With or Without You (12 page)

“No problem,” I promise.

“You got a letter from Chicago. I put it on your nightstand.”

The hair on the back of my neck shoots up. There are two things that are very strange about what Mom just did. One: She hasn’t looked at me once. When she wants me to obey a direct order—
don’t stay out too late
—she always looks me in the eye. Always. Two: Weiss family modus operandi dictates that all mail, regardless of recipient, gets piled on the kitchen table. You scrounge for what’s yours. A personalized delivery to my room is weird.

I bound upstairs to my room, shedding my clothes for a shower. T-minus three hours until dinner with Erik. And Shan. Erik and Shan. What have I done?

I catch sight of the Chicago letter. Right next to my plane ticket. The one I left out in the open. The one-way ticket to San Diego dated August 12.

The one I thought only I knew about.

The walk to Erik’s is painful. Shan and I avoid each other’s eyes. In the silence, I worry about stupid things. That I’ll break out in zits because I’m worried Mom saw the ticket. That Shan didn’t do her hair, which probably means she’s not taking this seriously. That our outfits clash and we look like Couture of the Damned on Parade. Our only conversation consists of a warning: “If you call me ‘Spud’ in front of Erik, I’ll put Nair in your shampoo.”

As we turn onto State Street, I close my eyes and draw strength from the thought of Erik.
This will be a great night. I am totally at ease.
And then … I really am.

We arrive at the Bookworm and I make a small presentation of using MY key to open the locked door at the base of the stairs. As we climb to the second floor, I can already smell the powerful spices I associate with Erik making Chinese food. I’m tempted to show off again and let myself in with MY OTHER key, but I play it safe and knock.

Erik opens the door. He’s wearing a russet-colored dress shirt, a striped tan tie, and bister slacks. Gel spikes his hair in that way that turns me into Captain Libido.

Down, boy.

Erik smiles and steps aside, welcoming us in.

“Shan,” I start, “this is Erik Goodhue. Erik, this is my sister, Shan Reynolds.”

I know them both well. Her smile: tight to the face, corners of the mouth just barely up, no teeth showing =
I’m playing it cool and withholding judgment
. The DictionErik translation of his handshake: firm, two quick shakes =
I was beginning to think he’d never let me meet anyone in his life; it’s a pleasure.

Shan squints at Erik’s head, then turns around to me and says, “Totally. Square-shaped egg.”

Erik, who is positioned just behind Shan, narrows his eyes at me in a mock threat. He is not a fan of my square-shaped-egg analogy when it comes to describing his head.

“What does that even mean?” he demands from me. “Eggs aren’t square.”

“Trust me,” Shan assures him. “It fits.”

He holds up his index finger, smirks, and mouths, “That’s one.” I have no idea what it means but I’m already plotting to make it to two.

“Make yourself at home,” Erik says, sweeping his arm at the living room. Even though his place is normally
immaculate, a chemical-pine sting to the air tells me he’s worked extra hard today. “Dinner will be just a couple minutes.” He plants a kiss on my cheek and retreats into the kitchen.

I lead Shan into the living room, trying to gauge how she handled the kiss. I don’t know why it felt conspicuous. That’s what boyfriends do, right? They kiss. Still, it leaves me feeling naked. If she’s shocked/offended/intrigued, she does nothing to show it. I show her Erik’s sculptures and she nods, impressed. I give her the quick tour—kitchen, bathroom, bedroom—and we end up back at the kitchen just as Erik is hauling two huge bowls filled with food to the table.

He’s gone way out. Three place settings—a small ivory bowl atop a shiny obsidian salad plate over a matching main-course plate. Champagne flutes filled with grape juice sit near a small centerpiece of orchids. Ivory cloth napkins folded to look like swans sit atop the silverware to the right of each place setting. To the left, everyone has a set of redwood chopsticks. It’s all way over the top but that’s Erik. I didn’t even know he owned this stuff. Then it hits me—he went out and bought it all for tonight’s dinner.

I try to picture a way to love him more. I fail.

Erik begins ladling fresh egg drop soup into each of our bowls.

“Smells delicious,” Shan says, dipping her spoon in. I still can’t get a read on her and that worries me. I’m the one who’s supposed to be unreadable. When did we swap?

We follow with a small salad covered in mandarin orange slices and then the main course: chicken cashew. Erik, the master navigator of conversation, keeps things flowing all night. He asks me how the move went with Davis. He asks Shan about living in New York. He asks us both what it was like growing up in the Midwest. Now and then, he responds with a little information about himself.

In short, he demonstrates to Shan—in one hour—everything that made me fall in love with him over the course of an entire year. I feel like I won; she got the fifty-cent version and I got the grand tour.

As the evening progresses, Shan loosens up. She’s mesmerized as Erik describes his
Angels
sculpture and says she can’t wait for the unveiling. She laughs at all the right places and trots out embarrassing stories from my childhood, including how I once emptied every box of Jell-O from the store into our bathtub to make the world’s biggest dessert. But I know my sister. She’s holding back. I hear something false in her laugh. See the surreptitious glances at the door.

When we’re done eating, Erik tries to usher us into the living room while he cleans up, but we insist on helping.
Shan commandeers the plastic wrap, covering bowls and slipping them in the fridge. Erik and I stand shoulder to shoulder at the sink. He sings “Bohemian Rhapsody” and we trade off on the “Bismillah!” line.

Shan rolls her eyes.

When everything is dried and put away, Erik and I sidle up to each other on the love seat while Shan sinks into the papasan. The back of the chair gathers around her shoulders like a cobra’s hood.

“So,” Shan says, adjusting her dress, “are you sleeping together?”

Colors usually only explode in my head during a beating from Pete and his cronies. Now I’m bombarded by mushroom clouds of vermillion, beryl, and jade, like the immediate aftermath of a head injury. My mouth goes Sahara.

Erik sits up, a pleasant smile on his face. He lets his arm drift across the back of my shoulders. “Are you asking if we’ve ever shared a bed or if we’re having sex?”

“Either,” she says.

“Both,” he returns.

When did my sex life end up on the conversation menu?

Shan is, obviously, not prepared for something this direct and I catch her nibbling her bottom lip for just a moment. “He’s only just turned eighteen—”

“I know.” Erik nods. “If you’re worried, though, we did wait until he was legal.”

Coin toss—how do I feel: invigorated that Erik is standing up to Shan’s wacko, totally-out-of-left-field line of questioning by refusing to feel shame about our relationship or embarrassed because my sister now knows I’m having sex? It’s a tough one. I choose the former, with caution.

Shan clears her throat. “I hope you told him about all the guys you’ve slept with before you two did anything. The last thing Evan needs is to catch an STD from his first sexual experience.”

“Why would you assume that I’m Evan’s first?”

“So!” I say. “How ’bout them Brewers?” No one bites. Apparently, my sex life trumps baseball.

I’m silently begging Erik to steer the conversation elsewhere. Erik doesn’t break eye contact with Shan, whose face grows darker by the second. I know she’s storing up for a major fuel burn.

“But, yes,” Erik continues, “before Evan and I did anything, I told him about every guy I’ve ever been with. I even showed him a recent STD screening. I’m clean. I’d tell you about my former lovers and show you the test results but it’s, frankly, none of your business.”

Shan purses her lips, looks from me to Erik to me to Erik, and says, “Please tell me you’re using condoms.”

MADISON TEEN DIES OF
EMBARRASSMENT

Madison, Wis.—Doctors at the University of Wisconsin Hospital are reporting the first actual death by embarrassment. Dr. Elias Schroeder, head of the hospital’s trauma unit, told journalists that 18-year-old Evan Weiss was having an uncomfortable conversation with his sister and boyfriend when he keeled over.

Attempts by Erik Goodhue, Weiss’s boyfriend, to use CPR to revive Weiss were thwarted by Shannon Reynolds, Weiss’s sister, who reportedly pulled Goodhue off the inert Weiss screaming, “You’ll give him herpes! You’ll give him herpes!”

My diversion is interrupted by a pounding at the door. Erik opens it and Cece from across the hall bounds in.

“Fucking A, I can’t believe this—” She glances over and spots Shan and me. “Sorry, I didn’t know …”

We all smile at Cece.
Nothing to see here.

“Erik, I’m sorry but I can’t get Ratfuck on the phone.” Ratfuck is Mr. Teske, the building’s super, who has yet to be available at his twenty-four-hour emergency number. She holds up a faucet nozzle. “I went to turn the water off in my sink and this broke. The water won’t stop, the drain’s clogged, the sink’s getting full, I’m late for work, and …”

Before she goes into full panic mode, Erik is in his kitchen, where he grabs the small toolbox under the sink and announces, “Lead the way.”

I smirk. “I’ll get Noah on the phone and have him start work on that boat he’s been talking about.” Sculptor, yogi, nurse—but a plumber, my boyfriend is not. Having witnessed past excursions with that tool box, I know we’re in for an Abbott and Costello routine.

Erik holds his fingers up in a V and mouths, “That’s two.” He takes a monkey wrench from the box and waves it at me threateningly as he snarls, “Miss me,” before disappearing with Cece.

I whirl on Shan and come out swinging. I’ve got no other choice.

“What the
hell
?”

Shan’s on her feet, clutching her head and walking in circles. “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, it happened …
I’ve turned into Mom!
” Her hands shake as she takes a deep breath. Tears form in her eyes as she looks right at me. “Ev, I’m so sorry. I panicked. I don’t know where this is coming from. I’m just … All the stories I hear about AIDS and gay bashing and … I was scared and I panicked.”

I exhale. “Okay. Fine. Just … lay off the interrogation.”

She nods. Then bites her lip. “But … I mean … Look, I don’t mean to sound like a crazy woman but I do think you should think things through. Don’t get mad. I’m trying
to look out for you. This is your first time out of the gate—”

Telling me not to get mad has the opposite effect. “That’s right. And I did better than you. Your first boyfriend got another girl pregnant while you were dating. You sure can pick ’em.” It’s been years since Shan and I have fought but slip effortlessly back into the old pattern.

But instead of fighting back, Shan looks hurt. “Enough with the low blows. We’re past that.” I’m almost embarrassed as she kneels at my side. “Look, Erik seems like a nice guy. He’s gorgeous and talented; I can see why you’d fall for him. But he’s four years older than you and he’s got a lot more … experience.”

I laugh. “Dad’s seven years older than Mom. And if you say ‘that’s different,’ this conversation is over.”

She takes a deep breath. “Ev, let’s face it. You haven’t had a lot of choice here in Madison. You’ve been limiting yourself. Wisconsin isn’t the most gay-friendly state.”

I want so much to think that Shan is doing this for my own good, that she’s concerned for me. Because thinking that my only ally in the family has turned might just push me over the edge.

In fact, it does.

“Erik got into a really great grad school in California and wants me to move with him.” I say it so fast, I’m not
even sure she hears me. In my mind, the words felt like justification. Now they sound like desperation.

Shan blinks, trying to process this. “And … do what?”

Somehow words keep spilling from my lips. “Go to art school. Be with him.”

Shan slowly gets to her feet, turns, and walks away from me. “And you said yes?”

I lick my lips but they remain parched. “I’m thinking about it. I’m supposed to go to Chicago in the fall. With Davis.”

Shan turns again and joins me on the couch. She puts her hand on my shoulder and looks me in the eyes. “So that’s what it comes down to? Either Chicago with Davis or California with Erik? You’ve got so much potential. I don’t want you to jump into either situation. I just don’t think you’re being practical about this.”

“I
am
being practical, Shan. So is Erik. He doesn’t want me to rush the decision. I know I have a lot to think about. But I love Erik. I know that much.”

I know that much.

The apartment door flies open and Erik saunters in—chest broad, tie wrapped around his forehead like a bandanna, sleeves rolled up, and soaking wet. He slings the monkey wrench over his shoulder and raises a fist in the air. “There is no problem Big Gay Handyman cannot solve!”

I translate. “You made it worse and Cece called the plumber?”

He nods. “Well, duh. Grab the buckets. Let’s bail water until he gets here.”

I’m on my feet and we’re both digging under the sink for buckets we’ve used during Cece’s past water-centric problems.

“It’s getting late.”

As she speaks, Shan moves to the door, hitching her purse over her shoulder. Her voice warbles.

“This won’t take long,” Erik says, waving his hand at the papasan. “Have a seat. And we can continue our … earlier conversation.”

My sister’s smile is an apology. “Evan and I have to open the store in the morning. Thanks for dinner. Food was great.”

She steps over the threshold and into the hall, where she expects me to join her. I stand next to Erik so our shoulders touch.