Sports Night fic: Mama Said
Title: Mama Said
Pairing: Dan/OC, Casey/Dan UST
Rating: 15
Summary: Dan Rydell: breaking hearts since 1992.
Note: I have seven fic requests for Christmas. This ... is not one of them.
Thank you: catwalksalone, who said, "More", and lordessrenegade for her American eyes and for saying, "Hee!" several times.
Mama Said
Met him on a Monday and my heart stood still …
"And then you were dead, you stupid woman!" my mother always used to yell right about then. I didn't hear the rest of the song until I was a teenager, and, I've got to say, I'm not sure it was worth waiting for.
My mom, you see, had this thing about romance - in books and movies and song lyrics. All that Be mine forever and Love you till the end of time stuff; she said it was so much commercial BS, that it raised false expectations and doomed us all to disappointment. She had a theory that it was songwriters who invented the whole idea of romantic love in the first place, that it wouldn't have existed if some poet, somewhere back in the dark ages, hadn't been stuck for a rhyme.
She made it sound a lot more convincing than that, probably because she really believed it. Whether she believed it quite so much before my dad walked out on us, I don't know - could be that's the reason he walked, who can say? - and she never completely sold me; maybe people in love are only fooling themselves, but maybe some of us want to be fooled.
So. I met him on a Monday, and my heart … didn't stand still, clearly, since I'm still here to tell the story, but my stomach did a definite flip-flop. Which might be a good sign, or a bad one. Depends on whether you're my mom or not.
Everyone hates Mondays, and in our office we had good reason, ever since Jamie in Marketing instituted Fuck-off Friday, which takes the TGIF concept one step further and involves a mass walk-out at 5.00 sharp, no matter what state your desk's in, and all down to the Irish pub on the next block for a night of Guinness and banging trays and dancing on tables and vomiting. Not exactly my dream night out, but you have to go along with these things, you have to fit in. Saturday nights I could please myself - mostly I'd go clubbing, some weeks I'd just veg out in front of the TV with a pizza and a stack of videos that would make my mother weep (but you sit there and tell me you don't get a buzz at the end of Dirty Dancing, when Patrick Swayze does the lift. Yeah, that's what I thought). And, speaking of my mother, Sundays would start with the sound of her key in the lock, then the smell of frying bacon and the hum of the vacuum cleaner. We'd go shopping after, then I'd take her out to dinner as a thank-you, and before you knew it, it'd be Monday. And back to the horrors of the desk I'd left on Friday.
It'd been in an especially bad state that week, because it was the end of the month and we were trying to make the figures balance, which is a crappy job - tedious, and time-consuming - even when you're working with normal people, and when you're working with so-called 'creative' types who think the rules don't apply to them, it's a nightmare. So I wasn't in the greatest of moods, and not at all inclined to be polite or welcoming or helpful or friendly to whoever-it-was who'd just come up behind me and loomed over my desk, making this polite little cough to get my attention. Besides, I work in accounts; 'polite' isn't in my job remit.
And then I looked up. And I kept on looking.
He was worth looking at. I'd seen him before, around the building, I knew who he was - he was the new junior they'd taken on at the sports desk, the one there'd been all the water-cooler buzz about (straight out of college, got his own byline already, do you know what they're paying him, just getting experience till he gets on TV) - but this was the first time we'd been up close and personal.
My loss. He was gorgeous. He really was just a kid, probably five or six years younger than me, and … god. He had eyes like fucking Bambi, and his mouth …
Ah, shit. No, if I start thinking about his mouth, I'll cry, and I want to get this written down and finished. I think, if I can finally do that, maybe it'll help.
I'm getting ahead of myself there, aren't I? Sorry if I gave away the plot, or anything, but I don't guess it was much of a surprise. Me and Dan, we're not the kind that get the happy endings. Most people would say we don't deserve them. And, my mom would say, there's no such thing in any case.
For all I know, all of them might be right.
I wasn't thinking that then, though. You don't, do you? I just pasted on a plastic smile and aimed it at him, and said, "Hey. Can I help you?"
Someone behind me sniggered. Someone was going to get their coffee spat in next time it was my turn to go get it.
He smiled right back at me, wide-open and trusting and beautiful, and said, "Um. Yeah. I've got some expenses. Is that you?"
"That's me," I said, and held out my hand for the paperwork. Then, because I felt sorry for him, walking straight into the lions' den (you think not? You ever worked in accounts?), I said, "You know, there's a tray, you don't have to bring it down - "
He said, "Yeah," again, and another, "Um." I started to think maybe he was all looks and no brains. Not that that would be a deal-breaker, or anything; just, smart is sexy sometimes, and … I dunno, he looked like he ought to be smart. Sexy he had down to a fine art. He flapped the papers in the air before he passed them over, and said, almost making it into an apology, "Thing is - there's some stuff on there you might think's a bit … um … strange? So I thought I'd bring it down myself, and then, if you wanted? I could explain?"
Strange, the boy said. Like I hadn't seen every kind of 'strange' going in the last … well, ever since I was born, really. Strange, I knew. I took his expense sheet, and riffled through the receipts. Then I looked up at him. He was right. This was strange.
"Okay. Air fare, car hire, hotel, restaurant … masseuse?"
He blushed. No, really. Stood right there in front of me, and his face just went bright red, jawline to forehead, in the space of no time flat.
"That's what I thought you might want explained."
"Could be useful," I admitted, and leaned back in my chair. I had plenty of ideas of my own, but I figured I may as well hear the real one. Or whatever he was claiming was the real one. Although it was pretty sure to be a let-down compared to some of my theories.
"The thing is," he said, and he hitched his ass onto the edge of my desk, one leg dangling. Then he pushed himself off, and stood up straight again. "Sorry."
I waved a hand. "Feel free." It was a nice ass, all wrapped up in black 501s with a button-front fly for easy access. I didn't in the least mind being a little bit closer to it.
He settled himself back down. "The thing is," he started over, "I'm about a half-inch too tall."
I looked him deliberately up and down, and raised an eyebrow. "Ohhhhh?" I said, and I drew it out. "Well, they do say it's that extra half-inch that counts." I wanted to see if I could make him blush any harder. Turns out, yes, yes, I could. And, apparently, also make him stutter.
"F-for airline seats," he said. "And I've got this lower b-back problem?"
I didn't know if he was asking me or telling me, so I just nodded.
"It - it, like, it pops out sometimes? On long-haul flights, or sometimes in strange beds …"
I thought about letting that one go, but … no, how could I? "That must be very inconvenient," I said, straight-faced, and settled the papers down on my desk. "Okay. I'll make a note. Daniel Rydell, out-of-town expenses to include …" I squinted at the receipt. "What does that say?"
He flashed a sudden grin; it made him look even younger and, impossibly, even better-looking. I had a sudden overwhelming urge to ask him to help me find a stapler, or something, and drag him into the nearest supply closet. But that would have been wrong. Oh. So. Wrong.
"Shiatsu," he translated.
I blinked.
"Um. Okay. Gesundheit?"
That made him laugh. "So, that's okay?" he asked, and slid to his feet. I hated to see him go; it'd been fun. But I had work to do and so, I guessed, did he.
"Oh, honey," I said, absent-mindedly, "the guys on the newsdesk try to claim for hookers and blow. A little massage is nothing!" I smiled up at him - a real smile this time - and, after a moment, he relaxed and smiled back.
"'Honey'?" he said.
"Ah. Sorry. That's my inner Southern Belle. Sometimes she simply cannot be contained."
"That," he said blandly, "must be very inconvenient." He reached out a hand for mine and shook it formally. "Well, it's been a pleasure, Miz Scarlett."
I mimed shock, and went into my best Bette Davis swoon. "Honey, Scarlett O'Hara is for pussies. Mah name is Jezebel!"
"Yeah," he said. "I just bet it is." And he was gone.
And there I was, gazing after him like the last survivor on the Titanic counting the seats in the lifeboats.
A wad of paper hit me in the head. I said, "Ow!" and, "What is this, fourth grade?" and turned around. Across the room, Marietta - who's forty, and has never known the love of a man, but still somehow manages to find some reason to go on living day to day - frowned at me, and shook her head.
"Kiki, you were totally flirting with that poor boy," she said, scolding.
I looked innocent.
"I was?"
There was a chorus of "Yes!" from just about everyone in the room. So much for discretion. And here I thought I'd been terribly tactful.
"Huh," I said, and then, "You think he minded?"
Marietta considered me for a moment, her head on one side. "You know what?" she eventually said. "I really don't think he did."
He didn't. He hadn't. He was waiting for me in the parking lot that night, leaning up against a pillar, the black 501s topped by a beat-up bomber jacket, all very hot and heavy and James Dean if it hadn't been for the lumpy, hand-knitted striped scarf he had wrapped around his throat. I slowed up as I came toward him, glancing up at him enquiringly, letting him make the first move.
He said, "Hey," and then just stood looking down at me. He wasn't smiling now; he was quite, quite serious. Scared, I think; off-balance, anyway, and not liking the feeling. Boys like Dan, they go through life with everything handed to them on a big silver plate; any time they hit something new, something strange, it throws them. Mostly they bluster their way through it. Not Dan. Dan was sweet.
"I'm pretty new in town," he said. "I don't know - I don't know the places to go. I thought …"
"… maybe I did?" I finished, and he nodded.
"Yeah. You - you know what I mean, don't you?"
"I know what you mean," I said. He was too pretty to look so worried; he'd get wrinkles. "It's okay. I won't tell anyone, if that's what you're thinking."
He shook his head once, quickly. "That's not - it wasn't - I just wasn't sure - "
"If you're not," I said, dryly, "You're the first and only person in the history of the world who isn't." I reached out and tucked his arm into mine. "Come along, Grasshopper. Trust me, you're in good hands."
That smile again. God. There oughta be a law. As a matter of fact, there is: it's called the Geneva Convention.
"Is that a promise?" he asked, and he looked straight into my eyes.
"You bet it is," I said. And it was.
***
That makes it all sound terribly easy. It makes me sound terribly easy, for sure, but, hey: no big surprise there. When it comes to cute boys with big doe eyes and thousand-watt smiles, I'm a pushover. But it wasn't. There was the whole secrecy thing, just to begin with. We never so much as bothered to discuss it; there was nothing to discuss. It didn't even have anything - well, not everything - to do with who we were; it was just … the whole upstairs/downstairs thing. People like me, support staff - clerks, engineers, techs, typists - we don't mix with the creative talent. They look down on us, we think they're a bunch of overpaid, stuck-up jerkwads. (And Dan was both creative and very, very talented. Boy: was he ever.) So that put us under a strain right from the get-go, trying to act tactful and discreet if we met in the corridors at work, making up a list of 'safe' places where we could be together and be reasonably certain we wouldn't run into any of our colleagues. You'd think in a town the size of Boston, that'd be pretty easy, no?
No. We were constantly being surprised, having to split up and pretend we'd come to this bar, that club, separately, by coincidence. Even when we drove out of town for the weekend, we kept having to look over our shoulders, thinking we saw a familiar face, heard a voice we knew. We were never really able to relax. And … you know. It's not nice, being somebody's dirty little secret. Although whether he was mine or I was his, we never did seem able to decide.
Staying in would've been the easier option, but that was when we found out we had almost nothing in common. The first thing he said when he came to my apartment - well, not the first thing, but one of the things he said when we were getting dressed - was, "Where do you keep your books?" And I looked at him blankly, because there they were, a whole shelf of them, right behind the living room door. I didn't figure out what had him so puzzled until I went to his apartment, and then that really was the first thing that hit me: he had books. He had books like other people have roaches. You couldn't see the floor for damn books. I said, "God, Dan, have you read all of these?" and the look he gave me, you'd think I'd talked dirty about his sister. And music: he had the worst taste in music of anyone I've ever known. Me, I like stuff you can dance to, something bright, something with a beat. He used to listen to all these old guys with croaky voices, droning on and on about their miserable lives until you'd want to slit a vein just to lighten things up a little. Also: foreign movies. I mean - why? Just: why?!
Taking him home to meet my mom was a big step. My mom's great, but this whole anti-romance thing of hers - you know, when you're bringing your boyfriend home, it casts a bit of a dampener on things. I went to see her first, asked her maybe could she tone it down, just for me?
"I know it's your opinion, Mom," I told her, "and, you know, I respect it. It's just …" I couldn't quite say it. She patted my arm.
"You really like him, huh, Kiki?"
I sniffed - I wasn't crying; Mom's cats give me allergies and, anyhow, I had some grit in my eye - and nodded. "I guess I do," I said.
I guess I did.
I warned Dan just the same. Mom has this way of going from one extreme to the other, and after she's had a couple of cocktails she could pass for Auntie Mame on speed. Dan listened understandingly.
"It's okay," he said. "My mom's … I mean, she's in Connecticut, but ... I'd like you to meet her someday. Only …" He stopped talking, and took a sudden close interest in his fingernails. I rested my hand on his arm. Dan never ran out of words. If he didn't know what to say at any one given time, he'd make something up.
He looked up at me, finally. "She - she's not well. She's … I guess she's depressed. She cries a lot. Sleeps the rest of the time. I love her, but it's hard - it's hard to see her that way." He was silent again for a while then, but in that way where I could tell he hadn't finished talking, he was just working through something in his mind, something he couldn't quite say out loud. Eventually he went on, "And I hate for other people to see it, too. She used to be - " He looked away from me, and his mouth curved; I longed to reach out and touch it. "She was so beautiful. When I was a kid. Now, some days, she doesn't even brush her hair. Doesn't even get out of bed." He shook his head, like he was trying to shake away his thoughts. "So, your mom?"
"Not depressed," I said. "Um, is there, like, an opposite of depressed …?"
He looked quite scared, but he needn't have worried. Mom fell in love with him at first sight - why wouldn't she? I did - and Auntie Mame was nowhere to be seen. The closest we got to that was when Sweet Charity came on the TV, and Mom sang along to some of the big production numbers. She may or may not have directed Big Spender at Dan, but I looked daggers at her, and she backed off. That was my man!
I left them together while I did the dishes. I came back into the living room just in time to hear Mom say, " - invented in the middle ages - "
"Mom!" I said, exasperated. "You promised!"
Dan jumped to her defence. Of course he would. "It's not your mom's fault. She was talking about the movie - "
Mom picked up the thread. " - and how Charity spends her life chasing an ideal that only exists in her imagination, and how even her name's symbolic - "
They'd lost me. I said, "Huh?" intelligently, and tried to make some sense out of the ensuing conversation, while they threw around words like agape and philios, and didn't even laugh when I said, in a very small voice, that it was all Greek to me. So in the end, I sat and watched.
I'd forgotten - maybe I'd never properly realised - that my mom was smart. Really smart, I mean. She'd even gone away to college for a year, as an English major, but … I don't know. She dropped out. It was the 60s, a lot of people dropped out. Maybe there wasn't enough money. Maybe it was when she met my dad. She never really talked about it.
I'd never known how badly she missed it. If it hadn't been for Dan, I never would have known.
And Dan. Remember what I said about smart being sexy?
Oh, god, yes!
So those were the things we had against us. Society, and our own selves. You'd think that would be insurmountable, wouldn't you? But it wasn't. We kept our secrets, and we found our common ground. We worked things through. I'd never been the sort to put that kind of effort into a relationship - love 'em and leave 'em, that was me - but I'd never known anyone like Dan before; never known anyone worth the effort. And, god knows why, I guess Dan felt the same about me.
No, what turned out to be the breaking point was this: I had competition. I don't think Dan even realised that was what it was, but I knew. His friend. Casey. His best friend, he said, like he was a fourteen-year-old girl with a crush. I heard a lot about Casey: how smart he was, how talented, what a brilliant writer, what a great guy, how good he'd been to Dan, how much he'd helped him, how he'd always been there for him.
I hated Casey's guts. That was before I met him. Then he came back out East for a visit, and I knew for sure.
I hated Casey's breathing guts.
There'd have been no point saying anything to Dan; he wouldn't hear a word against the guy. Even when I said, after we'd first been introduced, "He's very tall," - which was lame, but it was the only thing that came into my head that didn't begin and end with the words, "Smug, supercilious prick!" - Dan got defensive about it. So it would have been no use for me to tell him, "He's your friend because you practically worship at his feet; he's your friend because you make him feel like he's someone special. He's rude to you, he patronises you, he treats you like a kid, no, he treats you like his dog, and, what's more, I hate the way he calls you 'Danny', like you were five years old. And I hate you for letting him act that way, and for not even seeming to notice, and because you are about a hundred times more in love with Casey when he's way across on the other side of the country than you ever will be with me when I'm right here by your side, and how in the hell am I ever supposed to compete with that?"
I didn't say any of that. But I think Dan knew. I think the tone of my voice when he said, "We're meeting Casey," and I said, "Oh. Wonderful!" might have given me away. Just a little.
Casey hated me too; that goes without saying. He was used to having Dan - Danny - all to himself, his own personal satellite/entourage/cheering squad. He was not at all happy at the idea of sharing. Not that he even wanted Dan; he was married, had a kid. He told us all about both of them. At length, and in detail. With photos. If he could've stuck up a screen on the wall of the bar and whipped out a cine camera, he would've done it. I sat there all evening and watched him stomp all over every thought Dan had, every opinion he expressed, I saw him override him on the restaurant we went to, and on the menu we chose, on how much to tip the waitress, on where we should go afterwards. I listened to them talk about sports - and Dan knew his sports; if there was one thing I was sure of, it was that Dan knew all about sports - and still, Casey was constantly contradicting him, undermining him. Casey had to be first. And Casey had to be right. Dan was just there to admire the wonder that was Casey McCall; that was his one role in life.
It made me sick. I excused myself, and went to the bathroom.
I came back slow and quiet. You know how it is if you think people might be talking about you: you just have to know what they're saying, even if you're sure it's going to be bad. Especially if you're sure it's going to be bad.
And, yes, as I came within earshot, I could hear Casey laughing, snide and nasty, and saying, "'… come along with Dan and I'? God, Danny, doesn't it drive you crazy?!"
I couldn't see Dan's face from where I was. I don't think he was laughing. His hands were wrapped around his beer bottle; he was peeling the foil away with one thumbnail. He said something; I tried to catch it, but he was too quiet. Whatever it was, Casey didn't like it. He shrugged, and said, "Yeah, okay. Well, you're the one who has to live with it."
Dan looked up then. He said, quite loudly, loud enough that people turned to stare, "Yes. Yes, I am, and, you know what, Casey? I didn't even notice, so back off, will you? It doesn't matter to me, and it shouldn't matter to you."
Casey really didn't like that. His whole face went closed and tight, and he sat back in his chair, lips pressed close together. That suited me. A silent Casey was a Casey I could, just possibly, stand to be around.
And Dan. I was so proud of him, then. I came out from the shadows and back to the table, and as I sat down I took his hand and squeezed it. That was about as much as I could do. I wanted to kiss him - wanted badly to kiss him - but we were in public, and we had rules. He looked up at me, and smiled, a small, quiet, private smile.
I still remember that smile. Dream about it, sometimes.
I wish I didn't. No, I don't. Yes I do. Oh, god, I don't know! Sometimes I wish the whole thing had never happened. But then I think … if I'd never have known him …
If I'd never known him, I'd never have had to live without him. But what I would have missed!
So. We had a couple of months. Got to know one another, settled into our routines; got past the first 'oh-god-fuck-me-now' stage, and into something more or less relaxed and comfortable and friendly. Which isn't to say I wasn't still wild about him. I thought about him all the time, wanted to be with him all the time; called him in the night, sometimes, just to hear his voice, talked until one of us fell asleep, nearly killed myself with the effort of not begging him to get out of bed and come on over. Not even for sex - well, not only for sex, I wouldn't have said no, I'm not insane - but just to see him, just to have him near me. Because time spent away from Dan was time wasted, life only half-lived.
Sorry, Mom. It was love. There's just no getting over the fact. Be mine forever, love you till the end of time, the whole shebang, hearts and flowers and moonlight and Valentines, all tied up with a pretty red ribbon. It lasts forever. And it hurts like hell.
Was, past tense. Yes, it ended. You already know that. You want to know how?
Fucking Casey McCall. That's how. Phoning out of the blue, phoning with a job offer, an opportunity, a big, fabulous break that Dan (Danny!) would be crazy not to jump at. I knew he'd be crazy not to take it. I even told him to go.
Which makes me the crazy one, I suppose.
This is what I should have said to him:
"He's bad for you, Dan."
"You become a whole different person when you're around him, in fact, you pretty much become him, and one Casey McCall is more than enough for the world, thanks."
"He uses you. He uses you to feel good about himself. And he's using your talent as a safety net in case his own isn't enough to get him where he wants to be."
And, perhaps most of all, "When he got married, did he know then that you were in love with him? And he got married anyway? That means he's straight, Dan, and being in love with your straight best friend? No good ever comes of it."
I didn't say any of those things. I thought we could stay friends. And maybe, we did, if a card at Christmas and a phone call on my birthday can be counted as friendship.
But I was right. I watch their show - not the one Dan left me for, the show they do now, the one in New York - I watch it from time to time. Not every night; that would make me the psycho-stalker-ex, and I take some pride in the fact that I managed not to go down that road. But I was watching on Draft Day 2000. I know Dan; even after all these years, I can read him. I knew something was going to happen. And when he threw that cue to Casey, the one Casey didn't catch (none of us could ever agree on what happened that day; it was 50/50 whether Dan went off-script, or whether Casey just hadn't prepped) - when that happened, I recognised the look on Casey's face. I'd seen it before, that night in the bar, the night that Dan had dared to have a mind of his own.
He makes your life hell, sweetheart, I think, across the miles. You should have stayed with me. I couldn't make you famous. But, god. I'd have made you happy. I'd have made you happy, if I'd had to die trying.
Mom's here. She doesn't have time to do my housework any longer, not now I'm putting her through college. She's working online to get her PhD in, ironically enough, romance literature. I have Dan to thank for that - or she does; that talk she had with him is what sparked her into checking out the options. And it's another way to keep in touch. Maybe he doesn't call me, but when she got her MA, he came to her graduation. That's the last time I saw him. And it's okay - isn't it? - if that photo's on my nightstand. After all, what son wouldn't be proud of his mother?
I clean the house myself these days, and let her run her fingers round the surfaces, tutting at the dust I've left behind. We still go shopping, though, and I still take her to dinner. It's a tradition. I'm all that she has, after all. Or should that be the other way round?
She puts her hand on my shoulder. "What are you writing?" she asks.
"Nothing," I tell her, and I make sure my body blocks the screen from her sight. "Just a blog. I'll tell you about blogs some other time, Mom."
She sniffs. "I know what a blog is, thank you! I'm not senile! Are you ready to go?"
"I'll just get my coat," I tell her, and push my chair back.
I don't know why - I know, when I was writing about Dan just now, that I said I felt like crying, but I'm pretty sure I didn't actually do it, I hope I'm not that lame - but for some reason, Mom reaches up to me then, brushes back my hair, stands on tiptoe to kiss me on the cheek.
"You're a good boy, Kevin," she tells me. And she touches her hand to the side of my face, and she smiles.
We all live hopefully ever after.
***
Pairing: Dan/OC, Casey/Dan UST
Rating: 15
Summary: Dan Rydell: breaking hearts since 1992.
Note: I have seven fic requests for Christmas. This ... is not one of them.
Thank you: catwalksalone, who said, "More", and lordessrenegade for her American eyes and for saying, "Hee!" several times.
Mama Said
Met him on a Monday and my heart stood still …
"And then you were dead, you stupid woman!" my mother always used to yell right about then. I didn't hear the rest of the song until I was a teenager, and, I've got to say, I'm not sure it was worth waiting for.
My mom, you see, had this thing about romance - in books and movies and song lyrics. All that Be mine forever and Love you till the end of time stuff; she said it was so much commercial BS, that it raised false expectations and doomed us all to disappointment. She had a theory that it was songwriters who invented the whole idea of romantic love in the first place, that it wouldn't have existed if some poet, somewhere back in the dark ages, hadn't been stuck for a rhyme.
She made it sound a lot more convincing than that, probably because she really believed it. Whether she believed it quite so much before my dad walked out on us, I don't know - could be that's the reason he walked, who can say? - and she never completely sold me; maybe people in love are only fooling themselves, but maybe some of us want to be fooled.
So. I met him on a Monday, and my heart … didn't stand still, clearly, since I'm still here to tell the story, but my stomach did a definite flip-flop. Which might be a good sign, or a bad one. Depends on whether you're my mom or not.
Everyone hates Mondays, and in our office we had good reason, ever since Jamie in Marketing instituted Fuck-off Friday, which takes the TGIF concept one step further and involves a mass walk-out at 5.00 sharp, no matter what state your desk's in, and all down to the Irish pub on the next block for a night of Guinness and banging trays and dancing on tables and vomiting. Not exactly my dream night out, but you have to go along with these things, you have to fit in. Saturday nights I could please myself - mostly I'd go clubbing, some weeks I'd just veg out in front of the TV with a pizza and a stack of videos that would make my mother weep (but you sit there and tell me you don't get a buzz at the end of Dirty Dancing, when Patrick Swayze does the lift. Yeah, that's what I thought). And, speaking of my mother, Sundays would start with the sound of her key in the lock, then the smell of frying bacon and the hum of the vacuum cleaner. We'd go shopping after, then I'd take her out to dinner as a thank-you, and before you knew it, it'd be Monday. And back to the horrors of the desk I'd left on Friday.
It'd been in an especially bad state that week, because it was the end of the month and we were trying to make the figures balance, which is a crappy job - tedious, and time-consuming - even when you're working with normal people, and when you're working with so-called 'creative' types who think the rules don't apply to them, it's a nightmare. So I wasn't in the greatest of moods, and not at all inclined to be polite or welcoming or helpful or friendly to whoever-it-was who'd just come up behind me and loomed over my desk, making this polite little cough to get my attention. Besides, I work in accounts; 'polite' isn't in my job remit.
And then I looked up. And I kept on looking.
He was worth looking at. I'd seen him before, around the building, I knew who he was - he was the new junior they'd taken on at the sports desk, the one there'd been all the water-cooler buzz about (straight out of college, got his own byline already, do you know what they're paying him, just getting experience till he gets on TV) - but this was the first time we'd been up close and personal.
My loss. He was gorgeous. He really was just a kid, probably five or six years younger than me, and … god. He had eyes like fucking Bambi, and his mouth …
Ah, shit. No, if I start thinking about his mouth, I'll cry, and I want to get this written down and finished. I think, if I can finally do that, maybe it'll help.
I'm getting ahead of myself there, aren't I? Sorry if I gave away the plot, or anything, but I don't guess it was much of a surprise. Me and Dan, we're not the kind that get the happy endings. Most people would say we don't deserve them. And, my mom would say, there's no such thing in any case.
For all I know, all of them might be right.
I wasn't thinking that then, though. You don't, do you? I just pasted on a plastic smile and aimed it at him, and said, "Hey. Can I help you?"
Someone behind me sniggered. Someone was going to get their coffee spat in next time it was my turn to go get it.
He smiled right back at me, wide-open and trusting and beautiful, and said, "Um. Yeah. I've got some expenses. Is that you?"
"That's me," I said, and held out my hand for the paperwork. Then, because I felt sorry for him, walking straight into the lions' den (you think not? You ever worked in accounts?), I said, "You know, there's a tray, you don't have to bring it down - "
He said, "Yeah," again, and another, "Um." I started to think maybe he was all looks and no brains. Not that that would be a deal-breaker, or anything; just, smart is sexy sometimes, and … I dunno, he looked like he ought to be smart. Sexy he had down to a fine art. He flapped the papers in the air before he passed them over, and said, almost making it into an apology, "Thing is - there's some stuff on there you might think's a bit … um … strange? So I thought I'd bring it down myself, and then, if you wanted? I could explain?"
Strange, the boy said. Like I hadn't seen every kind of 'strange' going in the last … well, ever since I was born, really. Strange, I knew. I took his expense sheet, and riffled through the receipts. Then I looked up at him. He was right. This was strange.
"Okay. Air fare, car hire, hotel, restaurant … masseuse?"
He blushed. No, really. Stood right there in front of me, and his face just went bright red, jawline to forehead, in the space of no time flat.
"That's what I thought you might want explained."
"Could be useful," I admitted, and leaned back in my chair. I had plenty of ideas of my own, but I figured I may as well hear the real one. Or whatever he was claiming was the real one. Although it was pretty sure to be a let-down compared to some of my theories.
"The thing is," he said, and he hitched his ass onto the edge of my desk, one leg dangling. Then he pushed himself off, and stood up straight again. "Sorry."
I waved a hand. "Feel free." It was a nice ass, all wrapped up in black 501s with a button-front fly for easy access. I didn't in the least mind being a little bit closer to it.
He settled himself back down. "The thing is," he started over, "I'm about a half-inch too tall."
I looked him deliberately up and down, and raised an eyebrow. "Ohhhhh?" I said, and I drew it out. "Well, they do say it's that extra half-inch that counts." I wanted to see if I could make him blush any harder. Turns out, yes, yes, I could. And, apparently, also make him stutter.
"F-for airline seats," he said. "And I've got this lower b-back problem?"
I didn't know if he was asking me or telling me, so I just nodded.
"It - it, like, it pops out sometimes? On long-haul flights, or sometimes in strange beds …"
I thought about letting that one go, but … no, how could I? "That must be very inconvenient," I said, straight-faced, and settled the papers down on my desk. "Okay. I'll make a note. Daniel Rydell, out-of-town expenses to include …" I squinted at the receipt. "What does that say?"
He flashed a sudden grin; it made him look even younger and, impossibly, even better-looking. I had a sudden overwhelming urge to ask him to help me find a stapler, or something, and drag him into the nearest supply closet. But that would have been wrong. Oh. So. Wrong.
"Shiatsu," he translated.
I blinked.
"Um. Okay. Gesundheit?"
That made him laugh. "So, that's okay?" he asked, and slid to his feet. I hated to see him go; it'd been fun. But I had work to do and so, I guessed, did he.
"Oh, honey," I said, absent-mindedly, "the guys on the newsdesk try to claim for hookers and blow. A little massage is nothing!" I smiled up at him - a real smile this time - and, after a moment, he relaxed and smiled back.
"'Honey'?" he said.
"Ah. Sorry. That's my inner Southern Belle. Sometimes she simply cannot be contained."
"That," he said blandly, "must be very inconvenient." He reached out a hand for mine and shook it formally. "Well, it's been a pleasure, Miz Scarlett."
I mimed shock, and went into my best Bette Davis swoon. "Honey, Scarlett O'Hara is for pussies. Mah name is Jezebel!"
"Yeah," he said. "I just bet it is." And he was gone.
And there I was, gazing after him like the last survivor on the Titanic counting the seats in the lifeboats.
A wad of paper hit me in the head. I said, "Ow!" and, "What is this, fourth grade?" and turned around. Across the room, Marietta - who's forty, and has never known the love of a man, but still somehow manages to find some reason to go on living day to day - frowned at me, and shook her head.
"Kiki, you were totally flirting with that poor boy," she said, scolding.
I looked innocent.
"I was?"
There was a chorus of "Yes!" from just about everyone in the room. So much for discretion. And here I thought I'd been terribly tactful.
"Huh," I said, and then, "You think he minded?"
Marietta considered me for a moment, her head on one side. "You know what?" she eventually said. "I really don't think he did."
He didn't. He hadn't. He was waiting for me in the parking lot that night, leaning up against a pillar, the black 501s topped by a beat-up bomber jacket, all very hot and heavy and James Dean if it hadn't been for the lumpy, hand-knitted striped scarf he had wrapped around his throat. I slowed up as I came toward him, glancing up at him enquiringly, letting him make the first move.
He said, "Hey," and then just stood looking down at me. He wasn't smiling now; he was quite, quite serious. Scared, I think; off-balance, anyway, and not liking the feeling. Boys like Dan, they go through life with everything handed to them on a big silver plate; any time they hit something new, something strange, it throws them. Mostly they bluster their way through it. Not Dan. Dan was sweet.
"I'm pretty new in town," he said. "I don't know - I don't know the places to go. I thought …"
"… maybe I did?" I finished, and he nodded.
"Yeah. You - you know what I mean, don't you?"
"I know what you mean," I said. He was too pretty to look so worried; he'd get wrinkles. "It's okay. I won't tell anyone, if that's what you're thinking."
He shook his head once, quickly. "That's not - it wasn't - I just wasn't sure - "
"If you're not," I said, dryly, "You're the first and only person in the history of the world who isn't." I reached out and tucked his arm into mine. "Come along, Grasshopper. Trust me, you're in good hands."
That smile again. God. There oughta be a law. As a matter of fact, there is: it's called the Geneva Convention.
"Is that a promise?" he asked, and he looked straight into my eyes.
"You bet it is," I said. And it was.
***
That makes it all sound terribly easy. It makes me sound terribly easy, for sure, but, hey: no big surprise there. When it comes to cute boys with big doe eyes and thousand-watt smiles, I'm a pushover. But it wasn't. There was the whole secrecy thing, just to begin with. We never so much as bothered to discuss it; there was nothing to discuss. It didn't even have anything - well, not everything - to do with who we were; it was just … the whole upstairs/downstairs thing. People like me, support staff - clerks, engineers, techs, typists - we don't mix with the creative talent. They look down on us, we think they're a bunch of overpaid, stuck-up jerkwads. (And Dan was both creative and very, very talented. Boy: was he ever.) So that put us under a strain right from the get-go, trying to act tactful and discreet if we met in the corridors at work, making up a list of 'safe' places where we could be together and be reasonably certain we wouldn't run into any of our colleagues. You'd think in a town the size of Boston, that'd be pretty easy, no?
No. We were constantly being surprised, having to split up and pretend we'd come to this bar, that club, separately, by coincidence. Even when we drove out of town for the weekend, we kept having to look over our shoulders, thinking we saw a familiar face, heard a voice we knew. We were never really able to relax. And … you know. It's not nice, being somebody's dirty little secret. Although whether he was mine or I was his, we never did seem able to decide.
Staying in would've been the easier option, but that was when we found out we had almost nothing in common. The first thing he said when he came to my apartment - well, not the first thing, but one of the things he said when we were getting dressed - was, "Where do you keep your books?" And I looked at him blankly, because there they were, a whole shelf of them, right behind the living room door. I didn't figure out what had him so puzzled until I went to his apartment, and then that really was the first thing that hit me: he had books. He had books like other people have roaches. You couldn't see the floor for damn books. I said, "God, Dan, have you read all of these?" and the look he gave me, you'd think I'd talked dirty about his sister. And music: he had the worst taste in music of anyone I've ever known. Me, I like stuff you can dance to, something bright, something with a beat. He used to listen to all these old guys with croaky voices, droning on and on about their miserable lives until you'd want to slit a vein just to lighten things up a little. Also: foreign movies. I mean - why? Just: why?!
Taking him home to meet my mom was a big step. My mom's great, but this whole anti-romance thing of hers - you know, when you're bringing your boyfriend home, it casts a bit of a dampener on things. I went to see her first, asked her maybe could she tone it down, just for me?
"I know it's your opinion, Mom," I told her, "and, you know, I respect it. It's just …" I couldn't quite say it. She patted my arm.
"You really like him, huh, Kiki?"
I sniffed - I wasn't crying; Mom's cats give me allergies and, anyhow, I had some grit in my eye - and nodded. "I guess I do," I said.
I guess I did.
I warned Dan just the same. Mom has this way of going from one extreme to the other, and after she's had a couple of cocktails she could pass for Auntie Mame on speed. Dan listened understandingly.
"It's okay," he said. "My mom's … I mean, she's in Connecticut, but ... I'd like you to meet her someday. Only …" He stopped talking, and took a sudden close interest in his fingernails. I rested my hand on his arm. Dan never ran out of words. If he didn't know what to say at any one given time, he'd make something up.
He looked up at me, finally. "She - she's not well. She's … I guess she's depressed. She cries a lot. Sleeps the rest of the time. I love her, but it's hard - it's hard to see her that way." He was silent again for a while then, but in that way where I could tell he hadn't finished talking, he was just working through something in his mind, something he couldn't quite say out loud. Eventually he went on, "And I hate for other people to see it, too. She used to be - " He looked away from me, and his mouth curved; I longed to reach out and touch it. "She was so beautiful. When I was a kid. Now, some days, she doesn't even brush her hair. Doesn't even get out of bed." He shook his head, like he was trying to shake away his thoughts. "So, your mom?"
"Not depressed," I said. "Um, is there, like, an opposite of depressed …?"
He looked quite scared, but he needn't have worried. Mom fell in love with him at first sight - why wouldn't she? I did - and Auntie Mame was nowhere to be seen. The closest we got to that was when Sweet Charity came on the TV, and Mom sang along to some of the big production numbers. She may or may not have directed Big Spender at Dan, but I looked daggers at her, and she backed off. That was my man!
I left them together while I did the dishes. I came back into the living room just in time to hear Mom say, " - invented in the middle ages - "
"Mom!" I said, exasperated. "You promised!"
Dan jumped to her defence. Of course he would. "It's not your mom's fault. She was talking about the movie - "
Mom picked up the thread. " - and how Charity spends her life chasing an ideal that only exists in her imagination, and how even her name's symbolic - "
They'd lost me. I said, "Huh?" intelligently, and tried to make some sense out of the ensuing conversation, while they threw around words like agape and philios, and didn't even laugh when I said, in a very small voice, that it was all Greek to me. So in the end, I sat and watched.
I'd forgotten - maybe I'd never properly realised - that my mom was smart. Really smart, I mean. She'd even gone away to college for a year, as an English major, but … I don't know. She dropped out. It was the 60s, a lot of people dropped out. Maybe there wasn't enough money. Maybe it was when she met my dad. She never really talked about it.
I'd never known how badly she missed it. If it hadn't been for Dan, I never would have known.
And Dan. Remember what I said about smart being sexy?
Oh, god, yes!
So those were the things we had against us. Society, and our own selves. You'd think that would be insurmountable, wouldn't you? But it wasn't. We kept our secrets, and we found our common ground. We worked things through. I'd never been the sort to put that kind of effort into a relationship - love 'em and leave 'em, that was me - but I'd never known anyone like Dan before; never known anyone worth the effort. And, god knows why, I guess Dan felt the same about me.
No, what turned out to be the breaking point was this: I had competition. I don't think Dan even realised that was what it was, but I knew. His friend. Casey. His best friend, he said, like he was a fourteen-year-old girl with a crush. I heard a lot about Casey: how smart he was, how talented, what a brilliant writer, what a great guy, how good he'd been to Dan, how much he'd helped him, how he'd always been there for him.
I hated Casey's guts. That was before I met him. Then he came back out East for a visit, and I knew for sure.
I hated Casey's breathing guts.
There'd have been no point saying anything to Dan; he wouldn't hear a word against the guy. Even when I said, after we'd first been introduced, "He's very tall," - which was lame, but it was the only thing that came into my head that didn't begin and end with the words, "Smug, supercilious prick!" - Dan got defensive about it. So it would have been no use for me to tell him, "He's your friend because you practically worship at his feet; he's your friend because you make him feel like he's someone special. He's rude to you, he patronises you, he treats you like a kid, no, he treats you like his dog, and, what's more, I hate the way he calls you 'Danny', like you were five years old. And I hate you for letting him act that way, and for not even seeming to notice, and because you are about a hundred times more in love with Casey when he's way across on the other side of the country than you ever will be with me when I'm right here by your side, and how in the hell am I ever supposed to compete with that?"
I didn't say any of that. But I think Dan knew. I think the tone of my voice when he said, "We're meeting Casey," and I said, "Oh. Wonderful!" might have given me away. Just a little.
Casey hated me too; that goes without saying. He was used to having Dan - Danny - all to himself, his own personal satellite/entourage/cheering squad. He was not at all happy at the idea of sharing. Not that he even wanted Dan; he was married, had a kid. He told us all about both of them. At length, and in detail. With photos. If he could've stuck up a screen on the wall of the bar and whipped out a cine camera, he would've done it. I sat there all evening and watched him stomp all over every thought Dan had, every opinion he expressed, I saw him override him on the restaurant we went to, and on the menu we chose, on how much to tip the waitress, on where we should go afterwards. I listened to them talk about sports - and Dan knew his sports; if there was one thing I was sure of, it was that Dan knew all about sports - and still, Casey was constantly contradicting him, undermining him. Casey had to be first. And Casey had to be right. Dan was just there to admire the wonder that was Casey McCall; that was his one role in life.
It made me sick. I excused myself, and went to the bathroom.
I came back slow and quiet. You know how it is if you think people might be talking about you: you just have to know what they're saying, even if you're sure it's going to be bad. Especially if you're sure it's going to be bad.
And, yes, as I came within earshot, I could hear Casey laughing, snide and nasty, and saying, "'… come along with Dan and I'? God, Danny, doesn't it drive you crazy?!"
I couldn't see Dan's face from where I was. I don't think he was laughing. His hands were wrapped around his beer bottle; he was peeling the foil away with one thumbnail. He said something; I tried to catch it, but he was too quiet. Whatever it was, Casey didn't like it. He shrugged, and said, "Yeah, okay. Well, you're the one who has to live with it."
Dan looked up then. He said, quite loudly, loud enough that people turned to stare, "Yes. Yes, I am, and, you know what, Casey? I didn't even notice, so back off, will you? It doesn't matter to me, and it shouldn't matter to you."
Casey really didn't like that. His whole face went closed and tight, and he sat back in his chair, lips pressed close together. That suited me. A silent Casey was a Casey I could, just possibly, stand to be around.
And Dan. I was so proud of him, then. I came out from the shadows and back to the table, and as I sat down I took his hand and squeezed it. That was about as much as I could do. I wanted to kiss him - wanted badly to kiss him - but we were in public, and we had rules. He looked up at me, and smiled, a small, quiet, private smile.
I still remember that smile. Dream about it, sometimes.
I wish I didn't. No, I don't. Yes I do. Oh, god, I don't know! Sometimes I wish the whole thing had never happened. But then I think … if I'd never have known him …
If I'd never known him, I'd never have had to live without him. But what I would have missed!
So. We had a couple of months. Got to know one another, settled into our routines; got past the first 'oh-god-fuck-me-now' stage, and into something more or less relaxed and comfortable and friendly. Which isn't to say I wasn't still wild about him. I thought about him all the time, wanted to be with him all the time; called him in the night, sometimes, just to hear his voice, talked until one of us fell asleep, nearly killed myself with the effort of not begging him to get out of bed and come on over. Not even for sex - well, not only for sex, I wouldn't have said no, I'm not insane - but just to see him, just to have him near me. Because time spent away from Dan was time wasted, life only half-lived.
Sorry, Mom. It was love. There's just no getting over the fact. Be mine forever, love you till the end of time, the whole shebang, hearts and flowers and moonlight and Valentines, all tied up with a pretty red ribbon. It lasts forever. And it hurts like hell.
Was, past tense. Yes, it ended. You already know that. You want to know how?
Fucking Casey McCall. That's how. Phoning out of the blue, phoning with a job offer, an opportunity, a big, fabulous break that Dan (Danny!) would be crazy not to jump at. I knew he'd be crazy not to take it. I even told him to go.
Which makes me the crazy one, I suppose.
This is what I should have said to him:
"He's bad for you, Dan."
"You become a whole different person when you're around him, in fact, you pretty much become him, and one Casey McCall is more than enough for the world, thanks."
"He uses you. He uses you to feel good about himself. And he's using your talent as a safety net in case his own isn't enough to get him where he wants to be."
And, perhaps most of all, "When he got married, did he know then that you were in love with him? And he got married anyway? That means he's straight, Dan, and being in love with your straight best friend? No good ever comes of it."
I didn't say any of those things. I thought we could stay friends. And maybe, we did, if a card at Christmas and a phone call on my birthday can be counted as friendship.
But I was right. I watch their show - not the one Dan left me for, the show they do now, the one in New York - I watch it from time to time. Not every night; that would make me the psycho-stalker-ex, and I take some pride in the fact that I managed not to go down that road. But I was watching on Draft Day 2000. I know Dan; even after all these years, I can read him. I knew something was going to happen. And when he threw that cue to Casey, the one Casey didn't catch (none of us could ever agree on what happened that day; it was 50/50 whether Dan went off-script, or whether Casey just hadn't prepped) - when that happened, I recognised the look on Casey's face. I'd seen it before, that night in the bar, the night that Dan had dared to have a mind of his own.
He makes your life hell, sweetheart, I think, across the miles. You should have stayed with me. I couldn't make you famous. But, god. I'd have made you happy. I'd have made you happy, if I'd had to die trying.
Mom's here. She doesn't have time to do my housework any longer, not now I'm putting her through college. She's working online to get her PhD in, ironically enough, romance literature. I have Dan to thank for that - or she does; that talk she had with him is what sparked her into checking out the options. And it's another way to keep in touch. Maybe he doesn't call me, but when she got her MA, he came to her graduation. That's the last time I saw him. And it's okay - isn't it? - if that photo's on my nightstand. After all, what son wouldn't be proud of his mother?
I clean the house myself these days, and let her run her fingers round the surfaces, tutting at the dust I've left behind. We still go shopping, though, and I still take her to dinner. It's a tradition. I'm all that she has, after all. Or should that be the other way round?
She puts her hand on my shoulder. "What are you writing?" she asks.
"Nothing," I tell her, and I make sure my body blocks the screen from her sight. "Just a blog. I'll tell you about blogs some other time, Mom."
She sniffs. "I know what a blog is, thank you! I'm not senile! Are you ready to go?"
"I'll just get my coat," I tell her, and push my chair back.
I don't know why - I know, when I was writing about Dan just now, that I said I felt like crying, but I'm pretty sure I didn't actually do it, I hope I'm not that lame - but for some reason, Mom reaches up to me then, brushes back my hair, stands on tiptoe to kiss me on the cheek.
"You're a good boy, Kevin," she tells me. And she touches her hand to the side of my face, and she smiles.
We all live hopefully ever after.
***