Boot(s)

20-Boot

Sergeant Jackson

Maybe it was the fact that I suddenly felt 100 pounds lighter. Maybe it was the thought of never having to step foot in the inn's honeymoon suite again. Or maybe, it was Bo, cooking taco meat at the stove, and setting two places instead of one at the kitchen table. But most likely, it was the sixth Heineken in my hand. Either way, I was in a damn good mood.

Bo and I were sitting in our usual seats in the living room. We had been mindlessly watching ESPN, but at some point, Bo had turned it off and turned in his chair to face me. He claimed I was talking too much for him to focus on anything. I watched his fingers slip off the wine glass as he set it down on the table next to him. He swallowed. "I don't know, Pete... I hang out with Bella. I walk the dog."

His answer made me snort. I had just asked him what he did for fun... his first answer was community service. God, I hated him. "Those sound like chores, Bo."

He gave me a small shrug. "I don't have much free time. I choose to spend it with family, I guess." My chest burned. God, I adored him.

I cleared my throat a bit, watching my arm dangle off the edge of the couch, beer bottle tight between my fingers. A question itched and clawed at my tongue like a dog in a cage. I had been wondering for weeks. It ate at me every time I saw him, opening doors for me, swinging Bella upside down, teaching her right from wrong, posing for her to paint him. I had been wanting to ask Jessie, or hell even Bella, but never him. I couldn't ask him. But here I was, drunk, wanting—burning to ask him.

It didn't come out as a question, though. "You don't date anybody."

I wanted to flinch at the edge in my voice, but my brain was floating ten feet above my head and my inhibitions and embarrassment complex were all out of office. So I stared at him, at his stunned, raised eyebrows, and waited patiently.

Slowly, he nodded. "Yeah. Not really."

"Why?"

"A few reasons, I guess. Time is one of them." He reached for his glass of wine, and took a long swig, emptying the half glass he had in there before he picked it up. Again, I waited patiently. "This town is hard, too. We're in a small suburb of the city where everyone knows everyone, and everyone knows me. That's hard."

"Atlanta's a big city," I told him. "Our small town is just a fraction of that, Bo. I'm sure there are plenty of nice women around who don't know you. You should get on the apps. I hear those are good." I said women, and I knew that's what he wanted me to say. But I wanted him to correct me. I wanted him to tell me no, Peter, it's not women I'm interested in, because I could tell by the way he looked at me when he had a few glasses of wine in him. I knew he wasn't interested in women. Not at all.

He shrugged. Didn't correct me. "Yeah. Maybe." His eyes found his empty glass. I knew he wanted to get up and escape this conversation, maybe open another bottle to forget it happened. But I caught him before he stood up.

"You ever been in love?" This was another one of those questions. The questions locked in the box in my head that said do not open unless drunk. I had wondered about this a lot, when I was overseas. In college, did he have a girlfriend? A boyfriend? In the NBA, did he go to the parties and sneak out the back with someone he couldn't be seen with? Had someone ever held his face, fingers tangling in his hair, and told him they loved him?

If Bo was surprised, he didn't show it. He stared just as intensely back at me as I imagined I was staring at him. He was leaned over, his hands on his knees like he was about to get up and get more wine. But he didn't. He just sat there, staring back at me. Finally, he sighed and moved his eyes to the windows by the front door.

"Yes." He said. I couldn't breathe, so I didn't respond. His eyes found mine again. "Do I even have to ask you the same thing?"

I snorted, because I could play this part. Easy. "Course not. You know me. Commitment is my bad C word."

A small smirk landed on his lips. "I remember you having a different girlfriend practically every week, back when we were kids."

"Exactly. Commitment. Not for me. Never was, never will be."

He shook his head, smiling, then stood up, empty glass in his hand. His eyes flickered to my empty Heineken. "Want another?"

"No," I told him. "Hey. Sit down. You were in love? When?"

He did not in fact, sit down. He started walking towards the kitchen. "Story for another day. That's opening up a much larger can of worms." He was about to turn the corner out of sight, but he paused right on the end of the couch where my empty Heineken was dangling precariously in his way. I glanced up at him. I usually hated when he looked down at me, but this time, there was something in his eyes that didn't make me feel small. "You still do that thing, you know."

"What thing?" I didn't mean to whisper, but his voice had gotten softer and quieter so apparently mine had to too.

"That thing when you're about to cry. Where you've got your hand covering your mouth. And you can't even look at me." I swallowed. I wanted to turn away, but my pride wouldn't let me. "You know Pete, if you can't open up to me, who can you open up to?"

He took my ten-second-long silence as a definitive answer, then sighed, and turned the corner to the kitchen. A small ball of orange fury formed in my chest.

"I do NOT do that. And I wasn't about to cry, Bobby O'Callahan!" One breath was breaking into two, but I still yelled louder. "And you god damned hypocrite! Me open up? What about you, Mr. Can of worms? Huh? HUH?"

He didn't answer me. A few seconds later I heard his feet on the staircase behind me. "Turn off the lights," he muttered behind him. "And in the kitchen."

"Fuck off," I told him, but my heart wasn't in it.

A few minutes later, after I had successfully turned off the kitchen lights and was heading back towards my new bedroom, I heard the faint sound of music playing from upstairs. I stopped by the staircase. I could hear him singing, strumming the guitar, so I sat down at the bottom step and listened for a while.

When it grew too quiet for me to make out the lyrics, I dug my phone out of my sweatpants to text him.

Hey. Open your door or something.

Or sing louder.

He didn't answer me, but a few minutes later, his bedroom door kicked open. The sound of his guitar was louder now, and I could really hear the lyrics he was singing.

Life is short, make it sweet.