It’s also why I don’t often sleep with the same girl twice. I’d rather not give anyone the wrong idea about my intentions.
But, with Zakhar, I’m not worried about any of that.
He wanted to get breakfast, so what?
He’s not exactly working a safe, stable nine to five. The dude’s a hired hitman. Nothing about him screams ‘looking for love and ready to settle.’ I’m sure the last thing on his mind is starting and sustaining a relationship. In this, Henry’s my polar opposite. He’s always been a softhearted idealist, a hopeless romantic. Like prepubescent girls who’ve yet to have their heart broken, Henry clings to those rose-tinted glasses, and meeting Sarah made him all the more insufferable. You’d think it was his life’s calling to be my best man. In his mind, Zakhar and I might be star–crossed lovers or something equally nauseating. Gag me.
“It’s nothing serious, man. I promise.”
He shrugs, giving up the interrogation. “If you say so. Let’s get fucked up.”
I laugh, incredulous, “you? You wanna get fucked up?”
“I don’t gamble. What else is there to do?”
“I’ll cheers to that.”
“You’ll cheers to fuckin’ anything.”
Surprisingly, Henry and I manage to make something out of the rest of our time portside. By something, I mean a sloppy, sentimental muddle of ourselves. Thus far, it’s the most he’s had to drink at one time, and Christ, can he not hold it. To keep on the same level, I have to stay at least one ahead. Shot, cocktail, beer, something. I’ve not seen this side of Henry in almost six years, pre–Harvard. If he weren’t so homesick, it might’ve been a better time.
Halfway slumped across the bartop, he’s gone full Eyeore. Weepy and congested. Face lit by his phone’s backlight, he thumbs through pictures of himself, Sarah, and their pound’s worth of dogs. He’ll pause on every third or fourth, lip jutting out cartoonishly, and whimper. If I didn’t love the guy so much, it’d be a real Debbie Downer. Instead of spoiling my mood, being here with him like this eases my guilt. This is his trip, and if he wants to make the full plunge into misery, it’s my duty to support that. I thump him in the middle of the back and slur a few placations about how it’s almost over. Except, the more I drink and the more I remind him of this trip’s inevitable, fast-approaching end–
The more I’m reminded of this trip’s inevitable, fast-approaching end.
There’s a strange tightness in my chest where there should only be buoyancy, and I don’t get it. In ten whole days, there’s been so few moments I’ve enjoyed. I dreaded coming, and I’ve hated being here for the most part. The end is finally nigh, then I’ll be home. Home is great. I love home. I love my studio, my job, my friends, my bed that doesn’t rock to the beat of waves. Everything goes back to normal. Normal is great. I love normal.
There’s a word association happening in the back of my mind, one I really, really don’t want to acknowledge.
x (home) + y (normal) = z (boring, alone)
My life has never been boring, so I’m not sure where/why/how this seedling of a thought has the audacity to sprout. I might be single, but I’ve never considered myself alone or lonely. Engaging with Zakhar in the ways I have has done a real number on my dopamine output, it’s the only explanation. There’s been more emotional upset in the past six days than I’ve experienced in a lifetime, and returning back to baseline feels…underwhelming. Fearing for my sexuality, then my life, then my soul because I’d swear it exploded out of my dick at some point. Spooning? Which, I didn’t totally hate? Scooting around Monaco in the sexiest car that’s ever touched tire to pavement?
Of course normalcy is going to seem boring.
Therefore, Henry and I are holding two separate conversations, technically talking to each other but only aware of our own lamentations:
“And I mean, God, dude, she’s been so great about this…this shit, man. I know she’s overwhelmed, but like, she’s not making me feel bad at all. Just sayin’ she misses me and can’t wait for us to get back, and I almost wish she’d bitch me out a little, y’know?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know exactly what you mean, and it’s like…what am I supposed to do when I get back, y’know? How am I supposed to top this shit with him? What if nothing’s fun anymore, man? Should I change my Tinder preferences? Oh, Jesus, fuck–”
“I know, dude. I’d just feel so much better if she reamed me out a little, called me a piece of shit for leaving my pregnant wife all by herself for…for nearly two weeks! Pepper ate through the bottom of the sofa, Kit! She had to replace the whole, stupid sofa without me! What if the furniture guys were strapping and hot? I’m not strapping!”
“No, no, dude, you’re so strapping.”
“…really?”
“I mean, yeah.”
“More strapping than Zakhar?”
“…when did I tell you his name?”
“Dude, you’ve said it like twenty times.”
“…I did?”
“Yeah, so…am I?”
“What?”
“More strapping?”
We exchange a serious look, as serious as can be while piss–drunk. I get the sense Henry needs his ego stroked a little, so I lie as convincingly as I can: “y-yeah, dude! You’d run circles around him, seriously. So, so strapping.”
He’s sloshed enough to believe it, or at least that I mean it. Again, his face crumples up, “thanks, man. I love you.”
“I love you, too–”
“Woah, they haven’t cut you off yet?”
Cam and Dakota, surprisingly clear-eyed and upright, materialize behind us. I jump, having next to no situational awareness left. The only two faces I’ll remember from after we sat down are Henry’s and the bartender. Cam snorts a laugh at the dumbfounded look I can feel weighing my face down, “you’re gonna be so sick tonight, dude.”
“Ah, fuck.”
“Come on, boys, it’s four o’clock.”
“Already?” Henry’s gobsmacked, confirming the time on his phone. The same phone he’s been staring at for two hours.
We climb down from our stools, and it’s like breaking your ankle in a stirrup while dismounting a horse. More of a task than I thought it’d be. Cam and Dakota step into their role as ‘the most sober dudes in the room’, using their bodies like a crutch for Henry and I to sag on. You know how you know you’re really, really fucked, but you’re convinced you can sober yourself through sheer willpower? That’s my mindset: putting one foot in front of the other, staring down at them like being watched will make ’em act right. This floor is a nice, clean marble, and I’m grateful it’s not that ugly, patterned carpet no casino is without. Cam, my designated crutch, isn’t unaware of the wasted effort and laughs again.
“What’s got you two throwing a pity party by yourselves? I thought you’d be on blackjack.”
“Henry’s homesick.”
“What about you? I heard you got dropped off in a Spyder, dude.”
“Stop fishing, asshole.”
Cam huffs, jostling me unkindly. “You never tell us shit, Kit. We’re your friends, too. Not just Henry. You only talk when you’re fucked up.”
“‘s just a guy I met on the boat, man. He’s cool. We were hangin’ out this morning, he offered to drop me by here.”
“Man, I need to be more outgoing.” Cam grumbles, letting it go. He can be nosy, but he’s also simple. Easily accepting. My ‘hanging out’ with another man in the morning would never ping on his radar as anything suspicious or remotely gay. We’ve known each other our whole lives, and the version of Kit that lives in his mind is: friendly, extroverted, and unequivocally straight. I’ve charmed all sorts of privileges from strangers, men and women alike.