by Seth King
“Can I meet him?”
My eyes grew. Elizabeth Cornelia Knightsman Charles would absolutely terrorize Teddy, and I knew it. That’s why she’d been kept far away all summer.
“I don’t know,” I said in a way that meant, hell fucking no.
“Well are you being honest with him? About your plans?”
I looked away.
“George,” she said, more seriously. “Does she know you’re moving to New York in a month?”
“No, I have not told him about Fordham yet.”
“So…what’s the point of this, then? What are you doing?”
I exhaled. “I don’t know, Mom! I never expected to meet him.”
My plan to attend Fordham in New York City was my mother’s escape hatch for me. She wanted me to get away from everything I ever knew, everyone I ever met, and start over. She thought getting lost in the city would be exactly the thing to get me over “my moods,” as she called my condition, once and for all. But more and more I was starting to dread it. If I could barely handle crowds here, what was I going to do in Manhattan? And why would I leave when I was starting to fall so hard for Teddy? What would we do – carry on some type of relationship through Facetime and Snapchat? That never worked.
That’s why I’d pushed it from my mind. If Teddy didn’t know I was leaving, I wouldn’t have to think about it. I wanted to run away to Key West, have the time of my life, and think about it all later, as stupid as all that sounded. But he was the first person I’d ever found in my life who didn’t care about what I was. I couldn’t let go of that yet.
But now here it was, front and center. Fordham. New York. No Teddy in sight. And that was a big deal. Long-distance relationships never worked out at all.
“George, think about this,” my mom said. To her, New York was my big rescue – her scared little son was going to disappear into the skyscrapers and find peace in the crowds. Little did she know I’d already found my own peace. “New York. Museums. Shows. Seasons. Snow. What on Earth could have happened in Jacksonville to make you want to throw all this away?” she asked, shuddering at the word “Jacksonville.” A native Upper West Sider, my mom had always resented my father for forcing her to move down here for his job, and she’d never gotten over that resentment – that’s probably why they’d gotten divorced when I was thirteen. But she’d stayed down here afterward, figuring her youth was already over anyway. So she just transferred her wishes to me. For years she’d obsessed over getting me out of here and ensuring I would never have to “suffer” like she did in a city with no Ritz Carlton, no ballet, no Central Park, no Henri Bendel…
“It’s a person that happened, not a thing,” I said, turning to leave. “And he has hazel eyes, by the way. See you at dinner!”
Teddy Martin
The night of the Key West proposition, my best friend Dooley called, probably because I’d been paying her dust lately. My BFF’s name was actually Caitlin, but nobody had called her that in years – she was simply her last name, Dooley, and that was that. She walked up to me on the playground in the fifth grade and announced that she loved Maroon 5, and asked me if I thought Adam Levine smelled good. We’d been best friends ever since. We were supposed to be buddy-reading this new thriller, but I’d grossly fallen behind on my duties. Thrillers were our thing: we’d first connected over our mutual love of these pulpy, campy books in sixth grade, and we’d never looked back.
“So how is Resentment?” I asked her.
“Aren’t you reading this one? I’ve been beating you over the head for weeks. You don’t understand – you have to read this book. You have to.”
I tried not to laugh. When Dooley wanted me to read something, she would chase me down in a way that rivaled a jealous, crazed ex-lover from a scary movie. But I got it. There was nothing worse than finishing a masterpiece and having nobody to talk about it with. It was like being in love in a dark room – you just had to talk about it. “Just like I had to read the last one? And the one before that?”
“This one is different.”
“I’m sure it is,” I laughed. “But I have to admit, I’m a bit behind.”
“Typical. So anyway. The husband is way too hot and smart and caring to be real, and the wife is so dumb I want to hit her. Her meltdown just started, and she’s about to fake her own death and then kidnap him for ransom. She’s getting addicted to pills, too. And then the-”
“So there’s something else,” I said.
“Um. What? Yeah?”
“I’ve been…seeing someone. Kind of. I guess. In real life. Not in a book.”
“Holy shit – who?”
I smiled and didn’t say anything.
“Oh my God! Do I know him?”
“No. But I’m – I’m a little obsessed. It’s bad.”
I could hear her pulling out her laptop already. “Okay, yeah, I’m gonna need to stalk him.”
“I can’t tell you his name.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s weird. And because you’ll stalk the hell out of him like a killer.”
She went silent, and soon I heard clicking of keys. “George Charles,” she said.
My mouth fell open. “How did you know that, you creep?”
“Because he’s tagged in a Bookworm Instagram post with you. It’s him, isn’t it?”
I stayed silent.
“Oh my God, I’m stalking him on Instagram now. He’s kinda hot! Those eyebrows are killer. He also seems like the only guy who cares about books as much as we do! You should get pregnant and make bookworm babies. Are you sure he’s gay?”
“Stop, freak. Yes, I’m sure. And yeah, he’s…amazing. Great, really. Cute and smart and fun and-”
“Okay, I’m worried,” she interrupted.
“Why?”
“Because I can hear in your voice that you like him, and every time you like someone, you turn and run.”
I shivered. “No I don’t.”
“Oh, this isn’t up for discussion, babe. When it comes to love, you’re OJ Simpson in the Bronco.”
“The what?”
“Sorry, I forgot you didn’t watch that Ryan Murphy show. Anyway. You’re a serial runner. You ruin things before they can be ruined. Just please just don’t break this poor kid’s heart. He looks nice, and besides, I need to hear secondhand stories about his penis.”
“Dooley. He’s not like that. This isn’t about sex. Trust me.”
“Really? You’ve done nothing?”
“We’ve…tried, but he gets…nervous. Anyway, I swear, something is different about him. He reads books and listens to Frank Ocean and-”
“God, you’re starting to sound like a girl.”
“What does that mean?” I asked her. “Don’t reinforce arbitrary gender dynamics around me. Guys can be wonderstruck, too.”
“Wonderstruck! Nice Freudian slip. Anyway, he’s hot.”
“Dooley! Stop.”
“What? He is. Can I watch you two hook up?”
“Gross. That would be like watching your brother or sister hook up!”
“Um, yeah…with a hot book lover. What’s the issue?”
“You’re too much,” I said as I picked up my iPad and surfed the trending topics on Twitter. A rapper had gotten a video vixen pregnant, a former Disney star had gone out of control and crashed a car into a bodega, an old male politician had said something offensive about women…
“And he’s more than what he looks like,” I said. “He’s…astounding, really.”
“Ugh, I hate you.”
“Why?”
“Because I do. Why do you get to have all the fun? Why am I down here dating a procession of online losers?”
“Because you got all the boys in high school while I was super-duper closeted, and now it’s my turn to be a little slutty.”
“True. But Teddy?”
I paused. “Yeah?”
“He looks like a nice, normal person. Promise me you won’t run from this kid like he
stabbed you? Promise me you’ll let him…I don’t know, love you?”
I hesitated and then circled back to the thriller conversation, my capacity for love-talk completely breached.
~
So, I couldn’t deny it: the talk with Dooley put a bad taste in my mouth. An acrid one. What if she was right? What if I hadn’t really changed?
I tried to ignore it. I tried to get her out of my head. Spoiler alert: I couldn’t. She was like an alarm on a Tuesday morning. And she knew me better than anyone besides my dad. What if she was right? What if I was a time bomb?
The whispers became a roar, and to my horror, that week I started doing the thing I did where I try to ruin things for myself before they could make me happy. I started ignoring people and reading trashy novels instead. I started being a dick to customers for no real reason at all. And, most dangerously, I started running from people who only wanted to be good to me.
I would snap at my dad and Dooley. I would ignore my commenters on my blog. I would be rude to customers in the Meow. And I started treating George like he wasn’t treasure, like he wasn’t a starry-eyed boy who loved books like puppies loved hugs. One morning he Snapchatted me and I ignored it for no real reason. (Well, besides my general underlying need to sabotage everything good and constructive in my life, at least.) Then I did the same with a text. Why let someone be good to you when you can turn your back and drive them away just as quickly? I didn’t deserve him. That voice, that deep-down voice that called out to me sometimes, was right. It was useless. He was just going to leave in the end anyway. Just like everyone else. Just like Mom.
I stopped eating healthy, and pulled out of the jogs with George. He didn’t say anything, but obviously he knew I was feeling low. We were fine when we hung out, actually, but when we weren’t together I felt colder and colder. Did he notice? Actually, one day he did try to mention depression and its symptoms to me, but I sped the conversation somewhere else.
We visited one last bookstore George found online, and this time Dooley met us there. Dooley fell in love from the first moment – it was so obvious. George was cordial, though, and kept her at a friend’s length. They really hit it off, though. It was kind of hilarious, though, watching Dooley’s sea-green eyes light up and her frizzy brown hair shake back and forth as she watched him and delighted over him. Did this girl have no shame at all? Did she also understand that he, you know, wasn’t interested in vagina?
“I can’t get Teddy to read anything I want him to read anymore,” Dooley sighed as we perused the shelves, trying to make conversation.
“Because all your selections either make me cry or bore me,” I said. “That’s the first rule of a book friend – your recommendations actually have to be good.”
“It’s not my fault you have no taste.”
“Hey, hey,” George laughed. “There’s room under the book tent for everyone. Dooley, what’d you last read?”
“That big thriller where the housewife goes crazy and murders her husband and then marries his brother.”
“Ahh!” he cried. “I loved that one! I thought the way they subverted the usual male/female role was brilliant. That lady just took fucking charge, didn’t she?”
“Teddy,” Dooley said, turning to me. “He’s hot, and he’s woke? Why have you been hiding him from me?”
“This is why,” I groaned. “You’re like a puppy with a bone. And I hate to break it to you, but, um, I don’t think you’re his type…”
Dooley smirked and turned. “Don’t listen to him. I’m just happy to meet another book person. Come, walk with me and judge the covers of teen romances with me. If you do happen to ever try the heterosexual thing, though, just for shits and giggles, I will greet you with open legs. I mean arms.”
And off they went together. I tried not to smile as I watched. I failed.
George Charles
How was it possible to miss the present?
I was starting to cherish and mourn every moment with Teddy in equal measure. If I was going to leave all this behind, I wanted to hold on extra hard. Our lunches down the street from the Bookworm at this little place called Angie’s Grom, our bike rides to Hawkers Asian restaurant in Atlantic Beach, our walks down the beach in the evening – I was starting to love every moment with him. But it was so sad, too. New York was calling. What was I going to do if this was my last Jacksonville Beach summer? My last Teddy summer?
After I met Dooley, we all formed a sort of casual book club where we’d meet up for lunch or dinner and talk books. No, Dooley had not slowed in her pursuit of me, and no, I was not offended at all. Women had forced to deal with creepy, pushy men for generations. Now that the tables were turned, I figured it was a small price to pay.
“So do you read erotica?” Dooley asked at Al’s Pizza, staring intently into my eyes. “What do you think? And are you like that in your personal life? Just wondering.”
I laughed. Teddy rolled his eyes but tried not to laugh, too.
“Nah, I’m more into general romance and literary fiction.”
“So you never read Fifty Shades?”
“Okay,” Teddy interrupted. “Before this turns into a form of assault, let’s talk about the book we’re supposed to be reading right now.”
An author we all loved had just unexpectedly issued a continuation of a series we’d all read as kids, and reading it had been like getting to hang out with old friends, all cozy and familiar. But not all members of our club had read it, apparently…
“I couldn’t buy it,” Dooley said. “My mom cut off the card attached to my Amazon account. I spent four hundred dollars on it last month.”
“Whoa. In addition to that time you lost control and spent two hundred at the Bookworm?”
“You guys were having a sale,” she said exasperatedly. “What was I supposed to do?”
“At this point you’re a few books short of an intervention. Anyway, moving on…”
“No,” she said, turning to me. “He never answered. Thoughts on Fifty?”
That’s when Teddy said he was sick and ended the book club session early. We walked to my house together, hanging in my backyard until my mom came home. He made me so happy, but that sad undercurrent wouldn’t leave. Because everyone in my life had walked away eventually. I was fully aware that I wasn’t easy to love. I burned just as brightly as I raged. Sometimes I disappeared from him – it was becoming more rare, sure, but I wasn’t there for Teddy one hundred percent of the time. Sometimes I had to withdraw into myself to save him from seeing me when I was in a spiral. Speaking of that…
“Where were you last night?” he asked soon, frowning.
“Oh. I had some wine at dinner, and alcohol can be triggering…I had to go to bed. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t ever be sorry,” he said, and I moved my leg closer.
“Are you sure you’re okay lately?” I asked. “You seem…sad.”
Something in his eyes flickered. “Nope,” he said too quickly. “I’m just dandy. When Dooley isn’t trying to negotiate into your pants, that is.”
I looked away. I didn’t believe him, and both of us knew it. But I didn’t get it. I was leaving and I still hadn’t told him. Wasn’t I supposed to be the one who had reason to be blue?
Teddy Martin
One night deep into the summer I got in bed way too late after uploading a Tumblr post and then getting moderately submerged in The Test, another romance novel which from its title sounded vaguely STD-ish. It was…okay. The heroine was a bit helpless, and the hero was all jawlines and chestnut hair and quippy come-ons and was a bit too “I just stepped out of a romance novel” for my tastes. The whole book was also a bit needlessly quirky-for-the-sake-of-being-quirky, like when you picked up one of those books for teens and everyone, like, had a pet llama and lived in an underground burrow or something. Who lived like that? I still ended up giving it a B plus on Goodreads, though, the book-rating website, which was probably the lowest I’d ever rated anything because I felt l
ike I was personally assaulting authors by giving anything less than that.
But in the book, the guy ended up cheating on his girlfriend, and she ended up getting with her first love, with whom she finally had her happily ever after. It was all so scandalous, so dramatic, so far-fetched. And it all reminded me of something I’d been mulling over lately: George was probably too good to be true, too. So much about him was just too good to be real. Maybe he would do the same thing, or something like it. My first impression of him – that boys like him could only be written by authors – was probably correct. And where would it leave me if he did what Charles had done to me, and my mother before that?
See you tomorrow? George texted soon. One final talk about Key West?
Can’t wait, I said – but I could wait. My stomach was boiling like the underside of a Florida thunderstorm.
Now, I still didn’t know a hell of a lot about George Charles. I knew he was somewhat strange and I knew he was too cute for his own good and I knew I wanted to go swimming in his eyes in a way that both puzzled and disgusted me. But as I lay there, surrounded by books and dreams and wishes and nightmares, I knew that I was starting to like him, very much. Very very much. All I wanted to do was lounge around with him, and I found myself wondering strange and random things about him, like what he was like in the first grade and how his relationship with his father was these days. He ruled my thoughts and my dreams, too, and suddenly books just weren’t so captivating anymore.
And the realization hit me like a stack of books. Oh, shit. The impossible had happened: I, Theodore Phannopolous Martin, liked someone. Maybe even loved him, as much as I tried to deny it. And if history was any barometer, the people I loved had the power to undo me. It’d happened in that bedroom all those years ago, it’d happened with my mother, it’d happened with my first boyfriend, and it could easily happen again. Reading about love is one thing. Living it, in real life, was an entirely different line to walk. That’s why I always pulled back. I just couldn’t face the alternative.
