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“Okay, first of all, I didn’t know this would happen. Just to, just to make that clear – I did not mean to put you in this position.”
Andrew stares at Nicky. He notes his nervousness in the sweat he wipes from the palms of his hands onto his jeans. He says nothing but he does wait.
“My work permit for Germany just got approved. I know we renewed the lease for another year last week but I didn’t know it’d get approved this early. And I leave in a month. So…so yeah.”
He’s disinterested in asking when Nicky actually applied and listening to him fumble for an answer, trying to cover his ass. He waits more.
“But I won’t leave you high and dry, I swear! I’ll find a sublet – someone clean and quiet. You won’t even know they’re there! You can just pretend you’re living by yourself with a random extra room.”
Andrew stands and walks over to Nicky until there’s but inches between their shoulders. “Have them keep to your hours then.”
It is less than a week before Nicky leaves and it is three in the afternoon and it is the seventeenth time Andrew has woken up from the sound of Nicky blabbering about how gorgeous the apartment is, how everything in the apartment is excellent, how it is paradise on earth for the price of $750/month plus around $50 for utilities and an existing non-existent roommate.
Andrew shrugs on a hoodie before going to intimidate this new candidate. Nicky deserved financial repercussions.
“Oh! Andrew! Were you sleeping? I’m so sorry if we woke you up. Um, this is Neil Josten – he’s interested in subletting for us!”
Andrew doesn’t bother acknowledging Nicky. He keeps his eyes focused on the man standing just behind him. The man – Neil – meets his eye; he looks as bored as Andrew feels. If Andrew was a lesser man, he might have recoiled at the thin lines raking down Neil’s face or the circles clustered near his eye. But Andrew is only a man. Some time is spent taking in Neil’s blue eyes, auburn curls, finely crafted face, and slim build. When Andrew returns to his blue, blue eyes, he finds Neil still looking at him, expressionless. A long silence follows.
Nicky breaks it by laughing, his discomfort painfully obvious. “So, Andrew, um, Neil was actually telling me how –”
“I don’t care.” He slips back into his room and back into bed.
Neil signs the subletting forms. Andrew drives Nicky to the airport. Nicky leaves. Neil moves in sometime in between. They do not talk.
Andrew drifts through his days alone. He gets out of bed in the afternoon, Neil is gone to wherever he must go to make rent, and putters around the apartment until seven. He gets ready for work. He usually bartends at Eden’s from eight to four. He’s asleep by five. Wednesdays, he sees Bee and pays her separately for it. On days when his shift ends earlier or he has the day off, Neil doesn’t make much of an appearance, sticking to his room or finding himself somewhere outside the boundaries of their apartment. It is quiet – literally. Andrew presumes this is what the rest of his life will be until his inevitable end and doesn’t find the fact bad.
It’s 4:47 am on a Saturday when Andrew comes home pissed off. He takes genuine satisfaction in cutting off abrasive alcoholics; it’s like giving a buzzing fly a good swat. But tonight, there were too many flies lingering long past their due. He’s home late because of them and the bodyguards taking too long to deal with them. He’s exhausted enough to sleep but his annoyance drives him to the kitchen.
He’s about to open the freezer when he catches sight of a bowl and spoon in the sink. The milk in the bowl is not yet dry. Andrew picks it up and drops it on the floor. It shatters with a piercing sound. He steps around it to reach into Nicky’s junk drawer where he knows sticky notes, a pen, and twenty-three other things are. He prints Do not leave dirty dishes in the sink onto it, sticks it onto the spoon, and drops it to the floor among the pieces of bowl for good measure.
Andrew doesn’t know where Neil is, if he’s hiding in his room or if he’s already left for the day, but, in any case, the mess on the kitchen floor is a good message. He’s satisfied enough with that for whatever whirring under his skin to be laid to rest and to sleep.
He anticipates a fight – an angry knock on his door and frustrated yelling. Andrew anticipates staring Neil in his blue, blue eyes while he opens his mouth and ruins it by berating Andrew about how rude, unpolite, uncouth he is. Andrew anticipates Neil learning that he is careless with others because he does not care.
None of that transpires.
Andrew sleeps an unusually full seven hours and wakes up a little past noon. He walks to the kitchen to find it clean. There’s a note stuck to the edge of the sink, another one of Nicky’s. It reads: Okay.
Andrew and Neil trade silence in spades and sticky notes when they have to. They usually pertain to chores, money for bills, and other logistics. An exception to this comes in the form of Allison Reynolds knocking on Andrew’s door on a Wednesday evening.
Reynolds looks taken aback to see Andrew Minyard standing in the doorway when he opens it; she takes a few moments to gawp at him and check her phone.
“This is apartment 1506?”
“Why are you here.”
“It’s not like I want to be, Monster. How was I supposed to know you’re Neil’s roommate? Anyway, is he here?”
“No.”
“Do you know where he is then?”
“No.”
“You mean to tell me that you kept a tight leash on Kevin and your brother for years for you to lose your roommate after a month?”
“He’s not mine.”
“Whatever. Tell him to turn his goddamn phone on and call me when you see him.”
Andrew closes the door on her face.
Behind it, he hears Reynolds huff and say, “Nice seeing you again too, asshole!”
Afterwards, he sticks a note on Neil’s door. Reynolds was here. Keep your girlfriends away from the apartment – especially this one.
On Thursday morning, Andrew finds a note on his door. She’s not my girlfriend, we work together. In any case, I can’t control what she does.
Over the course of days, they have their first conversation, taking turns to respond every half day and otherwise keeping their silence.
I don’t care what she is to you; I don’t want to see her around.
She keeps telling me she has to keep in contact with me somehow so I gave her my address.
I heard you also have a phone that is capable of turning on.
The sound is annoying.
Turn the sound off then.
I don’t know how to.
Are you stupid?
Are you hung up on Allison or something?
I’ve graduated already – there’s no need for me to suffer her presence any longer. Give me your phone; I can’t explain how to turn off notification sounds to someone as dim witted as you.
Andrew finds a flip phone built like a brick outside his door with a note that reads: Okay. Thanks.
1:03 am on a weekday, a week later, Andrew and Neil come back to the apartment at the same time. Neil is slick with sweat in ratty shoes, pants, and shirt, smelling like cigarette smoke. Andrew side eyes him. Neil doesn’t acknowledge him – he looks at their apartment door with a haunting deadness.
Andrew opens the door. Neil sits on a couch, Andrew on the adjacent one. They stare at one another in silence until Neil doesn’t breathe like he’s in pain. Andrew knows Neil’s eyes track him when he leaves for the kitchen and when he returns with two mugs of hot chocolate. Neil accepts one of the mugs but only takes a sip before grimacing and setting it down. Andrew drinks the whole thing and wonders what Bee would think of Neil hating her hot chocolate. The quiet between them persists after Andrew finishes his drink. It persists when they stand together and leave the living room for their own beds and sleep.
Andrew wakes up to a note on his door. It reads: Thanks.
He crumples it up before he throws it away.
Andrew sees Neil more often after that. He catches Neil during his odd hours runs, sitting in the living room, messing around in the kitchen, coming home from work. The first time, Neil nodded at him; Andrew gave a two-fingered salute. Following that, Neil took it upon himself to mock it right back. There’s not much opportunity or reason for them to speak still; their conversation remains scribbled on sticky notes and plastered over the apartment. It occurs to Andrew that he doesn’t know what Neil sounds like at all.
Friday evening and Andrew’s in the GS, about to go to work, when he sees Neil climbing out of a flashy Porsche he knows is Reynold’s. He pauses and watches Reynolds get out too, watches her grab Neil’s phone and make sure it’s turned on, watches her kiss him on the cheek, saunter back into her car, and drive away. He watches Neil wipe her lipstick off, irritated and resigned.
Neil looks over and sees Andrew, stalling, waiting. He taps two fingers against his temple. Andrew drives away.
Andrew works and then he doesn’t. He stays past his shift ends in a storage closet and thinks about pretty blue eyes while Roland’s are closed.
A pen and a pad of post-its migrated out of Nicky’s drawer and rest permanently on the kitchen counter now. Andrew comes home at 5:07 a.m. and writes: The scars under your eye trigger people with tropophobia. How did you get them?
Gee, thanks. Dashboard lighter. Your armbands don’t make you look tough and scary like you want them to. Why do you wear them?
Gotta keep my knives somewhere.
Any good with them?
It’s my turn.
Are you going to go then?
I don’t have to take it right now.
Andrew and Neil converse in sticky notes. It’s a habit that repeats itself.
Why do I keep seeing Reynolds?
I don’t have a car; she drives me back after work.
You work on the weekends?
It’s my turn. Who taught you how to use knives?
A Fox – she goes by Renee now.
Not on the weekends but Allison likes to drag me places. Why’d she teach you?
I asked. She said yes. You’d have to ask her for the reasoning.
Who held the dashboard lighter?
Someone who taught me to hold a knife.
How descriptive.
Descriptive enough. How do you handle all of that sugar?
Be more descriptive.
I found all of that ice cream in the freezer.
You say “found” like it’s a hidden stash instead of items legally bought and stored in an open location.
You’re the one who hasn’t answered the question yet.
It’s ice cream Neil. I’m not a psychopath like you.
I go for runs in the mornings, you wanna come?
My point has been made.
Andrew stands at his car counter at 8:06 pm on a Friday when he sees Neil’s red hair and fury. Reynolds stands across from Neil, arms folded and lips pursed, defensive. There’s a man, tall and chiselled, lingering pathetically a few steps behind her. Neil glares at her, the scars on his face stretching as he grits his teeth and moves his mouth.
“I keep telling you the same thing, Allison.” Andrew’s memory catches the voice, its pitch and timber familiar. He remembers a show on ESPN. A co-worker, an Exy fanatic, keeps the channel going during opening and closing. Andrew tunes out most of it but he remembers this voice that disparages Exy players in their technique and strategy; he remembers Kevin Day getting degraded and remembers wishing he could see the look on Kevin’s face as he heard it.
“It’s just a date Neil. You were talking to him fine before. Just give the guy a chance.”
“I’m not fucking interested.”
“You’ve gone through all the girls I know that can handle you. Who else am I supposed to set you up with?”
“Are you deaf? I’m not fucking interested. Is your life so pathetic and empty that you need to entertain yourself like this? Or do you crave being the center of attention so much that you need to involve yourself in everyone’s personal life?”
At this point, the man – Neil’s date – has scuttled away. Allison practically gnashes her teeth when she says, “Have fun dying alone, asshole.”
Neil rolls his blue, blue eyes and if Andrew cared enough about any one thing, he would say he was intrigued. Neil checks his surroundings, skittish asshole he is, and catches Andrew’s eye in the process. Andrew lifts his chin. Neil takes the invitation and comes to sit at his bar.
“I didn’t know you worked here.”
“I didn’t know you were a TV personality.”
Neil cringes. “I’m not. I’m a sports reporter.”
“On TV. With a healthy dose of your opinions.”
“Did you just figure that out?”
“I have better things to do in life than pay attention to Exy or ESPN.”
“How’d you know that’s what I do then?”
“I remembered your voice.”
“Oh, yeah. This is the first time we’ve spoken, I guess.”
“Hmm. You’ve taken 2 questions in a row.”
“Are you going to take your turn then?”
“That’s a third.” Neil sits there, nods, amiable. Andrew doesn’t understand him. “Why are you so pissed at Reynolds for?”
Neil’s full mouth flattens. “She’s involving herself in my personal life.”
“She was doing you a favour.”
“I didn’t ask her to.”
“That’s why it’s a nice favour. What’s the big deal if you were talking to that guy just fine?”
“Has anyone told you that it’s impolite to eavesdrop?” A smile twists the corner of Neil’s mouth and reaches to ripple the scars on his cheek. He doesn’t seem offended – just curious, just teasing. Andrew does not understand him.
“Fourth.”
“I thought it was all a coincidence. Allison dragged me out here and we saw him. His name’s Liam Smith; he’s a fairly decent Exy player. We started talking about Exy, Allison disappeared, and then he said that he was having a good time and he was glad Allison set up this date.”
“Are you offended because he’s a man?” Andrew ignores the customer currently trying to shove their empty shot glass towards him and stares at Neil.
Neil frowns. “No, why would I be? I’m mad because I thought this was a nice conversation rather than something Allison manufactured after I told her that I don’t swing.”
“You don’t swing?”
Neil shrugs. “I’ve never been interested in anyone. I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t swing.”
Andrew takes that answer as is and refuses to allow himself to ponder it further. “Are you going to drink or are you just going to sit there?”
Neil, as it turns out, isn’t interested in alcohol either. So he sits there. For the whole night. Andrew serves drinks and they talk. Roland glances at Neil and winks at him. Andrew stares at him until he smiles uncomfortably and turns away. Andrew’s shift finishes. He drives them home.
It’s a habit that repeats itself.
Neil turns up at Eden’s. He sits at Andrews bar. He does not drink but he does open his mouth. Andrew drives him home afterwards, without so much as a wave to Roland. In a series of traded questions and answers, Neil tells him about Mary and Lola and Nathan and the FBI over the din of EDM and flashing lights.
They skip the pretense after that and Andrew starts driving them to Eden’s. He drives them other places too, in long, winding trips and tells him about Aaron and Nicky and Cass and Bee and his dead mother and what wakes him. They are silent and it is not rare. They talk about the apocalypse, the best way to kill a man, if decaf is morally worth it, why black coffee is a sin and not “fine, what are you even talking about, Andrew?” Their conversation spills over days, in between customers, into sticky notes tucked into corners or onto doors, and they never forget where they left off.
Andrew doesn’t understand Neil Josten. But he knows when he wakes and needs a hand clasped around the back of his neck in surety, knows when to sit with him, when to let him run. Neil said he doesn’t understand the paradox of Andrew’s joylessness and his satisfaction of instigating. But he’s learned when and how to make hot chocolate, to not touch him, to stay out of the way as needed.
On a Wednesday a few weeks later, Andrew tells Bee that this might be what content is. Bee smiles, soft and pleased, and, though Andrew hated it, he said nothing.
It’s Andrew’s day off and he’s lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling fan, when Neil bursts in through the door. Neil beelines to the bathroom and has the sink running by the time he sits up. It’s the fact that Andrew can hear his quick, stressed breathing over the water that makes him investigate.
He finds Neil hunched over the sink, scrubbing almost desperately at his face.
“Hey.”
Neil ignores him.
Andrew catches his wrist and tugs until Neil stops and turns him. There are no tears in his eyes, Neil is not the kind of man who cries, but he looks spooked and unsteady, makeup smeared across his face.
“Breathe. Stay.”
Neil obeys but turns fully away from the mirror while Andrew fetches a washcloth. They stand there for a while, Andrew wiping at Neil’s face and Neil keeping his eyes on Andrew. It takes too long, Andrew makes a note to buy something to make this process more efficient, but eventually, all the makeup is off. Andrew is left holding Neil’s face in his hands, thumbs splayed over the scars on his cheeks. If he moved his right thumb, it would brush over the circles edging too close to Neil’s blue, blue eyes. He remains still.
“They put a lot of shit on my face. To get it ready for broadcasting,” Neil says.
Andrew waits, willing to see how much Neil gives unprompted.
“I look like him. My father. The scars make me not look like him.”
Silence follows. Andrew nods in it. His hands still hold Neil’s face.
“Who do I look like to you?”
“Neil Abram Josten.”
“Thanks.”
“Shut up.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so. Yes or no?”
“To what?”
“To kissing.”
“To what?” Andrew’s fingers go slack as he moves to step away but Neil pinches the bottom of his t-shirt. “Yes.” Andrew stares at Neil for a long moment before Neil repeats himself. “Yes, I’m saying yes, Andrew.”
Andrew kisses him.
Andrew kisses him hard and with every part of himself that has ever felt confused and entranced by Neil Abram Josten. Neil kisses him back, sloppy and unpracticed, but he kisses Andrew back and it is good in a way he has not known before.
It’s a habit that repeats itself. They kiss in the morning and in the night and in the in between when they feel okay enough to do so. Neil buys Andrew’s ice cream. Andrew invests in decaf. Neil wakes up in Andrew’s bed and talks about adopting cats. Andrew mentions signing a new lease for a one-bedroom when their current one ends in a few months – it would be cheaper, after all. Neil nods and smiles bright and Andrew hates him for it.
Andrew thinks this is what the rest of his life will be until his inevitable end.
He doesn’t find the fact bad at all.