The Kiss Principle (Hazardverse: Sidetracks)

8

April turned into May. Mom and Cannon came home, and while I expected some kind of explosion, Mom had, instead, been thrilled. Which, in hindsight, I should have anticipated.

“We have a manny. Oh my God, Courtney is going to be so jealous!”

Meanwhile, Zé had settled in nicely. After that first, kind-of argument about moving into the house, Zé hadn’t shown any kind of discomfort or resistance. I cleaned out Chuy’s room and got him set up in there. He didn’t bring many personal belongings into the house. His clothes, his phone and charger, his toiletries. No pictures of family or friends. No…junk, for lack of a better word. No clutter of trinkets or mementos.

In the mornings, he was up before I was—he did yoga on the deck, then he showered, and then he started the day. The only reason I knew was because one day, Igz had woken up earlier than usual. I’d carried her into the kitchen, and there he’d been: in nothing but a pair of tiny shorts, dawn glowing on the defined muscles of his arms and back and legs as he moved himself through the poses. Sweat glistened on his shoulders. It gathered at the small of his back. A lock of hair clung to his temple in a curl. This early, the day was so quiet, and the sky above the valley was white softening to blue. One of the jacarandas had started to bloom, the purple blossoms barely starting to open, and they trembled in the light breeze. I thought I could feel that breeze. I thought something was trembling inside me too. I’d stood there, watching him as I fed Igz, until he scooted off the mat and started to roll it up. And then I’d realized I was being a creep, and I’d hurried out of the kitchen and pretended to watch TV.

Even though I’d told him—repeatedly—that he didn’t have to take care of Igz until eight and that he was off duty at five, Zé refused to listen. He’d say, “I don’t mind,” and “It’s fine,” and “I’m happy to do it.” One time, I sat him down and asked him if he thought he had to do extra duty because he was staying here now. He burst out laughing and went into the kitchen to make dinner.

When Mom was home, Zé often retreated to his room after dinner. But more often than not, Mom was out with Cannon, or she was seeing Shannon, her life coach, or she was getting drinks with Courtney and Kelli and Sara. Those nights, Zé didn’t go to his room. We ate dinner together—more and more frequently at the kitchen table, instead of in front of the TV. He told me what Igz had done that day. He asked me what I had done. Since I worked from home, sometimes there wasn’t much to tell, but he was smart and curious, and he asked good questions, and he wanted to know about the doctors I visited, and how I pitched a new drug. Every once in a while, I’d realize I was boring him. I’d be in the middle of saying something, and he’d be staring at me, and I could tell he wasn’t hearing a single word coming out of my mouth. So, I’d ask him about his day, or about Igz, and he’d blush and stammer something, and then things would feel normal again.

He was still a giant goof. He gave himself and Igz shaving cream beards one day, and thank God I had muted my Zoom because I almost shat myself laughing. Or one time, he was giggling uncontrollably while I was trying to make a presentation. And then, out of nowhere he shouted, “Oh my God!” When I got to the kitchen, he was still holding a bubble wand, the bubble solution dripping onto the floor as he stared at Igz.

“What?” I asked. “What happened?”

He glanced at me, as though he’d forgotten I was still there. And then a grin bloomed on his face, and he blew a bubble. He looked at me again. Waiting for something.

And then I saw it.

Igz was smiling.

“Holy fucking shit,” I said.

He laughed.

“Holy fucking shit!”

The rest of the day was bubble day.

Bea and I continued texting, which was something of a minor miracle. Before long, we’d agreed to meet, and to my surprise, Bea suggested dinner.

“I thought she’d want to do coffee,” I told Zé as I buttoned up a shirt. He lounged on the bed, tickling Igz’s stomach as she lay next to him. “Why would she pick dinner?”

“Because she likes you.”

“But she’s never met me. What if I’m an asshole?”

“What if.”

“What the fuck was that?”

Zé pulled up the collar of his Rip Curl tee to hide a smile.

Examining myself in the mirror, I said, “This looks terrible, right?” I started to undo the buttons. “This is a disaster.”

With one last tickle for Igz’s tummy, Zé stood. He flicked through the clothes in my closet, sliding the hangers along the rod. He glanced at me as I slid out of my shirt, and then his eyes went back to the closet. Then he pulled out an oxford. The front pocket and the collar were a different color than the rest of the shirt; there was probably a name for that kind of thing.

“Where are your dark jeans?”

“What dark jeans?”

“Oh my God, Fernando.”

He rummaged through my dresser—mercifully skipping the underwear drawer—and tossed me a different pair of jeans. Then he grabbed Igz and stepped out of the room. I changed into the jeans. I buttoned up the shirt. I checked myself in the mirror. I didn’t look like I was going to embarrass myself, but hey, I hadn’t had a chance to open my mouth yet.

I found Zé in the living room. He was putting Igz in the car seat, explaining to Mom how the buckles and straps worked.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m going out for a quick bite with the girls,” Mom said. “They are going to die. You know Sara’s daughter can’t have a baby, right?”

“Real nice, Mom.”

“I think I’m going to call her Ava. Do you like that, Ava?”

“Her name isn’t Ava. It’s Igz. And I don’t want you taking her to a bar.”

“We’re not going to a bar. We’re going to a perfectly lovely bistro. You’re going to love it, aren’t you, Ava?”

“Igz,” I said. “You said you were going to stay home. You said you were going to watch her so I could go out.”

“I am going to watch her, Fernando. I’m taking her with me, aren’t I?”

“I don’t want other people holding her.”

“Oh my God.”

“I don’t want them to get her sick. I don’t want your weird friends breathing on her and touching her and getting in her face.”

“Your uncle is rude sometimes,” Mom said to Igz. “It’s because he’s nervous about his date.”

“I’m not nervous,” I said. “I don’t want them vaping around her either. She’s got sensitive lungs.”

“Ava and I are going to my room,” Mom said. “Until a certain grumpypants leaves.”

And, true to her word, she picked up Igz in the car seat and carried her down the hall.

“I know you heard me about the vaping,” I called after her.

Zé had watched the whole exchange without saying a word, his face unreadable.

“Well?” I said.

“Auggie got you that shirt.”

“Thanks a fucking lot.”

His smile slipped out, and he studied me for a moment. Then he undid the topmost button of my shirt.

“I’m not Magic Mike,” I said.

“Why am I not surprised you’ve seen that movie?”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

He ducked his head as he took me by the wrist, but the smile was bigger now. He cuffed one sleeve. His hands were steady and warm, and he took his time.

“I saw the previews, that’s all.”

“Bull. Shit.”

I laughed in spite of myself, and he was grinning as he worked on my other sleeve. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I listened to his breathing and the rustle of the shirt.

“Don’t you have any friends?” I asked.

His hands stopped moving, frozen in the act of adjusting my sleeve. Then he said, “A few.”

“Shit, that’s not what I meant.”

When he looked up, his face was unreadable again. He smoothed a hand down my chest. I was painfully aware of the belly I was carrying around, how it pulled the shirt out. He followed the curve of my body, and when he reached the hem of the shirt, he straightened it. Then he stepped back and said, “You look handsome.”

“I meant—I don’t know, I was thinking about how nice you were being, and I don’t have any friends because I’m an asshole, like this ripped-open, plundered asshole, and so then I thought but you’re nice, so you should have friends, but you’re here most nights, and you’re here weekends, and I was trying to ask if you needed more time off.”

“No,” Zé said, “you weren’t.”

“Well, I thought of it when I was trying to cover my ass, so it still technically counts.”

“Did you say ‘plundered’?”

“I figure that’s pretty close, right? Like an asshole, but an asshole that’s tore up. Wrecked. Shredded.”

He was fighting a smile; you could tell because the corner of his mouth gave him away. “I don’t like it when you talk about yourself that way.”

“I was literally an asshole to you five seconds ago.”

“You asked me a question without thinking about how it sounded, Fernando. I’m not made of glass. Trust me, you’ll know when I’m upset.”

But I thought maybe he was upset. Not with me. But the question had bothered him, and now that I’d said it out loud, it bothered me too. He was young. He was undeniably attractive. He was sweet. He was a dick-balls nerd. And he was gay. Why wasn’t he out partying? Why wasn’t he out hooking up and trolling for dick and living Augustus’s wet dream (or what had been his wet dream before he’d found his pet dinosaur)? He’d make someone happy; the thought came through like the first clear note of a bell. Like this, sharing a life together, he’d make someone incredibly happy. Happy to come home and spend an hour hearing about his day with Igz. Happy to come home and spend the next hour telling him every fucking thing that was wrong with the Dodgers’ current lineup. Happy to look over on a commercial break, to see him falling asleep at the end of the sofa, the way his lips were parted and his breathing was smooth and slow, and tell him to get his ass up and go to bed. And instead, he was here.

For a moment, I felt confused by the thought. Of course he was here. He was supposed to be here.

“You have friends,” Zé said, and at first, I didn’t understand what he was saying. Then I remembered the conversation; it felt like it had happened hours ago. “Lou loves you. And it sounds like her wife loves you too. And I’m sure you have other friends.”

“I don’t.”

“I’m your friend.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

He laughed. “I wouldn’t hang around and listen to an hour-long story about the best edible you ever tried if I didn’t want to, Fernando.” A grin sliced across his expression. “Not unless I was on the clock.”

“You cunt-weasel!”

“Uh, technically, because I’m gay—”

“You little ferret fucker! That was a good story! I drew you a diagram—”

I cut off—in horror—because the little shit was laughing, and doing a poor job of covering it by pretending to scratch his cheek. Through the laughter, he managed to say, “The diagram was cute.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be cute. It was supposed to be—no! No, I am not doing this. Next time, don’t bother listening. Next time, you can go shove a Slim Jim up your chute and ride a fucking meat stick.”

What I’d said came back to me, and who I’d said it to, and the inevitable lawsuits. I had a feeling like I’d stepped off a cliff.

But Zé only laughed harder. Not loud—he was, I was starting learn, never loud. But he had tears in his eyes, and he had to sit on the arm of the sofa and wipe his face as he continued to laugh.

“The diagram was cute?” I bellowed.

He slid onto the sofa and covered his face with his hands.

Down the hall, the sound of a door opening came, and Mom said, “What is going on out here?”

“Nothing,” I snapped.

“Ava and I are practicing our song,” she said. “So, we’d appreciate a little quiet.”

“What song? She’s not even two months old.”

“This is why I wanted girls,” Mom said, her voice growing fainter as the door closed. “Or a gay son.”

“A gay son? What the fuck does that mean? You’ve got Augustus, and he’s gayer than Christmas!”

But the door clicked shut.

Zé drew himself up, no longer laughing, although his face was lit up with—what? Happiness? Contentment? Amusement? All three, maybe. I liked how it looked on him. I hadn’t realized, until now, that while Zé was always kind, always in a good mood, always pleasant, I wasn’t sure he was always happy. He met my gaze, and for a moment, I thought he was going to say something. And then, instead of—well, I wasn’t sure what—he said, “You’re going to be late.”

“Shit.” I grabbed my wallet and keys. At the door, I stopped, because it felt like I ought to say something. The best I could come up with was “Thanks for, uh, all this.”

He smiled crookedly. “What are friends for?”