Page 59 of This I Promise You
He ain’t wrong, but it’s important history. Sort of like the history we’re making. Okay, maybe that’s not the best comparison. We’re not makingthattype of history, but wearemaking a history of our own. I think. I hope.
We went canoeing at the Whitewater Center over the weekend. I was really tired after, but the rush of the wind, the spray of the water gushing against us, the canoe tumbling about with just me and him. It was fun, even if Paul did keep threatening to tip us over. I threatened to smack him if he tried, and he joked back that he might like it. At first I wasn’t sure what to say, but then he laughed and said no, he very much would not like that. And before I let my brain catch up I’d already said, “That’s more a me thing I guess.” I swear his cheeks turned pink and his eyes bloomed. I changed the subject so fast. That’s how we started talking about books.
In the moment, which book I brought up didn’t matter, anything to avoid that conversation, so I bored him for like twenty minutes about how most people don’t understand what democracy really means, and how in its truest form a real, lasting democracy isn’t direct democracy but a representative democracy, a republic, and how it bugs me when conservatives whine that we aren’t a democracy and all that shit. In my defense, I’d been reading some excerpts the night before from Sartori’sTheory of Democracy Revisitedand it was on my mind. Sorry, Paul.
We did manage to get to normal books eventually, and I found out that despite him being an English major, his reading history is lacking. It’s not that he doesn’t read, he just has a narrow palette. Apparently it wasFrankensteinandThe Canterbury Talesthat got him into literature, and then it was the classics likeBeowulfandLittle Womenhe read in his first British Lit class that got him into writing. I’m more of a modern horror guy myself, but he hadn’t heard of any of my favorites.
We wrap up the Third Reich practice questions and decide to take a break. Classes are done for the day, and I took most of this week off from the kennel to focus on studying…and Paul.
I’m lying on my bed, legs draped over Paul’s lap as he sits with his back against the white-painted cinder block wall. I huff. Part of me wants a nap but the other part wants food.
“Fuck this shit, can we make out already? Isn’t that what study dates are for?” Paul setsourstudying aside and crawls on top of me.
“Why do you cuss so much?” I look him in the eyes. It doesn’t bother me, it really doesn’t. I’ve just wondered because he does it a lot, and yeah, I’d like to make out too, but I’m not sure he’s really ready for that. But that’s not my call.
Paul shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I was never allowed to. My dad…he was pretty strict. More on me than anything. I would get spanked if I did so much as say God’s name in vain, which is pretty weird if you think about it ’cause my parents aren’t religious. Like, at all. So I don’t know. I don’t say ‘Oh my God’ or ‘goddamn’ out of respect ’cause it’s ingrained in me. But I guess I say fuck a lot ’cause I don’t know what else to say, and then it just became habit.” He pauses long enough to kiss my cheek and pecks a path up to my forehead. Apparently he likes my few freckles. It’s become a thing. “Do you not like it? Want me to stop?”
“No, I’m fine with it! I promise. I was just wondering. That’s all. You know what? I’m hung—” I say as the door creaks open and in comes Aidan. “—ry. Hey, A!”
“Hey…” Aidan pauses when he sees Paul, but he doesn’t let it hang. He’s doing better. “Guys.”
“Hey.” Paul waves carefully, sitting up.
The last time the two saw each other Paul was rushing out of our room with me on his heels. Aidan’s still not terribly fond of him, but at least now he knows he didn’t see the whole picture before, even if he still doesn’t see it all, and he’s being a good friend about it.
“How was class?” I sigh. I don’t want to study anymore. I hate it. Or maybe I just hate school.
“Ugh. Chemistry sucks balls.” Aidan drops onto his bed and falls flat in dramatic fashion.
“Just like all of us,” Paul laughs.
I snicker. I think it catches Aidan off guard, or maybe he still can’t get the image he has of Paul out of his head. Finally he grants us a little laugh and sits back up.
“What are y’all up to?”
“Study session,” I tell him and pat Paul’s sinewy arm.
“Uh-huh.” Aidan grins.
I don’t know whether to be proud that he’d smile at that or offended that he thinks sex is all I think about. It only occupies like 60 to 70 percent of my brain. That’s all!
Instead of giving him the satisfaction of a response, I switch topics. “So A here writes fiction.”
“Huh?” Aidan pops back up.
“No shit, really? You’re an author?” Paul’s attention piques. He sits forward, laying his hands over my legs.
I like it like this. It’s not too close or suffocating for him, but it’s still contact. He’s had two therapy sessions, one this morning, since his last panic attack and he’s doing better already, but I’m still trying to be careful while not making it obvious. I don’t want him to feel like anything is rushed or expected. I do have a right hand after all.
“Yeah, I guess.” Aidan shrugs as if it’s not a big deal that he’s written aliteral bookand has an agent and all that. “It’s not published yet though, so…”
“You guess?” Paul almost seems offended. “You wrote a book, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you’re an author.” Paul bounces his shoulder, like with that simple motion he’s made it so.
“That’s what I keep trying to tell him, but he’s always got something negative to say,” I explain.
