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“Water’s fine,” Sebastian says. “But think about the cat.”
I realized I’ve been staring unproductively into the fridge for way too long. “Right. Yeah. And … I will. I guess.” I’ve never considered having a pet, but it would make this place less lonely.
I jerk up, get us each a glass, fill them and set them on the table. Bustling around in the kitchen helps with my nerves, so I decline Sebastian’s help as I find us plates and cutlery, then put my mitts back on to cart the chicken over.
“Wow, this really is fancy,” Sebastian says. “I knew it. What is all this?”
“Just chicken and mushrooms and broth,” I say. “And a little Parmesan. Oh, and green onions. And I guessthere’s a bit of mozzarella. You just throw it all in the dish and let it bake. It’s really easy.”
“So you say, but I probably would have eaten a bowl of cereal on the couch, so this is basically a gourmet meal to me.”
I’m terrified that he’s serious about that.
“Good thing I invited you over then,” I say.
Sebastian looks up, his eyes catching mine as he smiles at me. “Yeah, good thing.”
My throat closes up, and I focus on distributing chicken onto plates. Then I sit across from Sebastian in the chair I use every day. I can see the living room and television from here, which is why I use this chair, but tonight there’s no ambient noise, no distractions. There’s nothing but me and Sebastian alone in this big, empty house.
Sebastian moans around his first bite of chicken. “Oh my God, this is so good. I had no idea you could cook.”
“I can’t really,” I say. “It’s just chicken.”
“I couldn’t make this. This is incredible.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling too much. “I’m glad you like it.”
Another beat of eye contact. Another one of those smiles that jabs straight through my chest. “I do.”
I need to look down at my food for a little bit after that, but Sebastian keeps the conversation going, asking me about work and telling me about a new hire at the café inbetween bites. Before I realize it, I’m relaxing, responding to his questions, laughing at his little quips. Whatever madness inspired me to invite him over here tonight, I’m regretting it less than I probably should be. It’s easy to sit here with him. It’s easy to talk to him. It’s easy to feel like this is all normal and safe and fine.
Is that why I keep coming back? Everything inside me knows I shouldn’t be chasing Sebastian, that it’s dangerous, that it’s stupid, that it’s against every principle that has kept me safe for all these years. Another part of me finds his presence intoxicating and calming, and it’s a feeling I can’t seem to give up. We eat our chicken, talking the whole time, and this cavernous house I’ve lived in alone for so long shrinks around me, feeling as close and cozy and warm as a favorite old blanket. The echoing emptiness disappears like shadows chased off by the sun.
“Do you want to watch something?” I suggest when the chicken is gone and lingering at the kitchen table is beginning to feel awkward.
“Sure, if you’d like to,” Sebastian says.
The implication hangs between us. I invited him over for dinner, but I didn’t set any firm terms beyond that. Is this just a dinner? Is it another hookup? Where does watching TV together fit in? Usually I would have all of these answers. Usually I would set strict boundaries around an encounter like this, as though by laying down rules I could pen this night in and keep it from spilling out into the rest of my life.
This night doesn’t have any rules. Those old boundaries I’m used to can’t contain it. I’m making this up as I go along, and I’m not as afraid of that as I probably should be.
Sebastian helps me clean up, his shoulder bumping against mine as we cover up the leftover chicken and put it in the fridge, then set the plates and cups in the sink. I don’t flinch away from the contact. Weirdly, I let it happen, let those warm, accidental touches seep into me like sunlight as we move around each other.
I lead Sebastian to the living room, which is just off the kitchen, separated by a waist-high wall. My couch is nothing fancy, but it’s big enough for the two of us. Sebastian flops onto it like he’s been here a dozen times, and when it comes time for me to sit, I don’t choose the far corner like I probably should. I sit close enough to drape my arm around Sebastian’s shoulders. He flinches, clearly surprised, but a moment later leans into the touch, tilting toward me to rest against my chest. His ponytail brushes against my nose. It would take so little to nod my head and dip my nose into it that my face is tingling with the phantom feel of his hair.
“What do you want to watch?” I ask.
“Don’t really care,” he says.
My chest clenches. There’s such a depth of contentment in his words, in his body, in the way he leans his weight against me. I’m holding him lightly, my handresting almost incidentally on his shoulder, but he sinks into the touch in a way that leaves him tucked against the shape of my body.
I fumble with the remote and put on something, anything, while I still can. I think it’s some kind of buddy cop show, dudes solving crimes with supernatural powers, something like that, but I doubt either of us are actually paying attention. Instead, we’re caught in the strangeness and comfort of this moment, a moment we shouldn’t be having, a moment I told him we’d never have.
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. The graffiti, the field trip, Virginia’s request for me to help with Pride decorations — these should all be things that push me away from Sebastian, away from this. They’re all things that could force me out of my comfortable hiding place. Yet I keep reaching out to Sebastian. I keep coming back. Every time, I’ve been the one to initiate the contact. I invited him out for a drink when he joked that I owed him one. I asked to go in that night. I asked to see him again. I asked to stay at his place. I invited him here tonight when all he sent was a vague, friendly text I could have just as easily ignored.
It should feel like spinning out of control. It should feel like teetering on the verge of disaster. But instead it feels … nice.
I don’t know if it’s okay for me to let myself have this. There’s always the potential that I’ll run away later and hurt him. If Sebastian fears that possibility, he’s certainly notacting like it. At some point, his hand snuck down to rest on my thigh and my thumb started rubbing unconsciously at his shoulder.
