The Sweetest Days

Not even close, but it's not like I'm going to see him ever again.

"Uhm, yeah. Sort of."

A quick smile, that not-quite-dimple making an appearance, as if he knows I'm exaggerating slightly. It doesn't seem to put him off.

"And you live in Brooklyn?"

"All my life."

"And you travel a lot. Chasing teen-aged criminal masterminds," he says gravely.

I laugh and he smiles again, a full grin now, brown eyes sparkling behind his glasses. I want to keep the conversation going, to know him better, but I have no idea what to say. He doesn't exactly feel like a stranger to me, but that's what he is, and talking about tennis is clearly off bounds. And somehow the weather never seems like a natural topic of conversation when you're cruising at over 35,000 feet.

"Are you a New Yorker, too?" I try.

He shakes his head.

"Not originally. I grew up in New Jersey. Bridgewater. Ever heard of it?"

"Sure. A couple of friends moved there a few years back. They've got a big garden in the back and deer drop by and drop loads in the morning."

"It's a good place to raise a family."

"So my friends say. You still live there?"

"No. Working with them, I spend enough time with my family as it is. I moved to the city after I stopped playing. It's a bit of a reverse commute, but it helps keep the peace, and anyway, it's not as if I need to go into the office every day. A lot of our clients are in Manhattan."

"Restaurants?"

"And gourmet and specialty shops. A few catering companies."

"So, how do you find your suppliers? Do you travel around tasting wines and cheeses? Do you need an assistant?"

He laughs.

"Are you volunteering? If so, I could have really used you a couple of days ago for a jellied pig knuckle tasting."

After my empty plates and his zen food garden are taken away, we both stretch out and continue talking in low voices; despite the prosaic topics, the conversation feels oddly intimate, even though we're surrounded by people. For the first time in a long while I'm sorry rather than relieved when the preparations for landing begin.

After the flight attendant brings us our jackets, Paul fishes in one of his pockets and pulls out a small yellow package, offering it to me.

"Gum?"

I reach for a stick of Juicy Fruit, careful not to touch him, but somehow our fingers end up brushing together anyway. I look up slowly, trying to determine if he did it on purpose, and his lips curve in an odd little smile as he bends to slip his shoes back on and tie his laces. If there was a moment there, it came and went too quickly for me to be sure. Sometimes people just like testing the waters or playing a hunch, regardless of their own interest or further intentions. I try to remember if there were ever any hints in the press regarding his love life, but I can't think of a single instance, one way or another.

Paul stands next to me as we wait to go through passport control. Suddenly there doesn't seem to be anything to talk about, and after a few awkward moments, we both reach for our BlackBerries and scan through our messages, though we continue to move forward in tandem. I wave him ahead of me when we reach the customs desk, and when I'm processed through, I find Paul waiting for me.

"Do you have luggage?"

I shake my head. "Do you know how much time you lose by checking it in?"

He frowns in thought, although his pouty lips are curving upward. "I don't know. Five, ten minutes?"

"Are you really asking me or quoting back at me?"

He grins.

"I fucking hated that movie. You wouldn't believe the kinds of things my mom and sister asked me afterwards."

"Do you crash parties? Do you meet George Clooney look-alikes?" I falsetto, rolling my eyes.

"Well, actually they ask me if I meet women that look like Vera What's-her-name and if I do, to watch out, because they might be married and just out for a good time."

I run my last words through my head and yes, I did say 'George Clooney'. Fuck.

"I... I, uh..." I stutter, heat rising to my cheeks.

"You're not married, are you, Nate?" he asks silkily.

"I... No. No, I'm not." And though I've never had reason to consider it before, I don't look a thing like Vera What's-her-name, either.

"How about out?" He pauses a beat, then continues. "For a good time, I mean?"

"It depends. Mostly with my friends," I respond cautiously.

"So, you're discreet."

I nod.

He shifts his laptop case from one shoulder to the other and cranks his head to the right and left in that familiar gesture that I now realize he used to repeat before most serves, especially the second ones. The fact that he's nervous, too, somehow reassures me.

"I have my car in long-term parking. Would you like a ride into the city?" I offer on impulse.

"You live in Brooklyn and I'm in Manhattan," he reminds me.

"So what? It's not that much of a detour."

He considers my offer for a couple of seconds and finally smiles. "Thanks."

I'd been listening to Verdi on the way to JFK five days ago, and the music comes on again when I start the engine.

"I can switch CDs or turn on the radio," I tell him once we're on the Van Wyck, but he shakes his head.

"No, this is fine. What is it?"

"Verdi. La Traviata."

I can feel his eyes on me.

"What?"

"Nothing. I just didn't picture you as listening to opera."

"Really? Why not?"

"I don't know. I've never been to the opera, but in movies it seems like people are always crying. And you don't seem like the weepy type."

I laugh.

"Well, I'm not. Not all opera fans burst into tears at 'Morir si giovane'. I just like the music."

"Do you also like musicals?"

"Some, sure. You?"

He shakes his head.

"Not really. Everybody suddenly starting to sing and dance. They just seem kind of stupid." He listens to Maria Callas for a while longer. "This is nice, though."

He lives on E. 73rd Street, near 1st Avenue. Cars are parked solid on both sides of the street, and I pull over to the left, parallel to a beat-up old Toyota, so that he has room to climb out but traffic can still get around us.

"Well," Paul says, releasing his seat-belt. "Thanks a lot."

"You're welcome."

"I'm not out. To my family or anybody," he suddenly blurts.

"That must make things difficult for you."

"Sort of. And sort of easier, too."

"I guess."

"I don't know why I'm telling you this," he mutters.

"Maybe because it's something I'd need to know if I were interested in seeing you again?"

"Are you?" he asks slowly.

"Sure. Are you?"

He scowls, which isn't very encouraging.

"Generally, I just hook up with guys in clubs in Europe. Less risk, that way. But yeah, I am." He pauses, then grumbles, "This feels really weird. The only thing that would make it weirder would be if you suddenly started singing. You're not going to, are you?"

"Not if you give me your phone number."

He laughs and pulls out his BlackBerry. "Gimme yours, and I'll send you my contact details," he instructs, and so, I do. I hear my own BlackBerry buzz reassuringly in my pocket, indicating that he's kept his side of the bargain. Which means I should keep mine.

Nah. I reach over and turn the CD off.

"And, oh, the towering feeling / just to know somehow you are near / the overpowering feeling / that any second you mmphhh..."

He starts to back away after trying to shut me up with his mouth, but I cup the back of his head, holding him in place, and the second kiss is less rushed. He tastes like Juicy Fruit gum, and his lips feel chapped and a little rough, when I lick at them. He touches my cheek, his fingertips rasping against my stubble, and he pushes at my tongue with his own, and I accidentally knock his glasses askew, when I try to tilt his head a little. He pulls away and readjusts his glasses, pushing them firmly up his nose, looks around as if to ensure that nobody has seen us, then reaches for the door handle.

"I'll call you," he tells me, then jumps out of the car. A second later he's pulling his suitcase and laptop bag out of the back. I watch him through the rear-view mirror until he slams the tailgate shut and waves goodbye.

I peek back when I reach the corner. He's still standing on the sidewalk, looking my way.

*******************

"You know, Evan, sometimes I feel like you really don't accept me and it hurts me. It hurts me deeply," I sniff.

"Ah, screw you, you douche," Evan says, then calls out a perfunctory "sorry, honey," at his wife's outraged squawk.

Although he's six year younger than me, my brother and I look enough alike that people who don't know us well are sometimes confused. Our dissimilarities are only matters of small degree, his straight floppy brown hair a couple of shades lighter than mine, his eyes a little deeper blue; at six foot even, he's one inch shorter than me, but probably around five pounds heavier.

"One Saturday morning. That's all I'm asking for."

"Hell, Nate, you know I hate playing baseball with your friends."

"Because you don't accept me."

He always falls for it. There's nothing that raises Evan's hackles quicker than the unfair accusation that he doesn't love and support his family, gay brother included. Though he is sometimes uncomfortable with me; I suppose finding out one's brother is gay by walking uninvited into said brother's room and finding him on his knees unzipping another guy's pants is bound to leave some lingering trauma, even if it happened almost twenty years ago.

"No, it's because your friends don't take the fucking game seriously. Sorry, honey," he yells at Louise again.

"You know apologizing to me is not going to stop Junior from repeating all the swear words, don't you? In fact you're giving him a cue that he'll learn to listen for," she hollers from the living room.

"Louise, Theo's five months old. I think we have at least another five months before we have to start worrying. And you don't need to use a code name for him, he doesn't know you're talking about him."

He rolls his eyes at me, but I can tell he's so proud he's fit to burst. Evan is my proof that good things come to those who wait. I think he fell in love with Louise when they were both in third grade, but she never even knew he existed, not until she'd been in numerous failed relationships and finally noticed that somehow Evan was always there to pick up the pieces. They married two years ago, and five months ago, Theo was born.

"A few hours, that's all I ask. And I promise you, everybody will take the game completely seriously. I'll make sure they wear cleats, not heels, and there will be absolutely no stuffing of crotches or other attempts to make the uniforms look sexy."

Evan harrumphs.

"And you'd better tell your boys not to pat my butt."

"Absolutely. No patting of butts, yours especially."

"I hate being your token straight guy."

"You're only our substitute token straight guy," I reassure him.

He sighs.

"Fine. But you owe me."

"Thanks, Evan. Anything," I rashly promise.

"Saturday night, you're babysitting. Louise and I are going to paint the town red."

"What? Wait. No. No way. Any other night than Saturday. Or Friday," I append hastily, when I see him open his mouth.

"Saturday," he says firmly. "And we're dropping Theo off, so that we can have the house to ourselves when we get back. We'll pick him up Sunday morning. After church."

"Evan, you don't go to church."

"Around ten thirty or so. Maybe later, depending. We'll call you."

All I know is, somebody from the team had better help me baby-sit. And who the hell uses the expression 'paint the town red' anymore?

*******************

"He struck out. With bases loaded, he struck out. And we lost and we're out of the tournament."

"Well, that's not my fault, is it? You're the one who suggested Evan. You can't bail on me," I plead.

Connor already has his jacket on, and he's making funny faces at Theo, who's stolidly staring back at him with a constipated expression. Which is extremely misleading, because Theo is most definitely not constipated. And he's proven that twice in the last hour. It was the second time that sent Connor running.

"Listen, hon, I put in my time, and now I need to go and drown my sorrows with the guys. What possessed you to agree to do this on a Saturday night, anyway?"

"I guess I missed the part where I had an option not to," I mutter sullenly.

Connor gives me a bracing hug and kisses me on the cheek, then heads for the door.

"I'll tell everybody you said hi," he grins.

"Bitch," I yell after him, then apologize to an absent Louise.

This is what I know about babies: They scream a lot for no obvious reason. They make messes. They will require the wealth of a small nation to raise. And they ruin their uncles' social life, such as it is. I have Theo slung over one shoulder, trying to stop the little vampire from sucking at my neck and to get him to fall asleep, when the phone rings.

"Hi. Is that Nate?"

"Yeah. Hi."

"It's Paul Pappas," he says stiffly.

"Yeah, I know. Hi," I repeat.

"Why are you whispering?"

"It's a long story. You don't want to know, believe me." I pace from one side of the living room to the other, ten slightly bouncy steps, waiting for Paul to say something. I'm halfway on my return trip, and he remains silent. Maybe he does want to know. "I'm babysitting my nephew."

"That's nice of you."

"Yeah, well," I say modestly. "I like to help out. Family, you know?"

Greeks are big on family, aren't they? Maybe this will impress him.

"So, you're stuck at home for the time being? Are you going out later?"

"No, I've got him until tomorrow morning."

"Oh. I was just calling to see if you wanted to do something. Maybe some other time, then."

"Yeah," I agree with regret. I wonder if I'd feel better if we'd at least won the stupid game, but I doubt it. And I'm pretty sure Connor would have bailed on me, either way.

"So, how old is he? What's his name?"

"Five months. Theo. Theodore."

"That's Greek, you know."

Sounding awkward, so awkward, but he's still on the phone, and I find his effort at a conversation touching.

"Gift from God," I say. "My name means sort of the same thing. Nathaniel."

"Listen, I'm not really doing anything. Would you like some company? I could stop by," he blurts.

"Yeah, sure," I agree hastily, before he has a chance to change his mind. "Have you eaten? I was thinking of ordering pizza."

"Could you make one half vegetarian?"

"Sure."

I give him my address and he tells me he'll see me in about forty minutes.

"You'll like Paul," I assure Theo, as I take him for another walk around the living room, and he blows a raspberry. I hadn't realized they turn into obnoxious teenagers quite so early.

*******************

I'm trying to change my shirt and simultaneously reassure Louise that her precious baby boy is still alive, when the doorbell rings and wakens Theo, who immediately starts bawling.

"What was that?" Louise asks worriedly.

"It's nothing, I just dropped him on his head," I tell her, hastily doing up buttons.

"That's not funny, Nate."

"Listen, Louise. Theo's fine. He was fine ten minutes ago. He'll be fine in ten minutes, when I'm sure you'll call to check on us again. Right now, though, I've got to open the door for the pizza guy."

Without checking first, I buzz the guy in, then pick up Theo and cradle him against my shoulder in an effort to calm him down. I hear footsteps on the stairs and I open the apartment door. Instead of the usual teen-aged delivery boy, Paul is standing on the landing in a tan leather jacket, slim-fitting dark brown cords, pizza box in one hand, a six-pack case of beer with a label I don't recognize in the other. The whole combo is mouth-watering.

"Hey. I didn't think you'd make it here before the pizza," I welcome him, then frown in sudden realization. "Wait a minute. Did the kid just hand the pizza over to you? They can't just give people's food away to anybody that happens to be around to pay for it."

"I swore an affidavit that half of it is mine," he reassures me.

I back away from the door so that he can come in, and wave a hand towards the coffee table, where I've already laid out plates and napkins. He sets the pizza and beer down, and takes off his jacket, revealing a cream-colored Henley. He looks as good in casual clothes as he did in his suit. Better.

"This is nice," he says, looking around at the living room, decorated in what I like to think is an elegant and understated style, all browns, olives and grays, though my friend Iggy scathingly refers to it as 'corporate hotel boring'. The only bright colors are from Theo's travel cot and his soft toys, which are lying all over the carpet.

"Thanks. You didn't have to bring beer. I've got plenty."

"Hey, you volunteered to help with the taste tests, right?" he smiles. "There's this beer we're considering importing from Italy. I thought it would be a good occasion, since we're having Italian food." He pulls two beers out of the case. "Bottle opener?"

"I'll go get it."

I'm reaching into the drawer, when the phone rings again. Evan this time around. I sigh in exasperation. They're probably checking to make sure I'm not trying to feed Theo pizza.

"Evan, look—"

"I took the phone from her," Evan interrupts me. "I just called to tell you that she won't be bothering you any more, and that you owe me another one. See ya tomorrow, bro."

He hangs up and I stare bemusedly at the phone. Theo is calmer and chewing on my collar, but I don't dare put him down yet. For a little guy, he can sure get loud.

"Something wrong?"

Paul is standing at the kitchen door, the two bottles still in one hand, the case in the other. I take the case from him and put it in the fridge, then give him the opener and he flips both caps off. He hands me one of the bottles. I raise it in a brief toast, sniff at the earthy hops, and take a cautious sip, as he watches me. It's a classic pilsner, still cool from outside, and surprisingly good, a real contender for the Urquell I generally drink.

"Hey, this is excellent. And, no, nothing's wrong. Quite the opposite. My brother called to tell me that they won't be calling me every three minutes to check on Theo anymore. It's been a very long couple of hours."

He comes a step closer, and lays a cautious hand on Theo's small back, then cocks his head to take a closer look.

"He looks like you," he tells me.

"You really think so?" I ask, trying not to swell with pride.

He hesitates.

"Well, no, not really. With those cheeks, he looks more like Orson Welles."

I laugh and lead Paul back into the living room. I put little Orson in his travel cot and give him a soft toy; he grizzles for a few moments, but then his eyes start to drift shut. Finally.

I sit down on the couch next to Paul and reach for a slice of pizza from my half, which is loaded with pepperoni.

"I'm glad you stopped by. Everybody seems to have deserted me in my hour of need."

"I wanted to see you again."

He sounds a little unsure, maybe shy, and it gives me pause. I know my strengths: I'm good at solving puzzles, I can be funny when I'm feeling comfortable, I sing well enough not to empty a room. But I don't think of myself as the kind of guy anybody would go out of their way to see again. Most often it's me doing the chasing, and with mixed success at that. My biggest asset is that when I'm interested, I have this I'm-a-sure-thing-but-not-desperate vibe, which means that guys are rarely uncertain or shy around me. And God knows I'm interested in Paul. Does he not sense that?

"Good. Because I wanted to see you, too."

He leans forward for his own slice, turning his head to smile at me as he does so.

"What was that you sang the other night, when you dropped me off?"