Chapter 3: Italus?-3
663 Words
Nash leaned his head back in the armchair and stared at the water spots on the ceiling. Oliver’s music played softly in the background, disrupted occasionally by a faint swish as he turned the page of his book.
How on earth was Nash supposed to suggest to a physician that his judgment regarding the health of his own grandfather was incorrect? Or was it? Maybe Nash had misread Bernie’s comment. Perhaps Dr. Burlingham had no intention of moving Bernie to a nursing home. It did seem out of character—not that he was any kind of expert on Dr. Burlingham’s character—after seeing the two of them interact with each other.
Dr. Burlingham had looked at Bernie with genuine warmth and caring. He didn’t strike Nash as the kind of person who would sacrifice his grandfather for the sake of personal convenience. Sure Dr. Burlingham was a bit anti-social, but he wasn’t cruel, and he certainly wasn’t lazy.
None of it made sense anymore. So help him, if Bernie was upping that matchmaking game…
“Rough day at work?”
Nash startled at Harley’s comment. He hadn’t even heard the door open.
“What? Oh. No, not rough, anyway. ‘Weird’ is more the word I’d use.”
“Sounds interesting.” Harley crossed the room, leaned down to kiss Oliver, then plopped on the couch next to his boyfriend. He turned his attention back to Nash. “Let me guess, though, you can’t tell me anything about it because of HIPAA, blah, blah, blah.” Harley affected a long-suffering tone to underscore his opinion.
Nash snorted. “Sorry.”
Oliver gave Harley a slight elbow nudge, and they shared a glance that wasn’t quite as inconspicuous as they’d probably meant for it to be. Nash narrowed his eyes as Harley cleared his throat.
“So, uh, Nash.”
“Spit it out, Harley.”
“So there’s this guy I met through work. He’s the brother of a bride-to-be whose wedding I’m putting together.”
Harley paused and bit his lip.
Nash groaned. He knew what was coming, but had to ask. “What did you do?”
“Well, he was bemoaning the fact that he has two tickets for a showing of Kinky Boots tomorrow night. He’d bought them months ago, right before breaking up with his boyfriend…” Harley trailed off, and his gaze bounced around the room, landing anywhere but Nash’s eyes.
“You didn’t.”
Harley pouted, but Oliver dipped his head affirmatively.
“Really, Harley? A blind date?” Nash exclaimed. “And tomorrow night? That’s like zero notice.”
“It’s not a blind date! And the timing’s a bonus, so you won’t torment yourself for long.”
“In what universe is this not a blind date?”
“The one where your ‘best friend ever’ has already met the guy.”
“Friends knowing the guy is where half of all blind dates come from. The defining f*****g characteristic of a blind date is that the people going on the date have never met each other.”
“Best friends. It’s a proxy thing.”
Nash rolled his eyes. Unlike with Angela, he could do that with Harley and not suffer any negative consequences whatsoever. Nash didn’t make up the damned rules, he merely lived within their guidelines.
“So let me get this straight. I can’t put up a ‘roommate wanted’ ad where I can screen the hell out of applicants, but you can set me up to spend an entire evening with a total stranger.”
“Well, to be fair,” Oliver interjected, “much of the evening will be spent at the theater. If you don’t hit it off at dinner, at least you won’t have to talk to him for hours.”
“Then pass on the coffee or whatever afterward,” Harley added. “And just come home.”
Harley looked so damned hopeful. He and Oliver were sitting side by side on the lumpy couch, staring at him with big ol’ cow eyes. They were probably desperate for an evening home alone without Nash hanging around like a third wheel.
Nash’s shoulders slumped, and he heaved a heavy sigh. “Okay, fine. I guess I do want to see Kinky Boots anyway.” Seeing the smiles on his friends’ faces made it worth the sacrifice. “I expect you to empty a can of Febreze in here before I get back. I don’t want to smell what you’ve been up to. And if it involves that couch, please, for God’s sake, put a tarp on it first. I don’t want to sleep in your funky wet spots.”
Oliver had the decency to blush, but Harley grinned and maintained eye contact. “Towels are gonna have to do.”
To borrow a word from Bernie Meacham…crimony.
- Writer
