We Could Be So Good

by Cat Sebastian

“It’s a dog and pony show,” Nick grumbles when he gets his assignment. “And we cover those, too,” says Jorgensen. Today’s the annual Operation Alert drill, a nationwide exercise in collectively engaging with the fiction that hiding under desks and avoiding elevators will do anything to help you survive a nuclear attack. That, and it’s a not-so-subtle reminder of the dangers of communists or Russians or not voting for Eisenhower—take your pick. Tomorrow, most papers will run the government’s accounting of how much death and destruction the fictional attack would have caused: millions dead, cities destroyed. “It’s pro-nuclear propaganda,” argues Nick. Jorgensen throws up his hands. “You’re covering the protests!” That’s not much better. Last year the protests consisted of a dozen or so tired picketers from the Catholic Workers and a couple of vagrants who didn’t want to leave their benches and take cover. They were all arrested, most sentenced to thirty days. It had been monumentally depressing. Still, Nick does what he’s told. The weather’s irritatingly sunny and Nick peels off his jacket on the way to City Hall Park. Lilian’s been assigned as the photographer, so he’s got that going for him, at least. She gauges Nick’s mood and doesn’t bother with small talk, wordlessly accepting Nick’s offer of a cigarette instead. The drill hasn’t started yet, so the protesters are marching with homemade signs; they’re nearly outnumbered by the cops who are hanging around, ready to arres...

“You live here now.” Andy’s still crouched on the floor, still holding a hand out to the cat, but he looks up at Nick. “Is the cat supposed to be an incentive? Because I really don’t need one.” God, Nick was getting this all wrong. “No, no. This is your home, so you should have a pet. Or do whatever it is people do in their homes. Rearrange the books, get a new shower curtain, I don’t know. We don’t have to keep the cat.” “I want the cat.” Andy gets to his feet and for whatever reason this sends the cat skittering into the living room. “I think he’s on top of the bookshelves.” Nick’s pretty sure he hasn’t gotten his point across at all. He takes Andy’s hand, and he doesn’t know whether it’s to stop Andy from leaving the room or because he needs the contact. “I want this with you. I want everything with you. And I need you to know that. I don’t know how we’ll make it work, but I want it anyway.” “I love you,” Andy says. Something hot and awful, lovely and mortifying curdles in Nick’s blood, just as it had the other time Andy said that. Nick opens his mouth, but Andy’s palm is there, preventing him from speaking. “I love you,” Andy repeats, “and I want to be with you, and that’s all there is to it. The rest is details. The rest is . . . administrative.” Andy has Nick’s face in his hands now and is looking at him with more intent than Nick knows what to do with. Some other version of Nick in some other universe might have been able to bring the conversation back to someplace ...

flinty

flinty /ˈflin(t)ē/ I. adjective 1. of, containing, or reminiscent of flint • flinty soil. 2. (of a person or their expression) very hard and unyielding • a flinty stare. II. derivatives 1. flintily /ˈflintl-ē / adverb 2. flintiness /ˈflin(t)ēnəs / noun

This seems like a drinking sort of occasion, so Andy gets the bottle of bourbon out of the bottom drawer of Nick’s desk and pours a couple inches into a pair of clean-looking coffee mugs. Nick takes his cup, holding it up in a silent toast, and neither of them need to mention what they’re drinking to. It’s too many things to fit into a toast anyway—it’s making peace with the future and also with the past; it’s looking forward but also holding tight to the present. Nick knows that when Andy thinks too hard about the Chronicle, he still feels a little sick to his stomach, and Nick’s own demons make sure to say hi a dozen times a day. But they have one another, an unmapped future, and the bone-deep certainty that they can figure it out together.

One day they’ll be somewhere else, and the things that are new and exciting now will be old and familiar then; they’ll learn to take for granted easy kisses and morning coffee. He can feel the wispy end of a filament that could stretch out to infinity, the end of a rope that reaches to an anchor at the bottom of the sea. For now he reaches for Nick’s hand.