by Eli Easton
There was a hot stab of anger and pain in my chest. Dios. Sometimes the fucked-upness of the world was too much to bear. But then, that’s why I wanted to be a journalist, wasn’t it?
“I’d like to tell some of the kids’ stories in the article. So people understand what St. Mark’s is really all about. I’m sure there are issues of confidentiality, but maybe I could change their names?”
Sharon regarded me warily. “You mean, you want to write something beyond the usual charity dinner article about what was served and what local socialites were there?”
We had local socialites in Madison? Who knew? I nodded. “I’d really like to make it more than that.”
She narrowed her eyes and dissected me for another moment. I tried my best to look like a young Tom Wolfe. She slowly nodded. “You’re right. You can’t use details or names because of confidentiality. These kids don’t need any more hurt. But I can give you some ‘for instances’ that’ll curl your hair.”
I nodded. “Please.”
Sharon told me some stories from her past twenty years at St. Mark’s. Some of the stories were funny, some were hopeful, and some were heartbreaking. My recorder caught them all.
Finally, she glanced at her watch. “Oh, drat. I really need to get going. I have another wave of kids coming in from school, and then it’ll be madness till bedtime. But let me find you that prospectus.” She searched her desk for a moment, then stood. “We just got the new ones in. They’re probably still in the mail room. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
She left the office. I got up and looked out the window. The playground was empty now. I hoped Sasha had brought Josh inside because I worried about them getting cold. Which was ridiculous. I’d be a nervous wreck if I ran a place like this. I’d probably have all the kids wrapped in white cotton wool so they didn’t hurt themselves.
I smiled at the image of kids bumping around the rooms like Q-tips. I stretched and turned off the recorder app on my phone. There were a bunch of photos on one wall, and I wandered over to look at them. They were annual photos of all the kids taken on the steps out front. The years were given along the top of each frame. I walked past the most recent, scanning the faces. There looked to be about thirty kids, and they were of all ages, from babes-in-arms to teenagers, and of all ethnicities. Sharon was in the photos as well as a few other regulars who looked like staff.
And then I stopped and stared. A rush of emotion seared through me in a hot wave. I heard Sharon come back in, but I was stuck. The year on the photo was 2013. Four years ago. I checked the 2012 photo, then 2011.
“Gabriel?” Sharon asked.
I pointed. In the 2013 photo and the five years before it, there was a figure that stood out. Literally. He looked old for his age, but he must have been a teenager. He was in the back, and he towered over the others. He was even tall in the first photo he appeared in, 2008, when he must have been a pre-teen.
“Mack McDonall,” I said quietly.
Sharon smiled. “Oh, yes! That’s Mack. Do you know him? Well, I suppose you might, since you’re a UW student. He’s quite the wrestling star now.”
“He is.” My lips felt numb.
“I’ve taken the older boys to a few of his matches. It’s always good for them to have a role model. Mack’s just doing terrific! Of course, I knew he would. Quiet boy, but very bright and such a big heart.” She sounded a little wistful.
I swallowed and turned to give her a plastered-on smile. I took the prospectus she handed to me. It was a thick, glossy booklet with the home on the cover. “Thanks,” I said.
“No problem. Well, I’m going to have to see you out, Gabriel. But please call or email me if you have any more questions.”
She showed me to the front door, and I made my way to my car. A yellow school bus was stopped at the curb and eight older kids hopped off with their book bags. I got into my car and turned on the engine, cranking the heat. But I didn’t make any move to pull out.
Chingao! Mack had lived here at St. Mark’s. No wonder he’d gotten all pissed off and defensive when I’d blithely rambled on about the Elks story. I was such a tool. Hell, I was a toolbox, one of those all-inclusive ones you buy your husband at Christmastime. I felt disgusted about the way I’d mocked the “stupid Elks” story.
Had I sounded heartless? No wonder Mack had iced me out.
I’d blown it with him. Big-time. And, the thing was, seeing those photos of him made my heart practically beat out of my chest. I still wanted to get to know him, more so now than ever.
Mack McDonall. Goddamn it. I wanted another chance.
A little bird named Jordan told me where Mack hung out on campus. A lot of the buildings at UW have spaces where you can study if you don’t want to be shut up in your dorm room, or if you have a harpy for a roommate. This year, my housing situation was pretty sweet. I was in a two-bedroom apartment in the Towers, and my roommate was a pre-med student who spent most of her time either gone or in her room. So I usually studied there, in our tiny living room.
However, on Tuesday, after my last class ended at four o’clock, I went over to the Educational Sciences building and did a pass through the first and second floors.
I found Mack tucked away at the back of the second floor—as much as a guy his size could be “tucked away.” He was sitting alone in a gray upholstered chair, and there was a second chair and a small table there. He was bent over the table, reading a thick textbook. It looked uncomfortable. It struck me how difficult it must be for Mack, living in a world where everything was designed for pipsqueaks like me.
I slung my backpack to the floor and dropped my ass into the chair opposite him. I gave a big sigh. “Hey, Mack,” I said, all casual, like we met here every day.
He stared at me, his eyes narrowing. He appeared cold, but I saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. I made him nervous? I hoped that was a good thing.
“Gabe,” he said slowly, like he was chewing my name. “What are you doing here?”
“Jordan told me you studied here sometimes, so I took a chance. I have something for you.” I unzipped my backpack and brought out a Tupperware container. My mom had once FedExed me her homemade tortillas in it for my birthday, and it was hard enough to withstand damage in my book bag. I took the lid off and put the open container on the table.
Mack glanced at the contents. His face remained blank. “What’s that?”
“If you don’t recognize cookies, you’ve lived a very deprived life.”
Mack laughed. It was a brief bark of a laugh but a laugh nonetheless. “I can see they’re cookies. But why are you offering them to me?”
“Because a bouquet of roses would be too much?” I batted my eyes. “Plus: not edible.”
Mack’s cheeks went slightly pink. “That’s, um, nice of you, but I told you: if I don’t make weigh-in, I don’t wrestle. So no sugar during wrestling season.”
“Sugar!” I made a gagging gesture. “Please. I’d rather cover my body in molasses and roll around on a fire-ant hill than eat sugar.”
Mack smirked at my blatant lie. “Sure.”
“Nope, this is Jordan’s recipe, so it’s wrestler-friendly. It’s got oatmeal, chia seeds, walnuts, almond milk, and a teensy amount of date syrup. Like two tablespoons. In the entire recipe.”
Mack licked his lips. “Really?”
“Swear ta god.” I crossed my chest. “I would never attempt to seduce you off your diet, Mack. That’s not my way.” I was laying the goofy charm on thick, but at this point, I had nothing to lose.
Mack started to reach for one, then stopped. He raised his eyebrows, suspicion returning. “Why would you make cookies for me? What do you want?”
Geez. How wary was this guy that he couldn’t accept a cookie without wondering what I’d demand in return? Then I recalled the pictures from St. Mark’s and got a sick feeling. I pushed it aside.
“I didn’t do it for you,” I said with a dismissive wave. “I was helping out Jordan and ended up wi
th half the batch. I have this thing about waste. Bad for the planet. And I don’t need to eat all those myself.”
Mack gave me a look that said I was full of it, which was true. I had made them with Jordan, but only after I’d begged him to help me out. Mack picked up a cookie and took a bite.
“Good,” he said around a mouthful. He coughed slightly.
I took a bottled green juice from my backpack and handed it to him. “They’re a little dry.”
Mack opened the juice gratefully and drank half of it. He wiped his mouth.
“But if you eat the cookies with the juice, they’re decent,” I explained.
Mack smiled. It was the first time he’d honestly smiled at me. It made my heart flutter. “Thanks.”
“No biggie. Go ahead.” I pushed the container toward him. “I don’t want to take any home.”
I’d only packed four large cookies, because I didn’t want to overdo it. I fussed with my phone while he ate them, elated that he’d accepted my offering. I was giving Mack McDonall sustenance! Joder, I had it so bad for this guy. It was ridiculous.
I put my phone down as he finished and smiled at him.
“Thanks,” he said again, a little stiffly. “I was hungry.”
Putting the lid on the empty container, I shoved it into my backpack. Mack watched me, his expression now more troubled than guarded. “So… why were you really looking for me?”
It was a blunt question, and I had nothing but a blunt answer. I decided what the hell.
“Well…” I said, toying with the strap of my backpack. “When a guy likes another guy, it’s traditional to do something nice for them. Plus, I wanted to apologize for the other night. Maybe I came off as callous. I’m really not. You can ask my mother. She always tells me I’m softhearted.”
It was a joke. But Mack just stared at me.
“Do you think there’s any way you might, eventually, work your way to not despising me?” I asked hopefully.
“I don’t despise you.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“Are you a ring rat?” Mack asked abruptly.
I couldn’t help it. I cracked up. Jordan had mentioned the term—a ring rat was a wrestling groupie.
“What’s so funny?” Mack asked, a smile playing around his mouth.
“If you only knew. I’m so not a sports person. My dad and brother used to have to bribe me to get me to go with them to a football game. I went to my first wrestling match with Jordan last week. So, no, I wouldn’t say I have a thing for wrestlers. In general, I mean.”
“So just me then,” Mack said, swallowing hard once again.
I studied his face, wondering how much to push it. Mack acted tough. He had a way of holding himself that kept people at a distance. Reserved. I noticed that even with Jordan and Owen. But did he really want me to leave him alone? Because he could have gone back to his book. He could have refused the cookies. But there he sat, focused on me. I didn’t think he’d meet my gaze like that if he wanted nothing to do with me. And he rubbed the edge of his textbook with one hand, nervously. Maybe he was waiting for me to prove I was worth his time.
“I guess you intrigue me,” I said. “And… yeah, I like big guys. Is that a problem for you? That I like your size?”
Mack considered this as if it were a serious question. “It would be fucking hypocritical for me to take offense. Since I like your body too.” Mack’s hand clutched hard at the textbook, as if he was uncomfortable, but his gaze never wavered. His expression gave away nothing.
“Be still my heart,” I said quietly.
We stared at each other. Certain parts of me were melting into a puddle while others were becoming wind resistant. Mack thought I was hot. He actually did.
I cleared my throat. “Um… are you still hungry? Because I’m starved. I was thinking about getting some dinner—something quick. Want to take a break and go with?”
Mack tore his gaze away. He looked down at his text, his big fingers riffling the pages. “Are you still planning to write that article?”
My brain was so focused on fun times that it took a moment for the meaning to register. “Huh? Oh. You mean… the Santa Claus thing?”
“Yeah. That thing where you expose Santa Claus.” Mack looked up at me, his eyes hard again.
“Um… I’m not sure ‘exposing Santa’ is the right term. Sounds a bit filthy.” I attempted to make light of it.
“What if he just decides not to do it this year? Does a no-show? Disappoints all those kids—because of you?”
What? “Um… how would he even know about my article?”
“You talked to the guy at the Elks, right? Bet word gets around.”
Wow, Mack was even more defensive about St. Mark’s than I’d thought. He was really worried I’d ruin the kids’ Christmas. That made me feel like crap.
It was a strange situation. I’d never had to go after a guy before, convince him to give me a chance. Usually, a guy either returned my interest or he didn’t. If he did, there wasn’t a whole lot of trying involved. There might be a little flirting before we were making out. If the guy wasn’t interested, it was because he was straight or taken, and there wasn’t anything I could do about that.
With Mack, though, he was obviously attracted to me, but was holding back. He had these walls, like he didn’t trust me enough to let me close. Was it because of his childhood? How had he ended up at St. Mark’s anyway? Had he stopped trusting people then? Or maybe some guy had screwed him over. He was a celebrity on campus, after all. Maybe someone had used him before. Or maybe he was wary about being outed as gay.
With any other guy, I might have said “fuck it” and walked away. My life was complicated enough. But I wasn’t ready to give up on Mack. In fact, the challenge only made me want him more.
“Look, I have to do the article. It was assigned by my boss at the paper. But I want it to be a—” I searched for a word that didn’t sound too twee. “—a genuine piece. Something real about St. Mark’s. I went there this week and it seems like a good place. Honestly, I’m not an asshole.”
Mack studied me for a moment longer then closed his book. “Okay. So what do you like to eat?”
We walked over to Lakeview Lounge to grab dinner. It was still a little early, and we had our pick of tables. We ordered food—a small Margarita pizza for me and a dinner salad with chicken for Mack—and took a seat at the far side of the room by the window. Mack got stares as we moved through the other diners. It wasn’t just because he was so big, either—they were “OMG it’s the Mountain!” sorts of stares.
Híjole! That was weird. I’d never thought about how athletes got celebrity-level attention, like outside the sports arena, but Mack definitely did. He ignored it, but I could tell he wasn’t oblivious by the tense little frown on his brow. He gravitated to the least visible table and sat with his back to the room. Clearly, Mack was not a guy who liked to be fawned over.
He unzipped his coat and put it on the back of his chair. He had on a navy sweater, which was a little ratty, but it looked warm and cozy. It would be sweet to plaster myself against that broad chest and warm up after our cold walk, to have his arms wrap around me like a blanket. Dios.
I sipped my coffee and fished around my brain for a topic of conversation to distract myself from the pointless impulse to climb Mount Mack. “So. Tell me more about your engineering program. You mentioned construction. What kinds of jobs are you interested in?”
Mack grimaced and picked up his coffee. “I want to work on shoring up defenses for cities, especially coastal cities. There’s gonna be a whole lot of need for that in the future.”
I blinked at him. “You mean… because of global warming?”
He nodded, his mouth in a serious line. “There’s a lot you can do, if a city wants to spend the money. Manhattan, for example. In one of my classes, we reviewed a proposal for massive sea works to hold back the water. It really comes down to how much the government is willing to spend to pro
tect these places. Because it’s gonna cost billions. And that’s just for New York. Did you know thirteen million people live in threatened coastal areas within the US? So do we try to save the vulnerable cities? Is it worth it in the long run? Or do we just let ’em go and move inland?”
I stared at Mack in shock. “Damn.”
“What?”
I sat up straighter. “Uh, that’s the main reason I want to be a broadcast journalist. I’m seriously freaked out about climate change, about what’s happening with our planet. Most people I know don’t like to talk about it because it’s so damned depressing.”
He nodded slowly. “I get that too. People just zone out.”
“Right? And it is depressing and overwhelming, I get that. But nothing will improve if we ignore it. I get so pissed-off sometimes.”
Mack’s expression had changed. He looked more relaxed and, at the same time, more lively and engaged than I’d ever seen him. His expression matched the frantic trip-tripping of my own heart. I felt so passionately about this.
“So… you want to be a journalist to write about it?” he asked, leaning forward with his elbows on the table.
I scooted my chair in closer. “Well, I’m more interested in broadcast journalism. I really want to be an on-camera investigative reporter, like on CNN? Because visuals are so important these days. But yeah, that’s what I want to focus on. So many places are endangered by climate change. We need to be documenting these places.”
Mack nodded, listening intently.
“I mean, my ultimate dream would be to have a TV show where I go around and do in-depth reports on areas affected by global warming, to cover what’s really going on out there, the lives that are being ruined, the incredible things we’re killing off that we can never replace. But obviously, I’m not going to get a TV show anytime soon. I figured weather was a good place to start. I took a meteorology course, but I suck at math and physics. Fortunately, you don’t have to be a meteorologist to work as a weather journalist. But it’s good to have a basic understanding of how climate works.”
