Coda 01 - Promises

absolutely not.” But it sounded like a lie to me. It was a little too quick and too harshly stated. In my experience, men who are truly straight don’t have to defend themselves so obstinately.
    “It’s okay, you know? It’s okay to admit that you’re sometimes attracted to men. It doesn’t mean that you’re any less of one.”
    “No!” Not angry but a little annoyed.
    “Okay. Did you play any sports in high school?” That might have sounded like I was letting him off the hook, but I wasn’t through yet.
“I wrestled.”
    Perfect! Of course, now I was trying to picture him in one of those tight little leotard things that wrestlers wear.

    “And when you were wrestling, rolling around on the floor with another guy, you never started to get turned on?”

    “That’s not the same.”

    That surprised me, actually. I had been expecting denial. “It isn’t?”
    “No. Everybody had that happen from time to time. It didn’t mean anything. We’re all wearing cups, so it’s not like the other guy knows. I just, you know, thought about baseball or something until the problem resolved itself.” He was recovering a little now, getting back to his usual bantering tone.
    “Did thinking about baseball players make it go away?” I was grinning then, and I’m sure he knew I was teasing.

    “Maybe not, but thinking about having the rest of the team kick my ass generally did the trick.”

    “Yes, I suppose it would.”
    We finished dinner and headed back to the shop. Despite the awkward topic over dinner, we lapsed easily back into comfortable conversation.
    “So why did you become a cop?”

    “Seemed like the thing to do. Do my duty. Protect and serve. God and country. All that happy horse shit.”

    “God and country? Are you a Marine or something?”
    He frowned again. I was really wishing he would smile more. I was betting that his smile would be amazing. “No. My dad was, though. I was supposed to be. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven me for not enlisting. I joined the ROTC, but that wasn’t really enough for him. Everyone else—my dad, my uncle, my grandpa—they were all military. I don’t think they could ever understand why I didn’t want that life. As far as he’s concerned, it was my duty, and I failed.”
    Boy, did that explain a lot! He was looking embarrassed now, and I had the distinct impression he hadn’t really meant to tell me all that. I wasn’t surprised when he suddenly changed the subject.
    “You ever gone geo-caching?” he asked.
“Nope. I’ve heard about it, but I don’t have a GPS.”
    “I thought I would give it a shot next weekend. Want to join me?”
    “Sure.” I was trying to tell myself that this was not a date. Just buddies. And it would be nice to have a buddy, to be honest. Lizzy and Brian were great, but I was still lonely a lot. The idea of having a friend to hang out with was nice. I figured I better take advantage of it before one of the eligible women in town started monopolizing his free time. “That sounds like fun.”
    “Great! I’ll pick you up at ten on Saturday.” I was sure Lizzy wouldn’t mind if I took the day off.
    I gave him directions to my house and spent the rest of the week counting down the hours, cursing myself for a fool the entire time.

    H E ARRIVED at my place at nine fifteen on Saturday. I wasn’t expecting him so early. I hadn’t shaved and was only wearing boxers. He raised an eyebrow at me.
    “Late night?” he asked jokingly.
“No, not at all. I’m just a bum, and you’re early. Come on in.”
    “I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?” he asked, glancing toward the bedroom.
    I laughed. “God, I wish. The only option for me in this town is Mr. Stevens, the high school band teacher. And he’s thirty years older than me. I’ve never been quite that desperate.”
    “Glad to hear that.” He was headed for the kitchen. “Got any coffee or anything?”

    “Sure. Help yourself. Just give me a minute to get dressed.” From the bedroom, I heard the refrigerator open, and then he called out, “Good Lord, don’t you have any food?”

    “There’s food in there!”

    “I see milk, beer, a brick of cheese, two carry-out containers, and three—no, make that four!—jars of mustard.”
    “There you go—milk, beer, and cheese: the three basic food groups,” I told him as I came into the kitchen. “I didn’t say there was a lot of food. I don’t exactly cook.”
    “Me neither. Although, I dare say my