The Last Time We Met

3

We didn't talk about Patrick after that. When Brent dropped me off at my house, he told me he wanted to spend New Year's Eve with me. The whole day. "Tell your parents you're staying over a friend's house. I'll get us a hotel. We'll party like it's 1999."

I wanted to pretend that the momentary ugliness I'd seen in him hadn't happened, so on New Year's Eve I put on my favorite striped button-down with the collar up and a jean jacket, and packed some other outfits: one for if we went out to a nice restaurant, one for if we went clubbing, another for a typical night out with Brent, which included a sports jacket and dress shoes.

"You don't drink too much, yes?" my mama said, kissing my freshly shaved cheeks before letting me go. I'd told them I was meeting my friend in the city, and was catching a bus to his place. The truth was that I hiked down the road and waited on the corner for Brent to pick me up.

In LA, it never gets cold, not like in New York City where they always look so cold waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square. Brent had the top up on his convertible, but the windows were open as we sped along the cliffs, taking the scenic route.

In the hotel no one said anything when we checked in, though the woman at the desk was distinctly cold. It was easy to shrug off, because her opinion of our relationship didn't matter: we were free tonight. We could be who we really were.

The first hour at the hotel was spent with Brent's mouth on me, everywhere it could be. I'd forgotten how free we were at school. Even if we didn't have privacy, our roommates didn't care that we were together. But here, after a week and a half of not seeing each other, we drank each other like people who had just crossed the desert, and we didn't even have to worry about roommates hearing us. "A little afternoon delite," Brent said after, while we lay in each other's arms.

I didn't really know what he was talking about, and I didn't care. I kissed him, initiating another round that eventually led to the shower and then to raiding the minibar. "Gotta get ourselves warmed up for tonight," he said, and we clinked the tiny bottles together before guzzling them down.

Brent helped me decide what to wear: the ripped jeans and the crop top from the first time we met. He had a pink suit made out of some kind of shiny material that Brent called "sharkskin", and underneath he wore a black mesh tank stop. I felt too dressed down in comparison, until Brent pulled two brightly colored feather boas out of his duffel bag. We were ready.

After that point, the night became hazy with alcohol and the strange floating sensation I often felt when I was around Brent. Back in October, when we'd worn togas to that Halloween party, I had almost become a different person. My dreams that night had been extremely vivid: me chasing an olive-skinned Brent through groves of trees and falling together into sea grass, the taste of sea-salt on his lips. He was so pretty I might have thought he was a girl, or even someone else.

Through the flashing lights at the club I could have been someone else, and Brent seemed to be more than one person, his face altering slightly with each strobe. I clutched him tight, a life raft to keep me in this moment in time.

When I came back to myself, everyone was shouting numbers as a huge television screen showed the ball dropping in Times Square. Then we were in the bathroom and snorting coke off our hands, and more time was lost.

I came back to myself as Brent dragged me into a tattoo shop. There were two people getting tattoos, even though I was sure it was three in the morning – my eyes wouldn't focus on the tiny numbers of my watch and there wasn't a clock in the place. "We should get tattoos," Brent was saying.

"Tattoos?" I slurred.

Brent kept kissing me, even though there were a bunch of people in the shop watching him suck my neck. I looked around at the drawings on the wall not sure why I would want to get a tattoo.

"I love you," Brent said, holding my face and looking into my eyes. I blinked and smiled at him. "I want your name on me. I want you to claim me."

"I love you, too." I tried to kiss him.

He held me firm. "Chris... Cristofero... I love you. We belong together, you know that. We've both known it since the first time we met."

"The last time we met," I corrected him. My lips were numb.

"What?" Brent shook his head. "You're wasted. I should take you back."

"I love you," I tried to tell him.

"We'll come back when you're sober," Brent said, pushing me out the door.

We stumbled back to the hotel and flopped down on the bed, but with the coke we were anything but tired. Brent ran his fingers through my hair and kissed me and I pressed my hips into him. When had we taken off our clothes?

"You know we can never get married, right?" Brent said. "I want to marry you. I want to run through the streets and tell people you're my husband and not have anyone tell me what I feel is wrong, not have to worry about anyone deciding I'm a threat to their manhood and beat me up if I'm walking alone. Or if we're walking together, holding hands."

We'd only been dating three months, which for Brent was an eternity. I always thought three months wasn't a very long time, until I met him. Now I couldn't imagine a time when we wouldn't be together. "I want to marry you, too."

"The tattoos can be our wedding rings until then. I'll be yours and you'll be mine. Forever and always."

I sighed and pulled him to me, and the rest of the night was lost in loving him.