15. Vincent

FIFTEEN

Wipe. Breathe. Wipe. Breathe.

Kent is one thing. His crumb creation ratio is relatively low. My gut tells me that it's higher when he's not around me, but as an adult, he has some ability to contain it. But Brodie? I'm unsure if more bread landed in his mouth or on the table. The floor is littered, but only the bottom of my feet will make contact, and I'll scour my shoes when I get home. After four wipes, Kent's office has a lingering scent reminiscent of a public pool, an ironically filthy place to put your almost naked body. The chlorine fools the brain into thinking it's fresh and ready for swimming. Never in a million years.

Walking back into his office, Kent holds his hands up. I cock my head, wondering what he's up to.

"Go ahead," he says, twisting his hands in the air. "Inspect if you like. I scrubbed so hard the hair on my knuckles vanished."

"Hilarious."

"Not trying to be funny, but I'll take it," Kent says, returning to his desk. "Thanks for being patient. With Brodie."

"He's a nice boy. What's his … why does he …?"

"Brodie's in the process of being evaluated. It often happens with our younger students. We knew he had unique needs from his kindergarten screening—two years ago. It's taken that long to collect data and get the process started."

"Evaluated? For what?"

"We won't really know until it's all completed. And unfortunately, that can take months. He has to be seen by many people—the district psychologist, school social worker, speech, occupational therapist, and physical therapist. It's a long list."

"And then you'll know?" I ask, the lines on my forehead exposed.

"Hopefully. With what I've seen, I'm confident he'll qualify for services. That's my hope. Once we can identify his challenges, we can help him better."

"He likes LEGO." My mind wanders to my childhood. How tricky school was for me. Maybe if I'd had someone like Kent looking out for me, I would've gotten more assistance.

"And he's very sweet. Besides all the crumbs." I motion to the floor.

"Did someone say crumbs?"

Theo, the custodian and apparently boyfriend of Sheldon, the first-grade teacher, appears at the door. Sandy curls frame his fair skin, bouncing as he moves toward us.

"Mr. Berenson," Kent says. "Yes, by the table. Brodie was …"

"Enthusiastic," I say.

"The kid loves to eat," Theo says, holding a small cordless vacuum. He bends down and begins sucking away the offending crumbs. "Doesn't talk much, likes to help."

"You're two peas in a pod," Kent says.

"There." Theo maneuvers the vacuum in between the legs of the table and chairs. "Crumb free."

"Thank you, sir," Kent says, patting Theo on the back. There's a gentle warmth and sense of ease between them.

"My pleasure." Theo gives a small salute to Kent and then turns to me. "Be careful with this one." He nods toward Kent. "He's one of the good guys." And he's off.

"People seem to really like you here," I say.

Kent shrugs, and his mouth transforms into a charming smile.

"I try. I know what it's like to be in the classroom." He joins me at the table with his laptop. "Many principals forget. I don't want to be one of them."

"And Theo seems extra fond of you."

"Theo's a special guy. Quiet but sweet. This thing between him and Sheldon seems to be helping him come out of his shell." Kent's signature smile inches across his face.

"And you don't mind?"

"Them dating? Heck no. I encourage it. They're consenting adults. And professional. It's not like they're shtupping at school."

We make eye contact. What we did. Here. In the supply closet.

Kent blinks hard, his body twitches, and, provoked by his erratic movement, his laptop falls to the carpet.

"Anyway, Theo's a great guy. He's Jewish, too. We're the only ones here at school." He bends down, his head disappearing under the table to retrieve the runaway computer. "We bond over talk of high holy days and family shenanigans."

Bam! Kent's head smacks the underside of the table, and I wince at the sound.

"Oh my gosh, are you okay?" I kneel to check on him, keeping my hands off the carpet.

Crumpled on the floor, Kent rubs the back of his head, face down, groaning.

"Damnit all to hell!" he bellows.

"Should I get someone? The nurse?"

"No, I'm good."

"Let me look." Determined to keep my hands off the filthy floor, I rest the left one on Kent's thigh while I investigate with the other.

Kent's hair leans more salt than pepper. I try to conjure up a vision of him with a full head of dark hair, but promptly dismiss it. Carefully examining his scalp, I comb my fingers through, searching for any signs of injury.

"Here." He reaches up, places his hand on mine, and moves it to the point of impact.

Rubbing his scalp, my fingers get lost in his thick, wavy hair as I assess the damage.

"You feel okay. Maybe the tiniest bump." Pulling away, I say, "I think you'll survive."

Kent reaches for my hand and holds it in his. His eyes, darker and more intense than I've seen, search mine. Our gazes connect and, wrapped in his, the tips of my fingers become sensitive. The cuddling. The kissing. Kent holding me all night in my bed. His warm breath on my neck. My face flashes hot, and Kent's lips pull my focus.

"What's going on here?"

Geoff stands at the door, staring down at us with a quizzical look on his face.

"He hit his head," I blurt.

"On the table." Kent points up.

"We've got the system ready," Geoff says as I detangle myself from Kent. "The devices weren't syncing in the cloud."

"I changed a firewall setting." Shreya appears next to Geoff, staring at her tablet. "We're good to go for testing tomorrow."

"Awesome. We'll be ready," Kent says, pushing himself to the chair.

"Kent, what in the world?" Shreya asks, finally noticing our predicament.

"I'm fine," he says. "Technology is trying to kill me, is all." He holds up the offending laptop.

Shreya and Geoff shake their heads, turn, and leave for the conference room.

Standing over me, Kent continues to rub the back of his head. His shirt, which has become more untucked and crumpled, matches his now rumpled pants. The man is a complete mess. But something about the way he looks at me. Touches me. Perhaps we could at least be friends. Benefits to be determined. Maybe there's hope for something more. We need a hard reset. My body vibrates, almost like it could float out the window and over the entire school, and I blurt, "Kent, let's have a do-over at The Purple Giraffe."

"A do-over?"

"A first date do-over."

"Wait, so you are dating him?" Marvin asks, the warmer-than-average early March day allowing his curly mop to break free from the confines of a sock cap. Meeting at East End Espresso has become part of our routine. The shop is only a few blocks from his school. It's small, with only a few tables inside, but today, with the warm early spring sun, we sit outside and chat.

"No. We're working together." I clean the plastic lid on my coffee cup with a wipe from my bag.

"But you're going on a do-over first date?" Marvin asks, tilting his head as he places a stack of napkins in the center of our table. He always grabs too many, and my heart warms at his thoughtfulness.

"Only to have a clean slate." I take a sip of my espresso tonic. The bitterness and sweetness mix with the bubbles perfectly.

"A clean slate for what?"

"For working together. And being friends."

Marvin purses his lips.

"Vincent, I'm sorry, but this story you're selling … I'm not buying it."

He wrinkles his nose and waits for a reply.

"Is he sexy as hell? Yes. Do his messy and awkward ways make me cringe? Yup. Can I stop thinking about his lips on mine? Nope. Would I appreciate a repeat of what happened after that horrible first date? Of course."

"And in the supply closet," Marvin says. "What? I know the allure of scandalous sex in the school setting."

He smirks, the straw of his iced coffee between his teeth. I probably shouldn't have told Marvin everything, especially about the blow job in the supply closet, but I had to talk to someone about it.

"That's not happening again. For a myriad of reasons."

"Well, I think a first date do-over is … sweet. As usual, you have my full support."

"Thank you. I appreciate that." I fold my napkin for the third time.

"A second date. That's a big deal, Vincent."

"No, a repeat first date," I say, grabbing a new napkin from the pile. Unlike larger, more durable fabric ones, paper napkins can only withstand a few folds.

"Well, another date. With the same person. Do whatever gay math you want. My math skills top out at the kindergarten level."

"Yes, another date. With Kent."

Kent's warm smile. The way he sat with me while I finished making the corrections in the spreadsheet. Brushing his damn teeth for me. And that delicious long, thick cock.

"When was your last … second date?" he asks.

Marvin knows I've never had a boyfriend. Ever. I'm One-Date-Vincent. Because after seeing my OCD in action, there's never another. The sex is too hard. If the mood doesn't hit just right, it's not happening. And it's barely happened. I can count on one hand the number of sexual partners I've had—and not a single repeat customer. I'm like Space Mountain. One ride and you're done. I know more about sex from watching porn than from actual experiences. At forty, I've realized being alone isn't the end of the world. I'm not unhappy, but would I like more? Maybe. I'm not sure anyone could handle me on a permanent basis. I have my work. My builds. They say money can't buy happiness, but it can buy LEGO, and that's kind of the same thing.

"Technically … never."

"Well, Kent will be your first … second."

"First re-do." I correct him.

"Whatever. It's monumental. Just remember to breathe. Fold your napkins, and for god's sake, good luck, and don't fuck it up."

My stomach clenches, and I take four deep breaths, trying to center myself and not spiral. It's just Kent. We're already friends. What could go wrong?