Page 80 of Poetry On Ice
“Robbie,” I whisper, cupping my hand to his ear. “We have to throw the game.”
“What? No! No fucking way.”
“Yes, fucking way. Look.” I tilt my head toward Beth and Bodie. They’re standing close to each other and there’s a charged space between them. A little spark of electricity that darts back and forth, a spark that only happens when something has changed between two people who’ve known each other for a really, really long time.
Robbie sees it too.
I’m pretty sure it causes him physical pain to lose on purpose, but he does it. We both do. The game winds down, and we gracefully concede defeat. And by that, Imean the board is tipped over and pieces are sent flying into the air.
“We make a good team, Thoms,” says Beth, bobbing her head slowly.
“Yeah, we do,” agrees Bodie. He looks at me, and I see his bottom lip quiver slightly. I give him a clear, deliberate nod to encourage him.You’ve got this, bud. “I’ve always thought we make a good team, Beth.” His voice cracks badly. “You may not know this about me, but I-I kind of had a crush on you when we were kids.”
“Oh,” says Beth, “I knew. But you know what it's like. These things usually pass, so I’m sure you’ve grown out of it now.”
“Um. Nah. I didn’t grow out of it. It didn’t pass.” Bodie swallows so hard this jaw clicks. “It got worse. Way worse.”
“Is that right?” Beth smiles, leaning over and stroking Bodie’s patchy mustache with a single outstretched finger. Bodie is completely frozen, a deer in the headlights that couldn’t move even if he wanted to. He’s not breathing and has the glazed look of a man who has been tasered. “I like this,” she murmurs, outlining his top lip. “Not many guys can pull it off, but you really can.”
Welp. I never said I understood straight people.
I tap Robbie with my foot and eye the stairs. “I think maybe we should go,” I suggest.
We say goodnight and start heading upstairs.
“Night.” Beth waves us off absently and trills, “I’m a little distracted by Mustache Man right now, but don’t even think we aren’t going to talk about whatever this”—she waves a spiral motion in our direction—“is.”
Robbie and I run up the stairs laughing like idiots, bumping into each other when we get to the topof the stairs and laughing about that too. We have our arms around each other and are struggling to walk in a straight line. Neither of us has our faculties together enough to work out that we’d be able to walk better if we let go of each other.
“I think your mom knows about us,” I mumble as I nip lightly along his jaw, working toward his mouth.
“My dad definitely does. He pulled me aside in the kitchen and gave me a thumbs-up and said, ‘Ant is a very nice boy.’”
I pull away, look into Robbie’s beautiful face, and squeal, “He did?” dragging the words out for so long they merge into a single, inexcusable sound.
Oh, don’t you worry. I heard it, and it was terrible. I’m going to cut alcohol out of my diet starting tomorrow. Don’t think I won’t.
I put my things down in the guest room when I arrived, but when Robbie opens the door to his bedroom, my overnight bag is on the floor at the end of his bed. “Did you move my things to your room?" I laugh from my belly. "You’re so unserious, Robbie.”
Oh, how I wish I could stop. The problem is, these McGuires are all really sweet people. Being here with them has gone to my head. Like a sugar rush of sorts.Truth be told, I’m not even sure Robbie’s the only unserious person in the room anymore.
It’s been an unbelievable day. A really good day. I look at Robbie and don’t see a trace of anxiety.
I swear to God, this guy. His entire family just found out he’s banging a dude, and he hasn’t blinked. Not once.
Something about that, combined with the fact I’ve found myself in his childhood bedroom, is intoxicating for reasons I can’t quite explain.
Maybe it’s because the room feels like him. It smells and looks like him too. The walls are painted army green and are plastered with framed hockey jerseys from every stage in his career. Little boy jerseys signed by his junior league teammates and big boy ones from his college days. There are pucks, taped and labeled, stacked on his shelves, and there’s a collection of old sticks leaning against the corner near the window.
I feel like I’ve slipped through a crack between the past and the present. Being here with him, laughing and kissing and shushing each other a little too loudly, feels like something that’s happened before. To some other, younger version of me. A version that existed before I learned about hate and mistrust. Before I learned never to let my guard down.
We take turns removing the other’s clothes and fall onto the bed in nothing but our underwear. I land on my back and Robbie crashes on top of me. It’s an exuberant landing that makes us bounce and does nothing to stem our helpless laughter.
“Shhhh,” I say as we both dissolve into a fresh wave of giggles. “Your parents will hear u—”
He cuts me off with a kiss. A long, paralyzing kiss. The kind of kiss that packs a punch and sinks to the back of your head and makes you thank God you’re already lying down. The kind of kiss that makes you think this is what all kisses should be like. The kind of kiss that feels like what you thought kissing would be like before you ever kissed anyone.
An only kiss.