by Wade Lake
Once again, Mack refuses to take the bait. "Chase isn’t home yet, and I'm in the middle of making dinner, so ..."
"We should leave."
"Probably, yeah."
"Not a problem. We only popped in to accept your dinner invitation. Tomorrow at six, correct?"
This is news to Mack. Sort of. The other night, Chase had suggested inviting the neighbors over for dinner; he'd suggested Friday, and—fuck—that's tomorrow. But Mack thought he'd made his objection clear. He didn't know Chase had gone forward with the invite.
"Six?" Jim repeats. He grins a wide, slippery grin.
"Yeah, I think that's right,” Mack mumbles.
The microwave dings. Mack turns his back to the couple and takes out the defrosted sausages. Actually, they could use a few more minutes in the microwave, but Mack has to look busy. He cuts open the packaging with his pocketknife and drops the sausages into a ceramic baking dish. He opens the fridge, retrieves a stick of butter, slices it in half. Drops one half in with the sausages, returns the other half to the fridge. Grabs broccoli from the crisper drawer. He's hoping that the neighbors will take the hint and show themselves out.
No such luck.
"We're looking forward to it," Jim says. "Dinner. Tomorrow. At six."
Jeremy nods mechanically.
"Don't expect anything fancy," Mack says without turning around. "I don't know what Chase is planning, but he'll want me to cook, and I don't do fancy."
"Oh, we're not expecting anything good as far as food. Personally, I'm just looking forward to dusting off more of Chase's memories from the old days. Did you know Chase when he had long hair—or, well, any hair?"
Mack's shoulders tighten. He turns to face Jim. "Did you?"
"One might say we haunted the same wells," Jim nods. "Chase had such a beautiful mane in those days—before you knew him, I guess. Oh, and a full-on mountain man beard. When the two of you greeted me at your door last month, I honestly didn't recognize him. Don't get me wrong, he's still a prime cut of meant, but marriage does take its toll."
Mack isn't sure he's hearing this right. "You knew Chase? When?"
"Six, seven years ago. Remind me, how long have the two of you been together?"
Mack ignores Jim's question. "How … how well did you know him?"
"Almost not at all. I was still undomesticated, myself, back then. I certainly wasn't one to collect names, if you know what I mean. Chase and I both used to hang out at a bar down the road called Jerks."
Mack's face is warming up again. He begins rummaging through the cabinets for a small mixing bowl. "I don't think I want to hear any more."
Jim waves his hand as if to disperse all concerns. "You've nothing to worry about," he assures Mack. "I was only in my early fifties, but Chase was just a kid—I might as well have been a hundred years old as far as he was concerned."
"So you and Chase never—"
"I tried—of course, I tried—but Chase was in the closet, and he had a very specific type."
Mack finds a mixing bowl. He wants to just ignore this whole conversation. It's probably all a lie. But he turns to look at Jim. "Chase had a specific type?"
"Pickled straight men," Jim says.
"What's that even mean?"
"I like pickles," Jeremy says.
"Chase's vice was very drunk straight men," Jim explains, "which makes sense—I mean, I'm sure he was still trying to figure out who he was at that point."
Mack shouldn't be hearing this. Not from a stranger.
But his curiosity is piqued. “So … he dated drunk straight guys?”
“I don’t know if he dated them, but he certainly fucked a few.”
"Sounds … unethical … and dangerous."
"Maybe," Jim agrees, "But, damn, he was fun to watch.”
“Watch?”
“Not the fucking, per se, but the lead up, yes. I'd sit back with a good bourbon on the rocks and just watch him circle straight boys like a shark swimming around a roomful of rafts—taking his time, waiting for a toe in the water. Once or twice, after one or two bourbons, I approached him, myself, pretending to be very straight and very drunk, but he saw right through me. No surprise there. After that, we'd mostly communicate with winks and grins from opposite sides of the room. I'd point out a particularly lonely and malleable-looking straight boy, and he'd grin; then on their way out the door, he'd look over his shoulder and give me a wink."
"I put a pickle in my butt once," Jeremy says. "It was cold."
Mack feels sick.
Jim appears to thoroughly enjoy the spectacle of emotions playing across Mack's face. "Yes, our Chase was quite the player—ahhh, to be young, dumb and full of cum. We've all been there, but—" As if to share a secret, Jim steps closer and sets a hand on Mack's naked shoulder. "I'm glad he finally settled down," he says, grins. "And I'm glad he chose a man."
"Excuse me?" Mack says, sidestepping out from under Jim's hand.
"I'm glad he settled down with a man," Jim repeats, shrugging as if the sentiment should be self-explanatory. "Back when we were hanging out at Jerks, Chase was just a part-time cocksucker.”
“A what?”
“A part-timer. A moonlighter. Not fully committed to the job, the lifestyle. Come on, you know what I mean."
Mack's throat is tightening. It's hard to get words out, and when he does, they squeak a little: "You know I don't know what you mean."
"Oh. Well. If you don't know, it's not my place—"
"Tell me,” Mack shouts.
“You don’t have to get aggressive.”
“This isn’t aggressive,” Mack assures him.
"Fine. All I’m saying is, as far as I could tell, Chase would only pick up men when he was drunk. Jerks was a straight bar. Mostly. Pretended to be. And when Chase wasn't completely sloshed, he was there on a more traditional mission—to pick up women."
Mack is caught off-guard. He tries not to show it, but he's definitely confused, flustered. He has to remind himself to take a breath. "Women?" he finally asks.
"Oh, yes. A lot of women. Beautiful women. I told you, our Chase was a quite the player—come on, don't tell me this is news, I'm sure you know his history, you're married to the guy. I think he even dated a young lady who lived in this neighborhood for a while. Big hair, big curves, too much makeup."
So this is what Jim really came over to tell him.
"This neighborhood?" Mack asks, taking the bait.
"The only reason I remember is because I had just bought my house. I was doing a full renovation, so, of course, I wasn't living there yet. But I would come out to the property most evenings to check on the progress. And there for a while, occasionally, I’d see Chase and this particular woman walking down the sidewalk together, right past the construction zone. Actually, as I recall, they strolled past fairly regularly. For a while. Almost like they were a serious couple. I waved once, but he pretended not to know me—closeted men are always afraid to wave. I didn't want to blow his cover, so I stopped waving. No hard feelings about that. We all have our secrets. I'm just glad he ended up with you instead of her. Anyway, please don’t let him know I told you any of this. But do let him know I'm looking forward to tomorrow. Six o'clock."
"Sure," Mack whispers. He's so confused, he doesn't even notice the neighbors leave.
16
In the oven, on a bed of broccoli, in a ceramic baking dish, the sausages swell to twice its original size and burst their collagen casings.
When Chase pulls in alongside the front curb, Mack opens the oven door.
The heat hits his face.
The kitchen fills with the smell of sausage sweat.
When Chase enters the front door, Mack stabs a sausage with a fork—a clear juice leaks out. Looks like precum. The tiny kitchen table is already set. Mack flops a sausage onto Chase's plate. Uses the fork to rake out a generous serving of broccoli. He pierces a second sausage and repeats the process for his own plate. Retrieves the dipping sauce in the mixing bo
wl from the fridge and sets it on the center of the table. When Chase steps into the kitchen, his meal is ready.
Mack is still shirtless and already eating.
Chase sits down without speaking.
Mouth full, Mack says, "Somebody stole our wind chime."
Chase nods. "Damn kids."
They eat in silence for a couple minutes.
After a few bites, Mack is full. His stomach is too twisted to hold much down. He extends the time between each bite. Slows his chewing.
“I feel a bit overdressed,” Chase says.
Mack scoots back his chair, stands up, and leaves the room.
When he returns a minute later, he’s wearing a clean shirt. As soon as he sits back down, he reaches underneath his chair and brings up a small cardboard box. He sets the box on the table and pushes it toward Chase's plate.
Chase studies Mack's face for a couple seconds. Sets down his fork. Pulls the box closer. The flaps are open. He peers inside before sticking his hand in … pulls out a paperback with bent corners and a cheesy cover.
"It's out of print," Mack says, "but I found a used copy,"
Chase flips through it—the pages make a fluttering noise. His thumb lands on the last page.
Mack sets his elbows on the table and leans forward, watching.
Chase leans in close to the open book. His lips tighten, form a grin … now a smile. He forces a single-syllable laugh, leans back in his chair and tosses the paperback to Mack—
Mack raises his hands quickly to catch it—misses. It lands on his plate. "The hell?"
"Hilarious," Chase says.
"The ending?"
"You."
"What?!" Mack grabs the book off his plate.
Opens to the ending.
The last page is gone!
Chase picks up his fork and goes back to eating.
"I didn't do that," Mack says.
“No?”
"It wasn't me."
"Of course, it wasn't you," Chase says agreeably. "The last page is missing in every copy. Probably a marketing thing."
Suddenly, Mack knows what happened. "It was your creepy friend, Jim," Mack says. "He was here today before you got home. He was trying to screw with my head."
Without looking up, Chase says, "Must have worked."
Mack stiffens in his chair. "I don't appreciate the condescending tone."
Chase shakes his head. "I don't appreciate your stupid pranks."
"I didn't tear out the last page—not on this copy. You know I wouldn't lie to you."
Chase drops his fork onto his plate and sits upright, matching Mack's pose. "How do I know that, Mack?"
"If you don't know that … then we're in bigger trouble than I thought."
Chase nods. "Guess we're in bigger trouble than you thought."
Mack's heart sinks. "What the hell has that creep been saying to you?" he asks. "How much time have you been spending with him? You should know he's spreading lies about you."
"Lies?"
"He tried to make me believe you used to date women."
Chase picks up his fork again and goes back to eating.
Mack waits for him to deny that Jim would say such a thing … or at least deny that it’s true. When it’s clear that Chase has nothing to add, Mack's shoulders slump. The room seems to spin. Mack grips the edge of the table in an attempt to slow the world down. It takes a moment. Finally, he prompts, "Chase?"
"Um?"
"Jim says he used to know you. He says you used to date women. That's all lies, right?"
Chase refuses to look up. Mouth full, he mumble-replies: "We didn't know each other. We jus' use' hang at the same bar on Frenchmen."
"And?"
"And I dated some women. So what? I was going through a straight phase. That against the law?"
"It's … something I thought you would have mentioned by now. We've been together over five years."
"Hate to break it to you, Mack, but there's a lot of things I did in my twenties that I probably never thought to mention."
"Don't do that," Mack says. "This is serious."
"No, Mack. It's really not."
Bowing his head, Mack rubs his face with both hands as if to wipe away the frustration "It's not that you dated women, it's that you never mentioned it—like you never mentioned recognizing creepy Jim after he showed up at our door."
Chase slams his open hand on the table. "Stop calling him 'creepy.' That's rude, and you're better than that."
"Sorry."
"And I didn't recognize him when he showed up at our door," Chase adds. "I didn't know I'd met Jim before until he mentioned it days later."
"Where were you days later," Mack asks. "Face down on his pillow?"
Chase flinches. "Don't be vulgar."
"Sorry."
"I was helping Jim fix his lawnmower. He couldn't get it started, and he came by to ask if I was handy with that sort of thing."
"There's no way he cuts his own grass."
Chase pushes his chair away from the table—the friction between the chair's feet and the laminate floor tile makes a waxy squeal. "I've had enough," he sighs.
“Of what?” Mack asks, raising his voice a little louder than he intended.
“You,” Chase says, his voice getting louder. “Quizzing me, trying to make me feel guilty—blaming shit on our neighbors who ain't done nothing but try to be friendly.”
“But—”
“Now you’re dredging up my past relationships, like that has anything to do with my relationship with you!" He pushes himself up from his chair and leans over the table so that his head is level with Mack's.
Their eyes meet.
Mack loves those eyes. Fears those eyes. It's not hard to see that behind those eyes is a man hiding secrets. A man who can't say anything for fear of saying too much.
"What do you want?" Chase asks. His tone is low and steely. "Because it sounds like you want to leave me. Sounds like you're just trying come up with excuses to do it with a clear conscience."
Mack's heart stops. "I would never leave you."
"If that's the case, why are you doing this? You trying to make me leave?"
"Of course not."
"Well, I'm about two seconds shy of spending the night in a motel—or calling up Jim and Jeremy and asking them to put me up for the night. That what you want?"
"Of course, that's not what I want," Mack says weakly. Once again, he reminds himself to breathe. Breathe deeply.
Chase looks exhausted. Sweat beads are sitting on his eyebrows. His whole shirt is wet.
Mack is sweating, too. He feels it running down the back of his neck.
Chase bows his head. When he continues speaking, his voice has lost its firmness; his words come out in a monotone, and it looks like he's speaking to his plate: "Can we just change the subject, babe? Can we talk, maybe, just about what color to paint the bedroom? Can we—" His voice breaks. He swallows hard and continues, "Can we just be partners again?"
"Of course," Mack says quickly. His heart begins beating again. He reaches across the table and sets a hand on the back of each of Chase's hands. He's as frightened as he's ever been in his life.
Chase mumble-laughs.
"Look at me," Mack says. "Please."
Chase's head remains bowed, but his eyes lift and focus on Mack's.
"We are partners," Mack says. "I've never stopped being your partner. I never will." He means it. He means it more than anything he's said in months.
The words of assurance seem to lift a weight off Chase's shoulders. He raises his head and straightens his back.
Mack stares, waiting for Chase to repeat the pledge. Hoping Chase will repeat the pledge.
"Thank you," Chase finally says, blinking hard. "That means a lot."
It's not precisely what Mack wanted to hear, but it's good enough. He’s never known a confrontation to turn this quickly. From despair to optimism. For the first time in a long time, he’s hopeful.
"Sooo," Chase says, drawing out the word. "We've both had some time to think about it. What color are we gonna paint the bedroom? You tell me. Any color you want."
Mack doesn't care. He's too hopeful to care. "Any color you like. Yellow? I'm fine with yellow. Really. Any shade of yellow. I'm fine with polka dots. I just want you to be happy."
"I am happy," Chase assures him.
"Me, too," Mack lies.
"But we're partners," Chase adds, "so we need to pick the color together."
"I like that."
"Me, too, babe."
They decide on a tranquil green, the color of mint leaves.
17
A couple hours later that evening, after loading the dishwasher together and printing out a paint sample and taping it to the bedroom wall, after brushing their teeth, before stripping down and turning out the lights, Chase sits on the edge of the bed and motions for Mack to sit down beside him. Mack is picking out his clothes for tomorrow—he has a pair of socks in each hand—but he hurries to Chase's side and sits down.
"I’m gonna call off sick from work tomorrow," Chase says, "which means I've got a three-day weekend. "I'll run out in the morning and buy our paint and get started on the bedroom." He leans sideways, touching Mack's shoulder with his own.
Not too long ago, that would have meant a night of serious fucking is about to commence … but Mack doesn't get his hopes up. He's not even sure the touch was intentional.
"What's your tomorrow look like?" Chase asks.
"Normal," Mack says, squeezing the balled-up socks in both hands. "Appointments until like Four, but then there's always late call-ins, emergency jobs."
"Anybody calls you late, refer them to someone else," Chase says.
"I … don't like to do that."
"We're hosting Jim and Jeremy tomorrow evening, remember."
Mack squeezes the socks harder. "I remember."
Chase's shoulder touches Mack's a second time. "I need you to be here for that."
"Yeah." Mack would love to skip it. But there's no way he can. No way he would. He can fantasize about skipping it—he'll undoubtedly be searching for excuses to extend every job an extra fifteen minutes, no charge. But in the end, he'll be here. Of course, he'll be here. Chase needs him to be here.
