ve helped Anthony memorize countless monologues and cues over the years. Anthony follows with the sizzling platter of carne asada.

Nobody’s saying a word. Owen, next to me, is giving an inordinate amount of attention to pouring his root beer. Anthony appears to be dutifully avoiding Eric’s eyes, while Eric looks at me imploringly.

I don’t understand what’s going on here. I’ve given Anthony plenty of encouragement to go for Eric, and I just straight-up told Eric how Anthony feels. What else could they possibly be waiting for?

I glance at Eric and notice he’s wearing a lacrosse jersey, like the guys at Derek’s party. Trying to jumpstart the conversation, I ask, “What, uh, lacrosse position do you play?”

“I’m a midfielder,” he answers unhelpfully.

I try to catch Anthony’s eye to signal that this is where he should jump into the conversation. But he’s only determinedly stuffing strips of steak into a tortilla. Unbelievable. I look back at Eric, struggling to recollect even the first thing I know about lacrosse. I’m pretty sure there’s a ball but . . .

“This is crazy good, man,” Eric says to Anthony through his first mouthful.

Anthony looks up—thank god—and gives Eric a stilted smile. I know he’s thrown by the level of jock-bro that Eric’s exuding. Otherwise he would never go catatonic like this under pressure.