Page 66 of Center of Gravity

“I thought if maybe I saw him again. Talked to him again, it’d make more sense. I don’t know if I fucking hurt his feelings or if he’s used to that or, shit, if maybe he thought it was kind of funny.”

“He probably didn’t think it was funny. But as far as I know, he also has a pretty thick skin. He’s pretty popular actually, you know. Or you don’t know, of course, but he’s got his own little following of go-go groupies.” Reese was a fantastic dancer and super hot. “But either way, if you’re going to talk to him, you should do it sober.”

“Is he umm…trans?”

“I don’t think so. I think he’s either genderqueer or enjoys crossdressing, or is just nonconforming. I’m not sure. You’d have to ask him.” I explained the nuances as best as I could, given his level of intoxication and my own state of exhaustion.

“So I’m at least bi.”

“Not necessarily. But, dude, I can’t tell you what you are, only you can. And if you want to see him again and try to sort it out, that’s fine, but you need to do that shit sober.”

At home that night,I sat in the middle of my bed as I’d done weeks earlier, tossing my phone back and forth in indecision. Rob and I didn’t really talk during the week. Occasionally a text, which was how I’d hear on Fridays whether he would be coming down or not, but it was radio silence other than that. And it was growing a little strange, I had to admit, as if we were coasting on the fumes of the rapport we’d built over the summer and our plethora of hormones. The sex was still good. Fucking fantastic, actually. Like we saved up our entire week of life frustrations then just cut loose on each other in bed. But that night I wished I felt like I could dial his number and tell him about Tom, tell him about my dad, and not worry I was bothering him or bringing the outside into our bubble. I wasn’t sure how much of my hesitation was due to him and how much of it was me and my own anxiety.

After some more back and forth with myself, I sent him a text. It was almost three in the morning, so I knew he wouldn’t reply, and it was possible he even had his phone off as I’d seen him do before. Either way, I typed out my message and sent it.

It was short, and it was simple, and it was true:I miss you.

21

Rob

Imiss you.A week later, I hadn’t deleted the message. When I clicked on Alex’s name in my messages, it was still there, appended and overwritten with my text the following evening:Are you busy Saturday?I supposed that was an answer in its own right, wasn’t it? Vague and cowardly, but there it was. I thought that if he brought it up when I saw him, we’d talk about it, but he didn’t bring it up and neither did I.

We spent Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning together, no mention. Maybe he’d forgotten, maybe he’d tossed it off half drunk and was embarrassed the next day. Regardless, we played at ignorance and continued as usual. But it stuck with me because when I’d first opened the text the next morning, an alternating tide of cold and warm rushed through me. I missed him in the same moment that I felt myself drawing back and retreating. Being with Alex was easy, sexually speaking, but being with him in any way beyond that was bound to be complicated, considering the life logistics that would be involved. But I would think about that text often in the coming weeks and months, wondering had I responded with the cold, hard truth, if things would have turned out differently. Because I’d missed him, too. It was still on my phone, this subtle but cumbersome marker of a turning point I cast a purposefully blind eye to.

* * *

“Rob? How many?”Scott asked. I glanced down at my hand again, considering the pair of queens that sat next to a three, five, and seven of three different suits. I pulled them out, tossing them into the discard pile.

“Three.” The trade gave me an ace high that might work out, but these guys were cutthroats, so I’d likely end up folding.

Tuesdays had become de facto poker night with Scott and a few other business professional types who lived in the complex. Scott, I had learned, was the president of one of the local banks. Smith was a pharmaceutical sales rep. Ben and Solomon were in the tech industry, and Dom was a lawyer. That was the ever-present core crew, and there were a few other guys who rotated in and out. Scott typically hosted. I liked his place. The set up was the same as mine, but it was a cozy and well-considered space with a palette of pale greens and abstract ink washes of historic Savannah avenues on the walls.

Ben led the hand with a raise, and everyone else at the table met it except Solomon, who folded. Then Scott raised and the rest of the guys bailed. I eyed him over my hand. He had a few tells when he got lax, but he wasn’t lax right now. His face was an imperturbable mask. Until he caught me eyeing him.

“You’re not going to find any cracks.” He grinned.

“You’re bluffing,” I countered.

He kept smiling. I liked him. He was nice, genuine, and much like his apartment, always well put together.

“He makes no sense. That’s how he gets us,” Smith said. “Dom, you’re the lawyer, you tell us: is he bluffing?”

Dom laughed as Scott protested, “That’s not how this goes. There’s no ganging up.”

I threw my chips in the pile. “I stand by it. You’re bluffing.”

He laid out his full house, smile widening, “Not this time.”

I grunted and tossed my cards onto the pile as he raked in his chips.

Once the rest of the guys had left, I stayed behind to help him clean up. I’d started doing this recently. It gave us time to talk, and I enjoyed his company.

I picked up a few empty wine glasses and carried them to the sink as he sorted chips and replaced them in the case.

“Any bites on the house yet?” he asked as I rinsed the glasses and stowed them in the dishwasher. I’d filled him in on my parents, the house, my job. I suppose he’d become a genuine friend, and it was nice to have one who wasn’t associated with my accounting firm.

“Nope. Plenty of showings but no bites.”