Page 50 of When Ben Loved Tim
Tim is avoiding my gaze while chewing his bottom lip. If he can’t admit that he’s got an artistic side, then he sure as hell won’t be able to deal with coming out. If he even likes guys at all. I’m tired of the guessing game. I sit on the edge of his bed to put on my shoes.
“Are you taking off?” Tim asks, sounding concerned.
“Yup.”
“Do you want to stay for breakfast?”
“No.”
I get up and walk to the bedroom door, having to unlock it to let myself out. After ducking into the neighboring bathroom to relieve myself, I return to the hall to find Tim waiting for me. “I gotta go too,” he says, shifting from foot to foot, “but I don’t want you to leave yet. Okay?”
I roll my eyes and sigh.
“Please?” he says.
I try to shake my head, but the stupid thing nods instead.
“Thanks,” Tim says, pushing past me.
He doesn’t even shut the door, like he wants to make sure I won’t abandon him. Which is just pathetic enough to keep me standing there, even though listening to him pee is all kinds of awkward. And it makes me think about what I saw straining against his briefs. Ugh! Forget it. I walk down the stairs, intending to wait by the front door, but I slow on my way down.
“Hey!” Tim says, hustling after me.
He also slows and then stops to stare. The living room is trashed. Red plastic cups and empty cans are everywhere. An open pizza box sits face down on the carpet. The whole house smells like cigarette smoke. The white couch has been tipped over onto its back, the pillows and cushions scattered around the room.
“Oh shit!” Tim says, leaping down the rest of the stairs. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!”
I watch him start stacking cups before he gives up and goes to the couch to lift one end.
“Can you help me?” he asks with a pleading expression.
I clench my jaw a few times. Then I walk over to join him. Judging from the blankets thrown over the couch, someone wanted to build a fort. Which is fortunate, because one of those blankets is wet with beer, but it managed to protect the couch.
“You got lucky,” I say after we right it and take a step back.
“Lucky?!” Tim repeats incredulously.
I shrug. “I don’t see any stains.”
“Yeah, but just look at this place!” he says, working himself up into a panic. “How bad is the rest?”
I’m curious enough to follow him through the house, carefully stepping over more garbage along the way, until we reach the den which is even worse. None of the furniture has been knocked over, but the room is trashed. The wet bar has been raided, the refrigerator door left open. A bra hangs from the antlers of the mounted head on the wall. Tim resumes swearing while darting around the room to pick things up, but he makes little progress before some other freshly discovered mess distracts him. Eventually he becomes so overwhelmed that he stops and stands in the middle of it all, his shoulders slumping.
“My parents are going to kill me,” he whimpers.
“When do they get home?” I ask.
“Not until the afternoon. Around three, I think.”
I check the nearest clock. It’s eleven in the morning. Tim follows my gaze and swears again.
“What am I gonna do?” he asks me.
If I could stop myself from caring so easily, I wouldn’t be here now.
“We need trash bags,” I say while mentally kicking myself. “A lot of them.”
A flicker of gratitude eases his features before panic takes hold again. I follow him to the kitchen where shards of broken glass are soaking in a puddle. I avoid the mess and go to the fridge, glad there are still a few cans of cola inside, because we’re going to need the energy. We each guzzle one down, pausing on occasion to burp.
