How They Met, and Other Stories(35)
Author: David Levithan

“Nothing,” he said. And then his voice changed to another voice, a gentler voice, as he wished me good night.

The next morning—more like afternoon, really—we woke up before Thomas. Miles cleaned the living room a little while I took a shower. Then another hour passed and Thomas still hadn’t emerged from his room. There was no way we were going to interrupt his closed door, so the two of us decided it was safe to leave. I asked Miles what he wanted to do.

“Why don’t we check out where Graham lives, see if he’s around?” he replied.

“But we don’t know where he lives!” I protested.

“Ooh, look,” he said, picking up the phone, “I got some magic in my fingers. I just press four-one-one, and…”—he gave Graham’s name and the East Village and asked for the address—“presto!”

There were messages on my cell phone from my home number, but I didn’t check them. My parents’ voices didn’t belong anywhere near this world. As Miles and I rode the 6 train downtown, we tried to piece together all the events of the previous night. Miles seemed disappointed in Thomas, and I wondered if he had a crush on him. (I hadn’t known Thomas was into girls, but I hadn’t really cared, either.)

I didn’t think we actually were going to show up at Graham’s doorstep. But when we got there—he lived next to a pizza place on East Ninth—Miles started to head straight for the bell.

“What are you doing?” I asked, not without some alarm.

“Don’t you want to see if he’s in?” he replied. I couldn’t tell if he was taunting me or just trying to help.

“I’d rather just bump into him,” I said.

So we got a pizza, then wandered around the block a half dozen times, until a lady on the stoop next to his asked us what the hell we were doing.

Neither Miles nor I wanted to go home, so we dragged our wandering farther, checking out the tattoo parlors on St. Mark’s and getting an overpriced latte to share at the Starbucks on Astor Place. Finally we found ourselves back at the dance studio—we were allowed to use it on weekends for rehearsal. It was better than going home.

And there he was. We walked into the studio and Graham was the only one there. Dancing each part of his piece, rehearsing for all of us at once. I felt such intimacy toward him then. An intimacy that was stolen, yes. Like staring at someone dreaming.

I watched him, and I could feel Miles watching me watch him. I didn’t try to hide it.

It was only when the dance was through, when the soundtrack had moved on to the next song, that Graham looked over and we made our presence known. Applauding, Miles and I walked into the room. Graham seemed surprised to see us, but not unhappy.

“So you survived your momentary brush with the lifestyles of the rich and infamous?” he asked. We told him a little about the party. He didn’t talk about his party, but he did say that his friends hadn’t made it to a midnight showing of a movie he wanted to see.

“We should go,” I said.

“Cool.” Graham looked at me. “You free now?”

“Yeah,” I said, trying not to sound too eager.

“Miles?”

And Miles did the most amazing thing. He said, “No. I gotta get home. You two’ll have to make do without me.”

Part of me was afraid Graham would use this as an excuse to back out. He said he was sorry Miles had to go. And he asked me if I could wait ten minutes while he showered and changed.

I said it wouldn’t be a problem.

“Thank you,” I said to Miles as soon as Graham had hit the changing rooms.

He shook his head. “I don’t know which of us is the bigger fool.”

I asked him if he was really going home and he just shrugged and said, “We’ll see. I gave away my shift, but maybe I can get it back.”

Graham came out of the changing room with his shirt unbuttoned one step lower than most guys would have dared. I was wearing a black stretch T made for a dancer’s figure. We were quite a pair, entirely in place on the SoHo streets. On the ten-minute walk to the theater, we talked mostly about the dance and how it was coming along. When we got to the box office, he insisted on buying my ticket. I got us sodas.

The movie didn’t matter. As far as I was concerned, it existed to give us its glow in the darkness, to give us faint voices to hear at a distance from our thoughts. I wished I had gotten us only one soda. I moved mine so the center armrest would be free and clear. The theater was almost empty, the movie at the end of its run. I tried to focus on the scenery on the screen—the English manor house, the droll goings-on. But it was Graham, Graham, Graham. Right beside me. Only a gesture away.

His arm was on the armrest. I moved mine closer. Then closer still, so our sleeves were touching. He was looking at the movie, but he was feeling me closer. And closer. I turned to him. He turned to me. I moved my hand on his. I traced my fingers around his fingers, then ran them down his sleeve, down his arm.

He pulled away.

I wasn’t ready for his movement. The choreography suddenly confused me. This was the wrong improvisation. He pretended to be moving for his soda. When he put it down, he kept his arm in his lap and his eyes on the screen.

Two more hours. The movie lasted two more hours.

When it was over and the credits were rolling, he leaned over and asked me what I thought, if I was ready to go. Ready was the last thing I felt, but go was pretty much at the top of the list.

He wasn’t going to say anything. For a second I wondered if my mind was playing tricks, if what had happened hadn’t really happened after all. But once we were in the lobby, once we were in everyday light again, I could see the awkwardness of his stance, his expression.

When you dance, you measure distance as if it’s a solid thing; you make precise judgments every time two bodies exist in relation to each other. So I knew right away the definition of the space between us.

We moved to the street, the rest of the audience dispersing in animated clusters around us. It was still daylight, but it was almost dark.

“Jon,” he said. Just the way he said my name. Every part of me but my hope gave up right then.

“But why?” I asked.

He put his hand on my shoulder, and even now I loved that.

“I really think you’re fantastic,” he told me. “But I think you might have the wrong idea.”

Later on, I would want elaboration—every possible kind of elaboration. But right then, I only wanted to leave. He asked me if I was okay. He asked me if I wanted to get coffee, or talk some more. He was kind, and that made it better and made it a whole lot worse. I had to go.