Christmas Kitsch (Hol) (MM) (19 page)

On Tuesday, he had to go to work, but he dropped me off at his Uncle Manny’s car lot before he did. Manny didn’t fuck around—he was a pro, and not the sleazy kind either.

First, he sat me down and looked at my bankbook and helped me make a spreadsheet with what Gloria thought she could get me for rent, and a guess of utilities, tuition, and food, and then we subtracted that from what I’d made every month working for Oliver’s dad.

The leftover amount was depressingly small.

Manny clapped me on the back. “No worries. Do you know anything about cars?”

And if it wasn’t Oliver’s uncle, I never would have said this, because most used-car guys made me think of piranhas. “No. Nothing.”

Manny nodded, thinking. “Look, we have some cars we can sell you cheap. The thing is, they’re older, they got some miles on them—they’re gonna break down. It’s why people go for the newer ones, because they’re dependable. But we also have a service center here. So I’ll make you a deal. We’ll get you set up in an older model, something simple, so you can change the oil on it yourself. I’ll have the boys show you, they’ve been doing it since they were in middle school. When it breaks down, you bring it here to the service center, and if you can help the guys out—stupid stuff, hauling tires, getting coffee—I’ll give you a discount on parts and we’ll call it even. It’s not a new Toyota, but it’s a start.”

Well, given that normally I would have been combing newspapers for something with the main quality of “It Runs,” I figured it was a pretty good one.

“That sounds like a plan,” I said, all sorts of choked up, and he set me up with an older Toyota, a lot like the one I’d had but not a Prius, and maroon, and the paint on the top was flaking from too much time in the sun, followed by too many times through the auto wash. The upholstery was faded, too, but the engine? It was clean, and even
I
could hear that nothing was pinging or banging or anything. The tires were new, and the brakes were good, and for a hundred bucks a month, I couldn’t ask for much more than that.

In fact, it was better than I’d dreamed of.

We made it through the paperwork, and shook hands, and I felt really grown-up, until Manny asked me if he could buy me lunch.

And then I was a kid again, because A, he took me to Red Robin, which is where I’d gone with my friends all the time in high school, and B, he had The Talk with me, which was so damned embarrassing, I thought my balls might have crawled back up while it was going on.

“So, you two screwing around yet?” Manny asked over a Whiskey River BBQ cheeseburger. He asked the question and then took a big bite out of the burger, which was great because I could fix the short circuit in my brain before I answered.

“Define that, sir?” I said, not being facetious. “As far as I can see, Oliver and I have been pretty serious about everything we’ve done.”

Manny rolled his eyes and then swallowed his cheeseburger. “Sex,
pendejo
. Have you two been practicing safe sex?”

Oh God. “Well,” I said, eating fries out of sheer self-defense, “We’ve sort of been practicing until we get good enough to have sex at all, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t have the slightest. Enlighten me.” He took another bite of burger.

Kill me. Kill me now. “I, uhm, well, I haven’t done anything that could get him pregnant?”

And he snerked—did that thing where you’re trying not to laugh so you force food up your nose? I’d never seen an adult do that before.

There were a few anxious moments there, while he tried to swallow and cough and clean cheeseburger out of his nose all at the same time, and I kept plowing through my own burger (I got the teriyaki) because after going through that budget, I was starting to realize that meals like this were going to be few and far between.

“Oh my God!” Oliver’s Uncle Manny was laughing into his hand, and I was signaling the waitress for more fries. “You’re freaking
precious
, Rusty. I don’t know where Oliver found you, but he needs to keep you around.”

“English,” I said. “AP English. And I plan on being around for a long time.” Manny nodded, and then I figured I’d answer his question in a way that didn’t make him snerk cheeseburger. “And I don’t think we need condoms. I haven’t been with anyone in over a year, and I used condoms with her, and Oliver’s still a virgin. I’m pretty sure we’re really safe on the whole STD front.”

Okay. He didn’t snerk his cheeseburger. No. This time he sprayed soda all over the table, but about the time we got
that
cleaned up, the waitress got back with my bottomless fries and two more sodas, and it wasn’t a total loss.

At the end of lunch, he was still chuckling, and after we’d walked out of the restaurant, he clapped his hand on my shoulder. “Rusty, my man, your parents may not believe this, but you are a serious catch. You keep on telling the truth and being good to Oliver, and this family—it’s going to take good care of you, okay?”

I wanted to hug him, but I figured we’d had enough messes for the day.

And finally, it was Wednesday, and Gloria was standing by me anxiously, and I was in that tiny apartment I’d known was coming.

It wasn’t
great
. It had a bedroom, a bathroom, a living room, and a kitchen. The kitchen had one of those counters that adjoined the living room, so you could set food there and eat and didn’t have to buy a tiny dinette table, which was good. It was right in next to the front door, which was awkward, but the thought was nice. After the car, I could pay first and last month’s rent on the apartment and maybe buy a futon and a desk. It’s a good thing I already had a computer.

I looked around the four maybe-white walls and the thinning beige carpeting and remembered the
real
reason this apartment was good: it was about a half a mile from Oliver’s place, and about two miles from the high school. They’d visit. I wouldn’t be alone.

I smiled at Gloria and hid my reluctance. “Yeah,” I said. “Sure. I’ll take it.”

She wasn’t fooled. “I know it’s not much to look at, Rusty, but it’s in a decent neighborhood, and that’s not bad. Once you’ve worked for my brother awhile, gotten on your feet, maybe we can have you rent a fixer-upper. Arturo says you’re good with tools—you fix the place up, we’ll give you a break on the rent, and if you like the place enough maybe we can arrange to buy, you think?”

That was appealing, actually. My parents’ house was custom-made—I remember my mom choosing the hardwood floors and both of them agreeing that a floor plan that would give them separate office space would be best. The arches were the coolest part, the ones on either side of the downstairs hallway. Could I learn how to build an archway? Lay flooring? Knock down some walls and build others? Yeah, like I said, I
liked
that idea. But looking around this little blank space, I knew that skill-set—and the place to use them on—were a long ways away.

Gloria patted my arm. “Don’t worry, Rusty. We’ll help you make it a home, okay?”

I smiled at her weakly. She was wearing a multicolored twinset today in turquoise, maroon, and black, and her hair was drawn up in one of those smooth, elegant bun things. My mom would probably have her over for dinner, but Gloria was as different from my mom as two people could be.

“Yeah,” I said, because going forward was better, especially when you couldn’t go back. “Why not. When can I move in?”

Dinner at Oliver’s house that night felt sort of sad. It was stupid, right? Because I’d lived there, like, a week, but I was already into the routine. I helped feed the dogs, I took them out to run at night, and I washed the dishes. Oliver’s dad was real nice about giving us time alone together, and he never tried to barge in if we were sitting in Oliver’s room, basically hanging out. In return, I never tried to molest his baby boy while he was in the house. Of course, if he’d been
gone
, I probably would have been all over Oliver naked like a Rusty Baker shower, but a guy’s got his limits.

Oliver was pushing mine.

I don’t think he knew he was doing half the shit he was really doing.

He’d come out of the shower in his boxer shorts, stick his head in the living room and say, “Rusty, you’re up!” In his
boxer shorts
. And I’d see his little body, his little defined muscles taut under his still-wet brown skin, and yes, I’ll admit it, I’d be
up
. He’d brush by me when I was doing dishes and put his hand on my hip, and suddenly I’d be shaking with the need to touch him and rut up against him.

When I got home with the car, I sat down at the table and he leaned over my shoulder to check my and Manny’s math. I could feel the heat of his hand through my shirt and hear his breath against my ear and my hand started sweating so hard, I couldn’t hold the pencil. He took it from me and started redoing the figures on his own, and I didn’t hear a
word
of what he was saying. Why?
Because all my blood was in my dick!

Oh my
God
, I couldn’t remember ever wanting anything or anybody as bad as I wanted Oliver when he was doing long division by hand.

After dinner that last night, when I was washing dishes, Mr. Campbell fell asleep in front of the television, which he did sometimes. I sort of loved it when he did that, because it was comfy and sort of vulnerable. I mean, I’d seen my parents’ bedroom, and it was always immaculate, and the comforter always matched the seasons, and there were little back bolsters near the head and lamps on either side and a television mounted at the foot of the bed. Every night at eight o’clock my parents quietly retired, either to the den or the bedroom, where they would work or read or hang upside down like bats for all I ever knew about them.

But not Mr. Campbell. He fell asleep with his head on the back of the couch and his legs spread, slouching so his thick middle sort of came up to his chin. I watched as Oliver went and fetched one of those really colorful wool blankets from the closet and tucked it under his dad’s chin.

All sorts of things went
throb
then; that thing in my shorts, the one in my chest, the pressure behind my eyes—I couldn’t decide which thing to pay attention to the most.

Oliver walked into the kitchen and took the dish towel from my hands because, apparently, I couldn’t think or move for myself. He tugged on my hand and I followed him blindly down the little hall and into his room.

He shut the door and turned the knob behind him. It took a whole beat in my brain before I realized that he’d planned . . .

He was standing right in front of me, looking up into my eyes with those little apostrophes at the corners of his mouth, which meant he was holding back a smile.

He feathered a finger across my lips, and I stared at him, completely taken.

“Do you want me, Rusty?” he asked, his voice down at a gruff whisper.

Words have never been my strong point. I cupped the back of his head with one hand and the side of his throat with the other, and claimed that wide, plump mouth with my own.

Ahhhh . . .
He tasted so good! We’d stolen a kiss here and one there. When I’d come home the night before in my car, with all of my spreadsheets, he’d kissed my cheek. We’d cuddled on the couch, but I hadn’t had this—open mouths, breaths mingling, tongues tangling, Oliver’s pulse against the inside of my palm—in what felt like so, so long.