by Roan Parrish
The fire is dying as Rex and I lie together on the couch. We’ve been watching old movies I’ve never seen before, Rex providing color commentary.
“Did your mom know you were gay?” I ask when he tells me about some of the Hollywood actors who were gay. Whenever he talks about his mom he gets a wistful look on his face. I wish I had such fond memories.
“Yeah. I remember when I was thirteen or fourteen we were having a Tennessee Williams movie night and she asked who I liked better, Brick or Stanley—Paul Newman or Marlon Brando, that is.”
“Oh, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and Streetcar Named Desire?”
“Yeah. She was casual about it and I remember thinking that she talked about how beautiful the actresses were all the time. How sexy Marilyn Monroe was. How she loved Audrey Hepburn’s voice and Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes and Jayne Mansfield’s mouth. How Gene Tierney was the most beautiful woman in the world. And she talked about the men too, of course. So, I didn’t think much of it.”
“Who did you like better?”
“Paul Newman. She never mentioned it again, but I think she was kind of glad I was gay.”
“Why?”
“She wanted to be those actresses. She wanted to be the star, you know? And the women were always the stars. The men were just… catalysts. Is that the right word? So, I think she was glad that she wasn’t competing with other women for my… I don’t know, admiration? I’m not sure how to say it.”
He shakes his head, looking flustered.
“After that, she talked about the men like she was teaching me about men in general. You know? A James Dean was someone to watch out for. Beautiful, but he’d steal your heart and drag you down with him. A Robert Mitchum or a Gregory Peck were husband material, but James Dean was for having an affair. The guy she dated when we first got to California was a Humphrey Bogart, she said. Not handsome exactly, but attractive in some way you couldn’t quite put your finger on.”
“So did you want a James Dean or a Gregory Peck?”
“Hmm,” Rex says. “I always had a thing for Montgomery Clift. He was the nice guy who got a bad rap. Handsome, but smart too. Maybe even a little bit… complicated?”
He runs his thumb over my cheekbone, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s what he sees when he looks at me: complicated. But too complicated?
“So, it was mostly you and your mom, huh?” I say, trying to concentrate on Rex again.
“Yeah,” Rex says, that wistful look back again. “When it was just the two of us, I barely stuttered at all. We’d watch movies and act out all the parts. I don’t think she even really got that I was shy since she never saw me interact with people. She thought I was smart. And I was a responsible kid, so she never asked if I had my homework done or anything. Just assumed I did. I cleaned the house; later I cooked. So, she just thought I was no trouble. A good kid.”
I nod, imagining Rex as a little boy acting out scenes from movies with his mom. The picture that keeps asserting itself, though, is Rex as a firm-chinned Sam Spade type, even as a kid.
“She was always finding things at work to bring home for me,” Rex continues. “That’s how I started fixing stuff, actually. She would bring home junk that was broken and I’d mess around with it. She worked as a secretary for an office supply company for a while when we were in Houston. So she’d bring clocks and staplers and microwaves that got damaged and I’d take it all apart and put it back together again. I would spend hours on it. Once, for Mother’s Day, I made her an alarm clock that hooked up to a miniature coffee machine and would start the coffee brewing like one of the expensive ones with a built-in timer. Turned out to be a bad idea, though, because she could never remember not to slam her hand down on the snooze button, which would make a big mess.”
“Wow,” I say. That’s pretty impressive for a kid.
“And anyway, she always had boyfriends she spent a lot of time with. From work, usually. I don’t know; later I figured out that most of them were probably married. Then, once we moved to California, they were always guys who wanted to pretend she didn’t have a kid. I’d stay in my room when they came over, or just wander around.”
Rex trails off, seeming embarrassed that he said so much. I smile and lean over until I’m kind of lying on top of him, my head on his shoulder. He starts running his hands up and down my back, then up into my hair and down over my ass. I can feel his cock start to fill beneath me, and I lean up for a kiss. It’s an amazing feeling, having my whole body in contact with Rex’s. We kiss lazily, just enjoying it. Rex pulls my shirt off and kisses my neck softly, his warm mouth moving over every inch of my skin. I lean down and lick a line up his throat to his stubbled chin, nipping at it. Rex moans and starts to sit up, his muscles tensed.
In her spot in front of the dying fire, Marilyn perks up. At first I think she’s staring at us, which is slightly awkward. But then I hear the door open. Rex pushes himself up, swearing.
“Get your ass out here and fuck me hello, Rexroth!” a voice booms into the near-dark of the cabin.
10
Chapter 10
October
In the time it takes Rex to struggle to his feet and pull me up by my armpits when he displaces me, the following thoughts run through my mind in no discernible order.
1. Rex’s boyfriend just got home. Rex has a boyfriend. Partner? Lover? Whatever. Some dude just told Rex to fuck him, ergo: bad news.
2. You are such a fucking idiot. How could you possibly trust him? All the sweet talk, gentle touches, and soft kisses were just to mess with you, or to get in your pants, or both. Oh god, you let him fuck you. You told him about Colin. About Richard. Seriously, could you possibly be more fucking gullible?
3. Rex is short for Rexroth? How did I not know that?
Then a fourth thought fights in, and it’s in a voice that sounds a lot like Ginger’s. It says, Don’t jump to conclusions. You don’t know what’s going on yet. Give Rex a chance to explain. Rex is not Richard. But that thought doesn’t have a chance because Rex walks over and flips on the lights and this guy is… beautiful.
His face is Scandinavian perfection and he’s dressed like a model. He has high, sharp cheekbones, a perfectly straight nose, ashy eyebrows over blue-gray eyes, a square jaw and delicate chin, and a pouty mouth. He’s about my height, but he seems taller. His blond hair is longish and tousled and he has a tiny beauty mark over his lip and another next to his eyebrow, as if he were the model for beauty mark piercings.
He’s stunning and I hate him on sight.
I can’t fucking believe it. I confess to Rex how I found Richard with another man; Rex’s… someone shows up right after. It really couldn’t be clearer. If I were teaching the book of my life in class right now, I would use this moment as an example of irony. I’ve got to get the fuck out of here.
“Oops,” he says, looking at me, his eyes sparkling. “Didn’t know you had company.”
“You didn’t see the car out front?” Rex asks, tilting his head. The model gets a mischievous expression on his face and smirks at Rex, then looks back and forth between us.
“Maybe,” he says. “But I figured it was yours. Not like you ever have any company except me.”
His voice is deeper than what I’d expect from someone so pretty. He’s not feminine exactly, just kind of androgynous in a rock star/model sort of way. He doesn’t seem fazed in the least.
I realize I’ve been staring at him with my shirt off, so I extract it from where Rex shoved it between the couch cushions and pull it on. It’s inside out, but I refuse to acknowledge that. I can only hope that my expression right now is the unimpressed one I give the lead singers of bands who assume I know who they are, the rich guys who slum at the bars in my neighborhood, sure they can pick up anyone, and the students who think they’re getting one over on me.
My brain has kicked into survival mode and all that matters right now is making it out of this house without either Rex or this guy realizing that they’ve had any effect on
me whatsoever. Show nothing. Reveal nothing.
“Hi, Marilyn,” the man says, looking right past me. Marilyn trots over to him and lets herself be pet. He bends down and rubs her belly. So, if he knows Marilyn, he’s been around pretty recently—at least since this summer when Rex rescued us.
“Don’t be a dick, Will,” Rex says. “This is Daniel.” Rex holds an arm out to me, but his eyes are anxious.
I intentionally pause before walking slowly over to them.
“Hey,” I say, nodding and holding out a hand to Will. Will’s grip is strong and his calloused hands don’t quite match his pretty face.
“This is my friend, Will,” Rex says, his emphasis on friend a little too deliberate. “Will,” Rex says pointedly, “I didn’t know you were coming to town.”
Will seems to forget I’m there the second he lets go of my hand. He studies Rex’s face and gives him a long once-over.
“Did you have a migraine?” he asks, and my heart starts beating in my ears. This guy knows Rex. There’s no way they’re just friends, or even fuck buddies.
“I’m fine,” Rex says, waving him away. He puts his hand on the back of my neck. “Daniel took good care of me.”
The warmth from Rex’s hand and his words helps a little, but he’s laying it on pretty thick. The last thing I want to do is leave Rex alone with Will, but my instincts are screaming at me to get out of here.
I can’t stick around, not even to see what’s going on. I’ve got to get away before I do something I can’t live down, like cry or give this Will guy the satisfaction of seeing that he’s gotten to me. I awkwardly pat Rex on the hip and duck out from under his hand, pulling my shoes on.
“Daniel, don’t go,” Rex says.
“Oh, no, well, I have to teach in the morning, and it’s getting late, so. I’m gonna head home.”
“No, worries, Dan,” Will says cheerily, “I can take it from here.”
I stand quickly. This guy’s stupid perfect face—I want to smash it with my fist. Rather than take a step back like most guys do when I’m in fighting mode, though, Will just smirks at me lazily and yawns. Rex puts a hand on my shoulder and turns me around, no doubt sensing bad energy between us.
But he’s not looking at me like he’s pissed that I want to punch his friend in the face. He’s looking at me with satisfaction. Like I finally did something right. Like maybe he likes the idea that I’m jealous. Oh shit, I’m so fucking jealous.
“Later,” I toss over my shoulder at perfect, stupid Will’s face. Then I fist Rex’s T-shirt in my hand and drag him down toward me, kissing him hard and deep. When I let him go, he sways, looking a little stunned. I smile at him and walk past Will out the front door.
At least I didn’t have the nightmare last night. Because I didn’t sleep at all.
My heart was pounding with adrenaline the whole drive home, but within about a minute my satisfaction at having laid claim to Rex in front of whoever the hell this Will guy is faded to stomach-clenching anxiety and I cursed myself for choosing a dramatic exit over sticking around and finding out what the story was. Those kinds of exits always seem so satisfying when I read them in books, but I guess with an omniscient narrator no one really needs to stick around for the down and dirty parts.
Finally, around six in the morning, I drag myself out of bed and stand in a hot shower, deciding to get some coffee and walk around for a bit in the hopes of shaking off the stressful weekend and everything to do with Rex and Will before having to act like a grown-up all day.
I shake out my gray button-down and pull on gray corduroys and my wingtips. I really need to go shopping. I only have about ten articles of professional clothing and I’ve been swapping them around, but pretty soon someone’s going to notice that I always wear the same thing. I pull on my only sweater, a thin red V-neck that Ginger gave me, in a Hail Mary play that the color might make me feel more awake, hoping it doesn’t look ridiculous. Ginger said it looked great with my hair, but I think it might just make me look like I’m early for Christmas.
I grab my jacket and turn up the volume on New Order, deciding to wander a bit before heading over to Sludge. I’m immediately glad for my sweater, no matter how Christmassy, when the wind starts to blow. I definitely need to get a heavier coat. Maybe this weekend.
My mind wanders to Ginger and how sometimes, on chilly days, I’d get us both hot chocolates and we’d climb the fire escape to the roof of her shop, looking down over South Street, the streets of beautiful old houses to the north, and the Italian Market to the south. I like my hot chocolate with vanilla and Ginge likes hers with cinnamon, and the smells of them would mix with those of the burger joint on the corner, the falafel cart down the street, the exhaust from cars inching down South Street, and the scent of rotting leaves and stale popcorn that always seems to drift through the streets as fall gives way to winter.
Up there on the roof is where I first told Ginger a secret: that after a spotty high school career of teachers who thought I was a loser punk with an attitude and skipping more classes than I went to because the teachers were idiots, I desperately wanted to go to college. Ginger smiled at me and said, “Of course you should go; you’re the smartest guy I know.”
Part of me wants to tell Ginger about the whole Will thing in the hopes that she’ll tell me it’s nothing, but it’s way too early to call her. Will. There was something slightly off about that guy. Or, not off—just something that didn’t quite add up. Guys that pretty are usually so used to getting whatever they want that they’ve never fought in their lives. But Will didn’t seem the slightest bit intimidated by the threat of a fight. Maybe he was just so sure of his primacy with Rex that he didn’t care? He did seem pretty concerned about Rex’s headache. Still, not really possessive the way a lover might be—more… what? Annoyed, maybe, that Rex was in pain? I’m not sure.
Out of nowhere, someone grabs my shoulder and I wheel around and grab them around the neck.
It’s Leo, and he looks terrified.
“Shit, Leo,” I say, brushing him off and ripping out my earbuds. “Don’t sneak up on me like that, man.”
“Um, I was yelling your name, dude.”
I’ve got to stop listening to my music so loud.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“No worries!” he says, looking cheerful again. “So, how was Detroit? Did you go to any shows? How was your conference? What was your talk about again?”
Jesus, it’s too early in the morning to have that kind of energy.
“Detroit was fine. I didn’t have time for anything but the conference. My paper went fine. It was about—”
“Oh, I remember. About turn of the century sensationalism in American newspaper illustration, right?”
I only remember briefly mentioning anything about my paper when I stopped in to Mr. Zoo’s on Friday. I assumed Leo was just being polite when he asked, and I can’t believe he understood what I was talking about, much less remembered it.
“That’s right. How do you remember that?”
He shrugs. “Dunno. Not that hard. Sounded interesting.” He’s bouncing a little, whether with energy or to keep warm, I’m not sure.
“What’re you doing out so early?” I ask.
“Oh, just wandering around,” Leo says. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Me either.”
“Then I saw you and figured I’d come say hi. Hey, you wanna get a coffee? I know you always go to Sludge before class.”
“How do you—? Never mind. Yeah, sure, let’s go.”
Marjorie greets me with a suspicious smile when I walk in the door with Leo. With no energy to resist her, I bite the bullet.
“I’ll have a Daniel, please.”
She looks disappointed for a moment, then smiles widely, as if she’s beaten me. And maybe she has. I don’t even have the energy to care.
“Ooh, yes, me too,” Leo says.
“Dude,” I say, sharing a look with Marjorie. “You’re already bouncing off the walls; the
thought of you ingesting that much caffeine actually makes me fear for the safety of this town and everyone in it.”
“Nah, I’m good. Besides, coffee has a… whaddayacallit… paradoxical effect on me.”
“Huh?” says Marjorie.
“It, like, chills me out,” Leo says.
“Well, glory hallelujah, pour the kid some coffee,” I mutter.
A stocky kid in trendy clothes comes in behind us. Leo’s bouncing increases and his elegant nostrils flare.
“Two Daniels!” Marjorie announces gleefully, putting the drinks on the counter.
There’s a snort behind us.
“Trying to be just like your boyfriend, Leo? Good luck with that,” the guy in line behind us scoffs.
“Shut up, Todd!” Leo says, spinning around to look at him and almost knocking both coffees over with his backpack.
I put a hand on Leo’s twitching shoulder and turn to the kid behind us. I stand, looking at him. It’s the same vaguely threatening, totally unimpressed look that I gave Will last night, and this kid folds almost immediately, looking down at the expensive shoes I’m sure his parents bought him. Now that’s what’s supposed to happen.
“Excuse us,” I say calmly, sliding money across the counter to Marjorie and taking the coffees. I walk out the door, certain Leo will follow me.
“Ha!” Leo says, grinning, elbowing me as we get outside. “That was awesome. You just looked at him and he practically shit his pants. How’d you do that? I mean, you’re not even that big a guy and everyone’s terrified of you. You’ve got to teach me that.”
I decide to ignore the part about everyone being terrified of me, because I don’t even want to know.
“Well, first of all, you have to believe, one hundred percent, that you could take them out if it came down to a fight,” I tell him. “If you don’t believe it, they won’t either. That kind of confidence does 80 percent of the work for you. You look sure you could kick their ass, they’re gonna be thinking they have something to worry about. Second, you have to not give a shit. And it’s got to come from the inside out. If you’re faking it, they’ll know. Then the rest of it’s just staring at them. If you know you could win a fight and you don’t give a shit, the stare will do the rest of the work for you. Here, show me.”
