You're a Mean One, Matthew Prince, page 18
With steady assurance, he climbs up, sets the heavenly host in its rightful place, and we all step back to take in our creation. “Silent Night” starts playing. I can’t help it. Tears begin to form.
“A job well done, I’d say,” Gramps announces.
We all settle in on the couches, eggnog refilled and the clock ticking into the wee hours of the evening. Hector tells us about his family traditions—the Nochebuena feast with his dad’s family featuring pasteles, rice, and pork, midnight mass with its own pageant (where he once played Joseph and nearly dropped the fake baby Jesus), and the Christmas morning breakfast with his mom’s family where his grandma serves chorizo and omelets before anyone can open a single present.
I snuggle further into some throw pillows and a fleece blanket. The world fades in a bit at the edges. I guess moments like these are what this season is all about. It may not be as glamorous as I’m used to, but it feels right, the way it once did, and that’s all that matters right now.
Chapter 21
The storage units are as desolate as they were the other day.
The next morning, we find our target and undo the padlock. We lug boxes, assembly-line-like, into the back of the truck with only brief breaks for flirtatious eye fucking that’s riling me up.
Last night brought about a loaded good night. Should we kiss again? Should we talk? Should we shed our clothes and figure it out later? We ended up giving each other an awkward hug, shutting off the lights, and lying in silence until sleep overtook us both.
“Were you studying art or something at NYU?” Hector asks out of nowhere. When I look over, he’s flipping through my planning notebook, full up with sketches. He’s searching for our last-minute list of items that need to be ferried to the college, but stopping every few pages to inspect my art.
I slide the projector onto the floor in the front of the truck. We don’t want that rattling around with everything else. It already looks moments away from combusting of its own accord.
“Uh, no. I was just in the school of general studies. I never declared a major or anything like that,” I say. “I wasn’t there long enough to even contemplate any of that. I sometimes like to think if I had stayed, I would’ve created my own major, but even in my fantasies I can’t figure out what it would contain or be called.”
“I was only asking because these drawings are really good. Like, really good.” I glow in the radiance of his compliment, even though he seems shocked I could possess a talent beyond a rigorous beauty regimen.
“I wanted to take a gap year. I told my parents that. They claimed I couldn’t just do that because that’s what all my friends were doing, but it really wasn’t that. I didn’t want to tour Europe on their dime or anything. I just didn’t feel ready to make any big decisions. Probably because I’d had so many big decisions made for me by them for so many years.” I let out a sigh. “It’s unfortunate that society expects young adults to make good, life-changing choices. What kind of system is that?”
“I hear you, dude,” Hector says. He unrolls the tarp we’re going to lay over the boxes in case a flurry or rainstorm rolls in. I grab the other side and spread it evenly over the bed.
“What about you? Why English?” I ask.
“I think because that’s what my mom studied when she was here. She wanted to get an MFA, do advanced research in early Spanish literature, the baroque masters—Cervantes and Lope de Vega—or sometimes she’d say she preferred the Italian-inspired Renaissance stuff—León or Cruz—because of the heavy religious themes. She’s the smartest person I know. But during senior year of college, she got pregnant with my older brother. She and my dad rented an off-campus apartment above some of the shops in the Downtown District after graduation and she traded the graduate degree for motherhood,” he says, fastening the tarp to the sides of the truck bed.
“So, you’re completing it for her?” I ask.
“Kind of,” he says. “She instilled a passion for reading in me at a young age, and studying English just kind of made sense.” I add an early love of literature to our growing folder of shared interests. He continues, “Plus I had Dr. Winston for my freshman writing seminar and I fell in love with the way he teaches. His excitement over words is infectious. It’s quiet, but it’s strong. It’s not even what he says exactly. It’s in the way he moves while he says it. Like a metaphor is a piece of candy to him, waiting to be unwrapped and savored. I had my mind made up by the end of that first term.”
I enjoy hearing about Gramps this way. My most vivid memories of him are his long-winded stories when he’s gorged out on dark meat at Thanksgiving dinner. They aren’t him poised in front of a lecture hall, teaching the next generation of thinkers. It’s such a noble profession. Underappreciated too. Even if their work isn’t for me.
“Did you come back here to see where you would’ve grown up had things been different?” I ask. I know it’s a loaded question, but we’re at that level now. At least, I hope we are.
“I think so. When I got my acceptance letter, I was worried at first that maybe this place had changed too much in the time since my parents were here, but I decided I had to find out for myself. I didn’t connect well with the people I went to school with back home. That world was sports, marching band, rowdy parties, and not much else. My brother did the sports thing. He played basketball before college and then the fire academy. My sister was in with the out-and-indie crowd. Like, full-on head of purple hair and multiple cartilage piercings, making my mom furious. I never really found a group that got me. I wasn’t a drama kid and I didn’t want to do debate, so I escaped into books,” he says. “Plus the humidity gets to you after a while. I wanted to experience a different climate. I love the snow now.”
“Snow is pretty coming down over New York City, but disgusting once it’s settled. Blackened slush is probably the saddest sight around the holidays,” I say. “Though, I do miss my January strolls through Central Park. I used to pretend I was somewhere far-off, isolated in my own world of freshly fallen crystal. It’s the closest to inner serenity I’ve ever found.”
I pick up one of the leftover light strands and start detangling it. We might need the extra glamour at some point before we’re done.
“Technically, I grew up in a suburb of Dallas, but it’s basically a city of its own accord. So this small-town change of pace is nice,” he says as I struggle with a stubborn knot. “I feel calmer here. More me. I like knowing people and being known. Especially by people who accept me for who I am.”
“When did you come out?” I ask as he takes a seat atop a plastic tub and joins me. His nimble hands have better luck than mine do.
“When I moved out here, I just decided I’d be open about who I was. There wouldn’t be any pretense about who I had been or who I wanted to be. I never formally came out to anyone on campus, but when I started exploring my bisexuality freshman year, going to club meetings and stuff, I would talk to my sister about it during our weekly FaceTime calls. She was working toward her beautician’s license, and not to be super stereotypical, but there were quite a few queer dudes in her program, so I knew she’d get me.”
“I’m glad you had that kind of support.”
Hector says, “My parents know now too. They’re devout, church-going Catholics, so I thought it would be an ordeal, but surprisingly it wasn’t. I think it helped that I have a cousin on my dad’s side who’s a lesbian. And that my mom loves Ricky Martin just a little too much.”
“I don’t blame her,” I say. And then I blush because I realize Hector does share some of the talented performer’s brooding features. He catches me trying to hide it, and I decide after the other night what’s the use? He knows I crave him.
I smile a flirtatious smile, wishing he’ll pick up the baton and make mention of our steamy, pulse-spiking make-out session during the movie. Maybe start a second one to rival it.
“What about you?” he asks, killing my hopes and prolonging this conversation about everything but the kiss in question. I drop the smile, deflated a little. “I mean, you’ve been out for a while, right? What was that like, being a young poster child for the LGBTQ community?”
“Poster child? I don’t know about all that.” I swallow some of the hard, jagged feelings scratching up my windpipe, but I tell him what I can. The sentiments that won’t choke me. “It was not as glamorous as the GLAAD awards make it seem. I didn’t do it on my terms, nor was it my choice.”
He plays protector again. “Somebody outed you?” There’s anger in the way he drops his task to focus his attention on me.
“No, not like that. I was caught kissing a boy I shouldn’t have been.” I leave Lukas’s name out of it. Despite the trust building between us, it’s only half my story to share. “After confirming I was gay, my parents and our publicist kicked into high gear, deciding how and where and why to tell the story.”
“They didn’t even ask if that’s what you wanted?”
“I was just over the moon that they accepted me. That they wanted to shout their pride from the rooftops. It didn’t occur to me until I was working with my therapist that it was mostly a PR stunt.” I kick aside a stray box. “Lo and behold, I come out and queer side characters pop up in the Dark Dissension series. I should’ve seen it.”
“You were young,” he says, as if this makes it absolvable.
“But old enough to process the feelings and know how I felt about that guy. We were barred from seeing each other again.” Hector doesn’t ask who. It’s a small detail, but an important one. In New York, listeners would be hungry for names so they could regurgitate the story to the first person who will care, but Hector’s not like that. He’s more interested in my hard-held emotions than who brought about my sexual awakening. “I thought about that last kiss a lot.” The admission is freeing.
“I’ve been thinking about our first kiss a lot.” Such a suave pivot. Such sweet words. I could shatter for him, right here on the cement.
“Me too.” Another equally freeing admission considering how scared I was that it would become another bunk-bed fever dream.
“Replaying it has kept me up the last couple nights.” So I haven’t been imagining that frantic tossing and turning over my head. The sound of an elastic waistband slapping back into place minutes after.
“Same for me.” It’s winded me and wound me up, making sleep impossible even though Hector’s snore strips have been working.
“Can I ask you something personal?”
“Go for it,” I shoot back, realizing my guard isn’t just down. It’s not here. I lost it while dancing with him yesterday. Maybe even before that. I stand, stretching out my strand of lights, using it as an excuse to edge closer to him.
“Have you been with anyone since your exes?” he asks. His question is brazen, forward, and fills me with a million swooping bumblebees. I rumble and buzz with expectation of what he might say or do next.
“Are you asking if I’ve had sex since my breakup?” I raise my eyebrows, preen a little bit.
He lets out a pleasing, barely audible “Yes.”
“I have. Once or twice. Nothing to write about in my diary, that’s for sure,” I joke, liking where this is going. I back myself against the wavy metal wall in anticipation. Isn’t this what actors in Baz’s music videos do to signal they want to be kissed deep, pressed hard, taken somewhere exhilarating? “Why do you ask?”
“Because I haven’t. At all. And I…” He clears his throat, growing shy as I grow fuller in my jeans. “I was…”
“And you were hoping we would…”
“Yeah, dude.” His voice cracks in a sexy way. “I was hoping we would. The other night.”
“We still can.” I let my voice trail into a tantalizing place.
“Here?” he asks, looking around, uncertain.
“Why not? It’s secluded. It’s private. Nobody around to interrupt us…” My list could go on, but I can’t take it anymore. From the moment I saw him, the second he needled me like nobody else ever has, I knew I wanted him, and now he’s here, offering himself. I can’t let this moment pass. A drive back in the truck could change everything. I won’t let the fragility of what we have smash to pieces in transit. Pressing pause, like we did that night, isn’t an option any more.
I want this. I need this.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
I nod. “I’m so sure.”
Without further prompting, he’s locking the truck and hauling the gate down. In only the glow of an electric lantern that’s on its last leg, he finds his way back to me, stopping inches from my body. He’s radiating pheromones and full-throttle heat in these freezer-like temperatures.
A single hand reaches out, hesitant, and strokes the side of my hair, tracing the divot of my ear. My whole body shivers. “Is this okay?”
“Yeah, your fingers are just cold,” I say, panting. He turns into an ice sculpture, uncertainty magnifying in his eyes, but then I whisper, “It’s okay. I want this. I don’t care.” Cold fingers can go to hell. “I need you.”
That’s all he needs to hear.
“Warm them,” he instructs, presenting his fingers to me, using the bratty tone from the day we met. Except this time, it’s fucking sexy. So fucking sexy that it shakes up my insides like a snow globe.
Without hesitation, I take his forefinger in my mouth. My tongue wanders over the ridges of bone, tasting his calluses, before I do the same to the next finger and the next and the next. Then, he’s presenting me with his other hand, and before I know it, I’m blowing hot breath up their sides, so entranced by this strangely erotic act. So in the moment that it scares me.
He goes to touch my face again, but I flinch. “Still cold.” The straining denim below my waist gives me an idea. “Try this.” I undo my belt and slip his hand into the deep warmth there. I cringe at first, sudden shock, but settle into the firm press of his palm.
“Much better,” he whispers in my ear before pushing up against me. I do the same for him and allow our mouths to meet. This initial kiss isn’t tentative. It’s sumptuous, toothy. Hurried, matching my rocketing heart rate.
We’re on it—on each other—like that for a while. Our thumping bodies working hard toward the desired result. His pants fall completely down to his ankles, so I pull him closer, gripping his now bare ass. He gasps into my mouth, sweet hot breath, as the pads of my fingers massage the soft flesh there.
“I love that. Keep doing that,” he groans, commanding. I knead him more, making his goose bumps disappear.
My brain is flashing, pleasure centers spiking as he slickly strokes me, kisses me, brings me to the brink of orgasm and then walks it back. Over and over. He’s an expert at teasing me, both with words and his hands, apparently.
I’m seeing stars in the shadowy dark. “That’s it, Matthew.”
Time starts skipping like a jumping needle on a record player at his praise. We find a steady rhythm that satisfies us both and sounds like music. It’s all too real and utterly dreamlike.
By the time Hector’s hand has fully defrosted, I’m frantically whispering, “I’m close. Please, please. I’m close.”
We both moan into each other’s necks, gasping for air at the flood of overwhelming relief that comes when we topple over the edge one right after the other.
Finally. When the shuddering ceases, I can breathe again.
“That was—” I start.
“Yeah,” he finishes, half-pensive, half-sighing. “Wow.”
“Yep. Wow.”
We look at each other. Freezing yet overheated. Satisfied yet yearning for more. The charged awkwardness gets broken by a breathless, necessary laugh. There’s no more left to be said.
We’re both too spent to speak.
We find old napkins in a nearby box, clean ourselves up, and see ourselves out, lighter and somehow more weighted too.
As the truck rolls out onto the road, the carnality of coming together presses into my breastbone, makes me question my motives.
I need you. Had I really said that? And more importantly, did I mean it?
It’s not until we’re at the college, unstacking folding chairs and unfolding linen tablecloths, that I begin to see the progress we’ve made. The space is starting to take shape—look special, feel special.
Something else in this room feels special too.
I glance over and soak in Hector’s profile as he sets up the plastic snowman, tracing the sloping bridge of his nose with my eyes. When I reach his lips—his perfect, still-swollen lips—I find my answer in his glimmering, sparkling smile.
I do need him.
And I don’t know how to feel about that.
Chapter 22
I’m a bundle of anxiety by the time the crew from Bishop’s Family Farm arrives with the tree.
Noelle’s text was a welcome respite from the uncomfortable silence surging through the Great Hall post-sex, post-revelation, post, well…everything.
The mutual masturbation was electric, all-encompassing, soul-baringly awesome, but it also struck a strange nerve in me. I’m on the fritz, finding it hard to focus with him nearby. I have no space to sort through my twisted yarn ball of a brain.
Tunnel vision holding strong, I texted Noelle back, telling her to come ASAP.
Now, the twelve-person team erects the spectacular tree in the center of the space. It was a series of serious trial-and-error moves to get the marvelous beast through the door, but now it stands tall and proud, ready to be decorated.
I step aside as ladders get carted in, and everyone works overtime to wrap the branches in the twinkling lights Hector and I unraveled in the storage unit. Before we unraveled each other, that is.
Gah. Stop thinking about that, Matthew.
