explanation, he finally glanced at Jake.
Jake was again struck by the muted rays of mossy green in the rich, loamy brown of his eyes. “Gaiman said he hates love. It takes hostages and sticks glass splinters into their hearts. Or something like that.”
Shit, he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t even think. That headstrong kid kept whistling to get his attention and then taunting him with a smirk.
Worse yet, David kept watching him.
“So…is my assumption correct?” Jake pointed at the manuscript lying on the table.
He tried to maintain some semblance of self-possession.
“It’s correct.”
“Which means you’re telling me—”
David shrugged. “I love you. It’s time you knew. I’ve been in love with you since…probably since that night we went to the state fair together on a lark, and you kissed me in some tacky attraction on the midway.”
The memory resurfaced in Jake’s mind, as fresh and whole as if he’d kept it vacuum sealed. “Two tacky attractions—the funhouse and the haunted house—and one ride.”
His correction seemed to shock David. “The Himalaya. You remember.”
“I’ll never forget.”
Jake rose from the chair, crossed the living room, and jogged upstairs to the master bedroom. He grabbed a plush toy from its perch atop his dresser mirror and went back downstairs, where he tossed the toy at David.
“We were talking about our guilty pleasures,” Jake said. He felt the weight of inevitability riding each word. “When I told you I got a kick out of SpongeBob SquarePants, you spent eleven dollars to win that thing for me. Eleven fucking dollars.”
Jake’s eyes began to burn. “It meant more to me than if I’d just turned Johnny Depp gay and he’d given me a Mercedes to show his appreciation.”
David held up the silly-looking doll and gazed at it. He smiled wistfully as its spindly legs swayed.
“I hated that you made me feel that way,” Jake muttered.
He’d hated it, all right. First, because he figured he was too young to submit to that bondage called love. He had a career to build, places to go, men to fuck. Second, because David Ocho was too unremarkable yet too goddamned wonderful to be the perfect catch for him. So Jake had tried assiduously to turn his feelings into something else: a platonic enjoyment of David’s company, with an occasional burst of sexual hunger thrown in. No big deal. Nothing threatening.
“So you banished the feeling.” David lowered the toy to his lap. He idly stroked it as he watched Jake, who hadn’t moved from the foot of the open stairway.
“No, I just…reshaped it.”
“Why?”
Now Jake had somewhat different reasons for shunning that feeling. He knew David’s patient, undemanding love was being wasted on a superficial poseur who was cursed not only with a disfigured face but with a rotten head for business; wasted on a pretentious manwhore whose literary agency wasn’t more than a flyspeck on the map of the publishing industry.
“You should know,” Jake said. He didn’t want to launch into some I don’t deserve you, waa-waa pity-party spiel.
After staring at him a few seconds longer, David whispered, “Fuck,” and looked down at SpongeBob’s moronic face.
Feeling helpless, Jake raised and lowered his arms. His hands fell like dead weight against his legs.
David carefully laid SpongeBob on the cushion beside him and got up. “I hope you can sell the story,” he said in a lifeless voice. He grabbed his jacket.
The realization that he was leaving propelled Jake forward. “David—” He stopped several feet away.
That unremarkable yet captivating face turned up to him. David didn’t look expectant. He had no expectations. Jake realized that had always been the case. David took things as they came, including Jake’s one-night stands with other men, and never felt entitled to a single thing.
They stared into each other’s eyes.
Jake prepared as best he could before throwing himself on that glass
Jake was again struck by the muted rays of mossy green in the rich, loamy brown of his eyes. “Gaiman said he hates love. It takes hostages and sticks glass splinters into their hearts. Or something like that.”
Shit, he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t even think. That headstrong kid kept whistling to get his attention and then taunting him with a smirk.
Worse yet, David kept watching him.
“So…is my assumption correct?” Jake pointed at the manuscript lying on the table.
He tried to maintain some semblance of self-possession.
“It’s correct.”
“Which means you’re telling me—”
David shrugged. “I love you. It’s time you knew. I’ve been in love with you since…probably since that night we went to the state fair together on a lark, and you kissed me in some tacky attraction on the midway.”
The memory resurfaced in Jake’s mind, as fresh and whole as if he’d kept it vacuum sealed. “Two tacky attractions—the funhouse and the haunted house—and one ride.”
His correction seemed to shock David. “The Himalaya. You remember.”
“I’ll never forget.”
Jake rose from the chair, crossed the living room, and jogged upstairs to the master bedroom. He grabbed a plush toy from its perch atop his dresser mirror and went back downstairs, where he tossed the toy at David.
“We were talking about our guilty pleasures,” Jake said. He felt the weight of inevitability riding each word. “When I told you I got a kick out of SpongeBob SquarePants, you spent eleven dollars to win that thing for me. Eleven fucking dollars.”
Jake’s eyes began to burn. “It meant more to me than if I’d just turned Johnny Depp gay and he’d given me a Mercedes to show his appreciation.”
David held up the silly-looking doll and gazed at it. He smiled wistfully as its spindly legs swayed.
“I hated that you made me feel that way,” Jake muttered.
He’d hated it, all right. First, because he figured he was too young to submit to that bondage called love. He had a career to build, places to go, men to fuck. Second, because David Ocho was too unremarkable yet too goddamned wonderful to be the perfect catch for him. So Jake had tried assiduously to turn his feelings into something else: a platonic enjoyment of David’s company, with an occasional burst of sexual hunger thrown in. No big deal. Nothing threatening.
“So you banished the feeling.” David lowered the toy to his lap. He idly stroked it as he watched Jake, who hadn’t moved from the foot of the open stairway.
“No, I just…reshaped it.”
“Why?”
Now Jake had somewhat different reasons for shunning that feeling. He knew David’s patient, undemanding love was being wasted on a superficial poseur who was cursed not only with a disfigured face but with a rotten head for business; wasted on a pretentious manwhore whose literary agency wasn’t more than a flyspeck on the map of the publishing industry.
“You should know,” Jake said. He didn’t want to launch into some I don’t deserve you, waa-waa pity-party spiel.
After staring at him a few seconds longer, David whispered, “Fuck,” and looked down at SpongeBob’s moronic face.
Feeling helpless, Jake raised and lowered his arms. His hands fell like dead weight against his legs.
David carefully laid SpongeBob on the cushion beside him and got up. “I hope you can sell the story,” he said in a lifeless voice. He grabbed his jacket.
The realization that he was leaving propelled Jake forward. “David—” He stopped several feet away.
That unremarkable yet captivating face turned up to him. David didn’t look expectant. He had no expectations. Jake realized that had always been the case. David took things as they came, including Jake’s one-night stands with other men, and never felt entitled to a single thing.
They stared into each other’s eyes.
Jake prepared as best he could before throwing himself on that glass
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