Page 54 of Under Cover
It hit him then that Garcia was scared. They’d made a helluva leap in the last two days. He wasn’t talking about Crosby, he was talking about his own fears, the things that had heldhimback.
“We would have fumbled our way into it,” he grumbled, dropping their laced hands and pulling Garcia to his chest. “I would have tried again. I couldn’t have just walked away from you. You’re not a line in the sand to me, Calix. You’re a living breathing human, and I want to be part of your hopes and dreams, you hear?”
“Yeah,” Garcia said, snuggling against his chest. “Don’t mind me, Crosby. You are seriously the best thing I’ve ever had in my bed—or in my life. I didn’t expect to have a relationship. Not before I retired. I thought my life would be made of one-night stands until I didn’t have anything to lose with whatever agency I was working for. But God, I hadn’t even shaken your hand and I knew that had changed.”
“Now you’re scared,” Crosby said. “Like I am. ’Cause it doesn’t seem right that this is gonna work, does it?”
“Not this easy,” Garcia said. “But I’ll be damned if I give you up now.”
That’s all they said for a while, and their breathing slowed down, and Crosby was almost asleep.
“You awake, Cowboy?” Garcia’s voice was so low he didn’t even know he was supposed to respond.
“Good,” Garcia said, apparently assuming Crosby was out. “’Cause I need to say this to you sleeping before I try it awake. I love you, Judson Crosby. I knew it that first day. It’s worse now. You need to stay alive, stay hopeful, hold on. I’m not gonna let you go now. You understand?”
Yeah. The gods’ll have to pry you out of my arms.
It was the last thing he thought before he fell asleep.
THE NEXTday was like a photo blueprint for what life could be if he let down his guard and enjoyed Garcia’s company, their living situation, and even their little spot in Queens.
They woke up, legs tangled, and threw on sweats while Garcia hit the thermostat and Crosby made coffee. After spending twenty minutes drinking coffee while scrolling on their phones, they were both awake enough to want to get out of the house and enjoy their day.
Calix grabbed Crosby’s hand, taking him to the bagel place he loved most for breakfast and then to every shop in the neighborhood. Sweets, sheets (of which Garcia bought a set), and a cat café, all of it called them in. They bantered, looked at prices, discussed whether a thing should go in Garcia’s house or not (mostly not), and let little bits of their personal history slip by too.
“So did you really get laid on your eighteenth birthday?” Crosby asked while they were looking at a lawn ornament for the six-by-six stretch of what Garcia called his front-yard mange.
“Yeah—lots,” Garcia admitted. “I was on PrEP, everybody had condoms—I didn’t just punch the V-card, I ripped it into little pieces and burned it.”
Crosby chuckled like he was meant to, but he regarded his friend—lover—closely. “Why? What made you so… I don’t know… violent about it?”
Garcia sucked wind through his teeth. “’Cause my pops had just finished an epic rant about gay people, I guess. I don’t know—some election, some politician or TV show got stuck in his craw, and the next thing I knew that rant was on at the table, twenty-four seven. Anyway I turned eighteen the next week, and I’d planned to tell my folks as soon as I moved out, but I suddenly knew I couldn’t. I mean, I’m not close with them, but I don’t hate them either. I’d like to see them occasionally. And I knew suddenly that coming out would never happen, and it pissed me off. So I spent a weekend in Miami—they’d moved by then, and I was still going to college up here and living in this house with Nana and Pop-Pop—and I hit South Beach like hurricane Calix. By the time I caught my flight for Queens, every daddy for a mile radius knew I liked dick, and I was proud of it.”
Crosby nodded, something hitting him then that he’d never thought of but maybe should have.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I… I can’t come out to my folks if I ever want them to talk to me again.” He paused, remembering how things had been over the last two years, with him patiently explaining that racism was bad, and his father’s bluster about “the way things always had been.”
“Maybe that’s not a bad thing,” he said after a moment. He gave Garcia a melancholic smile. “They wouldn’t understand being both, and they wouldn’t care, really. It’s all gay to them. And I wouldn’t have to have any of those awful conversations with them when they’re just begging me to say I’m sorry so we could move back to Chicago.”
Garcia swallowed and set down a ceramic zombie gnome so he could reach over and grab Crosby’s hand. “It’s a hard way to set yourself free,” he said, voice gruff.
Crosby nodded. “Yeah, but I’m not the first person to do it.” He gave a little shrug. “I’m even sort of a late bloomer. And pick that up again. If I’m sleeping in the guest room, I want a zombie gnome on the porch.”
Garcia blinked at him. “A zombie gnome?”
“Yeah. I’m such an average sort of vanilla guy. I think a zombie gnome makes me look more interesting, don’t you?”
“Cowboy,” Garcia said, something funny happening to his voice. “You can have anything you want. Anything. If you’re average and vanilla, I’ll eat this fucking gnome.”
Crosby blinked at him and then grinned. “Always about food with you.”
Garcia’s eyes heated. “Not always,” he said huskily.
Oh. “So, uh, you want to get the gnome and, uh, go back to my spare room?”
“Yeah.”
Slow this time. Playful. They had all the time in the world. Nobody cared about who they were or what they were doing. They had their phones on chargers on the end table, but nobody was texting. Nothing urgent was happening that demanded their attention. They were free, in Garcia’s bed. Free to touch and to tease, to taste and to sigh.