Page 102 of We Could Be So Good
“Swear to God, if you give me fleas,” Nick mutters. The catmanages to look bewildered and offended the entire trip back to the apartment and up the stairs, as if he hasn’t been in this stairwell dozens of times.
Andy’s having dinner with his father and an advertiser, so Nick still has time to get this thing presentable. He drops the cat into the sink and immediately fills it with warm water, keeping a hand on the back of the cat’s neck just in case. He’s never given a cat a bath before and doesn’t think this is going to be a good experience for either of them.
On his way home that afternoon he went to Woolworth and bought a litter box and some cat food, then got a flea dip at the drugstore. He already has the flea dip waiting in the kitchen, next to a bottle of his own shampoo and a big fluffy towel.
“The goal here,” Nick says, carefully soaping the animal’s back with shampoo, “is not to get this in your eyes.”
The cat lifts a paw and very deliberately scratches him.
“Ow,” he says. And then he hisses when soap hits the broken skin. “Jesus, does that make us even?”
The water is filthy, so Nick drains the sink and starts the process over again. The cat seems patient, if infuriated, but lets Nick have his way. “It’s just that we both know Andy’s going to let you all over the furniture, and I won’t have the heart to stop him, so we at least need to get the street filth and some of the fleas off you. You have no idea how lucky you have it. You’re going to be as round as a beach ball in no time.”
The water is a less alarming color this time, so Nick drains the sink, towels off the cat, and starts dabbing on the flea stuff. “Look, nobody’s going to tell you this smells good,” he says, “but it needs to be done.”
“I know I’ve had too much to drink,” comes a voice from behind him, “but it really looks like you’re giving a cat a bubble bath.”
Nick nearly jumps out of his skin. He turns and sees Andy leaning against the front door, his tie loose and his hair mussed, his jacket thrown over his shoulder. He must have come in while Nick was running the faucet.
“Hi,” Nick says, trying to play it cool. “How was dinner?” But he must be distracted because he takes his hand off the cat long enough for the animal to make a flying leap, soaking Nick in the process.
“Oh, hello, little friend,” Andy says, crouching down and offering the cat a hand. “Did you wander in here again?”
It’s on the tip of Nick’s tongue to say yes, that the cat came of his own free will and Nick didn’t spend his whole evening chasing him down. But the entire point of the cat is for Andy tounderstand. “I, uh, helped.”
Andy raises his eyebrows. “You helped.”
“With a little kidnapping. But he went along with it.” He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “You wanted to keep the cat. The other week.” Nick still doesn’t know exactly why Andy had refused to keep the cat, whether it was because he didn’t know if he was staying permanently with Nick or because he didn’t want to be a bother. Both seem typically Andy-ish. “You live here now.”
Andy’s still crouched on the floor, still holding a hand out to the cat, but he looks up at Nick. “Is the cat supposed to be an incentive? Because I really don’t need one.”
God, Nick was getting this all wrong. “No, no. This is your home, so you should have a pet. Or do whatever it is people do in their homes. Rearrange the books, get a new shower curtain, I don’t know. We don’t have to keep the cat.”
“I want the cat.” Andy gets to his feet and for whatever reason this sends the cat skittering into the living room. “I think he’s on top of the bookshelves.”
Nick’s pretty sure he hasn’t gotten his point across at all. He takes Andy’s hand, and he doesn’t know whether it’s to stop Andy from leaving the room or because he needs the contact. “I want this with you. I want everything with you. And I need you to know that. I don’t know how we’ll make it work, but I want it anyway.”
“I love you,” Andy says. Something hot and awful, lovely and mortifying curdles in Nick’s blood, just as it had the other time Andy said that. Nick opens his mouth, but Andy’s palm is there, preventing him from speaking. “I love you,” Andy repeats, “and I want to be with you, and that’s all there is to it. The rest is details. The rest is... administrative.”
Andy has Nick’s face in his hands now and is looking at him with more intent than Nick knows what to do with. Some other version of Nick in some other universe might have been able to bring the conversation back to someplace less terrifying. Some other version of Nick might still have some scraps of self-preservation Scotch-taped around his heart. But this version of Nick has been worn down by Andy for weeks, for months, for as long as they’ve known one another.
He shuts his eyes and rests his forehead against Andy’s. “You’re it for me.” He doesn’t know how to make this clearer, but he wants all his cards on the table. He doesn’t want Andy to have the smallest particle of doubt. There’s enough to worry about in the world; he doesn’t want one of Andy’s worries to be about how Nick feels. “Do you understand what I’m getting at?”
“You love me,” Andy says.
Nick opens his eyes and scowls. “Of course I love you.”
“I know, I’ve been trying to tell you so for weeks.”
“It’s more than that, it’s—fuck. I want a life with you. I want this to be—I want more than we can have.”
Andy is looking at him so carefully, too carefully.
“But I want it anyway,” Nick admits.
***
Nick has never thought of himself as sentimental, but that’s only because he’s a damn fool. That first time Andy brought him bodega daffodils and Nick felt like Cinderella at the goddamn ball ought to have been clue enough.
