The Sweetest Days

"Yeah," he grunts, and shifts his weight onto one arm so that he can reach beneath him. I can see his elbow moving faster and faster, and I match his rhythm as I rock into him, trying to make it good for him, as good as he's making it for me.

"Oh, fuck, Nate. I'm gonna come," he gasps, and I bend down over him, wrapping my arm around his shoulders to pull him even closer, kissing and biting at his nape. His body locks and then he's coming, and I feel every one of his pulses in the clenching of his hot tunnel around me. When he's done, I straighten again, and pound into him a few more times before surrendering to my own orgasm.

I stay inside him for a while longer, running my hands up and down his perspiring back and sides, giving us both some time to come down and catch our breath. Finally he pulls away from me, lying flat on the bed on his stomach, his face buried in the pillow. I can't tell what he's thinking or feeling, and I turn my back on him to sit at the foot of the bed and take care of the condom.

"That was nice," he says finally, his voice muffled by the pillow.

"Yeah. Nice," I agree tightly, trying to keep the regret at bay if for only a few more seconds of grace.

I could lie down next to him and try to hold him, but the sudden barrier he's put up is almost physical. I could yell at him, only I followed him into this every step of the way. I could demand he explain, even though he asked me not to and I suspect he couldn't if he wanted to, but wasn't it less than an hour ago that I was telling myself explanations don't matter?

Funny how different thoughts can be on either side of a fuck.

"I gotta go," I say, looking back at him, and he twists around to face me, bracing himself on one elbow.

For a second I imagine he's about to tell me to stay, but he just nods.

"I'll drive you."

"No, that's alright. I need the walk."

I get up and go looking for my clothes in the living room. I'm tying my shoelaces by the time he joins me, wearing a loose pair of gym shorts. He doesn't come near me, just stands at the door, his arms crossed against his bare chest.

I put on my jacket.

"Nate," he says, and I look at him again, trying not to notice the small dark red bruise I left on one side of his neck. He opens his mouth and then shuts it, shaking his head.

"Just tell me one thing," I say, pleased at how normal my voice sounds. "Is 'nice' what you were aiming for tonight?"

"You make it sound premeditated," he bristles defensively. "I wasn't aiming for anything. It just happened."

"Okay. I'll see you around."

I open the door, and he rushes to me, putting his hand on mine on the door handle, blocking my escape.

"Do you want me to apologize?"

"Why would you apologize?"

"Listen, Nate, I know how you feel about me and—"

"Fuck you, Connor," I interrupt him, really not wanting to hear at this exact moment that he doesn't feel the same way, which, in any case, is not news to me, and I wrench the door fully open, almost hitting him with it.

He steps back, out of my way, and I leave.

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

Things always look better in the morning.

This doesn't include myself, of course. After two almost sleepless nights, I look like something the cat dragged in. As I stare at my tired, pouchy face in the mirror, I briefly consider calling in sick and returning to bed, but it would only be to twist and turn some more, and I've done enough of that.

In the cold light of day, I'm not even that upset anymore. What happened, happened. Connor and I will probably avoid each other for a couple of weeks, then we'll run into each other somewhere and we'll be back to normal. All I need to do is think of last night as an aberration, not as what might have been. And as Paul said, you gotta know when to quit, get on with your life.

Sustained by gallons of coffee, I somehow crawl through the day. Then, not wanting to face an empty apartment, I give Evan a call.

"Sorry, big brother, no can do," he says, when I invite him for a beer at our favorite watering hole. "Louise's parents have invited us to dinner."

"Okay. Maybe tomorrow, then."

"What's the matter? You sound kind of down."

"Nothing. Just tired, I guess."

"Uh huh."

He doesn't sound convinced, but Evan isn't the pushy type. Besides, he knows I'll probably spill my guts after a few drinks tomorrow, if I haven't gotten over whatever it is that's bothering me. Other than Connor, Evan is the only person I really confide in, and I don't tell either of them everything.

After we hang up, I scroll through my contacts list until I reach Paul's name. I could call him, but after the time we spent together, and after the Connor intermission, I'm pretty sure we're not on the same page. I lock the BlackBerry keypad and decide to go to the gym instead. I'm impressed with myself. Perhaps for once mild depression will translate to tighter abs – well, to abs, anyway – rather than to pints of Chocolate Jalapeno Ciao Bella gelato.

Feeling virtuous and having replaced emotional with physical pain after an hour of running, push ups, squats and crunches, I stop by the supermarket to pick up the fixings of a healthy salad. I'm not sure sunflower seeds will have a more uplifting effect than a couple of beers, but one never knows until one tries it. My BlackBerry buzzes as I'm waiting in the checkout line. I check caller ID and feel an unexpected little burst of pleasure.

"Hi, it's Paul Pappas," he introduces himself, when I answer.

"I know. Hi."

"I was wondering if you're free to have dinner together."

Even though I know what my response should be, I agree.

"Sounds good. What did you have in mind?"

"You want to come over to my place? I was at my parents last night, and my mom gave me way too much food."

"Okay. I'm in Brooklyn now and I need to drop off some stuff at home and change, but I can probably be there by seven thirty or so." I confirm his address and apartment number.

All the way home, and then in the subway all the way to his apartment, I have second thoughts, and third and fourth ones, too. On the one hand, I'm attracted to Paul and it's obvious he's not indifferent to me, either. And I suspect that he's considering something a bit less casual than a few rolls in the hay. But unless he's decided to come out – and nothing he's said so far would lead to that conclusion, quite the opposite, in fact – casual rolls in the hay is all it can be, at least with me, because I didn't reach this age to go back to hiding who I am or whom I'm involved with. And confusing things further about what I might or might not want from Paul, there's how I feel about Connor, as pathetic as it seems by this point, even to me.

It's too much baggage for any chance encounter on a plane and one blow job to carry. And yet, here I am and remain, on the uptown subway, even though I opted for the slightly longer route by not taking the direct connections or the express, on my way to Paul's apartment.

His building is white brick, probably dating back to the mid-fifties. I ride the elevator up to his floor, butterflies starting up in my stomach, and I take a deep breath. He's already standing at the open door, dressed in a red polo and jeans, and he smiles a little uncertainly.

"Hey," he says once I'm inside, and he kisses me. I press the pint of Chocolate Jalapeno I bought from the corner deli into his stomach, and he dances away, laughing and cursing at the cold.

Most of his furniture seems to originate from the more expensive IKEA ranges. If he has any personal belongings, they're all neatly stored away in deep drawers and cabinets; the coffee table only has a small tray with three ornamental candles in it. The apartment is neat and clean to the point of obsession, and I wonder if it's always like this or if Paul tidied up for me. Either way, it makes me a little uneasy.

"My mom gave me pastitsio. I'm just warming it up now."

"I don't know what that is."

"A kind of macaroni casserole, with minced meat and béchamel sauce. I'm not even sure it's native Greek or Italian, to be honest, but it's good."

"I thought you were vegetarian."

"I mostly am. But there's not too much meat in this. You'll see."

An alarm pings in the kitchen and he excuses himself. I resist the urge to open a drawer to see if the contents are neatly organized or haphazardly tossed in, and follow him. The kitchen is tiny, and also obviously designed by IKEA. It almost looks like he lifted whole rooms straight from the showroom floor without changing or personalizing them in any way, except to replace the cardboard appliances with real ones.

"How long have you lived here?"

He's gingerly lifting the tinfoil off the casserole dish, and he has to take off his glasses when they steam up.

"Two and a half years. Do you like it?"

"Sure. It's very neat."

He puts his glasses back on and gives me a sharp look, then turns away to look for something in a drawer.

"Do you want something to drink? Beer or wine?"

"What are you having?"

"Wine, I think."

He's still searching the drawer, which doesn't look nearly big enough for him to have lost something in. I reach out and run my forefinger along the narrow line of paler skin right at his hairline.

"Hey," I say softly.

He shuts the drawer without taking anything from it, then turns so that he's facing me and leans back against the counter, his palms braced on either side of him.

"Sometimes I think my comments are funnier than they actually are. A lot of the time."

He smiles a little.

"My apartment is very neat," he concedes. "It's just the first time anybody's criticized me about it."

"Yeah? You have a lot of guests over?"

"My parents and brothers. A couple of colleagues to watch a game once and a while."

"That's it?"

"It's not that large a place," he tells me seriously, as if that were really an obstacle to having a few good parties, or to inviting a trick over.

He serves the pasti-something into two plates and pulls a large bowl of salad and a sealed bottle of white wine from the fridge. I help him carry things into the living room to a small dining table set up in one corner. He opens the wine expertly and pours me a glass.

"Let me know if you like this."

I don't know a hell of a lot about wine and even less about Greek wine. On that long ago vacation to Greece we'd tried retsina a couple of times, and both times I woke up the next morning feeling as if somebody was stabbing an ice pick between my eyes, so I cautiously sniff the contents of the glass.

"It's not retsina, is it?" I ask, and he grimaces and shakes his head.

"God, no. Although there are a few good retsinas out there."

He goes on to give me a long lecture on varieties of grapes, wine-growing regions, the challenge of finding small vintners that can produce a consistent quality year in, year out, and from there moves on to the difficulties of being able to import certain items in sufficient quantities to make it economically worthwhile. All very interesting and all carefully designed to keep the discussion away from any subject even remotely personal.

"Sounds like you enjoy what you do."

"Yes, I do," he agrees without hesitation. "A couple of years back, somebody clued me in to wines from Moldova. Really excellent. The problem, of course, was getting our clients here to be willing to try and feature them in their menus..."

And he's off again. Saturday night I'd found him quiet and a little shy; tonight he's either hit his stride or he's putting up a really good front. He keeps on doing that neck-cranking thing though, so it's probably the latter, but I don't know what to say that could put him at ease and after the last couple of days I'm not thinking too quickly, anyway.

I try to suppress a yawn, and he catches me at it.

"I'm boring you."

"No, not at all," I say hastily. "It's just that I haven't had much sleep over the past two nights, and it's starting to catch up with me."

"Did you babysit again last night?"

"No, thank God. Once every couple of years is enough. No, it was just... stuff," I say vaguely.

"Oh?"

I shrug and empty my glass, then pour myself another one, emptying the bottle.

"You'll have a good marriage," Paul says.

"Huh?"

"In Greece, if someone single gets the last glass of wine, that's what people say. That he'll have a good marriage."

"Not very likely," I say gloomily.

I help him clear the plates. He stacks everything in the sink and shakes his head when I offer to help him wash.

"No, it's fine, I'll do it later. My mom would have my head. It's bad enough that I let a guest help with serving and clearing."

"So we won't tell her. It'll be a secret between the two of us."

Paul smiles uncertainly, and I realize I'm at that stage of tipsy where I can still enunciate clearly but tend to say pretty stupid things.

"I should get going. Early day tomorrow."

"You don't want dessert or coffee? We can have the ice cream you brought."

I'm tempted, and not only by the ice cream. But I suddenly feel an urgent need to put some space between us.

"No, really, it's late. This was great. Your mom's a great cook. I had a great time," I babble.

He takes a deep breath.

"I was hoping you'd want to stay," he says. "I'd like you to stay."

"I... can't."

"Why?"

I stick my hands in my pockets and unsuccessfully try to meet his eyes.

"Is this about your friend, who showed up yesterday morning? Connor?"

"Connor has nothing to do with anything," I lie. "He's just a friend."

"A jealous one."

Startled, I finally look at him.

"What? No. What are you talking about? We're just friends," I repeat.

"It didn't look like it from where I was sitting. He was behaving like I horned in on the two of you."

"Oh, that. No, that's just his sense of humor."

"If you say so."

I feel ridiculously let down that he accepts my explanation so easily, and I want to ask him for more evidence that would prove that Connor actually was jealous. Which just goes to show that you can take the boy out of high school, but even thirty years later, you can't quite take high school out of the boy.

And right afterwards, I feel like a total shit, obsessing about Connor, when I'm with Paul. Paul, with his business studies course and his home designed by IKEA, who is so controlled and self-conscious, who works so hard at trying not to disappoint his family and at presenting a perfect front to the world, and who, maybe for the first time in years, is tentatively reaching for something more. It's humbling and not a little scary to find myself involved in his attempt.

"What do you want, Paul?"

"I told you. I want you to stay for a while longer."

"Okay. Say I do. What then?"

"What do you mean?"

"What then? I stay, we fuck, we have a good time. What then? Where do you see this going?"

"I don't know. It's too early to tell."

"Do you see us going out to lunch or dinner together? To a movie? Do you see yourself inviting me over to your parents' place for Thanksgiving?"

"It's too early," he says again, growing agitated.

"It's too early to consider going to a movie together? To share a tub of popcorn and maybe hold hands in the dark?"

"I told you, I haven't dated before!"

Anger now, and I back down.

"Paul, I came out a long, long time ago. I'm discreet and I'm not militant about it, but I want to live my life, you know? If I'm seeing someone, even casually, I like to do things with him. After two or three months, if things are going well, I'd like to take him to my brother's house, and I'd like to get to know his family and friends. I don't take it as a given that we'll get to that stage, but I don't want to take it as a given that we never will."

"I can't," he whispers. "It's too late."

"Sweetheart, I can't tell you what's right for you. I'm the last person to give any sort of advice. But believe me when I say that it's not too late. It's never too late."

A tear rolls down his cheek and I instinctively reach for him, pulling him into my arms. He stays still for a second, then shoves me away.

"You need to go," he says roughly.

I wish I could hold him and kiss him one last time, but he's not about to allow that. Besides, it would only make me feel better, not him. I nod and pick up my jacket.

I walk to 2nd Avenue and flag down a taxi. I doubt I'll ever see Paul again, and at some point, right around 50th Street, I start crying, something I haven't done since my mother passed away five years ago. I'm not sure if I'm crying for myself and the years I've wasted fruitlessly waiting for Connor, or for Paul and the years he's wasted and will continue to waste looking for a compromise that doesn't exist, or for what might have been between the two of us, if we'd only been slightly different than who we are, or if we had the courage to change ourselves a little.

The cab driver turns the music slightly louder and pretends not to notice my distress, and I'm grateful.

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

"Hey, where's Connor these days? I don't think I've seen him since the game a couple of months ago."

I help Theo struggle onto his feet and grin at him when he stands, clutching at my knees and swaying slightly. Evan is lounging in my armchair, drinking a beer.

"Out of town, I think."

"What do you mean, you think?"

I shrug.

"We've lost touch over the past few weeks. Work and all."

Until Evan's question, I hadn't realized how long it's been. Connor tried calling me once or twice the first ten days, left a couple of voicemails, but I wasn't ready to confront him yet. I invented a reason to go to fly to our offices in Tokyo, and hid there for a couple of weeks. And time passed, as it always does.

"Have you argued?" Evan asks bluntly.

"Yeah, I guess you could say that."

"Jeez. I never thought I'd see the day."

"See what day?"

"That the two of you aren't speaking to each other. Why didn't you say something?"

"There was nothing to say. Besides, you don't like Connor."

"All the more reason. You know I'd totally take your side."

I look at him curiously.

"Why don't you like him? All these years, you've never said."

Evan sighs.

"I like him fine. I just don't like what he's done to you."

Theo falls on his butt and looks surprised by the evidently unexpected turn of events, even though this is about the fifth time the same thing has happened. He then starts to pull himself upright again. I admire the little guy's tenacity.

I could try pretending I don't know what Evan's talking about, but he probably won't let me get away with it.

"He's always been honest. It's me that kept on wishing there could be more. That's nothing he's done to me."

He shakes his head.

"Hutchins men. It's like we imprint on someone and there's never anybody else for us. Dad was the luckiest; he only had to wait two years for Mom, and that's only because Grandma wouldn't let her marry before she was eighteen. I had to wait almost thirty years for Louise to take me seriously."

The concept of a Hutchins legacy and imprinting is sort of comforting, no matter that Evan just made the whole thing up. My love, obsession, whatever you want to call it, for Connor isn't pathetic or crazy, it's simply the result of a biological imperative that goes back all the way to when the Hutchins men were covered in fur, grunting in caves and being stomped on by mammoths. Courting must have been pretty simple back then; the guy would've just dragged the girl into his cave and that would have been that. I wonder how my homo homo sapiens ancestors fared though, especially if the object of their affection was bigger and stronger than them.

"But she did finally," I say, returning to the here and now, and Evan grins goofily.

After Evan and Theo leave, I sit and stare at the wall for a while. It's Saturday afternoon and I have no errands. My apartment is spotless, I've already been to the gym and it's too soon for another haircut. After returning from Tokyo, I even finally finished the inventory, cross-referenced by genre and artist, of my music, that I'd been half-heartedly working on since I had vinyls and tapes rather than CDs and mp3s. In short, there's nothing to distract me from wallowing in self-pity. I pull out my BlackBerry and scroll through the directory, wondering which of my friends might be up for doing something on short notice.