Autoboyography
Page 32
The doorbell rings.
“Good job, asswipe,” she says, shoving away from me. “The neighbors called the cops.”
I reach forward, swinging the door open with my best she-did-it smile.
My world stops spinning.
I didn’t know what “bemused” meant until I looked it up last year. I always thought it meant something like “coyly amused,” but in fact it’s more like “bewildered,” which is exactly how Sebastian looks standing on my porch.
“What the—?” My surprised grin spreads as far as it can, east to west.
“Hey.” He lifts his hand to scratch the back of his head and his biceps pops, smooth and tan.
I am goo.
“Sorry.” I step back, gesturing him inside. “You walked in on a murder in progress.”
He laughs, taking a step forward. “I was going to say . . .” Blinking up past me, he smiles. I can only assume Hailey is standing there, shooting death rays at my back. “Hi, Hailey.”
“Hi. Who are you?”
I want to shove her into the wall for being so rude but resist because with this one bitchy question she’s made it seem like I’m not walking around gushing about this guy constantly. “This is Sebastian.”
“Oh. You’re right. He is hot.”
And there it is. Turns out I do want to shove her into the wall.
With a small laugh, he reaches out to shake her hand. To my horror, she stares at it for a breath before taking it. When she looks at me, I lift my eyebrows in an I’m-going-to-finish-killing-you-later gesture. If Mom or Dad were here, she would be nothing but manners. With just me, she’s prime asshole.
“Want to come upstairs?” I ask him.
He glances at Hailey, who has already stomped back down the hall to the laundry room, and nods. “Where are your parents?”
“Mom’s on a run. Dad’s working.”
I think he gets the subtext here. The air between us crackles.
Beneath our feet, the wood stairs creak, and I’m hyperaware of Sebastian behind me. My bedroom is the last at the end of the hall, and we walk down there in silence; my blood feels like it’s bubbling up to the surface of my skin.
We’re going to my room.
He’ll be in my room.
Sebastian walks in, looks around, and doesn’t seem to flinch when I gently click the door shut behind me—breaking Mom and Dad’s open-door policy. But hello: kissing might happen here, and Hailey is in beast mode. That door is getting s-h-u-t.
“So this is your room,” he says, taking it in.
“Yeah.” I follow his gaze, trying to see it through his eyes. There are a lot of books (none of them religious), there are a few trophies (most of them for academics), and a few pictures here and there (I’m not holding a Bible in any of them). For once I’m glad that Dad makes me keep my room clean. My bed is made; my laundry is contained in the basket. My desk is empty except for my laptop and . . .
Oh shit.
Sebastian wanders over, thumbing the stack of blue Post-it notes. It’s already too late to say anything. I know what the one on top says.
WE LEAVE EACH OTHER
CUTTING SHORT AT THE USUAL STALEMATE.
I IMAGINE WHERE HE GOES THERE’S A QUIET DINNER
SECRETS STUCK LIKE GUM BENEATH THE DINING TABLE.
HE IMAGINES WHERE I GO THERE’S SOMETHING DIFFERENT.
AT BEST: RIOTOUS LAUGHTER, GIDDY FREEDOM
AT WORST: CURSING, VAGUE SIN.
MAYBE I’M GIVEN SIPS OF WINE.
BUT EVEN IF THIS IS WHAT HE THINKS
HE ISN’T JUDGING ME
I HOPE SOMEDAY HE LOVES ME
GOOD NIGHT, HE SAYS
I WANT TO KISS, AND KISS, AND KISS HIM.
“What is this?”
“Um.” I walk over, pulling it off the top to read it as if I’m not sure what it is. In fact, I couldn’t be more sure; I wrote it just last night. “Oh. It’s nothing.”
I count to five, and five, and five again. The whole time, we’re just staring at the bright blue Post-it note in my hand.
Finally, he takes it back. “Is this about me?”
I nod without looking at him. Inside my chest, feet stomp and animals roar.
His hand comes up my arm, from my wrist to my elbow, tugging gently so I’ll turn to look at him.
“I like it,” he whispers. “But it’s not going in your new book, right?”
I shake my head. Lie number two.
“Are there more?”
I nod.
“Use your words, Tanner,” he says, laughing at the end.
“There are more, but I’m, um, writing about something else now.”
He nods. “What’s the new one about?”
I blink over to the window, making this up on the fly. “Same idea, but he doesn’t fall in love with the bishop’s son.”
I watch as the words “fall in love” roll over him. His mouth twitches. “So you’ll let me read it?”
“Yeah.” I nod quickly. “When there’s enough to read.” The implication of this makes me queasy, but I know at some point I’ll have to stop writing about Sebastian, write something else, and let him and Fujita read it. The weirdest part? I don’t want to stop writing about Sebastian. It’s almost like I need to keep writing it in order to find out how it ends.
He lets go of my arm and walks over to my bed, sitting down on it. My heart dumps fuel everywhere; there’s drag racing happening in my veins.
“I got my author copies today. I want you to read my book too,” he says, fidgeting with a hangnail. “But I’m worried you’ll think it’s terrible.”
“I’m worried I’ll think it’s amazing and I’ll be even more obsessed with you than I am.”
Thankfully, he laughs at this like I hope he will. “I’m nervous.”
“About the book coming out?”
He nods.
“Are you writing a second one?”
Another nod. “It was a three-book deal. And I really love it. It feels like what I’m supposed to be doing.” He looks up at me, and the light coming in the window catches his eyes in a way that seems nearly divine. “After the hike,” he says, and then nods to me for confirmation, as if I would somehow not know what he’s referring to, “I went home and . . .”
Jerked off? “Freaked out?”
He laughs. “No. I prayed.”
“That sounds like freaking out.”
Sebastian shakes his head. “No. Praying is calming.” He stares at my wall, where I have a framed photograph of the Golden Gate Bridge that Dad took a few years before we moved. “I haven’t felt guilty about it,” he says, quieter now. “Which is unexpected.”
I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear him say that until he did. I feel like a pool raft, lazily deflating in the sun.
“Guilt is sort of a sign that I’m doing something wrong,” he says, “and when I feel peaceful, I know God approves of what I’m doing.”
I open my mouth to reply, but turns out, I have no idea what to say to that.
“Sometimes I wonder whether it’s God or the church that feels the strongest about these things.”
“My opinion?” I say carefully. “A God worthy of your eternal love wouldn’t judge you for who you love while you’re here.”
He nods at this for a few seconds and finally smiles shyly up at me.
“Will you come over here?” he asks, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen him wearing an unsure smile.
“Good job, asswipe,” she says, shoving away from me. “The neighbors called the cops.”
I reach forward, swinging the door open with my best she-did-it smile.
My world stops spinning.
I didn’t know what “bemused” meant until I looked it up last year. I always thought it meant something like “coyly amused,” but in fact it’s more like “bewildered,” which is exactly how Sebastian looks standing on my porch.
“What the—?” My surprised grin spreads as far as it can, east to west.
“Hey.” He lifts his hand to scratch the back of his head and his biceps pops, smooth and tan.
I am goo.
“Sorry.” I step back, gesturing him inside. “You walked in on a murder in progress.”
He laughs, taking a step forward. “I was going to say . . .” Blinking up past me, he smiles. I can only assume Hailey is standing there, shooting death rays at my back. “Hi, Hailey.”
“Hi. Who are you?”
I want to shove her into the wall for being so rude but resist because with this one bitchy question she’s made it seem like I’m not walking around gushing about this guy constantly. “This is Sebastian.”
“Oh. You’re right. He is hot.”
And there it is. Turns out I do want to shove her into the wall.
With a small laugh, he reaches out to shake her hand. To my horror, she stares at it for a breath before taking it. When she looks at me, I lift my eyebrows in an I’m-going-to-finish-killing-you-later gesture. If Mom or Dad were here, she would be nothing but manners. With just me, she’s prime asshole.
“Want to come upstairs?” I ask him.
He glances at Hailey, who has already stomped back down the hall to the laundry room, and nods. “Where are your parents?”
“Mom’s on a run. Dad’s working.”
I think he gets the subtext here. The air between us crackles.
Beneath our feet, the wood stairs creak, and I’m hyperaware of Sebastian behind me. My bedroom is the last at the end of the hall, and we walk down there in silence; my blood feels like it’s bubbling up to the surface of my skin.
We’re going to my room.
He’ll be in my room.
Sebastian walks in, looks around, and doesn’t seem to flinch when I gently click the door shut behind me—breaking Mom and Dad’s open-door policy. But hello: kissing might happen here, and Hailey is in beast mode. That door is getting s-h-u-t.
“So this is your room,” he says, taking it in.
“Yeah.” I follow his gaze, trying to see it through his eyes. There are a lot of books (none of them religious), there are a few trophies (most of them for academics), and a few pictures here and there (I’m not holding a Bible in any of them). For once I’m glad that Dad makes me keep my room clean. My bed is made; my laundry is contained in the basket. My desk is empty except for my laptop and . . .
Oh shit.
Sebastian wanders over, thumbing the stack of blue Post-it notes. It’s already too late to say anything. I know what the one on top says.
WE LEAVE EACH OTHER
CUTTING SHORT AT THE USUAL STALEMATE.
I IMAGINE WHERE HE GOES THERE’S A QUIET DINNER
SECRETS STUCK LIKE GUM BENEATH THE DINING TABLE.
HE IMAGINES WHERE I GO THERE’S SOMETHING DIFFERENT.
AT BEST: RIOTOUS LAUGHTER, GIDDY FREEDOM
AT WORST: CURSING, VAGUE SIN.
MAYBE I’M GIVEN SIPS OF WINE.
BUT EVEN IF THIS IS WHAT HE THINKS
HE ISN’T JUDGING ME
I HOPE SOMEDAY HE LOVES ME
GOOD NIGHT, HE SAYS
I WANT TO KISS, AND KISS, AND KISS HIM.
“What is this?”
“Um.” I walk over, pulling it off the top to read it as if I’m not sure what it is. In fact, I couldn’t be more sure; I wrote it just last night. “Oh. It’s nothing.”
I count to five, and five, and five again. The whole time, we’re just staring at the bright blue Post-it note in my hand.
Finally, he takes it back. “Is this about me?”
I nod without looking at him. Inside my chest, feet stomp and animals roar.
His hand comes up my arm, from my wrist to my elbow, tugging gently so I’ll turn to look at him.
“I like it,” he whispers. “But it’s not going in your new book, right?”
I shake my head. Lie number two.
“Are there more?”
I nod.
“Use your words, Tanner,” he says, laughing at the end.
“There are more, but I’m, um, writing about something else now.”
He nods. “What’s the new one about?”
I blink over to the window, making this up on the fly. “Same idea, but he doesn’t fall in love with the bishop’s son.”
I watch as the words “fall in love” roll over him. His mouth twitches. “So you’ll let me read it?”
“Yeah.” I nod quickly. “When there’s enough to read.” The implication of this makes me queasy, but I know at some point I’ll have to stop writing about Sebastian, write something else, and let him and Fujita read it. The weirdest part? I don’t want to stop writing about Sebastian. It’s almost like I need to keep writing it in order to find out how it ends.
He lets go of my arm and walks over to my bed, sitting down on it. My heart dumps fuel everywhere; there’s drag racing happening in my veins.
“I got my author copies today. I want you to read my book too,” he says, fidgeting with a hangnail. “But I’m worried you’ll think it’s terrible.”
“I’m worried I’ll think it’s amazing and I’ll be even more obsessed with you than I am.”
Thankfully, he laughs at this like I hope he will. “I’m nervous.”
“About the book coming out?”
He nods.
“Are you writing a second one?”
Another nod. “It was a three-book deal. And I really love it. It feels like what I’m supposed to be doing.” He looks up at me, and the light coming in the window catches his eyes in a way that seems nearly divine. “After the hike,” he says, and then nods to me for confirmation, as if I would somehow not know what he’s referring to, “I went home and . . .”
Jerked off? “Freaked out?”
He laughs. “No. I prayed.”
“That sounds like freaking out.”
Sebastian shakes his head. “No. Praying is calming.” He stares at my wall, where I have a framed photograph of the Golden Gate Bridge that Dad took a few years before we moved. “I haven’t felt guilty about it,” he says, quieter now. “Which is unexpected.”
I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear him say that until he did. I feel like a pool raft, lazily deflating in the sun.
“Guilt is sort of a sign that I’m doing something wrong,” he says, “and when I feel peaceful, I know God approves of what I’m doing.”
I open my mouth to reply, but turns out, I have no idea what to say to that.
“Sometimes I wonder whether it’s God or the church that feels the strongest about these things.”
“My opinion?” I say carefully. “A God worthy of your eternal love wouldn’t judge you for who you love while you’re here.”
He nods at this for a few seconds and finally smiles shyly up at me.
“Will you come over here?” he asks, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen him wearing an unsure smile.
