Page 30 of We Could Be So Good
Nick rubs the back of his neck, somehow managing to look skeptical and pleased and extremely embarrassed all at once, which makes Andy want to keep going, keep telling him good things that he ought to already know.
The toaster pops up with two more slices. When Andy comes back to the couch, plate in hand, he finds Nick staring into his half-empty coffee cup.
“I’m safer than you think,” Nick says.
“The left side of your face argues otherwise.”
“I mean about—about men. I don’t do anything risky.”
“Okay,” Andy says tentatively, because he doesn’t know how it’s possible for a man in Nick’s position to do anything without risk, but he also doesn’t know what he expects Nick to do about it.
“I know there are raids, but I steer clear of bars that have back rooms. And I wait for people to approach me. Also, I was joking about the subway men’s rooms. I don’t do anything in public anymore.”
Thatanymoremakes Andy slightly hysterical in about ten different ways, but he tries to look unbothered.
***
Nick insists on wearing sunglasses when they go out to breakfast, as if they do anything to conceal the state of the rest of his face. He also insists on stopping at the locksmith and getting his keys copied for Andy. Then, without much discussion, they go to a matinée and watch Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon spend two hours cross-dressing before Jack Lemmon elopes with a man, which is just proof positive that the world has conspired to force Andy to think about queerness. Since when is there queerness in movies? Since never, that’s when. He’s feeling badly put upon by the time they stop at the grocery store to pick up ingredients for dinner.
“I don’t know how you’re going to cook anything with your hands all scraped up,” Andy says.
“It’s pasta and some sauce,” Nick says, as if this answers the question.
Andy wants to remind Nick that he doesn’t have to entertain Andy like a guest, that he can go and do whatever he ordinarily does on weekends, but it doesn’t feel like Nick is going out of his way. It feels easy.
“I hope you like lasagna,” Nick announces as they leave the A&P, each laden down with paper sacks filled with meat and vegetables.
“I’d probably like anything you cooked,” Andy says.
“Says the man who orders a chicken salad sandwich every day for lunch.”
“I like chicken salad,” Andy says. “And it’s the sort of sandwich that never gets all over your lap. It’s the ideal lunch sandwich.”It’s safe, taunts a stupid little voice in Andy’s head. Andy tells that voice to get lost.
At home, Nick begins chopping onions and garlic and threatening Andy with a wooden spoon when he gets underfoot.
“Come on, you can’t expect me to lounge around all afternoon while you make dinner.”
“You can go next door and ask Linda if she wants to come over for supper at about eight or so.” Nick layers flat noodles in a pan the approximate size of a Major League infield. “Tell her to bring whoever she has lying around the place. And then tell Mrs.Martelli in 3A that I’ll bring down a plate for her, so she shouldn’t bother making herself any supper. After that, you can go to that bakery on Cornelia Street and get a loaf of bread. You can pick up a bottle of wine somewhere, too, because I just used up the last of this in the sauce.” He holds up an empty bottle of Chianti.
“You’re making up jobs to get me out of the house.”
Nick grins into the pot of sauce. “My dad used to send me out to buy cigarettes and to place a bet with Gino.”
“Gino?” This is maybe the third time Nick has ever mentioned his father, so Andy is curious.
“The numbers runner.” Nick’s smile is gone, replaced by something hard but a little wistful.
Andy knocks on Linda’s door and reintroduces himself eventhough they’ve run into one another half a dozen times in the past week. She’s wearing overalls and is covered in paint and what looks like plaster dust. Her long dark hair is in a braid.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re Nick’s...” She waves her cigarette vaguely in the air. “Friend.”
The implication is clear, but Andy doesn’t know how to correct her without seeming like a jackass. She’s the second person this week to assume that he’s Nick’s—whatever—and the idea makes his face heat with something he tells himself is plain embarrassment.
“And you were also Emily Warburton’s friend,” Linda adds. “Busy, busy.”
Andy tries to fight back his blush and that works about as well as it ever does, which is to say not at all. “Nick’s making lasagna and says you should come over for dinner. He says the invitation extends to any of your guests.” That isn’t exactly how Nick phrased it, but Andy isn’t going to saywhoever you have lying around.
“Any of my guests?” she repeats wryly. She opens the door a bit wider, and Andy gets a glimpse of a half-nude woman lying on what looks like a row of pickle barrels. It takes him a minute to see the easel and understand that he’s looking at an artist’s model. “Yeah, we’ll be there. Thanks.” Andy waves awkwardly at both Linda and the model, then goes downstairs and knocks on Mrs.Martelli’s door.
