The Kiss Principle (Hazardverse: Sidetracks)

15

Zé, it turned out, was a lot of things. He was sweet, obviously. He was kind. He was patient. He was a world-class doofus. He had that lazy smile that turned me inside out. He was hot, okay? In bed, he was thoughtful, generous, and exciting. And, it turned out, he had moved into my head and was taking up a lot of space.

After getting up to feed Igz, I stayed awake a long time, thinking. A year from now, we’d be...what? I mean, what was this? A onetime thing? A meaningless hookup? Neither of those captured the fact that we lived in the same house and saw each other all day, every day. Fuck buddies? Maybe. I mean, we were friends, certainly. Good friends, actually, especially since we hadn’t known each other for long. But we’d clicked from the beginning: I was an asshole, and he was Zé, and that meant we worked perfectly together. And the best part was that nothing ever felt complicated or messy or difficult. He was so easy to be with. So easy to spend time with. He wasn’t a talker, but when he did, I could listen to him for as long as he wanted to talk, and he could tell me about what Igz had done that day, or something interesting he’d read (I was going to have to get a subscription to The Atlantic ), or something funny he’d seen on a walk. Or we didn’t have to talk at all. We could sit there and watch TV. Or we didn’t even need TV. We could be together in the same space, and I didn’t have to do anything, and every once in a while, I’d look up and think about how his hair was hanging in his eyes again, or he’d be looking up too and he’d smile before he went back to his phone, and he had this way of raising his hips and straightening his shirt, and sometimes I could see the ridges of his abs—

Well, I thought as I heard my own thoughts, that answers one question: I’m definitely bi.

So, we could do this. We could be together. Fuck buddies who were also amazing friends, two guys who wanted to spend time together, wanted to spend every minute together, who worked together and lived together and were raising a child together, who had mind-blowing sex and shared a bed.

Sure, I thought, and the voice in my head sounded a lot like mine when I was about to drop a particularly devastating truth bomb on Augustus. Or you could nut up and admit that you’re in love with him.

My first reaction was to push it away. And then...not. Because was it so scary? From ten thousand feet up, it probably sounded like a lot—I mean, I’d known him a little more than a month. But we’d been together so much of that time. Gone through so much together. Everything with Igz, the good and the bad. Lou and the job and the interview. Mom and Cannon. He’d even listened to me talk about Chuy and Augustus. He’d seen me lose my shit, and a couple of times, he’d lost his. And instead of going our separate ways, here we were. Together. That meant something, right?

In the other room, Igz began to cry.

Zé stirred, but I pressed him back into the mattress and kissed his nape. “I’ll get her.”

His hand snaked around and caught me as I was trying to rise. He turned and kissed me. Then he flopped back onto the bed and, to judge by his breathing, was asleep again instantly.

“You could have at least pretended to fight me on it,” I whispered as I got up.

He started to snore.

Igz wasn’t happy with me, and she let me know it. I changed her and got her a bottle, and she was a pleasant weight in my arm as I made coffee. Then we sat at the table, and I got out my phone, and I said, “Since you’re a girl, feel free to help me out at any point. And don’t internalize that. And don’t attribute this to casual sexism.”

Fortunately, she was in a milk coma and couldn’t tell me what she thought about me.

What was I supposed to do now? That was the question I was hung up on. I mean, I liked him. Okay, no denying that. The sex had been fantastic. Check that box. We already lived together, so… That was where it got weird. I mean, did I ask him on a date? To our living room? To watch SportsCenter together?

Igz told me what she thought about that with a loud belch.

“Everyone’s a critic,” I said. “But you haven’t given me a single idea.”

What about flowers? Or breakfast? Or breakfast in bed with flowers? I could call in an order right now, go pick it up, and be back before he got out of bed. That would be some romantical shit, right? I almost called Augustus, and then I slammed on the brakes. First, because it would mean telling him everything I’d kept from him—all the bullshit with Chuy, Igz, Mom and Cannon, all of it. And second, because—

Why?

Because I didn’t want to tell him, not until I knew it was more than a fuck-buddy sleepover.

“Sure,” I told Igz. “That sounded good, right?”

Igz did not agree.

But maybe breakfast in bed and flowers would be way too much? Zé was so cool. So relaxed. Maybe he’d wake up, and his eyes would get a little wider when he saw the food and the flowers and me, the sex-deprived, affection-starved loser who, after a night that had barely gone beyond heavy petting, had fallen head over heels in love.

“I am not pathetic,” I told Igz.

She closed her eyes. The queen could not be bothered with such horseshit.

Maybe a date. But a cool date. Like, something impressive, something that would make him think, Okay, Fernando might have his shit together sometimes, occasionally, when he needs to be clutch. I had a vague picture of a hot air balloon. Or—maybe pay an Italian guy to sing to us? That was a thing, right? On a boat? In a canal?

A voice that sounded a little too much like Augustus when he was trying not to laugh said, You’re thinking of Venice, dumbshit .

“Well, I don’t know,” I growled at Igz. She turned her face into my chest and snuggled into me. “You are being zero fucking help.”

Footsteps alerted me, and I looked up as Zé came into the room (with his cane, because he’s a smart boy). He wore a pair of trunks and a baggy, threadbare tee, and his hair was a riot. He looked at me, and the panicked thought flashed through my head that he knew, that he could tell with one glance that I was totally out of my head for him, and he was going to get weird or act differently or—just kill me—laugh. But that lazy smile rolled across his face, and he bent and kissed me, and he kissed Igz, and he scruffed the back of my head as he moved to get coffee. “Who are you talking to?”

“Igz.”

He did laugh at that. “What’s she telling you?”

“Nothing. She’s being withholding. She gets that from my mom.”

Zé kissed me again as he sat at the table. He curled those big hands around his mug, and his eyes floated away, and then they came back, and the lazy smile turned at the corner with a hint of self-mockery.

“I’m nervous,” he said.

“Oh. Uh, yeah.”

That made him laugh again, and he relaxed and sipped his coffee. “I don’t want you to think I’m playing games or that, I don’t know, I was messing around. I like you. I wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t like you. And I know it’s complicated because of our situation, but I wanted you to know that I want to see where this goes. If you’re interested, you know. In me. Or in a relationship. So, I was wondering what you think and how you’re feeling.” He looked like he tried to stop, but more slipped out. “Oh God, are you freaking out?”

“You can’t do that!” It came out a little louder than I intended, and Igz woke with a start. I shushed her and rocked her as I lowered my voice. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“What?”

“I’ve been going crazy out here. I’ve been turning myself inside out trying to figure out what you might be thinking and what you might be feeling and if I’m a colossal dope and how am I supposed to tell you that I think I might possibly I don’t know be in love with you and if breakfast in bed would make you go running for the hills. I was thinking about—” It threatened to rise into a shout, and I only half managed to strangle it. “—Venice!”

“Uh—Venice?”

“Yes! And then you come out here, and you say exactly what you feel, and you—you make it so fucking easy, and now I’m ten times as much in my head because why couldn’t I have done that, why couldn’t I have been mature and self-possessed and acted like a fucking adult. I’ll tell you why: because I am taking advice from a goddamn infant.”

“There is so much happening right now,” Zé murmured.

“Didn’t your family ever teach you not to talk about your emotions? Good Christ, Zé. We’re supposed to play mind games, go full psych ops, have a million different misunderstandings and be absolutely fucking miserable because that is still better than being totally, fully emotionally available and vulnerable and all that fucking shit.”

“Just want to check: did you tell me you love me?”

“I said I think I love you!” It was a whisper-shout because of Igz. “And I didn’t mean to say it out loud.”

The slow smile unfurled again.

“And I’m feeling exposed right now,” I said. “And this is Igz’s fault because she wouldn’t give me any good ideas for a date.”

“I think I love you too.”

I groaned. “Zé.”

“What?” His laugh mixed outrage and confusion. “I’m trying to make you feel better. There. Now I said it too.”

“Don’t you understand that I have spent my entire life with a narcissist mom and two walking loads of come I have to call brothers? I cannot handle an emotionally healthy partner. I need someone seriously fucked up. Maybe you should tell me you taped our sex last night and you already posted it to your blog.”

“I don’t think anyone has had a blog since 1999.”

“That’s good. That was borderline bitchy. Say something like that again.”

He took my hand. “Fernando.” He kissed my knuckles. He looked into my eyes. After what felt like a long time, he said, “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” I said and tried to pull my hand back.

Zé held on. “Lots of big stuff, right? Last night. And now this morning.”

“Yes.” I tried again, but he was like a terrier. “I’m not happy about it.”

Those fuzzy eyebrows went up.

“Uh, I mean, I’m happy about the part with our dicks.”

“Good God.”

Since he wasn’t letting go, I decided to hold on to him too, and I squeezed his hand. “I mean, I wasn’t joking about all that stuff, Zé. Not totally. You’ve seen my family. I meant what I said. I feel strongly for you—”

“You think you love me.”

“Yes, God damn it. Can I please finish a fucking sentence?”

He kissed my knuckles again, maybe to hide a smile.

“I am seriously fucked up.” I tried to soften my tone. “I want to see where this goes, but—”

The sound of the door opening interrupted me. Then voices moved into the house.

“I said I’m done talking about it,” Mom snapped. Her voice was high and tense, like she was at the edge of her control.

“Well, I’m not done,” Cannon said. “I didn’t kiss her, she kissed me—”

The crack of a slap rang throughout the house.

“You fucking bitch!”

I was out of my seat, passing Igz to Zé, before Cannon had finished the words. When I reached the living room, he froze mid-step as he advanced on Mom. The cute little white boy had a red cheek now, and he looked like he hadn’t slept: his eyes were bloodshot, his stupid blond-broccoli hair was a mess, and even from across the room, I could smell the pot and booze on him. Mom didn’t look much better. She still wore what she must have had on when they went out the night before, her little black dress and a new pair of heels, but her makeup was smudged, and it made her face look strangely skewed, as though she were a portrait of herself, and the paint had smeared.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Nothing,” Cannon said. Then, to Mom, “I want to talk to you in your room.”

Mom laughed and turned to me. Cannon caught her arm.

“Get your fucking hand off her!”

Cannon drew his hand back like he’d been burned, and his face got redder. I saw the indecision in his body: the little dry-humper thinking about if he wanted to take a swing.

Before he could, Mom said, “Don’t talk to him like that.”

“Talk to him like that? He called you a fucking bitch.”

“This isn’t any of your business.”

“You’re my mother!”

“Fernando,” Zé said from the kitchen.

I shot him a look and turned back to Mom. “You don’t want me getting involved?”

“I’m handling this,” she said.

“Yeah,” Cannon said. “Stay out of this.”

“Whose fucking house do you think this is, pencil-dick? Get over here and say that to my face.”

“Fernando!” Mom took a deep breath and straightened her hair. “Chuy called me last night. He wants to come home. And he’s ready to do rehab.”

The pivot in the conversation threw me off-balance. “What—Chuy called you?”

“He’s in a halfway house in Oakland.”

“He called you? Hold on, that piece of shit has a phone? I thought he was dead. Where the fuck has he been?”

“I don’t know, Fernando. He’s sick.”

“And now he wants to come home?”

“Lower your voice,” Mom said. “You’re scaring the baby.”

“The baby? That baby?” I pointed. “That’s his baby, Mom. His. And he left her here. Abandoned her. And I’ve been picking up his shit again. Like always. Now he wants to come home?”

“He’s your brother, Fernando. He wants to get better.”

“Fernando can’t go today,” Zé said. The sound of his voice startled me; I’d forgotten, for a moment, he was there. “He has an interview.”

Mom turned an icy look on him. Then her attention came back to me. “Well, I can’t do it. I’m a wreck. Look at me, I’m shaking. I need to take my medicine, and you know I’m not supposed to drive on my medicine.”

Your medicine, I thought.

“Is that what you want? Do you want me to drive up there? Because I will, Fernando. Even though you know Dr. Gould told me not to drive after I take my medicine. Fine, I’ll do it. Fine.”

And she would. She’d get in her car (that I paid for). And she’d pop her zanies (that I paid for). And she’d maybe make it to the other side of LA before she pulled into a strip mall and had a meltdown and called me, sobbing. And I’d go. I’d go pick her up. I’d get her home. And then I’d drive to Oakland, but only after I’d added an extra three hours to my day dealing with her bullshit.

“I am not paying for his fucking rehab again,” I said.

“Fernando,” Zé said.

Mom touched her eyes—perfectly dewy with tears. “I’ll get a job. I’ll pay for it.”

“He can live in this house,” I said, “as long as he’s clean, but I am not throwing my money down the fucking drain again.”

“I said I’d do it! Why are you always so awful to me?” Mom’s tears came faster, and she turned and headed down the hall. Cannon shot me a dirty look and went after her. A moment later, her door shut, but it didn’t stop the sound of her sobbing.

I tented my hands over my nose. I took a few deep breaths. Tried to, anyway.

“Hey,” Zé said.

When his hand touched my back, I flinched.

“Hey,” he said again more softly.

I shook my head. I’d only had a couple of migraines in my life, thank God, but I remembered the auras. This was like that. The way my vision seemed to shrink. The way the light seemed too bright. I headed for my room. I opened the door too hard, and it bounced back from the wall.

Clothes. I was pulling on a pair of jeans when Zé appeared in the doorway. He held Igz against his chest. She was crying softly. Had been crying, I realized. For how long? I tried to think back and couldn’t remember.

“I know it’s your day off,” I said, “but can you watch her?”

“Of course.”

“Did you have plans? You probably had plans.”

“Fernando, you can’t go to Oakland today. You’re meeting with the senior management team at Lou’s grow.”

“Apparently, because I have a jerkwad excuse for a brother, I’m not.” I buttoned the jeans and dug around for socks. “It’s fine. I wouldn’t have been able to pay for his rehab on what they were going to offer me anyway.”

Zé’s silence seemed to take up all the space in the room. I pulled on a pair of socks. Igz was settling into her last hiccupy cries, curled into his shoulder.

“Where’s your cane?” I asked.

“This is your dream job. That’s what you told me.”

“The key word there is dream.”

“Lou loves you. She’s so excited for you to work together. And you’re wonderful at what you do; you’d be a huge asset. It’s something you’re interested in and excited about.”

“This is nice. Twist the knife a little more, would you?”

“I know you’re hurting right now, and I know you’re scared and worried about your brother and your mom, but I think you need someone to tell you that you don’t have to go running off to Oakland today. Chuy has been fine on his own for weeks. He’ll be fine for another day. You can get him tomorrow.”

“I can’t, actually. You heard my mom. She’ll drive up there herself. Try to, I mean.” I looked around. Keys, wallet. But my phone. “Where’s my phone?”

“So, let her.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I do, actually.” He adjusted Igz on his shoulder. His voice was soft and low, and he stroked her back. I knew how that felt, those broad hands moving slowly, calmingly. “Every time your mom has an emergency, she calls you. And you fix it for her. Because you’re a good son. You’re a good man.”

“She’ll fall apart halfway there. Less than half.”

“So, let her,” he said again. “She won’t die from it.”

I laughed, but I’ve always had a dark sense of humor. I’d been fourteen when they had to pump her stomach. She’d been fine, but I remembered the doctor sitting me down, this stern-faced old white guy with a cap of iron-gray hair. His hand heavy on my shoulder. You saved her life , he said. If you hadn’t been there …

“Zé, I appreciate the pep talk, but you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You deserve to live your own life, Fernando. This isn’t an emergency. Nobody’s in danger.”

“Chuy—”

“Chuy can come down on a bus. You can book him a flight. You’ve worked so hard to be where you are, Fernando. You’ve given so much up for everyone else. You deserve to be happy. Please don’t throw this opportunity away.”

“You know what will happen if I try to put him on a bus? He’ll get to the station, and he’ll score. Or he’ll score in the Uber on the way to the station. He’ll never get on the bus. Or if he does, he’ll score on the bus, and he’ll get off somewhere between here and there, and I won’t find him again for six months. He’s an addict.”

“You want to know something about people with substance abuse disorders?” Zé asked, and his voice was shaky, and his eyes looked liquid. “You can’t fix them, Fernando. No matter how much you love them. No matter how hard you try. You can’t control them. You can’t make them be who you want. You can’t. And I know you love him, and I know you want to save him, but you can’t.”

Mom had stopped crying. Igz was no longer fussing. I put my finger to my ear; it felt like when the pressure changed, like I needed to pop it.

“I’m sorry,” Zé said, “but someone needed to tell you that.”

I found my phone in the kitchen and left.