It's Just Us Here Omnibus Read online

  Friends to Lovers

  Books One through Three of the

  ROMANTIC SELF-PORTRAIT

  It's Just Us Here

  Christopher X Sullivan

  Published by Jester Publishing, 2019.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  It's Just Us Here: FRIENDS TO LOVERS

  First edition. November 12, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Christopher X Sullivan.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Written by Christopher X Sullivan.

  Contact: ChristopherXSullivan

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  First Trilogy: FRIENDS TO LOVERS

  BOOK ONE: The Friend

  Dedication

  Monday Running

  Writing Assignment

  The Next Morning

  My Name

  Friday Workout

  Meeting the Professor

  Tennis

  The Wobble

  Making Bacon

  The Suit

  Ordering Orange Pants

  After the Wedding

  BOOK TWO: The Companion

  Poker Night

  Breakdown

  The Third Bar

  Repercussions

  The Library

  My Piss Apology

  He Makes Love to My Body

  Dead Fish

  Celebration

  The Proposal

  The Hike

  The End of Pretend

  My Birthday Present

  BOOK THREE: The Partner

  Bad Poker Night

  He's Gay!

  The Hickey

  Salsa

  Ryan Makes Trouble

  The Executive Decision

  First Night Together

  A Blissful Morning

  Partner

  Slutty Monday Running

  The Friend

  Book One of the

  ROMANTIC SELF-PORTRAIT

  It's Just Us Here

  Christopher X Sullivan

  Published by Jester Publishing, 2019.

  Dedication

  BEFORE I BEGIN THIS STORY, I feel obligated to start with a few disclaimers. First, this story revolves around a gay romance that starts with two friends and ends with two devoted partners. If that doesn’t sound like your thing, don’t read it... or maybe you should. Make up your own mind. For the record, this story doesn't involve much sex. It's not your typical gay romance.

  I consider myself to be asexual (though I prefer saying non-sexual and much prefer having no label at all) and have been my whole life. I never thought I'd be in a loving, wholehearted relationship with an incredibly sexual person. Not with a man; not with a woman. I thought I’d be with no one because I felt like I was a nothing. Not straight, not gay.

  Nothing.

  But now Mark and I... our love touches on everything you might expect two men to do together. (Okay, so nothing with poop. And I have a lot of rules... so that blanket statement about 'everything' is a huge exaggeration. But our love is our love, and it involves a lot of playfulness.) Our lovemaking wasn't always so easy, and at first the adjustment was a struggle. We were two very different people, but somehow we came together beautifully. That's what this memoir is about—not my coming out of the closet (which I never felt I was in), but about how Mark and I fit together.

  Originally, I wanted to call this self-portrait Defective. One word. Big, bold letters. It felt appropriate. But I also want as many people to read this story as possible, which means selling it as a romance. I’ve written it as a romance... might as well call it something less abrasive.

  It’s Just Us Here will take place over nine installments. The first three books will complete a friends-to-lovers story arc. The fourth and fifth books will feature our evolving sexual relationship and eventual separation. The sixth book will be about our reconnection and deep commitments to each other. And the last three books will take place a few years later when we adopted our son.

  There will be, obviously, so much more to this project than just that structure.

  I am an author by trade, though usually a ghostwriter (or under one of my many pen names). This is my first attempt at writing about my own experiences. I have hidden some of our identifying characteristics, or at least I hope I hid them—I changed our names. I didn't expect this to become any kind of success, so I didn't focus too much on hiding locations, job descriptions, and my friends' identifying quirks. Perhaps if you live on the north side of Chicago or went to the schools where we went... you might recognize our story.

  If you do, my only request is that you leave us in peace. I never liked the spotlight and I don't want the attention—unlike my partner, who is obsessed with taking pictures of everything and getting ‘likes’. My request is also for the safety of my family, which I will protect like a rabid animal. If you make it to the end of this story, you will understand why I'm so fierce about my privacy.

  Many years ago, I got in the habit of writing a daily journal—sometimes only a few sentences, sometimes it would span pages. I just wanted to keep track of what happened to me during the day. That journal grew to be of vital psychological importance when I suffered a mysterious illness which would eventually be diagnosed as an autoimmune disorder. I only had my journal to complain to, and I kept up my daily writing with compulsive observations... and have done so religiously ever since.

  I’m drawing from those journals to get an accurate portrayal of my emotional headspace at the start of this love story. Now that everything has settled down, I look back to when I first met Mark and feel a rosy fondness, but those first few months were blistering and tumultuous as they unfolded. If I were to simply sit down and write everything purely from my memory, it would be a much happier story than what actually happened. I would color my descriptions with foreshadowing of our future successes and mitigate failures right from the beginning.

  Because I know what Mark and I would become—I know how strong we are today... so I would also try to hide some of my... dramatic reactions to the stuff Mark and I did together. You don't have to comment on the amount of times I use the word 'blush' because I know I use it with high frequency. I blushed a lot back then. Mark liked catching me off guard (and still does!).

  I know how well my partner and I work together, so in my mind and in my writing I constantly want to make our relationship sound easy and perfect. Like we were destined to be together, which after writing this, I’m beginning to think that actually might be the truth.

  But that is not how real life happened; it was not easy. And even now, having written seemingly my entire life in these pages, I laugh at the first time Mark made an appearance in my journals. I'll copy the exact couple of sentences, from a Monday: “Met a really weird guy today. He must be having a tough time—really lonely. We're going to go running next monday. Hope he's not a serial killer. If I don't show up, Mom, this was what happened. I'll keep the circuit under a mile so if he does attack me, I'll hopefully be able to limp my way back to the car. I'm probably faster than him. He looks more like a gym guy than a runner. Fancy car, rich people problems.”

  Oh Mark, I love you buddy. We've been through a lot. Thank you for coming back for me. Thank you for being there for me when I needed you the most. Thank you for strengthening me so I can face what’s ahead. Thanks for all the normal days. Thanks for helping me with this story and pushing me to get it out to the public. You're the best and blah blah blah.

  Yours, as always,

  Christopher Cheese Sullivan.

  Mon
day Running

  I RUN IN MY LOCAL PARK every Monday at nine o’clock. Afterwards I stretch and sit at a nearby picnic table under a pavilion where I settle down with my phone to do voice-typing. My device is technically a smartphone, but I don't have a voice, text or data plan—I only use it as a miniature computer. The phone that I use for texting is a flip-brick model from 2006.

  I must look strange, talking to an empty table. I sometimes get weird looks as people pass by, but since I do my voice-typing on Monday mornings, the clientele in the park are usually older and less judgmental than you might expect. Also, I assume that these grannies have poor hearing, which eases my embarrassment enough that I can speak about my fantasy worlds in this wide open, public solitude. Just me and my stories about romantic, lusty heroes. Told to a park full of squirrels and septuagenarians. And to my ghosts...

  This park is the best place to escape my hectic life in the big city. I live in the first suburb on the north side of Chicago—it’s busy and I hate it. I need to get away. I grew up in the country and I’ve never quite grown out of the itch to see trees everywhere, and for the absence of rush hour—the quiet.

  This story—the story of me and Mark—started on one of those famous Monday runs where I was desperate to reconnect with nature. As I look over my notes from that time—our initial falling in love—I can’t help but laugh at my descriptions of Mark, almost none of which have anything to do with his attractiveness. If I were to describe my husband now, I would comment on how incredibly handsome he is (he has brainwashed me to notice this). If I were to have written this as a paperback romance, I would have a picture of a physically fit, impossibly good-looking man on the cover. No joke, and I hate to say it out loud, but Mark really is a very handsome man. I don’t think I can possibly inflate his ego any more than it already is, and I know he’s going to read this and his vanity will kick into overdrive, but let’s just chill, Mark, the world doesn’t revolve around your smile (though my world maybe kinda does).

  Anyway, back to the beginning of our story, the story of how a non-sexual man fell in love with a gay man (a really, really gay man) who deceptively hid his gayness until I was too far in love to change course. Oh yeah, warning and spoiler alert for my Dear Readers: if you don’t like stories where the protagonist gets tricked into falling in love... this book is not for you. If you don’t want to read a gentle, sweet romance between two men, this book is not for you.... Or maybe you should read it. It doesn’t have any sex (until waayyyy down the line). It’s really only about love and romance. Who cares if it’s between two guys?

  IT WAS EARLY SUMMER and my work schedule was finally empty enough for me to do some serious writing. I tutored as one of my side jobs and since the school year was over, that meant I only had a few middling SAT students to groom. Thus, there was more free time than I knew what to do with—and a burning excitement to start another novel, and not a ghostwritten one, but one of my own. Finally. I’d felt the novel building within me for the past few weeks as my summer freedom approached.

  The story was finally here, fully present in my mind. I started fleshing out the mountainous obstacles set between my hero and heroine, using my voice to sculpt the characters and build drama. I described my medieval world with so much enthusiasm that I was firmly embedded in the middle of a quickly forming story. So much plot! I could practically see my characters, hear them talk with their own voices! It was like watching a movie! The words came out of my mouth so effortlessly, like they were already written and I was merely reading them off the page. I wasn't in a park in the middle of Chicago, I was in a fantasy world with magic and maidens. The flow was great—one of the best I’d ever experienced.

  Then he happened.

  “Hello,” he said loudly, breaking me out of my writing zone.

  I looked up from my screen, my earbud swinging violently. The guy—the idiot guy—that interrupted my solitude was young and looked about college-aged. It was a warm day so he had taken off his shirt and stuffed it in the back of his basketball shorts. His chest glistened like he’d just finished a run. His hair was longish, neat and casually styled, like he continually ran his fingers through it to keep it perfectly shaped in a wave over his forehead.

  His face was open and friendly, a little too square to be called heart-shaped. His smile was charming and bright. Eyes: pure blue; hair: soft brown.

  I couldn’t figure him out. Normally I formed a backstory for every person I met like they were a character in a book, but I couldn't figure out this guy's motivation—why would he stop here and talk to me? What was he doing here on a Monday morning when most people our age were at work? So I asked a blunt question—maybe I was a little extra testy because he had broken my authorial concentration.

  “What do you need?” I asked roughly, my voice not used to talking outside of my cheerful voice-typing story mode. I should have asked what he wanted, but a person who randomly walked up to strangers to start a conversation has a problem that’s more urgent than a want, this guy had a need.

  He looked taken aback by my question. Maybe I glared at him too harshly. He stuttered nervously, looked down at his feet for a second as if chastened, but then he gave me that wolf smile again.

  “I saw you jogging earlier. Then I was walking by and heard you talking to yourself. I wondered what was going on.” He twirled his hand around to encompass my entire area. “So what is going on?”

  “I’m working,” I said flatly.

  “Oh that's cool. Working on what?”

  I hate when people fake an interest in something. It’s the most annoying thing ever. “I'm a writer. This is my writing time.” Then I asked the same question again—more forcefully but with less heat. “What do you need?”

  My repeated question really put him off his game, like maybe he didn’t expect this encounter to turn aggressive. He stopped moving around. His hand, which had up till then been casually rubbing against his abs, swung loosely at his side. He looked around and then out beyond the pavilion where I was working, like he needed a distraction.

  He's desperate. And in pain.

  I felt bad for him. He was stressed. I shouldn’t have felt anything for him, but I was a nice guy. And I had a soft spot for strays. And I always felt guilty after I was mean, like I had done something wrong. I was too nice to strangers, but also knew that my personality wasn't going to change... and people readily took advantage of my gentle nature.

  I offered him an apology. “Hey, I'm sorry.” My voice was softer and more intimate. “What do you need?”

  Now it was his turn to look surprised, or maybe confused. “What?” he asked.

  “That was kind of me being a jerk, wasn't it? I'm sorry. Again. I shouldn’t have jumped at you.” I shook my head and looked down at my phone. “I can get that way sometimes. I was really in the zone with my writing. Anyway, what I meant was that you clearly have something important weighing on your mind. Hence, what do you need? I mean, people don't normally walk up to me. Strangers. So you must have something on your chest. What do you need?”

  I couldn't stop asking that stupid question and my words were a little rushed, a little professorial. I often hid myself behind big words, especially when in uncomfortable situations. Maybe I should have just brushed this guy off and told him to leave, but I was never that kind of person. If someone needed help, my heart was a sucker for that.

  But it appeared that my little monologue did not put him at ease as I had intended. If anything he looked even more out of sorts. That engaging smile was a distant memory. His face was serious and his eyes seemed to look at me in a different light, like he was weighing something important. The guy no longer exuded confidence. He walked to my side of the table, but stopped a few feet away when I glared at him. I hated people invading my personal space, especially strangers.

  No hands. No touching. No getting close. No germs.

  He leaned against the table and put his hands on the edge for support. Then he stretched forward and made a great
drama of taking a deep breath. We were side by side. He looked straight ahead and spoke without looking in my direction.

  “I need a friend,” he whispered. “That’s what I need.”

  “A friend?”

  “Yeah.” He glanced at me shyly. “Fuck, I don't know why I said that.” He nervously coughed out that breath he'd been holding, then unclenched a hand and ran it through his hair. The guy was under a lot of stress—more than I had previously assumed.

  My heart went out to him—me being too big of a softy, a con artist’s dream target. What kind of character was this man? Anytime I met someone new I wanted to understand how they worked, what their motivations were, how they were raised, what they did for a living. Strangers fired up my storytelling brain... so I sometimes asked penetrating questions at awkward opportunities—it was a bad habit of mine. Questions like, ‘What do you need?’ instead of ‘What do you want?’

  When you dish out unexpected questions, you sometimes get unexpectedly true responses. Unvarnished. Interesting. Mark was unvarnished and interesting alright. He confounded me right from the start.

  It was apparent that this kid was having a tough time and that despite his swagger and charm, he was suffering through some loneliness.

  I knew all about loneliness.

  “So you need a friend,” I stated.

  “Yeah. I don't know why I said that. I'm so lame. Sorry I bothered you.”

  “Okay, you can leave if you want to.” I shrugged as he turned to leave. “But I run here every Monday at nine o'clock. If you showed up around that time next week, we could run together. And afterwards get to know each other a little bit. I could be your friend... sure, why not?” It cost me nothing to make that offer.

  He sighed and looked resigned, then reached behind his body to pull out the tee shirt that was stuck in his waistband. He used it to wipe his chest, but didn't leave. He looked even more anxious.