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She learned this trick from an ex-girlfriend in college, back when she was young and horny and easily distracted. We should come out, Rachel would say, and ten minutes later, she would be on her back, clutching the sheets and moaning yes.
"I've been thinking, Rach..."
She's been giving Keith a lot of blowjobs lately.
-
She's down on her knees in his living room, his hands on her shoulders when he says, "I know what you're doing."
He's smarter than she ever was, but she's played this game before. "I'm glad," she says, kissing his stomach, nuzzling his hip. She tilts her head back and looks up at him with a half smile. "I'd hate to think I was bad at this."
He snorts and brushes her hair back from her forehead. "Never."
-
He takes her out to dinner, a place with candlelight and tablecloths. It's the kind of place where couples get engaged, and she drinks her wine too fast, watching him carefully as he pours her a second glass. They both know she would turn him down, wouldn't wear a ring even if she said yes.
He doesn't ask, but he takes her hand in his, tracing a line on her palm.
"Rach," he says, "you can't give me a blowjob whenever you don't want to talk about something."
Blushing, she looks down at the tablecloth. "No," she says, tracing the base of her wineglass, "I guess that wouldn't work here."
-
"I had this girlfriend," she says idly, and it's a strange topic for lying in bed, Keith's arms wrapped loosely around her as she rests her head on his chest. "A couple girlfriends, really. Not -- not at the same time. It was right after I came out."
She gives him a chance to speak, not knowing what she wants him to say.
"None of them were out," she continues, playing with his chest hair. She hesitates, biting her lip nervously. "I hated it, but now...now I think I understand."
He shifts his hold on her, and she doesn't say anything else.
-
She dreams he says I love you in a toss, and she wakes up angry and soaked with sweat. It's the third time she's had this dream, and it's the third time he's slept through her leaving.
-
They buy coffee from the grease cart on Sixth Avenue and sit on the benches by Fox's studio, watching the news ticker scroll above the windows. There are two wars and an economic collapse, but the start of baseball season dominates the headlines.
"Tell me about the girlfriends," he says, popping the lid off his coffee to blow on it. He glances at her only briefly.
She shrugs. "They didn't know who they were," she says. She sips her coffee, wincing as she scalds her mouth. "I've been thinking I should apologize."
-
"Why do you want to go public, anyway?" she asks. The cheese is sliding off her pizza, the hot grease burning her fingers as she tries to pile it back onto the slice. "I mean, who cares?"
He reaches across the table and pulls a string of mozzarella off her little finger, dropping it onto his plate. "I love you."
She opens her mouth to tell him that's not an answer, but she stops herself. She may have started this game, but he changed the rules, and there are no tablecloths or candlelight around for her to call him out.
-
He wakes up the fifth time she has the dream, turning on the bedside lamp while she's getting dressed.
Her jeans are unbuttoned around her hips, her shirt still on the floor, and she asks, "What are you doing?" as she shields her eyes against the light. They're the only words she can think of, and she's not sure if they're meant for him or the man in her dream.
"What's wrong?" he asks, sitting up. "You've been leaving."
"And I've been coming back."
-
He appears in her doorway, tapping the latest issue of Out against his palm. It's rolled into a tube, an article with her picture on it facing outward, and Rachel can see notes scribbled in the margins and a paragraph underlined with thick pen strokes.
"Is there something you haven't been telling me?" he asks, taking a seat in the visitor's chair. Hands in his lap, he holds on to the magazine.
"About what?" She hasn't read the article, but she thinks she knows which paragraph he has underlined.
"You don't have a girlfriend, Rachel. You have me."
She covers her face with her hands, shaking her head. "I have a meeting."
-
When her guest cancels, she has to correct Keith in the toss. "Actually," she says, "something came up. I don't have him anymore."
"You have me," he says, and her head starts to spin. It's not like waking up from her nightmares; she can't get dressed and leave.
-
"Look," she says as they unload the dishwasher, putting plates and glasses and silverware in cupboards and drawers, "I can't do this."
He doesn't drop the glass in his hands, doesn't squeeze it so hard it breaks. Instead, he leans easily against the refrigerator door, watching her carefully. "What's 'this'?" he asks. "Is it us?"
Crossing her arms, she slumps against the counter and leans her head back. She stares up at the white ceiling tiles. "I don't know," she says. "Should it be?"
-
She wakes up sometime after four, an uneasy feeling in the base of her spine. When she rolls over, she finds Keith staring at her, his head propped up on his hand.
Her throat is dry, and she has to clear it. "What?" she asks, her voice still hoarse.
He stares at her a little longer and then, with his free hand, brushes his thumb across her lips. "I think it's us," he says.
She closes her eyes and swallows hard. "I think it's me," she says, "but, yeah. It's us."
She doesn't get out of bed.
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