by TL Gehr
Her gaze slides away. I don’t want this to be the moment that defines our new relationship, but it feels like it will be, whatever I chose to do. Thing is, I may not have a lot of cash, but what I do have is thanks to Philip’s generosity. I don’t want to be that stingy guy who refuses to pay it forward. And she is my mother. I sigh and pull out my pay packet. I take out a few notes, fold them and hand them to her.
Her face lights up. “Thanks kid! I’ll pay you back. I promise.”
I’m still determined to talk things through with Philip, but when we exit the kitchens, he’s already locked in conversation with someone else. It’s an older man in a charcoal suit. He’s bald and he’s wearing glasses, but he’s tall, with broad shoulders, and I recognize Philip’s chin. I stop in my tracks. This must be his father. What is he doing here?
Whatever the reason, now’s not the time to corner Philip into a conversation about feelings. I try slip out, but Philip calls my name.
I turn in the doorway, forcing myself to stop clenching my fists nervously. The old man gives me a watery smile. Philip clears his throat and closes the distance between us. He puts a hand on my back and guides me inside, up to his old man. His touch through my shirt makes my skin tingle and his familiar smell takes me right back to last night.
“Father, this is our new hire, Brian.”
The man looks me up and down. I don’t know what the protocol is when meeting New York royalty. I wipe my hand on my jeans—now it’s my hand that’s clammy—and offer it to him.
“Pleased to meet you, sir.”
His handshake is firm and he looks me directly in the eye. “Philip tells me you’re from New Paltz?”
“Yessir.”
“Lovely place. I’ve driven through a few times. Very… liberal.”
“We have that reputation, yes.”
“What brings you to the city?”
“Um, actually, my mother lives here.”
I’m about to point her out, but I don’t see her anywhere.
Philip steps in. “His parents split when he was very young. He came here to meet her.”
And then I realize, this isn’t a meet the new employee. This is meet the boyfriend. Or, potential boyfriend. There’s no other reason he’d reveal that he knew something so personal. He told his father about me? I’m not ready for this.
“How long do you intend to stay?” Philip’s dad asks.
I look at Philip. This feels like a trap.
“He’s not sure yet,” Philip answers for me, his gaze locked with mine. Another move that would be completely bizarre if I was just an employee.
I relax a little, because telling the truth is the easiest. “Yeah, I want to build a life somewhere that isn’t New Paltz, you know? Thought I’d try the City of Dreams, but I’ll see how things go. I’m on a six-month lease.” I clear my throat. “I, uh, appreciate the job. It’s definitely made the prospect of staying here more appealing.”
“You’ll probably want to try a few jobs before you settle down?”
What does that mean? Are we still talking about the job? Or is this about Philip?
Philip still has his hand on my back, and he presses into the muscle. A warning. A warning of what though? I’m starting to get flustered which means I can’t work this out, no matter how many times I try run through the clues.
He’s probably worried about his son the way Jones was worried. Chase cheated on him and wrecked his reputation and Chase was a supermodel. I’m a nobody. If I were to hurt Philip, it would be so much worse.
“No sir, I’m a loyal employee,” I say. Philip’s thumb digs into me so hard it hurts. Wrong answer. God, is this how he has to navigate talking to his parents? No wonder he got so good at lying. “But I guess there’s lots to see and experience in the Big City. It’s a bit early to tell.”
The pressure on my back eases up, but the old man still looks skeptical.
“I like it here right now,” I add. “I’m not really thinking about the future yet. Just having fun, enjoying the moment. Safely, of course.” God, what am I saying? I’ve gone off the rails.
“Well, as long as you’re having fun,” Mr. Arrigo, says, with a glance at his son. “And that the fun doesn’t interfere with business.”
“No, of course not, sir.” My face is hot. I’m definitely blushing.
“You’re going to miss your train,” Philip says softly.
“Uh, yeah. Okay. I’ll see you on Monday.”
I walk away without looking back, my heart hammering. What was that? I have no idea if I did well. Maybe Philip warned me about this and prepped me for it last night and that’s what I forgot? Or maybe I told him I loved him and now I just told him I’m only in it for fun.
He told me to say that. With his hand.
Unless I misinterpreted that.
What a fucking disaster.
23
Brian
I don’t hear from Philip for the rest of Saturday. I try to distract myself by studying types of coffee and how to mix cocktails, although I can’t stop checking my phone.
On Sunday morning, I take Cynthia to the supermarket. She doesn’t pry at first, but when she catches me biting my nails, she asks what’s happened. I guess she’s worried she may have put all these doubts in my mind. She’s not wrong.
“I met Arrigo senior.”
“You met his mother?”
“Father.”
“Oh, well, that’s okay then.”
As we work our way down the aisles, Cynthia explains that it’s Philip’s mother, Stephanie Arrigo, who holds the fortune and therefore calls the shots. Philip took his mother’s name, not his father’s. I’m glad I stuck to “sir” before making even an even bigger fool of myself. Apparently, after Philip was born it was determined that Stephanie Arrigo could have no further biological children. Her only sister passed some years back, which means that Philip is it for the entire family line.
Coming out to them must have been nearly impossible. How would one even do that? “Hey, parents, I know the entire future of our great family rests on my shoulders, but here’s where it stops because I’m homosexual.”
I shiver, thankful once again for my own father, who texted me an update just last night after his Al-Anon meeting. “Gemima from group wants to know if you’re still single because she’s got an eligible son.”
(It was his way of hinting for Philip info and at the time I was annoyed because I, too, was waiting on Philip info.)
I take my phone out of my pocket and message: I’ll have to get back to you on that.
Last night I also went and found that piece where Jones “spilled the tea” on the breakup. It was basically just a long list of her refuting things Chase said about Philip. I had to stop halfway through because I started to feel queasy. Not only did Chase say that Philip was boring in the bedroom (cold and remote), but that he was emotionally abusive, manipulative and even physically hurt him. My first boyfriend was a little like that, and he was nothing like Philip.
“So, how’d it go?” Cynthia asks. When I look at her, she elaborates. “Meeting the father, how’d it go?”
“I have no idea.”
“Didn’t you talk to Philip about it?”
“No… he didn’t call.”
She tugs my nails away from my mouth again. “This is the 21st Century, dear. You can call him.”
I know, and it’s not like I haven’t thought about it. It just seems like the weirdness with his dad is something he should explain. Am I selfish for wanting him to offer reassurance? He gave me a fucking blow job in front of the whole of New York. I can make a call. Can’t I?
Cynthia taps the phone that’s still in my other hand. “Go on.”
I sigh. “Okay.”
I go stand outside away from the noise. It’s the same spot where I was when he first offered me the job. The phone rings. My chest tightens and I almost hang up. Then…
“Hey, Brian.” His voice. I relax a little.
“Hey.”<
br />
There’s some noise in the background at his end. A crowd. A girl, then a guy. A deep manly voice that sounds like it’s right next to him. I clench my jaw to stop my thoughts from spiraling.
“I, um, I was just calling to find out—”
Another loud noise. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that?”
“I wanted to talk about yesterday.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, that thing with your dad—”
“—yeah, uh ha.”
My heart beats a little faster. I feel like I’m being spoken at distractedly. Did he even hear what I said? “I just wanted to find out how it went. I didn’t hear from you after so I hope I didn’t screw things up too badly.” It comes out in a rush.
“Right,” Philip says. “No that should be fine.”
“Are you even listening to me?”
“Yeah. Sorry. Can I call you back later?”
“Sure. Whatever.”
I end the call. My lower lip trembles and I slam my hand into the wall. Stop it. You’re overreacting. Pull yourself together.
I go inside to find Cynthia. She’s busy hauling cat litter into the cart and I take over for her. “He was busy, he said he’ll call back later.”
When I was fifteen, I fell in love with a boy in my class. He had long black hair and a lip ring and he’d smoke behind the bicycle shed. He was always surrounded by guys trying to impress him. Then one day, he caught me staring and smiled back. He realized pretty quickly that I’d do anything for him. It started off as little errands—go get a soda, let me eat your lunch. Then it was blow jobs behind that same bicycle shed, and in return he’d make out with me after class. He was a real good kisser. He wouldn’t acknowledge me when his actual friends were around at first, but after a while, he started to let me sit with them and sometimes he’d even drape an arm around me. Then, one day, he invited me back to his place with them and we listened to music and smoked pot. And that night, after his friends had gone, we fucked. He never called himself my boyfriend, but he allowed me to love him and to me that was just as good. He liked me more when I was high, and by the end of that year I was high all the time. He introduced me to crack, to smack and to his dealer. He was the first one to shoot me up. A couple of years later, he ODed, setting in motion the worst two years of my life. That was the last time I was in love, the last time I gave myself over completely to this feeling.
I know Philip isn’t like that, but maybe I am cursed to only fall for guys who can’t possibly love me back. I know I’m being unreasonable, I know I’m jumping to conclusions.
With every step back to the apartment, I hate myself more. I hate myself for being needy, I hate myself for being hopeful, I hate myself for being an uneducated scumbag with a broken brain and I hate myself most of all for hating myself because it’s so ridiculously self-indulgent. Even thinking about Gene isn’t helping. (“You’re magnifying,” she’d say.)
When I get to my door, after helping Cynthia carry everything into her apartment, I reach into my pocket for my key and it’s not there. I check my other pocket, my wallet. I swear and slam my head against the door. ADHD brain. It could be fucking anywhere. Why am I like this? Cynthia comes back out.
“What’s all this?”
I just want her to go away. I need to be alone with my thoughts.
“Brian?”
My forehead’s still pressed to the door and my eyes are squeezed shut.
“Did Philip call back?”
I shake my head. “No. I can’t get in.”
“I don’t under—”
“I’ve lost my key. I must have fidgeted with it and put it down somewhere. I fucking locked myself out of my own apartment. Philip has a degree in Actuarial Science and I can’t even reliably get into my own fucking apartment.”
“Now, now, no need for tantrums. Hold on, I have a spare.” She disappears into her apartment. Murdock comes out and sits by me. He looks up at me with huge green eyes. I half expect him to pee on me, but he just rubs against my leg and then pads off to the roof.
I’m so pathetic even the demon tom cat pities me.
Cynthia returns with her key, but she doesn’t leave when the door’s open. She insists on making me a cup of tea, even though she has to get the teabags from next door. I’ve never met anyone who drinks as much tea as this woman.
“Now, then,” she says once I have a cup in my hand. “The ladies are coming over for bridge in an hour, and you’re going to join us.”
“Bridge? I don’t know how to play.”
“Oh, you’ll love it.”
I highly doubt that. I’ve never met a card game I even liked.
As it turns out though, the experience isn’t too bad. I blank out halfway through Cynthia explaining the rules, but I don’t actually have to understand what I’m doing to take a turn. Cynthia’s friends are interesting. The one is a retired Broadway actress and the other teaches Shakespeare at the College of the Performing Arts. In other words, both of them know how to tell a good story. The game stretches into the night and we end up ordering in pizza for dinner. I insist on paying, because I can.
“Please. It’s my first wages in NYC. I’m celebrating.” And also, they’ve really cheered me up. When I pull out the bills to pay the delivery guy, my key falls out.
Cynthia is kind enough not to comment, but she gives me a knowing smile.
“It’s so nice of you to join us old ladies,” the Broadway one whose name I’ve already forgotten says later.
“Isn’t he just a sweetie?” Cynthia agrees. Then, “Brian’s had some boy trouble.”
My heart skips a beat. I wait for their strange looks. Old people don’t generally react well to homosexuality. But they both coo their sympathy and the Shakespeare one launches into a story about how back in her youth she went on a bender when a man dumped her and ended up meeting her third husband.
They have a lot of energy for people pushing eighty, but at around ten we say our goodnights and I return to my empty apartment. It’s a mess, I probably need to tidy. Some of my work clothes are hanging over a barstool and there’s a pair of jeans crumpled at the foot of the bed. Tomorrow’s problem.
I strip off and climb under the covers to start the ritual of trying to get to sleep.
My phone flashes on the nightstand.
I reach for it automatically.
There are six missed calls from Philip.
I shoot up, staring at the screen and feeling like the biggest asshole. He really did call back. I thought he was blowing me off. When was the last call? The numbers do the frustrating thing where they refuse to stay in focus in my head, but I think it was only a few minutes ago. He left a message, but I don’t bother listening before I return his call.
Which I regret the second the phone starts ringing. What if he said something important in the message? What if he said I mustn’t call him?
Philip answers almost immediately. “Hey.”
“Hey, sorry, I was playing bridge with Cynthia and I forgot my phone.” I cringe. God, Brian.
“Oh, I thought—”
“I didn’t listen to your message, though, sorry. I just called as soon as I saw you were trying to reach me.”
“That’s fine. It just said you should call me.”
“Oh, good.” Blood roars in my ears. My cheek is hot pressed to the phone.
“Listen, um…” Philip pauses and the uncertainty in his voice makes my every muscle tense. I close my eyes again, trying to prepare myself. Then he says those four awful words, “We need to talk.”
“Okay.” I manage to keep my voice steady.
“I know it’s late, but I want to see you tonight. Could we meet somewhere?” Of course he wants to see me tonight. We have work tomorrow. This has to be dealt with first.
“Okay.” If it’s bad news, can’t he just tell me over the phone so I can break down in peace, not in front of him? I suppose it’s polite though, not to do it over the phone, and I can always rely on Philip to be poli
te. “Where do you want to meet?”
“Do you know the High Line?”
“No.”
“I’ll meet you at the Hudson Yards Subway Station. I’ll be waiting under the canopy. That’s the 34th street exit.”
“When?”
“Whenever you can. I’ll wait for you.”
This whole thing is far too ominous. I almost want to drag Cynthia out of bed for moral support. That would be quite something, wouldn’t it? Me rocking up with an old lady in tow. I tug on my jeans and my boots and regret finishing Alex’s beer. I could use some Dutch courage round about now.
24
Brian
It takes me twenty minutes to get to Hudson Yards Station. I’m still not entirely sure what the High Line is, but I’m hoping it’s not a club or anywhere that has a dress code. I’m in my off-duty clothes—which are the ones that are falling apart. I huddle into my jacket as I start up the escalator towards the street Philip mentioned.
The canopy is a huge metallic modern art structure that shelters the exit. I see Philip before he sees me. He’s wearing a jacket and a scarf and he has a drink in his hands. I try to commit that to memory, just Philip standing there waiting for me, being perfect. Then I walk forward.
He sees me.
His face lights up.
Something inside of me shakes loose in surprise. I didn’t imagine this. His white teeth shine in the moonlight. There are other people about, but my vision narrows to just him. Just him, smiling.
When I get near enough, he passes me the drink—it’s still steaming—and picks up another which was balancing beside him on a post. “I was trying to keep it warm. I didn’t know how long you’d be.”
The smell of coffee washes through me. It smells like The Spindle, even though it’s only Starbucks. I’m stuck mute. There wasn’t room in my swirling dark cloud of a mood to picture him actually being glad to see me.
“High Line’s this way.” He tilts his head. I fall into step beside him. We walk up the street, past tourists and traffic. I cling to the coffee. Credible evidence.
