Page 11

JULIAN

I’m sure there’s a reason why there are some years and some teams you can be traveling for almost a month on a streak of away games and then other times, you go away for a single night to a single game.

These days, I’m sure there’s a program that randomizes the lineup, but sometimes I think about earlier in the league’s history.

Who sat down and created the schedule for thirty-plus teams?

How long did it take them? How many people did it take?

There are times I think people don’t understand how much easier they have it with the help of computers. What had once taken people hours and days can now happen in minutes. Take printing books, for example. One manuscript written on a typewriter and maybe accepted by a printer.

I unzip the garment bag and pull out the suit to examine. This includes a couple of deep inhales to make sure it doesn’t smell. It’s not bad, but I think I need a fresh one.

I hang the garments on the back of my closet door and go through the dozen suits to choose a different one. We’re heading to Carolina, so I choose lighter material but keep it in the blues. I look pretty good in a blue suit.

Arush is standing in the doorway with the laundry basket when I come back into my bedroom. I smile at how unsure he looks. I’m not sure he’s carried a laundry basket in his life.

When he sees me smile, he comes into the room and sets the basket on the bed beside my garment bag. It’s filled with socks, underwear, pajamas, and gym clothes, which seem to be my day-to-day clothing. Hey, they’re comfortable and I spend a lot of time keeping up my reflexes and shit.

When you’re traded two times in two years, you can’t help but be a little self-conscious that maybe it’s you that’s the problem.

I didn’t need the laundry from the laundry room to pack, but since Arush brought it in, I’ll use the contents there.

“I don’t mean this to sound insulting, but did you figure out the washing machine?” I ask.

He huffs. “Yes.” There’s more he wants to say. I can see the way he’s considering it. “I looked it up online and watched some tutorials. Good news is I didn’t flood the place, nor set it on fire.”

I laugh. “Want to know a secret?” Arush looks at me. “When I first moved out on my own and it came time for me to do my laundry, I video called my mother in a panic and she walked me through it.”

Arush smiles.

“I grew up cooking with my parents and both sets of grandparents. But my mother always did my laundry.” I shrug.

“Regardless of what anyone wants to say about choices and education and shit, we are a product of our environment and it is the responsibility of our parents to teach us some things. There’s literally no one else to teach you otherwise. Laundry is one of those things.”

He sighs. “I don’t know that my parents know how to cook or do laundry,” Arush admits. “My father comes from a long line of high-profile lawyers. He’s always lived on the wealthy side of Mumbai. My mother is the daughter of a renowned entrepreneur who owns a dozen hugely successful businesses.”

“Do they provide for their kids to assure that they live the same lifestyle forever?” I ask.

Arush laughs. “No. My older siblings are lawyers like my father. They work in the same firm. They and their families also live at home because it’s pretty common to live with family in some parts of India. My younger siblings are still in school, so they’re living at home, anyway.”

“How many siblings do you have?”

“Five,” he says, grinning. “I have an older brother and sister, and then two younger brothers and a younger sister.”

“Wow. The older ones are married?”

“Yes. And the brother born just after me. The brother born after him is also talking marriage soon.”

“Is that why you decided to do the mail-order spouse thing?”

He shakes his head, shrugs, and then nods.

“Being gay is no longer illegal in India, but same-sex marriage is. Any kind of same-sex partnership is. My parents have always been very supportive and I know that they’d have made sure I had a happy life with a partner had I stayed but I guess I just wanted more.

I want the opportunity to marry someone I love.

Legally , even though I know that’s not really the most important thing about a marriage. ”

“It seriously never ceases to amaze me the amount of time, energy, and money people spend on what others are doing in their private lives. There are some dead-set straight people who spend far, far too long having an opinion about what another man is doing with their dick than said man thinks about dicks at all.” I shake my head.

“I never thought of it that way, but now that you point it out, I agree.”

Our conversation quiets after that as I continue to arrange my garment bag.

The suit, shirt, and tie get hung on the bar.

I stuff underwear and socks into one of the little zipper pockets in the corner.

The other corner gets pajama pants and a tee.

Last, I line the bottom with another set of day clothes for travel.

My dress shoes go into their pockets last and then I double check my toiletry bag, making sure that I haven’t run out of anything. Once I’m convinced I haven’t forgotten anything, I zip it up, fold it in half and then zip it closed that way as well.

I reach my hand into the front pocket to make sure that my chargers are there before stuffing in my tablet and headphones. Then it’s on the floor and I push it toward the door. The wheels move so nicely that it goes exactly where I aim in a smooth glide.

Arush is watching me. When I meet his eyes, he gives me a shy smile and looks down into the basket. He’s holding one of my sleeveless shirts. I gently take it from his hand and pull the basket in front of me to fold the contents and put them away.

He reaches in to grab something so he can fold and I take his wrist. A warm shiver runs down my spine as our eyes meet. “You don’t need to fold my laundry, Arush.”

My eyes flicker down to his throat as he swallows. He nods subtly. “I know.”

“Are you nervous about staying here alone?”

Arush takes a breath and nods again. “A little.”

“It’ll only be twenty-four hours,” I promise. “We’ll make sure you have everything you need.”

His eyes close, and he nods. “I know.”

I suddenly wish he had a friend here. Hell, I wish I had a friend here who I could ask to check on him. Is there a way I can bring him with me? Is that allowed? Somehow, I’m not sure it is. I’ve never seen any of my teammates’ partners or friends or kids or whatever on the plane with us.

I squeeze his wrist gently and release him. When he continues to reach for an article of clothing, I let him. Together, we take care of my laundry. He returns the basket to the laundry room as I’m finishing putting everything away. I follow him out with my suitcase to leave in the entry.

He meets me there.

I’m not sure I’d call what we have a relationship yet, but I think maybe it’s the precursor of one. The kind where we’re both nervous and unsure where to go.

Unlike every other relationship, my nerves are very different this time. In the past, it was me knowing and waiting for my partner to push for sex. Regardless of the conversation or supposed understanding, it means something different when the relationship actually forms.

Is it that every woman thinks they can change me? That they’re going to be the one to ‘ fix me ?’

The thing is, I get it. I truly do. In the same way I don’t feel I should have to compromise myself to please someone else, I also think they shouldn’t have to compromise themselves and remain in a sexless relationship if that’s not what they want. I understand .

That doesn’t mean I’m going to subject myself to being miserable. A relationship shouldn’t be unbalanced like that. It shouldn’t be me or my partner being happy, it should be both.

The answer is obvious, right? I need to be in a relationship with someone else who falls within the asexual spectrum. But seriously, where the hell do you find someone like that? It’s not like people have little beacons above their heads so you know if they’re compatible, fundamentally.

But now Arush is here. I’m not sure if he considers himself asexual or not, but I think perhaps he might fall under the same spectrum. We haven’t had a sex conversation at all. But it’s clear that we’ve both agreed on each other, with one of the most important things being how we feel about sex.

That means we know we’re fundamentally compatible. The nerves I’ve experienced in the past are absent, replaced with something else. As the days progress, I realize that my nerves and the distance I sometimes put between us have nothing to do with him being a guy at all.

It’s that this could be it. This could be exactly what I’ve been waiting for and I’m maybe scared that I’m going to fuck it up.

There was always the inevitability of my relationships ending with the women I dated in the past. Maybe that end was always just ahead, so the nerves of truly beginning were never there.

Why invest your heart into something that you know isn’t going to last?

But now? What do I do now? I’m sure the same obstacles that ended all my other relationships don’t exist here. So now how do I begin? Where do I begin? I suddenly wish I had an instruction manual.

“How about we prep some food for you?” I suggest when we’ve stood there staring at each other for well over a minute. Does he feel the same kind of nerves that I do?

“Okay,” Arush says.

“What do you feel like tonight? We can make enough so you have some leftovers.”

Arush gives me the same look he always gives me when I ask him a question about food. It makes me laugh. I’m not sure he’s ever had to make a food decision in his entire life. The big-eyed, lost-doe look is kind of adorable.

“Come on,” I tell him, offering him my hand.

His eyes move down to it, and he smiles, sliding his hand into mine.

The walk to the kitchen is short, so we don’t move quickly.

This might be the first time since a few nights ago when we had the conversation about what we’re doing here that I’ve touched him at all like this.

Or at all, really. Except to stop him from doing my laundry.

That was different. This feels like maybe we’re moving in a direction now. Forward. At a snail’s pace, maybe, but still forward.

The walk is a dozen steps. That’s it. I squeeze his hand at the same time he does mine and then we release. Arush always stands somewhat awkwardly in the kitchen, never sure what to do.

“How about chicken tikka?” I ask.

His shoulders relax. “Yes. I love chicken tikka.”

“So do I. Let’s hope I can replicate it. I think that we’re going to use your palate to determine whether we need to change the spices.”

“Okay.”

“What do you usually eat with it?” I ask.

“Rice. Naan. Raita. Salad.” He thinks about it for a minute. “Oh, vegetables.”

“Okay. I’m not ready to try making naan bread, but I did buy some from the store. I’m going to apologize now if it’s awful.”

He grins.

“There’s a bunch of fresh vegetables in the fridge and frozen in the freezer. Choose which you’d like and we’ll decide how to cook it. Also, for the salad.”

Arush gives me a nod. I pull the chicken from the fridge and leave the door open for him. I had the butcher chop it into smaller pieces for me so I don’t have to handle the chicken much. The recipe calls for a marinade of yogurt and spices.

After dumping the chicken into the bowl and plopping a half a cup of Greek yogurt on top, I turn to my long list of spices and begin pulling them from the cabinet to set on the counter. When I turn around, Arush is standing in front of the chicken with a scrunched face. I laugh.

“In that drawer are some measuring spoons. Will you get them out, please?”

He does as I ask. “I’m going to tell you what to put in while I get the ginger and garlic ready. Okay?”

Arush gives me a skeptical look. “All right,” he hedges.

I smile. “Cooking isn’t scary. I promise.” With garlic and ginger in front of me and standing beside Arush so I can offer him support, I look at the recipe. “One teaspoon of ground coriander.”

In the corner of my eye, I watch as he reads all the handles of the spoons and then the little containers. He’s incredibly precise when he measures out his teaspoon.

“Half a teaspoon of turmeric.”

He changes spoons and spices while I slide my garlic cutter over the now crushed garlic and peeled ginger until they’re both minced.

We go through the cumin, paprika, chili powder, cinnamon, salt, and pepper while I add my ginger and garlic. I finish it up with the juice of half a lemon. Then I hand Arush a pair of kitchen gloves and tell him to mix it all together, coating the chicken thoroughly.

Once more, his eyes get wide. “Really? I have to touch it?”

I laugh. “With gloves.”

Doubtfully, he puts the gloves on and I watch his face as he slowly sticks his hands into the bowl. He makes a gagging face, his shoulders tensing, as he mixes the contents. “This is the absolute most disgusting feeling I’ve ever felt,” he says.

Cooking with Arush is going to be a lot of fun. Just wait until we have to stuff a bird or something.