by Anyta Sunday
“Depressing is putting it mildly. I can’t stand the place.”
“What about your kitten?”
“A grey lining.”
That got Eric a smile, and Rory to relax some.
“So, shall we . . .?” Rory looked pointedly toward the pool entrance.
“Yeah, we could.”
“Could?”
“Look. It’s Saturday night. I’m guessing by the fact you’re here, you didn’t have plans.”
Rory stiffened for a moment, then his shoulders softened into a shrug. “Not much, no. Draw. Chat—”
Eric could tell by the way Rory suddenly reddened that he was about to close up on him, and hastened to change the topic. “I had nothing on, either, and I was thinking—”
Eric’s cell phone buzzed.
“—thinking we could do—”
The phone buzzed again.
“—something together. Friends, stuff.”
He pulled out his phone and checked it, giving Rory the time to think about it a second. He had three messages from Marc.
Hey, do you want to meet up? I’m out with the gang. Promise they’ll be there, this time.
---
They want to meet you. We’re at Cherry Grove.
---
Again, sorry about last time.
“Well, I guess,” Rory said slowly, as if tasting the words for the first time. “I mean, sure. Why not?”
Eric grinned at him. “Great. I’ll say we’re coming.”
“Coming where?”
He quickly replied to Marc’s text.
Sounds great. I hope it’s good to bring someone?
It was followed by almost an immediate answer:
More the merrier.
“We,” Eric said sliding his phone back into his pocket, “are going out to meet people tonight. I think we both need that.”
“What kind of people?” Rory asked.
“I really hope you’re not asking what I think you’re asking.”
Rory frowned, then muttered a ‘fuck’ under his breath. “Actually, I meant like are they workmates or old friends from uni—”
“One of them is a workmate. The rest I’ve never met before. But in case you’re wondering, Rory, yes, there will be gay guys there too. And don’t tense up on me, we both know that has you the teensiest bit interested.”
Rory opened his mouth and slammed it shut again.
“Now,” Eric continued, “let me lay out a couple of rules.”
“Rules?”
“Yeah, rules. Number one. No comments, no matter what you think, just keep it to yourself. Try letting yourself see things from a different perspective tonight, okay? And two,” Eric stepped closer to Rory, dipping his head to make eye-contact. “If you feel really uncomfortable, tell me, and we leave immediately. I mean it, I think this will be good for the both of us to get out there, meet people and make friends, but if it’s too much for you right now . . . then I understand.”
“You’ll understand?” Rory repeated, expression hardening—Eric could tell what he’d said grated him the wrong way. “Fuck that. You won’t have to understand anything.”
“I just meant—”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll show you that.”
Chapter Seven
All Rory had to do was get through the night. He wouldn’t bail, he would cope, and everything would be fine. The challenge was on. Eric might not have meant it to be one—in fact, he was sure he didn’t, not at first—but it’d become one nevertheless.
After parking his bike—behind Eric’s pickup this time—he squared his shoulders and met Eric outside the front door of the reddest restaurant façade he’d seen. Through the windows, candles glittered—
“Shit. It’s like a giant phone booth,” Rory murmured, eliciting a soft snort from Eric.
“Not far off.” Eric glanced at him, raising one eyebrow. “You gonna be all right?”
“Fuck,” Rory said. “Stop asking me that.” He watched as Eric chuckled, his shoulders rising and falling in quick succession. “You’re having fun with this, aren’t you? Bastard.” He let slip the barest of smiles. “I’ll show you.”
“I hope you do.” The lanterns either side the front door shed broken light over Eric’s face, highlighting the gleam in his eye and the tattoo at the base of his neck. “And one other thing…”
“What now? Are you going to make me hand out my number, too?”
“Much too soon for that. No, I’m taking baby steps with you. Tonight is just about being there, watching, listening, maybe making a new friend.”
“I thought that’s what I was doing already.”
The contours of Eric’s face softened. For a moment, the restaurant seemed to dissolve into the background, leaving just them. A whole new set of nerves suddenly assaulted Rory, and he jerked his head back toward the Cherry Grove’s front door. “Go inside then?”
“Let’s.” Eric opened the door, and a chorus of chatter greeted them. As they wound through the busy restaurant toward a small alcove at the back, Eric leaned toward him. “Oh, and that other thing: you said you laugh. I hope sometime tonight I get to see it.”
Rory didn’t get a chance to reply. The crowd, circled around three tables pushed together, erupted in a burst of laughter. Then one male with blond hair caught sight of Eric and stood up. He sidled his way around the others and clapped his arm around Eric’s shoulders. “Guys,” he announced, “This is the one I was talking about.” Rory didn’t miss the suggestive waggle of his brows. “Eric Graham, meet the gang.”
Rory barely followed all the names as they were each introduced. A swarm of male faces grinned at them. He didn’t know who to concentrate on, and ended up staring at an Indian woman with hair tumbling over her shoulders and onto the table top—the only woman in the crowd.
He was vaguely aware of Eric saying something. Then Eric gripped his arm, his strong, warm fingers drawing him forward to the table. “This here is Rory. He’s a talented artist, and has the best taste in ice-cream.” Eric twisted and sent a subtle wink his way.
The table waited for Rory to speak. Eric looked like he was holding his breath.
Rory cleared his throat of a little flare of panic. He could do this. So what there were a bunch of fags there? That made him one of them, right?
He was glad for Bon Iver playing in the background, covering up the shake of his breath as he exhaled. This was just like any other crowd. And he could handle a crowd; it’d been one of his better qualities. He and William used to ease people into their parties all the time.
He grinned. “Hey peoples.”
And that was it; the ice he’d probably only imagined began to crack. Rory settled into a chair next to the Indian woman. Eric sat opposite him, giving him a small smile before turning to the guy to his left.
The scent of baked rosemary and lamb descended over the table as a waiter laid platters of nibbles between wine bottles.
“Thanks,” the man Eric spoke to said.
“Anytime, Grill.”
Rory caught Eric’s brow rising at his neighbor’s name, and he was right there with him. Grill, huh? Where’d he get a name—
“I’m Jack, actually,” Grill said in a pleasantly amused voice, “The guys here call me Grill because before I owned the place, I worked behind the grill.”
Jack/Grill shrugged.
The blond-haired guy, Marc, if he remembered correctly, shook his head. “Or maybe it’s because you grill them on how to run the place?”
“Don’t listen to my brother,” Grill said to Eric, smiling as he leaned slightly toward him.
* * *
Rory looked down at the platters of bruschetta and lamb kebabs.
“Wine?” The Indian woman—Prita—on his left asked, lifting a bottle and sliding over a fresh glass.
It’d been years since he’d drunk and he hadn’t felt the urge, but tonight . . . tonight it was tempting. “Ah, no thanks.”
A smaller guy—Justin—on his r
ight reached out his wine glass for topping up. Then the two of them welcomed him into their conversation about the lousy economy. How more men were seeking work as mannys because of it.
“I actually think it’s a good thing if more males see nannying or going into early childhood education as a viable option,” Prita said.
Rory listened to her then delve into a theory why men didn’t take the option of working with young children seriously.
He didn’t agree with all of it, though she had some valid points. “It was only in 1975 male kindergarten teachers were introduced,” Rory said. “That’s a relatively short history. I think it’s natural that it takes some time for stereotypes to break.”
Briefly, the irony of his argument had him biting his lip. Look at him. Could he really argue for breaking stereotypes or talk about societal expectations of men verse women when for years he’d been so rigid in his thinking? Just accepting what his father always said—what his mum agreed on—and trying to live the belief that it was wrong to be a fag?
Justin murmured something, and Rory shook away the thought of his parents. This was the last place they needed to be.
“. . . But I think things are changing a lot faster now. And males are going to have no trouble finding work in early childhood education—schools need male role model figures.”
As the conversation drifted, Rory scanned the rest of the males at the table, seeking signs of their fagness. They seemed just like any other guys he knew. Mostly.
Only the two guys at the end, who looked no older than eighteen, had their fingers linked together, resting on the table. Rory watched as one guy’s thumb caressed the back of his boyfriend’s hand.
When he looked up, the guys were talking quietly to each other. If their hands weren’t entwined, it would have been just like him and William. They could be in the middle of the busiest party and sometimes it felt like it was just the two of them talking shit and joking around.
Rory’s gaze fell to their hands again. How many times during those moments had he wondered what that would be like . . .
He blinked, noting how much faster he was breathing. He needed to get out of there.
He stood and maneuvered toward the exit, changing his route half-way to the bathrooms instead. Dammit, it was time to stop being such a pussy. He knew coming here wasn’t going to be smooth sailing. He needed to man up.
Locking himself in a toilet booth, he allowed himself two minutes to get over it. Come on, if he could handle a William induced panic attack, the rest of the evening he wouldn’t break a sweat.
As a group of guys entered the bathroom, he reluctantly gave up his booth.
Somehow he wasn’t surprised to see Eric standing at the basins, washing his hands.
Eric looked into the mirror at him approaching. “So, how are—”
“Don’t even ask it,” Rory warned, and began scrubbing his hands with soap.
Eric raised his wet hands in surrender, and laughed. As he was drying his hands, he called over his shoulder. “Anemone? Ace? Acorn?”
Rory gave a snort. “Anemone? How much wine have you drunk?”
“None. I’m just curious as anything, and determined to figure it out.”
Rory moved to the paper towels and grabbed a bunch. The heat of Eric standing next to him made him shiver. “Why don’t you enlist the whole table to help you? Maybe then you’ll have a fighting chance.”
Eric dumped his used paper towels in the wicker bin and met his gaze. “No, you and your mystery middle name are just for me.”
Then, with a firm push of the door, Eric led the way back to their table. Rory slipped back into his chair between Prita and Justin, knowing he was grinning like a fool. Yeah, he was glad he took up the challenge and came out tonight. This was good for him. He could handle—
Eric laughed, and Rory looked up at him, then immediately gripped the hard edges of his chair. Grill was leaning so close to Eric, trailing a finger over the ink on his inner wrist. . . .
Rory’s stomach flipped as he imagined Grill’s hot rosemary breath breezing against Eric’s neck tats.
With a swift Jerk of his head, he strained a smile at Prita. He clutched the empty wine glass in front of him. “You know, Prita, I would love some of that wine. . . .”
Eric’d been a bit nervous about Rory fitting in when they first got to Cherry Grove, but the guy had surprised him once more.
For the first hour, Eric had kept sneaking peeks at him, just to make sure he was doing all right. And he was. He seemed interested in the conversation he was having with Prita, his hands gesturing subtly as he spoke.
Feeling confident, Eric had let himself concentrate on Marc and Wayne as they discussed rugby and in particular the Hurricanes. But all too soon, his eyes glazed over and he found himself smiling and nodding. He didn’t understand the half that was said. Rugby was not his sport.
Grill, the man on his other side, chuckled low into his ear when he came back from visiting the bathroom a second time in one hour. Truth was Eric’d been hoping if he left and came back, maybe he’d be able to engage himself into another conversation. Something he could follow.
“Rugby not your thing, is it?”
He faced the dark haired man with an even six o’clock shadow, and smiled. “It’s not from a lack of trying. My grandpa used to make me watch it with him. He tried his darnedest to get me to get it. But I don’t think it’s in my genetic makeup.”
He smiled, remembering his grandpa jumping and waving his arms in front of the TV, cursing worse than a sailor. He’d shake his head. “The ref has no idea what he’s doing. Idiot. Did you see that? Blatant foul.”
Eric’s standard answer had been that the whole game looked like a foul to him.
Grill’s hand trailed up Eric’s inner arm, bringing him back to the present. “That’s some nice ink you’ve got there.”
Eric forced a laugh. The guy was flirting with him, and while it was flattering, it wasn’t what he wanted tonight.
He tried to move his arm politely, glancing over toward Rory, wondering if he could snag the guy away in the next few minutes and call it a night. Rory was finishing a glass of red wine. Their eyes met for a second, Rory’s looking away first at the same time Grill leaned in and asked, “So how long have you been in Wellington?”
Eric answered, now wishing he could go back to the conversation on rugby. But he couldn’t do that without seeming like a complete arse.
He talked to Grill, keeping his answers short and his questions closed. When could he reasonably claim he needed the bathroom again?
Out the corner of his eye, he saw Rory draining another large glass of wine. He suddenly didn’t give a crap if he was rude to Grill. He tried to catch Rory’s gaze over the table, but the guy had slumped back into his seat and was staring right at Eric without seeming to see him.
Shit. Rory no longer looked like he was enjoying himself. Eric sighed; nope, the guy wasn’t comfortable at all, and the excessive drinking was only one sign that pointed to it. Rory looked like the first time Eric’d seen him, standing on the side of the desert road, so goddamn tired and . . . lost.
He knew that the guy wouldn’t just get up and leave, though, either. He’d made coming here into some type of challenge, and if there was one thing he was sure about Rory, he was stubborn.
Without apologizing, Eric stood up and moved around the table to Rory. He braced his hands of the back of his chair and leaned down, speaking into his ear. “Okay, champ. Time to go.”
“But your fun has only just started,” Rory said with a slight slur.
Eric squeezed his shoulder. “I’d like to talk to you outside for a moment.”
“Fuck that.”
In a lower voice, just for Rory, Eric warned him. “Don’t make me sling you over my shoulder and carry you outside. I don’t want to do that, but I will.”
Rory pushed back on the chair suddenly and left, almost knocking into a waiter on his way out. Eric went to follow him, sayi
ng a quick ciao to the group.
Grill snagged his arm before he left. “Are you two leaving already?”
“Yeah. I promised Rory we would only stay a little while. He, um, has another party he wants to check out.”
“Oh.” Grill reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen. “Maybe we could talk some more another time?”
Before Eric could respond, Grill was writing his number down his arm.
Grill might as well have written the word slut down his arm. As Eric left the restaurant, he could still feel the pen as it skated over his skin, and it made him queasy.
Why was it so hard just to make friends? Had all his one-timers left a mark on him that made him smell easy or something?
As soon as he saw Rory outside leaning against his pickup, kicking at a leaf on the ground, Eric forgot about his arm.
“I’m taking you home,” he said unlocking his truck. “You need to sleep.” Like for a solid week or something.
“Sleep. I wish. What about my bike?”
“What else is a truck good for?” He opened the passenger door. “Get in.”
Rory didn’t argue, and stumbled into the front seat, slurring a curse.
Eric wound down the window for him in case he wasn’t feeling so good, then packed Rory’s bike into the back. When he was done and they’d begun the trip across town, Eric spoke, “Why is it you have trouble sleeping, anyway?”
Rory, who had his head back against the headrest, blinked up at the ceiling. “When you dream about your dead best friend, it’s sorta hard to want to sleep.” He spat a little on the last word, and slapped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Eric roughly shifted down a gear. He hadn’t been expecting such an earnest answer. He slowed on the accelerator, as if going slower he could think of a reply.
Rory continued, letting out a laugh. “He’s why I run.” He flapped his arms, hitting his knuckles against the window. “Flight mood—mode. But mood’s about right too. He follows me. Like that night you picked me up.”
