Unity

October 2018 | LGBT+ | 1500 words

     It killed Josh to pull himself out of bed to run. He berated himself, remembering how quickly the headaches and nausea subsided when he got in some good, late-morning exercise after a night of slippery-slope drinking, but the initial clamber out of bed was always the hardest step to take. He hauled a gallon jug of water with him to the campus gym in a drawstring bag, along with noise-cancelling headphones that clamped to his ears and kept human interaction out of his storm-bothered brain. When he arrived and found that his head pounded even with calming music playing, he unplugged the headphones from the audio jack and jogged around the 200-meter track in isolating silence.

     He hadn’t intended to drink as much as he did. It was embarrassing; his best friend had left to hook up with the host of the party. She left him alone with two full bottles of wine and a house full of people he didn’t know. The first half-bottle was for social lubricant, just to get him through the anxiety he ran into when a black-haired girl targeted him and started touching his shirt while they danced. The rest of the bottle went soon after that. He had no memory of going back home. Whatever decisions were made that night were made by the swimming id in the alcohol, not by him. The way things were going, he was almost surprised he didn’t wake up next to that nameless black-haired girl the next morning.

     With no music running through the headphones, the only sound that supported Josh as he ran was the rugged, throaty, inward and outward thrust of his breath. He squinted through the fluorescent overhead lights and kept up his pace, determined not to stop until the hangover disappeared. After 8 1-minute laps around the track—a full mile—he swerved off the track and plummeted onto a bench by the treadmills so that he could drink a quarter of his water.

     Squinting over the top of the jug, he caught sight of a guy who had been running behind him. Holes were ripped at the shoulders of his t-shirt to reveal almost all of his midriff. Sweat formed a sort of collar around the top of his grey shirt and dripped down his exposed sides. He had the kind of trendy haircut Josh would get himself if he didn’t have such curly hair. Josh didn’t realize their eyes had met until he watched a smile spread across Grey Shirt’s face. His heartbeat quickened. He looked away and readjusted his headphones to make sure they were completely around his ears.

     Grey Shirt came to a smooth halt in front of Josh. “Hey, I was trailing behind you,” he said, chest heaving. “I couldn’t get your attention. You were probably looking for this.”

     Josh tried to pretend like he couldn’t hear anything. He wasn’t socially adroit to begin with, and on top of that, the hangover was screwing with his mood. He didn’t want to make any rude remarks to someone who looked so nice. If he ignored him instead, there would be nothing ventured, nothing gained, and nothing lost. He and Grey Shirt could go back to their workouts without getting caught up in something they’d later regret. But out of the corner of his eyes, Josh could see what dangled from Grey Shirt’s outstretched hand. It was Josh’s aux cord. Ripping the headphones from his head, Josh looked up to meet Grey Shirt’s eyes and smiled meekly. “Oh, yeah.” He gingerly took the cord. “Thanks.”

     It was a curt “thanks.” It clearly insinuated, “you can go now.” But Grey Shirt lingered, standing just feet away from Josh, hands limp at his sides, face expectant. Their eyes remained latched together. Josh’s fingers fidgeted with the front ledge of the bench. He needed a drink, and not of water.

     Grey Shirt laughed, breathing shakily. “You run fast, man. I could hardly catch up with you.”

     “Yeah?” said Josh. “You should run more often, then.”

     To Josh’s surprise, Grey Shirt wasn’t offended. He shrugged and said, “I don’t run that much, actually. I come here to lift. But I saw the opportunity to run today.” After saying this last remark, he flashed his big, warm smile again. When Josh saw it, he broke into his own smile in spite of himself. Grey Shirt continued, “I didn’t expect you to be here after last night.”

     This shocked Josh out of his smile. “What last . . . were you at Daniel’s?”

     Grey Shirt tipped his head back and guffawed. As his laughter died, his smile faltered. “What, you don’t remember me?” he asked. He couldn’t hide his hurt. “Daniel’s house is my house. He’s my roommate.”

     “Oh, shit, I’m so sorry,” said Josh, berating himself again. His forehead throbbed. “I don’t remember practically anything. Maybe you saw how big of a mess I was.”

     Grey Shirt dismissed the idea. “No, you weren’t . . . too . . .” he sighed. “You don’t remember my name? You said it a lot last night.”

     I did? Josh strained to remember. No names came to mind. As he recalled everything, he suddenly remembered how he and the black-haired girl split separate ways during the night. He must’ve said something stupid or awkward, something bad enough to turn her away; she’d started out seeming so interested in him. But even with alcohol in his blood, he couldn’t replicate a false mask of interest to reflect her authentic one. He made her feel unwelcome.

     As Josh continued to scan his memories of the previous night, he suddenly recalled that he did see Grey Shirt. Only he wasn’t wearing a grey shirt then, he was wearing a bomber jacket and skinny jeans. How could he forget? After his friend and that girl left him in solitude, Josh had taken to the dance floor alone. Across strobing red, green, and blue lights, he’d met eyes with Bomber Jacket and mirrored his moves until he was too drunk to stand. He was a good dancer—both of them were. Everybody there cheered them on when they locked into sync.

     Grey Shirt smiled when he saw recognition surface on Josh’s face. “Brock. If you’ve really forgotten it.”

     Josh had to admit, the name sounded familiar. He tried it out in his head: Brock, Brock, Brock.

     “You think I could run with you?” Brock asked.

     Josh froze. No, he thought. That’s not a good idea. You don’t know anything about me. He smirked. “You couldn’t keep up with me.”

     Brock persisted, “Why don’t you come lift with me?”

     Josh kept his gaze steady. He bit the inside of his cheek. His leg bounced. Finally, he asked, “Why?” It wasn’t just a friendly invitation. It couldn’t have been. Josh had never seen someone wait so hopefully for a response.

     “Why?” repeated Brock. After a stammered silence, he said, “I thought we hit it off last night. We have a lot in common.” But as he said this, his face flushed red. He turned slightly away, ready to bolt. “No. Never mind, it’s stupid. I got you home safely. That’s it. I’m overstepping my boundaries, I shouldn’t—”

     “Wait. You drove me home?” Josh asked.

     Exasperated, Brock turned away. A group of three boys came jogging past, followed by a man running with a woman. Brock waited until they’d passed before returning to face Josh. “This is insane. You don’t remember a single thing?”

     “I remember the dancing,” Josh said. “At least, a little bit of it.”

     Brock sighed with relief. “But other than that . . . ?”

     “Other than that, not much,” said Josh. “I told you. A mess.”

     Brock nodded. “Cool. We’ve started back at zero.”

     “In a lot of ways, that might be a good thing,” said Josh. “I can be pretty awkward sometimes, even when I’m drunk. I probably said some embarrassing things.”

     Brock’s face turned redder still. “No,” he said softly. “I probably did.”

     Josh let himself laugh. As he relaxed, he studied Brock’s face and asked again, with complete vulnerability, “You drove me home?”

     Brock kicked the post of the bench. “And carried you upstairs. And tucked you in. And fed your cat.”

     Tucked me in. “Do you . . . want to know her name?” said Josh, slowly rising to his feet. He didn’t notice any pounding sensation in his head anymore. “Ginny. It might as well be Sneaky Bitch. I fed her before I left.”

     “She was whining the whole time I was at your house,” said Brock.

     “That’s the game she plays,” said Josh.

     It took a moment, but Josh could feel the reflection of his own change in Brock’s demeanor. For the first time, he felt like Brock truly recognized the person he’d met the night before, but now with a clear head and true intentions. What’s more, Josh felt like he recognized himself.

     “Well,” said Brock, relaxing into a bit of a giggle. “Lucky cat.”

     Josh shook his head, smiling broadly. “Lucky cat,” he agreed, and stuffed his headphones into his drawstring bag.