Ryan and avery, p.2
Ryan and Avery, page 2
All of this is surrounded by snow. The roof is now covered. The truck in the driveway is as white as the driveway. Were you looking from above, you would have to look closely to see a house at all.
But you are not looking from above.
* * *
—
Ryan examines Avery’s room with an affectionately curious eye. The posters on the wall belong to artists, not bands. The bookshelves have been arranged in stripes of color—blue then red then blue then red then green then red then green then yellow then green, and so on. The bed is in the corner, the room’s single window at its head.
Ryan walks over there and looks out. In a few minutes it will be too dark to see the snow, but now it can still be traced and tracked. Avery joins him, and together they watch the snowflakes fall like punctuation marks shaken from a sentence.
Avery sits down on the floor, his back against the bed. Ryan follows, sitting right next to him so their legs touch and their arms overlap. It’s weird, Avery thinks, how this works. When someone stares at you, you can feel so much like a body, with all your flaws obnoxiously blaring. But when someone is next to you, when someone is as much of a body to you as you are to them, it becomes more comfortable, more valuable. Feeling Ryan’s skin and knowing that at the very same time Ryan is feeling his skin. Knowing they are different, but maybe the sensation of it is the same, just like breathing is the same, like a heartbeat is the same. Avery leans into that. Feels.
“So how was your day?” Ryan asks, and for the next few minutes they talk about school, about friends, about the snow first appearing in the sky. This is part of what they need, too—to be like everyone else, to have the time to lean like this and recount the time since they last spoke. There are no revelations here. The most exciting part of their day has been anticipating this, being excited about this very sharing.
“Is that a yearbook?” Ryan asks, looking at the bottom of Avery’s bookshelf. He moves to pull it over.
“No!” Avery says. “No you don’t!”
Ryan makes an exaggerated grab for it. Avery makes an exaggerated tackle. Conceding with a playful lack of resistance, Ryan stretches out on the floor. Avery pins him anyway.
This is where it can turn from playfulness. This is where heat can subsume warmth. But neither Ryan nor Avery wants that—not now, not yet, not this early in the date. So instead they keep it playful—Avery leaning down for a kiss, then pulling back right at the moment their lips should meet. Laughing. Then going down for a real kiss, Ryan arching up to meet it.
Avery loosens his grip. They kiss some more, conversationally. Ryan reaches out, as if he’s about to mess with Avery’s hair or trace the curve of his shoulder. But it’s another fake-out—Ryan’s arm extends just long enough to get to the yearbook, to take it from the shelf.
Avery groans, but doesn’t fight it. Not even when Ryan sits up and starts to thumb through. It’s last year’s yearbook, and since Avery was a sophomore then, he didn’t make much of an impression in its pages.
As Ryan thumbs through, Avery watches him do it, notices small things he hasn’t noticed before—the places where Ryan’s blue hair is starting to revert to bleach, the Little Dipper of birthmarks on his arm. Ryan asks a few questions about a few of the people in the photos, and Avery answers when he can—his school is too big for him to know everyone, and he isn’t attitudinally inclined to know everyone, anyway. He has his small pod of friends and all the kids he’s doing the school play with, and that’s where he spends most of his time.
Ryan finally comes to the page where Avery’s sophomore picture resides, part of the mosaic of stamp-sized malcontents forced by the class photographer into their frames. The photo is too small for Avery to really hate it, although the person in it already feels like a skin he’s shed.
“Nice haircut,” Ryan says, with no real meanness in the tease.
“I was experimenting!”
“With what?”
“Bad haircuts!”
It is a black-and-white photo (only upperclassmen got color), so you can’t really see the pathetic orange that Avery had occasioned for photo day—it was something that looked like marmalade when he’d been aiming for jack-o’-lantern. Pink had soon followed.
“I used to wear mine down to my shoulders,” Ryan confesses. “I was twelve or thirteen, and I thought it made me tough. Like, if I could have grown a beard then, I would’ve done that, too. I look back now and know it was camouflage—and not even good camouflage. My mother caught me tossing it over my shoulder one day, total supermodel mimic, and asked me point-blank, ‘Why are you doing that?’ And I thought, Oh, right. The next time we went to the barber, she didn’t have to say a thing. I told him to cut it off, and he called out to the rest of the guys in the barbershop for a round of applause.”
“Do you miss it?” Avery asks.
Ryan snorts. “Not at all. I probably could have wrung the grease out and bottled it, it was getting so gross.”
Avery instinctively itches his hair. Ryan notices and smiles.
“Sorry,” Ryan continues. “I guess it’s my way of saying we’ve all got bad haircuts in our past. Or bad lack-of-haircuts.”
The garage opens its mouth at this point, filling the house with its call. Avery looks at the clock—it’s a little early for his father to be home.
“They must’ve closed his office because of the snow,” he says to Ryan, acknowledging the noise. “It must be getting pretty bad out.”
They leave the implications of this unsaid. If it is bad enough for Avery’s dad to leave early, it probably means Ryan should be making an emergency exit. But Ryan decides he has no intention of doing that.
(It doesn’t even occur to Avery that Ryan might have to leave early.)
“Boys!” Avery’s mother calls out. “Half-hour warning for dinner!”
It wasn’t Avery’s plan for them to have dinner with his parents. He thought they’d go out, even if it was just Burger King. He stands up to look back out the window and sees that, yes, it’s going to be an eating-in night. Their road is not on the priority list to be plowed, and by now it’s hard to tell where the curb stops and the road begins. Ryan’s truck is starting to look like an igloo.
It still doesn’t occur to Avery that Ryan might have to leave early. Or has already lost his chance to leave early.
“A half hour,” Ryan comes over and whispers in Avery’s ear. “What can we do with a half hour?”
The answer?
His hands are on Avery’s hips.
The answer?
Kisses. Variations of kisses. Repetitions of kisses. Learning each other through kisses.
The answer?
Clothes staying on, because there are parents walking in the hall, because this isn’t that, not yet. But just because clothes stay on, it doesn’t mean there aren’t bodies to be felt through fabric, skin to feel the pressure, feel the touch.
The answer?
It doesn’t really matter what they do.
* * *
—
There is food in the pantry, food in the refrigerator, and even candles and matches waiting on the kitchen counter, just in case the power goes out. There is also the constant narration of the Weather Channel from the television in the family room, the entire storm looking like a single cloud marauding over a quarter of the country.
Ryan and Avery act as one another’s mirrors, making sure all their clothing looks settled before heading to the kitchen. If Avery’s parents notice anything is off, they don’t say a word. Plus, Avery’s mother is busy with dinner and Avery’s father is busy with the weather. Since it is now dark out, the television is his window.
“There you are,” Avery’s mother says when Ryan and Avery walk into the room, as if she hadn’t known where they were all along. “I think we need to have a talk. First off, I realized I didn’t ask you if you have any allergies or food restrictions, Ryan.”
“I’m good with whatever,” Ryan replies. There are about a hundred foods he hates, but he figures this isn’t what she’s asking. His position here is untested enough that he’ll eat anything she makes.
“Great. We’re having chicken, potatoes, and broccoli—I figured that wouldn’t be very controversial. The bigger issue is the snow. They’re saying the highways are a complete mess, and the storm’s not going to slow down until midnight at the earliest. So it’s looking like you’re going to have to spend the night here. There’s no way I’m letting you drive home in this. I’d like to talk to your mother, if that’s okay. Explain what’s going on. I can’t imagine there’s going to be school tomorrow.”
Avery tries unsuccessfully to suppress a yip of joy, afraid that if the universe knows how pleased he is by this turn of events, it will send a sudden heat wave. Then he realizes this is silly, and allows his mom to take some satisfaction in the way he buzzes and beams.
Ryan’s spirits can’t bounce quite as high as Avery’s. He is sure that Avery’s mother is right, and that there is no feasible, safe way for him to get home. He even knows his parents will concede that. But there will still be the matter of why he came here in the first place, why he hadn’t turned back at the first glimmer of trouble. There won’t be hell to pay so much as he’ll get a bigger weekly allowance of hell.
“I can just call her,” he tells Avery’s mom. “Explain the situation.”
“Trust me,” comes the reply, “I’m a mother. She’s going to want to talk to me.”
Sure enough, after Ryan calls and tells his mother what’s up, and that what was supposed to be a date (he doesn’t use the word date) has turned into a sleepover (he goes nowhere near the word sleepover), she immediately asks to talk to Avery’s mother. As if the blizzard is some moon landing he’s shooting on a sound stage.
Ryan has no idea what, if anything, Avery has told his mom about Ryan’s parents, but Avery’s mom ups the cheer factor in her voice by at least three whorls when she says, “Hi there!” at the start of their conversation. Then there is a serious “Yes” and an empathetic “Oh, believe me, I understand.” After that—Ryan has no idea, because Avery’s mom walks out of the kitchen, and stays out of the kitchen for another five minutes.
“Clearly, they’re arranging our marriage,” Avery comments in the interim.
“If I weren’t so terrified, I’d find that funny,” Ryan replies.
Avery’s father comes into the kitchen, plucks a grape from the refrigerator, and pops it into his mouth.
“Smells good,” he says.
“We’ll be sure to pass that on to Mom,” Avery vows.
Avery’s father looks around. “Oh. Where is she?”
“Talking to Ryan’s mom. He’s staying tonight.”
“Good deal,” Avery’s father says. Then he turns to Ryan. “You don’t mind sleeping in the backyard, do you? We’ve got a great sleeping bag somewhere in the basement. I think it’s insulated.”
“Dad. Not cool.”
“I wasn’t aiming for cool. I was aiming for frigid.”
Avery’s mother returns to the kitchen. Avery thinks she looks a little less carefree than before. Ryan thinks she looks like she’s just talked to his mother.
“Well—that’s all sorted out. Apparently, Ryan, your father wanted to drive over here to pick you up—but I convinced your mother that would be a bad idea. I don’t think they understood how far away we live. But no matter—they’re now on board. I promised to take care of you, so please, no knife juggling or tying each other up.” (She does not mean this as a sexual reference. Ryan and Avery totally hear it as a sexual reference.)
“And,” she continues, “I also promised that you’ll stay in the guest room. Which in this house means the couch. The good news is that it opens up.”
Avery knows better than to challenge this decision, but is already strategizing ways around it. The idea of sharing sleep with Ryan is undeniably appealing.
Ryan wonders if he should call his parents back, apologize. What would make it better?
Nothing, his instincts inform him. Just be happy you’re not there. Be happy you’re here.
Avery touches him on the back and he startles. He can’t appreciate Avery’s affection as much with Avery’s parents watching. It feels…wrong. Not bad—just something that has to be worked up to.
Sensing this, Avery puts his hand down. His mom, meanwhile, curses loudly and makes a lunge for the oven, sighing with relief when no smoke billows out as she opens it.
“Dinner,” she says, “will soon be served.”
* * *
—
During dinner, Ryan observes the way that family shorthand can be used not for accusation but for humor. There are things they are saying that are perfectly understandable on their own—Where’s the avocado?—but don’t make much sense for an outsider within the context of the conversation.
During dinner, Avery observes how shy Ryan becomes, how reactive. Avery is keenly aware of how ridiculous his family is, and he makes sure to fill Ryan in whenever what they are saying makes no sense. (“There was this deeply unfortunate period when I was eight when I wanted avocado on everything. Since avocados are not cheap, and are not something you just pick up at 7-Eleven, this was a royal pain for Mom and Dad. They’d give me a steak and I’d say, ‘Where’s the avocado?’ Or spaghetti. Or, I don’t know, a hot dog.”)
During dinner, Avery’s mother also observes how shy Ryan becomes, although she has much less to compare it to.
During dinner, Avery’s father tries to wrap his mind around the fact that Avery has brought a boyfriend home for them to meet. It feels like a big step, but since Avery isn’t acting like it’s a big step, his father tries to keep his pride to himself.
Outside, it continues to snow.
* * *
—
When dinner is over, Ryan stands to clear the table. Everyone else tells him he doesn’t have to, that he’s the guest. But he refuses their refusal, unable to explain to them that he feels he has to contribute in some way. Avery and his parents back down, working Ryan into their routine of clearing and scraping and rinsing and drying. There are some hiccups (a spoon down the sink, a prolonged search for the Saran Wrap’s tongue), but for the most part, Ryan works in well. And in this way, he stops feeling like such a guest. In this way, he starts to feel like he belongs in this kitchen, with these people. They talk to each other instead of watching TV as they do the dishes. He answers questions when he is asked, but doesn’t have any questions he feels comfortable asking in return.
This changes when it goes back to being him and Avery, back to them alone. Avery’s mother and father beat their retreat—even though it isn’t even eight o’clock, they say they’re going to turn in. Probably watch a movie. Go to sleep early. Avery’s father jokes that he’ll be waking them up at dawn to help dig out the driveway. Ryan is ready to say that’s alright with him—it only seems fair to reciprocate the hospitality—but Avery, sensing this voluntary spirit, says, loudly, “No, I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
Ryan would never talk to his father like that.
Avery’s father laughs.
“Alright, alright,” Avery’s mother says, shooing him out of the room. Then she turns to Avery and says, “I’ve put out towels for Ryan in the bathroom and sheets for the sofa in the family room—I mean, guest room.” Then she gets more thoughtful, and looks at them both in turn. “I’m right to trust you two, correct? Keep it PG. Maybe PG-13. You’re just getting to know each other and—”
“We know!” Avery is mortified. “PG-13!”
(For his part, Ryan wants to sink through the floor.)
“Okay,” Avery’s mother says. “We have an understanding.” She looks squarely at Ryan, who somehow manages to meet her eye. “Here’s the thing—I promised your mother that you would sleep in the guest room. So you have to sleep in the guest room.” Then she turns to Avery. “I did not, however, make any promises about where you would sleep. Because I trust you both to…take it slow.”
“Mom! We get it!”
Avery’s mother smiles. “Good. And if you go outside, for heaven’s sake, wear boots.”
* * *
—
They do not go outside at first. Instead they go to the family room, as if that’s what is expected of them. They sit on the couch and watch the Weather Channel on mute, face to face with the satellites’ rendering of the storm. Avery picks up the remote control and is about to ask Ryan what he wants to watch…but Ryan is already watching something: a photograph of Avery and his family at Disneyland, the summer before third grade. Avery is wearing Mickey Mouse ears and his expression is, frankly, goofy. He has no idea who took the photo, who allowed their molecular family to retain its formation—Avery the middle smile, bookended by his parents’.
“It’s so corny,” he says now. “I begged them to take it down, but they like to taunt me.”
“I like it,” Ryan says quietly. “It looks like you had fun.”
We learn each other by listening, and in this moment, Avery remembers that Ryan’s time at Disneyland wasn’t nearly as fun. He learns that the things that might be embarrassing to Avery might not be embarrassing to Ryan. He learns that while he doesn’t have to be careful with Ryan, he does have to try to avoid being careless.
