Carl had already finished packing, despite not flying out until the next morning. But after five years in the academy, he’d become nothing if not punctual. Having been herded like a dumb cow by Sam for the next two had only increased these habits. So yeah, maybe it was a bit ironic to be early to everything when you’d taken seven years to graduate, but Carl had his reasons.
And it had been a productive day so far; she’d called Sam, confirming the set of rooms at the hotel, and continued the slow, painful process of pulling Gerald Aguirre into the future. Hell, he would’ve considered it a good day just from talking to Gerald alone.
With nothing more to do, Carl opened Snapchat. The first notification, from ElGarcia, was her Southwest boarding position; A4. He responded with a frowning selfie, ‘C30’ in bold print across his nose. And the familiar tightness in his stomach returned as the second opened with a close-up of Gerald, ticket pressed against his face and ‘made it thanks 2 you’ above his head. He wore a lopsided smile while his eyes were seemingly focused on the caption hanging above him, simple and candid and all too dorky.
A Messenger notification dropped down over his face, forcing Carlo to send a hasty picture of his suitcase with a note about ‘how to be on time w/o help’ to Gerald before turning to Sam’s text in The Fates group chat.
Samantha Samson: Dude, you know I’ve never stopped y’all from doing anything, but this is bothering me. I just sent you my share.
Elmira Garcia: Same here. Now when do we settle that bet?
The last couple of months away from his best friend had been a bit of a transition. Although Gerald hadn’t started off as the most approachable friend, Carl had become accustomed to extensive text conversations, but more particularly nightly intrusions into his room so Gerald could complain about what in particular had annoyed him the most that day. It generally ranged from random passersby on campus to his ex-almost to his almost ex.
The AJ and Sam conversations went on the longest, becoming increasingly frequent as the years went by. Gerald would plop down on Carl’s couch with a dramatic huff and laying there like an angsty teen in a therapist’s office. Carl would patiently turn from his desk, pull a bag of Cheetos out from a drawer and throw them at Gerald’s head before attempting to control his laughter at the indignant yelp that followed. (Carl was not athletic, but his aim had always been solid.)
The earliest complaints had been reasonable and expected from someone who had never been in a long-term relationship; growing pains like someone wanting to know where AJ was and what he was doing and actually wanting to hear from him all the time. Carl himself had backed off with his texting after the first of these conversations, only to have Gerald confront him a week later about whether he was mad at him for something. In Gerald’s junior year, it had turned more to trivial annoyances like AJ’s stupid jersey shirts or the fact that he used the handkerchief Sam gave him in middle school. The summer before Carl’s final senior year had taken things to a more serious level.
Carl, Gerald, and AJ lived in the apartment right above Sam and Elmira, who were taking their master’s degrees in Macto University. Gerald had come back from a particularly long shift as a research assistant in the same establishment, entering the kitchen with his phone clutched to his ear and an expression of pure annoyance on his face. He didn’t even acknowledge his roommates and went straight up to their shared bedroom, spending the entirety of the next hour on the upper bunk.
He came out only when AJ had arrived to occupy the same space, Carl had poured them both extremely full glasses of wine and opened a bag of Cheetos on the table. Gerald slumped onto a stool in front of the counter, repeatedly thwacking his head lightly against the tile with a grunt. Carl caught his head on the fifth try, tilting his face up. “Hey, we still need that pretty face for the Scaena Museum event. Or at least the artistic brain inside it.”
Gerald sat up with a humph, taking a long gulp of the cheap wine before crossing his elbows on the counter edge and settling his head on his hands. “I know understand why they hate men.”
“Men in general?” Carl turned the opening of the bag to face himself, neither glancing at the sleeping AJ nor asking who Ge meant by ‘they’.
“I mean, not all men,” Gerald muttered over a mouthful of Cheetos. “I love me.”
Carl scoffs.
“And I love you. But I fucking hate those alpha male shitheads.”
Carl nodded slowly, sipping from his own glass as Gerald collected his thoughts.
“It’s just like — I’m sorry I didn’t go to New York with you this summer. I just wanted to save money. Now, he thinks I’ve been avoiding him.”
“Well, have you been?” Carl was shocked to hear the words leave his own mouth. It had been an unspoken rule between them for years that Carl would never comment on just how often Gerald would blow off AJ for odd reasons, and it had allowed them to exist in a world where they never faced the fact that Gerald spent substantially more time with his newest friend than his childhood-friend-turned-boyfriend.
Gerald stared at him over the rim of her glass, waiting as if he expected Carl to add some sort of clarifying statement. When he didn’t, Gerald slowly swallowed, pulling the glass back from his lips. “Maybe by his definition.”
And this time Carl didn’t lose control of his mouth, simply gave a sympathetic nod as Gerald drummed his fingers on the edge of the counter. The only sound in the room for the next few minutes was intermittent sips and chewing as the two refused to make eye contact.
Gerald eventually broke the silence with a throaty cough followed by “Didn’t you have some show you wanted to watch or something?” He too was uncomfortable with the uncharacteristic silence in the room. It was another change from Past Gerald, but it certainly played to Carl’s advantage as someone with an inability to keep his mouth shut.
“You’re willing to sit through Warrior Nun?” Carl asked cautiously.
Gerald dramatically rolled his eyes, grabbing the bag in one hand and the wine bottle in another. “Only because you brought Cheetos.”
He let Carl lead the way to the couch in front of the TV, the lean guy settling himself down against one arm as Gerald rested against the other. “I’m really starting to question that badass reputation of yours.”
“I’m plenty badass,” Carl muttered. “Haven’t you heard about my ear monstrosities?”
“I swear, the more I get to know you, the less I believe it.”
Carl ignored the comment and typed the title into Netflix’s search bar, keeping one eye on the petulant face of the Cheeto-munching idiot beside him.
“It’s like you’re an onion with increasingly squishy layers.”
“That is an incredibly unflattering metaphor.”
“It’s a simile, dumbass.”
“Whatever, dude. Sounds gross.” Carl threw a Cheeto that missed Gerald by a good five feet. “Plus, I’m pretty sure that’s not how onions work.”
“Sam’s not gonna like that, man. You’re wasting food.” Gerald refilled his own glass as he dodged another orange projectile.
Carlo exhaled sharply through his nose before turning his eyes to the TV. “That should balance out the fact that I’m watching this because she recommended it.”
One hour and two glasses of wine later, Gerald had fallen into his customary position beneath Carl’s shoulder, arm caught between Gerald’s back and the back of the couch. Shotgun Mary had just accomplished her task of finding and protecting the Warrior Nun, only to kick her off a cliff. Carl’s initial reaction was of concern, but the young man numbing his forearm was not as empathetic.
Gerald let out an unrestrained laugh that Carl only ever heard whenever Ge got drunk. “Why didn’t she recommend this to me?” Gerald slurred, rolling his head back to meet Carl’s stare. “What? I’m her best friend. I used to be her movies-and-shows friend, you know.”
“Exactly. I’m the one whose taste needs improvement.” Carl put himself down with a chuckle, pouring the last of the wine into his own glass before Gerald could take the opportunity.
“Fair.” Gerald nodded, then took Carl’s half-filled glass to get one last gulp of wine.
Carl got it back now third-filled. “Really, dude?”
Gerald nodded again, but not in response to Carl.
“I think I might be avoiding him.”
It was soft and contemplative, and Carl suddenly understood why Gerald had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the show rather than interjecting with his commentary that Sam so loved.
“Even by my definition,” Gerald added.
The large gulp Carl took of his wine did nothing to cool his face down, and it took all of his self- control to wait a moment and allow any remnant of Sober Carl to rise to the surface. The best he got was only Tipsy Carl, but he’d have to take it. “Wha—“
“I’m not sure why I’m with him.” Gerald’s interjection was barely audible, and Carl muted the TV to let him continue. “I think I just don’t want to be alone.”
Carl never thought he’d dare say that. At least not since Gerald had described Sam as the one who made sure he never felt alone in school since he first lost a best friend. Gerald had her, then they met AJ in middle school, Carl in high school. While Gerald was home to Sam, AJ had seemed to make Gerald the happiest at some point.
“Wouldn’t avoiding him leave you alone anyways? Even if you’re technically together?”
“I don’t know.” Gerald looked up at the ceiling, chewing his lip as her eyes searched the room and found Carl’s eye. “I guess it just doesn’t really feel different, but I have a name to mention whenever someone asks.”
Carl sighed, gently pulling back a lock of hair away from Gerald’s amber eyes, heavy and tired after more than enough alcohol.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t think he’s the one that stops me from feeling alone.”
Every atom of Carl’s existence froze, erupted, and stilled again — jumbled and mismatched in a sloppy attempt to allow for some impersonation of human function. And Carl, as Gerald had earlier, gave his friend a moment to retract what he’d said, to say something about his first love or his parents or anything. But the stars in his eyes only traveled to his lips and lingered there.
The front door swung open with a bang. Gerald sprung up from Carl’s lap as Elmira entered, exhausted and dragging her lab coat along the floor. “One more mention of pink and I just might kill someone.”
AJ
The pale noirette slammed the door behind her, but Sam caught it just before it shut, saving them all from another bang as Elmira dropped her bag by the sofa.
“Well, I wasn’t planning on saying it, if that helps.” Carl shot a sidelong glance at Gerald, who had pushed a solid two feet away from him on the couch. “Long day?”
“Ugh, you don’t even know.” Elmira peered around the couch at the TV. “I know they’re basically securing my entire career if I make it through this, but man does this ass have an ego on him.”
“Why’s Warrior Nun on mute?” Sam piped up at half the loudness of Elmira’s vent. Her own lab coat was neatly folded at the center and hanging by its middle on the brunette’s forearm. She hadn’t even set her bag down to watch Alba Baptista beat some guy with chunks of animal flesh.
Carl picked up the remote from between the couch cushions and unmuted it while Gerald settled his back against the arm on the other side. Elmira plopped down on the cushion separating the two of them, pushing Carl’s knee aside while berating both guys for finishing the wine without them. But Carl wasn’t even listening; he was busy trying to make sense of the Gerald he’d witnessed about a minute ago — the same Gerald who was now busy watching Sam tidy up Elmira’s things, grab a large pack of Spicy Sweet Chili Doritos, and sit on the floor between her roommate’s legs.
Now, Carlo was the one occupying that same spot, texting his two best friends and praying the bet gets called off.
Carlo Vergara: That wasn’t serious, right?
Elmira Garcia: Serious as silk burn and Sam’s love for Warrior Nun. No backing out, gayby boo <3
Carlo Vergara: It seems mean
Samantha Samson: True. Plus, he’s in on the bet and he’s not gonna wanna lose.
Elmira Garcia: If he and that sexually confused man candy haven’t ended it yet, I’ll have to rethink my career path as a psychic
Carlo Vergara: Ugh. I still don’t like it
Samantha Samson: Relax, she’s no psychic to begin with.
Elmira Garcia: Use your lies and flirting skills to cause the opposite of heartbreak for once
Samantha Samson: Mira
Elmira Garcia: Sorry
Carlo groaned, laying his phone down on his desk. He was done beating himself up about what he’d done to Sam. He felt no guilt about it anymore, but her letters were still in his memory box, reminding him of how they had gotten each other’s hopes up. Carlo had made promises, big and small, but only as a friend. Besides, they never were together anyway. Then again, it was messed up for him to say “When we have a child, I’ll tell ‘em about their aunt that I so love.” while talking to Sam about his girlfriend at the time.
Okay, maybe he was an asshole. Fuck it. It’s in the past. Even the girl was an ex now. He can’t undo what happened and rekindle what he had with Sam. Hell, screw the bet too. Subterfuge had never been her strong suit, and Gerald was a damn enduring gentleman Carlo doesn’t deserve.
Then again, half a grand was on the line, and maybe Carlo could find motivation in that — even without any other personal reasons he may have had — to figure out when and if Gerald and AJ had broken up. Carlo’s attempt during the call had failed, not to mention Gerald Aguirre was as stubborn as Sam was obedient.
Carlo didn’t want to lose another love because of another dumb choice.
'Sorry, AJ.'