Wrecking Ball (Hard to Love 1)

“Give me five minutes to get dressed.”

Insert eye roll. But he doesn’t see it because he’s already taking the stairs three at a time. Fifteen minutes later, Cal, who by the way looks like sex on a stick in a closely tailored pale grey suit that has Tom Ford written all over it, is driving us into the city. I’m about to tease him for his unmanly love of fashion, until I catch the dark circles under his eyes and a protective streak I usually reserve for the people I love rears up and makes a fuss.

“I’m sorry you got dragged into this. We can leave at intermission if it’s bad.”

“If you really didn’t want me coming with you, you shouda just said so.”

“That’s not it, at all,” I say, more emphatically than I intended. “Of course, I want you to come with me. I’m glad you did but––”

“You are?” he interrupts.

“You’re my friend. Everything’s better when you’re around. And I’m not sorry if that makes you uncomfortable. Man up.”

At the silence, I glance his way again and find Calvin watching me. A silly smile spreads across my face and he smiles back. Before I know what’s what, he takes my hand, places it on his thigh, and covers it with his own. I spend the rest of the ride wavering between confused disbelief and elation.

It’s a busy Thursday night, the downtown sidewalks congested with people. Naturally, we do not go unnoticed. It seems like every pair of eyes we pass follow us. Or more specifically, follow the gorgeous specimen of manhood walking next to me.

Calvin’s been holding my hand since we got out of the car. I don’t know what to think. Are we still playing a part? Am I still a fugazi? It feels like more than that…it’s starting to feel real.

No surprise, photographers are stationed at the entrance of the theater. Which is not as off, off Broadway as I had initially thought. They see fresh meat and start snapping wildly. Cal hangs his arm around my neck as if he’s been doing it all his life and pulls me closer. The brush of his soft lips on mine triggers a tsunami of feels while the wild flashing lights from the bulbs nearly blinds me permanently––no seriously, I almost walk straight into the glass door of the theater.

By the time we get inside, the play is about to start. I’m surprised to find that, not only is not small, it’s also packed. For a big man, he’s insanely coordinated. He nimbly squeezes past a wall of bodies standing to let us get to our seats. Duh, his accuracy throwing a ball fifty feet plus downfield is legendary, why would this be any different.

One hour into the play, a modern retelling of Little Red Riding Hood set in Aleppo, Syria––no, I’m not making this up––I glance at the man sitting next to me and my heart squeezes painfully. Eyelids heavy, he’s fighting tooth and nail to stay awake. My gaze travels down to his lap, where my hand has been since he took it hostage an hour ago. When I pat his thigh, he blinks and looks at me.

“That’s it, we’re leaving.”

“I’m fine.”

“No you’re not. Move it, or I’ll carry you out.”

At my threat, his mouth kicks up on one side and my stomach does backflips. Goddamit! This is extremely inconvenient. The lights blink on. Saved by the bell.

It took only five minutes to convince him to let me drive. That’s when I grasped how tired he really was. Two minutes after that he was asleep in the car. He didn’t stir once until we were home and I opened the passenger side door.

“Let’s go, Champ. I can’t carry you to bed.”

Without hesitation, he swings his arm around my neck and leans on me. Together we walk into the house and up the stairs. By the time I drop him on his bed, I’m feeling mighty uncomfortable. This feels very intimate. I don’t get how he can be so casual about this. But that’s men for you. He’s sitting on his bed, not making any move to undress. His eyes flutter shut.

“Champ, you should probably undress and go to sleep.

“Help me.” Then he looks up…and for the life of me, I can’t look away.

“You’re serious?”

“Okay, don’t.” He falls onto his back, his eyes shut, his Tom Ford suit in danger of becoming a casualty of my inability to touch him without spontaneously combusting.

How? How is this my life? I’m trying my hardest not to crash into love with this man because God knows it won’t end well for me––he’s made it abundantly clear he’s not interested in a relationship––and yet life keeps having a good chuckle at my expense.

“Okay,” I grumble as I reach for his hand. I try to pull him up into a sitting position, but it’s useless. Might as well try to lift Mt. Rushmore. “Cal? Can you sit up please?” Eyes closed, he pulls himself up by my arms. Thank heavens he took his shoes off downstairs. I can just picture it. Me crouching down to take his shoes off, eye level with his crotch…no, just no.