“C’mon,” I tell Bruce. I grab his hand and pull him back to my bedroom. He seems to remember the way from yesterday. I figure I can just close him in there for a little while. But then I have one of those brilliant revelations that screams, You. Are. A. Dumbfuck. Because no way is Naomi coming into this apartment without pawing through my room for something.

So I tell Bruce to get into the closet. He does it, and as I stare at the closed door I think, Did I really just tell Bruce to get into the closet? That is too fucking obvious on so many levels.

Naomi is treating my apartment door like it’s starring in the seventh sequel to Saw, and I know the assault won’t compare to the barrage of questions I’ll face if I don’t open it in the next thirteen nanoseconds.

“Where the fuck were you?” she says as soon as she gets in the apartment.

“I was jerking off and you startled me so much I dropped the photo of you into the toilet,” I say. “Calm down. You’re acting like it’s that time of the month and I’m the OPEC of tampons.”

She looks good, but unfinished. I give her the once-over while she gives me the third degree. Neither of us needs a mirror when the other one’s around.

“Is that my wristband? Are you ready to go? Why aren’t you answering your door? Are you ever going to give me that key back?”

This is all precious, since any gay boy worth his Madonna singles could tell that she’s come over to borrow a belt. Naomi hates hates hates the fact that we fit into the same jeans, but that doesn’t stop her from treating my clothes like I only have them on loan from her.

“I’m going to wear the red one,” I say. “I know I’m wearing this one right now, but I was about to change to the red one.”

“Fuck you. You look hot and you know it. You’re just saying the red one to throw me off the trail of your lick-my-hips-with-your-hands glitter belt. And I’m telling you, tonight that baby’s calling this waist Mama.”

There’s no use arguing, especially since she’s totally paying for my drinks tonight, whether she knows it (awwww, Ely’s puppy dog eyes) or not (stupid waif still hates purses enough to ask me to hold her plastic wallet).

She bounds into my room, and I swear it’s like I can hear the closet breathing. Bad move bad move bad move.

“Over here,” I say, thanking the Lord that I’m too goddamn busy to ever get my used clothes beyond my desk chair.

I hand her the glitter belt.

“Looks better on me,” I say.

“Only when it’s fastening you to the bedpost,” she shoots back.

Spoken like a true ignorant, which is what I love about my girl.

“All set?” I say.

“Do you mind if Bruce comes along?” Naomi asks. Clearly I balk, because she laughs and says, “What? He’s downstairs. I needed clean underwear, okay? I went to the laundry room, and he was hanging out with the sleeplessheads in the lobby.”

I’m so confused.

“The First,” Naomi says. “Not your cheap-thrill kissing partner. I swear, if he didn’t have such good teeth, I’d let you have your little mindfuck for a little while longer.”

“That’s not fair,” I say. The words are coming out before I can think, Don’t say that, foolboy.

“Wait a sec.” Naomi pauses right in front of the closet. “You make out with my boyfriend and I’m the one not being fair? Even a two-year-old on meth would be able to see how wrong that is.”

“I meant fair in the I have no fucking idea what I’m talking about sense.”

“Oh, I see. Maybe I need your leather jacket to compensate.” She reaches to pull open the closet door. I do the only thing I can think of to stop her.

“Yeah, if you want to look dumpy,” I say.

Bingo.

“You think it makes me look dumpy?” She actually sounds hurt.

“Sweetheart, the damn thing makes me look dumpy. Why do you think I haven’t been wearing it lately? I’m ready to give it back to the cow. Cuz at least the cow’s supposed to look like a cow.”

“Okay,” she says, checking the mirror one more time. “Let’s go.”

I turn out the light as I leave my room, since I always do that and I don’t want it to seem like anything’s out of the ordinary. It’s only once we’re out in the foyer between our apartments that I say, “Oh fuck!”

“What?” Naomi asks.

“I forgot something. I’ll be right back.”

“What did you forget?”

“My dick, okay? You can’t possibly expect me to go out without my dick! I’ll be right back.”

I close the door before she can get out another line. I run back to my room, open the closet, and see Bruce the Second standing there in the dark.

“I want you to stay,” I say. “I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

He nods. But he doesn’t look happy.

I figure it out.

“You’re not a cheap thrill, and this isn’t a mindfuck,” I tell him. I don’t know what it is, but at least I know it’s not either of those.

He steps into the dark shadows of the room. He touches my shoulder. So damn earnest, and I so damn want to kiss him.

“I promise I won’t be long,” I say.

“Go,” he tells me. “I’ll be here.”

I’m almost out the door when he says, “Gum.”

“What?”

He throws me a pack of Orbit.

“Tell her you went back for gum.”

“Thanks,” I say. I could get used to a guy who knows his way around an alibi.

I head back through the apartment. Naomi’s waiting outside in the elevator. I have no doubt she’s been holding it this whole time. It strikes me for the gazillionth time that she is completely fucking beautiful. And I love it, because my love for her has absolutely nothing to do with that. I love her because she’ll hold the elevator for me even if heading downstairs without me would make more of a point. I love her because if she sees a shirt that she knows will look good with my eyes, she’ll buy it for me, even if she can’t afford it. I love her because when I feel like putting my head in an oven, she’ll gently take it out and bake me cookies instead. I love her because she can curse like a sailor and could no doubt sail like a sailor, too, if she put her mind to it. I love her because even though she doesn’t always tell the truth, she always feels like she should. I love her because I don’t need to love her all the time.

“Got your dick?” she asks.

“What do you care?” I say.

She snorts, hits the lobby button, and tells me, “All I know is that this party better not suck. If it does, you’re going to be one dead Ducky.”

I feel disloyal. Because as the elevator heads down, I feel like I’m moving away from something instead of toward something. The love I have for Naomi is the kind that’s understood. But I feel compelled to go back to the thing I don’t completely understand.

He’d go around and open the door for me, wouldn’t he?

I can’t let Naomi know what I’m thinking.

This is very treacherous ground.

NAOMI

ORBIT

“Got your dick, Naomi?” Ely smirks at me as the elevator goes down.

“If I did, would it get me anywhere with you?” He thinks he looks so hot in that red belt. It totally makes him look dumpy. Dumpy and red-hot flaming. Very tragic combination on a gay boy.

“Negative,” Ely responds. He leans into me, jutting his chest against mine, then angles his face like he’s going to kiss me. His lips are almost touching mine when his hand lands in between our mouths. “Gum?” he asks, twirling a pack between his fingers. Like a piece of gum will successfully overpower Ely’s late-night scent. Ely will say it was only one, but his breath power indicates at least three.

A piece of olive is lodged in between his two front teeth. It gives his face a most welcome ugly appeal. If Ely leans in any closer to me, the friction between his smile and my anticipation would be like a  begging to detonate.

I do realize a big bad  is happening out there—war and injustice and global warming and all that hope and humanity—but I’m sorry, I care most about the Naomi & Ely . It’s what’s gotten me through this far in life. It doesn’t burst. Like everything else does.

I place my index finger inside my mouth so he’ll know about the olive. He immediately licks it from his teeth.

Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .

He’s so close already—why not?

“Time-out?” I tease, referring to our occasional hands-free, means-nothing-but-platonic-love-between-best-friends make-out sessions that don’t count in real time. (The time-outs only happen when we’re drinking or bored—which interestingly seem to go hand in hand, or mouth to mouth, as the case may be.)

“You’re only using me for my gum,” he teases back. “How can I trust you’ll still respect me in the morning?”

He pulls back, dances around me, playful.

False alarm. I lied. There’s no , and Ely doesn’t look dumpy or red-hot flaming. He just looks like Ely. He’s not hot, like Gabriel. He’s Ely. Lovely. The first person I think of when I wake up in the morning, the last person I hope for when I fall asleep at night. The one person who’s as much a part of me as me.

Maybe I’m an egoist. I’m not sure exactly what an egoist is, but I’d appreciate any label right now that could clarify exactly what Ely and I are. To each other.

I mean, I know we know. But do we really know?

The egoist version of us distills Naomi & Ely, two parts of the same whole. My mom and his moms have   me over and over again that sexual preference is not a choice, but when Ely’s leaning and teasing, so close to me without touching me, yet I still feel him—up here, down there, on every centimeter of my skin—it’s like I can’t ,  because no matter what anyone says, I can’t help but believe that he chose for me:

When we were thirteen and learning how to kiss by using each other as practice, gay wasn’t even an issue. It felt so natural and sweet and right. No wall existed between us, because it was so clear we were destined to share that first experience together. His lips didn’t feel gay then. Why should they now? Just because Ely is attracted to boys doesn’t mean he couldn’t want to push our mind-meld into body-meld. I refuse to believe it’s possible he couldn’t want that, too, on some level, whether he knows it or not.

Or maybe, as backup friend the girl Robin advises, I’ve known Ely too long and too well, and my eyes only see what my heart projects.

I need to spend more time with other girls.

The elevator door opens.

Ely places a piece of gum into my palm as we step into the lobby hall area. I stop cold.

Bruce the Second really does have great teeth—bright and shiny, perfectly straight, almost works of art. The art is no accident. Both his parents are dentists. They allegedly own the mouths of the LIRR Ronkonkoma Branch Line’s elite. And their prodigal good son chews only sugar-free gum. Bruce the Second is an Orbit man. Ely is Dentyne’s bitch.

“Since when do you chew Orbit?” I ask Ely. I do not unwrap the gum. I pop a Tic Tac into my mouth instead, from my own stash.

“Since Madonna started writing children’s books. Why do you care?”

I step back from him, resisting the urge to shove him against the wall.  Naomi, come out, come out, wherever you are.

I care because, um, oh yeah, BRUCE THE SECOND IS MY BOYFRIEND! Or was. Or something. I mean, I don’t think I really care that Bruce is about to not be my boyfriend anymore, unless he’s already not my boyfriend and we’re so indifferent we’re not even bothering with an official breakup scene. I do care about the fact of my best friend being the reason for that. Maybe when Ely confessed he’d kissed Bruce the Second, I was like, “Yeah, whatever.” That indifference was a lie. It’s like when Ely says, “Well, it’s a good thing you’re gonna fuck you, cuz it ain’t gonna be me,” and I laugh. Indifference lies to protect my hurt.