Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
She turned her head to look at me. “About the hair?” she asked, looking confused.
“No,” I said. “About the, uh, about me being… you know.”
“Gay, Charlie. You’ve gotta learn how to say it because the awkward stammering is just, well, awkward. And why should I mind? Who you like has nothing to do with me. Plus, this way we can ogle football players together.” She turned back to the field. “Have you noticed those pants they wear? Oh my God.”
“Yeah,” I said as I lifted the camera back up. “I know.”
Chapter 3
INTRODUCTION
Charlie (“Chase”) Rhodes
AT THE risk of making you think I was a total stalker, I once took a picture of Scott from the street outside his bedroom window with my zoom lens. But it wasn’t stalkery, honest. Okay, maybe a little.
Here’s the deal: it was my sophomore year, his junior year, and I was coming home late one night. I glanced up and saw Scott opening his window. It was dark outside and he had his light on, so I could see him perfectly: every line of muscle on his chest, the way he filled out his white briefs, his tousled hair, like he hadn’t combed it after his shower. I had a zoom lens on hand and I wasn’t afraid to use it, so I quickly snapped the picture. The lighting wasn’t great from that far away, and I wasn’t holding the camera perfectly still in my mad rush to get the shot, so it turned out grainy. The picture quality wasn’t even good enough for stroke-off material.
Now I bet you’re wondering why I’m including it in the album. Well, it’s because Scott opening his bedroom window at night was the backdrop for some of the most personal conversations of my life. We didn’t need to see each other to talk. Hell, I think it actually made it easier to put it all out there when we didn’t see a face reacting, judging.
Anyway, that’s the next picture going into the scrapbook: a blurry Scott seen through a window. Oddly enough, it was this fuzzy image more than any other that I went back to over the years when I craved human connection, when I wanted to feel like I mattered to someone. No matter where I was, when I looked at that image, I could hear Scott’s voice in my head, and every once in a while, I’d feel like I was falling in love for the first time all over again.
Charlie (“Chase”) Rhodes
SCOTT and I shared a wall. His bedroom was at the end of his apartment and mine was at the end of my apartment. We both had our beds adjacent to that wall, with the windows right above our heads. So when the weather was decent, we’d open our windows and lie in bed at night, talking.
Our bedroom windows were so close together that we shared a fire escape and when there was no traffic noise, we could just about hear each other whispering. Even with ambient noise, we could talk quietly and still make out every word. Sometimes, I’d close my eyes and pretend the wall was gone and Scott was right next to me, speaking intimately into my ear. I’d fantasize that any minute, he’d wrap a long arm around me and hold me close to his broad chest.
“Charlie? Are you awake?”
Something settled in my chest when I heard him calling out to me.
“Yeah,” I answered.
“Oh, good,” he said, sounding relieved. “Everyone went out after the game, and things ended up dragging longer than I expected. I was worried you’d be asleep.”
“Nah,” I answered. “I was up sketching until a little bit ago.” The truth was, the drawings were just a way to occupy my time while I waited up for him. I’d gotten used to hearing Scott’s voice every night before I went to sleep, and I didn’t want to give that up.
“Cool. I’m gonna hit the head and brush my teeth and then I’ll be ready for bed. Just wanted to make sure you were up.”
I warmed inside at the knowledge that the first thing he thought to do when he got home was check in with me. I heard two thumps that I’d come to recognize as Scott’s sneakers hitting the wall when he kicked them off, then the rustling of clothes being removed, and finally the scrape of Scott’s bedroom door opening, telling me he was heading toward the bathroom. Just the sound of his familiar nightly routine was enough to make me relax. My eyelids had just drooped shut when I heard the squeak of his mattress springs.
“’Kay, I’m back,” he said. “How was your night? What’d you do after the game?”
The last football game of the season had been that evening. Our school won, which was great. Everyone was excited and worked up. One of the players was having a house party to celebrate, and though Scott had encouraged me to go, I’d passed.