by E M Lindsey
William’s father didn’t share in the struggling immigrant story. His father hadn’t come to the States to escape poverty and make a life for himself. His father was the son of a prominent Bengali actor whose children all went to Oxford. Hasan Rahman had gone into architecture and design, and had simply decided he’d be able to make a bigger profit if he moved his business to the US—which he did. His architecture firm had made the Forbes 100 list in their third year, and he married one of the attorneys on his legal team.
William had been doted on in a material sense, but his parents had never really given him their time. His mother had graced him with an Anglicized name, less melanin than most of his relatives back in Bangladesh, and lessons in four musical instruments. His father had given him his weak jaw, a Jaguar for his sixteenth birthday, and the choice to go to Eton or a fussy private school in the middle of nowhere Upstate, New York. He’d chosen the latter school, only because it meant he and his friends could sneak out and road trip through Canada and occasionally down to North Carolina where, incidentally, he fell in love with the University campus.
He told his father he wanted to be a doctor, and he’d set his sights on Duke’s prestigious medical school. Then, when his roommate in his sophomore year was found lying under the stairs in the Physics building with a bottle of opiates in his stomach, he realized everything he was putting himself through wasn’t worth it. Men like him were meant to be strong, and smart, and supersede their parents’ legacies. Instead, he sold his Jag, withdrew all the cash from his bank account, bought a train ticket, then called his father on the way to Denver where he’d been accepted into the School of Business for an online MBA. He knew it was going to be ugly. He knew there was no coming back from that conversation.
“I’m going to open a café,” he said. It was one of the last sentences he ever spoke to his father.
Ten minutes later, his phone line and credit cards were canceled. The money he had stuffed in his carry-on were the last of the five-digit funds he’d see in years. A month after that, he received a formal letter from his father’s attorney letting him know he’d been disinherited and no longer considered a member of the Rahman family. He didn’t mind losing his lifestyle so much, of course. He had no idea what struggling would be like, but it had to be better than knowing his only worth was contingent on being able to live up to his father’s expectations.
But he couldn’t pretend like losing his family wasn’t wrenching in its own way. He found out his parents had a daughter through his aunt’s Facebook page. The birth announcement was posted barely seven months after the letter of disinheritance had come in, and it informed everyone that his mother and father were happy to welcome their only child into the world. That was the moment it really hit home, when he realized he was less than dead to them. He was less than a ghost. To them—he’d never existed.
Will never told anyone about where he’d come from. He kept his diploma squirreled away in a box where no one would happen upon it. He’d developed a taste for packaged ramen over Kobe beef, he paid his electric bill the day before the disconnect notice date, and his current car had been born only five years after him.
He supposed, in a way, not having to come out to his parents and hide yet another piece of who he was to protect the flow of cash was the only other bonus to getting himself cut off young. He left his college dorm a closeted twenty-one-year-old nobody with a handful of cash and a stoner roommate.
Six years later, he was a gay twenty-seven-year-old barista with enough credit to apply for a business loan to take over some rental property and open his own café in Fairfield. It wasn’t exactly the life he’d dreamed of either, but it was something he’d built himself, from the ground up, without relying on anything except his own hard work and determination.
It was a good life. It was his life. He didn’t let himself feel bad about what he’d given up for it, because what was the point. He knew his little sister’s name was Molly, and that she had blue eyes like their mom, and brown skin just like him. He knew her school was expensive and her sweet sixteen would be lavish enough to be televised, and he knew that she would never, ever know his name.
He was just fine. His life was mostly on track. He had a future in the coffee business, and a sort of boyfriend who maybe wasn’t great, but Will convinced himself that it was easier to just let it be than to confront the guy over the drama he’d been bringing around lately. Even if it meant having repeated fights like the one he was currently in.
“I don’t know why you’re pissed at me, Joe,” Will said to the man staring at him with a disgruntled look on his face, and he threw a handful of empty Gatorade bottles into the bag he was holding. Joe was on the sofa, arms crossed, chin tucked back toward his neck the way he always did when he was pissed. He reminded Will a little of a Galapagos Tortoise, and it was hard not to laugh at the mental image. “You have nothing to do with this. You are not entitled to any of that money.”
Joe rolled his eyes and refused to look over at Will. The funny thing was, Joe’s pouting used to work. Will had spent his formative, post-come-out years too much of a pushover, afraid he hadn’t been gay long enough to hook a man who truly wanted to be with him. When he met Joe at a party, the guy had established himself as the alpha almost immediately, and Will let the guy run things for too damn long.
Now, five years later, their on-again off-again toxic mess was bleeding into Will’s professional life because Joe wanted a free ride. Joe wanted to be a kept man, and he wanted Will to do the keeping.
“You act like you can’t spare it,” Joe growled at him. “It’s only ten grand, and you’re getting five times that.”
“Every dime of that money is going into the café,” Will told him, a record on repeat so many times he didn’t have to consciously think about the words spilling out of his mouth. “It’s not mine. It’s a business loan.”
“You could buy used shit for the café. I mean, it’s not like anyone will know the difference. I need this fucking car, Abeeb.”
Will bristled at the made-up, racist epithet Joe used to get under his skin, and he dropped the bag, spinning around to face him. “Get out of my apartment.”
Joe rose, towering over Will by at least four inches. His steps were filled with menace, and Will caught himself moving backward on instinct before he planted his feet and kept his ground. “I’m going to kick your ass,” Joe growled in Will’s face.
“Okay, go for it. Then you can go to jail and find someone else to pay for your car and your bail money,” Will retorted. He felt a small surge of triumph when there wasn’t the faintest tremble to his words.
Joe’s jaw ticked with tension, and he lifted his leg, stomping his foot down hard on Will’s toes. It was enough force to hurt, but not enough to break anything. Just a show of his brute strength which he relied on to get his way. Only, Will was tired. He was tired of this man, and too busy to let himself get involved in this drama.
“Get out. Or I’m going to have you thrown out,” Will finally said.
Joe stared at him so long, Will felt a little unsure what would happen next. He held his breath a while after the front door slammed, his entire body poised for Joe to come ripping back through the door to make the entire situation worse. A moment like this should have left him feeling brave, but instead he felt like he’d let his personal life get so far out of control, there was no hope in reclaiming it. He didn’t understand himself when it came to the other man. Years of dealing with Joe’s demands and bad attitude, and Will knew he was worth so much more. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to make it stick whenever he kicked Joe out.
Every time. Every time Joe came crawling back, contrite and full of lies masked as promises to change, he’d give in. He would tell himself, ‘I’m just too tired to deal with a break up, I have too much going on,’ because it was easier to lie to himself too.
“This has to stop,” he breathed out when it was obvious Joe had decided to amuse himself elsewhere. “Something has to gi
ve.”
He just didn’t know what.
The shrill ringing of his phone interrupted his thoughts, and he jolted before hurrying to the kitchen counter. He saw Holland’s number on the screen and felt a surge of guilt and panic. Joe’s demands had distracted Will, who had an appointment with his realtor to sign the lease for the shop. One of the most important meetings of his life, and Joe had caused him to forget. “Hey,” he said, scrambling for his keys, “I’m just walking out the door now.”
“Okay, but you know it makes us all look bad when you can’t keep appointment times, babe,” she chided gently.
Will squeezed his eyes shut. “I know. I’m sorry it’s just…Joe was here and…”
“Fuck,” Holland breathed out. “Look, I’m going to smooth things over while you haul ass to the office, okay? Then we’ll get these papers signed, we’ll write the check, and you can tell me about it over a fat plate of enchiladas. Deal?”
“I love you,” he told her as he threw himself behind the wheel of his car.
She laughed. “Get here ten minutes ago and prove it.”
Incapable of time travel, Will still gave it his best shot, jamming the pedal to the floor and making it to the broker’s in record time. He found parking close to the office, then took a minute to catch his breath as he fumbled to get his paperwork in order. He tried not to let the irritated expression of the man behind the archaic laptop put him off, and he sank down into the chair, hoping his heart wasn’t going to burst from his chest, Loony Tunes style.
“Sorry,” he said when he could speak properly.
“I already told them about the traffic,” Holland told him pointedly. “Just get ready to spend a small eternity signing your name on things, and eventually we can call it a day.”
“I’ll try to make it quick,” the man said, his too-straight, too-white Veneers showing over his bottom lip. “I have another appointment right after yours.”
“Luckily, I’m great at signing my name,” Will told him. “Talent for it.”
Holland gave him a ‘shut-up’ look, but he didn’t think anything could make this afternoon worse. The only consolation was after that, he didn’t really need to talk. Veneers man, known as Greg, simply walked him through each page, directing him where to initial and where to sign.
Holland hadn’t been lying about the short eternity, but that was okay. By the end of it, he shook Greg’s hand, was given a set of keys, and he stepped out of the office a real business owner. Something about it was heady and fantastic, but his mood was dimmed by Joe’s voice echoing in his head, demanding money.
“Why do you look like someone just kicked your puppy?” Holland demanded. “You just leased a building for your café. You should be celebrating.” She reached for the door to the restaurant a few buildings down and held it open for him.
Will gave her a smile and a shrug as he passed through, but he knew his day was showing on his face. He’d never been great at hiding his feelings, and now was no exception.
“It’s Joe, right?” she asked as they walked up to the host stand. “I swear to god, I haven’t even properly met him, but that man had better pray he never sees me in public.”
At that, Will managed a slightly wider smile, and she grinned back as they were shown to a table at the back of the restaurant. They passed another table, four guys covered in ink talking quietly over nachos, and Will felt his stomach swoop a little. He didn’t have tattoos of his own, he’d never been able to quite move past that part of his cultural upbringing, but the look of them always fascinated him. Something about the sight of harsh lines cut into soft skin always made him look twice.
He did his best not to stare, and deliberately sat with his back to them so he wouldn’t be tempted. Holland deserved his full attention anyway, with how many of his messes she’d been cleaning up that month.
“Spill,” she said after the server dropped off chips, salsa, and waters.
Will stirred some lemon into his salsa with the edge of his chip and tried not to sound defeated in spite of feeling it. “He wants me to return most of the equipment I bought and outfit the place with used appliances.”
Holland’s brows dipped. “You already did that. All your fridges and ovens are second hand.”
“Yeah. He thinks that everything in the café should be,” Will said quietly.
She stared just long enough to figure it out. “He wants money.”
“Twenty grand, to buy some car,” he muttered. He shoved the chip into his mouth, then coughed a little as he bit directly into a jalapeno seed.
“He wants you to buy him a car,” Holland repeated flatly.
Fortunately, Will was saved from having to explain for at least the two minutes it took to give their orders. Unfortunately, the servers were efficient, and soon enough he was forced to meet Holland’s expectant gaze. “He’s been flipping cars. Or trying to,” Will muttered, jabbing his straw into the lemon floating below the ice in his water.
“Jesus Christ. Wasn’t he doing that stupid storage locker thing last month?” she asked.
Will blushed, because he’d given almost two-thousand dollars of his savings to Joe for that, in spite of knowing it wasn’t going to pay off. “He does a lot of stupid stuff to try and make quick money.”
“And he ends up losing all of yours,” she said, though he didn’t need the reminder. After a moment, Holland reached over and gripped his wrist firmly, forcing him to meet her gaze. “Don’t do it. I know you have some sort of weakness for this asshole, but you cannot risk your investment.”
“I’m not going to,” Will said, and he meant it. Joe could posture and huff and threaten all he wanted. Hell, he could kick the crap out of Will if it came down to it, but he wasn’t giving up the cash. “He doesn’t have access to the business account, and there’s nothing he could say to make me risk it. I’m done with him.”
She gave him a skeptical look and he knew he deserved it. “I’m not saying I don’t believe that’s what you want, but babe—”
“Yeah, I know. My history sucks. Believe me, I kick myself over it all the time.”
“I just don’t see how the hell you two even got together. I mean, first of all you’re gorgeous and he looks like he just rolled out from under a bridge. Secondly, you’re not a goddamn snake like him,” she said. “You have empathy and morals.”
Will couldn’t help but give her a sad smile. “I was in a bad place when I met him,” he confessed. “I had just moved here, and I was living in this awful little apartment infested with roaches. I was making like four bucks an hour over at The Mean Bean where the jerk who owned it made us all split tips—with him included. I’d just come out of the closet and had four awful dates under my belt with men who were worse than Joe. My self-esteem was pretty much rock bottom, and…” He trailed off with a shrug. “Joe’s an opportunist.”
“So, he saw the opportunity to leech off a broke ass college student?” Holland asked.
Feeling his cheeks heat, he shrugged. “I bragged about my degree from a prestigious University. Told him I was getting my MBA, bigged myself up. I was too embarrassed to admit that I was some trust fund kid who had been cut off because I decided to go make cappuccinos instead of graduating from medical school without a cent of student loan debt.”
The corner of her mouth lifted. “Are you saying you regret your life choices?”
“No,” Will said, and felt simultaneously amused and sick when he finished with, “I regret walking into the bathroom with him the night we met.” When she continued to stare at him, he sighed and continued. “He was sloppy drunk and had been trying to get my attention all night. When I walked in there with him, he pulled his jeans down, pointed to his erection, and said, ‘it’s not going to suck itself’.” He swallowed thickly. “And I gave in.”
Her eyes went wide. “Please tell me that’s an exaggeration.”
“Okay,” he said with a shrug, “that’s an exaggeration.”
“Babe,” she groaned, d
ropping her head forward.
“I can’t help it. I’m a moron half the time, and he seems to know exactly what buttons to push to keep me that way. But I’m not buying him that car. I swear.”
“Whatever he can do to you, I can do ten times worse,” she warned him. She fell quiet a minute when their food was delivered, but before he could pick up his fork, she leaned in. “I mean that. I’m a terrifying mother fucker and I will ruin his life if he takes a single dime of that money.”
“I swear on everything I hold dear,” he told her. And at the very least, he meant those words.
Chapter Three
Sitting in the middle of the café floor, Will realized the place had an almost haunted feel to it. Every light was out, and the chairs were up on the tables from the final floor polish. With the sun having long since set, the only light was the faded glow under shaded lamps along the street, but there was no foot-traffic anymore at half-one in the morning. The only place left open was the little tattoo shop a few doors down, but Will wasn’t brave enough to meet his neighbors just yet.
Reaching into the plastic bag, Will pulled out his small packet of store-bought cookies and a single-serving of chocolate almond milk. He shuffled backward until he felt the wall against his shoulders, then relaxed and pulled one of the cookies out of the pack. It had that funny taste of chemicals and fake chocolate, and yet it was one of the most delicious things he’d ever tasted, because he was eating it here. He was in his café, sitting on the floor of the thing he’d dreamt of since he left North Carolina, and he’d done it by himself.
He’d clawed his way to the surface of the hole he’d dug himself and no one could take that away from him. He had a mound of student loan debt he wasn’t sure he’d ever be rid of, but it didn’t matter, because his life belonged to him. His phone buzzing beside him interrupted his thoughts, the screen reflecting on the white tiles, but he didn’t look at it.
