Outgoing Stories

Best Friend

"All right, boys," Mrs. Anderson calls out from the kitchen. "Bedtime!"

"No, no," Eric moans, leaning protectively over the giant cosmic city puzzle on the dining room floor. "It's too early!"

"It's eleven, and you have school tomorrow," she says, appearing in the doorway. "Look at Jeremy. He never argues."

I give her a polite smile. In truth, at home I usually go to bed much later, but staying for a sleepover at a friend's place means following their rules. It's a pity, though. I would really like to finish that puzzle. It's one of the good things about Eric, that I can do stuff with him that our classmates would find uncool. Puzzles, board games, looking at the sky through his telescope, discussing the movements of the stars and the alien conspiracy theories. I can't tell any of my other friends about this, because they would make fun of me. In a way I wish I could be more like Eric, so set in his nerdy ways that he doesn't care about not being popular. Apart from me, he doesn't have any friends, but that doesn't seem to bother him at all.

We go to his room and get ready for bed. The light from his green lava lamp slides over the maps of Middle-Earth and Westeros and the books and action figures cramming his desk and shelves. His room is like a cave full of treasures, and when he comes to my place, I always feel inadequate. My parents are into minimalism, so the stuff that's not absolutely necessary tends to disappear the moment I look the other way.

We lie in silence, watching the shadows from the lamp travel over the ceiling. He always insists I use his bed, and he takes the mattress on the floor.

"Want to talk?" he says.

"Uhum."

"Come here."

I slide off the bed and crawl over to sit on the floor next to him. We sit side by side, and I can feel his skinny elbow against my arm. He links his fingers on his knees, examining them.

"You wanted to talk," I say, wondering what's this about.

"Yeah," he says.

"About what?"

He sighs, looking away.

"Eric?"

"I'm glad," he says, not looking at me. "That you're my friend."

I blink, surprised. This is new. We are friends, sure, but we never talk about it.

"I'm glad, too," I say awkwardly.

"I like you."

"Same here. Kind of obvious. I wouldn't be here otherwise."

"No, I mean..." He turns to me, his eyes big behind the glasses. "I really like you."

Suddenly, he leans in and kisses me.

At first, I'm so surprised that I do nothing, and for a couple of seconds his lips remain on mine. Then my brain catches up to what's happening.

"What... the fuck?" I push him away. "What're you doing?" Despite my shock, I keep my voice down, not wanting to draw his parents' attention.

"I..." He stares at me, his lips beginning to tremble. "Jeremy, I just..."

I blink as the parts of the puzzle come together in my head—him never displaying any interest in the magazines with naked girls that I'd shown him at my place, never talking about girls at all, sitting a bit too close to me when we play, his hand occasionally—and unnecessarily—brushing against mine. His sensitivity that occasionally gets him bullied at school. He even cried when we re-watched Toy Story together a couple of months ago. I thought it was funny at the time.

"Holy crap," I say. "You're gay."

"You're not?" he says in a small voice.

"Why would you think that I am?"

"You're hanging out with me," he whispers. "A lot."

"So what?"

"Why else would you hang out with someone like me?"

I blink, processing it. "Because you're... interesting?"

His Adam apple goes up and down as he swallows hard. Then, in a blink of an eye, he springs to his feet and darts into the little bathroom, shutting the door.

I get up slowly, unsure what to do. Maybe I should just go home. What am I supposed to do with this? My best friend is gay, and he apparently has a crush on me. It kind of makes me feel betrayed for some reason.

The suppressed, muffled sounds coming from the bathroom draw my attention.

"Hey." I come to the door and knock. "Eric?"

"Go away."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

I can hear something fall into the sink, as if he's rummaging on the shelf, looking for something. I don't like it.

"I'm coming in," I say, and press the door handle.

It opens and Eric turns to me, his face red with tears. There're manicure scissors in his hand, wide open. He puts them hastily to the skin of his wrist.

"Holy crap!" I grab his hand, then twist it so that the scissors drop to the floor. "What're you doing? What's wrong with you?"

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry. I'm such an idiot. I've ruined our friendship, haven't I?"

I let go of him and he slides down to the floor, hugging his knees. I've no idea how to handle this, so I just sit down next to him and put my hands around his shoulders. He shivers against me, and I tighten my hold on him, waiting for his sobs to subside.

"What's with the scissors?" I say.

"I thought..." He hiccups. "I screwed up so badly and now you know all about me..."

"Know what? That you're a terrible kisser?"

His sobbing morphs into a snort of laughter. I smile, too.

"I'm an idiot," he whispers shakily.

"You're my friend," I say firmly, and the words suddenly make everything clear in my mind. "I don't have a crush on you or anything, but you're still my friend. That's not going to change."

He takes a long shaky breath, and then freezes as a knock comes on his room's door.

"Boys?" calls Mrs. Anderson. "Is everything all right?"

Eric glances at me, wide-eyed.

"Yeah," I call out. "We're just fine, don't worry."