Page 19 of When Ben Loved Tim
I gasp theatrically. “You’ve taken a bubble bath before? And it didn’t make your penis fall off?”
Tim laughs. “Stick around and find out.”
“Speaking of which,” I say, since he broached the subject. “Do you need help getting undressed?”
“You wish.”
“Yeah, obviously,” I say shamelessly. “I’m gay, remember?”
“You make it hard to forget,” he says with a grin. “I’ll be okay. But I could use a change of clothes.”
“Sure!” I begin lifting my T-shirt. “Let’s trade.”
“From my bedroom,” he says. God I love his smile. I could stare at it all day. And I might!
“Anything in particular?”
He looks me over. “You’ve got good taste. Surprise me. Just make sure to grab jogging shorts, since they’ll be easier to pull over this thing. I don’t want to take it off until I have to, so I’ll be in good shape when my parents get home.”
“Okay. Just be careful on your way in.”
I wait in the hall and listen to the sound of sloshing water until I’m certain that he’s safely settled. Then I rush up the stairs to locate his bedroom, already excited by the prospect. I shut the door behind me when I find it, wanting to be completely surrounded by him. The room smells like Tim, so I take a deep breath, and another and another, until I’m practically dizzy. I let myself fall onto his bed, clutch his pillow to my chest, and then roll over on my back while imagining him above me. I bite my lower lip and get up to see what else I can find. The posters on his wall are predictable, featuring baseball, cars, and swimsuit models. With one notable exception. An abstract painting hangs on the wall. In it, swirls of colors collide with a dark gray barrier, like a rolling tide trying to break through a dam. I spin around in an attempt to spot anything similar. A baseball bat leans in one corner, a boom box with fat speakers sits on his dresser, and a bikini-clad woman winks from a poster near his bed. Everything I’d expect to see in a jock’s room. And then there’s the painting. Did he hang it there? Does it resonate with him somehow? I stare, trying to interpret the meaning behind the art, before I remember what I’m here for.
I move to his dresser and begin opening drawers. I find a black T-shirt that will go great with his hair and a pair of maroon jogging shorts that will look nice against his brown skin. Then I open his underwear drawer and stare before grabbing a pair of gray boxer briefs. I hold them up, trying to determine if the fabric in front seems abnormally stretched, as if it struggled previously to contain his massive package. I’m none the wiser for my efforts, but I do notice a black book tucked into one corner of the drawer. No words decorate the cover. Is it a diary? I’m not sure, but I decide to leave the book untouched. I want him to offer his secrets to me freely instead of stealing them. I gather up his clothes and glance at the painting on my way out.
I linger upstairs, peeking into his parents’ bedroom, which has a definite theme. A large decorative crucifix hangs above the bed. A framed painting of Jesus is propped up on the nightstand, a copy of the Bible resting next to it, the cover worn and slightly curled from use. I hiss like a vampire and slowly retreat. Not that I have anything against religion, but it sure seems to have a problem with people like me.
I return downstairs and stop in the hall, just before the bathroom. “I’ve got your clothes,” I call. “Want me to set them by the door?”
“Nah. Come on in!”
I won’t make him ask twice. I walk into the bathroom, surprised that the shower curtain isn’t pulled shut. I’d be able to seeallof Tim, if I hadn’t been so generous with the damn bubbles. He has his booted foot propped up on the side of the tub, the rest of him lost beneath the suds until his impressive chest rises out of the water like a sculpted cliffside that I want to hump. Those piercing eyes are watching me watch him, and they sure don’t seem to mind. His hair is wet and slicked back, which is a good look for him, although I prefer the messy spikes.
“What did you get?” he asks, nodding at the stack of clothes. I show him, and he seems pleased with my choices until I reach the underwear. “Those’ll get ruined if I stretch them over my boot,” he says. “Feel free to keep them.”
“Are you joking?” I ask. “Because I don’t want to hear about it later when they’ve gone missing.”
“Yeah, I was joking!” he says, swiping at the bubbles and sending some flying in my direction. “You don’t actually want them. Do you?”
“Not until after they’ve been freshly worn,” I say with a grin. “I’ll leave it all here for you.” I set the stack on the shut toilet lid.
“Hey!” he says when I turn to leave. “Stick around. Keep me company.”
“For real?” I make a face. “Is this a popular kid thing? You guys are all attention starved?”
His eyes dart away and his brow furrows, like I’ve struck a nerve. I don’t like the idea that I’ve hurt him somehow. The ankle was bad enough.
“I’m just jealous,” I say, sliding down to the floor with my back against the sink cabinet. “Tell me what it’s like.”
“Being popular?” Tim shrugs, the water sloshing around his beefy shoulders. “I used to like it. Everyone knows who you are, even if you don’t know them, so you’ve got all the friends you’d ever need. You get invited to parties and stuff, which is cool, and it feels good when people look up to you. This one guy at my old school started dressing just like me. My friends teased him, but I thought it was flattering, you know?”
“I do know,” I retort. “About the teasing part.”
“Oh.” Tim grimaces. “Some of the popular kids can be assholes, but we’re not all bad. I’m always nice to everyone.”
“Are you?” I don’t say this to challenge him. I really want to know.
“Yeah,” he says easily. “I don’t think I’m better than anyone. I never signed up to be popular. It’s not like I cozied up to someone trying to get there. It just sort of happened.”
