Page 16

Sitting on a cement stump by the wide, broken sidewalk.

Night breeze playing with my hair.

Exercising every last ounce of patience I got left in me.

He’s not a minute late. Not five minutes late. Nor ten.

I wait here for fifty-four minutes, just shy of an hour, before I finally spot him stumbling his way around the corner. He chose a plaid shirt unbuttoned and flapping open over a loose white tank top, jeans, and those same boots he wore working at the church.

But the closer he gets, I notice his posture seems off, as if he’s lugging a heavy backpack over his shoulders even though nothing is there. His expression seems softer, too, almost timid. I wonder if he struggled long and hard before leaving his place on whether or not to show up at all.

The closer he gets, I realize it doesn’t matter how late he is. Just that he chose to come. He’s forgiven for making me wait.

Then he stops, makes a face at me, and barks, “What?”

Okay, maybe not so easily forgiven. “You’re late.”

“Just a little late, calm down.”

“Almost an hour,” I correct him.

He looks surprised as he pulls out his phone to check, and lets out a sigh. “I had to walk.” He stuffs his phone away, lips twisting as he stares off down the street. “This ain’t exactly next door.”

“You picked the place and time.”

“Thought Juni would give me a ride.”

“I could’ve picked you up.”

“No way.” He eyes me. “I don’t get into cars with strangers.”

I smirk. I’m back to forgiving him again. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you. Almost all the movies started already.”

He huffs at me. “Did I walk all this way just to get berated by you? Like a child? Are you gonna take me over a knee, too?”

“Do you want me to?” I ask with a pinch of attitude.

His eyes go big as he chokes on his next breath of air.

Either I just seriously surprised him, offended him, or excited him with that question. I kinda love that I can’t decipher between those expressions on his face yet.

I nod at the theater. “This is what you like to do? Catch late-night flicks? Got something in mind?”

He still seems stuck on the spanking joke, unable to respond for a second. Was it a joke? Should I have said it more jokingly? Pete always says I’m terrible with humor. Every joke I attempt comes out too dryly, and people sometimes take me seriously, the humor flying over their heads.

My delivery is always like that. Bone-dry. As serious as rabies.

“Yeah,” Anthony finally says. “Used to work here. Years ago.”

“You scoop popcorn into buckets? Or off the floor?”

“Both. All of it. Doesn’t matter. We goin’ in or not?”

Before I even answer, he’s heading off for the doors. I smirk privately to myself, then follow.

The joke’s on him, apparently. The only movie left that hasn’t started is a 9:20 showing of Carnivore Carnival .

Apparently he hates horror movies.

“Hey, don’t skimp on the butter,” grunts Anthony as we stand at the concession counter. “Who trained you? Sheesh, the stuff is practically free, the margins are big, load ‘er up. Is Vince around? He should’ve trained you how to layer the butter.”

The young woman serving us doesn’t look that pleased to see Anthony. She sets the popcorn on the counter. “Mr. Lemon know you’re here?”

Anthony snorts. “Who cares? He adores me deep down. I was his best concession guy.”

“Until you weren’t.”

It suddenly occurs to me that Anthony can’t stand still, and he has that glassy look in his eyes. Should I ask? No, I shouldn’t.

Actually, I will. “Did you take a couple shots before coming?”

He ignores me, leaning over the counter. “Hey, do we still got that two-for-one deal here?”

“We have a no-for-one deal,” she deadpans. “You get no -thing extra for any one- thing.”

He squints back. “That a joke?”

“Your total is $30.”

Right as Anthony is about to explode at the price of two large popcorns and two sodas, I step in front of him and offer my card. She takes it and rings it up as Anthony looks at me in protest. “You got the tickets already. I was gonna get the—”

“It was my idea to hang out tonight, Anthony. I’ll pay.”

He narrows his eyes. “What is this? Am I your date?”

I eye him right back. “Want to be?”

The question causes him to choke—again. His eyes turn into two thin, harsh lines. “I did take a couple shots before leavin’ my place,” he volunteers suddenly, answering my earlier question. “How else do you think I’m gonna get through tonight? Shoot, you really are thick.”

Then he grabs his Coke and popcorn off the counter and is off to the theater. I finish ringing up, give the young woman a polite, slightly-apologetic nod, then take my own items and follow.

There’s surprisingly about ten or so others scattered around the theater for a Thursday night when we take a pair of seats right in the center. I think he’s about to put an empty seat between us, from the hesitation in his body, then finally sits right next to me in an action that seems almost like a surrender. The previews are already on, so we have no chance to talk about anything as we eat our popcorn—and he slurps noisily on his Coke.

One preview for an upcoming rom-com causes Anthony to let out a bark of laughter at something I must have missed, drawing my attention to the side of his face. His eyes glow in the light from the silver screen, and I’m surprised yet again by how striking he looks when he laughs. Some young, non-jaded version of himself comes out, buried inside, eager to discover the wonders of the big world again. It’s like he forgets where he is for a second, who he’s with, what he’s doing, and every last one of his problems goes away, allowing him that moment to laugh.

I wish I could do something to peel away all his problems and let that boy inside him laugh and smile at everything.

Maybe it’s the same guy who threw caution to the wind that night in the church—the guy who kissed me.

And fell asleep cuddling my arm.

Jaded Anthony makes a fierce return after the movie starts. As the closing employee at a carnival runs away from some pursuing creature we never quite get to see, I enjoy the surround sound of Anthony huffing next to me. “Why didn’t he just—? Ugh, so stupid. Why’re you—? Why’d you just—? What a moron. He deserves to die.” He chomps on a mouthful of popcorn, shutting himself up. Actually: “You deserve to die, moron!” he then shouts through his mouthful. A couple of guys a few rows ahead of us turn, annoyed. I’m about to apologize when Anthony shouts at them: “What? He does! He’s an idiot!”

I wish I could say we watch the rest of the movie in peace.

But not two scenes later when a late-night carousel ride turns into another deadly game for the unseen flesh-eating monster, now being called the “Carnivorax”, it looks like Anthony’s holding back from throwing popcorn at the screen. “I don’t get why these idiots barely got two brain cells to rub together. Every time. Every single time. Look, right there … the monster’s gonna come out of the—Yep, told you. Morons.”

Even when the Carnivorax leaps out of nowhere, showing its nightmarish face for the very first time, the obvious “jump-scare” moment that even causes the guys a few rows ahead of us to jerk back, Anthony only rolls his eyes and shouts, “Lame, didn’t even flinch,” at the screen.

I lean into him. “Relax and let everyone else enjoy the movie,” I whisper to him.

“Why should I?”

“Because it’s what you’re supposed to do in a movie theater.”

“You always do what you’re told?” He side-eyes me. “Such a goody-goody, huh? Never broke a rule in your life?”

I feel my spine stiffening up. “Is that what you think of me?”

“That you got a stick up your ass? Don’t matter what I think, it’s just the plain truth.” He turns back to the movie.

“That’s not true. I’m not …” As if in answer, I slouch in my seat a little. “I’m not that uptight.”

“Feels like I’m hanging out with a school principal.”

“A school princ—?” I choke back a laugh and shake my head.

He slouches in his seat, sulking. “Movie’s so dumb.”

Am I really that uptight? I keep readjusting my posture, as if to prove him wrong. Then as the movie continues and we watch a college kid ignore every obvious sign that something is pursuing him in a stockroom behind the cotton candy machines, I realize I might hate this movie as much as Anthony does. “This is stupid.”

“Told you.”

I eye him. “Should we just go, then?”

After a minute, he says, “Then I won’t know how it ends. It’ll bug me. I wanna see someone actually do the smart thing.”

At this rate, no one in this film has a prayer. But I keep my mouth shut and settle on a totally-not-uptight loosey-goosey pose of crossing my legs at the ankle while leaning against our shared armrest with my chin propped up by my hand.

It’s about two thirds of the way through when a Rambo type brings a machine gun to the carnival after it’s closed to “take care of that mother-lovin’ beast” and starts letting loose in the middle of the funhouse of mirrors. The scene is loud. Full of shattering glass. Ricocheting bullets. Shouting. Screaming. Monster roaring.

Anthony turns to me suddenly. “Hey, you alright?”

I look at him, confused. “Yeah. Why?”

“Just …” He seems embarrassed suddenly. “Nothin’. Forget it.” He turns back to the movie.

I’m still confused long after the Rambo guy gets taken out by a shard of mirror through his chest, and the real hero of the night proves to be a shy science teacher from the local middle school, whose innovative use of shadows and deception at the kiosks full of oversized plushie prizes creates an opening for others to attack.

I realize belatedly that he was asking if I’m okay because of the loud gunfire. He thought it bothered me, being a vet who may be sensitive to or traumatized by such noises, or suffering PTSD.

The realization has me looking at Anthony in a new light.

Did he just exhibit serious, genuine care for me?

The glassy funhouse rubble bursts apart and out charges the Rambo guy, not dead after all, as he rushes in for the kill, and the whole auditorium is full of gunfire and mayhem once more.

Anthony glances at me again—and finds me already looking right at him, as if anticipating his concern.

“It’s just … Cody … he … well, sometimes he has reactions.” He talks to me over the scene, as if unconvinced that I’m alright, like he’s doing me a favor by giving me something else to focus on. “He can never stay for all of Fourth of July, always going home long before the fireworks. And he never stays late at the big New Year’s things at the Strong’s, either, gone by ten. Everyone kinda knows why. I dunno if you knew that already about him, or if you or your buddy Pete are like that, too, but … just thought I’d … well …”

“I’m fine,” I assure him, then realize my voice sounds kind of flat, talking over the noise of the film, so I lean toward him and, after a brief hesitation, add: “I appreciate your concern, Anthony.”

Anthony doesn’t quite smile, but something in his face softens as he stares back at me. Maybe it’s the way I said his name. Or how this short exchange of words might be the first time either of us have spoken to each other without attitude.

But we don’t look away. Even as gunfire, bullets, and carnage rip open the world around us. And Rambo squeezes his guns like squirting ketchup bottles. The monster roaring and terrorizing. Everyone screaming and running around the bloodied carnival.

Neither of us break eye contact.

“It’s just important, y’know,” he blurts suddenly, as if he has to justify our staring at each other, too uncomfortable to just let it happen. “That you’re okay. I can’t imagine how it feels, but … but that shit’s real … PSTD.”

I crack a smile, on the verge of laughing.

Anthony’s face twists. “What? Did I say—” Suddenly he cracks a smile, too. “Did I fuck it up? It’s PSDT, right? No, PTF—PSD—shit, why am I so—?”

The guys ahead of us turn. “Will you shut up?” one shouts.

All the laughter falls right off of Anthony’s face as he spins his head around. “ You shut up. We’re havin’ a serious talk here.”

“And we’re trying to watch a movie, dick wad!”

“What’d you just—?” Anthony rises from his seat. “Dick wad? Is that what you just called me? Hey!” He scoots in front of me to get closer to them, effectively putting his ass in my face. Is this his thing? Getting his ass in my face as often as possible? “It’s not like anyone can hear us. The movie’s so stupid loud. Guns blazing. Hey, stop lookin’ at me like that!” I can’t even hear what the other guy is saying anymore, both Anthony and the movie itself being loud enough to drown out everything. The more he yells, the more his butt shakes in my face. “Did you just—Did you just throw popcorn at me? No, you didn’t, I know you fuckin’ didn’t—Hey!”

I anticipate it the moment he’s about to climb over the seats, going after those guys, so I throw my arms around his waist to hold him back. But I can’t seem to manage getting up myself, so all I end up doing is hugging his waist with the side of my face glued to his ass, trying to keep him from attacking the guys. “Anthony!” I grunt, but he can’t hear me. “Stop! It’s not worth it! Just stop!”

He keeps fighting the seats in front of him. Or fighting me. His butt wiggles and battles my face, which I gotta admit isn’t really altogether unpleasant.

“ Anthony …” I nearly growl, then yank back with all my might.

His foot slips, probably on a spot of butter, and he flies back into me, dropping onto my lap. “Y’know what?” he calls out at the guys, still committed to fighting them, “screw you both, you’re just wastin’ popcorn like that. Every kernel is, like, a dollar now!”

“Hey, hey, calm down, it’s alright,” I tell Anthony, which is an awkward endeavor, now that he’s literally sitting in my lap. “Let’s just see how this shitty movie ends.”

“They shouldn’t play the volume so damned loud. Makin’ my ears bleed. Some people have sensitivities and … and stuff.” He flicks the guys off, who have both returned their full attention to the movie already just in time for a huge explosion. I have no idea what exploded, but it did, and now the Rambo guy is flying off a pile of bloodied corpses in slow motion.

Anthony continues to sit in my lap, like this is totally normal.

I continue to let him, my arms still around his waist.

What the hell are we doing? Does he even realize he didn’t fall back into his own seat? Surely he realizes that.

But with him sitting in my lap like this, his body slightly to the side, his full ass pressed onto my dick, his back against me, I can’t escape him. Can’t escape his weight on me. Can’t escape when he shifts and I feel his butt cheeks clench.

Can’t escape what all of this is doing to my dick.

Is this another moment? Like the church floor? His secret way of touching me without touching me? Showing interest? Letting the circumstance give him a reason to get closer to me?

Like when the truck flew by, sending him into my arms?

He didn’t want me to let go then, either.

Anthony crosses his arms with a sigh and mumbles, “If this don’t have a good ending, I swear … after all this bullshit …”

Or he’s just too lazy to get up and move to his own chair.

Or I’m right and he’s enjoying this and using it as an excuse.

My arms are literally still around his waist .

Everything just became unexpectedly intimate. Like we’re no longer kidding ourselves about this being a kind of date. A weird date, maybe, but definitely a date. Two guys who couldn’t stand each other half a day ago. Now cuddled in the same seat of a movie theater, hating the same movie together.

It’s almost sweet.

Until my leg starts falling asleep. “Hey …”

“Shh, he’s about to get him, I can feel it.”

I try to shift my leg.

It won’t budge under him.

“What am I? Santa?” I tease. He shushes me again. “My leg’s getting tingly.”

“Deal with it. You make a comfy seat.”

I take hold of his hips to help adjust my leg under him. As if in defiance, Anthony presses himself deeper into my lap, pinning me in place and crossing his arms tighter.

He’s playing with me. I get it. Not just being difficult. The guy doesn’t want to admit he’s enjoying this a little more than another small-town straight boy would who’s just messing with his buddy. This is his way of communicating that he’s into me—his weird and childish way of telling me.

Or maybe he doesn’t even know what’s going on inside him.

He just knows he’s enjoying it.

And wants more.

Is this his unique brand of foreplay …?

“Monster’s gonna eat his face off, I just know it, gonna eat his stupid face off,” mumbles Anthony to himself. Then he nudges me and points at the screen. “See? Watch. I’m never wrong.”

Arms still around him, ass heavily pressing into my dick, back against me, I watch to see how this shit show movie finally ends.

Surprisingly, he was wrong.

“Can’t fuckin’ believe he actually outsmarted the Carnivorax,” Anthony is in the middle of saying as we walk down Main Street, having just left the movie theater. “Like, what’s more surprising is that it wasn’t even the smart guy who outsmarted the monster. It was the least likely moron who turned out to be the big hero in the end. I should’ve seen it comin’. Now I’m the one who feels like an idiot.” He shakes his head. “Movie’s still bad, though.”

“Didn’t take us to have a lot in common ‘til tonight,” I admit. “Who knew we would finally bond over a mutual hatred for horror movies?”

“You hate them, too?”

I shrug, then eye him with half a smile. “This one wasn’t too bad. Maybe it matters who you watch them with.”

He seems to go into his head with that answer.

Maybe I said just the right thing to get his gears clicking.

Around us, the town seems to have closed down for the night, especially after eleven o’clock on a Thursday. Every window’s dark and all the storefronts are locked up.

“You go for walks at night?” I ask. “Deadsville around here.”

“Good time to clear your head.” Anthony stops at a bench and drops onto it. “Favorite bench, this creaky ol’ guy right here.”

I stand in front of him, hands in my pockets. “I gave Trey your flyer, by the way.”

He’s already slouched against the bench, getting comfortable, one leg sticking way out, the other tucked under him. “That so?”

“He told me before I left to meet you that he’d already called your dad and signed up. See? You gave a good pitch.”

“I know I give good pitches.” He straightens up suddenly. “I’m a harder worker than you think. Why aren’t you sittin’ down?” He slaps the spot next to him. “Get off your feet. Makin’ me nervous.”

Funny, how he says that. I’d assume sitting right next to him on that little bench would make him even more nervous. Judging from the funny way he’s breathing, something’s been churning around in his mind ever since we left the theater. Maybe it has something to do with him sitting in my lap for half the climax of the movie. The second the credits started rolling, he bounced off of me like my crotch grew cactus needles and couldn’t be out of the theater fast enough. His excuse was he needed to take a leak. So did I, to be fair. But I knew there was something else going on. Even as we found ourselves in a public bathroom—for the second time—then washing our hands at neighboring sinks, I felt the seismic waves of tension rippling off of the jumpy guy.

Maybe he’s not used to dealing with these feelings sober.

I should be sensitive with him.

I take a seat on the bench. Behind us, the lamp posts from the Spruce Park shine with honeyed-white pools of light over the thin pathways that cut through the grass and cleanly-trimmed bushes. Crickets are screeching their wings together noisily tonight, filling all the space between our words.

“Sorry for usin’ you like a seat,” he mumbles. “I should’ve … y’know … asked your permission first.”

I can’t tell if he’s mocking me, but I chuckle anyway. “No big deal. You had my permission. Was it as comfy as you said?”

“Sure, yeah, like sittin’ on a … a slab of … military muscle.” His face cringes after the words leave his lips, and he looks away, his cheeks flushing.

His heart must be racing. I can visibly see his breaths coming out funny, the way his lips seem to tremble between his words.

“Did, uh, you like it?” he then asks, flipping it onto me.

“Other than my leg falling asleep, guess it wasn’t half bad.”

“You probably enjoyed it too much,” he teases. “Don’t lie.”

I can’t figure him out. Is he trying to get me to say something? “Sure,” I decide to answer, like a little experiment. “It was comfy. It’s been a while since anyone’s … well, sat on my lap.”

“Really?” He tries to laugh at that, but it only comes out as an airy snort. “You have a … You’ve had a lot of … people on your lap in your life or … or s-somethin’?”

He’s talking in circles. Avoiding the point. Too afraid to dive into what he really wants to ask. He stares off into the street as we talk, too, like he can’t bear to look me in the eye.

I noticed his foot is nervously bouncing on the ground, too.

Just like mine does when I’m anxious about something.

Another thing we’ve got in common, I guess.

“Anthony …” I start. “If there’s something you want to say …”

His foot stops at once.

He turns to me. “Can I … t-try something?”

I lift my eyebrows, startled by the sudden vulnerability in his voice, the way he shifted from a dismissive man to an innocent kid full of fears and excitement.

I guess he really has been working something out in his head.

“Uh … try what?”

He throws his arm over the back of the bench and scoots up to my side. “I want to … t-to try somethin’. Just a quick somethin’. To figure somethin’ out. A quick little nothin’ somethin’.”

A little nothing something? The hell is he talking about?

He swallows hard. “I wanna try somethin’, but … but I need you to … to say it’s okay first.”

“What’re you wanting to try?”

“Just say it’s okay.”

“Are you about to kiss me again, Anthony?”

His face freezes.

I literally watch his eyes become two balls of lifeless glass.

His jagged breaths get swallowed up into his slackened mouth by my terrifying question.

Or perhaps it was that one word I snuck in there:

Again .

Has this whole night been a build-up of courage for him that I never quite let myself see? Should I have noticed it earlier at the movies and said something? I can’t possibly know what this sort of experience is like for a small-town guy like Anthony. Despite this town having a gay reverend with a husband and a mayor with two sons in relationships with men, that doesn’t mean it’s easy for all men to openly explore their feelings for each other. Some will still struggle. Some keep their desires secret for all sorts of reasons.

Some of them throw attitude to shut up their dancing hearts.

Some of them sit on you during a movie and refuse to get up.

Some of them ask you every question under the moon on a park bench on a Thursday night in the middle of a deadsville small town instead of the one they want to.

The one they need to.

The one they have to .

Anthony’s face draws closer suddenly, like he can’t stand the wait. I stare back at him silently, my own heart starting to sprint the closer he gets.

His eyes grow even more beautiful in their fear.

His lips, too, parting, ready for it, wanting it.

I say nothing, watching him draw closer.

He stops a mere inch from my face. “Do I … Do I have your … y-your permission?”

My breath catches in my throat.

I think I just realized I need this too, as desperately as he does.

I answer with my lips, pressing them to his.