Page 38 of Constantly Cotton
“Are you going to eat any of that?” he said softly.
Cotton shrugged. “I told you what I am,” he said, unoffended. The whole reason Henry had made such a big deal about the lot of them—his own boyfriend included—going to see a shrink about their eating disorders was because Henry cared. Cotton understood that the fussing over food was a sign of affection. His own mother had done it when he’d been a kid and had grown faster than he could eat. That sort of thing could be amputated and die, he understood. It had with his mother. But he wasn’t going to be cruel because someone was showing him that sort of interest in the moment.
“You’re a beautiful young man,” Jason said, sounding upset.
Cotton smiled at him, pleased. “That’s kind,” he murmured, stepping to the side and then back again. He resumed setting up the broiling pan and preheating the oven. “I keep a calorie diary,” he said. “I eat as many calories as I promised to the week before.” He let out a little huff. “Of course, Dr. Stevenson is going to be irritated because I’ve missed a couple of sessions. I’ll have to text his office so he knows I’m coming back. He worries.”
“Why does he worry?” Jason asked. His voice had that sort of sharp quality he had possessed when he and Burton had been talking about who might be after him.
“I think he became sort of the default shrink for the Johnnies guys. And the first kid who went to visit him made me look like a paragon of mental health. He worries about us. I mean, he’s sort of sarcastic, and he’s probably not all that professional—”
“What do you mean?”
Cotton thought about it and took a step to the side again. “Well, he gives us his opinion, and Iknowthey’re not supposed to do that. Like he told Randy that his heart might be twelve forever, but eventually he was going to have to use his indoor voice and not scratch his balls in public. Then he said that whoever thought he should be cut loose at eighteen should be shot. Then when Randy protested, he said he was retiring in a couple of years and he didn’t have time to put us back together gently, but by-God he was going to make sure we went out into the world knowing we were decent kids with a decent future, so Randy could maybe stop yelling at him about why he had to rip all the hair off his balls, thank you very much.”
Jason was trying not to laugh by then, and Cotton was proud of that, because he really didn’t want to talk about himself. He didn’t like his own stories; everybody else’s were so much better.
“Well,” Jason said after a moment, “I really do want to know about the hair on Randy’s balls, but I also want to know how you heard all that. Did Randy tell you?”
Cotton’s cheeks heated as he went about dinner preparations. “I, uh, was in the waiting room with Lance. We all went together and then saw him separately. Anyway, they were shouting at each other, and the walls were not made for that sort of abuse.”
“Well, he sounds like a good shrink.” There was a pause, during which Cotton tried to think if the three of them were going to need anything else to eat. “I hope you tell him more about yourself than you’re willing to tell me.”
Cotton almost dropped the salad bowl as he was fishing it out of a high cupboard.
“That’s not fair,” he muttered, shuffling his feet sideways.
“So’s the fact that you apparently hate carbs. I see a perfectly good loaf of sourdough bread over that refrigerator. Any chance we could get some butter and garlic salt and a little bit of heat on some of that?”
Cotton went back to his job, soothed by the food prep and by the request. “Sure. I’ll make some for Burton too.”
“Make some for yourself too,” Jason said, voice too soft to be an order. “As long as you’re not allergic to gluten or anything.”
“Nope. But, you know. Bulimic.”
Jason let out a sigh. “Could you eat it and keep it down for me?” he begged. “I just… I mean, think about it practically, Cotton. You have dangerously low body fat. I’ve lost pretty much all my muscle and fat mass. If we want to have sex and not be like two arthritic joints grinding together, we need a little fat between us.”
Cotton caught his breath and looked at Jason, not sure if he was serious or joking.
“Think about it,” Jason said. He mock-thrust his hips. “It doesn’t matter which one of us tops. If we’re driving our hipbones into the other guy’s butt bones, the best bone in the act is not going to remember its job!”
Cotton couldn’t help it. He laughed. “That’s terrible.”
“Well, yes, but I was lying in your apartment for a week and a half, listening to you and your friends make jokes like twelve-year-olds, and I was stunned not one of you could think about that when you were all talking about carbs.”
Cotton retrieved the sliced sourdough from the top of the refrigerator and proceeded to set up five slices of garlic bread. There wasn’t any fresh garlic in the kitchen, but there was garlic salt, and he could make do.
Jason watched him working for a few moments and then said, “You know, you’re pretty handy around the kitchen. Who taught you how to cook?”
“Henry,” Cotton said, although that was only partly the truth. Henry hadremindedhim he knew how to cook. Once Henry started chivvying the flophouse guys into growing up a little and taking care of themselves, Cotton had been the one who’d gravitated toward cooking the most. Because he’d been seeing Dr. Stevenson, he knew everybody else’s diet requirements as well, and he remembered how to make the lean stuff they all ate with a little bit of flavor to it.
“Henry?” Jason’s voice sank for a moment, like he was pondering something. “That’s odd. My mother taught me, and then my older sister. The way you move about in the kitchen—it’s pretty ingrained. Not like you’re trying to remember. From what I understand, Henry’s only been in your life a little while.”
“He’s a good older brother,” Cotton sidestepped, and Jason made the sort of “aha” sound somebody made when they were trying to get a key to fit in a lock. “What?” He turned. “What was that sound?”
“Your tell,” Jason said softly, looking at him with troubled eyes. “I knew you were evading me about things, but you have a physical tell when you do it. Most people do. I had to figure it out so I’d know for certain.”
Cotton shifted his feet again. “What… what do you mean?” But he knew. He must have evaded half a dozen questions in the last half hour, and thought he’d gotten away with it too. Jason struggled heavily to his feet, holding on to the back of the chair and the table, and Cotton felt altogether wretched, which sucked, because he’d been so happy! “No, don’t. I don’t need to know. Don’t worry about it—I’m just not telling you the hard stuff. It’s not important!”
