“Turn that shit off,” Tasha muttered on her way to the kitchen.
“It’s not shit,” Clay scowled.
“It’s Fox News,” Tasha said, getting out cups. “I don’t know about y’all,” she called to Julian and Philip, “but I’m an Obama Mama, with a brain, and that’s garbage.”
“You’re a nurse?” Philip asked.
“Sometimes,” Clay cut in, “Fox News is asking questions nobody else is. Malaysian Air Flight 370? Disappears over the Indian Ocean? Two hundred bodies still missing? People don’t disappear like that. A black hole? Conspiracy?” He shrugged like probably.
“Scary.” Philip nodded.
“ER nurse,” Tasha said. “I graduated from Booker T. here on the north side, and studied nursing at Texas Southern, then two tours in Afghanistan, where I met this joker.”
“Do your parents still live in Houston?” Philip asked.
“No. My mom passed, and my dad’s incarcerated, where he belongs.”
“TSU.” Clay sidled up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “My college girl.” He kissed her neck. “My cougar.”
She rolled her eyes and poured lemonade. “I keep telling this one he should get his BA.”
“I’m in school,” Clay said, giving her a bite. “Getting my associate’s in HVAC. Three semesters, quick, done. I’m IRR, so I could get called up anytime.”
“That doesn’t mean think short-term about your education,” she persisted. “Just because you might get the call.”
“There are benefits you can—” Philip smiled. “Sorry, I’m sure you know, but there are scholarships for veterans pursuing four-year degrees. This is what I do all day.”
“What do you do?” Tasha asked.
“He runs a group,” Julian jumped in, “that offers financial planning for veterans.”
“Veterans Financial Network,” Philip said, laughing as Vanessa explored his nostrils.
“Wait.” Tasha took the baby and gave Phil a cup. “We got a thing in the mail—VFN?”
“Yeah,” Philip said. “We just started working with the VA here in Houston.”
“Damn.” Clay’s eyes widened. “You run the whole thing?”
“Come sit,” Tasha said. “We got some talking to do. Clay, get those cups. Y’all take the couch; we’ll take the chairs. We’re renting this place for now, not forever. So, Philip, are you here for work, too, or just seeing y’all’s baby mama?”
“Just—to meet her,” Philip said. “To finalize our match.”
“What’s she like?” she asked.
“Tasha,” Clay scolded.
“What?”
“It’s OK,” Philip said. “She’s a little nervous today.”
“She bailed,” Clay said.
“No!” Tasha pulled the baby closer on her lap. “She’s not—Y’all aren’t gonna—”
“We’re hopeful,” Philip said. “That she’ll call.”
“She’d be crazy not to,” Clay said. “Who wouldn’t want y’all as parents?”
A wave of something bittersweet washed over Julian.
“We don’t know a lot about her,” Philip continued. “Which is crazy but sort of how it works. Her name is Marisol. Her mom brought her and her sisters over from Matamoros when they were kids, and they settled in Houston.”
“Gulfton.” Julian nodded. “Not far from here.”
“What else?” Philip said. “She thinks the birth dad’s black, but he’s not in the picture.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Tasha frowned. “Y’all got any black friends in New York?”
“Hey!” Clay cried, fiddling with his phone. “Do y’all ever FaceTime with Aaron? I figured we’re together, we could—” He studied Julian’s face. “Or maybe y’all don’t have that kinda thing going on. Never mind.”
“Um.” Julian set his cup down on the carpet by the couch. He turned to Clay in the chair beside him. “I don’t know how to start. Aaron left me and my mom, too. Around the time you were born, I think. I was thirteen. I saw him two more times in my life, at my mom’s memorial, and then a few years ago. He came to New York to tell us he was sick. He died. We found that picture of you and your mom when we were going through his—”
“When?” Clay asked. “When did he die?”
“Six years ago.”
“Was he here in Houston?”
“Yeah. Over by Greenspoint Mall. I didn’t know your name. If I’d known about you, how to find you, I would’ve. Tried. I’m sorry.”
Clay sat still. Then he rose and went out a door off the kitchen, shutting it behind him.
“Rushhh,” Vanessa murmured, looking at the door. “Dada rushhh.”
“I am sorry,” Julian said to Tasha, “to be the one to tell you. Our dad never had much online. I can see why Clay would’ve thought…”
Tasha shook her head and jiggled the baby on her knee. “He knew Aaron might be gone. I told him so many times: it doesn’t matter what you find out, if you meet him or not, what matters is us, this baby, now.” She looked from Julian to Philip, her eyes red behind her glasses. “We look like a mess. I know.”
“No,” Philip insisted.
“We fight or whatever, but we’re so in love. He’s a good man. A great dad when I stay on him. And smart, you wouldn’t guess it, but—”
“Yes, I would,” Julian said.
“He could do so many things. He’s that romantic type, you know? Passionate. Like his mom.” A pounding started on the other side of the door. “Could y’all watch the baby?” Tasha asked, hurrying her to Julian. “He’s got his man cave in the garage, whenever he’s feeling—” Something crashed. Tasha sprinted out the door and shut it. Muffled sounds of arguing floated into the house. Vanessa wriggled on Julian’s lap.
“OK, baby,” he said. “Where do you want to go?”
He put her down and held her hand as she toddled to the garage door. She lay both her palms on it and pressed her face against it. “Rushhhhh,” she said. Then she toddled to the front door and looked out the window. Julian and Philip followed, finally hearing the tinkling sound that caught her ears.
“The ice cream man?” Philip said in his baby voice. “What do you think, Vee?”
Julian picked her up and they went outside. “Do you think it’s OK?” he asked Philip. “Giving her sugar?”
Philip looked back at the house. “All relative, I guess.”
Julian hoisted her up. She pointed at a Creamsicle. The three of them sat on the lawn and ate ice cream in the late afternoon sun, Julian helping Vanessa balance the stick in her tiny hands. He marveled at the lovely combination of her parents—her blue eyes, bronze skin, dark, tight ringlets jutting out joyously in all directions. Julian wondered about where she’d go and the things she’d see, the as-yet-uninvented tech that would be her given world and his glorious obsolescence. He kissed her cheek and told himself to hang on to this moment, which would end.
Clay and Tasha came outside, his left hand tucked behind him, and sat down. “Sorry,” Clay said, looking around sheepishly. Tasha adjusted a bag of frozen peas on his knuckles. “Worked it out on the Sheetrock. Oop!” He leaned toward the baby in Julian’s lap, wiped an orange dribble off her chin, and licked his finger. “She loves her some Creamsicle.” His face softened as he watched his daughter. “We take care of her, and she just keeps growing.”
Julian’s phone buzzed. His heart shot into his throat. “A text from Marisol,” he said soberly to Philip. “‘I fucked up,’” he read. “‘Sorry. Still wanna meet? Call me.’”
“Call her!” Tasha brayed and grabbed the baby.
Marisol picked up on the first ring. “Julian?”
“Hi, Marisol. I’ve got you on speaker.”
“Hey, Philip,” she said.
“Hi! We’re here with Julian’s brother and sister-in-law and their baby girl.”
“You got a brother in Houston?” Marisol asked.
Julian looked at Clay. “Yeah. His name is Clayton. How are you?”
/>
“OK. Um. Sorry about before. I musta freaked y’all out. I got scared and—yeah.”
“I know,” Julian said.
“Not about y’all. Y’all’re funny and chill. It’s, like, the world. This baby.”
“We are too.” He took Philip’s hand. “Scared.”
“But I wanna do this,” she said. “If y’all do. It’s the right thing.”
“Yes,” Julian said. “We want to too.”
“My mom made food. Empanadas and chicken. Y’all wanna meet everybody?”
“At your place?” Julian asked.
“Yes!” Philip cried. “Of course! We need to know everything about you and your mom and sisters and everybody. We should know everything—for the baby, right, Jay? Everything.”
“Yeah,” Julian said, looking at Clay. “Or more than our parents did. Are you sure, Marisol?”
“Yeah, come over. We’re gonna be family. And my sister thinks y’all’re cute. Both y’all. But, like, Philip.”
Clay giggled and rolled back onto the lawn. “He is cute,” Julian said. “Text me your address. We’re in Missouri City now.”
“Hey, Marisol?” Clay cried, bolting upright. “Why’d you pick them?”
“Clayton!” Tasha shot him a furious look.
“Maybe now’s not—” Philip began.
“She thinks we’re nice,” Julian mumbled anxiously.
“Like, me and Julian’s dad? He was a real piece of—” Tasha swatted him. “Something,” Clay continued. “But you get to pick your kid’s dads. I know Julian’s freaking amazing—he’s my brother—and Philip too. But for you. Why them?”
The phone went quiet. “I don’t know. I guess, the way they talk about each other, in the profile, like in love. And the pictures of traveling, where the baby’ll go. Um. And Julian’s work? That case helping the immigrants in Arizona? I googled him. You, Julian, sorry, TMI. There’s all this news about it. They seem like good people.”
“OK!” Julian interjected. “Great. Marisol, we’ll be there in a half hour. Without Clay.”
“OK. See y’all.”
Julian hung up. Philip wrapped his arms around him while Tasha cheered.
“See?” Clay said as they struggled to their feet. “I knew she’d call. Things work out, right?” He thumped Julian’s chest. “Sometimes?”
“Yes,” Julian replied.
“So.” Clay kicked at a dandelion. “Y’all coming back much after this?”
“For the delivery, which is any day now. And then however much Marisol wants. Once a year, maybe more, depending.” Julian sighed. “A lot of memories, coming back here.”
“More to come,” Clay said timidly.
“Stay with us,” Tasha suggested. “We got an air bed. And the cousins, you know.”
“Thanks,” Philip said. “It’s nice to have somewhere you’re welcome.”
“Pictures!” Clay whipped out his phone. “Selfie alert, let’s go.” They took some group shots, and then Clay insisted Tasha take some of just him and Julian. “Look at that,” Clay said, showing Julian a photo afterward. “Us. We look like, when you pull socks out of the drawer that don’t match but close enough, so you wear them anyways?”
“That one’s nice,” Julian murmured. “Will you send it to me?”
“Yeah.” Clay watched him. “Keep in touch. I got so many questions.”
Julian nodded. “I don’t know if I have answers.”
“You’re something. Say bye to Uncle Julian,” Clay said, grabbing the baby and waving her little hand. “Bye-bye, Uncle Julian.”
“Uncle Juuuu,” she spluttered.
“That would be me,” Philip said. “Uncle Jew’s over here, Vee.”
They hugged goodbye. Clay held Julian a long time when it was their turn. His grip was so firm Julian could feel it in his core, along with the waves of their breath combining, traveling down to his feet and anchoring him on the lawn. He squeezed Clay back.
Julian and Philip got in the car and buckled up.
“Do you want to see them again?” Philip asked. “Next time we’re in town?”
“Yeah. Or this time. We’ve got another day.”
“Yeah.” Philip smiled. He looked up at the road ahead. “You ready for this?”
“No,” Julian said. “You?”
“No.”
They turned and waved one last time at Clay and Tasha and Vanessa standing in the street. Then Julian and Philip pulled down the block and drove to meet their birth mom.
Acknowledgments
Where to begin? I have such gratitude for so many people, so I’ll start where everything starts—with my mother. Thank you, Sandy Deabler, for raising me. For teaching me that love is a strength, and faith is a struggle. For making me believe, through methods both clear and mysterious, that I have a voice worth hearing.
Thank you to Aileen Barry and the artists of Lynx Ensemble Theater—Bill Bowers, Joy Marr, Jen Wineman, Joy Besozzi, Brian McManamon, David Levine, Norm Lee, Devon Berkshire, and many others—who invested in me and gave me one of the first places I ever had to play and fail and discover as an artist. Thanks to Jessica Provenz and Dan O’Brien and Stefanie Zadravec, who treated me with the respect of a fellow writer before I knew if I really was one. Thanks to Timothy Ryan Olsen, Sara Katzoff, and Peter Wise at the Berkshire Fringe, and to Michael Goldfried, for the unforgettable experience of taking a show on the road.
Thanks to the Ensemble Studio Theatre, to which I had the privilege of trekking every week, rain or shine, on the western fringe of Hell’s Kitchen, where I could be around artists who bring such unique beauty into the world—Amy Herzog, Lucy Alibar, Annie Baker, and others—and where, in the process, I was humbled and became a better writer.
Thank you to the many friends who read chapters of this book at various stages, always with an encouraging eye: Michael Sendrow, Ida Rothschild, Jesse Cameron Alick, Doug Silver, Dale Heinen, Sara Fox, Sandra Pullman, Cher and Colleen Brock, Vandana Radhakrishnan, Lee Bailey, Rachel Dornhelm, Zoe Hilden, Terri Gerstein, Katie Rosman. Thanks to my friend Kasia Anderson, who sat with me on a sunny day in Central Park nearly two decades ago, a story of mine in her hands, and urged me to show not tell. Thank you, Matthew Sharpe, for your generosity and insight.
Thanks to my agent, Michael Carlisle, for taking a chance on me. Thank you, Michael Mungiello at InkWell, for your thoughtful feedback. And a million thanks to Elisabeth Dyssegaard at St. Martin’s Press, for being an amazing editor, and sending me a handwritten markup, and for pretty much always being right. With your help I kept sculpting until I found the book I meant to write.
Thank you to my old friend Eliot Schrefer. This book sort of started with a wager over lunch one day as grown-ups, wondering how much we were willing to look back into our own pasts. But it also started earlier than that, with your unwavering support, of me and my dreams, practically and creatively, year after year, from the time we were in school. You are a true friend.
Where to end? That one’s easy. Thanks to my amazing husband, Mark O’Connell. With your love and example, I became the person who could write this book. Sometimes I’ll randomly think of meeting you as a teenager and I can’t believe we’re still here, alive, together. A teacher told me once to write what I know, and what I know is you. Thank you for being my partner in life, love, art, daddying, fur daddying, and whatever comes hurtling our way next.
About the Author
Justin Deabler grew up in Houston. He dropped out of high school when he was fifteen and eventually graduated from Harvard Law School. He is the general counsel for the Queens Public Library. He lives in Brooklyn with his husband, son, and two cats. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Prologue
I. Love
1. The Man with the Muddy Boots
2. A Day’s Work
3. Pen Pals
II. Marriage
4. Escalate the Call
5. The Dragon’s Egg
6. The Swimmers
7. Free Markets
8. Let’s Get Baked Tonight
9. Around the World in Eighty Minutes
10. Reading
III. A Baby
11. Stuffed
12. The Shakes
13. The Match Meeting
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
First published in the United States by St. Martin’s Press, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group
LONE STARS. Copyright © 2021 by Justin Deabler. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design: Nikolaas Eickelbeck
Cover photographs: truck © Frank Gross/Millenium Images UK; watercolor sky © colorfulset/Shutterstock; house © Ed Freeman/Getty; clouds © myticenergy/Getty; oil derricks © Buså Photography/Getty; oil tower © Pgiam/Getty
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Names: Deabler, Justin, author.
Title: Lone stars / Justin Deabler.
Description: First edition. | New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2021.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020040154 | ISBN 9781250256102 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250256119 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PS3604.E14 L66 2021 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020040154
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