February 14-15-16, 2012
His mother would not speak to him for three days.
Michael sensed, somehow, that she knew it was not Phillip at whose house he'd spent the night. That notion was ridiculous, of course; he'd already gone over the story with Phil and made sure his tracks were covered. On the other hand, even he knew that she was too quick, too clever to be outsmarted by such teenage banalities.
Raymond called the following afternoon, much to his relief. For twenty-nine hours he had moped around the house, feigning sleep, procrastinating his homework and ignoring his mother - possibly one of the longest days of his life. Grudgingly he'd begun to reconcile himself to the fact he, Michael Black, 17 years and 30 days old, had had his first one-night-stand.
Thirty days. Had it really been a month since his birthday? He groped for his phone in the dark, and the brilliant screen blinded him for a second. 0226 hours, February 15th 2012. He had woken up beside Raymond Chance on Valentine's Day. Instantly a warm happiness began to bubble inside him, exterminating all the crippling feelings associated with being a one-night fuck. Well. At least he was a Valentine's Day fuck. But Raymond was older - twenty nine, what on earth was that like? Surely he had outgrown the age where he celebrated popular consumerist holidays of ambiguous cultural and historical descent.
Michael groaned and turned over on his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. For the hundredth time today a knot in his throat tightened and his eyelids pricked. Giving up, he kicked off his duvet and traipsed to his bathroom. He quickly located his little red weed box behind the false back of his bathroom cabinet, and rolled a joint in double quick time. It was nearer three a.m. than two, but it was also a Saturday - or rather early Sunday. Besides, when you were an Honours student simultaneously battling a marijuana addiction, sleep was something of a luxury.
A Facebook search for Raymond Chance told him that he was from Boston, had graduated Penn and then read law at Harvard before being snapped up by Hunter, Atkinson & Associates. He currently held the position of Senior Associate lawyer. Intrigued, Michael tried to stalk him but elicited no further information. So instead he settled for staring at the single profile picture that was visible to him, asking himself yet again why someone so beautiful would possibly want to have anything to do with him.
The following day in Social Studies class, Raymond called. Michael excused himself and shot out of the door, down the corridor and into the boys' room, where he locked himself in a stall. His heart thumping and cheeks burning, he said, "Hello?" breathlessly into the phone.
"I was wondering if you'd manage to find a way to answer this at school," that deep, dark voice intoned, sending thrills of longing up Michael's spine. "You're more resourceful at eighteen than I am at thirty."
"Thirty?" Michael asked. Apparently his brain was incapable of forming a reply longer than two syllables. But still. He did say he was twenty nine when they'd met - a year's discrepancy? - just as Michael himself had lied about being eighteen.
"About that. Party tonight at my place. Tell your mother you're spending the night with one of the guys or girls from your… chemistry support group, or whatever the kids are calling it these days. I'll make sure you're at school tomorrow."
"Oh," Michael said. Once again he floundered, trying to think of a coherent, if not intelligent reply. If only Raymond's voice wasn't so perfect, the blood wouldn't feel compelled to rush away from his brain. Finally he managed, "Happy birthday!"
Raymond gave his trademark throaty chuckle. "Thanks," he said, and Michael could hear the momentary smile in his voice. He smiled back in the darkness of the stall, a grin stretching from ear to ear that made his head feel lighter than air. "So will you be there?"
"I certainly will," Michael replied, and he was surprised and relieved to hear himself sounding so calm. "I hear ties are the best birthday gifts for lawyers. What's your favourite color?" Even as he asked, he was picking it out - shot silk, dual-toned of course, emerald and lime to capture the shifting spectrum of his irises.
"Don't be ridiculous," Raymond answered briskly. "I need birthday gifts about as much as I do a hernia. Seriously though, just be there. You remember the way to my place?"
Michael started to say that he did not, but Raymond cut him off. "Tell you what, I'll see you outside Second Chance's at seven. We can go back together."
"I'd love that," Michael answered, and wanted to flush himself down the toilet on whose lid he sat. "Ah - I mean. I'll be there. You know I will," he finished lamely.
"I know you will."
Silence. Michael suddenly envisioned himself, a half-baked schoolkid surrounded by wealthy and successful adults who would grow more drunk as the evening progressed, and not for the first time was lost for words.
For the first time in his life, Michael Black got drunk.
Not falling-down, speech-slurring, throwing-up-on-someone's-shoes drunk, but happily high. At first, he was awkward and uncomfortable when they'd walked, trying to find a dark corner to disappear into. Unfortunately, Raymond's studio apartment provided no such luxuries. It was spacious, well-lit and sparsely but selectively decorated with the sort of artwork and furniture that had probably cost more than Michael's college education would. It was also packed to the hilt with the most wonderful and myriad collection of people that Michael could imagine.
The evening began with a tequila shot that he mistook for colorful apple juice, and twenty minutes later he was playing "Oh, What A Beautiful Mornin'" on a shiny upright piano, accompanying spirited and off-key renditions by four young lawyers. After that number, a stunning woman named Pauline, who by her own admission used to be a stunning man named Paul, clasped Michael to her chest and, wiping away a tear, told him he should be on Broadway.
Casey cameoed after her shift, as stunning as ever, asking for the happy honour of mixing Michael's second drink. They carried on in this vein for a while, and Michael's final memory of the night was admiring his reflection in Raymond's bathroom, looking at a streak of vivid crimson lipstick smeared across his chin and lower lip and thinking, hey, if I ever decide to become a Mary, it wouldn't be a bad look at all.
Someone was shaking him awake, and all Michael would think was, this is hell.
His right eye was possibly glued shut. His left was cracked open a millimetre and felt like it was being carved open from the inside.
"Michael, honey, you can't afford a hangover today okay? If you call in sick your mom and the school authorities will want to know why. Just get to class this one day and I promise you'll be okay by afternoon."
Nothing but that voice could have opened Michael's eyes, and the pain was worth it. A veritable god stood before him, wet haired and shirtless, undone belt buckle gleaming in the daylight.
"Please," Michael mumbled hoarsely, curling onto his side toward Raymond. He could not find it in himself to articulate, "kill me now."
And a second later that lithe body slipped in beside him, a pair of sensuous lips covered his and a deliciously warm tongue found his own. Michael's breathing rapidly turned superfluous. He wove his fingers through Raymond's thick thatch of hair, coppery-red in the sunlight, and as his mouth traced an arbitrary map down his chest Michael thought, I could wake up to this every night of my life.
After all but being ushered in and out of the shower and force-fed cereal, Michael found himself bundled into the Audi at 7:38 a.m.. Raymond slid into the driver's seat, radiant as ever in his sleek Raymond Armani. Chlorophyll eyes lay dark and striking against paler-than-ever skin, the dash of foundation not nearly enough to conceal the rings beneath his eyes from the hangover. Michael fought an overwhelming sense of incredulity. What was he doing here in this car with this man, this wonderful, enigmatic sexy stranger? Who was he, and associatively who did that make Michael?
"Think we'll have time to stop for a latte?" Raymond slammed the door and turned in his seat with a smile. For the first time, Michael noticed the tie knotted loosely at his neck - shimmering tones of jade and ochre, woven into the finest silk threads.
Raymond saw him looking. "I figured today was as good a day as any."
Michael kept his gaze fixed straight ahead on a crookedly parked Merc, as color was rising in his cheeks and he wished to divert attention from this fact.
"Hey?" Raymond placed a cool forefinger under Michael's chin and tilted his face toward the driver's seat, unable to keep the amusement out of his smirk. "Everyone expects a new tie the day after a birthday. It's a lawyer thing."
Michael's semi-foam lavender latte was still steaming hot and full by the time the Audi pulled up outside East Side Memorial. They were early - not even the emo kids or wannabe photographers had arrived, littering the sidewalk with their pretentious spearmint Marlboros. Raymond turned the key, and the low purring of the engine ceased.
Michael turned to him, and had never known anything with more certainty than when he said, "I'm in love with you, Raymond Chance."
Raymond held his gaze for a full minute. "You've known me two weeks."
"So?" Michael's face was on fire, but hiding it was futile. The truth had been told. "I knew it the second I saw you. This… this feeling, it's the only thing I've ever been sure of in my entire life."
"You're seventeen."
His fiery countenance now blanched. "You found out."
It was Raymond's turn to express mirth. "I'm a lawyer, you really thought I wouldn't?" Then he paused, and his voice grew hard. "And I know perfectly well that what we did makes me a statutory rapist. I figure you do too."
"I do." Michael stared, abashed out of the window.
"Took me about a second to find out. I didn't want to, because part of me wanted to believe you, but I needed to know the truth."
"I wanted to tell you," Michael said desperately. "Really. I just didn't think you'd take me seriously if you thought I was younger."
"You could've passed for eighteen, you know? Maybe even older. I'd've believed you if said you were in college. You're smart enough. But dumb things like the drinking/not-drinking and your Chemists-For-President study group gave you away."
Michael's eyes were smarting. To his surprise, Raymond reached out and took his face in his hands. "I didn't mistrust you, okay? I never went against your word. Your school ID fell out of your satchel this morning when you were getting into the car. I thought you might need it so I picked it up to give to you. Here."
Michael held out one hand for the scruffy tag and laminated card. The other hand clung to Raymond's forearm, imploring him not to let go.
"That's how I saw your date of birth. Ninety-five," said Raymond sternly, dropping the ID in his palm, "not ninety-four as you led me to believe."
"Please see me again," Michael choked. It was begging or nothing, and he couldn't lose Raymond. Not now, not ever. He'd do whatever it took. Looking into his eyes was like staring up at the sky from a forest floor, basking in the sunlight trickling through an impossibly high green canopy overhead.
Then Raymond kissed him. Michael was so stunned that for a second he forgot to react; then he flung his arms around Raymond and held on for a good twenty seconds. At last Raymond pulled away to kiss the side of his neck and murmur in his ear, "I'm not going anywhere."
Michael was crying again.