In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)(5)
When he leaves, I toe my dress shoes off, trying not to notice that anyone who looked could see the soles are worn almost through, but they’re polished to a mirror shine—or, at least, they were before my trek in through the woods. Five-dollar-new-shoes: that’s what my dad always called a shoeshine.
He knocks a minute later and hands me a pile of neatly folded sweatpants and a T-shirt. Then he hands me a drink.
“I thought you could use something to warm you up.”
I sniff it. Whiskey. I down it like a shot.
“Thanks.”
He backs out of the bathroom and I undress and step under the hot water with a sigh.
I can’t let myself think any more about this shit show of a day—much less the fact that I’m in the shower of a total stranger who may or may not be about to axe murder me and wrap me up in this shower curtain—or I’m going to lose it. Instead, I pretend like Ginger is giving me a stern talking-to because, unlike mine, Ginger’s talking-tos sometimes work. Well, first Ginger would tell me to have a f*cking drink, so I’m good on that count. Then it would probably go something like this:
Me: I’m having a nervous breakdown. I have no clue what I should be doing with my life. What if my dad is right and academia is for *s who think they’re better than everyone else but never do a day’s work in their lives?
Ginger: Your dad is a f*cking idiot. We know this. First of all, you don’t have to know what you’re doing with your whole life. Just what you’re doing right now. And right now, you’re being a professor. Second, you don’t think you’re better than everyone. Third, you’ve worked hard your entire life.
Me: Okay, but what if Richard’s right and I’m not really smart enough to do this? I mean, I wasn’t smart enough to realize that he was having sex with approximately 10 percent of Philadelphia, even though everyone else knew.
Ginger: Richard is a f*cking idiot. Also, he looks like a boring version of an Abercrombie and Fitch model. You hate that all-American shit. You only went out with him because you were insecure about being the only one at Penn whose parents weren’t professor-types. You were flattered when he wanted to go out with you because you thought it meant you were smart. Well, you are smart, but that was stupid. You’re smart enough to be a professor; that’s why you’re going to get this job.
Me: Fuck me, Ginge—this place is ridiculous. I’m probably the only queer within a hundred miles. There’s a park near here called Gaylord, and I bet no one even thinks it’s funny. Seriously, if I get this job I’ll have to be celibate. Until some cute little gay undergrad catches me in a weak moment, after I haven’t had sex in seventeen years, and then I’ll get fired for inappropriate conduct, or put in jail for sexual harassment.
Ginger: Look, kid, you’re flipping out over maybes and you’re overthinking, as usual. Just see what this job is before you’re so positive it has nothing to offer you. Ride the wave. Besides, you know the stats. I don’t care if it’s the lunch lady, your accountant, or the butch lumberjack; there have got to be homosexuals, even in that godforsaken little slice of Minnesota.
Me: Michigan.
Ginger: Whatever, pumpkin.
She’s right, as usual. And, of course, her mention of butch lumberjacks brings me right back to… shit, I don’t even know his name.
I MAKE my way back into the living room, holding up my borrowed sweatpants in an attempt not to trip and kill myself. The T-shirt sleeves reach past my elbows. It’s like when I used to have to wear my older brothers’ stuff, only worse because I wasn’t concerned about looking attractive in front of my brothers, who would’ve told me I looked like an idiot no matter what I was wearing. Of course, it makes no sense to worry about how I look in front of this man either, since it’s not like some super masculine straight guy is going to care. These clothes do have one advantage over my brothers’, though: whereas my brothers’ hand-me-downs smelled like stale sweat beneath industrial-strength bleach, these smell like fabric softener and cedar.
As I walk past the fire, the dog lifts her eyelids and regards me sleepily, but doesn’t stir. I can hear noise coming from the kitchen.
“What’s your name?” I ask the man’s broad back, where he’s bent over the sink, washing a plate.
The muscles in his back and shoulders tense, as if I startled him. He turns around and his eyes immediately go to my hips.
“Those things are gonna fall off you,” he says. “Come here.” He rummages around in a drawer next to the sink.
Be still, my fantasies, I insist as I step toward him. The last thing I need is to pop a boner in this guy’s sweatpants and have him kick my ass. Not that it’d be the first time.
He squats down, gathers the excess fabric around my hips, and folds it over, then holds it together with a binder clip. I must look confused because he shrugs and mutters, “I use them for chip clips.”
“Thanks,” I say, and roll the T-shirt sleeves up a little so I don’t look like a child.
“What’s yours?”
“Huh? Oh, I’m Daniel.” I stick out a hand to him in a weirdly professional gesture, as if we haven’t been together for an hour, as if he didn’t just binder-clip the waist of my borrowed sweatpants. But he just takes my hand in his large palm and shakes it firmly. God, his hands are so warm.