More Happy Than Not

I toss a can to him like an overhead basketball pass and we cheer when he catches it. He opens it and beer sprays all over him. I’m drunk-laughing on the floor, which is the same as regular laughing, except it’s obnoxiously louder and only happens when you’re drunk. Thomas is drunk-laughing too while he changes into a new shirt. He’s got to know always watching him change is killer on me, a turn-on with no payoff. He puts on a yellow sleeveless shirt.

“Get up. I’m going to teach you how to fight.”

“No thanks, Stretch.”

“Unless you’re bench-pressing girls all the time, you’re wasting your muscles.”

“I’ve seen wrestling.”

“Wrestling’s fake. Come on, get up.” He puts down his PBR and joins me in the middle of the room. “Awesome. Next time Brendan or anyone comes at you, you’re going to lay them out.”

How to Street Fight: You are your own weapon, but if you happen to have some brass knuckles or a baseball bat in a particularly nasty fight, more power to you.

“Okay, for starters, we’re going to—” I cut myself off and trap him in a headlock. “Never wait for someone else to swing first.” I let him go and he wobbles. Before he can protest, I swing and stop an inch from his face. “The nose is a good spot to aim for because even if you miss, you have a good chance at clocking them in the jaw or eye. But if you’re dead set on breaking the nose, a head-butt is the way to go.” I grab his shoulders, lean my forehead against his, and stare into his somewhat intoxicated eyes as I fake a head-butt into his nose over and over.

“That’s a lot of violence to absorb in one minute,” Thomas says. “I think I’m good for the night.”

“You’ll be good when—” I swing at him again, but this time he catches my wrist with one hand and grabs my leg with the other, pinning me to the floor.

Thomas smiles. “I told you I’m good for now.” He pats my shoulder and sits across from me on the floor.

“We’ll go for Round Two later on. I’m just happy you’ll be able to put those muscles to use. Maybe I should work out more too, at least for the look.”

“I’ll be your friend, muscles or not,” Thomas says.

“I’m going to tattoo that promise on you as a reminder,” I say.

“I’m never getting a tattoo. What if I decide I want to take up underwear modeling? I can’t have YOLO running across my heart,” Thomas jokes, or at least I hope he’s joking.

I get up and grab a marker from his desk. I sit down next to him and palm his shoulder. “You’re getting a tattoo right now. What do you want?”

“No way,” he says, laughing. I know he wants one.

“Come on. If you don’t end up as an underwear model, what tattoo would you want?”

“I’m scared of needles.”

“This is a marker.”

“Fine.”

“How about one of your little fortune cookie quotes?”

“Surprise me.”

I hold his wrist, steady his arm, and begin drawing a stick figure holding a movie slate; it’ll one day be very meta, if meta is still a thing. My scar is pressed against his forearm, and if I had as much hope in life back then as I do now, it would’ve never existed in the first place. This all feels so right and I like my chances with telling him Side B. “Thomas?”

“Stretch?”

“Were you shocked? When I told you Side A?”

“A little. You’re just so different from any other friend I’ve ever had, and it’s also why I wanted to be your friend in the first place,” Thomas says. It’s funny that he says this while I shade in his stick figure’s eyebrows, one of my favorite things about him. “But when you told me, I didn’t care. I was honored you trusted me.”

“Of course. You’re my favorite person,” I say without a doubt. Thomas isn’t just someone I want in my life—I need him to stay happy, to keep the death out of my life, to make being who I am easier. “It sounds stupid, but I think you’re my happiness.” I rub his shoulder. When he turns to me, I trace his eyebrows from one to the other, and I lean in and kiss him.

Thomas pushes me off and gets up. “Dude, I’m sorry. I’m straight, you know.”

Hearing those words, that lie, feels like every wrong thing in the world: heart attacks, gunshots, starvation, fathers who leave you on your own. I blink to fight back the tears. “I thought . . . I thought that you . . . Sorry, fuck. I’ve just had too many drinks.” I feel like a fucking idiot. “Fuck. Sorry. Fuck.” I look up at him and he’s covering his mouth. “Say something.”