Funny Feelings (15)

“Right? What about you?” I ask, keeping my eyes closed and facing the sun instead of making eye contact.

“What about me?”

“I mean, are you going to be okay keeping yourself off the meat market for the time being?”

“I’ll be just fine, Jones. The other rule I think we need to stick to is avoiding the internet drivel. Do what you gotta do in terms of promo stuff, but don’t read the articles that will inevitably have shit wrong, don’t look at the pictures floating around. We’ll do the… things, but let’s avoid that side of it all, please.” He looks down at his hands and tugs at a piece of a blister there. “If you cave and do, just… don’t tell me. I don’t want to acknowledge that part if that’s okay?”

“Of course, Meyer,” I say quietly. He nods in thanks.

“What else did you want to talk to me about? About after the tour?” I ask.

“Oh. No. Nothing. That was just me trying to get you to call me back,” he shrugs, oddly— a quick yank of his shoulders. I mimic the gesture, not buying it.

“Oh. Okay?”

“Anyway, I have another thought. And I’m going to need you to put on your grownup hat for this one,” he says.

“But that hat clashes with this swimsuit.” I pout.

“Jones,” he warns.

“Got it.” I mime placing a hat on my head. And then I cut him off before he can speak. “Oh my God. Are you going to ask me to practice?”

“Uhhh…” He blinks slowly and flicks his sunglasses back on.

I blink slowly back and do the same.

He clears his throat. “I don’t think I was going to refer to it as practice, per se. I just would like to know what you’re comfortable with. I want to know where the lines are drawn here. I’m not okay with putting you in any kind of position where you’re even slightly less than comfortable.”

I swallow. “That’s very…considerate of you.” Thank God we are both wearing sunglasses now. Otherwise, I’m certain he could see the back of my skull through my eyes because my brain has vacated the premises.

“This conversation is not exactly cozy for me either, Fee, but let’s get it done. Even if it’s pretend, I need to know it’s consensual,” he sighs.

“Jesus. Please don’t say consensual again.”

He slaps his palms on his thighs and gets up to leave.

“I’m sorry!”

“Stop apologizing. Just call me when you’re ready to talk.”

I scramble up to go after him, the slap-slap of my flip flops matching the pounding of my heart.

“Wait. I’m ready now. Let’s talk now.” I grab his upper arms to stall him.

He turns, and my hands fall to my sides.

He shoves his hands into his pockets firmly again. “It’s very obvious that you’re uncomfortable touching me, and I’m not stating this observation to you to make you feel like you need to correct me. I understand why that is. We have a friendship, plus a working relationship, and I’ve always respected our collective boundaries so that we don’t muddy those lines too much. You’ve always been… openly affectionate, with other people, though, so I just want to make sure I don’t make you uncomfortable, okay? That’s all I’m saying.”

“Okay,” is all I can come up with. But then he turns to leave, and I grapple for more time. “Are you hungry?” I ask.

He turns to me, “Very.”



After a terribly silent and awkward car ride, we settle down at a table outside at our favorite sushi restaurant. Meyer’s developed the habit of just picking where we go without asking, and I love him more for it. He somehow manages to know what I want without me having to think and lead and pick all the time. It’s a superpower that I pretend is solely used on me. The gesture motivates me to concede some vulnerability.

“Meyer, it’s not that I’m uncomfortable touching you. It’s that I appreciate you too much to want to chance making you uncomfortable. You… you’ve made your fair share of remarks about my age and all that, and I just have tried to be diligent about not crossing that line with you, in an attempt to be… fuck, I don’t know—mature?” I pull a mock barfing face.

“Fee, you’ve called me grandpa at least a thousand times.”

“I know. But… I promise. I won’t have a mental breakdown over this if you won’t.” Might when it’s done, but if I think on that too long I’ll back out entirely.

“I won’t. But this is why I think it’d be good to… practice, I guess, so you’re not jumping anytime my hands come in contact with you.” His big shoulders inch toward his ears, tense.

“I agree.”

“Yeah?” The tension wavers a bit.

“Yes. But I don’t want to have to specifically define it. Let’s not make it too exact, here.”

“We’ll just take it as we go?”

“Exactly.”

Our waiter comes then and puts the bowl of spicy edamame on the table. We place our orders, and I dive into the beans when I notice his hand…

He’s laid out one forearm on the table, palm just slightly turned up. It might be an invitation, but it’s not so blatant that it might not be, either…