Strawberries for Dessert

by Marie Sexton

  That would put a real damper on the evening, wouldn’t it? I have no idea what we would do if you went into anaphylactic shock. I must admit, that CPR class I took in high school isn’t going to do anybody any good at all! Even if I had paid attention back then, which I didn’t, I dare say I would have forgotten it by now anyway. Here, let me get you some wine.”

  Listening to him, even my head was starting to spin, and my father looked like he had no idea what language Cole was even speaking. Cole, however, seemed oblivious. He went in the kitchen and came back with three glasses and an open bottle of wine, hardly breaking his running monologue in the process.

  “Of course I didn’t pay attention in that class to begin with. I tried. Really I did, George. But there we all were on our knees, with those horrible dummies in front of us. And Tommy Nelson was in front of me. That boy was on the wrestling team and had a body to kill for.

  And I have to say, every time he bent over to blow—”

  “Cole!” I snapped, horrified, and he spun around to look at me.

  “What is it, love? You don’t want me to talk about Tommy Nelson?” He turned back to my dad and winked at him, and my dad’s cheeks started to turn a little bit red. “I never realized Jonny was the jealous type.”

  It was strange to hear my name on his lips. I wasn’t sure I had ever heard him say it before, and I wasn’t surprised that he would choose the derivative of it that I hated the most. “He doesn’t like to be called Jonny,” my dad said suddenly, and Cole smiled at him.

  “I know, honey. Why do you think I do it?” He slid a glass over to my dad and started to pour the wine. It was a red.

  “He doesn’t like red,” I said. “Maybe we can open one of the Rieslings.”

  “Oh sweetie, you know we can’t drink Riesling with cioppino.”

  He shuddered dramatically. “That just wouldn’t do at all. We could have gone with a Tempranillo, but I know how broody you get whenever I buy Spanish reds.” I felt myself bristle a little at that. It wasn’t my fault they reminded me of Zach. “So I bought the Barbera. It will be a nice pairing with the—”

  “But my dad—”

  “It’s fine, Jon,” my dad said, and I could tell he was trying to smile, although it came out more of a grimace.

  Cole went into the kitchen, and my father and I sat there silently until he came back out with the food. My dad may have been looking at Cole like he was some kind of sideshow entertainment, but once he started to eat, I could tell he was impressed. “You cooked this?” he asked.

  Cole actually batted his eyes at him, just a little. Was he actually flirting with my father? “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve never known a man who could cook,” my dad said, much to my horror.

  “Dad!” I snapped. He looked over at me, confused for a moment, but then I saw a blush start to creep up his cheeks. He turned to Cole. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Honey, don’t apologize,” Cole said. “Listen, if it will make you feel better about it, I’ll wear a dress next time. How about that?”

  “Cole!” I said, but he ignored me.

  “It’s not something I normally do, but all modesty aside, George, I really do have fabulous legs.”

  Oh my God, this was worse than I had ever imagined. I had rarely seen Cole act so over-the-top, and I was starting to be embarrassed as well as uncomfortable. I could tell my dad was tempted to laugh at Cole, and I didn’t want that to happen either. I wanted him to take Cole seriously. I wanted them to respect each other.

  “Stop!” I snapped, and they both turned to look at me. My dad looked nervous and apologetic. Cole looked baffled and a little bit annoyed. “Can we just eat, please?” I asked, knowing even as I said that it sounded childish.

  “Anything you want, love,” Cole said with obvious amusement, and the rest of the meal was passed in awkward silence. But the reprieve was brief. Before long we had finished eating. The empty table seemed way too big once I had taken the dirty dishes back into the kitchen.

  Despite my assertion that my dad hated red, we had finished the first bottle of wine, and Cole came out with a second bottle. “That was fantastic,” my dad said to him as he refilled his glass, and Cole beamed at him. “What’s for dessert?”

  He was partially joking, but it annoyed me that he would assume Cole had made dessert too, and I snapped, “Dad!”

  “No dessert, I’m afraid,” Cole said. “I cook, but I don’t bake.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Honey, they’re like night and day. Cooking is an art—you can substitute, improvise, experiment. But baking is a science. Everything has to be exactly right or it all falls apart. So many rules. It’s terribly boring.” I was thinking how that statement illustrated a great deal about Cole’s character when he turned to me. “You should try it, sweetie,” he said, with a hint of venom in his voice. It was subtle enough that my

  dad probably couldn’t hear it, but I could. “Me?” I asked, wondering what I had done to irritate him.

  “Yes. It seems like a perfect hobby for an uptight accountant.” I tried not to be offended at that character analysis.

  “What do you do?” my dad asked Cole, and I managed not to groan audibly.

  Cole got that mocking, amused look on his face that I sometimes found cute, but tonight only found annoying. “Exactly like Jonny, aren’t you? What do you think I do?”

  “Are you a chef?”

  Cole smiled. “Yes. I’m a chef.”

  “Cole!”

  “That explains the cooking then,” my dad said, and I wondered if he meant a man would only bother to learn to cook if it was for in exchange for money.

  “Dad, he’s just being elusive. He’s not a chef.”

  “What?” my dad asked, confused, and Cole rolled his eyes at me.

  “Good lord, love. I like to cook. I’m good at it. Does that not make me a chef? It’s not as if I’m lying.”

  “But you’re implying—”

  “I’m not implying anything, except that I cook—”

  “Forget I asked,” my dad said, but I wasn’t listening.

  “I don’t know why you can’t just be honest.”

  “I’m being honest. I do cook. You’re the one who assumes that the question ‘what do you do?’ can only refer to a career—”

  “That’s not just my assumption, Cole! That’s everybody’s assumption!”

  “It doesn’t matter,” my dad said, louder this time. “I was only trying to—”

  “George,” Cole said suddenly, turning to my father, “the truth is, I’m unemployed.”

  There was a moment of silence, and I wished I could kick Cole under the table, but he was sitting next to me, and it would have been anything but subtle. “Oh,” my father said with obvious embarrassment.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be!” Cole said, smiling, and I could see that my dad was more confused than ever.

  “Let’s talk about something else, shall we?”

  But I wasn’t ready to let it go. I didn’t want my dad thinking that Cole was a bum, or that he was somehow living off of me. “He’s rich,” I blurted out.

  They both turned to look at me again. This time, the annoyance on Cole’s face was obvious. Even my father must have seen it, because he asked suddenly, as if coming to my rescue, “Cole, are you from Phoenix originally?”

  Cole kept his withering gaze on me for another fraction of a second before turning back to my dad. By the time his eyes landed on my father, the anger was gone from his face, and he was smiling again.

  “No, although it’s hard to say exactly where I am from, to tell you the truth. We spent a few months each year at my father’s house in Orange County—”

  “You have a house in Orange County, too?” I asked in surprise.

  He cut me a quick sideways look. “Not anymore.” Then back to my father: “When I was very young, my family spent a great deal of time in New York, because it was th
e house my mother liked best. But by the time I was eight or so, she and my father had split, and my father didn’t like to go there. So we went to Paris instead. We were usually there at least six months out of the year. My father had extended family in the area. They’re still there, I suppose, although I haven’t heard from any of them since he died.”

  “I’m sorry—” my dad started to say, but Cole waved him off before he even finished the words.

  “It’s nothing, honey. It was twenty years ago.”

  “That’s why you like to travel so much,” I said with sudden understanding, and he shrugged.

  “Traveling’s not something I like to do so much as something I’m compelled to do. I’ve tried staying put, love, but it never works out. It makes me restless and cranky and terribly unpleasant.”

  “You must have been pretty young when your dad died,” my dad said.

  “Dad,” I said, “I’m sure he doesn’t want to talk about that.” But Cole ignored me and answered.

  “I was fifteen. My mother is still alive, so technically she had custody until I was eighteen, even though I never saw her. It’s as predictable as the movie of the week, really. A couple of housekeepers kept me in line until I went off to college.” He smiled, in an obvious attempt to lighten the mood. “My mother’s single too, love, and lord knows she spends enough money on surgery, I imagine she’s still gorgeous to boot. Maybe I should set you up sometime.”

  My dad looked a little alarmed. “Cole,” I said, “no.”

  He rolled his eyes at me. “Honey, lighten up. It was a joke.”

  My mother was dead, and he was joking about setting my dad up on a blind date? “It’s inappropriate.”

  “Jon,” my dad said, “it’s fine.”

  “See?” Cole said to me. “It’s fine.”

  “It’s not fine,” I said. “He doesn’t want to date anyone!”

  “How do you know, love? Have you ever asked him? George, are you dating anyone?”

  “Cole!”

  “What, love? It was a simple question.”

  “My mother is dead!”

  “Good lord, honey, I know! But it didn’t happen yesterday, did it? Am I supposed to assume he’s going to live a life of chastity for the rest of his days?”

  “Boys—” my dad started to say, but Cole cut him off.

  “George, I’m so sorry if I offended you. Truly. That was never my intent.”

  “You didn’t—”

  “That’s not the point!” I said.

  “Jon,” my dad said, “the truth is, I’ve been thinking about trying one of those dating services—”

  “Oh my God! Can we talk about something else please?” I snapped.

  Cole gave me a venomous glare, and my dad sighed heavily before coming to my rescue yet again by asking, “So, how did the two of you meet?”

  Cole and I eyed each other for a second. There was a challenge blazing in his hazel eyes. He was definitely not happy with me. I turned back to my father. “We were set up by a mutual friend.”

  “Yes,” Cole said sarcastically. “Lord knows what Jared was thinking.”

  “Nobody’s making you stay,” I snapped in irritation.

  He smiled at me. “Good point, lovey.” He turned to my father. “It was lovely seeing you again, George, and I hope you had a wonderful birthday. I know it’s terribly improper to rush out like this, but I’m sure you and Jonny would like some time alone anyway.” He stood up from the table without even looking at me.

  “You’re leaving?” I asked in surprise. I hadn’t really meant for him to go.

  “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  My dad once again looked uncomfortable, and I was trying not to be pissed. I followed him into the living room where he put on his shoes and grabbed his keys. “I can’t believe you’re just walking out on dinner,” I hissed at him, hoping my father couldn’t hear. “It’s rude.”

  “You’re the one who’s rude,” he said, turning on me. “You’re so busy treating us like children you don’t notice when you’re not needed!”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing at all,” he said, and slammed the door behind him.

  I stood there in the living room, trying to compose myself before going back to my dad. I counted to five. Or maybe it was twenty-five.

  Once I had quit seeing red, I went back in the dining room to find that my dad wasn’t there. I found him in the kitchen, using a piece of bread to mop the cioppino pot clean.

  “That boy may be a fruitcake,” he said, “but he sure can cook!”

  I DIDN’T hear from Cole the next day, and I was annoyed enough at him that I would have been perfectly happy to leave it that way for a few days, but that was the night we were supposed to go to the theater.

  I broke down and called him at four to confirm that we were still on.

  Normally, we probably would have gone to dinner first, but we both seemed to feel it was best to skip it tonight. He agreed to meet me at my house, and we would ride together from there.

  I really was looking forward to the show. My love of the theater had come from my mother. She went as often as possible. My dad hated it, and so, starting when I was about ten, my mother took me instead. I loved the music and the stories, but more than anything, I liked going simply because it reminded me of her. I treated the theater with a reverence most people reserved for church. Despite being annoyed at Cole, I was happy to be able to use my tickets for once. It had been far too long.

  Unfortunately, I could tell from the minute he walked into my house that Cole and I were going to clash that evening. He was dressed as he always was—thin dark pants with a light sweater and a scarf. He had a jacket, but it wasn’t a suit jacket. It was white and trendier than anything I had ever owned, and I would have bet a month’s pay he had bought it in Paris. I knew nothing about fashion, but it definitely looked like something right off of a fashion-show runway. It was cut long in a way that almost seemed military and yet still oddly ostentatious. “Is that what you’re wearing?” I asked, before I could help myself.

  “No, love,” he said. “I have an Armani hidden underneath this. I was planning a Superman-style change of wardrobe in the car.”

  Maybe I deserved that, but I wasn’t going to apologize. “I thought you would wear a suit,” I said.

  “Not even if this were my own funeral.”

  “Fine.”

  We hardly spoke in my car, and as soon as we entered the theater, he headed for the bar, with me tagging along behind. I was reminded immediately of the night in Vegas when we had gone to the restaurant.

  At home, when it was only the two of us, his flamboyance seemed to fade. In public, it always came back to some degree. I thought I had grown used to it over the last few months, but tonight it seemed worse than ever. His walk was too swishy, his gestures too broad, his voice too lilting. I didn’t normally feel that I had to hide my sexuality, but I didn’t feel compelled to broadcast it, either. Being with Cole, I may as well have been carrying a neon sign that said, “I’m gay!” He made me self-conscious of my own mannerisms, and I found myself making an effort to look as straight as possible, something I hadn’t thought about in years.

  We got in line at the bar. For once, he wasn’t talking a mile a minute. At first I was simply happy to not have to listen to him. I reminded myself that this was supposed to be fun. Then I looked at the bar, and my anger returned, stronger than ever. The bartender was young, cute, and as blatantly queer as Cole. He was busy helping the customers in front of him, but his glance kept returning to Cole, and they would smile at each other every time.

  “Did you pick this line on purpose?” I snapped.

  “What if I did?” he snapped back. He eyed me up and down before turning his back on me. “Your condescension is getting a little old, darling.”

  I bit back my response, and then it was our turn. The bartender— his name tag said Trey—leaned forward so he was a few inches closer to
Cole. “What would you like, sir?” he asked in a tone that was rife with suggestion, and Cole grinned wickedly at him.

  “How long has that Pinot Noir been open, sweetie?”

  “That one? Since last night. But I’ll open a fresh one for you if you like.”

  Cole gave him a look that was so flirtatious I wondered that the people standing next to us couldn’t feel the vibes coming off of him. “I would appreciate that very much. I’ll have a glass of that and a glass of Chianti too.”

  “Would you like me to open a fresh one of that as well?”

  “No, sweetie,” Cole said, cutting me a sideways glance. “Don’t bother.”

  “Would you like to place an order for intermission? You can pay now, and the drinks will be waiting for you at the end of the bar.”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  Trey poured my drink first, and Cole handed it back to me. Trey eyed me with obvious curiosity, and I did my best to incinerate him with my eyes. I failed, unfortunately. He turned away to open Cole’s wine and pour it. I couldn’t quite see what he was doing, but when he turned back around, he placed the glass in front of Cole on a cocktail napkin. I had a mere second to see that there was a phone number written on it before Cole picked it up and put it in his pocket. “Thanks, sweetie,” he said, winking at him and handing him two twenty dollar bills. “Keep the change.”

  “You are unbelievable,” I hissed at him as we walked away.

  “Good lord, love. What is your problem? Did you see me ask for his number? No. And even if I had, it’s not exactly your business anyway, is it?”

  “It’s not the number! It’s—” I stopped short, because the truth was, I wasn’t sure exactly what to say. Yes, the phone number had bothered me, as had the obviously giant tip he had given in exchange.

  But it was his blatant dismissal of me that pissed me off more. On the other hand, I was being honest enough with myself to accept that almost everything he did was rubbing me the wrong way tonight. It was unfair to attack him for it. I made myself stop and count to five. I drank my wine, and we pointedly ignored each other until it was time to find our seats.