He gives me a smirk. “Just practicing.”
“Do you know what time it is?” I grab a plastic cup, fill it with water, and dup it over his head, not caring as the shampoo burns his eyes. He squints and mumbles a curse, but he’s too tired to actually rub it off.
When the soap suds fizzle out, I drape his arm over my shoulder and lug his body to his bedroom. This time, he cooperates and helps me.
He collapses on the duvet, and I spend the next few minutes drying him off with a towel like he’s my pet dog. He stares at the ceiling, transfixed. I try to talk to him, needing him responsive for the luncheon.
“We stayed out really late last night for Charlie’s saxophone gig at Eight Ball,” I remind him as I search in the drawers for a suitable outfit.
He laughs lightly.
“What’s so funny?”
“Charlie,” he muses with bitterness. “My best friend.”
I swallow hard and take a deep breath, trying to keep it together. I can do this. I find another pair of boxer-briefs, slacks and a powder blue button-down. I turn back to him, debating on whether or not I’ll have to see his junk.
His sopping underwear soaks his comforter, too wet to leave on with a pair of pants.
“Can you change yourself?” I ask. “I just want to limit the number of times I see your penis.”
He tries to prop his weight up and succeeds, holding himself upright on the bed. I’m impressed. And also, sort of, starting to regret talking about his penis. Especially with the way he’s looking at me. He blinks a few times before saying, “Leave them on the bed.” I set the stack of clothes beside him and grab my dress that’s slung over his desk chair.
Worry still beats in my chest. I enter my room and replace my soaked underwear before slipping into my dress. Is he going to be coherent enough to have a conversation?
In prep school, his father used to ground Lo as he stumbled home from a late night of drinking or when he found his raided and drained liquor cabinet. When Lo’s grades started tanking, Mr. Hale threatened to ship his son to a military academy for young boys, thinking the structure would be beneficial for a rowdy teenager. I’m not even sure he connected the events and understood that Lo’s real problem was alcohol.
In reflection, he needed AA or rehab, not a blue blood manufacturing camp. Instead, I gave him me: a scapegoat for his constant bingeing. That summer, we made the deal. And as soon as he told Jonathan that he started dating Greg Calloway’s daughter, his slate wiped blank. Mr. Hale slapped him on the back, told Lo that I’d be good for him, and if I wasn’t, he’d find a way to change his behavior. So we masked our lifestyles in order to continue them.
Even though Lo hardly became a model citizen in his early teenage years, my parents were overjoyed at the news of our relationship. The sound of a Calloway-Hale union surpassed the quality of the man on my arm. As if it’s 1794 and our marriage will garner military power and land rights. Hello, we are not royalty.
With our new alliance, we lied for each other and hid our infidelities, playing the role of doting boyfriend and girlfriend. The deeper we sink, the harder it is to crawl out. I fear the moment where neither of us can breathe again—when someone discovers our secrets. At any moment, everything can crumble beneath us. The dangerous game both excites and terrifies me.
I return to Lo’s room and relax when I see him fully dressed, leaning his side wearily against the bedframe. His shirt is unbuttoned and untucked.
At least he has pants on.
“Can you help me?” he asks casually. Without slurring!
I nod and take small steps towards him. I skim the hem of his button-down, and his hot, liquor breath prickles my skin. To avoid any bubbling feelings, I make a mental note to grab a pack of mints before we leave.
“I’ll be fine by the time we get there,” he assures me.
“I know.” I avoid eye contact as my fingers fumble with the button by his taut abs.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly and then laughs. “At least I gave you something to fill your spank bank.”
I sigh heavily. I don’t purposefully fantasize about Loren Hale to get aroused. That would be way too awkward each time I meet his eyes. It’s already bad enough it happens on accident. “You’re not in my spank bank, Lo.” I think he might complain or laugh, but he looks confused and kind of hurt. I don’t have time to dig through the meaning.
“Sorry then,” he snaps, agitated. He feels bad, and I suddenly wish I just played along. He loses his footing in his drunk stupor and falls back into the mattress. To catch myself from tumbling to the floor, I hold onto his arms tightly, but that sends me right into him. And when time starts to slow, I realize that my hand is planted firmly on his chest; my legs are pressed against his, and the only thing that really separates us is his pants and my dress.