Honey
.
Curt just called Evan
honey
.
Of course. How
stupid
of me not to figure it out! Evan and Curt are lovers. They’re not just two friends who own a house together. They’re lovers who own a one-bedroom condo and who’ve been through this little scene many times before. They’re in a goddamned open relationship, and spice up their sex life with a steady infusion of new blood.
Just like another couple I know.
Part of me wants to stand up, get out of the hot tub, put my clothes back on and go home. But Evan is kissing me again, and his hand is on my dick. I’m raging hard. I can’t back out now.
I allow myself to be led out of the hot tub and wrapped in a thick terrycloth towel. I follow Evan into the bedroom. Curt and Andy are hot on our heels.
Evan didn’t lie to me. He told me he owned the house with Curt. He used the revealing pronoun “we,” but still I heard only what I wanted to hear.
On the bureau opposite the bed is a photograph of Evan and Curt in tuxedos.
“Your wedding?” I ask Evan.
“No,” he tells me. “Last year’s HRC dinner. Our wedding picture is over there.” He points. On a table is another picture. They’re in flower-print boardshorts wearing leis around their necks.
“We had our commitment ceremony on the volcano in Maui,” Curt says, coming up behind me.
“Really? Maui?” Andy asks. “How cool.”
Yes,
I think.
How fucking cool
.
I lay down on the bed. Evan places his body—still warm from the tub—on top of mine. We kiss, but I’m losing my erection. The image of Evan and me on that front porch with Clara II is fading away, replaced by that picture of Evan and Curt on that goddamned volcano.
Evan is a great kisser, though, so I surrender to the sex. He gives an incredible blow job. But Curt and Andy are right there next to us on the same bed, and at one point Curt reaches in to kiss Evan, and Andy places his sloppy wet lips over mine. My erection goes up and down. Curt eventually fucks Andy while Evan and I watch. Everyone comes but me.
There’s a moment of stillness as we all lie on the bed just breathing. I’m the one to stir first. I get up off the bed and bring back a hand cloth.
“You’re a doll,” Curt says, accepting the cloth to clean up the mess that’s dripping from his—and everyone else’s—torso.
Except mine.
“Henry,” Evan says, pulling me to him, “don’t you want to come?”
“No,” I tell him truthfully. “I’m kind of beat.”
He kisses me. “Should we take that walk now?”
“What walk?” Curt asks, flopping horizontally across the bed, his head coming to rest on Andy’s stomach.
“On the beach,” Evan tells him.
“But it’s pouring,” Curt retorts.
Evan winks at me. I manage a small smile.
“Look,” I tell them, “I have work to do back at the guesthouse. This was fun.”
“Will we see you later?” Evan asks.
There’s that pronoun “we” again. How different his question sounds from his earlier plea not to disappear from his life. But in truth, both requests were saying the same thing:
You’ll fuck with the two of us again, won’t you?
“Well,” I say, “you know how to reach me.”
Evan sits up. “It’s the Nirvana guesthouse, right?” he asks, jotting the name down on a pad next to his bed. I wonder how many names and numbers have been jotted down on that pad.
“That’s the one,” I say, pulling on my jeans.
“We’ll do that walk another time,” Evan promises.
I give them all a little salute as I leave. My throat is suddenly too tight to speak.
Heading outside, I try not to think, to block any unwanted thoughts or feelings from intruding into my mind. I shudder. The rain is coming down heavy, and it’s cold. Much too cold for a barefoot walk on the beach, I tell myself.
I stuff my hands down into my pockets and hurry home.
I’
m standing behind the front desk watching Luke vacuum in the nude.
Okay, so he’s not totally nude. He’s wearing a neon-pink thong. He’d been sunbathing on the roof during his break, and decided not to pull his shorts back on when he resumed his work. When I tried to object, Lloyd overruled me, insisting, “It’s good for business. Do you know how many guests we’ve gotten because they’ve heard we have a hot houseboy?”
I’m disgusted at the way Lloyd makes sure he gets an eyeful of Luke’s ass cheeks as he passes through the room.
Okay, so I can’t deny that Luke in his pink thong is a pretty sight to behold. For a moment I remember his tongue on my chest, licking up the syrupy peaches.
I could have had him again,
I tell myself.
If not for my own wounded pride, I could have had that sweet supple body in my bed for a second round…and maybe a third and a fourth…
“Henry,” he says, catching me staring.
“What?” I ask, my face burning.
“How have you been doing on the ice cream?”
I roll my eyes. “Look, I’m not keeping track, and neither should you.”
“I’ve had only three cigarettes in six days,” he says, beaming, ignoring my churlishness. “Aren’t you proud of me?”
I grunt, pretending to busy myself at the front desk computer. That’s when I notice I’ve got an e-mail. Shane has finally responded.
“I’m here in town,” he writes. “Call me on my cell. Maybe we can have breakfast tomorrow.”
My heart sinks. Apparently I’m Shane’s last priority if he’s waiting to see me on the very last day of the long weekend. I’d hoped we’d have some time to catch up.
“Sounds good,” I type back. “But if you’re not doing anything today, call me. You have my cell.”
I hit
SEND
.
I’ve been depressed and grouchy all day, trying to put the memory of Evan and Curt out of my mind. How could I have been so stupid? It should have been plain as day that they were lovers, but I saw only what I wanted to see. That’s always been one of my chief problems.
Standing motionless in the shower this morning, letting the water just cascade over my head and down my body, I had a realization. The worst thing about dating isn’t getting rejected. It’s allowing yourself to hope. Hope is the absolutely
worst
thing you can do when you’re dating. Oh, I know hope is supposed to be this great sustaining human emotion. Everybody always says, “Don’t lose hope.” Fuck that. Hope
sucks
. It’s because I hope so hard that the disappointment is always so great.
I mean, I’d known Evan for only an hour. Sixty fucking minutes. And in that short span of time, I allowed myself to imagine a whole life for us together. How stupid. How ridiculous. It’s about time I simply accepted the fact that there is no one out there waiting for me. Ann Marie is right. Mr. Right doesn’t exist.
I can hear Lloyd chiding me about my pessimism. “You create your own reality by what you believe,” he’s said. “The energy you put out there is what comes back to you.” Yeah, right. Blah blah blah.
All I know for sure right now is this: if I’d held on to my skepticism walking with Evan back to his house—if I’d kept my dreams bottled up, refusing to permit even a little bit of hope to bubble up—I wouldn’t be feeling so shitty today.
“Uncle Henry?”
I look up from the computer screen. J. R. stands in front of the desk, his blue eyes peering out at me through hair hanging over his forehead.
“Hey, kiddo,” I say.
“Can I talk to you?”
“Sure.” I lean forward on the counter. “What’s up?”
He looks around to make sure no one will hear him. Luke is off at the far end of the room, and the whirr of the vacuum cleaner prevents him from overhearing.
“Do you think…” The boy’s voice trails off. He’s clearly having a hard time with something.
“Go ahead, J. R.,” I tell him. “You know you can talk to me.”
I’ve always had a good relationship with the kid. Jeff and Lloyd have been his primary father figures, of course, but I could always make J. R. laugh with my spot-on impersonations of some of his teachers, who I’d see at town meetings. He especially loved my take on Mrs. Randall, the principal, who has an eye twitch. I’d stand behind the desk here twitching my eye and talking through my nose, and J. R. would be rolling on the floor laughing. And he long ago discovered that I keep a stash of Almond Joys and Three Musketeers in my top desk drawer. He always gets a big laugh when I attempt to inventory my stock and find one or two missing.
So I’m hopeful I might be able to connect with him where the others haven’t. “Go ahead,” I tell him. “Talk to me. Nobody’s around.”
He speaks fast, as if he wants to get the words out before deciding against it. “Will the newspaper be at Uncle Jeff and Uncle Lloyd’s wedding?” he asks. “Will there be pictures of it in the paper?”
I nod, though I don’t quite understand the point of his question. “I think it’s probably likely,” I say.
The boy makes a face. “That’s what I thought,” he says glumly.
“I don’t understand, kiddo,” I say. “What’s the big deal?”
“Do you think they’ll have a picture of everybody who’s there?”
Ann Marie’s words at Tea Dance come back to me, and I start to understand J. R.’s dilemma. “You mean,” I ask, “do you think they’ll publish a picture that includes you?”
He nods.
“I can’t say for certain,” I tell him, “but I suspect that the picture will just be of Jeff and Lloyd.”
He sighs. It’s the answer he seems to have been hoping for, but still, I haven’t completely allayed all of his fears.
“What is it, buddy?” I ask quietly. “Are there kids in school who might give you a hard time?”
He shakes his head. “Not really. It’s just…” Again his words fade away.
“Just what, kiddo?”
But before he has a chance to answer, Jeff comes bounding through the front door. Shirtless, of course, his abs even more pronounced after his morning workout. I notice how quickly Luke stands at attention, switching off the vacuum cleaner to wish his hero a cheery good morning.
“How’s the writing coming?” Jeff asks our nearly naked houseboy.
“Great,” Luke replies. “I almost have that chunk ready for you to read.”
“Excellent,” Jeff says, giving him a thumb up. He spots J. R. at the desk and hurries over. “Hey, buddy!”
“Hey,” J. R. says without enthusiasm. I notice the way he drops his eyes to the floor.
“You know what?” Jeff’s beaming as he squats down to J. R.’s level. “I’ve got the whole day free and was thinking about taking the boat over to Long Point. Want to come?”
“No thanks,” J. R. says.
I see the hurt on Jeff’s face. “You got other plans?” he asks.
J. R. nods. “I’m going Boogie-boarding with my friends.”
“Oh.” Jeff stands up. “Okay.”
He says nothing else as J. R. heads out the door.
My heart breaks for my friend Jeff. I wish I hadn’t been a witness to that. Worse, I wish Luke hadn’t been a witness to it. Several seconds of awkwardness linger in the room as Jeff stands there just looking at the door.
“Jeff,” I say quietly, not wanting Luke to hear. “J. R.’s going through some stuff…”
“Clearly.” He forces a smile onto his face. “Who can figure out kids? God knows I had my moods when I was his age.”
“You still do,” I say, and his smile changes from forced to genuine.
“Why don’t
you
come with me to Long Point, buddy?” Jeff asks. “It’s been awhile since we did anything together, just you and me. Unless”—his eyes twinkle—“you have a date…”
“Please,” I say. “I’m through dating.”
He smirks. “Word around town is that you went home with a real hottie from Tea yesterday.”
I can’t believe how fast stories spread in this town. “What—do you have spies posted along Commercial Street?”
Jeff winks. “It’s a small town, Henry. So out with it. Who was he?”
“It’s not worth talking about.”
Jeff leers. “From what I hear, he was more than worth a description.”
“Oh, sure,” I say. “Gorgeous. But married.”
“And the problem with that is—?”
I scowl at him. “The problem with that is, I was clueless. It turned out to be a four-way with the husband and
his
trick.” I sigh. “I thought I was going home with Mr. Right.”
Jeff leans his chin his hands, his elbows on the counter. “And what makes him fill that particular bill?”
“Oh, nothing except perfection. Evan is sensitive. Romantic. He loves living here. He has a real sense for the place, and about what really matters in life. We have so much in common.” I pause for dramatic effect. “Except that he had already found
his
Mr. Right.”
“Maybe he’s hoping for another one,” Jeff says. “Mr. Right bookends.”
I glare at him. “I am
not
going to be one half of a pair of bookends.”
“Just an idea,” he quips.
“I need to face it,” I say. “All the good ones are taken.”
“Don’t give up hope, Henry.”
I grunt. “Hope, shmope. If I never hope again, I’ll be a lot happier.”
Jeff grins. “Whatever works, buddy.” He slaps the counter, getting ready to head out. “Okay, I’ll be back around three and we’ll head down to the boat. Pack a bottle of vodka. We’ll make martinis and watch the sunset from Long Point.”
I glance over at Luke, who’s worked his way closer to us, dusting tables and making sure we get a good view of his buns. But what’s even more noticeable is the unmistakable envy on his face as he listens to Jeff describe the excursion he’ll be taking with me. In that, I take no small satisfaction.
After Jeff heads out, Luke approaches the counter. “I’ve never been to Long Point,” he says in a small voice.
“Well, don’t get any ideas about showing up there this afternoon,” I tell him. “Jeff needs some time away. It’s going to be just the two of us.”
He flutters his eyelashes and places a hand on his bare chest. “I wouldn’t
think
of intruding,” he says. Then he smiles. “Tell me, Henry. Are you in love with Jeff?”
“Don’t be absurd. He’s my best friend.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t be in love with him.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t be projecting your own feelings onto me, Luke.”
“If I seem smitten with Jeff,” Luke muses, “it’s probably because he reminds me of the first man I ever loved. Did I ever tell you about him, Henry?”
“Yes, you did. Your stepbrother.”
“Oh, no, no, no. Mike was just a boy. I’m talking about a
man
. A real man.” He smiles over at me. “You mean I’ve never told you about Darryl?”
“No,” I say, holding his gaze. “But I suspect you’re about to.”
“Darryl died,” he says dreamily. “Yes, it was AIDS. The meds just seemed not to work for him. I was still just a kid, living in New York, trying to make a go of my life, and I met Darryl at a book reading.” He smirks. “A book reading by Jeffrey O’Brien, as a matter of fact.”
“How perfect,” I say.
“Yes, it was,” Luke agrees, missing—or ignoring—my sarcasm. “There I sat, at the Barnes & Noble in Chelsea, bumping knees with this guy next to me. Though truth be told, Darryl was the one who was doing most of the bumping.” He giggles. “I was too intent on listening to Jeff read. But afterward, there Darryl was, waiting by the door and watching me. It was only then that I got a good look at him. He was older than I was, of course, by some fifteen years, but there was something about his spirit that I—”
Luke stops talking abruptly, distracted by the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. We both look over. It’s Lloyd. I turn back to Luke and observe a broad smile stretching across his face, revealing his dimples.
“What perfect timing!” Luke exults. “Lloyd! You’re the expert on spirituality around here! What does an old soul mean?”
Lloyd meets Luke’s smile with one of his own. “Well, it describes someone who’s lived many lives, who’s accumulated a lot of wisdom and experience in the course of those many lifetimes.”
“Luke’s telling me about the first man he ever loved,” I report dryly.
“Oh?” Lloyd asks. “And this guy was an old soul?”
“Oh, no,” Luke says. “He was a very
young
soul.
I
was the old soul, Darryl said, even though, in years, he was a lot older than I was.”
“Interesting,” Lloyd says.
“They met at a reading of Jeff’s,” I add. “That’s even
more
interesting.”
“What’s funny,” Luke says, “is that Darryl wasn’t even a fan of Jeff’s. We got to talking afterward and I asked him if he thought Jeff was hot. ‘He’s not really my type,’ Darryl said. I replied, ‘What? Jeff is
everybody’s
type.’ Darryl shook his head. ‘Not mine,’ he insisted. In fact, he’d never heard of Jeff before that night. He just happened to be in the bookstore when they announced the reading and so he decided to stay.”
Luke looks at us to gauge our reaction. I’m determinedly not giving him one, but Lloyd is smiling, so Luke goes on.
“‘You mean,’ I asked, ‘you haven’t read any of Jeff’s books?’ Again Darryl shook his head no. I was aghast. ‘Well,’ I asked, ‘what did you think of what he read tonight?’ It was from
Finding Home
, which is, of course, Jeff’s masterpiece. ‘Wasn’t it awesome?’ I asked Darryl. He just shrugged. Can you believe it? He just shrugged! ‘I wasn’t so impressed,’ he said. ‘I guess I prefer work that has more literary merit. This guy Jeff O’Brien seems more of a commercial, popular writer.’”
At this point, Luke puts his hands on his hips dramatically.
“‘And what,’ I asked Darryl solemnly, ‘is wrong with being popular?’” The kid lets out a hoot. “And do you know what Darryl’s reply was?”
“He took out an M80 and blew away the entire store,” I say deadpan.
Luke scowls. “He might as well have. His answer had the same impact on me a machine gun would have. He said, ‘I’ve never been popular myself, so I wouldn’t know.’”
Luke looks deeply into our eyes, first Lloyd’s, then mine.