Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,42
who’s just finished setting up his keyboard behind me. “Give a warm welcome to Freddie Levins!”
They applaud, again, to greet the new performer during which I slip back to the booth we’ve been occupying.
I’m barely settled in my seat before Hugo is inquiring in a low voice, “Is that shit true?”
My fingers tip the brim of my wicker fedora slightly upward. “What shit?”
“Did you used to fake it with your ex?”
Jevin and I’s last encounter, that was as unsatisfying as it was infuriating, come barreling to the front of my brain, forcing me to enthusiastically bounce my head. “Often.”
Hugo presents me with an uncomfortable cringe.
“And, he wasn’t the first.”
More bafflement bulldozes itself into his brown gaze. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t…I didn’t know that. You know you never told me that.”
“I don’t tell you everything.”
His expression instantly transposes to one of hurt, and I hate being the cause of it.
God, I’m used to being the one hurt – not doing the hurting.
I can’t say I care for this shit at all.
“W-w-what else haven’t you told me?” Hugo nervously questions.
Not wanting to tread down the murky trail we’re currently on, I try another. “That my name-”
“Was chosen based on how your parents met, crashing into each other on the ski slopes,” he smoothly finishes for me. “You’ve mentioned that before.”
“How about the fact that my grandmother – my Filipina one – didn’t approve-”
“Of you wearing high heels, so she went through all your dress up clothes during her visit and threw them away. Until her dying day, she didn’t approve of a little boy dressing like a little girl.”
“That cranky old vinegar-obsessed hag was old school. She didn’t like that mom was married to a white guy. She didn’t even go to their wedding. She very much so believes clothing has gender, while you know damn well I do not.”
“Different times create different people,” my date philosophizes prior to smirking. “All that was still shit I already knew.”
His arrogant attitude has me frantically searching for something outside of my sex life he doesn’t already know.
Major problem with dating your best friend from childhood.
They fucking know practically everything.
“I like anchovies on my pizza.”
The off the wall information blows him back in his seat. “What the fuck? Since when?!”
“Since…always.”
He presents me with a silent sarcastic stare of disagreement.
“Real talk. I’ve always liked anchovies on my pizza, but Dad can’t smell them without gagging, so Mom and I rarely order it. All of my friends won’t even entertain the idea of trying them. And you…my very best fucking friend…well you are very picky about your pizza.”
“I don’t know that I’d classify myself as picky.”
“Thin crust – less bread – Italian sausage – the meat packs a more flavorful taste in your opinion than pepperoni – and black olives – because you like to feel you’re still eating something healthy for your body even though you’re, basically, not.”
Hugo flashes me his infamously bashful grin. “I’m that fucking predictable, huh?”
“Sometimes,” I teasingly coo. He extends his arm along the back of the seat allowing me to scoot in closer prompting me to purr, “Sometimes not.”
His expression remains soft as he says, “I don’t want that salty fish shit on my pizza, but…I don’t mind being around when you put it on yours.”
The corners of my lips helplessly fly to the ceiling.
“I don’t mind ever being around you, Crash.”
My heart thrums too harshly to speak.
“Wherever you want me, is where I wanna be.”
Is this the type of shit guys are supposed to say on dates? It almost feels…too honest. Too real. I’m used to being the only one willing to be full blown open during this shit. For as long as I can fucking remember it’s always been me who said the flirty, swoony, Saran Wrap-worthy words, while they stuck to mainly empty sexual promises.
This is different.
And, it feels different.
And, I don’t know how to handle different.
Different movements in dance is exciting.
Different movements in dating is taxing.
Normally, I’d just give up if something threatened to give me this many wrinkles, yet I can’t fathom the idea of walking away from Hugo twice.
Once was stupid enough.
Like Betty said, I gotta get my shit together.
After Freddie finishes, I hop back on to introduce a pair of male twin standup comedians. Their set sparks whispered conversations about our personal favorite comics, a topic that further reiterates the point that, in spite of being best friends, there are still plenty of things for us to learn about one another. We make a whispered pact