With or Without You Read online

  Erik, in his purple yoga pants and glistening with a patina of fresh sweat, is surprised when I drop by unannounced. Surprised, but pleased.

  “I’d hug you but—” He indicates the sweat. But I grab him anyway and hold him tight. Tighter and longer than I maybe should.

  “Something up, babe?” The question is soft, inviting.

  We move to the love seat and he stays close, never losing contact, making sure I have an anchor. We’re quiet for a long time and then Erik throws his arms up into the air, holding that invisible boom box. I smile and rest my head on his shoulder.

  “I’m happy to sit here all night,” he whispers, rubbing my leg. “But if there’s something on your mind …”

  All at once, I know it was a mistake to have come here. We still need to talk about Milwaukee. That should be my reason for being here. But I’m too scared to talk about that. And I can’t say anything that’s on my mind without unraveling everything I’ve worked so hard to hide for the past year.

  “Davis?”

  The name jolts me. Because Erik seldom mentions Davis, it’s like the report of a cannon when he does.

  I look into his eyes, and his square-egg-shaped face is oddly expressionless.

  “Evan, I know I’ve got my broody moments. And you get me through those. But there are times when you get all distant and I can’t do anything about it. And I suspect—though I can’t prove—that it’s about Davis.” Then he sighs, bracing himself. “I gotta ask: Are you sleeping with him?”

  Sleeping with Davis? I was felt up by Sable and got a woody. I just went live as a paid escort. But sleep with Davis? Hell, no.

  I don’t know whether to laugh, be insulted, or beg him to understand how much he means to me. I settle for taking his hand in both of mine and looking him directly in the eye.

  “There is nothing going on between me and Davis. Never has been. Never will be.”

  Before Milwaukee, that would have been enough. This is after Milwaukee.

  “Well, there’s something there. I know it, Ev. I don’t know what it is because you won’t tell me. He’s your ‘best friend.’ That’s all you ever say. That is, until you figured out it was making me uncomfortable to hear about him and then you never mentioned Davis again … I’m guessing so I wouldn’t insist on meeting him.”

  Volley after volley finds its mark and I can sense everything rending apart. How long have I thought I was getting away with things I was never getting away with? How many omissions were really admissions? And then, the killing blow.

  “Does he even know we’re dating?”

  It takes all I have to steel myself for this.

  “What are you talking about? You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Erik. Of course he knows about you. In fact … he was just ragging on me, too. Going on about how all I talk about is this ‘Erik guy’ and ‘when do I get to meet him.’” I change my tone, trying to make it funny. Please let it be funny. “I suppose I’ve kept you to myself for too long. So, yeah, let’s get together with him. I mean, it can’t go worse than dinner with Shan, right?”

  I remember the look on Erik’s face when we fought in Milwaukee, when he finally gave in to all the suspicions he’d accumulated over a year and confronted me. That look is back. I can feel time running out.

  “No, really, we just have to coordinate our schedules. Davis is totally psyched. He can’t wait to meet you.”

  I smile but my stomach lurches. In our year together, these are my only outright lies to Erik. I’ve always placated myself, thinking my omissions were innocent. A lie was a deliberate, articulated untruth. But these half truths, my evasions, have become as poisonous as the lie I just spoke.

  Arranging dinner with Shan gave me a Get Out of Jail Free card once. The pressure to learn about my life stopped for a while. Will the mere promise of meeting Davis be enough to satisfy him? Nothing he says or does right now will let me in on his thoughts. The DictionErik is a bust.

  All that follows are tepid agreements that we’ll arrange a meeting soon. Erik is clearly drained; I can’t tell what he hates more—being suspicious or that he feels I’ve given him reasons to be. Well, I have. And it sickens me. I keep my eyes on the cool, gray cement on the walk home. I don’t deserve the colors that State Street affords.

  I don’t deserve Erik.

  More, he doesn’t deserve me.

  escort

  Dad, newly freed from his cast, insists on driving to the airport when we drop off Shan. In the backseat, Shan and I regress to children again, screaming “We’re gonna die!” every time Dad charges through a yellow/red light.

  “Next person who says ‘We’re gonna die’ gets thrown out,” Dad snarls, looking at us in the rearview mirror with an almost playful look.

  Through the next yellow/red, Shan and I look at each other and yell, “We’re gonna pass away!”

  Mom shakes her head.

  Casual observers of our family wouldn’t think anything had changed since Shan’s Great M and D Smack-down. Mom still rides my ass about doing cold-case inventory. Dad still nods when I talk and asks me what I said once I’m done. For the most part, casual observers would be right. Nothing’s really changed.

  Much. You’d have to be a Weiss to see the difference. We don’t have family game nights or talk about how our days went at the dinner table. But there’s a hint of global warming going on; a few ice caps have dissolved. With any luck, I’ll be far from Madison before things get too touchy-feely. Not sure I could handle that.

  At the airport, Mom is at her Momest. “I want updates,” she insists to Shan. “Regular baby updates. Sonograms, checkups … Tell me everything.”

  Dad goes on about how he’s too young to be a grandfather but hints that maybe now there’s an heir to his great grocery store empire. He wouldn’t be Dad unless he reminded both Shan and me what disappointments we are for not picking up that particular torch.

  “Help me with my bags, Spud?”

  I grab her luggage and after an assault of parental hugs and kisses, I walk her to the baggage check.

  “There’s a spare room in New York,” she says. “It’s the size of your bedroom closet, but it’s free.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  We hug.

  “Say good-bye to Erik,” she says, and I’m paranoid enough to wonder if there’s double meaning. Then she gets really serious and says, “Stay out of trouble.”

  Of course, we both know it’s too late for that. She gives a wave before disappearing in the security line.

  Back in the car, the parental détente takes an uncomfortable turn.

  “When do you and Davis move away again?”

  “Move-in is Labor Day weekend,” I say. It’s not a lie. I just don’t confirm that’s still what I’m doing.

  “Chicago, right?”

  She says it slowly. I know she knows it’s Chicago. She’s fishing for something.

  “Chicago,” I confirm.

  She doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t look back at me.

  Dad grunts. “Christ, Joan. Even I know it’s Chicago.”

  Almost a week after Sable first created our online profiles, I get an e-mail from Davis: Saddle up. We’ve got dates tonight. I close my eyes and focus.

  I don’t know how to love my boyfriend and protect my best friend at the same time. I have to pick one. The choice seems simple: Davis is in danger. Erik is not. I think of Erik’s Fierce Angels—going where no one else dare go—and know what I have to do.

  Erik’s right. Giving a shit is hard.

  It’s raining so I take the bus to the RYC. I pass under Erik’s window on the way. It’s dark up there; he’s out with Tyler and their friends. He’d invited me to join them but I said I had to work. Apparently, now that I’ve started, I can’t stop outright lying to Erik.

  Davis is already in Sable’s room, wearing a tight black T-shirt, ripped jeans, and flip-flops. I think he thinks it’s sexy. I feel overdressed in my button-down shirt and slac
ks. I thought we were going on dates. Mark’s also there, working on Sable’s laptop. Davis keeps scalding Mark with dirty looks. He’s not happy with how close Mark has become to Sable.

  “Here’s the deal,” Sable says. “I told these guys you’d meet them outside Hüsnü’s. It’s not like a double date or anything, so don’t hang out together. That might creep them out. You’re Andy”—he points to Davis—“and you’re Charlie.” He points to me.

  “Sorry?”

  That anemic smirk spreads across his face. “Give me some credit, guy. I made up names for you to protect your privacy. You don’t want these guys getting clingy. Stalking you.”

  That had never occurred to me.

  “Get the money up front. Be charming. Remember, these guys want to have a good time. You’re providing a service: hospitality. Be hospitable. Always let them make the first move.”

  “Why?” Davis asks for both of us.

  Mark chimes in with his “well, duh” tone. “In case they’re undercover cops. It’s entrapment if they make the first move.”

  I turn to Mark. “What about you? Got a date?”

  His eyes never leave the laptop screen. He just grins. “Oh yeah.”

  Davis and I leave the RYC and walk the length of State Street to Hüsnü’s, this Turkish restaurant near the UW campus.

  “I told Sable to put our dates at the same restaurant,” Davis informs me with an elbow to my side. “I figured you might be kinda nervous. So even if we can’t be at the same table, you’ll know I’m near. Look at me if you get lost and don’t know what to do.”

  I nod, trying not to laugh. I picture how tongue-tied he gets any time he’s near a guy he likes. It’s a good thing Davis is getting the money up front. He may not last the night.

  “So what did Sable say? About the cops?” Why hide that I know what I know?

  If Davis is surprised that I know he talked to Sable about the cops, he hides it. “He’s not too worried. He was pissed at first that it kills our alibi. But he figures that if they haven’t questioned anyone else by now, they won’t.”

  Davis takes position in front of the restaurant. I duck under an awning across the street. A tall guy—maybe forty, lean, wearing a business suit—approaches Davis. I expect Davis to cave on first contact. But he flashes a smile, totally cool. They shake hands and disappear into the restaurant.

  “Charlie?”

  A second later, I remember I’m Charlie. I turn to see a guy, slightly shorter than me. Unshaven, dumpy, and I’m pretty sure that sauerkraut smell is coming from him. And he’s a bazillion years old. Davis gets the business suit, I get a Hawaiian shirt two sizes too small with mustard stains down the front. God, I hope that’s mustard. How did I not see this coming?

  Dexter (as he introduces himself) and I go into the restaurant and he’s finding every excuse he can to touch me—his hand at the small of my back, guiding me to the table, a brush of the shoulder as he pushes my chair in. The lighting is dim, candles dot every table.

  “So,” he says, his eyes smiling over the top of his raised menu, “your profile says you play lots of sports. How do you like to stay fit?”

  “Hockey,” I lie, not sure why that’s the first to come to my mind. “I play hockey during the winter. When it’s warmer out, volleyball and … track.”

  “You ever wrestle?”

  I don’t like the breathy quality to his voice when he says, “wrestle.”

  “No,” I say, not too quickly. “Never wrestled.”

  He lays the menu down and hits me with a viscous smile. “Really? You’re built like a wrestler. Very lean. Muscled.”

  Then I feel them, fingers settling on my knee. Not rubbing, not gripping. Just there, immobile, like three disgusting sausages.

  I dig into the complimentary naan, shoving fistfuls into my mouth as Dexter orders for us both. I look around and spot Davis at a corner table. He’s smiling and laughing, touching the forearm of his date with every guffaw. How did this happen? When did we switch roles?

  “So what else are you into?” Dexter probably thinks he sounds sincere. He doesn’t.

  I can’t think of any reason to lie, and maybe it will bore the hell out of him, so I say, “I paint. A lot. I paint pictures.”

  The bread is gone—devoured—so I start downing my water as fast as I can and flag the waiter down for a refill. I’m hoping that if Dexter sees me with my mouth full, he won’t ask more questions. But he doesn’t stop: What do I look for in a guy? Do I like to masturbate? Would I ever let anyone watch?

  And then, those fingers snake their way up my inner thigh. The muscles in my back seize as a spasm shakes my leg. I can feel the heat of his fingers through my pants as he strokes up and down. I can’t help it; another spasm. He must think I’m enjoying the attention because he smiles even more. I close my eyes and try to pretend it’s Erik.

  Mistake. Summoning Erik’s gentle touch makes my stomach lurch and the bread and water tell me they want out.

  “I’m sorry.” I jump up. “I—I can’t do this.”

  I’m too loud. He looks around to see if anyone’s watching. No one is. Yet.

  He motions me to sit and lowers his voice. “Look, it’s my fault. I know, you need the money up front. I just didn’t want to be obvious about it. It seemed tacky. Sit down. I’ll pass it to you under—”

  “No,” I say. This time, lots of people look. Including Davis, who has stopped enjoying his date’s company and is now glaring at me like he’s the one being embarrassed. Dexter looks away, disavowing that we’re together. I take advantage of his refusal to look at me and charge out of the restaurant.

  I run blindly away from State Street, down an alley to University Avenue, stomping in puddles and never looking back. My stomach still threatens to rebel, and all I can feel are those three heavy fingers, weighing on my knee with phantom force. I don’t even realize I’m crying until I barrel headfirst into a crowd of people and fall down. And then I want to die.

  “Evan?”

  Erik is crouched next to me, kneeling on the wet pavement. Above him, Tyler and the others huddle around, all staring down at me like I’m the Elephant Man.

  “Evan, what’s wrong? I thought you were working tonight.”

  But I’m sobbing uncontrollably now and demi-words come out as choked gasps. The city, the people—a smear of clotted color. I feel his strong hands on my shoulders, massaging gently, and all I can think about is how he’ll never be able to get the stain out of the knees of his pants.

  He throws a look over his shoulder. “Go. We’ll catch up.”

  We’ll. Oh, God. He said “we’ll.” I lied to him, I went on a date with an old troll, and I still belong to him. I’m still a “we.” I can’t stop it anymore. I turn my head and give the naan and water their freedom.

  Erik doesn’t miss a beat. He wipes my lips with his fingers and helps me to my feet. He gently guides me under an awning to keep me out of the rain. I lean against the building. I’m shaking so hard my muscles ache. My sobs become violent wheezes.

  Erik holds me and the tears start all over again as I feel his hard body against mine. This is how he calms me. He assures me he’s close. I relive our last night in bed. I relive our first night in bed. I relive ten seconds ago: “We’ll catch up.” I keep thinking, We, we, we, we, we, we, we …

  And it’s there. His hand cupped around my left cheek, that familiar thumb rubbing softly, slowly, just below my eye. From the DictionErik: Calm down. I’m here. Calm down.

  And it happens. The wheezing stops. The shuddering stops. The blurry colors focus and there’s Erik, his hair that sexy shade of wet and tousled, his eyes squinting with concern. (Or fear? That’s fear.) I’m as normal as I can be right now.

  “Better?” he asks. There’s pain and concern in his voice.

  Erik’s hurting. He let Oxana tell me I’m a follower because it would have hurt too much to tell me himself. I didn’t pay attention and then I made the same mistake all over again: I started fo
llowing Sable. Now he’s hurting again. I may not be a genius like Haring or Picasso but even I can see the pattern. Even as the rain blurs my vision, things become a lot clearer.

  I pull him in and kiss his cheek. I whisper in his ear, “I have to do something. Go catch up with the gang. I’ll talk to you later.”

  And before he can protest, I vanish into the shadows.

  I’m at the RYC, banging on Sable’s door. A minute later, it flies open. Sable stands there wearing a jockstrap, the thick hair on his chest just shy of an actual sweater. Past him, I can see Mark lounging on the bed in his boxers. They’re both sweaty.

  “Dude,” Sable grunts, “what the hell?”

  “That’s what I should be asking you!” I’m up on my toes to meet his eyes.

  His powerful fingers lock around my shoulder as he yanks me into the room and closes the door. He pushes me up against the wall.

  “You need to calm down.” His voice is low, dangerous. I should be afraid; I have no doubt he could do serious damage to me. I really don’t care right now.

  “Monogamy is just the straights trying to keep us in line.’” I spit his mantra back at him. “We can sleep with anyone we want. We don’t have to be stuck with one person, right? Is that really what being gay means to you? Sleeping with anyone? My ‘date’ was this kinky old perv who couldn’t keep his hands off me.” From the bed, Mark laughs. I duck past Sable and stand over Mark. “Did you know about this?”

  Mark’s on his feet. He’s only an inch taller than me but he’s muscular and, from what I saw at the Darkroom, he has a lot more experience fighting. I see a hint of Pete in his eyes and I know he’s seconds away from launching into me. Let him. I took shit from Pete for years. There’s no way I’m submitting to this asshole.

  Sable steers me to a chair and sits me down. He nods at Mark, who sits back on the bed, then he squats next to me so we’re eye level.

  “I never said this was gonna be pretty, guy,” Sable says. I’m sure he thinks it’s a soothing voice, but it’s the audio equivalent of chewing tin foil. “Those ‘kinky old pervs’ might not be much to look at, but they’re your ticket to liberation. Remember? That’s what we’re learning about now. The Seventies. Being part of the community. Doing what everyone does.”