We had a quiet few moments as I went through piles of CDs and Scott leafed through my books of clip art. I said, “Should we call Rebecca?”
“What? My sexually ambiguous company is not enough? You need more sexual ambiguity?”
“Rebecca's not very ambiguous.”
“She's more ambiguous than she lets on,” said Scott.
I didn't want to know. “I'll call her later,” I said. “I get worried about her. She got dumped hard.”
We had been having, the night before, a confessional conversation about how I'd been spending too much time taking care of other people with personal and medical and career problems, feeling isolated and uncared-for as a result. We'd talked about how my motives were thorny, that I probably needed to be needed too much. It had been hard to talk about, because at the root of the problem there lurks an ugly, vulnerable childishness. Now, in response to my concern over Rebecca, Scott said:
“Yes, she did have a terrible breakup. So why don't you save the world and rebuild the Twin Towers, then call her? Then nurse an Afghani orphan at your breast?”
I was furious. Rebecca is friend to both of us. To hear him imply that I was being a bleeding heart by caring about her seemed shitty and cheap. So I said: “Let's not take the fuck-you path right now,” I said.
He frowned, silent, hearing an edge in my voice. Then he said, “I love you, Paul. That's not a question.”
“That wasn't the question I asked. I love you too, Scott. I let you nearly kill me last night. I just don't want to hear that trying to take care of a friend - our friend - is probably a mistake. I am a little big on being needed at this very juncture. It's my problem. But I'm way not up for everyone-is-stupid and we're-even-worse right now. I'm not up for hearing how Rebecca is okay and fuck her. Let's kill some new horses and beat them, okay?”
“You've just become a huge pussy all of a—”
“Why can't you just say you are sorry for being an asshole?”
He began to spit something out, took a breath, looked around the room as if to make sure no one could see, and apologized.
“Thank you,” I said.
We locked eyes. I've known him since I was 15. Over a decade. He blinked and spoke first, saying, “I feel very close to you right now. Should we make love?”
“I gave up Rohypnol for lent.”
“Just my luck,” he said.