How to Be a Normal Person (36 page)

Make sure the sheets on your bed are clean. You don’t want your lover to climb into a bed when just last night, you had a nocturnal emission over Andy Griffith as Matlock. That is not fair to your lover to be reminded you have a criminal-defense attorney kink.

Make sure to be makeup-free before you get into bed. It’s better to be natural than to wake up with a smeared pillowcase.

“I don’t think I’m the target demographic for this list,” Gus said. “I don’t think the list knows what its target demographic is.”

Have fun activities planned, like a puzzle or cooking a ham. Try to avoid things such as movies or television because those will divert your attention from your lover. Remember, you want to learn as much as you can about them.

Also, make sure to be attentive to your lover. You’ll want to offer them refreshments and make sure they know where the bathroom is, where the towels are, and if any of the house is off limits.

Brush your teeth before you go to bed. If you are planning on being fun and flirty while in the sheets, it’s better to have fresh breath.

If it’s you that’s staying at your lover’s house, make sure to pack underwear and facial wipes. These are the two most forgotten items when packing for an overnight stay, according to an informal poll that four people responded to.

To raise the stakes a little, pretend to have forgotten your pajamas and ask if you can wear one of his shirts. Your lover will surely be pleased.

However, try not to do anything that can be misconstrued as too arousing. You don’t want to start something you might not be able to finish. Like relations.

“Yeah,” Gus said. “Canceling the Internet. Oh my god, what the hell.”

CASEY HAD
said he’d be over at seven. Gus started pacing at 6:42.

At 6:57, the doorbell rang.

“You
liar
,” Gus growled.

He opened the door, “Hey, bro,” he said, cool and aloof. “I’ve got some ham in the oven. You know, for something to do.”

Casey stood on the porch, a backpack slung over his shoulder, Harry S. Truman’s carrier at his side. He cocked his head at Gus. “You went on the Internet again, didn’t you?”

“No,” Gus said. “Of course not. I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Please, come in and make yourself comfortable. Can I offer you a Pibb Zero? There are towels in the closet and you can go anywhere in the house you want to. I have no secrets.”

Casey snorted as he pushed back Gus. “You have
some
secrets, Gustavo.”

Gus scowled. “I have none.”

“Normal people have secrets,” he teased, dropping his bag onto the couch and opening the carrier door. Harry S. Truman ran out, yelling at Gus for the day’s events before finding his water dish and making a mess.

“I never should have told you about that,” Gus muttered. “I will never hear the end of it.”

“Yeah, man,” Casey said. “Never. It’s totally going to be a thing from now on.” He sank back down on the couch and made grabby hands at Gus. “Come on. I need Gus love.”

Gus was proud of himself that he only tripped a little bit as he scrambled toward the couch. Casey grabbed on and pulled him down, and somehow they ended up tangled together, Casey’s head on his shoulder, one leg thrown over Gus’s lap.

“I meant it,” Casey said, rubbing his beard on Gus’s shoulder. “You know?”

“Me too,” Gus said seriously. And then, “Wait. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Casey laughed. “That you don’t need to be anybody else. I’ll be honest, man. I feel like shit that you thought you had to change for me.”

Gus shrugged awkwardly. “You don’t have to feel bad. You didn’t do anything wrong. I overheard and assumed.”

“Right,” Casey said. “But that shouldn’t matter. No one has a right to make you feel bad about yourself, Gustavo. Not me. Not anyone else. As much as I wish that you’d said something earlier, that doesn’t change anything, you know? You’re you. Just be you, man. That’s all I want.”

“Sometimes I think the me I am is not the me I want to be,” Gus admitted. “But then you like me for the me I am and that’s a good me to be for me.”

“I’ll be honest,” Casey said. “I’m sort of stoned because I got nervous again about coming over here because I like you so much and I have no idea what you just said.”

“I made ham because I’m nervous,” Gus said.

“Fuck yeah,” Casey said. “We’re, like, a power couple. Or something.”

THERE WAS
only a single moment of awkwardness as they got ready for bed. After eating the I-Made-It-Because-I’m-Nervous ham that Gus had prepared, Casey said he wanted to smoke a bowl in bed with Gus because there was no better way to relax before falling asleep.

Gus, hearing Casey mention the bed, thought maybe he should try and be a least a little bit flirty, so he said, “Oh no! I forgot my pajamas. Can I borrow a shirt of yours?”

“But we’re at your house?” Casey asked, adorably confused.

“Right,” Gus said, trying not to die. “That’s what I meant. Just testing you. Good job. You passed.”

“Awesome,” Casey said, and then he took off his shirt and Gus might have accidentally walked into a wall because that was a shitload of skin that he hadn’t seen before.

“Brushing my teeth!” Gus managed to say before fleeing to the bathroom after grabbing his Yasser Arapants.

After giving himself a pep talk in the mirror that probably went on far too long (he told Reflection Gus to be a fucking man about this and not fuck it up because Casey was legit
moving
to Abby for
real
and part of the reason was
Gus
. Reflection Gus smiled like a douchebag and he might have flexed a little bit too), he made his way back to the bedroom, proud that his hands were shaking only a little bit.

Casey was lying against the headboard in boxer briefs and a loose tank top. His hair was messy around his shoulders and his tongue poked out of his mouth as he concentrated picking out the seeds and stems. His He-Man lunchbox was opened between his legs.

And Gus thought he’d never seen anything more wonderful than Casey right where he was, doing what he did best. He must have heard the choked-off noise Gus made because he looked up and smiled. “Hey, man. Want to get high?”

Gus said, “Don’t pack that bowl yet. I want to show you something, okay?”

Casey didn’t even question. He nodded and said, “Cool, man. What you got?”

“I’ll be right back.”

Gus left the room before he could think too hard about it. It wasn’t something he ever thought he’d be ready for. But maybe he was now, and maybe part of that reason was Casey.

Or maybe Casey wasn’t the whole reason. A big part of it, sure, but not completely. For a while after Pastor Tommy died, Gus was numb. He was angry and tired. He could barely sleep. His father had been his best friend and, at the time, his only friend. He had watched him fade away, even as Pastor Tommy had held on longer than he had any right to. Pastor Tommy had joked that he’d lived longer than the doctors forecasted simply because he wasn’t ready to leave Gus’s side yet. Rather, he
meant
it as a joke, and the doctors would laugh, but then they would leave and Gus would press his forehead against his father’s hand and
cry
because this man, this wonderful man, was everything he’d lived for, and he
hated
cancer. He hated it with a rage he would probably never feel against anyone or anything ever again.

The day Pastor Tommy died, Gus had come home and packed up all the little reminders of Pastor Tommy because even the
thought
of looking at little pieces of his life was enough to make Gus violently ill.

But now he opened the door to his dad’s room and went to the bedside table. He opened the drawer and found the little oak box he knew was there. Gus hesitated for the briefest of moments, but deep down, he knew he was making the right decision. He lifted the box from the drawer and whispered, “It hurts, Dad. A little less each day, though. I think I’m getting better, okay?”

And then he left the room.

Casey was sitting in the same position, the bud on the mattress clear of stems and seeds. He smiled quietly when Gus came back into the room. He eyed the box in Gus’s hand but didn’t say anything. Gus wondered if somehow he knew what it was, or how important this was for Gus.

Gus sat on the bed, facing Casey, crossing his legs. He put the box down in front of him on the mattress. He took a breath and then another and then another. The third one didn’t hurt as much as the first two and when he spoke, he did so hoping his voice was steady. “This, ah. You’re… important. To me.” He didn’t dare look up, eyes focused on the wooden box. “So. I wanted to share this. With you. If that’s okay.”

It was silent for a moment. Then, “Yeah, man. Whatever you want.”

Gus pushed the box toward him and pulled his hands back. He chewed on his thumbnail, eyes darting up to Casey and then away.

To his credit, Casey didn’t push Gus for anything further, and maybe Gus loved him just a little bit more for that. He didn’t know if he was ready to say that yet (seriously, though, he’d filled his quota on
feelings
for at least the next five years, what the hell), but he thought it. He definitely thought it.

Casey opened the box and let out a little sigh when he saw what was inside. He lifted the clay-fired pipe from the box. It was a remarkable thing. It had a weight to it, a heaviness that Gus appreciated. Its surface was glazed, reds and blues and greens swirling through the clay. It looked good, held in Casey’s hands.

“It was my dad’s,” Gus said finally. “Made it with a friend of his on an Indian reservation. He said it was one of the nicest things he’d ever made, aside from me.”

Casey choked out a laugh.

“I just thought maybe we could use his pipe instead,” Gus said, trying to act like it didn’t matter to him one way or another.

Of course, he failed miserably.

“Gus,” Casey said. “Hey, man. Look at me.” He reached out and took Gus’s hand into his own.

Gus looked up.

Casey was smiling at him, that lazy, warm smile that did stupid things to his heart. “You sure?”

Gus nodded.

“Then I’d be honored,” Casey said reverently. “This is some quality craftsmanship. Your dad knew what he was doing. Maybe you can tell me more about him sometime?”

“Yeah,” Gus croaked. “That’d be cool.”

He watched as Casey loaded Pastor Tommy’s pipe, his dexterous fingers making quick work of packing a stuffed bowl. He held it out to Gus along with his lighter. “You gotta go first, man,” Casey said. “It’s your dad’s, you know? You gotta go first because it’s what he would have wanted. I know that more than anything.”

Gus took Casey’s lighter. He snapped the flame to life. He put the pipe to his lips, lit the bowl, and inhaled. He held the smoke in and thought that yeah, maybe Pastor Tommy would have wanted exactly that.

THREE BOWLS
later, they lay side by side, the pipe cached out and put back in its box. They were sharing a pillow and every now and then, Casey would lean forward and brush his nose against Gus’s and Gus thought everything was right with the world. Their knees bumped together and Gus could count Casey’s eyelashes if he tried hard enough.

“I like being here,” Casey said, breaking almost thirty minutes of silence. “With you.” He reached over and traced Gus’s face with his fingers. “And your Eyebrows of Judgment.”

Gus scowled (but since he was stoned, he actually grinned). “They don’t judge.”

“All the time,” Casey insisted. “They’re judging me right now.”

Gus huffed. “Well. Don’t do things capable of judgment.”

“That’s how I roll, man,” Casey said. “I can’t believe you got nervous and made a whole ham and offered me Pibb Zero. Like. Who even
has
Pibb Zero?”

“It’s what the Internet told me to do!”

“You have to show me where you looked this stuff up,” Casey said.

“Whoever wrote it had a tiny mustache,” Gus said. “I just know it. You don’t. You don’t have a tiny mustache.” And because he could, he reached out and stroked Casey’s beard. “It’s nice. You’re nice. This is all nice. Everything is nice.”

“I get worried too, you know,” Casey said, leaning against Gus’s hands on his face. “About stuff.”

Gus snorted. “No you don’t. You’re so cool, people think you’re Vanilla Ice.”

Casey gaped at him. “How do you
do
that?”

Gus shrugged. “S’gift. You know? I just… think of these things. Don’t know where it comes from. Just gifted, I guess.”

“Man,” Casey said. “You should write a novel.” Then, “Oh my god!”

“What!”

“Gus!”

“Casey!”

“We should write a book together!”

Gus’s eyes went wide, because right now? Honestly? That was the best idea.
Ever
. He told Casey as much. Then he was hit with the struggle of every artist. “But what would we write about?”

Casey frowned. “I have no idea. We need to brainstorm.”

“Hmm,” Gus said, brainstorming.

“Yeah,” Casey said, rubbing his fingers on Gus’s Eyebrows of Judgment.

“Okay, I’ve got it,” Gus said.

“Of course you do,” Casey said fondly. “You’re, like, so good at this stuff. Like, ideas. Or whatever. You have them. All the time. Lay it on me, Grumpy Gus.”

“It needs some work,” Gus warned him.

“S’what I’m here for,” Casey assured him. “You’re the talent. I’ve got the experience.”

“Okay,” Gus said. “Like. Okay. Listen. So. What if, there was, like, this whole seedy underground world that dogs were a part of.”

“I’m with you,” Casey said. “Keep going.”

“Okay. So, like. After everyone goes to bed, dogs get out. And they’re, like,
super
smart. Okay?
Super
smart. And they can talk and stuff. And there’s this whole Mafia underground dog ring or something. But instead of cocaine and money laundering, it’s like. Milk-Bones. And which Mafia family owns which fire hydrant to piss on. Or whatever.”