A New Start with an Old Friend

My name is Alex. Ten years ago, when I left for college, I moved from Chicago to Boston and never came back. Until now. It wasn't intentional. It wasn't my plan. I wasn't running and hiding from anything. Not really.

My family thinks I left at 18 and never came back because the very last thing I did at home was come out as gay. I literally told them all the day before I left for college. I know...super brave, right? The thing is, I didn't know how they'd take it. I knew they loved me, but my family is very catholic. Like grace every night, mass every week and kids go to the catholic schools -- catholic. I figured my brothers would be cool, but I didn't know what having a gay son would mean to my conservative, religious parents.

It turned out; they were okay. Shocked, but okay. A little afraid of the tougher road I faced, but as accepting as I could have hoped for. So, I stayed in Boston for ten years, but not because of my family. Boston didn't seem to want to let go of me.

Before I even graduated, I was offered a summer internship with a new tech start-up company. The internship turned into a real job offer that I couldn't turn down. The money was great and I liked Boston enough, so I stayed.

I had no family in Boston, and no real friends either, so I threw myself into my work. I was rewarded with huge bonuses and equity in the company. The company that has now sold, leaving me with a sizable bank account the chance to do something new.

At age 28, I have the opportunity to go and do whatever I want in this next phase of my life. I could go to New York; I could go to Silicon Valley or anywhere in between. I decide on the in between. Back home to the suburbs of Chicago.

My parents offered me my old bedroom to stay in while I transition into my new life. I politely declined. I'd feel like a teenager again -- in a bad way. My kid brother offered me the couch in his one-bedroom apartment. I'll always love my kid brother, but I want to keep liking him too and living with him would not be the way to do that. Besides, he has a new girlfriend and I just know that half the time I'd come home to find his stinking sweat sock tied to the doorknob.

I accepted the offer to stay with my former best friend -- Mac. He has a two-bedroom apartment less than ten minutes away from my parents' house, less than ten minutes away from my brother's place...right where I want to start my new life.

Mac moved to town and started at my school at the beginning of sixth grade. Our school was 97% white, 97% heteronormative and 97% boring. Since I was in the closet until after high school graduation, I was assumed to be a part of that 97%. Mac was in the 3%. Mac is black. Multiethnic, actually. His dad is black and his mom is Italian. Our school was full of assholes and they all pretty much ignored Mac from day one. I was happy to befriend him. I was drawn to him from the moment I met him.

I was young when I figured out that I was gay. It was sort of surreal to make that discovery before even really knowing what being gay was. From whatever age you are when you first notice that you're enticed by the allure of another person; an awkward meeting of the eyes, a crooked smile, a stolen glimpse of a strip of bare skin, a brushing of incidental contact... Those little moments that send an electric jolt of excitement through you. Those attractions and exhilarations, for me, have always been brought on by other boys. At first, I didn't understand it and I tried to ignore it. I tried to manufacture the same feelings about girls. I really tried. I really failed. And then I just knew.

I was eleven years old on the first day of sixth grade when I saw Mac for the first time. He was cute. Really cute. He had jet black hair that was buzzed close on the sides and back, but was tufted in loose waves atop his head. He had dark caramel skin and these surprisingly striking blue eyes that seemed to see straight into me. Those eyes were like a superpower and whenever he held my gaze, I'd eventually have to look away.

He was assigned to sit next to me and when he got to within ten feet of me, the air in the room changed. He just had this energy all around him, though, at least in that room, I was the only one who felt it.

But none of that mattered. There were plenty of cute guys in my class. I didn't like those guys because they were cute, I hated them because they were assholes. I didn't like Mac either because he was cute. I liked him because he was kind, funny, smart and generous. The fact that he was so cute was a negative. A distraction. I needed a friend much more than I needed another empty, dead-end crush. Mac became my lab partner, my study partner, my friend and my best friend. I spent seven years trying my hardest to ignore his cuteness.

Then life separated us. We graduated high school, turned 18 and went off to college on different coasts. The difference is, Mac eventually came back home. I didn't. Until now.

We did stay connected through social media over the years, but knowing Mac in real life is a completely different experience. In my mind, he's still my best friend, despite not having seen him in a decade. I obviously could afford to rent or buy whatever I want, but when Mac got wind of my pending return, he invited me to use his spare bedroom while I figure things out. I saw it as an opportunity to reconnect with my old best friend. I figure I'll stay a few weeks, maybe a month.

As I ride up the elevator in his building to unit 6B on the sixth floor, I feel kind of nervous. And I know why. It wasn't just my family that I came out to on my last day before leaving Chicago and not coming back. I also dumped my true sexual identity on Mac that last day too. Mac, being Mac, was unphased. He hugged me, as usual, and basically said, "So what." I was still me and he was still him.

What do I know about Mac today? I know he works in the financial world and usually works from home. The money is good and his hours are flexible. I also know he's Mac...he's my friend.

The elevator deposits me at my destination and I find the door marked 6B. I take a deep breath and raise my hand to knock, but before I could, the door swings open. There he is...Mac. Live and in person. That Mac-energy practically assaults me in the hallway.

I don't know exactly when it happened, I wasn't here to witness it, but sometime over the last ten years, Mac stopped being cute. He's abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous. Devastatingly so. And those piercing eyes (natural, not lenses) are as sky-blue as ever. His haircut is the same as it was ten years ago, but it works on him. Oh, does it work.

Mac smiles at me and my heart flutters with butterflies. He says, "Alexander!" and wraps me in a bear hug. Mac is an affectionate, make-contact kind of a guy. He greets with hugs and he gives these little touches on the arm, the shoulder, the knee, the small of the back, wherever. Each touch always packed a buzz of electricity when we were friends as teenagers. Today's hug in his hallway surpasses buzz and lands on jolt.

Mac is the only person I have allowed to call me Alexander. Everyone else I immediately correct to "Alex", but when Mac does it, it feels right. It feels special.

I step inside and slip out of my Nikes, leaving them next to a pair of his well-worn VANS. I can see a fading, but still visible "11" in the heel. I wear a 10. Now that we're both shoeless, I can also see that Mac still has a good inch on me. I'm 5' 10". He must be just shy of six feet. He also appears to spend much more time working out with weights than I do. He's wearing shorts and a t-shirt, so his well-toned arms and legs are on display.

I am a runner, but I stop at cardio. The weights aren't my thing. I think I look okay; I'm just kind of average. At 150 pounds, I'm healthy and thin, but not toned. I have light brown hair, that lays flat on my head, and green eyes. I'm just kind of average.

Mac has a good 25 pounds on me, but none of it is flab. He should probably quit his job in the financial sector and just become a model.

We look each other up and down. He says to me, "It's so not fair. It's been 10 years but you still look like you're 18. You're that person who will still get carded for alcohol when you're 50!"

He's still smiling at me as his eyes move all over my body. Suddenly I'm blushing a crimson red.

Looking around, I say, "I love your place." I turn, face him and smile, "Okay, what are the house rules?"

"There are only two and you're already complying with both of them." He looks down at my shoeless feet in white Nike crew socks. "Rule #1, leave your shoes at the door." He puts his arm around my shoulders and guides me into his narrow galley kitchen. He opens the fridge and hands me a bottle of Fiji water.

I twist off the cap and ask, "Rule #2?" I take a long swig.

Mac says, "Wear pants."

I snort and almost spew water on my new roommate. I point out, "You're wearing shorts."

"Shorts are fine. They count. Shirtless is fine, barefoot is fine, just don't be bottomless." He grins, "Keep the mouse in the house."

I grin back, "Those are some easy rules."

"I'm an easygoing guy."

"Don't worry about me. And I can almost guarantee that you won't find me barefoot or shirtless either."

His eyes reexamine my body and he says something under his breath that I swear sounds like, "Too bad." I blush again.

I say, "I'll unpack later. Can I take you to lunch? Or rather, can you take me to take you out to lunch? Unless we walk. I need to buy a car like tomorrow."

Living in the heart of Boston for 10 years, I walked. And if I couldn't walk -- trains, buses, Lyfts... Public transportation in the Chicago suburbs is close to nonexistent.

At lunch, I start to tell him about my post-college professional endeavors but he stops me.

"Not that I'm a stalker or anything, but we've been connected on social media since high school. I know all of that stuff. I've watched. I've paid attention. You're actually quite amazing, but I've known that for 17 years now."

I blush again. Dammit.

He continues, "Tell me about you. The personal stuff. The stuff you don't post online."

The waitress comes by and takes our orders. I say, "Okay, well that won't take long. In many ways I'm the same guy I was in high school. I still like to run. I still try to avoid sugar and carbs. In Boston, I didn't have a boyfriend or really any friends. I just worked. A lot." Embarrassed, I add, "I kind of still think of you as my best friend."

I shift in my seat and our knees bump under the table. I adjust again and now I'm toeing his sneaker with mine.

"So, that's me. I'm sorry to dump this on you and I'm sorry that I keep playing unintentional footsie with you under the table."

Mac laughs. "You're good. I like blunt and direct. And honestly, I don't mind the footsie either." He grins at me and I think blushing red is just going to be my new skin tone.

I ask him, "What about you? What don't I know?"

"Hmm. Well, I have made friends. A lot of friends. Maybe too many. But like you, I've been saving the elite best friend title for your return."

"What about a girlfriend?" I ask.

He gives me a wide grin, "Not presently." He holds eye contact an almost uncomfortably long time. I lose the game of chicken and look away first.

Our conversation lightens as we finish our lunch. We're walking back when I ask, "What do I owe you for rent?"

He shakes his head. "You're my guest."

I say, "I have money. I'm not destitute. I can pay my way."

"That's not the point. Look, you just bought me lunch. We'll figure it out as we go."

"Lunch and rent are two different things."

"I didn't invite you to stay here because I wanted to cut my rent in half. Just take the summer and fall to settle in and figure things out. If I'm as awesome as I think I am and you want to keep living with me longer-term, then we'll figure out how to split expenses down the road. In the meantime, ease in. Relax. Don't worry about anything."

There is no doubt Mac is as awesome as he thinks he is. I look at him as we continue to walk. "Why did you invite me to stay here? We haven't seen each other in 10 years."

"I like you, Alexander. We were best friends as kids. I'd like to try being friends as adults."

As we enter the building, he gives me keys and explains the doors, the locks and the mailboxes. He asks me, "I'm sure you had other options: your parents, your brothers... Why'd you choose me?"

"Because I knew you wouldn't take my money."

He laughs.

"Honestly, the same reasons. This whole thing is a little weird. It's a new start in an old place; a new friendship with an old friend." I toe the carpet in the elevator. "That made more sense in head before I set the words free."

"No." He puts an arm around me again, "I know exactly what you mean."

~~

The next morning, Mac and I go for a 6-mile run. After, he takes me into the fitness center.

Mac says, "If it's ever too hot, cold or rainy, there are treadmills and ellipticals in here. After a run, I like to do a little weight lifting. How about you?"

I always stick to just cardio. "Umm..."

He looks me up and down. "We can start slow."

"I never do weights. But okay. I saw my family last night and everyone kept telling me I'm too skinny."

He holds my eye. "You're not too...anything. Follow me."

He spots me on a few machines that are like nothing I've ever used before. He has to demonstrate them for me. It seems like I do half the weight and half the reps he does on each one. He leads me to the floor mat and asks me to hold his ankles while he does his sit ups. I grip him around his crew socks which are damp with his humid, manly sweat. I flush while he pounds out a set of 100. When he's done, he grabs my ankles and says, "Go."

I look at him like he's from Mars. "Mac, I might be skinny but a lack of fat does not mean the presence of muscle." I pat my flat but soft middle. "I don't have an eight-pack. Or a six, a four or a two either. I barely have a zero-pack."

He laughs, "Hey, I could be your personal trainer!"

"I've been running 6 miles, 5 days a week for 13 years. Why do you think I need a trainer?"

He pokes me in the belly, like I'm the Pillsbury Doughboy, making me squirm. "That's why."

"Point taken." He takes hold of my ankles again and his strong grip feels good. I don't want him to let go, so I start a set of sit-ups. Unfortunately, I collapse in defeat before I hit 25.

~~

I buy a new Honda Civic Type R. When I was in high school my dad's car had a manual transmission. I loved driving stick. It was a skill not many kids had and it made me feel cool. I was very not cool in high school.

I text Mac from down in the building's parking lot. "Come check out my new wheels."

After replying that I can't pull off saying "wheels", even in a text, he says he'll be right down.

He looks from the car to me and back to the car, grinning. All he can say is, "Dude...", but somehow, under the circumstances, that feels like an accurate, articulate response.

Mac says, "You're totally teaching me to drive stick before the summer's over."

"We'll see," I tease. "I won't let just anybody drive my baby."

He plays hurt, "I'm 'just anybody' to you?"

He's totally not.

~~

I wake up in the morning on Mac's couch. We had stayed up really late the night before talking and catching up. I guess I fell asleep. There's a blanket covering me and a pillow under my head. How? I sit up and find my socks in a neat pile on the floor. Mac. I yawn and stretch before grabbing my socks and heading toward my room.

I run into Mac in the hall, dressed for a run. He says, "Let's go Alexander. I let you sleep in too long already."

"You let me?"

"I'm your personal trainer, remember?"

"Did I actually agree to that?"

He laughs, "It was a binding nonverbal contract." He looks down at my feet and smiles, "And you said you wouldn't be barefoot in the apartment."

I smile back, "Does it count if you're the one who pulled my socks off while I was asleep?"

"I know I can't sleep with socks on. I was just helping you out."

He's right. I can't either. Not even on the coldest Chicago or Boston winter nights.

"And yes. It totally counts." He winks at me, "One down, one to go."

~~

I fully expected to be sore this morning, but I'm not. Between yesterday's weightlifting and sit-ups, things I literally never do, how is this possible? Maybe Mac is just this good. Maybe he should become a professional personal trainer.

We breeze through our run and head into the dreaded fitness center where the ominous equipment of doom awaits me. Mac remembers exactly how much weight I lifted and how many reps I did on each machine yesterday. Today he pushes me ten percent harder on both counts. I'm completely spent and drenched in sweat when he reminds me that we haven't done our sit-ups yet. I make it to 40 today and collapse on my back on the mat. Mac sits next to me.

"Remind me, why am I doing this?" I ask.

He lightly slaps my tummy and I grunt. "You said you have no packs."

I prop myself up on my elbows in time to see Mac lift his shirt and wipe his brow. Since he's sitting, I can't tell if his is a six or an eight, but he definitely is not pack-less. I could make working out my full-time job and I'd never look like he does. I avert my gaze, hoping to not get caught ogling his sculpted physique.

Mac says, "Today we're adding the pull-up bar to your routine."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"It's a great workout for your biceps."

I look at my right arm, "I don't have biceps."

He laughs.

We walk over to the pull-up bar and Mac begins an effortless set. He has to be at least twenty in when I ask him, "Why is everything an 'up'? We lift the weights, we do sit-ups and pull-ups. Doesn't it seem like 'downs' would be so much easier? Dropping weights sounds painless and simple. And I'd so much rather sit down than sit up."

Mac, who had been seriously focused on his set, releases the bar and drops to the floor laughing. "You're such a dick."

"What did I do?" I ask, all innocent and naïve.

"I hadn't even hit twenty-five yet and you made me laugh."

The 25ish pounds Mac has on me is all muscle. Don't get me wrong, he's not some grotesque, musclebound freak. He's just a very good-looking guy in really good shape. As a runner I've always been healthy. I have good legs, a strong heart, skinny arms, a narrow chest and nonexistent abs. I look up at the pull-up bar and wonder just how embarrassing this is going to be.

The first pull-up is almost easy. The second is a struggle. By the third, I'm swinging and flailing around like a fish out of water. Mac, behind me, puts his hands just above my hips, steadying me. He takes on a little of my weight and guides me through a set of 10. Somehow his strong hands ended up under the hem of my shirt, on my skin. His grip tickles.

"Great workout today," he says with no hint of sarcasm.

I eye him suspiciously, still catching my breath. "Seriously?"

He raises an eyebrow, "Yeah, why?"

"The struggle was real."

He laughs, "Do you have plans for Sunday?"

"No. What's up?"

"Score!" he fist-bumps me. "Keep it free. All day and night."

~~

Tonight, we're having with dinner an old high school classmate -- Jonah. Jonah was a decent guy in high school; nothing like the most of our other classmates. Since he was cute and not an asshole, I had a secret crush on him through the 12th grade. He was on the basketball team. Mac, naturally good at every sport known to man, played neighborhood pick-up games, but refused to be on the school team because of the assholes it was comprised of (save for Jonah). I am not athletically inclined in general, but I can shoot the ball. I can't explain it. I can't dribble, I have no footwork, I can't protect the ball on offense, I can't guard anybody on defense, but damn I can shoot all day long. Again, I can't explain it.