28. Jeremy

Adjusting his wig one last time, Jeremy looked in the mirror in Foster’s guest bathroom. “This is stupid,” he said to himself. He wiped a smudge of eyeliner— Dec’s suggestion, when he had admitted his costume at a post-work happy hour last week— and tried to imagine what Andy Warhol would say to him. Probably something like stop being so stupid and just go fuck someone random at the party, which was advice that would have worked before lockdown. Maybe he had changed even before then, though he wouldn’t lie and say that having another body close to his was something that was a struggle to deal with.

Walking out of the bathroom, he saw Emmy, dressed as her research subject, emerging from a closet, adjusting her hair, and slipping one of her shoes back on, followed closely by Ryan, who was tucking his shirt into his pants and, quite obviously, wiping his mouth. Straights, Jeremy thought, laughing at the way they thought they were being inconspicuous. While he loved them, those two wouldn’t have known discretion if it hit them in the face. Looking around the room, he saw Dec enter with Phoebe. He knew they were both queer, and they were much better at letting people know only what they wanted them to know. Dec had tingled Jeremy’s gaydar the first time he was dragged to Next Door by Emmy and Phoebe, but Phoebe’d had to spell it out for Jeremy for him to realize, and Jeremy had realized that his assumptions about being able to suss out someone’s sexuality had been developed in a very specific east coast urban setting. Not for the first time this evening, Jeremy thought about Davis in the way that he had suspicions he knew it was uncouth to voice.

The words had tumbled out of his fingers, and he had clicked send before he could even process what he had been doing when he invited Davis to this party. A moment of panic, then a wish that he had installed the program that allows him to unsend emails. Then a resolution. They were friends. It had been established when Davis came to help him out at the house (god knew Foster couldn’t use a drill to save his life), and when Jeremy had gone on that ill-fated bike ride. His wrists and knee were healing nicely. He never would have thought to use a gentle heating pad, borrowed from Emmy, to help his knee move smoother, if Davis hadn’t suggested it, which had allowed him to return to his very stationary bike. There was only a small hint of pain in his ribs when he breathed during that class, and he felt physically almost back to normal.

Emotionally? Well, did anyone over the age of thirty feel emotionally normal ever?

Following the class, Foster had fixed Jeremy with a pointed expression and said, “Coffee shop. Now.” Which meant Jeremy was going to be interrogated about that phone call he had made coming down the mountain. He should have called Emmy. Her advice would have been blunter, but at least she knew how to keep her mouth shut. Over Jeremy’s blend of too sweet chai and Foster’s caramel something-or-other, Jeremy had cleared his throat. “So, your birthday party…”

“Yes, the event of the season. I’m aware.” Foster licked a bit of whipped cream off his finger but didn’t toss his typical coy glance at whatever poor barista he decided to flirt with. Interesting.

“Yes, the party to end all parties. I made sure to tell the Met to cancel their gala this year,” Jeremy replied, unable to keep from rolling his eyes. “Were you serious when you told me I could invite people?”

“I mean, if they’re cool and they show up in costume.” He grunted. “I think that’s what should have really been the first red flag about Flo’s ex-husband. He would never dress up for our parties. Couldn’t even put in the smallest bit of effort. Fucker.” Foster took a moment to breathe in deep through his nose, a technique that Jeremy noticed he had been using more in the past two years. He never pried much into Foster’s sister’s life, only knew that she had forgone college to open the brewery and had gotten divorced in the past two years.

“Well, I did communicate to him that it’s a costume party, so I’m sure he’ll dress up.”

That small hint of gossip caused Foster’s eyes to snap open. “Him? You asked about people, but it’s seeming like you wanted to ask about one very specific person.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Love you, too, Jer Bear.” Another obnoxious sip of his coffee drink. “Yes, please invite your forest crush. I’m dying to see what fair young gentleman has caught your eye.”

Jeremy snorted. “Well, since the cat’s out of the bag. He’s not young— I’m pretty sure he’s older than me— and he’s, well,” Jeremy scrambled for words, “burly.”

“Burly.” Foster deadpanned.

“Stout?”

“That’s a beer.”

“Robust.”

“How you would describe coffee.”

“He’s, I dunno, rugged. Sexy. Not the type of man I’m usually attracted to, and I don’t even know if he is interested in me or if he’s even queer, which could make me a real fucking asshole.” Once he started, it seemed like he couldn’t stop. “He’s thoughtful and kind and quiet. Unassuming. He thinks differently from anyone I’ve ever met, like someone who was born two hundred years ago. He’s got strong convictions, brilliant ideas. He cares.” I want to be something he cares about was the unspoken half of that sentence that Jeremy needed much more courage to ever voice.

“You’re down bad, Jer Bear.” Foster smirked.

“Don’t make me start asking questions,” Jeremy replied. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve been quite silent about any new bedroom adventures recently.” Foster’s face blanched. “I’ll be nice to you now, but only if you’re nice to Davis at your party.”

“Ugh, fine.”

So there Jeremy was, recycling his standard Halloween costume of Andy Warhol— white wig and all— and hoping that Davis would come down the mountain. He had agreed to attend, had even hinted at dressing up, but then had gone radio silent about the party, their conversations returning to progress on the cabinets Davis was making and feedback on narrative text Jeremy wrote. After sending him the elaborate digital invitation that Foster had created on Thursday, he hadn’t heard anything else and didn’t want to push.

Push further, that was.

But there had been moments over the past two weeks when images had flashed into his head. The way his rough hands had searched over his torso and chest, checking for injuries. The tenderness with which he had wrapped bandages around his wrist. Will you be able to draw if I wrap it like this?

“New person!” Flo, dressed as Stevie Nicks, called from the front door, holding a glass bottle of light beer that reminded Jeremy of cash only bars in Bed-Stuy, a contrast to the flavorful craft IPAs and stouts she was known for. “New person who looks fancy who I don’t know!”

“Jeremy!” Foster’s voice joined his sister. “I think this guy’s for you!”

Christ, Foster. Make it more obvious, why don’t you.

He crossed the room, noticed Ryan arguing about a ruling in beer pong, confirming to Jeremy that Ryan was still the straightest man he had ever met, and laughed to himself again. Davis would probably fit in well here. Emmy and Phoebe were chatting by the door, Emmy showing Phoebe a photo on her phone.

“Hey,” came Davis’s voice. And there he was, standing in the doorway, broad shoulders taking up most of the space of the opening. Davis, who Jeremy had never seen out of flannels and sweatshirts, was in a short-sleeved button up, his hair slicked in a way that reminded Jeremy of West Side Story. He had shiny patent-leather shoes and khaki pants that hugged his thighs in an obscene manner, even if they had a pleated front.

“Davis! You came!”

“I did,” he replied, blushing a little. “This is quite an elaborate setup.”

“Hello, I’m Foster Sterling, Jeremy’s best friend, birthday boy, and general all-around amazing human.” Foster, who had rented a full Shakespeare costume from the University’s theater department, including neck ruff, brocade vest, and knee-length boots, was gesturing dramatically. Emmy and Phoebe looked up simultaneously and made their way over to join Foster. Now he had a fucking audience.

“Uh, hi. I’m Davis.”

“Just Davis? Like Cher?”

“No, Davis, as in no one has called me by my actual first name in three decades,” he responded quickly.

Foster grinned. “Oh, I like you.” He turned to Jeremy and gave what could only be described as a shit-eating grin. “I’m really glad Emmy and Phoebe sent me that special list. I have suggestions for you later.” Jeremy felt his face flush as Emmy and Phoebe shared a knowing giggle. Foster was opening his mouth to say something to Davis, but by some miracle of technology, Foster was distracted by his phone buzzing in his pocket.

“Well, welcome to the chaos,” Jeremy said, moving closer to Davis so he could be heard better. In addition to beer pong, which Ryan hadn’t left all evening and Foster was being called to in order to rule on a dispute, there was a karaoke machine in the corner, a photo booth, a spread of catered food, and a trough for drinks. “These are my friends. They’re kind of idiots.”

“I’ll fit in just fine.” Davis laughed. They had found themselves near the drinks, and Davis was frowning.

“What’s going on?” Jeremy wanted to fix it, whatever it was.

“I don’t see any drinks that are non-alcoholic here.” Jeremy was going to find Foster and wring his neck. He needed to fix this.

Now.

“I’ll find something,” he said quickly, turning on his heel and heading toward the kitchen.