The message slams into me as I finally understand the context of our chat tonight. I mentioned that I’m on PrEP, a preventative medication against HIV, to Zach a few weeks ago. Not as a nudge, but just as a, “Hey, here’s something you might not know exists, given you only just came out.”
But this text feels like a lot more than a nudge. It’s closer to a shout.
Zach’s coming over to sleep tomorrow. And he wanted to know if he should bring anything. I now have the feeling that “anything” might have been more along the lines of “condoms and lube.”
Heat pools in the pit of my stomach and starts spreading downward, and I climb beneath the covers. My fingers slip beneath the waistband of my pajama pants as I replay Zach delicately broaching the topic of tomorrow’s visit in my mind. Then I think of him next to me again, without any guards on the other side of the wall, in my own bed, with no alarm clock in the morning. I think of him reaching beneath the covers, and pressing his lips against mine.
I hold that image in my mind even after I finish. Then a strange feeling washes over me. A draining sensation, like everything’s slipping away from me, sand in an hourglass.
We have tomorrow. But I don’t know what lies beyond that.
And I don’t know if I’m quite ready to find out, yet.
* * *
I pull Zach into me roughly the moment his driver is out of sight. I feel ridiculous, given we’ve barely been apart for two whole weeks, but I’ve missed him with a ferocity that’s stunned and, to be honest, frightened me.
Thankfully, my parents are both at work, so we don’t need to worry about forced pleasantries.
“I forgot how fancy your house is,” he says as we traipse upstairs to dump his stuff in my room. He’s practically bouncing. I try to match his mood, but I’m still laden down with the feeling of dread from last night. If anything, it’s been growing today. “It makes me want to get my mom a T-shirt,” Zach goes on. “‘My son’s an international pop star and all he bought me is this apartment.’”
“Penthouse apartment,” I remind him. “She’s not exactly hard done by. How are things with her, anyway?”
His smile is immediate, enough to dispel any lingering worries I’ve had about his reassurances over the phone these past two weeks. “Good. They’re really good, now.”
Thank god.
“I’m glad,” I say. “At least one of us has had a good time at home, then.”
“Are you moving out anytime soon?”
I lean against my bedroom doorframe. “Why? You have a better offer for me?”
“That’s not what I meant. I’m just curious.”
The most honest answer is that I haven’t made plans for the future, because I’m not sure what the future is, yet. The more I think about what’s to come, the more certain I am that I can’t rely on everything working out for the best. “Probably. I was planning on looking after the tour, but it’s on hold for a sec while we figure out what the next steps are.”
“LA still?”
“Yeah. Maybe Santa Monica.”
Zach looks a little disappointed. “Oh.”
“It’s only a short flight away, remember,” I say, but I realize as I say it that being a two-hour flight away from Zach has already been way too hard. I don’t want to think of a life where he’s not by my side.
“I’m not married to the idea,” I add.
“I like Santa Monica,” he says at the same time, totally casual.
I study him, my chest warming with affection. For a moment, I let myself pretend that this could be our future. Both of us in the band, both of us together, both of us free to live without secrecy. By the beach, under the sun. Happy. “Me, too.”
We hover in the bedroom for a beat. Suddenly, his message from last night replays in my brain, and my heart starts to race. What does this pause mean?
The silence feels heavy, and significant. So, naturally, I panic and fill it. “So, we can watch a movie or something,” I say, kicking off the doorframe as I step into the room. “Unless you’re hungry? I guess you would be, huh? We have some leftover tortilla but it’s probably pushing it to reheat it again. Have you ever had Spanish food? Tortilla’s great, it’s kind of like potatoes, and eggs, and onions, all fried up together. Or we can do takeout?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Cool. Well, then, movies are fine. I guess I already suggested that. Or we could go for a walk? It’s, you know. It’s, um, pretty?”
Zach blinks. “We could?”
“Only if you want to,” I add.
Zach steps toward me. His expression says don’t. It says stay. It says … Jesus, it says kiss me. “Do you?”
I swallow thickly. “No, not really.”
Having him up this close, smiling a funny half-smile, is agony. Because all I want is for this moment to last forever, and I feel like it’s already over, somehow, even though it’s barely begun. It’s a paradox, because we’re a paradox. We’re Schr?dinger’s boyfriends. We both have a future together, and we’re about to crash and burn, and until Chorus decides once and for all whether to remove our chains, we can’t know which reality is the truth.
So, for now, I’ll pretend I know the answer. I’ll pretend everything’s going to be okay.
I grab his wrist, tug him toward me, and kiss him desperately.
We keep the door open as we kiss, him pressing me hard against the wall, even as more and more clothing falls to the floor. There’s something so exhilarating about having so much open space around us. About being completely ourselves, outside of a cramped, boxed-in hotel room. And though we have a million things to talk about, from Chorus to his mom to Angel, it’s wonderful to let go of it all, for just a moment, and indulge in something happy. Even if it’s only briefly.
He has brought condoms, as it turns out. Even though he’s the one who’s never done this before, and it should be me checking with him, he hesitates before opening the box and asks me if it’s okay. And of course it’s okay, it’s more than okay, it’s everything.
He’s shaking a little at first, until I kiss his lips, and his neck, and his collarbone, and then he scrapes his fingers down the skin of my back until his hand is steady.
When he whispers my name, there’s nothing uncertain in his voice.