Booked Up

by Harper Logan

  “No, no, dear, no need for an explanation. I can only assume the dinner went splendidly, or else you would have texted me about your failure.” She rubbed her thumb against the bandage, and leaned over her desk. “Tell me all. Is he blocked? Is he almost finished?”

  “I…we…didn’t discuss his book.”

  She frowned. “Didn’t discuss, or didn’t try to discuss?”

  “He really didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “So an early night, then.”

  “I was home pretty early, yes.”

  “And yet here you are at work pretty late. And oddly reticent about the evening.”

  He stood uncomfortably for a moment, rubbing his sleeve.

  “Oh no,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Did you…did he…?”

  He felt the color come to his cheeks. “Madeleine, come on.”

  “I feel for you, I do,” said Madeleine. “You know I don’t mean this unkindly, but you’re being foolish, dear.”

  After last night it was hard for Cam to focus. The way Serge had felt inside him was all he could think about. It was like finishing a big workout and being sore and happy and exhausted…except usually after working out he didn’t have the instinct to hop right back into the gym.

  How had Serge responded to his body so knowingly? It was a puzzle to him. But he took it as a good sign. For a beginner, Serge was learning quickly. The thought made him chuckle.

  “What’s so funny about that?” asked Madeleine, bringing him back to the real world.

  “No, nothing,” he said. “But I don’t think I’m being foolish at all.”

  “You had an encounter with him?”

  “We had dinner. Not even dinner. Drinks.” Hardly drinks, even.

  “And nothing else?”

  “Madeleine, can I just draw a curtain over my evening, and have a little privacy?”

  “But dear, he’s straight.”

  “What label he chooses to apply to himself is none of our business.” Besides, he thought, it was she who first sent Cam on the prowl for Serge. She couldn’t make up her mind about Serge’s orientation any better than Serge could. Although at least Serge had the right to mull over his options.

  “Nonetheless, you have no future! I was talking to my friend about him, and she says he has the worst reputation. Leading women on, destroying their lives. Everyone loves him for it, of course. They’ll allow a man to be any sort of monster of the heart, yet if a woman stray but once…well. Enough lectures from me on that subject. Only to say, he’s not for you, dear.”

  “I didn’t say he was. I just said we had drinks.”

  “But your poor heart! A man who won’t publicly declare his love for you isn’t worthy of your love. Didn’t you read the chapter where Javier desires to keep his passion for Dona Quintana a secret? She was on the verge of losing her dignity and future to him!”

  “It’s not the same thing,” said Cam. Right? Serge hadn’t said anything else about being straight. It would’ve been ironic, considering the night they had spent together. He hadn’t left Cam’s until five this morning, exhausted and dehydrated. He’d seemed happy. Tired, but happy, without that cloud of regret that always seemed to hang over him. Whatever was holding Serge back from admitting his attractions, he’d come around. Then Cam chuckled at the phrase come around. Serge had certainly done that last night. Around, in, on top of, under.

  “He’s a terrible person. I wish there was something I could do to get you to see that.”

  “Look. He’s going to back off his criticism of you. No more games. Right?” He had at least managed to extract that promise from Serge, sometime last night. “If he’s willing to stop this stupid feud, he can’t be that terrible.”

  She pulled out another of her cigarettes, and lit it using the heavy crystal lighter on her desk. “I trust that I have some insight into the human condition,” she said, “after writing several bestselling novels about the tortuous course of love and betrayal. He’s terrible. He’s evil. And the fact that he’s using you to get close to me—”

  “—which he’s not—”

  “—makes it all the sadder that you think he is innocent.”

  He looked over the papers on his desk. “What is all this? Florist orders, catering brochures…are we throwing a party?”

  “We are indeed. A party for me. The early sales figures of Dona Quintana are quite promising, Cam. I want to celebrate. And soon. I need to take my mind off the recent dramas.”

  He sighed with relief. “At least it will distract you from probing into my personal life.”

  “Oh, the self-absorption of youth! I’m not fascinated by your dalliance with the heretofore straight Sergio Faletti, I am worried about it. But yes, yes, let’s put all common sense aside and work on my party instead. Did I tell you I’ve invited Angela?”

  He felt a little pain in his chest when he heard it. “The famous Angela?”

  “You’ll finally meet her! It’s so exciting, Cam. We had so many adventures together. She really was a model assistant. Maybe she could teach you a thing or two.”

  That stung. He looked away from her and turned to his laptop, opening the pages for the local florists. It was strange the way his love of this job had faded.

  No, it wasn’t strange. It was sad.

  His dream wasn’t to call florists. It was to support the writer he respected most. It was the dream of being close to literature as it was being created. It should have been a great learning experience. But she had crushed that out. When had he become such a robot?

  “Did I say something wrong?” she asked.

  “Not at all. You should definitely invite her. It will be fun to put a face to the reputation.” He nearly choked on the word fun.

  “I see you’re looking at florists. You may close the page on Mayflower Florists. They completely destroyed the apology bouquet I ordered for my agent. I ordered three dozen perfectly white roses, surrounding a small center of four yellow roses which had not yet opened. They included a red rose. The symbolism of a bright, happy egg was ruined by the hint of blood in the yolk.”

  “Uh…ok. No Mayflower.”

  She held up a piece of paper. “As it happens, I have already thought through the flower issue, and these are the arrangements I require.”

  He got up and took the paper. “Wow. This is…extravagant.”

  “Don’t worry, it all comes out of the publicity budget. I won’t be paying a dime.”

  “Still. I mean, seven hundred gladiolas?”

  “When they are here, I will show you how I need them arranged.”

  “Wait, I’m putting the decorations together?”

  “You’re my assistant! Angela would have done it without a second thought. Of course, Angela would have already known what I wanted, without my having to take time out of writing to put together this paper.”

  “Fine, fine. I’ll call in the order.”

  “No. You know my philosophy on phones. Face-to-face is always better. Take this order to the florist on Goose Hill. They have never dissatisfied me, but will have heard of my revenge on Mayflower. It will keep them in line.”

  But as Cam was walking downtown to the little collection of exclusive boutiques on Goose Hill, his phone buzzed. It was Serge. Cam’s heart quickened.

  “I miss you,” said Serge. His voice was low and sleepy.

  “I miss you too,” he said. “Last night… man.”

  “What are you doing right now?”

  “Do you know that place downtown with all the frou-frou shops? I’ve been ordered to go to the florist there for Madeleine.”

  “Exciting. Play hooky. Come see me.”

  Cam laughed. “I can’t. I really have to get this order in. She’s got this big party coming up to celebrate her book—”

  “Yes, I’m sure the world is very excited to choke down another of her tomes. I’m actually downtown too, at the Bean and Berry. Come see me.”

  “I thought y
ou were home writing?”

  “Can’t I take a day off? Can’t you? I thought we could go to the lake.”

  “It’s freezing down there.”

  “Not into the lake. It’s so pretty today, Cam. I even brought blankets to sit on, just hoping you’d say yes. Come on.”

  He looked down at the order in his hand. “See you in ten.”

  “So this is what it’s like to be in public together,” said Serge, lying next to him. The sky was so fantastically clear and blue, almost unreal. Cam had his hand up, watching the contrast between his fingers and the sky.

  “Baby steps,” said Cam. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. Besides, nobody’s here. The virtue of coming during a workday.” He rolled over and gave Serge a light punch on his shoulder. “Speaking of, why are you taking a day off? I thought your editor was all over you.”

  “Can’t force art,” said Serge. “We can’t all be like your boss, mechanically pounding out book after awful book.”

  Cam laughed. “I wish you two would get along. You’re both so stuck on yourselves. You really have a lot in common that way.”

  “She sold her soul for thirty pieces of silver,” said Serge. “I couldn’t bear it. Writing the same awful story, time after time, only making it a few hundred pages longer each time?”

  “Maybe this is a bad topic. I’m not sure I can listen to your thoughts on Dona Quintana’s Long Illness one more time.”

  “And we have far more interesting things to talk about.” Serge turned to face him.

  “Do we?”

  Serge’s fingers traced his cheek. “I wish life weren’t so hard. I just want to be around you all the time.”

  “You do? I want that too, Serge.”

  “Do you understand why it’s hard, though? I mean, we’ve talked about it, but do you understand?”

  Cam nodded…then shook his head. “Not really. Maybe it’s different for me. I was never really in the closet to begin with. I just somehow knew what was up, early on. My folks were supportive. It just worked out. I know it’s not like that for everybody.”

  Serge sat up and looked out over the lake. “It’s not even that I’m in the closet, really. I don’t think in those terms. I feel like an honest person. You see it in my writing, my reviews, I never hold anything back. I believe in honesty. So why is this so hard?” He pulled his knees close to his chest. Cam had never seen him look so vulnerable. “All my life, I knew I was different. But it never occurred to me that this was one of the ways I was different. When I had girlfriends, and things didn’t work out, I always blamed the girl. She wasn’t interesting enough, or hot enough, or smart enough.” He shook his head. “I’m kind of an asshole.”

  “I know.”

  He laughed. “That’s why when I picture it, it isn’t like a closet at all. It’s more like, there was this secret room that didn’t even have a door. You never would have known it was there. It was so well-hidden. Or maybe it was like a crawlspace—”

  “I’ll just be sitting here while you go through the architectural metaphors.”

  “But whatever it was like, the thing is, I’ve been lying to myself without realizing it, all this time. Lying to everyone. And that bothers me. What else am I lying about? What if I’m just this dishonest, pompous asshole?”

  “You better not be, because then Madeleine would be right, and you’d hate that.”

  “But don’t you have anything like that? You’re so proper and buttoned-down, don’t you have any chaos swirling inside you like that?”

  Cam fiddled with the corner of the blanket. The grass underneath made a dry rustling sound, and a tiny black ant crawled over his thumb. “Of course I do. I’m like a cinnamon bun, where the cinnamon is stress, and I’m all twisted up, and the icing is—”

  “Are you making fun of my metaphors?”

  “Only a little. You know me. Madeleine stresses me out.”

  “I know. You need to quit.”

  “But this…this was my dream job. And that’s what makes it hard. What if my dream was just wrong? I thought I’d be close to the words. But I’m not. Here I am with an order for thirty million flowers in my pocket, and I’m miles away from… from the act of literature, if that doesn’t sound too highfalutin’. Am I stupid? Like, what if all I ever wanted to do was to be a cardiologist, and I studied for years, and then when I got to my first open heart surgery I thought, ’Nope, not for me!’ Can you imagine, all the wasted time, the effort?”

  “You haven’t spent your life wanting to work for Madeleine, though.”

  “I honestly have. It should’ve been perfect. You don’t know how much I idolized her. I sent her a fan letter in high school, after I read To Swim With Swans. I used her books for my senior thesis. And then, to get a chance to work with her… it was everything.” He closed his eyes. “I guess I set myself up for failure.”

  “I don’t think you’re a failure. Even though I don’t understand your dream. Why is it so important to work with a writer?”

  When he opened his eyes again, he found Serge staring at him with concern and affection. “I don’t know, really. There’s just something about being close to books, as they’re being written. You know that love of books. Once it catches you, you’ve got to do something with it. Some people become librarians. Some work at big mall bookstores. Some write. I… I guess I assist. When she needs to know what kind of dress a character might wear, it’s nice to be the person who researches that for her.”

  “She could just use her imagination.”

  “Don’t judge, okay? Different writers have different ways of doing things. I’m sure you’re able to perfectly visualize what your characters are wearing, able to describe it really easily.”

  “Uh…yeah,” said Serge, suddenly breaking eye contact and looking away. “Just different, I guess.”

  Cam got up. “I’ve got to move around. Why are we being so dismal on a day so beautiful?”

  Serge rose as well. “Good question. Let’s not talk about our various deceptions and failures. Besides, you’re not a failure, and you’re not lying to yourself. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with your dream. I believe in you. You’re so smart, and so organized—which doesn’t even sound like a compliment, but if you could see the scatter inside my head, you’d know it is—you’ll find a way to live your dream.”

  Cam slid his hand into Serge’s. “And you’ll get comfortable with the idea of us, too.”

  Serge squeezed his hand as they walked toward the lake. “Us. That’s an interesting word, isn’t it?”

  “It’s very short and to the point.” They followed the water a little ways, their shoes crunching against the rocks on the shore. Cam wasn’t sure what Serge was going to say next. He knew what he wanted Serge to say, but he couldn’t dare hope for it. Hopes get dashed. Dreams die. Better not to put too much into either one. But hand-in-hand, they walked out onto the little dock over the water.

  “We’ve had a really good time together,” said Serge. “Brief, but good.”

  “Yes,” Cam said, hearing the tinge of nervousness in his voice.

  “I don’t think it’s all about the sex. I mean, part of it is definitely about the sex.”

  “I could barely walk this morning.”

  “My poor cock. I don’t know that it’ll ever forgive me for all the things I put it through last night.” Serge let go of his hand, and sat on the edge of the dock. He took his shoes off, and let his toes dip into the water. “Brrr. But listen…what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Are you just in this for the sex?”

  Cam slipped off his loafers and joined Serge. “This is one of those dilemma conversations, isn’t it? It’s like, your mind assumes there’s a trap somewhere. If I say I like you, but it turns out that you aren’t interested in a relationship, then not only do I go home alone, but I get humiliated for admitting my feelings.”

  Serge nodded. “Are you interested in a relationship?”

&nbs
p; “Are you?”

  “I swear to god, if we have to count to three and then declare ourselves…”

  “Fine! Okay! I admit it! I am interested! Very interested!” But he couldn’t look at Serge when he said it. “Just, if you don’t feel anything for me, don’t stretch it out, okay? Just tell me now.”

  Serge put his arm around Cam. “I want to be with you. I want you like I have never wanted anyone else ever. It’s so crazy. I never thought I could feel this way about another man.”

  “Do you mean it? Are we boyfriends? Are we together?”

  Their arms entwined, and Serge put his face an inch away from Cam’s. “We are so together. Let’s do this. Let’s be all stupid and grown-up and in a big relationship.”

  And Cam was so happy, he leaned against Serge, pressing against him, wanting to get as close as possible, to share this feeling.

  Then he pressed too far, and they fell off the dock, right into the water.

  17

  Cam

  “Oh my god, the water’s freezing,” yelled Cam, shivering and laughing and panting all at the same time. He splashed at Serge, fascinated by the way the water hit his thin black shirt, pasting it to his muscular chest. Standing there, arms open, sun hitting his wet shirt, the fabric delineating every ridge of his torso, Serge looked like some kind of superhero rising from the depths. He shook out his hair, and Cam wished he could see it in slow motion, all the tiny droplets flying away, a halo of frigid water.

  He ran at Sergio, right into his arms. Those arms, so strong, wrapped around him. Cam studied his face carefully. There was no looking around at who might see. There was no fear of being revealed. Just Serge’s pure joy at being with Cam.

  When their lips touched, they were so cold. It became a primal urgency to offer warmth, an instinct neither could deny. Cam pulled Serge as close as he could, while Serge pulled in the same way, until their bodies had touched as much as they could with the layers of wet clothes between them. Serge’s nipples were so small and hard beneath his shirt, and Cam’s fingers had found them, exploring Serge’s body all on their own, finding everything there was to touch.