by Lane Hayes
“Yo.”
Remy laughed. “Yo. Taking a break?” he asked, pointing at my lunch cooler.
“Yeah, I brought a turkey sandwich. Actually, I brought two,” I replied.
“You must be hungry.”
“Well, yeah but…one’s for you. If you want it. You might not like turkey. I shoulda asked, but I didn’t think about it till this morning and—whatever. You want it, it’s yours. If not, that’s okay too.” I furrowed my brow intently and frowned. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. You have a way with words, Tony.”
I brushed my nose distractedly, unsure how to respond.
“Do you feel like eating something?” I tried in a softer voice.
He shoved the loose change from his guitar case into his pocket, set his instrument inside, and fastened the clasps. Then he folded his collapsible stool and tucked it under his arm before picking up the case and a portable amp.
“I do. Thank you. I’m ready and the crazy thing is…I love turkey sandwiches,” he said enthusiastically.
We shared a silly grin then wandered to the opposite end of the park near the fountain. I grabbed two vacant chairs and set them under a giant tree. The little expanse of greenery created the perfect illusion of privacy. It was well shaded and far enough from the construction site that there wasn’t much of a chance one of my co-workers would bump into us. If they did, it wasn’t a big deal, but it would make this impromptu lunch date a one-time-only affair for sure.
I firmly pushed aside fanciful thoughts about future dates in the park. That was too gay, I mused, unzipping my cooler. I pulled out two wrapped sandwiches and handed one to Remy along with a couple of napkins.
“I like the works. Turkey, cheese, lettuce, tomato, onion, mayo, and spicy mustard on a giant roll. I won’t have hurt feelings if you take anything out, though,” I assured him before taking a bite.
Remy just smiled. “This is incredible.”
“You didn’t even try it.”
“I can tell it’s going to be good, but here goes…” In true comedic fashion, he took a deep breath and then a huge bite. He gave me a thumbs-up then narrowed his eyes and crinkled his nose, wordlessly changing his opinion to, “It’s just okay.”
“Fuck you,” I said without heat.
Remy snickered cheerily. “I love it. Thank you.”
“There’s water in the cooler if you want some. And chips. Eat whatever you want. You’re kinda skinny. Don’t get me wrong, it looks good on you. Real good. I—never mind. I’ll shut up now. I sound like my mother.”
“She likes to feed you, eh?”
“Typical Italian. Let me tell you, this lunch wouldn’t impress her much. She usually drops off huge trays of lasagna or pasta for me to get by during the week. She conveniently forgets I know how to cook and take care of myself. A rogue turkey sandwich tastes like beef Wellington every once in a while, ya know?”
“If you say so.”
We ate in companionable quiet, letting the sounds of the city in springtime wash over us. I spotted a mime entertaining a group of tourists up the path and an artist drawing someone’s silhouette. It felt like summer. Warm and inviting and—
“Why flamenco?” I blurted in between bites. Whoa. I immediately looked away, pretending to be interested in a young couple walking a French bulldog. I didn’t get why I couldn’t seem to say things…smoothly.
Remy wasn’t bothered. He shrugged as he reached for one of the water bottles in the cooler.
“I don’t just play flamenco. I can play anything…rock, blues, jazz, classic. On guitar, bass, and piano.”
“Damn. I’m impressed.”
“Thanks. It helps to play a couple of instruments when you teach music.”
“Which do you like the best?”
“It depends on my mood. I only have access to this guitar at the moment. The strings are broken on the other one I brought from home. This one is meant for flamenco. I don’t know if I’d say it’s my favorite, but I like it.”
“Huh. I have to know how a guy from Upstate New York starts playing Spanish guitar. There’s gotta be a story.”
Remy chuckled. “It’s not very exciting. When I was in grade school, a dance troupe came into town for the annual international festival. I always looked forward to it. I loved seeing the different flags from far-off countries and tasting their foods. They featured maybe three countries at a time. And they tended to do the same ones…China, Italy, Greece. I realize now that was because our local Chinese, Italian and Greek restaurants sponsored the fair. But one year, the Spanish dancers came. I was obsessed. I’d never seen anything like them. They were beautiful and the music was sublime. The second the festival was over, I asked my mom for guitar lessons. I think she was secretly relieved I’d stopped twirling around the living room with a blanket wrapped around my waist. She found a high school kid to come by and teach me chords. I learned the basics from him and a few other teachers along the way. And when I got to college, I had a really talented and super-sexy professor from Spain who was a maestro with the strings. That’s when I really learned how to play flamenco,” he said with a wink. “The rest is history.”
“What happens next? Are you gonna join a flamenco band, get a record deal, and tour the world? It’s beautiful music, but I still don’t understand what you do with it.”
“Now you sound like my mother,” he griped.
“I’m sorry. I—”
“Don’t apologize. It’s not a bad question. I’m not planning on playing guitar in the park forever. I do it for fun and to get out of my miniature apartment. If I make a couple of bucks too, even better. But don’t worry…I have my resume at a few schools in the area. Who knows? Maybe by September, I’ll be a respectably employed educator again. Or I’ll be mixing drinks for hot guys at Sparks,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.
I frowned as I tried to piece together what he’d told me about himself so far. Details seemed important now. I wanted to know everything. “So you still want to teach, but you didn’t want to do it where you’re from…bad breakup?”
Remy gave me a chagrined look. “Yeah. It was over a year ago, but in a small town, the talk follows you around.”
“What happened?” I waved my hand and apologized. “Don’t tell me. I shouldn’t have asked. I’m curious but—”
“It’s okay. It doesn’t seem like a big deal anymore. At the time, it was all encompassing. The gist is…he broke up with me to be with his new man, a divorced lover who also happened to be the principal, aka, my boss.”
I whistled. “What a prick. How long were you together?”
“Two years. Mark’s an English professor at the local community college. He taught songwriting too. You’ll be interested to know I took his class to learn how to write lyrics for some of my original pieces.”
“He obviously didn’t teach you anything useful,” I snarked. “You’re a really good guitarist, but I still say you could do with some words.”
Remy guffawed merrily. “You mean lyrics?”
“Whatever. You don’t need him, though. You seem smart. Do it yourself.”
“You seem pretty smart too. How about if you do it?”
“Me? I’m no poet,” I insisted before popping the last bit of my sandwich into my mouth. “I don’t do words.”
He studied me thoughtfully for a moment then bent to unlatch his guitar case and pull out his instrument. “Try.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. Listen to the music and say the first thing that comes to your mind.” He played a soft, lilting melody. It was nice but honestly, the music barely registered. The vision in front of me compromised my hearing. I fixated on the way the filtered sunlight glittered like fairy dust on his tousled curls, the graceful bend of his neck, and the way his long fingers flew over the strings. I could have watched him all damn day. He flattened his hand to halt the tune and looked up at me expectantly. “Well?”
“Um. The sun makes your hair look like p
asta shells. In a good way.”
Remy busted up laughing. In fact, he couldn’t talk for a while. I gathered our trash and let the cheerful sound wash over me until he had himself under control again. He hiccupped as he wiped at the corner of his eyes. God, he was beautiful. He didn’t look like pasta. He looked like an angel.
“Oh wow. That was…funny.”
“Yeah, yeah. What’d I tell you? I’m no good at fancy words. I can’t find the right adjectives to describe a song. If you really want to know…I think you’re the music.” I finished gathering my belongings and shifted in my chair to stand. I nudged Remy’s arm when I caught him staring at me like I was an alien. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I—that was…sweet. Thank you.”
I returned his shy smile with something a bit cockier then leaned forward, stealthily pushing my knee against his open thigh and linking my pinkie finger with his. It was an uncharacteristically ballsy move on my part. But that look in his eye made me feel brave and powerful. It made me want to do something crazy. Something I wouldn’t normally dream of doing in broad daylight.
“I wish I could kiss you,” I whispered.
“You can.”
I swallowed hard and bit the inside of my cheek before checking to see if the coast was clear. The enormous tree provided a natural canopy, shielding us from most passersby and anyone with a bird’s-eye view. Like my co-workers. It wasn’t one hundred percent safe, but I didn’t sense any real danger. And damn, I wanted a piece of him. Something small to remind me of this moment and help pass the long hours until the next time we met. I looked down at my dusty construction boots thinking the contrast with his old sneakers was strangely hot. We shouldn’t fit, but I had a feeling we did.
I stared at his bottom lip for a moment then looked into his eyes one more time before leaning in to cover his mouth with mine. He groaned softly then licked my lips and slipped his tongue inside. I let him lead. I just wanted to smell him and feel him surrounding me. The tender connection was unbearably sweet. If I didn’t want to rip his clothes off and bury myself inside him, I might have said it was almost innocent.
Remy broke the kiss and sat back slightly with his head cocked. “This was the best lunch date I’ve ever had.”
I grinned like a madman as I stood. “Date? Is that what this was?”
“It felt like one. And I’m feeling greedy. I want more.”
“Me too. I’m—I have to go to my mom’s for dinner tonight but…are you working at the bar? Maybe I could come by after.”
“Yeah, but I’m working with my boss. He wouldn’t like it if I made out with a customer in the alley,” he huffed, swinging his guitar case in one hand and stuffing his portable stool under his arm before joining me on the path. “I’d invite you over, but I have a roommate who’s always home and an apartment that’s smaller than most people’s closets.”
“It’s cool. I’ll be here tomorrow.”
He paused mid-stride and pulled on my sleeve. “Are you asking me on another lunch date, Tony?”
I dug my sunglasses from my shirt pocket and put them on then nodded slowly. “Yeah. I guess I am.”
“Fuck. That’s kinda romantic,” he said with a goofy grin.
I snorted derisively. “Turkey sandwiches in the park? I can do better than that. Tomorrow I’m bringing pasta. Curly noodles to match your hair. What d’ya say?”
Remy chuckled. “That sounds amazing.”
* * *
It had been years since I’d felt a thrill of excitement at the potential of spending time with someone. Correction. I’d never felt this way before. I’d never allowed myself to go there. It was simply too dangerous. I’d figured out I wasn’t like the other guys when I was thirteen and I was extra careful about not saying or doing anything…fruity. My cousins loved that word. They managed to make the relatively pleasant adjective sound like the worst insult imaginable. Much worse than being told I was a hopeless case who couldn’t string together a decent sentence or two to woo a girl. I was the world’s greatest actor who’d never get an award for his umpteenth season playing a straight guy.
I was so good at my part that I usually didn’t bat an eyelash when my mother asked about a girl she thought I was seeing. Tonight was no different, but I felt that twinge of growing discontent. The deceit was getting to me. I helped myself to a second healthy serving of spaghetti Bolognese and nodded absently at the conversation around the dining table.
“He has no idea what you said, Ma,” my sister Angie snarked.
“Who?” I looked up to find my mother, brother, and two sisters staring at me. “What?”
“You tell us, dream weaver. You liked that Karen girl, eh? I’m surprised. I didn’t think she was your type,” Vic said.
I glowered at my brother as I twirled noodles around my fork with more force than necessary. “I met her once. She’s nice. End of story.”
“Too bad. I was counting on free cannoli for life,” he teased.
I rolled my eyes but didn’t reply. Tip one to avoid unwanted attention was to not engage in even well-meaning taunts. Arguing always backfired. Let them think what they wanted. They would anyway.
Vic pushed away from the table and stopped to pick up our mother’s empty plate. “I gotta run, Ma. I’m working the late shift at the station.”
“All right, honey. Take dessert to go,” Mom instructed, turning back to wink at me. “I stopped by the bakery this afternoon. Karen sent some bacon chocolate chip biscotti home with me.”
“Yes!” Vic whooped and raced into the adjoining room. My brother was a badass twenty-four-year-old fireman who happened to be built like a linebacker, but he regressed a couple of decades at the mention of sweets.
“Don’t eat the biscotti! They’re for Tony. She said you love them,” Mom said, patting my hand knowingly.
“Yeah, I bet.” Carly chuckled, ruffling my hair as she stood. “I know it’s Ange’s turn but I’m going to get started on the dishes to secure my spot as favorite kid before I head out for the night.”
“Good one,” Angie yelled after her. “I’m gonna sit back and let you do your thing, though. Bring cookies when you come back. We need to make sure these things don’t suck before we allow Karen Cannoli into the family.”
Mom gave an amused half laugh then pointed toward the kitchen door meaningfully. “Out. Go help your sister.”
I snickered at Angie’s dramatic sigh, neatly dodging her sideways swat upside the head when she passed my chair. A brief commotion erupted in the next room a moment later, but it was good-natured and silly. And honestly, it made me love my siblings a little more for evoking the memory of the carefree days before Dad got sick. I smiled at their bickering then glanced up at the family portrait over our mother’s head.
It was taken three years earlier at one of those schmaltzy studios that used the same corny blue backdrops for every photo shoot. The photographer spent twenty minutes arranging our faces and instructing us not to move before finally taking a couple of shots. He’d done a decent job. We wore happy grins with our Sunday best. Our dark hair and strong jawlines made it easy to tell we were related. We’d been between ages twenty and twenty-six at the time, and none of us had been interested in recreating the yearly family photo our parents made us take from birth through our teens. But now…
I tore my gaze from my father’s happy face and swallowed around the lump in my throat. Fuck, I missed him.
“Was Fran right after all?” Mom asked, pulling me from my reverie.
“About what?”
“You and Karen.”
“No, Ma.” I sighed.
“She said you took her home.”
“So? I was being nice. That’s all. I like her but…don’t get any ideas.”
“Do me a favor, Tony. Open your heart to possibility.”
“Huh?”
She pushed her dark brown hair behind her ears and gave me a sad smile. “You heard me. I want you to be happy. Your father wanted the same thi
ng. I don’t know what your ideal woman looks like, but honey, no one is perfect. If you like Karen, get to know her.”
“I like her fine, but not like that,” I said, feeling suddenly alarmed by her earnest expression.
Rita De Luca was a pretty brunette in her early fifties. She was five foot five and on the thin side. Her sharp sense of humor was paired with a no-nonsense demeanor that made her difficult to read at times. Nowadays, it was practically impossible. When Dad died, she faded. She was still here. She still smiled, cooked and participated in life. But the smile was crooked, she rarely ate, and even when she was in a room, she wasn’t always present. It hurt to be around her sometimes. I wanted nothing more than to fix what was broken inside her, and it killed me to know I couldn’t.
