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“So,” Issa announces, her hands on the door to the entrance of the kitchen. She’s wearing the shirt she wore when Jane Fonda punched her in the boob, a tight tank top that says IM BROWN AND SORTA QUEER, AND IM STILL OPPRESSED ENOUGH TO BE HERE that Billie had gotten her handpressed at the mail shop that's stopped worshipping her after her recent fall from grace. Anton knows that this means she’s serious.
“You and Paul Baker are in love,” she says, her eyes big and hard.
Anton chokes on his tea, while Paul Baker stands by the counter with his eyes wide, his cardigan draping off his massive trapezius. He looks kind of scared, but then again, Paul Baker always looks scared.
“What?” Paul Baker asks. “Baby, what—no. We’re just married.”
“No, it’s okay,” Issa says, sounding very not okay, “I’ve thought about it a lot since I’ve been on probation from work and you know what—it’s okay. I’m swimming in blessings right now. The schools are letting me put on a show every two years. I haven’t lost my phone in three days. And this morning, I didn’t even flush my tampon down the toilet—I just threw it out the window straight into the trash!”
“The trash is on the curb,” Samir says, his face blinking where he’s standing in the dining room. He looks at Billie next to him, who looks high-strung. “It’s trash day…?”
“We have trash days?” Paul Baker asks.
“Anyways,” Issa continues, “I have decided that you guys are in love and I’m gonna help you get together. I mean it’s my responsibility because I couldn’t marry Paul Baker. And lied to him about my divorce. And you know—the current political climate around queer people is so difficult. This is like—my new Pride.”
Anton puts his tea down on the counter while Paul Baker approaches Issa, kind of like a baby duck would approach a grenade.
“Issa,” Paul Baker starts. “I wanna be with you. And Anton doesn’t have feelings for me. Right, Anton?”
Anton has a work meeting in twelve minutes, and he’s realizing that he can’t really take it in the dining room anymore. With his luck, Issa will have established a family reunion in the backyard and announced his marriage by the time he gets his first Uh-huh out.
“No,” Anton says, not missing a beat. “Not in love with Paul Baker, Issa.”
Paul Baker’s eyes are still on him for a second, one second, and it’s so hot all over Anton’s body it’s like somebody put his body on a tanning bed and left him there for too long. So basically, the time when Billie thought she could get all of her Vitamin D deficiency at the local Beach Bum Tanning Spot and Anton felt bad enough to take a turn.
“Come on,” Issa says, neurotically. “We saw that kiss. We all saw that kiss. Billie and Samir, didn’t you see that kiss?”
She looks at them expectantly. Samir’s shoulders are up to his ears as he says, “It was like if the Titanic exploded in Queens, dude.”
“You asked us to kiss,” Anton says, his hands flying up into the air. “Have you met me? I’m a fabulous kisser. Samir, come here.”
“No thanks,” Samir says. “Still working on it with Carly.”
“No, but he is,” Billie says. When everyone looks at her, she says, “I was really down, and he was making me feel better.”
She was really down that day—her old boss had called her Bing Bong, laughed, and then cried over the character's untimely demise when all Billie was asking about was their lunch order. It was the one thing Anton would ever do for straight people.
“See?” Anton says. “All yours.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Issa says. “I’m committed to this.” In the same tone that Ronald Reagan used to bring peace and prosperity to the United States.
“So,” she continues. She clenches her hands together and looks really excited. “Now that Paul Baker and I have broken up, Anton, you should take him to a bar and make him feel better.”
For all it’s worth, Paul Baker looks like someone shot his dog. “Issa—you’re—you’re breaking up with me?”
“Come on Paul Baker,” Issa says, looking at him. “The love of your life is right there.”
“Issa,” Billie says, still looking like a pinned mouse. “That’s kind of awful.”
“I’m doing you a favor,” Issa says. She kind of pushes Paul Baker’s shoulder, so one of the cardigan’s falls down his arm and exposes a long, pale strip of his skin. Anton can just see the outline of his chess tattoo.
She turns to Anton. “I called the bar and they open at 10, so you should head over there now.”
Paul Baker’s still standing there, suddenly single and still married and loser-ish. And Anton, at this point, is kind of hard-wired to help the Canadians, like if NATO promised him a year-long subscription of lube and continuous Paul Baker porn-stache pics. He’s like if Katy Perry lived in a run-down house in Queens and planned the space-trip to kill herself, and he watches, in slow motion, as he gets onto the ship.
“I can’t,” he says. “I’m getting back together with Jacob.”
Everyone gasps.
—
Anton swore to himself that he would never, ever do this, but then he found Paul Baker on the couch upstairs and everything kind of changed after that. He wishes he didn’t try to steal the aluminum foil off of that man—had charmed him instead, so that Paul Baker could just be Roommate Tattoos Mustache instead of—instead of Paul Baker. What kind of name is that anyway? Paul Baker. Anton has found himself mouthing the words to himself sometimes. In the mirror. In his bed. In the shower. On his way to work sometimes.
“Hey,” Anton says, when Jacob sits down in front of him. He’s kind of still as perfect-looking as ever, with his fluffy blonde hair and the stubble and the blue eyes and the rippling muscles. If only he hadn’t taken Anton’s heart and put it in the blender.
“Hey, Anton,” he says, and he smiles. The sun literally twinkles off of his teeth, the bastard. “Kind of surprised you called, I mean—it’s been eight months.”
Eight months, three days, and 14 hours is what the self-harm stopwatch on his phone says. He already clicked the reset button as soon as he saw Jacob’s asshole car pull into the lot.
“Yeah,” Anton says. He’s trying his hardest to be his perkiest self, which is hard when the curve of Jacob’s mouth is familiar, and the smell of him is making Anton remember the weeks, if not months, he spent crying in bed over him. He shrugs and then grins and leans forward. “Just wanted to, you know. See how you were doing.”
“I’m good,” he says. “Anton, I have to say—I really missed you.”
Anton swallows. “Yeah, I mean—I really missed you too.”
His phone buzzes. Anton can kind of see the text messages from the group chat that have varying levels of death threats to it, including Issa’s threat to bomb the block. Thankfully, he turned off his location. Paul Baker hasn’t said anything, which Anton totally, definitely doesn’t care about, because he’s a cool, chic kind of husband.
“I thought we could try this again,” Anton blurts out. “See where it goes.”
Jacob looks at him so surprised his face doesn’t move for almost a minute. He always had a botox problem. “Really? Well, I—uh. I’m so surprised. You said you were looking for something serious.”
And Jacob wasn’t. Which is what he said after eight months of dating, meeting Anton’s parents, briefly looking at rings at vintage shops, and only semi-ignoring the notes app on Anton’s phone with their kids' names. And after sleeping with Anton’s next-door neighbor, Anton’s friend, Anton’s pilates instructor, and then Anton’s old boss. And then, when Anton called him out, he tried to jump off of the roof of Anton’s house.
“Yeah, well, I’ve done the serious,” Anton says. “I actually got married.”
Jacob’s mouth drops, and it looks like it hurt. “You got—married—to who?”
“To Paul Baker. You don’t know him, he’s Canadian. So what do you say?” He leans forward on the metal table, hearing it wobble on the concrete pavement. He hates this fucking cafe, but Jacob had insisted. “Want to spin around the block a couple more times?”
Jacob smiles. Well—sort of smiles. His cheeks can’t move. And all Anton can think to himself is—Paul Baker.
—
When Anton gets back home, everyone is collected back into the living room and waiting for him. They’re all surrounding the television, which has a Powerpoint up titled WHY ANTON IS MAKING THE WORST DECISION IN THE WORLD. In the middle of the PowerPoint is a picture of Anton when he was in the depths of it—he’s crying to George while drinking Pink Whitney out of Samir’s mom's gardening can. It’s watering his mouth.
“Anton,” Issa starts, because of course she does. “We have all gathered here today to talk about your recent decision, a severe violation of Article 3 Section 4A.”
Samir nods. “The never, ever, ever get back with Jacob clause.”
“Too late,” Anton says. “We did it in his backseat. Check off my box, ladies, because this dry spell spilled all over 97% leather seats.”
“And what’s the other 3%, huh?” Billie asks, leaning forward on her chair, whispering creepily. “The rest of this neighborhood? Did you hear the cries and screams of his future offspring, Anton? Were they skilled at pilates?”
Anton glares at her. Paul Baker, Anton notices, is sitting on the chair in the corner of the room not saying anything.
“Okay, how did this even happen?” Samir asks. “You swore you would never contact him again. You haven’t seen anybody in eight months.”
“Wrong,” Anton says, “there was that guy you guys tracked with Issa’s Airtag that died in the subway last month. And Jacob texted me again so I replied. What’s the problem with that?”
“The problem with that?” Issa asks, getting amped up enough to start standing up on the couch. “Let me tell you what the problem with that is—”
“Alright, alright—” Samir says, trying to grab her. “What we’re trying to say here, Anton, is that we think you’re making a massive fucking mistake. Jacob is a tool. We all hate Jacob. Everyone hates Jacob. You can do so much better than Jacob.”
“Yeah,” Issa says. “Like Paul Baker.”
Paul Baker doesn’t say anything.
“This discussion is over,” he says. “We’re doing it. We’re doing the thing. We’re spinning the block.” He makes a square shape with his hands. “This block is spinnnningggg.”
Issa pulls out a lighter from somewhere and tries to light the square shape on fire. Samir blows air on it, aggressively. Anton sighs.
“Anything else we’d like to talk about?” Anton says. “Like hey Billie, how’s the job search going?”
Billie glares at him.
“I’m so mad at you right now," Issa says, standing up. “I can’t even look at you, it’s like, messing up all my chakras after I just got them right when I greened out last week. I’m going upstairs.”
She stomps up the stairs.
“It’s the dinner rush,” Samir says, “so I gotta go. But we’re gonna talk about this tonight. Preferably over some food if someone cancels their order.” He side-eyes Anton as he slithers out of the room, putting his backpack on in slow motion like he’s debating on flinging off the backpack and throwing it at Anton. Anton just sighs again.
Billie gets up too, staring him down. “I’m going to go for a walk and listen to Melodrama by Lorde, and you better hope that I don’t make it to Writer in the Dark, buddy. Hope.” She sounds less threatening and more like she’s going to make it to Liability and cry at the end of the street, like she did last week.
She follows out the door after Samir, slamming it after him.
Anton looks at Paul Baker, who’s staring at his lap, still quiet in his seat.
“Anything left to say, hubby?” He asks.
Paul Baker is quiet for a moment before he says— “I just got dumped. Wanna go to the bar with me?”
—
The bar is pathetic at 4PM. Anton can’t imagine what it would be like at 10AM, when Issa said it opened.
“To your new relationship,” Paul Baker says, holding up his beer bottle, “and to my old one.”
Anton takes a sip of his beer and grimaces. The bartender had just stared at him when he asked for a dirty martini with extra goat cheese olives, so he settled for a Corona.
“She’s gonna come around, PB,” Anton says. “She’s just, like, going through a phase.”
Paul Baker shrugs.
“She does this all the time,” he says. “Her last boyfriend sent her a video on Cameo of him professing his love in front of the Alvin and the Chipmunks section at the store because he thought it was the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater. This is nothing.”
“Who’s Alvin and the Chipmunks?” He asks. Anton takes a deep breath and goes for another disgusting swig.
“How’s your guy?” Paul Baker asks. “Everyone seemed…really angry about him.”
“He’s kind of the modern version of the Other Mother from Coraline,” Anton says. “Which is this character who traps souls and sews people’s eyes shut with buttons—”
“Oh I love Coraline,” Paul Baker says. Which, of course he does.
“But he’s sexy,” Anton says.
“I thought you were looking for something serious,” Paul Baker says.
“And I thought you took marriage seriously,” Anton replies. He raises his finger and pokes at Paul Baker’s hard, hard shoulder.
Paul Baker shrugs. “You’re kind of the one who convinced me to stay.”
“Uh, excuse me,” he starts, “I’m not the one who got down on my knees on the living room floor.”
Paul Baker’s eyes darken at him, and Anton flushes hot all over. Jesus, he feels like a menopausal woman around him.
“You know what I mean,” he mutters. Paul Baker clears his throat and looks away for a second.
“I don’t want to go back to Canada, I mean—” He points around the dingy beer, a man in a biker jacket talking to himself in the corner and two horny teenagers going at it by the photobooth bar. Seriously, they’re going at it so hard the booth is making a click, click, click noise like it’s being convinced to take photos of the air as it's getting violated. “This is New York fucking City. The city that never sleeps.”
“Are you homos gonna drink anything else?” The bartender cuts in, stepping in front of them. “Bar closes in twenty.”
Anton points at Paul Baker. “Fluid,” he enunciates slowly. “And we’ll take another one of these.”
The bartender grumbles and grabs their drinks.
“It’s you guys, you know,” Paul Baker says, pitifully looking into his lap. “I’ve never had friends like this. I’ve never had a family.”
His hair flops over his forehead. Anton closes his eyes and tries to picture what Jacob looks like, and can’t, for the life of him, remember.
“And I’m afraid,” Paul Baker says, looking over at him. “I’m afraid I’m gonna mess everything up.”
“You can’t do that,” Anton replies, easily. “Unless you like, smash a hole into Samir’s parents house. And even then I’m pretty sure he’ll forgive you after the focaccia you made him last night.”
Paul Baker doesn’t say anything, so Anton shrugs a shoulder into his. “Seriously,” he says. “We all wanted to marry you.”
“You didn’t,” Paul Baker says. “You didn’t even ask.”
Well, that seems like a frivolous thing to say, considering Anton signed his name on a dotted line.
“I don’t ask men to marry me,” Anton says, waving his hand into the air. “Like, couldn’t even think about it.”
“Billie said you were thinking about asking Jacob,” he says.
“No,” Anton refutes. “I was just yelling ‘ring’ into his phone whenever he left the room. You know, for targeted ads.”
“Oh,” Paul Baker nods. “Sometimes, I do that around Billie’s phone.”
“The word ring?”
“No, dry shampoo.”
Anton nods.
“Look,” Anton says, “I’m gonna go home and talk to Issa, and everything’s gonna be alright.”
“Do you think she’s mad?” Paul Baker asks.
“Mad?” Antons asks. “About what?”
“About me kissing you like I’m in love with you,” he says, serious as ever.
A— feeling— drips down the back of Anton’s throat, pooling into his belly. Anton does a pretty good job of ignoring his feelings and not really talking about them, especially when it comes to romance. But when he’s around Paul Baker, it’s like he unlocks all the tightly-locked gears and springs that hold him together.
“I don’t know,” he says, honestly. “I mean—she has every right to be mad.”
“Yeah,” Paul Baker says. “I know. Right.”
“But I mean,” Anton continues. “It’s not like we did this on purpose. I wasn’t like, plotting on you from the moment I saw you on that couch.”
“Right,” Paul Baker says. “I just thought you were really cool this whole time. All the time.”
“I am cool,” Anton says.
“And I like it when I touch you,” Paul Baker continues. “It’s like, nice.”
Something feels like its struck the back of Anton's head. “Nice,” Anton echoes.
“Yeah,” Paul Baker says. “Like this.” And then Paul Baker puts his hand on Anton’s back.
“This kicks your rocks?” Anton asks. “Putting your hand on my back?”
“It’s nice,” Paul Baker says, shrugging. “You’re nice.”
Here Anton was, unable to hook up with anybody because it was always going to be meaningful sex. And unable to have meaningful sex with anybody, because it would mean someone would get to know him. What he wasn’t able to look out for was a Paul Baker, who simultaneously got to know him but also touched his back like he meant something. What was he supposed to do? Fight off every handshake, like putting together the touches would create the new Oppenheimer?
“Okay,” Anton says. “Thanks.”
Paul Baker sighs and nods, getting off the barstool while Anton does the same. “Wait—” He says. “Before we go, we should take a photo.”
Anton raises an eyebrow at the current photobooth, still being violated. “And risk getting airborne herpes?”
Paul Baker grins. “Come on,” he coaxes, wiggling his eyes. “It’ll be our wedding photos.”
Anton sighs. “Alright fine,” he says, moving towards the photobooth box. “But I’m on the right side. My cheekbones are higher on that side.”
They situate themselves in the booth, and it’s close enough that their thighs are overlapping. Anton’s heart starts beating in ways that he didn’t even know they could, so loud that it’s practically fighting back against the horny couple outside. Paul Baker smells good, too, something woody and warm, and his curls emanate in a way that makes Anton dizzy. He’s hot and dizzy and just fucking overstimulated.
“Alright,” he says weakly, “first photo, serious.”
They look straight into the camera, and Anton mogs. He looks really good, he knows.
“Okay, second one, silly.”
Anton pops a shoulder forward and sticks his nail in his mouth—funny and sexy, he can do it all. Paul Baker sticks his tongue out in a way that looks faintly demonic, but, god bless him. Still fucking sexy.
“Third one, rings,” he says. They hold their ring fingers and touch the tips. All Anton can feel, down to the bottom of his toes, is the way their finger feels together. The point of contact that sets his body on fire.
“Alright, um,” Anton says, after the shutter clicks. When he pulls his finger back—he can’t help it, he runs the pad of his thumb over where they touched. Paul Baker’s eyes flicker down and catch it. “Fourth photo, we should—”
Paul Baker reaches over and curls his hand over Anton’s jaw, big and steady. The words flutter out of Anton’s mouth, and then he’s closer, moving closer and closer until his mouth is over Anton’s.
It’s so unbelievably good, Anton would think Paul Baker really did grow a porn-stache. He’s firm and soft, and his hand over Anton’s jaw makes it really easy for him to lick into Anton’s mouth and take whatever he wants. The smell of his hair and the tickle of his stache and the firmness of his thigh against Anton’s makes his brain drool.
Paul Baker— Paul Baker— sucks his lower lips into his mouth and bites at him, while Anton shoves a hand into his curls and tugs and tugs and tugs, until he gets the message and pulls Anton up on his lap, where it’s even firmer and hotter and god, Anton can’t think, with Paul Baker’s tongue in his mouth and his hand on his ass. He wants to rip his shirt off and suck every one of Paul Baker’s tattoos in his mouth and kiss the curve where his jaw meets his neck and—
Paul Baker rips his mouth back, in shock, as someone flings open the curtain to the photobooth. The bartender is standing there with his mouth fixed into an unhappy grimace, pointing his finger at them.
“Homos,” he yells, “out.”
—
Anton finds Issa sitting upside down in her bed, holding her iPad way too close to her head. She’s watching the Glee version of Take Me to Church and Chandelier, which is what Anton is pretty sure she’s been doing for hours.
“Hey babe,” Anton says. “Can we talk?”
“Sorry,” Issa says, “I don’t talk to clause-breakers.”
“And why are you watching Glee on your iPad?” Anton asks, plopping on the bed next to her. “Where’s your phone?”
Issa sighs and drops the iPad on the bed next to him. “Fine. I went to get my tampon and my phone fell out my window and now I’m waiting for Samir to come back to look through the bushes with me. Alright?”
Anton makes a face. “Did you get the tampon?”
“No,” she says, with a huff. She leans back and folds her arms over her chest. “Why’d you do that? Why Jacob and not Paul Baker?”
Behind all that glitter and Glee is heart. So much heart. Anton doesn’t know how she carries it around with her in her little body, even though she’s seen her carry two kegs at once to her student's 7th birthday party (for the parents, apparently).
“Jacob’s not a bad guy,” Anton says, and Issa leans forward to shush Anton physically, squishing Anton’s lips between her fingers. They smell like trees.
“He’s the demon reincarnated,” she hisses. “And I never want to see him again after he hurt you.”
Anton kisses her fingers.
“You like Paul Baker,” Anton says, through his smushed-up mouth.
“I do,” Issa says, and she leans back again. “But when you kissed—”
“Issa, it was just a kiss—”
“I know,” Issa says. “But there was so much passion.”
She runs her hands through her hair. “I want that passion.”
“You don’t get that passion with Paul Baker?” He asks. His lips are still tingling where they kissed.
“I do,” Issa says. “Sometimes. But other times, no. And if we got married, double no. I don’t want to get married and lose all that passion. I still—I still want to be getting UTI’s with married couples. I still want to go out with a guy who could be the bayside stabber. I still want to fuck my childhood teacher.”
“Alright, I saw your yearbook, and you really should choose better goals,” Anton says.
Issa half-smiles. “I chose Paul Baker because I was done being with losers, and he’s not a loser.”
“But you still miss being with a loser,” Anton continues. “And you don’t want to have to lose him.”
Issa shakes her head, and looks up at him sadly. “I mean he’s perfect and hot and smart and—and perfect. For you.”
“I’m with Jacob,” Anton says, and Issa, honest-to-God physically, growls.
“You should go talk to him,” Anton says. “I don’t think he wants to lose you either. And breaking up with him in the kitchen in front of everyone didn’t really give him that idea.”
“I know,” she says, sadly leaning into his side. Then she sniffs him and leans back.
“Holy shit,” she says, “you kissed him again.”
“What?” Anton asks. “I don’t know what youre talking about.”
“I can smell him on you,” she says. “Oh my god, you’re in love with Paul Baker.”
“I’m not,” Anton says. “Are you mad?”
Issa looks at him, long and hard. “I am a little mad,” Issa says. “Were you plotting on him the entire time?”
“No,” Anton says, severely. “I never would have even thought about it. I promise. You’re my girl. You’re the only girl I would ever marry in this world.”
“Don’t say that,” Issa says, but she’s grinning. “That would make Billie really sad.”
“You know she couldn’t handle all this,” Anton says, as serious as a button.
“If I’m being honest,” Issa whispers, “I have imagined what our babies would look like.”
“O-kay,” Anton says.
“Only if we needed to,” Issa exclaims.
“When would we need to?” Anton asks.
“I don’t know,” Issa says. “Last year, after Eurovision, things got really scary.”
“Alright,” Anton says. “Go talk to Paul Baker.”
“You go talk to Paul Baker.”
“I told you,” he yells, “I’m with Jacob.”
“STOP FUCKING SAYING THAT NAME,” Issa says, and then she’s tackling him to the floor.
—
“Hey,” Paul Baker says the next morning. He’s wearing this white polo that clings to him all over.
“Hey,” Anton says, where he’s drinking his tea. “You talk to Issa yesterday?”
“Yeah, actually,” he says. “After I pulled her off of you, we had a great talk. I feel better.”
“Good,” Anton says, awkwardly. “That’s great.” He stutters out. “I’m like if Ellen DeGeneres was a good person.”
Paul Baker’s eyes scrunch. “Who’s that?”
Anton stares at him.
“Anyway,” Paul Baker continues. “I just—really appreciate how seriously you take me. Seriously.”
“Um,” Anton says, unsteadily. “No problem. Seriously.”
“I just mean like,” he says, and then he scratches his jaw—right where Anton had kissed it. He stares and then blinks and then it’s like he’s right back in that photobooth, his thighs underneath him, his heart pounding and his dick getting harder than a fucking rock. “I know I’m like, the golden retriever of this house.”
“Right,” Anton says.
“I just feel like—” He tries. “I have fun with you. You know? I’m like a big golden dog.”
“Right,” Anton repeats.
“But you don’t forget to like, feed me. Or take me for a walk. Or if my paw hurts, you look at it. You would get like a medal. For being serious.”
Anton just stares at him. He’s worried that Issa used the mug he’s drinking from to make pot brownies again, and he’s hallucinating this conversation.
“O-kay,” Anton says.
“Thanks, man,” Paul Baker says brightly. “Knew you would understand.”
“Right, yeah,” Anton says.
“You want me to make you soup?” Paul Baker asks. “I’ve been working on my minestrone recipe. I won’t burn it like you guys, and I finally got past the paywall on this one recipe.”
“No thanks,” Anton says. “I’m meeting up with Jacob for lunch.”
“Oh,” Paul Baker says. He stops and looks at Anton, saying Oh like its a court sentence. Even though Anton didn’t entirely get his dog reference, right now he very much looks like a kicked puppy.
“Yeah, Lizetti’s pizza,” Anton offers up, because for some reason he feels awfully, inextricably bad. They’re not talking about the kiss. He figures they’re not talking about the kiss on purpose. Right? They don’t talk about the kissing and the closeness and the thing they share between them.
That way, nobody gets hurt.
“You hate Lizetti’s pizza,” Paul Baker says. “You always say the cheese tastes like the chef put come in it after doing whatever the opposite of a juice cleanse is.”
“Yeah, I know,” Anton says “Jacob just likes it a lot.”
“Oh,” Paul Baker says. “Oh, yeah, okay.” He steps back.
“But I think they have some new flavors,” Anton says, feeling like he needs to clean this up.
“Right,” Paul Baker says, and then he turns and leaves.
—
Anton is still thinking about it when he’s lunch with Jacob. The pizza is still god awful, except this time, it seems like the chef jerked off all over his pizza with a hand that’s covered in chili oil.
“God,” Anton groans, “this is like, the worst pizza ever.”
“What?” Jacob says. He’s chowing down on his kale greek vegan protein pizza. “This is your favorite place.”
Anton stares at him incredulously. “I fucking hate this place.”
“Oh,” Jacob says, staring at him with his blank face as per usual. “Thought you loved this place.”
“No,” Anton says. And then he stares down at his pizza and thinks about Paul Baker’s soup.
“Well, whatever,” he says. “I went out on a date on Saturday.”
“That's amazing,” Anton says. “Did he suck up all the botox around your eyes? Looking tired, Jakey!” As if he didn’t spend Saturday waiting for Jacob to text him back.
Jacob laughs, and then touches his eyes worriedly.
“It was great,” Jacob says. “Before I tell you about it, can I just say—this is so great. We’re so great.”
“So great,” Anton mimics back.
“Before you were just so—serious about things. And now you’re not! Gotta say—this marriage is probably one of the best things that ever happened to you.”
Then, Anton has a split stage dream that reenacts in front of him. He imagines taking his jerked-off chili oil pizza and slapping it across Jacob’s face. He imagines crawling on top of him and holding it over his eyes until he cries. He imagines screaming, TAKE THIS JACKASS, and then plunging his hands into his eyes until the botox all melts away.
In reality, he takes another bite of his pizza and says. “Yes, Paul Baker is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“Yeah, it was a great date,” Jacob says, because he’s a fucking tool. “Whaddya say, huh—maybe I could tell you about it back at my place?”
Here he lies. Anton Evans. Sitting in front of his jackass boyfriend, after kicking the golden retriever that is Paul Baker. He thinks about his minestrone soup. He thinks about the way he sighs into his mouth when he kisses Anton.
He thinks about—God forbid—he thinks about that hand on his back.
—
Paul Baker is ignoring him.
It’s kind of like if happiness and joyfulness deciding to take one look at Anton and spit on him. He’s imagined killing himself in fourteen different ways to stave off how it feels to see Paul Baker barely look up at him when he enters the house and heads to the kitchen.
“Alright, what did you do?” Samir whispers, standing next to him in the kitchen.
“I don’t know,” Anton says, staring at Paul Baker on the couch. He’s reading a book. Angrily. He’s like cotton candy and sunshine and rainbows. Paul Baker doesn’t get mad. Or sad. It’s like—not included in his guidebook.
“You must’ve done something,” Billie says, on the other side of him. “Did you—did you take corn sandwich out of the backyard? You know he likes to feed them to the deer.”
“No,” Anton says.
“Did you say something mean about Maple Syrup?”
“No,” Anton replies.
“Did you tell him you don’t like it when he cleans out the dryer lint?”
“No,” Anton hisses. “What do you think I am, insane?”
“He’s been like this all day,” Billie whisper-shouts. “Like a sad sop on the couch. It’s not okay, Anton. This isn’t okay. My Sandy concerts aren’t helping him. I don’t know what to do.”
Samir nods furiously. “I got him a slice from Enzo’s Pizza today, and he didn’t eat it.”
Billie and Anton gasp.
“Oh god,” Anton says. “We have to do something. Did he get into a fight with Issa?”
“No,” Billie says. “I saw them—I don’t know—head ruffle before she went to go see her psychic.”
“Maybe it’s about his visa?” Anton asks. He gasps again. “Maybe an immigration attorney is coming to visit.”
“Nobody’s checked the mail,” Samir says. “It can’t be that.”
“Maybe he has cancer,” Anton blurts out, and then everyone touches their chest.
“His hair,” Billie and Samir say at the same time. Anton nods, and then feels oddly emotional at the thought of the loss of Paul Baker’s hair.
“Anton,” Billie says. “Go do something.”
“Why does it have to be me?” Anton asks.
“Because you’re his husband,” Samir says.
“You wanted it to be you first,” Anton says. “Mr. He-Remembers-My-Password.”
“Shut up,” Samir says, grabbing him by the arm. The little Lebanese man is surprisingly strong for his height. “Go,” he says, and then pushes him into the living room.
Anton stumbles into the living room. Paul Baker barely looks up, which makes Anton slide his hands down his thighs and think about going head first out the window. This must be what the Kansas Dust Bowl felt like.
Anton sits delicately on the edge of the couch, and he can hear Billie and Samir listening in the kitchen.
“I just want you to know,” Anton starts, “that Samir and Billie promised that they would go bald for you.”
“Anton,” Billie shouts in the back. Samir shuts the kitchen panel doors.
“What?” Paul Baker asks.
“You know,” Anton says. “No matter what happens.”
The truth is—maybe Anton would shave off all his hair too. Even though he already bought out the majority of the Beyoncé Cécred line and had to practically take out a loan for it. But he’d do it for Paul Baker, who is kind, and sweet, and caring, who has eyes like chocolate and who makes Anton feel crazy enough to want to slather chili oil over his ex-boyfriends eyes.
And how crazy is that? Anton couldn’t even fathom moving past Jacob when they had first broken up. It had taken him six months to even think about packing up his stuff. And now his stuff has been relocated to some part of the house Anton can’t even remember, because Paul Baker needed a place to put the rollerskates he uses to deliver free dog food on Saturday nights.
It’s Paul Baker, all the time. He could try to ignore it when he was with Issa, but if—if Paul Baker was a golden retriever, then Anton would be one right with him and help him retrieve. Himself.
Anton grabs Paul Baker’s big hands, his truly gorgeous curly hair fluttering into his eyes.
“What are you doing?” Paul Baker asks.
“I’m holding your paw,” Anton says. He examines his fingers and then—stops doing that, immediately. “To see what hurts.”
Paul Baker smiles. He smiles. In the kitchen, he can hear Samir whisper-shout yes.
“Only hurts a little,” Paul Baker says, and then he curls his hands over Anton's. Big and warm. His eyes crinkle. Anton so, so, so likes that about him.
“Well,” Anton says, his heart stuttering in his chest. “Tell me where.”
Paul Baker tilts his head to the side to look at Anton. He is truly, unbelievably, unbearably sexy. Anton doesn’t know how Issa managed to keep it in her pants. And then stops thinking about Issa.
“How was your date?” Paul Baker asks. “With Jacob.”
He says Jacob like Jay-Kobe. Anton immediately likes it better pronounced like that.
Anton smiles, while his heart tries to make a jack-hammering hole into ribs.
“I hate Lizetti’s pizza,” he says “The cheese tastes like the—
“Chef put come in it after doing whatever the opposite of a juice cleanse is,” Paul Baker says.
Anton smiles, and looks down, softly.
“I like honesty,” Paul Baker says.
“I’m not very honest,” Anton says. Paul Baker looks at him, long and hard. “I mean, I like to lie at least five times a day.”
Paul Baker looks at him harder. Anton realizes that he's gonna have to be a lot more honest now. And he'll do it, for Paul Baker and his fucking soup. “I thought about your hand on my back at lunch, today,” he says, after a minute. “I thought about your soup.”
Paul Baker smiles, softly.
“Why didn’t you ask to marry me?” Paul Baker asks. Anton looks at him incredulously.
“Is that why you’re mad?” Anton asks. “Come on. Fine. Give me your phone.”
“I don’t know where it is,” Paul Baker says, and then the kitchen panel doors to the kitchen open and out flies Paul Baker’s phone. It lands on the floor, and Anton picks it up. He clicks on the interface and then says, “20 carat Ring, diamond pear cut shape Ring, Cartier Ring, Ring, Ring, Ring.”
Paul Baker laughs under his breath. "I can't afford all that," he says. "I took the weekend off to help Samir play jumbo hopscotch."
“Fine, we'll work on it. Happy?” Anton asks. “I asked you to marry me. And look at that! We’re married. Now pull it together, Paul Baker; global warming nearly slowed down when you stopped smiling.”
Paul Baker looks at him the same he's always looking at him. Like he's a secret to be kept but Paul Baker just can't hold it. “Will you go to dinner with me?” Paul Baker asks.
Anton pauses. Catches himself. Behind the kitchen, there's a shocked inhale.
“I talked to Issa about it,” Paul Baker says. “She said that it’s okay. Because she doesn’t want serious. And I just—really like how serious you are.”
“I’m not serious,” Anton says. “I don’t even have my medal.”
“I’ll get it for you,” Paul Baker says, his voice low. It sounds dirty, and it feels like someone dragged a feather up Anton’s insides.
“I’m with Jacob,” Anton says.
Paul Baker opens his mouth, and in an echo that somehow resounds off of Billie and Samir, yells “FUCK JACOB.”
Anton smiles. “Okay. Maybe I’ll go to dinner with you.”
“Tonight?” Paul Baker asks.
“Tonight?” Anton echoes. “Come on, where would we go tonight?”
“Cafe Corinne,” Paul Baker says.
Anton stares at him. “You want to go wait with me for an hour at my favorite restaurant?”
“I got us a reservation,” Paul Baker says. “Or well—my friend who I bumped into on the subway, Keanu, did."
“You got me a reservation at my favorite restaurant,” Anton says, still holding his hand. “You are the best golden retriever ever.”
—
Later, Anton gives Paul Baker his medal. And he keeps it on throughout the night when everything else comes off.