I Hope He Is A Gentleman

I flopped face-first down on to my bed that Saturday afternoon after a particularly long and intensive technical drawing class. While most of my peers celebrated the weekend on Friday, I didn't get a day off until Sunday, and by then, it didn't feel like much of a weekend at all. I could feel my phone vibrating in the back pocket of my jeans, but I couldn't find the energy to reach back and pull it out. Finally, after a couple more angry buzzes, I grabbed my phone and slide the bar to open it. I expected a message from one of my friends from Russian (because we had class so frequently, as well as the small nature of the program, we were all pretty close) but instead, Geno's name looked back at me.

class? was all the message read. I responded back quickly, not even bothering to act coy.

just finished. im home now. I set my phone down next to me and buried my face back into my pillows. It was only 3:30 in the afternoon, the day wasn't completely over yet. Plus, it was a Saturday night. I was sure that, if I texted the right people, I could find a frat party to attend or maybe a student special at one of the city bars. The problem was, ever since I started living at home this semester so I could commute to my internship, my social life had seriously suffered. Not that I was ever a huge partier to begin with, but I certainly did enjoy a night out on occasion. Now? All I ever had time to do was work, eat, sleep, and memorize Russian vocabulary.

My phone buzzed. good. i come get you. Wait, what? I scrambled to unlock my phone and respond.

im exhausted, geno, really. I typed out, and yet, my finger only hovered over the send button. With a sigh, I backspaced over the message, and retyped, where are we going?

out. was his almost immediate reply. I licked my lips and looked down at myself -- jeans, converse, and a baggy Penguins sweatshirt the interns had received as a gift. My hands had graphite all over them, and I had sharpied certain measurements on my arm that I needed to remember in class, but now that class was over, I just looked crazy. I didn't care if "out" meant to a Burger King, but I certainly wasn't leaving the house (and with Geno, nonetheless) looking like this.

I ran to the bathroom to wash the graphite off my hands and reapply (or in this case, put on for the first time today) a little bit of makeup. I dug through my drawers for a nicer shirt, and then again for a zip-up hoodie to put over it. While I would have liked to change my jeans, I just couldn't have been bothered.

I spent the next ten minutes trying not to think too much about what would happen when Geno picked me up. I unpacked my school bag and began setting up my work that would be due next weekend. My head shot up when the doorbell rang, and I reached over my desk and grabbed my phone and a twenty dollar bill. Not only was I assuming (and hoping) that would be enough, but that was also all I had. Money was getting a little tight for me.

"I'm coming!" I yelled, shutting off the lights in the kitchen and locking the backdoor. When I opened the front door, Geno was standing there examining the flowers my mom had planted a couple of days ago. He looked just like himself in a pair of jeans, a button down and a black cardigan. Frankly, he looked great.

"Hi," he said calmly, stepping back so I could leave my house and lock the door. "How was class?"

"Long," I responded, walking down the path to the street next to him. Geno reached out first and opened the door to his car for me, and I was a little shocked at his manners (no guy had ever done that for me before) but I thanked him and got inside the car.

We were quiet for a bit as we drove out of my neighborhood and onto the highway. Geno didn't have much to say, and neither did I. He exited the highway a couple of minutes later into a neighborhood that seemed similar enough to mine. Finally, he pulled into the parking lot of a small shopping center, and parked near the restaurant on the end of the building. "Russian food," he said as we walked in.

"Authentic?" I asked, instantly becoming hungry when the scent of the food hit my nose.

"Very close," Geno commented while we waited to be seated. The middle-aged woman who seated us seemed to recognize Geno immediately, but not as a hockey player -- just as Zhenya. She embraced him warmly and kissed him on both cheeks, and the Russian spoken between them was too fast for me to keep up. When she did ask about me, though, Geno introduced me as his friend who spoke basic Russian (I wanted to scoff at that, but I didn't), and she smiled brightly and embraced me the same way she did for him.

We were led to a small table in the back and left with menus to look over. Geno didn't even open his, but I poured over mine as if it was an authentic cultural artifact -- and in a way, it was. "What is good to eat?" I asked, not yet looking up.

"Pelmeni, kotiety -- "

"I think I want the blini," I announced in English.

Geno chuckled. "We get for desert. Pick something else."

"Fine," I said, smiling at him. "I'll get the shashlyk, then." I had shashkyl (similar to a kabob) at a Russian class party one time, but I was excited to try real shashkyl today.

The same woman, whose name I learned was Sara, came back over to take our order. Geno ordered for both of us (including the blini) in rapid Russian, and she smiled before leaving to take our order in.

"How often do you eat here?" I asked, moving my fork to the other side of my spoon. Geno reached over the table and moved it back.

"When I miss home," he replied evenly.

I swallowed. "Is that a lot?" Geno just shrugged. Without thinking, I reached across the table and took Geno's much larger hand in my own. His hand was rough, but gosh, did it feel nice against mine and I couldn't help but smile. I felt my thumb rubbing against the palm of his hand, trying to be comforting, to show that I was there for him, that I cared, but instead, he quickly recoiled his hand and put it under the table. We were silent for a little bit, neither of us wanting to break the tension. "Geno, I -- " I started eventually, thinking that I was going to tell him that I thought I liked him -- no, that I knew I did, but he cut me off.

"You go for coffee with Neal?" My mouth opened, but I couldn't get a word out.

Finally, I responded, "He asked, but he hasn't texted me yet." And I don't want him to. Not at all.

"Do you want to?" Now it was my turn to shrug. "He's nice guy. Treats woman well. Okay hockey player."

"Why are you telling me this?" I questioned. I didn't want to talk about James, I wanted to talk about Geno, about Russia, about us, about the weather, about anything but James Neal.

But Geno disregarded my question, and asked one of his own. "Do you think James is attractive?"

"Do I what!?" I asked incredulously.

But Geno remained calm as ever. "James Neal. Attractive?"

"I -- I mean -- I don't -- " I stuttered out. Did I think James was attractive? Sure, who didn't? But I also thought Ryan Gosling was good looking, and you didn't see me pining over him. There was definitely a difference between thinking someone was attractive, and being attracted to them.

"Yes or no?" Geno pressed, leaning forward.

"Yes, but -- " He turned towards the window slightly, and I knew the conversation was over. I wanted to explain myself, to press harder, but I was hurt in a way. Still reeling over the way he pulled his hand from mine. And I kind of just wanted to go home. We sat in silence until the food came, and when Sara brought everything over she could clearly sense the tension between us. She muttered something to Geno and he shrugged.

"Thank you," I said, forcing a smile to my face. She smiled back and turned to help other customers. More silence ensued. Geno finished his meal quickly, while I ate only half of the kabob before setting down my fork. Geno looked at me with confusion, one eyebrow raised.

"You don't like it?" He asked.

I shook my head. "It was delicious, but I am full." I picked up my plate and pushed the rest of the meat from mine to his. "You finish it. You still look hungry." He didn't say anything, but did as I told him to, and a couple minutes later, the meat was gone.

We stared at the final plate on the table: the blinis. I would have loved to have pushed our plates aside and shared the blini, each of us cutting away at our sides until we reached the middle, awkwardly bumping hands and making short eye contact. Geno would chuckle and I would blush, our usual pattern for interaction. And then, when there was only a small bit left, Geno would push it towards me, and I would blush but eat it anyways.

Instead, our two plates seemed like immovable barriers, and the blini sat awkwardly in the middle. I wanted to protest when I saw Geno use his fork to pick up half the blini and place it on his plate, but I didn't. He then picked up the plate with the remainder of the blini and placed it atop my empty plate. I ate a couple bites of my blini, but I couldn't finish it. "I think James is attractive," I said softly, and Geno looked up from his now empty plate. "But I don't want to hang out with him."

"Why not?" He asked curtly.

I shrugged, cutting a blini in half, but not eating it. "I just don't see us getting along in that way."

"You're not going to give him chance?"

"God fucking damnit, Geno, why are you so insistent!?" I snapped.

"Everything okay over here?" Sara suddenly asked, and I stared down at my half-finished blini.

"Can we get the check please?" Geno asked, and she nodded. A couple seconds later she returned with the check. Geno took a brief look at it, but didn't seem too phased. While he dug through his wallet, I opened the small black book. It was a little over $40 for the entire meal, so I pulled out the twenty from my back pocket and put it on top of the check, and pushed it towards Geno. He saw the bill, and pushed it back. "No."

"Yes," I insisted, placing it once more on the check.

"Remy, I swear -- "

"You swear what? That you'll tell James how I paid for my half of our meal? If you don't, it'll sound like we went on a date because you paid." Geno's eyes widened slightly and his face paled significantly, and he didn't press the issue any further. My heart felt heavy at the site of him clearly not wanting to go on anything that could be considered a date with me, but I just added it to my growing list. First him not wanting me to hold his hand, now this.

For a brief moment, I wondered if maybe I should give James a chance. He was a lot nicer to me than Geno was. But... he wasn't Geno. He just wasn't. "Can we go home?" I asked, fighting back the lump that forms in your throat before you start to cry. Geno nodded.

I made it the entire car ride home before I broke down into tears.