Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [67]
“We’re okay,” I say without bothering to look at my watch.
Foster pulls the towel off from around his waist, revealing a pair of white boxers.
I think: Is it okay for one member of group therapy to see another member of group therapy in his underwear? Am I crossing a boundary?
He rinses his face over the sink, then stands up and takes a towel, presses it against his face. “All done,” he announces. He brushes against me as he walks by. “Oh, sorry,” he says, grinning. “Clumsy ol’ me.”
I follow him to the bedroom. “Should I wear these . . .” he asks, holding out a pair of black jeans, “. . . or these?”—holding out a pair of khakis.
“Neither,” I say.
He raises just one eyebrow. Something that I know (from Greer, of course) takes hours of practice in front of a mirror.
“Okay,” he says flatly, letting both pairs of pants fall to the floor. Then he saunters over toward me, smiling. I pretend to back away.
“I meant you should wear sweatpants,” I say, laughing.
“Is that what you meant?” He raises his arm up, brushes his forearm against my cheek. “Fur,” he says.
I move my hands around his waist, press him against me. He wraps his arm around me and somehow manages to move us over to the bed where we collapse.
“How’d you get this?” I say, pointing to a small scar under his chin.
He rubs it lightly with the tip of his finger. “I cracked up my pickup truck when I was in college, smacked my face on the steering wheel.”
His earlobe fits perfectly between my lips. I’d forgotten how it feels to kiss somebody. Back when I was in love with Pighead, I always felt like he didn’t want me to kiss him, but that he let me anyway. This is different. Mutual makes all the difference. And then I realize I’m kissing somebody from my outpatient group therapy.
“Foster, this is crazy. What are we doing?”
“You said you liked crazy guys.”
“I know, but not, you know, crazy guys I’m in group therapy with.”
I make an effort to rise; Foster pushes me back down. “Stay,” he says.
I stay, lie back flat. I close my eyes. He rolls over on his side, puts his arm over my chest.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
Wendy’s face is in my head, along with the consent paper I signed at HealingHorizons, stating that I will not become romantically involved with any of the members of the group. “Nothing,” I lie.
Foster kisses my neck. “Know what I’m thinking?” he asks.
“I don’t know if I want to know.”
“Yes you do, I guarantee. So ask me.” He gives me a shake.
“Okay. Foster, what are you thinking?”
“Gee, Auggie, how sweet of you to ask. I was thinking that I can’t wait to see people’s reactions in Group when we walk in this afternoon, together, late.”
“Shit. C’mon, let’s go.”
Foster is laughing and I’m pulling him up from the bed by his arm, shoving the khakis at him.
“I’ll walk in after you,” I plot.
He slides his pants on, buttons them. “Aww. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
We take a cab downtown, Foster clutching my index finger in his hand the whole way. It’s a sweet gesture because he does it without thinking, while he looks out the window. Before we walk into Group, I check my watch, see that we’re fifteen minutes late.
We open the door, the talking pauses and all heads turn. Foster walks in first, whispering, “Sorry, sorry, go ahead.”
I take a seat on the opposite side of the room from him, despite the fact that the chair next to his is empty. Peter, one of the alcoholics in group, continues where he left off before we came in. I look at Peter, giving him my complete attention. Then, I briefly sneak a look at Foster. And Foster, the idiot, is smiling widely, staring not at Peter but directly at me.
This evening Hayden and I were walking on Perry Street heading home from dinner and I was wondering out loud which apartment Linda Hunt lived in because I