Most guys start pairing off around one, but TJ just sits there sipping his water. Everyone else slinks away from the bar in twos and threes. They’re fucked up and bobbing down Fairview, toward somebody’s ex-boyfriend’s best friend’s apartment. Or the bathhouse in midtown. Or even just out to the bar’s patio, under our awning, where mosquitoes crash-land into streetlamps until like six in the morning. But tonight, even after we’ve turned down the music and undimmed the lights and wiped down the counters, TJ doesn’t budge. It’s like the motherfucker doesn’t even recognize me.
For a moment, he’s a blank canvas. A face entirely devoid of our history.
But he wears this smirk I’ve never seen before. His hair tufts out from under his cap, grazing the back of his neck. And he’s always been shorter than me, but his cheeks have grown softer, still full of the baby fat that never went away.
I’m an idiot, but I know this is truly a rare thing: to see someone you’ve known intimately without them seeing you.
It creates an infinitude of possibility.
But then TJ blinks and looks right at me.
Fuck, he says.
Fuck yourself, I say.
Fuck, says TJ. Fuck.
You said that, I say. Wanna drink something stronger?
TJ touches the bottom of his face. Fiddles with his hair. Looks down at his cup.
He says, I didn’t even know you were back in Houston.
Alas, I say.
You didn’t think to tell me?
It’s not a big deal.
Right, says TJ. Sure.
The speakers above us blast a gauzy stream of pop chords, remixed beyond comprehension. Dolly and Jennifer and Whitney. They’re everyone’s cue to pack up for the night. But guys still lean on the bar-top in various states of disarray – a gay bar’s weekend cast varies wildly and hourly, from the Mexican otters draped in leather, to the packs of white queers clapping offbeat, to the Asian bears lathered in Gucci, to the Black twinks nodding along with the bass by the pool table.
As the crowd finally thins out, TJ grabs his cap, running a hand through his hair. He groans.
I’ll be done in a minute, I say. If you want to stick around.
Fine, says TJ.
Good, I say, and then I’m back at my job, closing out the register and restocking the Bacardi and turning my back on him once again.
I hadn’t heard from TJ in years.
We hadn’t actually seen each other in over a decade.
Growing up, his house stood next door to mine. My folks were rarely around, so TJ’s kept an eye on me. I ate at his dinner table beside Jin and Mae. Borrowed his sweaters. Slept beside him in his bed with his breath on my face. When my parents died – in a car accident, clipped by a drunk merging onto I-45, I’d just turned fifteen, cue cellos – his family took me into their lives, gave me time and space and belonging, and for the rest of my life whenever I heard the word home their faces beamed to mind like fucking holograms.
Not that it matters now. Didn’t change shit for me in the end.
Before I start mopping, Minh and Fern wave me off. When I ask what their deal is, Fern says it’s rude to keep suitors waiting.
He seems pretty into you, says Minh.
He isn’t, I say.
And he’s not your usual type, says Fern. I’ve never seen you go for cubs.
I’m constantly evolving, I say, but we’re not fucking.
Spoken like an actual whore, says Minh.
Fern owns the bar. Minh’s his only other employee. After I flick them off, I step outside and it’s started to drizzle. And TJ’s still standing by the curb, sucking on a vape pen as he taps at his phone, blowing a plume of pot into the air once he spots me. The rain pokes holes through his cloud.
You’ve lost weight, says TJ.
And you’ve gained it, I say.
Nice.
It’s no shade. You finally look like a baker.
But it’s different. You’re –
That’s what you want to talk about?
It was an observation, says TJ. I have eyes.
Did you park nearby, I ask.
Nah.
Then I’ll walk you to your car like a gentleman.
Ha, says TJ, and we drift along the sidewalk, ducking into the neighborhood under stacks of drooping fronds.
The middle of Montrose is busted concrete and monstrous greenery and bundled townhouses. Scattered laughter bubbles along on the roads snaking beside us, even at this time of night. Bottles break and engines snarl. But TJ’s pace is steady, so I ease mine, too. Sometimes he glances my way, but nothing comes out of his mouth.
Deeply stimulating conversation, I say.
I don’t think you get to be like that with me, says TJ.
Is that right? After all these years?
It’s not like I planned on running into you tonight, says TJ. This isn’t a date.
So you’re actually dating now, I say, instead of fucking straight boys?
Shut up, says TJ. How long have you been in Houston? And don’t lie.
Relax, I say. Just a few months.
What’s a few?
A few since Kai died.
Oh, says TJ.
He stops in the center of a driveway. A gaggle of queens searching for their Lyft walk around us, whistling at nothing in particular.
Shit, says TJ. Sorry.
Nothing for you to be sorry about, I say.
No, says TJ. Not about that. Or not completely. But I never got to talk to you, after what happened.
After, I say.
After, says TJ. You know.
He keeps his eyes on the concrete. One of his hands forms a fist. The reaction’s totally human. But it still isn’t good enough for me.
So I walk up to TJ, standing closer.
You didn’t kill him, I say.
I know, but –
No buts. Don’t be a fucking downer.
TJ doesn’t say anything. He takes another hit of the pen. And he extends it to me, dangling the battery from his fingers, so I take that off his hands and huff a hit of his weed, too.
We walk a few more blocks, hopscotching down Hopkins’s sidewalks, toward Whitney and Morgan and the gays honking in Mini Coopers behind us. We pass a pair of Vietnamese guys steadying each other by the shoulders, torn up from their night out, taking care not to step on any cracks. We pass a huddle of drunk bros holding court on a taqueria’s corner, swinging their phones and laughing way too loudly. When one of them asks if we’re looking to party, I feel TJ tense up, so I tell them we’re good, maybe next time, and add a little extra bass in my voice.
But the guys just wave us off. TJ and I duck under another set of branches. And then we’re alone on the road, again, beyond the neighborhood’s gravity of gay bars, where it’s as silent as any other white-bread Texas suburb.
Hey, I say. Does showing up at the bar mean you’re out?
I was always out, says TJ.
Right, I say. But are you –
My car’s here, says TJ, nodding at a tiny Hyundai parked by the intersection.
He leans against the door while I fiddle with my pockets. It makes no fucking sense that I’m nervous. But when TJ asks if I need a ride back to my place, I decline, pointing toward the neighborhood.
I’m local, I say.
Of course you are, says TJ.
Staying with a friend. Another friend.
One that knew you were in this fucking city.
TJ speaks plainly, like he’s describing the weather.
What the fuck would you have done if I’d told you, I say.
I guess we’ll never know, says TJ.
He makes a funny face then. Another one I’ve never seen before. Something like a smirk.
So I think about what I’m going to say, and I open my mouth to launch it – but then I change my mind.
Because TJ’s earned at least this much.
Instead, I reach for his pen, pulling another hit. I blow that back in his face.
When TJ waves it away, I blow another.
Listen, he says. Seriously. You’re really okay?
It’s a short walk, I say.
No. I mean, are you alright?
I twirl TJ’s pen a few times. He really does look like he means it.
Come back to the bar and see me, I say. I’ll be around.
TJ gives me a long look, pursing his lips. Then he reaches into his car, snatching something, pushing it against my chest.
It’s a paper bag filled with pastries. Chicken turnovers. They’re flaky in my hands, warm to the touch, and the smell sends a chill up my neck – entirely too familiar.
Are you the fucking candy man, I say.
Try them, says TJ.
How do I know they aren’t laced?
Because I’d have poisoned you years ago.
So I take a bite of the pastry.
It’s just as delicious as I remember.
And when TJ sees my face, he nods.
Then he steps into his car without glancing my way, and I watch him drive off, and I wait for him to wave or throw a peace sign or whatever the fuck but he doesn’t. TJ turns the corner and he’s gone.
So I take another bite of the turnover, tasting the food, rolling it around my mouth.
Then I spit it out.
It’s only another block before I find a trash can to dump the rest.
A few streets later, my phone pings from one of the apps. The message’s sender drops his location. This park’s tucked a few streets away. But the guy doesn’t send a photo of his face, just his dick, and I’m not entirely sure who I’m supposed to be looking for.
Cruising’s a nightmare this way. You always run the risk of running into some fucking homophobe. Or bored frat kids looking to blow off steam with a baseball bat. Or a drunk married dick with twelve kids and a lovely, clueless wife. But eventually, I spot a dude sitting on this bench beside a playground, and I recognize him immediately: it’s one of the bros we passed by at the taqueria.
He looks shook at the sight of me. Late thirties, early forties. When I’m close enough, this guy sticks out his hand for a shake, and when I tell him to calm the fuck down, he apologizes, blushing.
I wonder how drunk he is.
Or what it took for him to work up to this point.
But I let him bend me over anyway.
He fucks me on the bench. Our motions feel routine, like they’re untapped muscle memory – and it reminds me of something Kai liked to say, about how the steps may be the same, but we each have our own particular rhythm, and this was just another one of his nonsense manifestos but I still haven’t forgotten it – and that’s what comes to mind as this stranger stuffs one hand in my shirt while his other one plays with my ass, searching for an angle.
But it isn’t long before we start to stall.
I reach for the guy’s dick, guiding him, and he grabs my wrist.
Wait, he says. Do you have a condom?
No, I say. You’re fine.
Really?
Go for it.
You’re sure?
Are you a fucking doctor?
And I’m thinking that this guy will ask a fiftieth time but he doesn’t. He enters me slowly. Starts pumping his hips tentatively. And then quickly. I steady myself on the wood, buckling from our momentum, thinking of how I’ll probably find someone else to fuck after this, until, all of a sudden, I hear Kai’s voice, clear as day, and I’m pushing his face from my mind while the guy behind me grunts under his breath – and when he comes, our bodies jolt, and I almost start to laugh because it’s fucking hilarious and nothing short of astounding that I thought the world could ever be anything but what it is or that I’d ever truly find myself outside of its whims.
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