What It Takes (4 page)

“Come here.” Andrew pulls him up, shoves aside hanging clothes and closes them into the quiet dark of his closet. There’s room on the floor; Andrew’s taken to keeping it clear so that they have comfortable space. Andrew keeps coaching Milo to breathe slowly and calmly. He squeezes Milo’s hand very gently and keeps his tone soothing. It takes a while, but Milo finds himself squeezing back and breathing the way Andrew coaches him.

“Fuck,” he says after a while. “God, this is so lame.”

“Milo, it’s fine,” Andrew says, his hand still around his. Milo’s not gripping it anymore, but he hasn’t let go. Even with it, he feels lost, without moorings. Andrew is cross-legged in front of him and he scoots next to him and tucks his face into Andrew’s neck. Andrew always smells the same: clean and light and familiar. Although Milo is much wider through the shoulders—almost too wide for Andrew to hug him at this angle—Andrew pulls him closer and combs his fingers through Milo’s hair. Milo smiles against Andrew’s skin.

“God, you’re obsessed with my hair.”

“It’s great hair,” Andrew replies easily. “If only you’d let me do it for you…”

“Good luck with that.”

Andrew tugs lightly at his hair and Milo sighs into the touch “Eh, a boy can dream.”

Milo laughs lightly and keeps his eyes closed and tries not to feel anything, because everything is really close to the surface and it’s huge and crazy and too much, even Andrew holding him. He pulls away and looks right into his eyes, because he owes him at least this.

“Thank you.”

“Dork,” Andrew says, something fond and sweet sweeping across his features. “Anytime. That’s what friends are for, right?”

“You know…” Milo swallows and smiles. “I kind of love you.”

There’s a hanging pause, loaded and heavy. Andrew’s eyes widen and then, suddenly, he’s kissing
Milo.
Kissing
. Milo’s shocked enough that his head tilts instinctively. Andrew’s fingers are still in his hair; Andrew’s mouth is on his and his breath and lips are too much. He gasps in a breath, then… well, he’s not sure. Not sure how he goes from shock and panic to kissing back. The kiss is tentative and scared until, in the space of one tiny moment, it increases in confidence; both of their mouths open by fractions and Andrew’s hand comes up to cup Milo’s check. They stay like this for a long minute, barely breathing and kissing with the newness of youth. But then Andrew moves, deepening the kiss, and panic and confusion surge through Milo’s body.

°

Andrew has energy that naturally calms Milo. Maybe it’s just the ease of growing up together over the last eight years. In his presence, everything feels right. Milo can be just himself. Milo knows Andrew loves him, just as he loves Andrew.

Except maybe not the same way.

That’s the most coherent explanation Milo can land on, once he’s in his room, sitting on the edge of his bed, white knuckles gripping the edge of the mattress. His heart is still racing—mostly because he ran home, but also because
holy fuck, what the fucking fuck?

God, he just ran away. Didn’t say a word. He fucked up, big time.

He kissed Andrew
back
. For this one crystal-bright moment, Andrew’s lips weren’t a surprise, but a revelation, soft and full and sweet. And when he kissed back, Milo let his lips open a little, felt the brush of Andrew’s tongue. One of them inhaled, sharp and shocked, and when Andrew surged into the kiss, Milo broke away and covered his lips with a hand and gasped out a broken
I’m sorry
while
stumbling away from him with coltish jerks and averted eyes.

The
I’m sorry
was like a slap that slammed Milo’s whole body into a too aware and terrified state. So of course he did what any dumbstruck, completely blindsided teenager would do.

He ran away.

I kind of love you
, Milo remembers saying. And then Andrew kissed him.
What the fucking fuck?

Milo groans and flops over on his bed, covering his face with his pillow. What is he supposed to do with this? How is he supposed to face Andrew? Is Andrew like... in love with him? Was that kiss completely random, or some sort of experiment? Why did he like it so much? It felt nice—well, better than nice—but it was
Andrew
. No. Just…no.

°

Andrew hides in his bedroom for as long as humanly possible. He turned off his phone and washed his face and then showered and changed his clothes, as if any of that could possibly erase the whole afternoon. Now he’s huddled under the covers watching reruns of
Cara Says,
trying to forget.

He’s divided, deep inside: one part of him lingers on the shape and texture of Milo’s lips. For more than three years he’s wished in wistful longing to kiss Milo. He knew it would never happen though. Just because Andrew is a dreamer doesn’t mean he’s stupid. He has no idea at all what possessed him to kiss his best friend while he was in the midst of a breakdown. In his
closet
, which is a hideous and hilarious irony.

Here the other half of him jumps in, over and over, a cacophonous force roiling with anger because
why?
Life without Milo would be incredibly bleak. Perhaps if Andrew had never met him things would be different. But somehow, loving Milo—caring for him, entertaining him, laughing hysterically at his jokes—is the center of his world. Milo easily takes Andrew’s playful whims and makes them real, like the amazing fort they built near their pond in the clearing, a secret hideout they’ve taken advantage of so often. From the outside, it’s always looked like a tree house sitting on the ground. Inside, it’s Andrew’s expressive playground, a place where he can draw and paint and decorate over and over.

Only Milo understands how much Andrew needs secret outlets. And yet Milo underestimates how important he is to Andrew. So often when he’s coming down from a panic attack or has escaped his home to just be in a calmer place, he apologizes profusely. Nothing between them is unbalanced, not to Andrew, despite the knowledge that he’s been in love, hopelessly, for a long time.

Well... until he lost his mind and stupidly kissed Milo.

°

I... don’t know how to Doris,
Andrew texts late that night. It’s too late, but he can’t sleep for thinking and rethinking and agonizing over how on earth he is supposed to fix this. Texting seemed the easiest way to reach out. Andrew frowns when he notices the typo.

Do this, I mean,
he texts, mentally facepalming.
Autocorrect wins again.

As always,
Milo replies instantly.

This is good, right? Easy banter. The usual kind. As if it never happened. Maybe it’s an out. Maybe it’s Milo saying they don’t ever have to talk about it.

The thing is, Andrew doesn’t want to cop out. He’s not ready to confess that he’s maybe been in love with Milo for years, because that would make things weird, and he’s definitely not taking the risk of ruining their friendship over a one-sided crush, even if it’s more than a crush. He’s gay, and Milo is... Milo. Truth is, he has no idea. They’ve never talked about Milo’s sexuality, and Andrew had never questioned it, but then there’s
the thing
.

The kiss back.

Andrew, in re-reel number seventy-five, finally remembered that Milo pressed in, opened his lips and kissed him back before he pulled away. What was that about?

S
o but seriously,
Andrew finally types,
we should talk about this.

He’s met with silence, which is torture.

At least to agree to never speak of it again, if that’s what’s best.

Still nothing.

Please promise we’re okay, or that we can be?

Andrew’s stomach tightens as the silence plays out. He pulls his covers over his head, lays the silent phone on the pillow next to his head. The little cocoon he’s made is sweltering and suffocating. When the phone finally chimes, he flips the covers off and gasps in cold air.

Sorry, Dad got up, room checked. I had to pretend to be asleep.

Everything okay?
Andrew asks.

Yeah, he thought I was up. I should be careful though.

Andrew tries to formulate another text, fishing for an out or an okay. Milo texts again before he can.

Listen. We’re still best friends, nothing will change that.

Oh thank god. His relief is huge, exhaled in one gust, leaving him limp.
Go to sleep, don’t get in trouble. I’ll see you tomorrow?

Absolutely. Wanna meet at the fort after breakfast? Ten?

Andrew sighs.
Milo it’s Saturday, that’s torture.

You’ll survive. Plus Ted wants to have that movie/game marathon later, so we should hang out before that.

Oh crap, I forgot,
Andrew texts. He’s getting sleepy. Now that he has Milo’s assurance that everything will be fine, all the adrenaline has seeped away, leaving him a wrung out mess.
All right, ten it is. Bring food, I’ll bring drinks.

Aye aye cap’n.

°

Phone still in hand, Milo wakes up at six from a deep, dreamless sleep, he’d fallen into like a stone. He surfaces grateful for the calm, forgetful dark of such rest.

Milo untwists his shirt from his torso, kicks off his too hot covers, then plugs his phone in. When the text screen pops up with the history of their texts from the night before, he groans. What’s he going to do? What is he going to say? He needs to find a way to assure Andrew—who is probably freaking the fuck out—while finding a way to navigate this situation. He doesn’t want to think of it as letting him down gently, but the truth is that’s what it amounts to. Assuming Andrew wants—well, he shouldn’t assume that. He can’t assume anything, other than that it happened and it seems neither of them saw it coming.

“Milo, you’d better be up,” his father’s voice comes through the door, making Milo jolt. He looks at the clock: six-thirty. Fuck, he’s running late.

“I am; I’m almost ready,” he calls. His swim bag is already packed, so all he has to do is throw on the loose basketball shorts and a gray T-shirt he set out the night before.

His mother has breakfast out for them, complete with fresh-squeezed orange juice. She’ll have been up for a while now, because his father expects the usual picture-perfect breakfast. The juice is what kills Milo. He’s tried telling her he doesn’t care where it comes from, that he’d rather she have some minutes to herself.

“I don’t mind, honey,” she always assures him. “I like taking care of my men.”

Milo hates being put in the same category as his father and hopes she knows that he’s a different person, that he’ll never be the man his father is. But he understands—in this house, only one energy, one presence, one person orders their lives. She might as well be blind to Milo most days. He understands the nature of survival, the single-minded faith and grit it takes to keep moving each day. Compassion for her grows from the knowledge that there’s an end date for his sentence, whereas hers bears no such promise.

College. Two years and he’ll be off and away, and she never will, not as long as she won’t leave his father. And Shelby Graham will never leave. His father has trained her so well to think she can’t survive without him. She’s said it gently and indirectly so often: “I have no skills but taking care of my boys. It’s where I do my best.” The words sink into him; they sit with him whenever he fantasizes about leaving, whenever he imagines himself getting away, because he knows that means leaving her behind. Survival that means abandoning someone is the guiltiest fantasy of all.

“Come on, Milo, time to go.” James stands, shaking Milo from his thoughts. He folds his newspaper and tucks it under his plate for Shelby to clear. His father is in a good mood today, which is more unnerving than his anger or punishments. Good moods tempt Milo to hope; they tease out lapses in vigilance; they always, at some point, end badly.

“What are we doing today?” Milo asks, buckling himself into his father’s car. James hands over a folded sheet of paper. He’s been researching swim sets, trying to find a way to tailor them to Milo’s skill beyond what their coach can do. His father is of the opinion that Coach Dave is too small-town to know how to foster Milo’s talent. He’s been pushing Milo to consider swimming competitively in college. It’s exhausting, now that his father has him training seven days a week, but worth it. He doesn’t see himself swimming competitively in his future, but he loves swimming just the same.

Time in the water is one of the things that keep Milo sane. He only has to stare at the blue line along the bottom of the pool, count his breaths and let the white noise of the pool fill his ears. Sure, the peace is interrupted by his father’s shouts, but for the most part, swimming is all his own, and when he’s in the water, Milo feels without borders. Occasionally those shouts are encouragement or praise. When he swims, he gets the best of his father.

His dad is in a good enough mood that today is one for positive words. It grosses Milo out sometimes, how much he feeds on the rare praise—how much he craves it, even knowing how easily that desire can be used as a weapon against him, knowing how quickly the tides can shift and what was praise can become damnation. He’ll never measure up, but the dream he had as a boy—if he was good enough, his father might love him and this would all be over—lingers, no matter how hard he tries to shake it out.

Once in the pool, the clean, cold slice of water furling away from his body as he strokes makes him feel as if he’s shedding old skin. The gurgle and shush of water with the metronome beat of his heart and tempered breathing set the background for some good thinking. Today, Milo gets a chance to mull over the kiss without distractions. Last night he was emotional, broken down, and Andrew has never been able to see him stay in pain. They were caught up in the moment, right? Milo’s own reaction—how nice it had been—is something to contemplate later, if ever, because it brings up shades of something he’s been ignoring for a while. Right now, for the next fifty-six minutes and fifteen seconds, all he has to do is swim and think of a plan to fix whatever needs fixing between him and Andrew.