II. Sprace
The first couple lay side by side, not cuddled in any way. The one on the left, the Italian, had one leg draped lazily across the other, and stared at the ceiling while the other dozed lightly by his side.
Across the room, the dirty window was open, allowing a hot August breeze to stir the air. Race, somewhat claustrophobic, was glad for this window, out of which stood an old-fashioned fire escape. The interior of the room was cluttered—a desk near the bed held a heap of papers, mainly college paperwork. Clothes littered the hardwood floor, and the closet door stood open, revealing the empty state of the rod.
Racetrack appreciated none of it. Earlier that day, he had had an epiphany. There was truly no two ways about it; nevertheless, he didn't look forward to it.
That morning, over a bowl of Cap'n Crunch at his kitchen table, buried under bills he had been meaning to call his parents about, Race had a thought. I'm going off to college in two days, he realised. He also realised that he had an insane amount of preparation to do—most of his belongings were still strewn about the apartment he and Spot had shared since Spot's family kicked him out at Christmas. He hadn't yet finished his paperwork, contacted his friends for goodbyes, or quite his job. And then there was the most desperate loose end—Spot.
Now, at approximately 7:30 PM, he had emailed most of his friends, called his boss, shoved most of his belongings in boxes, and made significant headway on his paperwork, but done nothing about Spot.
Spot, who was now waking from his light slumber. He propped himself up on one elbow and yawned. Something about his manner was distinctly feline. "Dinner soon?"
With a sigh, Race said, "I can whip something up in half an hour, but it won't be fancy—I don't have time."
"But you've got time to waste lying around my bedroom while I take a nap?"
He didn't sound even remotely argumentative, so Racetrack decided to let it go. "Our bedroom, Spot. I haven't left yet."
"Yeah, well." Spot scratched himself. "Close enough." There was a pause, and then Spot added, "You'll come back and visit me soon, right?"
Racetrack avoided his gaze. "Yeah. But—listen, I gotta talk to you."
There were no words on Spot's tongue—there needn't have been; his face said it all. Curiosity, incredulity, lust, hunger, hope, and misgiving traveled his features before he secured a blank expression. "Listening."
"I'm going to college in two days, Spot. I mean, day after tomorrow I'll be gone. I'll be like two thousand miles away. You'll wanna get some, and not just from your hand—and I don't wanna be holding you back." Racetrack tapped his fingers nervously against his opposite wrist and looked up at Spot.
"Don't you dare break up with me, Racetrack. Don't you dare."
Honestly, Race wished he could say, "Okay, I won't," or blow it off and forget about it, or anything other than break up with Spot. After two years of on-and-off dating, more so on in the past year, off in the first, Race wasn't ready to give Spot up. If he could go to college with Spot... surely everything would be good, if only he could take Spot with him. But he couldn't, and that was a simple fact—Spot had gone through his high school years blowing off classes and getting near-failing grades. He was as motivated as Race was tall, and was not cut out for college. That was a plain fact, no question in anyone's mind. "I'm sorry."
Spot was silent. His cheek twitched, but he allowed no change in expression.
"So... Look, Spot, really—I love you. Seriously. I don't want to break up with you, and I don't want to leave you, and I... God, Spot, fucking say something. I can't do this unless you—I mean, I'm prepared for you to blow up, beat the shit out of me, yell and scream, anything. But I can't do this if you just sit there, quiet, pretending not to care."
Still, Spot said nothing.
"Oh, but maybe that's your goal. No, Spot, it won't work. The point is—I think we should see other people."
Spot snapped, "Yeah, in other words, you don't want to be tied down by me when you go off to college to move on and FORGET ME."
Putting his head in his hands, Race groaned. Then he said, "Spot. I am not going to forget you. I just want to—you're right, I don't want to be tied down by you at college. But I still love you, and I want to... kind of be able to pick this back up when I'm here, but be able to see other people when I'm gone. Please—stay in my life."
"Is there someone else already, or what?" Spot cracked a little—jealousy and anger crept into his eyes.
"No, no, no. I promise. Spot, promise me something."
"What?"
"You'll stay in my life—you have to. Please promise me that we can still be friends, and nothing will be awkward, and you'll know I'll always love you. If it goes that way, we can get back together later, but..."
Spot stared at his hands. His nails needed clipping, especially on his left hand, and he had a scrape on his right, middle knuckle. He pushed down his cuticles, then looked up again. "No, Racetrack. I'll stay in your life—we can be friends. But I don't want this hanging over my head. I don't want to be hoping that you'll come back and everything can go back to normal. Either it ends completely or it stays completely."
This had not been the reaction Race had expected. Knowing Spot, he had figured he would take the deal, and Race would, at the very least, have a guaranteed fling upon his return. He had had his misgivings about the very idea of breaking up with Spot from the beginning, and now he wasn't sure he could do it. Never be allowed to lie in bed kissing Spot, forgetting everything else? It seemed impossible. Racetrack wrapped Spot in a tight hug and even planted a firm kiss on his lips. "Okay. If that's the way you want it to be, that's the way it'll have to be."
With that, Racetrack turned and walked to the kitchen to prepare dinner. Now alone, Spot's face crumpled into a degenerate lump. He didn't cry; boys don't cry. He didn't cry, but his fist balled up tight enough to make the bones creak and the muscles cramp, and he punched hard enough to leave a permanent dent in the wall by his bed.