The Art of Moving On | ✔

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN; part one

     Later that night, we're on the couch, sitting close enough that our shoulders and thighs are touching, enough that I notice and it makes me unfocused. Dres has picked the movie Chef, which has been on Netflix for months now, though I haven't bothered to watch it. I don't know why, because it's pretty funny.

     Not that I can enjoy it. I'm distracted the whole movie. There's this weird feeling between us, like loose energy, electrons that have broken orbit bouncing between us. Feels exactly like how I imagine unfinished business would feel if it were a solid object. And yeah, okay, I really wasn't kidding about the whole blue balls thing, so maybe I'm feeling that, too.

     "You were actually quiet through the movie," Dres says his tone light, as the room goes dark with the credits rolling on the screen.

     "Yeah well," I say with a sigh, because I don't really know what I mean to say. Dres glances at me. He doesn't really know what I mean to say, either. So I go with, "Did you enlist because of your dad?"

     He's not looking at me, so I get my favorite view of him, profile with a sharp jaw and tattoos that swirl around his neck. Also, I totally gave him a hickey, which gives me latent joy. His expression gives nothing away. "Is that what you were thinking about for the past two hours?"

     I shake my head, responding in a low voice, "You don't want to know what I was thinking about for the last two hours." My voice gives everything away. 

     He doesn't grin but I catch the quirk in the side of his mouth. He's quiet so I give him a minute, turning to look at my hands in my lap.

     When I start to wonder if maybe I said the wrong thing, he says, "Not exactly." I wait again, because 'not exactly' is not exactly an answer. "My dad caught me with a boy. He thought having me join the army would...cure me. He told Dolores that the war would 'kick the queer out of me'."

     Fuck, and I thought my dad was bad.

     "But, ultimately, it was my decision. I was eighteen. He couldn't force me to enlist." Before I can ask him why, he adds, "So I did it to show him that this is who I am, that a unifom wouldn't change. I suspect now he didn't think it would. Maybe he wanted the military to shame me into hiding myself, or maybe he thought I'd get killed for it. Either way, I never hid that part of myself and I didn't enlist because of him. That first tour was for me."

     "And the last two?" I ask quietly.

     Dres falters for a second. "Are complicated."

     I think about what my mom said. Why had Dres named his place Private Weston?

     We sit in silence because I don't ask him even though I think I should.

     It isn't until my mom's car pulls into the driveway that we move, both turning to the window as her headlights illuminate the room. I say, "That's my mom." I think no shit. A few seconds later I hear the car door slam. "If she asks, under no circumstances did we go upstairs. She'll probably ask. So when she asks."

     Dres turns to look at me, expression suddenly heated with his eyes in slits. "We weren't supposed to go—." He stops when the front door opens and I look over the couch as my mom walks through the foyer.

     "Hey mom," I say with what I hope is a casual, easy-breezy tone.

     She looks at me and I don't know if it's just me but she's eyeing me down like a detective. "Hello Dresden," she says as she walks in. Dres immediately stands, going to greet my mom. I roll my eyes as they exchange a light hug because apparently they've upgraded from awkward handshakes to whatever that is.