Don’t you work at Michaelis & Company?”
Dell’s text broke though the monotony of the morning. Brandon generally loved what he did, but entering lamp serial numbers into a spreadsheet was making him want to put a oil rubbed bronze final through his eye. He smiled at the welcome distraction.
“I do. Are you finally ready to get big boy furniture?” Brandon liked Dell. He didn’t know that they would ever be very close—they didn’t have much in common other than an address. But he was a likable and dependable guy. And his tendency to wear hot footwear certainly helped.
“Haha. No. I’m working at the job site next door. Thought the company name sounded familiar.”
Brandon’s heart skipped a beat. Dell was working next door? Next door was the future site of a gourmet coffee shop and bookstore. But right now, in the mid-March thaw it was more like stretch of soupy tire tracks and a precariously leaning Job Johnny. “Why don’t I come out and say ‘hi?’” he eagerly texted back.
“What do you look so excited about?” Lydia asked, swinging by the desk. Brandon glanced up as he put his arms into his wool car coat.
“My neighbor is at the job site next door. He just texted. I was going to say ‘hi.’” Lydia arched an eyebrow with a knowing look. “Nothing like that,” Brandon swiftly replied, catching her meaning. Lydia was still chastened by the falling out with Anthony, even though it had been nearly two months.
“For what it’s worth, you look really cute today,” she called after him. Brandon turned and faced her, backing out the front door.
“I know.”
Brandon crossed the parking lot and approached the orange construction mesh fence that surrounded the lot. There were several workers milling about a collection of contractor vans and pick-ups, but he caught sight of Dell from across someone’s hood. Dell noticed his wave and started toward him, coming around the truck.
He was wearing an exciting pair of Hisea neoprene and rubber boots. Brandon instantly noticed the way the shafts gripped Dell’s legs just below the knee, his jeans bunching and twisting in them. It was different from a pair of Hunters, whose openings were usually slightly oversized even when using the strap. Instead of wobbling around the legs, Dell’s boots wrinkled and buckled around his calves a little as he walked. The effect probed between Brandon’s own legs.
When Dell indiscriminately plowed through a deep trough of ooze left by a truck, however, Brandon became grateful of the extra room in his long coat. Dell’s right boot was now dipped in a uniform brown layer of runny clay up to the ankle, almost as though in preparation to receive sprinkles or coconut shavings.
“So I was right, you do work here,” he was saying as he made the last few titillating steps, the rubber feet of his boots slowly sinking into some drier, crumbly piles of earth near the barrier.
“I do,” Brandon nodded. “Six years now. And what will you be doing at this illustrious location today?” Brandon surveyed the rest of the scene. It was indeed a mudman’s paradise, and most likely none of these men noticed but for a little inconvenience to their daily grind.
“Well, we’re going to get started on some footers so we can start getting some of the block exterior walls started.”
“That sounds…pretty horrible, honestly.” Brandon smiled. Dell chuckled in agreement.
“Yeah, maybe it does. But you’re probably going back inside to look at fabric swatches, and that sounds like shit to me, too.” Brandon watched as a clod of soil fell into the deepening depression made by Dell’s right boot, which was bent up at the toes.
“We each have our crosses to bear.” Brandon pulled his gaze back up to Dell’s face. “Although mine is in climate control.” Dell broke into a laugh.
“Yeah, you got me there,” he admitted, looking down and finally noticing his sinking boot. He yanked it out of the ground and replanted it next to the hole, where the pile of soft dirt began to collapse again anyway.
“Well, I better not keep you,” Brandon said, realizing he was staring at Dell’s predicament. “Let me know if you need anything. We have hot coffee in there.” Dell, backing out of the ground that wanted to swallow him, looked up.
“Thanks! I’m sure I’ll see you later.” Oh, you can count on it, Brandon thought as he returned to the gallery.
Lydia was standing guiltily by his desk with an email printout in hand when he walked in. He rolled his eyes as he shrugged off his coat. “Oh God, what is it now?”
Lydia pursed her lips as she handed him the paper, a completely uncharacteristic move. Brandon glanced at the paper and instantly recognized the order number. He could see that Lydia was watching his face, waiting for a reaction. He wouldn’t give her one. With all the nonchalance he could muster, he said, “okay. So Anthony’s order has finally come in. I’ll call to schedule delivery.” Lydia’s eyebrows shot up.
“You will?”
“Do you have some other idea?”
“I thought maybe you would want me to do it,” she suggested meekly. Brandon narrowed his eyes.
“I think we both remembered how things turned out the last time you called this number.” It was a low blow, especially considering how Lydia had given him space, brought him coffee, and intercepted some annoying clients for weeks, all in penance for that fateful call to Anthony. But then again, this situation hadn’t fully played out yet. His relationship with Anthony hadn’t fully concluded. At least not until the furniture was delivered. Until then, he reserved the right to jab. Lydia looked at the floor.
“Ouch,” she said softly, but retreated. Brandon looked again at the paper, silently feeling a mixture of dread and curiosity.
“No time like the present,” he murmured as he sat at the desk and picked up the handset to his phone. He dialed the number and counted the rings, fully expecting to have to leave a voicemail. He was running through the polished, professional message he would leave when the line clicked.
“Hello, this is Anthony.” Brandon closed his eyes. With that voice it all came back—everything he had missed for the past few months. He felt a dull ache in his throat. He cleared it and spoke.
“Anthony, hi. It’s Brandon. I’m calling from the gallery. How are you doing today?” As soon as he said it, he regretted it. It was too professional and entirely incongruous with the casual way he said Anthony’s name. If Anthony caught it, he let it go.
“Brandon. Wow. It’s good to hear from you, bro.” Bro? Really? It had been, what—nine weeks? Were they going to pretend no time had passed?
“Yeah, I’m calling with good news. Your furniture order is in and we can schedule delivery. In fact, I have some times as early as next Wednesday.” Brandon paused. The line was quiet. He pressed on. “I’m really excited for you to get your new stuff. I’m sure it’s going to look great in your house. Does Wednesday work?” He could hear Anthony breathing. What was he waiting for? Finally, after ten agonizing seconds, he spoke.
“Um, yeah. Yeah. Let’s do Wednesday. Do you have a window for me or—?”
Brandon’s well rehearsed spiel kicked in. “We will start by giving you an AM/PM window, then the day before we will call with a two hour timeframe. We can also text you with updates and provide a link to real-time GPS delivery tracking. How does that sound?” By now, Anthony had to know that for Brandon, this call was purely business.
“Sure,” he said hesitantly. “That sounds good. If you can give me a PM time, that would work better for me…” his voice sounded tentative. Something was up. Was it just the conversation, or something else?
“PM it is,” Brandon plowed through. “I’ll set that up with our delivery guys and keep you posted as have further information. Will our guys be moving or removing any of your current furniture for you?” Another pause.
“I hadn’t really thought about it. Can I get back to you?”
“Absolutely. Just let us know when we call you with your two hour window and that will be fine. Well, that covers everything. If you have any further questions, you know how to reach me, okay?”
“Sure. Okay.”
“Great. Take care. Bye, now.” Brandon slammed the headset down. Done. He did it. And he wouldn’t have to make the delivery window call—he could delegate that and wash his hands of Anthony. He sat back in his chair, feeling relieved. And horribly unsatisfied.
Brandon was just switching off his desk light and getting up to grab his coat with his phone vibrated. He picked it up and looked. Unbelievable. Anthony. “Can you talk for a minute?” Funny how illuminated text on a screen can carry so much weight. Brandon groaned as he sunk back into his chair. But was he really dreading this? He had to admit to himself that he was intrigued. Almost excited. Without bothering to text back, Brandon mashed his thumb on the call button. Anthony picked up on the second ring.
“Brandon?”
“Yeah, it’s me. What’s up?” He deliberately tried to sound softer. Brandon the friend. Not Brandon the interior designer.
“Hey. I’m so sorry we haven’t spoken for a while. It was…crazy to hear from you today. Like I’ve been thinking about it, but then when you called…it’s like it was out of the blue. It caught me off guard.” Brandon knitted his eyebrows together at hearing this. He put his hand up in the air in a gesture of, yeah…and so?
“It’s fine, Anthony. I wasn’t expecting anything from you. You had put a lot of faith in me as a designer and I just wanted to see this through for you.” He was trying not to be curt.
Brandon could hear Anthony’s sigh. He could practically see him running his fingers through his hair, frustrated with a lack of knowing what to say. Brandon decided to take the high road and put the hurt of the last nine weeks aside for a moment.
“What did you want, Anthony? What’s wrong?”
After a hesitation, Anthony spoke. “Would you mind coming over to my house? I need to show you something.” It was Brandon’s turn to wait. “Hello?”
“I’m thinking,” Brandon admitted.
“Aw, come on, bro. It’s me.” Brandon rolled his eyes and nodded, acquiescing.
“I’ll be there within a half hour. I’m just leaving work now.”
Brandon crossed the parking lot just as the last traces of the March daylight were staining the sky purple. He glanced over at the construction site. Dell was at his Tacoma, driver door open, and Brandon could just make out him slipping his feet into the suede moccasins in the fading light.
Anthony opened he door. Damn, he looked good. The beard was gone, but Brandon appreciated seeing the familiar contours of his face. Untucked flannel shirt, faded jeans bunching around—oh geez—the Champion Rally Pros. Of all the shoes for Anthony to pick from his closet, those were the ones Brandon had yet to see him wear. The pull loops on the sock-like cuffs kept the hems of his jeans from falling over them, so their black knit uppers were unobstructed from Brandon’s view as they stretched over the tops of Anthony’s feet. He felt himself sigh on the inside. It was going to be a distraction, for sure.
“Hey bro,” Anthony employed his standard greeting. But the grin was missing.
“Hey. What’s going on?” Brandon demanded. Anthony half turned into the hallway, the Champions swiveling on the tile floor.
“It would be easier if I showed you,” he said evasively. Brandon heaved a gusty sigh and stepped into the hallway. Immediately he was bombarded with visual stimuli. The hallway was no longer the stretch of clean white tile it had been over his last visit before Christmas. Flats of Vitamin Water and cases of beer lined the walls. The floor was a mess of pine needles, muddy tracks and discarded shoes. Brandon stepped gingerly around a paper grocery bag holding other paper grocery bags, and looked into the living room. His eyes popped. The carpet was gone, and a vinyl plank floor was half installed. But it was not as though Anthony had been in the middle of the project just now when the doorbell rang. It was clear from the dirty clothes, Amazon boxes, and piles of mail that this project had halted prematurely some time ago.
Brandon turned and looked at Anthony, who was watching him sadly as he surveyed the disaster. “That’s not all,” he admitted without Brandon uttering word. “The kitchen is worse.”
“The kitchen? What did you do in the kitchen?” Without waiting for Anthony to speak, Brandon brushed past him and picked his way to the end of the hall. It was clearly mid-project, much like the living room floor, but on a much bigger and more chaotic scale. All of the cabinet doors had been removed and the facings had been primed. The doors stood stacked against a wall, untouched. The countertop had been ripped out, and ill fitting pieces of rough plywood had been laid across some of the cabinets in a makeshift work surface. In other places, Brandon could look directly into the tops of drawers, all sporting a different version of disarray.
“What happened here?” Brandon asked, staring.
“Let’s sit,” Anthony suggested. “I made a space.” Brandon followed the black and white Rally Pros around the clutter in the hall and back to the living room, where Anthony had placed a folding camp chair opposite the couch. He offered the couch to Brandon, then lowered himself into the camp chair. He crossed his left foot over his right knee as Brandon had observed him do countless times. He fiddled with the pull loops on his Champions for a minute, the stretchy cuff shifting just enough to reveal another one of Anthony’s brilliant white socks. At least that hasn’t changed, Brandon marveled.
“Can I get you something?” Anthony offered. Thoughtful, but it felt like a stall.
“I’m fine. Why am I here?” Brandon wasn’t mincing words.
“Look. I don’t like the way we—I—left, things last time.” He looked at his shoe. So did Brandon. “I was taken by surprise. And honestly, I was…disappointed.” Brandon started to look incredulous, as though he were gearing up to protest, but Anthony rushed to clarify. “Disappointed in me. Not you. God, don’t think I’m like that.”
Brandon took a beat. “What would you have to be disappointed about?”
Anthony bobbed his head slightly from side to side, as if juggling the words to sift out the right ones. “It’s like I told you that night. The night I was at your place.” Brandon nodded impatiently, not requiring the context. “I thought I was helping you this whole time.”
Brandon couldn’t argue with this. The entire premise of their relationship was—after all—exposure therapy to move Brandon past his fetish. Brandon was the one who changed course and never informed Anthony. He tilted his head thoughtfully at Anthony.
“Who’s to say you haven’t helped me?” Doubt settled over Anthony’s face like a shadow. Brandon continued. “True, I might not have achieved my original objectives. But I could certainly tell you one thing came of our doing things together. Something that I really didn’t have before.” Anthony raised his eyebrows in question. “I was happy,” Brandon said simply. “I really liked being around you.”
Anthony bowed his head, a smile playing at his lips. “Yeah. I know you did. I was having fun, too.”
“So what does that have to do with all of…this?” Brandon gestured to the disastrous room. Anthony glanced from side to side as though truly taking it all in for the first time.
“Remember when I came to the gallery and picked out the fabrics and stuff?” Brandon did remember. Monkstraps and houndstooth. He nodded. Anthony continued. “I told you that I was getting something out of our friendship, too. Sorting through all of this.” He waved he hand at the chaos. “My life has almost always looked like this. I was heading in the right direction for the first time ever a few months ago. Because you were helping me.”
Brandon was starting to see where this was going. “But then you decided that you had let me down,” he offered. Anthony nodded and picked up the thread.
“Yeah. I guess. It’s kind of felt like I shouldn’t be getting my end of the deal, either.” Brandon looked at Anthony’s face for minute. He was still sexy as hell. But a new weight that he had never seen before was taking a toll on him. He looked tired—middle aged, even.
“That’s,” Brandon started, Anthony looking up at him, “…really stupid, “ he concluded. Anthony guffawed, but Brandon went on. “You’re treating a friendship as though it’s something purely transactional. That’s not the way it works.”
Anthony bobbed his head in understanding. “But that’s just the thing. I don’t know when we actually decided that we were friends.” Brandon mused over this remark. When exactly had it happened? It was a little more difficult for him to put a finger on it, his feelings tangled up with his sexual urges.
“So what do you want to do?” he asked after a moment of silence had settled between them.
“I would think that’s pretty obvious,” Anthony replied, the first traces of his old grin returning to his face. “I’ve got furniture coming in less than a week. Look at this place. I’m a fucking mess.” Brandon laughed, but he wasn’t feeling relief just yet.
“I am, too.” He grew serious. “A major fucking mess. Can you handle that?”
Anthony shrugged. “Does it have to be any different from before?”
“It already is different,” Brandon pointed out. “You have to know that this thing, this—“ he grimaced, “fetish, is mixed up with you now.” It never got easier saying that word out loud. Anthony was silent for a moment. He narrowed his eyes before speaking again.
“In any of our times together, did you ever…?” He let the question trail off.
“What? Get off?” he asked bluntly. Brandon waggled an eyebrow, trying to look mischievous. It was better than looking shameful. “It may have happened once or twice.” An understatement. Anthony looked at his sneaker again.
“You have to know that I don’t care,” he finally said, his hand caressing the elastic strap that bridged over his foot. “I’m more worried about it for your sake. I can never be…what you want.” He glanced up to gauge Brandon’s reaction.
“I don’t think you can know that,” Brandon retorted, “considering I don’t even know what that is. It’s not like I have expectations.” Although he had plenty of fantasies, he thought. “I do know that I have missed our time together.” He looked down at his lap, afraid that this was all a bit too much for Anthony.
“Me too, bro. I haven’t made a single video in two months.”
“Don’t think I hadn’t noticed,” Brandon said with a grin. The two stood and Anthony clapped his hand on Brandon’s shoulder. Thank god he had that trademarked move. It was the perfect gesture—the happy medium between a hug and a handshake, either of which would have felt completely out of place.
“I can come back tomorrow and help you start getting this place cleaned up,” Brandon said, starting for the door.
“I can’t tell you how happy that makes me to hear that,” Anthony exhaled. As Brandon stepped onto the front porch, Anthony said, “hey, Brandon. Just out of curiosity: what do you think of these shoes?” Brandon looked at Anthony as he glanced down at the Champions, then back up at him. There was no joke, no hint of facetiousness, just a genuine question.
“So we’re doing this, are we?” Brandon glanced at the shoes, having been given permission. He could see Anthony’s foot flex inside the knit upper, and he could see the stretchy cuff contour around his ankles just under the bunching jeans. “They’re fucking hot as hell.” Brandon turned on his heel, then headed out of the pool of porch light and into the darkness.
Shoe Horny 