Unnatural (17 page)

It didn’t even occur to Michael to protest, to tell Ronan that they had nothing to talk about because although he was afraid to have this conversation with Ronan, he wanted to share his space. What he didn’t want to do was appear interested and so he desperately fought the urge to look up and continued to stare at his textbook. He even went so far as to copy some more words down from his textbook.
Vivo in profundum.
He had no idea what he was writing; the words weren’t from today’s lesson. But at least he was doing something other than acknowledge Ronan, so that made him feel good.

Ciaran gathered his books and tossed them in his backpack. Before he opened the door, he looked over at Michael just as Michael could no longer fake indifference and looked up from his books. He noticed something in Ciaran’s face that he hadn’t seen in quite some time; it was the same look he would see in his mother’s face when he would catch her staring at him. It was a
look of concern. Yet again, Michael felt remorse. When he saw his mother looking at him like that, it made him furious, but now seeing Ciaran wear the same expression, it gave him comfort. Having your mother constantly worry about you could be suffocating, but having a friend watch your back was different; it was nice. “Have a good chat, boys,” Ciaran said, closing the door behind him. And then Ronan and Michael were alone.

Now that there were no barriers to overcome, the boys were finding it difficult to start a conversation. They smiled and nodded; Michael wrote down a few more words—
procul nox noctis
—and Ronan surveyed the room. He had been here countless times before to return notes that he borrowed from Ciaran or a textbook; on a few occasions, he even came by just to hang out and visit, but this time was different. He wasn’t here to see Ciaran; he was here to see Michael and confess, in part, the truth about his past. But he had no idea how to begin, so he started to walk around the room aimlessly.

Michael was neater than he was; he liked that. His clothes weren’t thrown in a pile and his sneakers weren’t left where he kicked them off. His books too were stacked neatly on his desk; a few already had Post-its coming out of them to remind him of an important page or passage at a later date. His surroundings were as well kept as he was. Even sitting on his bed doing homework in a baby blue T-shirt and navy track pants, he didn’t look like he just rummaged through his laundry bin to
pick out something to wear; he looked like he stepped out of the pages of a magazine. His feet, bare, looked so smooth, the arch so perfect.
Oh, he’s so handsome; please make him believe me. Please make things go back to the way they were just a few days ago when everything was on the brink of a new beginning.

They caught each other’s stare at the same time.

Ronan said, “Is this your mum?” at the same time Michael said, “How are you?”

“Sorry, you first,” Ronan said.

“No, that’s okay,” Michael replied. “Yes, um, that’s me and my mother at a fair back home.”

The picture was old, but it was Michael’s favorite. He and his mother had gone to the Nebraska State Fair in Grand Island when he was ten years old, just the two of them. Grandpa had wanted to go, but his mother, sensing her son needed a break from his grandpa’s company, told him that she wanted a mother-son day and so they drove the fifty miles alone singing along to the radio, talking about nothing in particular, at least nothing important that Michael could remember. At the fair they ate too much junk food, rode the roller coaster three times in a row, and his mother won him a stuffed panda in the water balloon race. But what he cherished most about that day was how much they laughed. Easy and often. They laughed more that day than they ever did before or since. It was as if that one day was a reprieve from his mother’s worry, her nervousness, her hovering. If only, if only every day could have been so joyful.

Ronan was holding the picture in his hands, his thumb absentmindedly caressing Michael’s face. “You both look happy.”

Michael couldn’t help imagine how Ronan’s thumb would feel if it touched his cheek, his lips. “Yes, we were,” Michael said, and then added quietly, “That day anyway.”

Ronan placed the picture back on the shelf as if he were hanging a painting in a museum, with too much attention and special care. It was simply a tactic to avoid the real reason he was here. But no matter that he was just as nervous, Michael wasn’t going to allow him to stall any longer. “So what do you want to talk about?”

“I think you know.” Oh, that’s good, Ronan, accuse him.

“I’m not a mind reader.” Terrific, Michael, be arrogant; that’s a great way to start a conversation.

They said “I’m sorry” at the same time. Michael closed his books—it was useless to pretend that he was actually studying—and looked at Ronan. He was about to speak when Ronan began. “I think you may have seen something the other day that, um, looks different from where you were looking at it from, different from, um, what it really was.”

Michael tried, but couldn’t follow Ronan’s words. “What?”

Be direct, Ronan, just be direct; that’s always the best way. “Nakano and I weren’t hugging.”

Oh, really?
“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Well, yeah, we were hugging,” Ronan started, “but we weren’t
hugging.”

“Oh, of course, now I get it.” Great, Michael, so much for not being arrogant.

“I’m sorry, Michael. What I’m trying to say is, I was saying good-bye to Nakano. He’s my ex.” Say the word, Ronan, just say it and get it out there so there’s no confusion and you don’t have to wonder if Michael is interested in you as a friend or as something more than that. “He’s my ex-boyfriend.”

He is gay. Thank God. Wait a second, why am I relieved? He just told me he was hugging his ex-boyfriend. I shouldn’t be grateful about that. “It didn’t look like a good-bye hug to me.”

He didn’t make a comment about my having an ex-boyfriend. I was right. Okay, one hurdle behind me. Behind us.
“That’s what it was. I’m not going to lie to you. Nakano still has some feelings for me. I don’t think they’re honest feelings.”

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“I think he’s just jealous of you.”

Don’t smile, Michael, this whole thing is not supposed to make you happy. “Me? Why would he be jealous of me?” Oh, wow, I actually made Ronan blush. He looks like he just ran a mile; his cheeks are all blotchy. And just adorable.

“Because, Michael,” Ronan whispered hesitantly, “I like you.”

Don’t say a word, Michael, let the moment seep in.
This is what you’ve been waiting for, this is what you’ve been waiting for him to say.

“And, well, he isn’t going out with anyone right now, so you know, he sees me and you … not that there is a me and you, but he knows that I, um, would like there, maybe, to be, and he started acting weird and saying things, and I told him that what he and I had, which was over a year ago, by the way, was over and he had to forget that anything would ever start up again. So even if there is no me and you, there isn’t going to be a me and him.” Michael wanted to toss his Latin textbook to the floor and jump up and down on his bed, but he sat still and didn’t say a word. “I’m going to try to stop rambling now. But I’m not really sure if I can stop, so it might be best if you could say something.” Michael loved how he looked right now, more boy than man. “Please?”

Michael looked at Ronan’s face, and for the first time he looked at him not as a stranger, not as someone he just met, not as someone he could dream about, but as someone he was going to have a relationship with, someone who was going to become his boyfriend. “I like you too.”

A smile ignited Ronan’s face. He couldn’t conceal it even though other thoughts were filling up his mind, thoughts that caused him concern and worry, but for now he was going to push them away, squelch their sound, and concentrate on what Michael just said. “Really?”

“Yes, Ronan,” Michael replied, thrilled that he had
the power to bring Ronan such obvious pleasure. “Really.”

“Blimey! That’s good,” Ronan said, sitting on Michael’s bed. “That’s really good.”

“It is good,” Michael said, his eyes darting all over his room, not confident enough to just settle on Ronan’s face. “Really, um, really good.”

Good for now, until he finds out everything, Ronan thought. No, please, please don’t make me think of all that; just allow me a bit of time, some happiness. “I think I liked you, Michael, from the moment I laid eyes on you.”

Find the courage, Michael; just look him right in the eye and tell him.
“I know. That’s how I felt the first time I saw you outside the cathedral. Ever since then …”
Don’t say too much. Oh, why not? Just tell him.
“Ever since that night, you’re all I can think about.” There, it was in the open. It felt invigorating not to keep secrets hidden. They reached out and their hands found each other.

“Oh,” Michael said. “I didn’t thank you.”

Ronan’s thumb stroked the softness of Michael’s hand.
It’s not my cheek,
Michael thought,
but it’s a start.
“For the drawing that you made. The Picture of Michael Howard.”

Ronan held Michael’s hand tighter, his cheeks getting back some of the rosy glow they had lost. “Oh, well, I’m not a very good artist.”

“I think it’s beautiful.”

This was absolutely effortless, Michael thought. All
the years spent worrying and being frightened that he would never be able to just sit with another boy and hold his hand and talk to him were washed away. Because here he was. And here was Ronan. And they were together, sitting, smiling at each other, their fingers intertwined, knowing what they wanted to do next. Unfortunately, that would have to wait, for at that moment,
there was a knock at the door.

“Knock knock, is anybody home?”

It was Brania.

And just like that, Ronan’s bad feeling returned.

At the same time, Michael and Ronan asked the same question, “What are you doing here?” And then two seconds later, they both let go of the other’s hand.

“You know her?” Ronan asked Michael.

“Um, yeah,” Michael said, then added incredulously, “You know her too?”

Ronan looked at Brania, who had already come into the room, closed the door behind her, and was sitting with them on the bed. She clearly didn’t need an invitation to make herself at home.

“Of course Ronan knows me,” Brania said. “We’re childhood friends.”

Michael wasn’t sure what disappointed him more, that pronouncement or the fact
that he and Ronan were no longer holding hands. When their dinner date—so thoughtfully arranged by his father—had ended, he thought that was the last he would see of this girl, but now here she was, unexpected and unrequested, sitting on his bed, next to the boy whose hand he wanted to hold and whose mouth he longed to kiss. Why in the world was she here? And if this was the way Ronan reacted when he saw a childhood friend, Michael didn’t want to know what he looked like when he saw an enemy.

When Ronan spoke again, Michael noticed that his voice was lower, more serious. He sounded the same way he did when he was outside St. Joshua’s standing next to Ciaran. “How do you know her?”

“We met at my father’s hotel for dinner,” Michael explained. “Our fathers are business associates.”

“Such a tiny, tiny world,” Brania said. “Isn’t it, Ronan?”

If possible, Ronan’s voice sounded even more serious when he spoke again. “What are you doing here?” But what concerned Michael more was his expression; it was grave. To look at him, it appeared that there was bad blood between these two, but one look at Brania dispelled that theory. She looked relaxed and downright playful. Stretched out on Michael’s bed, she lay on her side, her slender neck resting in the palm of her right hand, her left knee bent so she looked very much like a fully dressed centerfold. “Now, is that any way to make a lady feel welcome?”

Before Ronan answered he stood up, almost as if he were backing away from her. “Is that any way to answer a question?” Michael was confused. Ronan’s voice was confrontational, harsh, and yet his body language was hesitant, uneasy.

Brania’s body language was anything but. Smiling, quite seductively, she rolled over onto her back with her knees bent so her skirt fell and covered only a few inches of her thigh. It was funny, Michael thought, millions of guys, teenaged and several years older, would kill to have a girl as beautiful as Brania lounge on their bed, half exposed, but he just wanted her to leave so he could be alone with Ronan. He was not going to get his wish.

Brania closed her eyes and moved her hands fluidly in the air as if following the current of some unheard music. Her slim, manicured hands floated and curled to the silent rhythm as her knees rubbed together softly. What was she doing? And why was she doing it in his bed? Michael thought, “Um, Brania?”

“Sshh,” she replied softly, not opening her eyes and holding up her index finger as if that gesture alone would stifle any further queries. And it did. Michael remained silent and watched her as she listened to her imaginary music. He didn’t feel any longing whatsoever to touch her, but she was absolutely compelling to watch. He glanced over at Ronan to try and get a sense of what he thought of the whole scene, but Ronan was acting as if Michael weren’t even in the room. He was standing in the corner, his back against the wall, eyes
riveted on this strange girl. And there was something about the way Ronan looked at her that frightened him. His teeth were clenched, his brow furrowed, and Michael felt the same rush of sudden fear as he had sitting across from Nakano at the lunchroom table. He couldn’t explain it then and he couldn’t explain it now. The two boys looked nothing alike, the situations were completely different, but both times Michael was consumed with the same irrational feeling. And once again the feeling ended as quickly as it arose.

“Song’s over,” she announced, sitting back up and smiling at them both. “Now, did someone ask me a question?”

It was apparent by the way Ronan still looked that he wasn’t going to be able to speak, so Michael spoke for them. “We were, um, just wondering why you’re here?”