whatcannotbespoken

Drew had suggested an outdoorsy weekend away in Stillwater, so John swings by REI after work to buy a pair of water shoes. He also gets a goofy forest-camo bucket hat for ear protection and impulsively picks up a bottle of tick spray while standing in line, feeling the need to contribute something to the trip that isn't part of Drew's extensive prep list. 

On the drive back, his phone buzzes. I made dinner resis for Saturday

Sick, John swipes, even though the weekend is taking on a looming dread. A beat later, he also sends a thumbs up emoji that Drew attaches another thumbs up to, their stupid little inside joke that's not even a joke. Just a pattern of behavior that happened to stick at some point. John is starting to suspect this might be a hallmark of a relationship.

Drew is in a rival frat, former pledge president—same as John—and former pledge parent—also same as John—and the oldest of four siblings, well-adjusted and with habits born from loving, present parents. They had met at the rec center gym, eventually seeing each other around enough to start comparing notes about their respective pledge classes, and that was how it started—gym buddies to normal buddies to play wrestling in Drew's room, which had accidentally turned into something else, the way it happens in movies. That's how Drew likes to refer to it anyway, and only between the two of them because they haven't really told anyone else in explicit terms, minus the one night John shared a joint with Curt and silently watched him play Diablo for half an hour before announcing, "I think I like dick," and that probably doesn't count. 

After classes, they watch sports together and on weekends they go to whatever house is hosting and partner up for pong and have drunken sex on John's couch. Drew is good with his hands; he plays piano and can reach a twelfth interval, he says, and John doesn't need to know what that means to enjoy its functional uses. Sometimes they butt heads, neither of them willing or used to ceding any kind of control, which, privately, came as a surprise to John, who had expected himself to be an easygoing type of person once he got out from under the weight of responsibilities at home. It was sort of funny, the kinds of things that became apparent only once he left. 

It's been almost five months. They're having fun. John has only slept with two other people in that time, both Kappa girls from different chapters, and he hasn't spoken to either of them again. Not that that makes it okay, exactly, but it's something.

When he gets to Drew's apartment, he finds him sitting cross-legged on the floor with camping accessories laid out around in organized bunches. "Hey," John greets, and Drew says, "Yo," then dives into a summary of their itinerary that includes kayaking and an easy hike if they're not too hungover. John puts his stuff down on the counter, nodding along.

"So you're driving straight there after work?" Drew asks, and adds, "I picked up a sleeping bag for you from Neil." 

"Yeah, after my shift. I'll probably meet you around nine." John snags his gaze on the sleeping bags rolled up next to each other. "I could've swung by Neil's."

"Sure, but you're always busy on Thursdays."

"That guy stays up 'til four every night, I could have gone anytime. And you got all this other stuff and planned the whole trip," John points out, a little irritated for no good reason at how someone is willing to do all this when they don't even really know him. He covers it up with a grin, going for sheepish and thankful.

"No big deal," Drew dismisses. "I wanted to."

"I'm just saying you don't have to take care of me like that."

Drew starts counting out protein bars. "I wanted to. You wanna take care of the people you love, don't you?" he mumbles, distracted.

John falters, feet stuck partway out of his shoes and crushing the heels in, and Drew looks up wildly.

"Wow. Sorry," he says. "That, uh. I didn't—it kind of just—" 

He makes a barfing gesture with both hands. John knows better by now than to ask clarifying questions that he's not ready to hear the answers to, but he has no idea how to redirect and ends up saying, "It's okay," as if Drew accidentally elbowed him in the face or something instead of—whatever the hell that was. A slip of the tongue. Same as saying, thanks, love you, to a cashier. 

Drew looks at him. He's got big brown eyes and wavy hair that's usually trapped under an Astros hat. John knows that he got too many concussions in high school so his parents convinced him to turn down a baseball scholarship; that he ran over a cat once and still has dreams about it. His family doesn't know he's gay, but he'll tell them when he's ready—this said with a quick glance at John—and John has absorbed all this knowledge without reciprocating, feeling as though there's simultaneously too much and nothing to say about himself when it comes to birth until now. The only notable thing to happen on their shared timeline was John finding his dad on LinkedIn last month, briefly possessed into searching for Jack Egan on a whim to find him in plain sight, no thought given to hiding his digital footprint: Worcester, MA, medical device sales rep, complete with a corny headshot of him in a suit and gray tie, a smiling snapshot of John's future face. BA from Binghamton, ten years at Merck, eight years at Applied Biotech, now at Abbott. Achievements included Rookie of the Year and President's Club for a decade running. No mention of a previous family anywhere. Maybe John could've told Drew about that, but he didn't, and also he really couldn't have because he'd already told him his dad was dead. 

"Sorry," Drew says. 

"Don't be sorry. Hey, come on." John toes his shoes all the way off and sits down on the couch behind him. "I'm excited for the trip," he assures, working a few fingers underneath Drew's hat to scritch gently. 

"Yeah?" Drew asks, turning. The hat flops off to reveal an endearing poof of hair. "You wanna spend time with me?"

"Yeah. Of course."

He gives Drew a smile, and rubs his head when he ducks to kiss John's kneecap before turning back around. John flicks the TV on; watches Gardner strike out, not caring, not really paying attention to anything except for how from the back like this, Drew could be a total stranger.

-

At home, John crushes a six-pack and collapses onto the bed, phone in hand. When the line connects, a "Hellooooo" trilling out from the other end, John says, "I think I’m better from a distance. Like—as a person. What do you think."

"Uh." There’s a rustle. "You’re on speaker. Hang on."

"Oh," John says, wincing. "Hi, Gale", because who else would it be, and sure enough Gale says, "Hey, John. Take it easy," voice growing fainter as Joni presumably moves into another room. 

It’s fine. John’s embarrassed himself in front of Gale plenty of times. Mostly on purpose to make him laugh, but still. 

"He sounds different," John says, but Joni doesn't take the bait, instead restating, "So you're better from a distance as a person."

"Whatever. Never mind. What are you guys doing?"

"Homework. Listening to music. So…by 'from a distance', you mean like, on paper?"

"What kind of homework?"

"World History. Is this about Drew?"

"You guys got a project?"

"Essay on the cradle of civilization. Aren't you two going on a trip?" Joni prompts, and John finally gives in. 

"Yeah, yeah, he got an AirBnB and we're supposed to go camping one night and I just—I don't know." 

"About the trip?"

"About anything. Jesus," he sighs. "Fuck."

"Ooh, juicy. But also, uh oh. Tell me tell me tell me." Joni snaps into a bag of snacks and asks, "Didn't you say he was gonna break up with you?" in between crunches. 

"That's what I thought. They've all broken up with me, I figured it was time for that pattern to come around again."

"You force their hand into breaking up with you," Joni corrects. "You get all distant and stuff."

"What?" John rolls over onto his stomach, indignant. "No, I don't. I call you guys every single goddamn day and text you—"

"Not with us. With everyone else. My therapist said it makes sense because you can’t fully trust anybody."

"What?" John says again. "Wait, what? You talk about me with her?" 

"Well, yeah. Mom didn't force you to go so maybe you don't know, but you kind of have to talk in therapy," Joni says loftily. 

"Joni." John rubs his eyes. "God. You don't have to bring me into it. And you don't have to tell the truth there," he groans, because in fact he has gone to therapy at the school's mental health office. Only one session, wherein he lied about forty times and the counselor didn't tell him anything he couldn't find on a google search. Knowing what his damage is isn't the problem. It never has been. Maybe if he'd gone at Joni's age he would be more open to the concept, but it hadn't occurred to their mom to send him. She was always saying, You grew up good, with pride. 

"It's late," he realizes. "Sorry, I'm—I'm bothering you guys. I shouldn't have even called you."

"Who else would you have called?" she points out astutely. "Are you catastrophizing right now? Are you being dramatic?"

"You're the one who spent the whole night crying after someone ripped your dress at homecoming," John says.

"Ha ha." The ice machine goes in the background, followed by the sound of a cup filling. "But Drew's nice. Isn't he?"

Drew is nice. John definitely doesn't deserve how nice he is. "Yeah," he exhales. "But nice probably isn't a good enough reason to stay with someone. Keep that in mind for later."

"Okay."

"Even if that someone is doing homework on your bed and sharing earbuds with you right now. Nice might not be enough," he hints, because while he may be drunk and melancholy, it's fun to needle her, and Joni yells, "JOHN."

"I'm off speaker, aren't I?"

"Still! It's not—" she adjusts her voice to a whisper "—it's not ever gonna be like that."

"Why not? How do you know?"

"I just do," she sighs, the weight of the world on her tiny little shoulders. "Shut up. Are you still gonna go on the trip?"

The thought of it pushes him back into a pool of guilt. John grunts. "Too late now."

Clearly he should. It's not the end of the world, no matter what that hamster wheel in his brain is saying. He should stop dumping on his little sister and go and do the thing and if he's sure it's not working, then he should handle it with grace.

"Okay, I'll let you go. Put me on speaker again," he instructs, and waits until he hears a door open to say, "Hey, bird. Sorry about that. Had some matters to discuss with her majesty."

"It's fine," Gale says. Joni murmurs something, Gale murmurs something back, and then he coughs. "And, uh. I don't think you're better from a distance." 

From further away, Joni cuts in: "You should see his neck now. He looks like an ostrich." 

"Send me a picture," John says, laughing, even though it kind of kills him to see evidence of them growing up from far away.

"No—ow," Gale yelps. "I'm not an ostrich, I'm a swan." 

"You'll see next time you're home," Joni says. 

"I'm never coming back here," Gale swears, and says, "Ow," again as Joni calls, "Okay byeeee."

The line goes dead. John cleans the screen with his shirt, squints at his dull reflection, and tells it, "You're a piece of shit," before tossing the phone to the other side of the bed. There's a half-packed duffel sitting by his desk that he needs to sort through, but also another sixer in the fridge that he can get to work on. He opts for the latter, figuring packing can wait, and gropes for his phone again to see that Drew has texted him. 

T minus one day until you get eaten by a possum

Ship my body to my mom, John responds. You can keep whatever the possum eats

Drew sends a thumbs up. John attaches a thumbs up to it, strangely calm, detached, as if already beyond the ending and over the other side. There is a part of him, though—a part that's comfortable in whatever they have, that could potentially grow to like Drew enough to also let you wanna take care of the people you love, don't you? slip out unbidden. 

He clings to it. He could. He should.