by Phil Stamper
“Yeah, yeah. We’ll see about that,” Sophie says with a chuckle.
She pats Pierce on the shoulder as she goes inside. It’s just us.
He comes to me. Kisses me on the neck and looks up at me. I bring my mouth down to his, and we share a light kiss.
“Stay with me tonight,” he says. “In my room.”
Sophie’s words run through my head, over and over, crowding my happy thoughts but leaving room for the doubtful ones to punch through. I want to say no. I want to say yes.
I don’t know.
I want him to be my boyfriend. I want him to fall in love with me. There are too many factors outside my control, and usually that makes me panic. I’m kind of stressed, but I wouldn’t call it panicking. Not yet, at least.
Maybe that’s why I say, “Okay.”
I exchange a long glance with Sophie before Pierce and I go upstairs. There’s so much I didn’t consider before the door shut. Like how I’d feel when he rips off his shirt and throws it on the antique chair in this room. He turns to me. He’s got a slender frame, with a built chest and a faint six-pack. God, those arms.
This is the time when I should say words. I should try to act cool. But I can’t do these things. I gawk at his body, which slowly comes closer to me. His chest hair is sparse, but present, and it trails down, lightly gathering at his stomach before it disappears beneath his shorts.
I’ve thought about this moment for a long time.
He puts an arm around me, and the lingering smell of deodorant and his musk hit me, and I know it’s a feeling, a setting, I’ll never forget. I turn off the light. We kiss, push and pull into each other in the fragile light of stars. He lifts my shirt over my head, and I freeze. He looks into my eyes, and I press my lips to his, while keeping my gut away from his body.
He sits on the bed.
I slowly remove my shoes and socks. “I left my paja—um, shorts downstairs.”
“That’s okay.” He slips his off, revealing tight black boxer briefs.
I pull down my jeans, take my time folding them, and walk to the bed. We get under the covers. I’m on my back. He’s on his side, looking up at me, holding on to me. We kiss again, and I wrap my arm around his back. Our breathing intensifies, and he pulls off me to pant. His hot breath on my neck sends chills.
His hands start at my collarbone and slide lower. His fingers graze my stomach, and I flinch. He pauses. He slides lower and I almost moan. I suck in a breath—if he goes any lower, we’ll have gone too far. I’ll be Colin, who had his first everything with Pierce before he moved on to another.
I don’t want him to stop, but I do.
But I don’t.
He looks at me, his fingers tiptoeing back up my chest.
“You’re panicking.”
“I’m panicking.”
“Right.” His smile pierces through the night. “Should we go back to making out, then?”
EIGHTEEN
The ride back is uneventful. Shane’s working when I get back, so it’s just me in the apartment. The highest highs of my weekend away with Pierce make these lows feel even lower. I open my laptop to check for new jobs, knowing I need to treat it like I did all my homework back at Avery High.
I’m an overachiever by nature. Not in that intensely smart, know-it-all kind of way, but the fear of failure drives me harder than anything. Back in high school, the few times we’d blow off homework to stay out through curfew, I’d always get up at 5:00 a.m. to finish it. Skye would turn papers in a few days late, taking the lower grade. And Megan would calculate her overall grade and convince herself she didn’t even need to do the work.
These little peculiarities in my friend group run through my mind. My email loads, and a dozen emails light up the screen.
They’re mostly from Megan.
“Fuck,” I say out loud, to no one. “Fuck fuck fuck.”
I connect to Wi-Fi and make a call. It’s still early Sunday morning in Kentucky, but she’ll pick up. Two rings. Three.
She picks up.
But she doesn’t say anything.
“Megan? Megan, I’m so sorry.”
“Did you just get back from the hospital?” she asks. “Did London’s power go out?”
“No. I’m sorry I missed our FaceTime; it totally slipped my mind. I went to Cardiff—in Wales, you know?—with that guy I was telling you about and a couple friends here.”
Again, she’s silent.
And then she’s not. “This was intensely hurtful. You are thousands of miles away from me and you go completely MIA, I can’t find any social media updates because you have no social media, and I can’t even leave you a voice mail.”
I rest my face in my hand.
“You’ve always had this fucking problem, Mart. You check out and you’re oblivious to everyone around you.”
“That’s not—” I start.
“Not true? Sure. Did you talk to your parents about this Wales trip? It’s Sunday, so you know they’re going to want a full report on your ‘new church’ or whatever—what was the sermon? Tell us about your new pastor. I shouldn’t have to remind you to do that, but I know you, and I know them.” She pauses. Her breathing comes in shallow puffs, but it feels heavy coming through the phone.
Fuck.
“I know, I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. Tell Skye I’m sorry too.”
“I’m not your housekeeper. Clean this up with him yourself.”
It’s hard to handle. I did this. I know I did. I want to shut down. I am shutting down. Like I always could do back home. Like I can never afford to do here.
“I, um … I have to practice.”
“My family is going to the Outer Banks next week, so you’re off the hook,” she says. “Might want to put the following Friday on your calendar now if you want to salvage this at all.”
She hangs up. I hang up too. I ignore the emails on my computer since none of them are about auditions. I grab my oboe and storm out of the apartment, ignoring the pain in my gut that’s half from skipping a couple of meals and half from the abject horror that just happened. I know I have to make it up to her, to them, but I don’t know how.
But she was wrong about me being oblivious. For the first time, I feel present. I’m falling for someone, and I am incredibly aware of the points of pain all across my body: chest, shoulders, neck. Tension holds me together like a suspension bridge, and I beg for that normalcy, that complacency, that’s followed me along my entire life. It’s like I’ve been thrown behind the steering wheel of a semi and I’m doing my best not to overturn and cause a sixty-car pileup.
I check out the practice rooms at Knightsbridge, but all ten of them are full. I make a mental note that midday Sunday is not a great time to get a room. I could practice at the apartment, but I don’t even want to be there, with my computer and all my emails mocking me.
My stomach growls. I need to eat something. But every single time I think about getting food, the thought of Pierce’s hands grazing my stomach hits me. I feel stuck. I feel trapped. I can’t practice, and I can’t eat.
I wander down the tree-lined, stone-paved street until I come to Regent’s Park. It’s not too far. A girl jogs past me on the right; two dogs play off leash to my left. Everyone seems more content than me, or more driven or something. I can’t place it. Is adulthood learning how to fake it? Maybe. Probably.
Local parks in my part of Kentucky are sparse, often flat. They usually have one track that wraps the perimeter. They might have tennis courts or swing sets, but that’s about as exotic as it gets. London parks are massive, sprawling. You could go on a run here every day and never take the same path.
I don’t mind getting lost in here. Turn after turn, I pass some amazing sights—a charming open-air theatre, a mini-rose garden—and now I find myself immersed in a statuesque path. Meaning a path with a lot of statues everywhere.
It’s modern art. It’s where I’d take my parents if they ever visited again. Something stately to show Mom how cul
tured this move was. She’s always been the type to push for better grades, and urge me to practice daily. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her, but I wonder if I’d be someone different if I took after my dad. Funny, loud, someone who really owns the room. I’d be more like Megan, like Pierce.
I have no idea how I’m going to answer all the church questions I know are coming, but I pull out my phone anyway to see if I can find Wi-Fi and give Mom a call, when …
When the music hits my ears. I stop. Delicate fingerpicking classical guitar realness coming from the next bush over. Music that takes such concentration, even to listen to, that I find it distracting. Even healing.
I turn the corner to see Sang sitting cross-legged on the grass with his eyes closed. His short dark hair peeks out of a worn-backward ball cap. He’s got a huge smile on his face.
My feet take me to him as he plays a perky song. I’m sure I’ve heard it before, some classic Spanish guitar ballad. His fingers fly over the strings, faster than what I heard back at Marble Arch. Faster than I ever thought possible.
I sit next to him, a safe distance away.
His music’s making me sway back and forth. We’re all alone here, between two rows of bushes. The music drifts away with a decrescendo. I want to play with him again, I realize. I let the final notes sing out into the sky, and then I clear my throat.
He opens his eyes. “Marty!”
“Sang,” I say, with a smile so big it makes my face hurt. “What are the chances?”
He laughs. “Probably pretty good. I work at the academy, remember? The glamorous life of sorting and copying choir and orchestra music.”
“I like that piece you just played. What others do you know?” I ask. “We should do a duet again sometime. The video I put up has gotten a little bit of attention, a few dozen views and, like, two comments.”
“Oh, I can share it. I don’t have a ton of subscribers, but that was fun. Know any pop songs?” he asks. “Those are always big hits on the tube—on YouTube too. I do some arrangements of everything—from Rihanna to Spice Girls. They really love Spice Girls here. Still.”
I laugh out loud as I put my oboe together. “My mom dressed up as one of them in college with her roommates or something.”
“Which one?”
“No clue. I can never remember their names.”
He just smiles and shakes his head.
We spend the next hour on his phone, finding chords and sheet music for whatever songs we can think of. I play a passionate Adele song, while he makes a Rihanna track fit underneath it. His grasp on music is unlike anything I’ve heard—beyond mine, for sure.
The ache in my shoulders has gone. I breathe easier, though I’m a bit out of breath from the whole oboeing thing. Music is calming. Friends are calming.
“All right, my fingers are aching. I think I’m done for today. Want to grab dinner? I can give you some pointers for your portfolio and applications and all that—not that I’m a big success, but I’ve gotten a few paid gigs.”
I grab my stomach. The pangs are there, but they’ve receded. I could go the rest of the night without food, probably. But I like having him as a friend, and I want to hang out with him more. And I definitely need all the help I can get.
I swallow the guilt as it rises up from my stomach, and I agree.
“Can I invite my cousin?” I ask. “He’s doing the same thing and could use some advice.”
NINETEEN
“Give me the secrets,” I say, passing Sang the ketchup for his chips. “Everyone talks about you like you’re some god.”
“It’s true,” Shane says as he unpins his work badge from his polo. “It’s actually a bit mad.”
A smile comes over Sang’s reddened face. “There’s no way to answer this without sounding like a git, but I’ll try. It helps if you’re a prodigy.”
“Oh, you’re one of those musicians.” I shake my head. “Socially stunted, cocky, performance-ready at any moment?” Laughing, I roll my eyes so he knows I’m joking.
“Suzuki method from day one,” he says, talking about the music lesson regime that churns out prodigies by starting them out early and using proven methods to teach. “Which is why I got into the academy so young.”
“Thought Suzuki was only for piano and violin. At least you’re a virtuoso at something unusual. Well, outside of Spain.”
I poke at my salad. As it happens, pub salads are as appetizing as they sound, in that they’re not. But the menu listed the calories next to each item, so I forced myself to order one of the low-cal options. This option is apparently also low-taste, so I take a sip of my water instead and let my stomach grumble.
I can’t even remember making the decision to diet, or to try to lose weight, but it feels like this insecurity has had a hold on me for so long. And maybe this is something I can control. Something I can fix. Sure, Pierce hasn’t called me out for my weight or put pressure on me to eat healthier, but he must think it. It’s in the subtext of every meal we share and every pointed comment he makes about his own diet.
“Yeah, but that bit me in the ass,” Sang explains. “I’m a glorified intern for the academy and busk on the tube for a few quid, since there aren’t enough classical guitar gigs out there.” He shakes his head. “That’s enough complaining for one day. So what kind of gigs are you looking for?”
I laugh. “The type that pay money, preferably.”
“Cheers to that,” Shane says between bites of his burger.
“Shane, I kind of know your story, but Marty, I’ve got to ask … why here?”
I sigh, not sure how to condense so many emotions, so many hopes and dreams, into a short answer. “I wanted to get away from Kentucky. America, really.”
“Marty’s on the run,” Shane says, laughing.
“Nothing so dramatic. I realized one day how much that town held me back. Or I felt like I needed to hold myself back. My best friends are great, but I was always in their shadow. I was in everyone’s shadow.”
“That’s a lot to run from. And you’re not in the shadow here?”
I shrug. “Maybe. It doesn’t feel like it. I’m making my own decisions, making friends—the people here are great. And I love being in a more, um, queer-friendly environment.”
We all clink our glasses, actually cheers-ing at that.
“I feel the same way,” Sang says.
I take a bite of tomato, and feel remorse take over my body. I hadn’t planned to eat dinner. It wasn’t in my plan, and if I want to lose weight to prepare for my next shirts-off experience with Pierce, I have to keep it up.
“So what brought you here?” Shane asks.
“Well, I’m from Calgary.” He turns to me specifically. “Canada, that is.”
I roll my eyes. “I know where Calgary is.”
“Well, you might be the first American ever to know that.” He smiles.
“I … google things, a lot. I like maps.” My face burns with embarrassment. “Let’s not get into it.”
He throws his hands up, dropping a chip on the table from a foot in the air. My embarrassment fades as we all start to laugh. His smile cuts into me, and I chalk it up to good friendship. I never made friends this easily in high school, but here I am: Pierce, Sophie, Dani, now Sang.
There’s a part of me that knows Sang is hella cute. I’m not blind to that fact. It’s like our cheeks are attached—he can’t smile without my face mimicking it. He’s bursting with energy, and everything about his hair and personality is so effortless. But I may have a hormone issue happening, and I will not be the guy who falls in love with every boy he meets.
“You’re funny,” Shane says. It’s almost a whisper. He bites his lip and stares into his glass of water.
It’s a good thing I’m focusing on one boy at a time too. Because otherwise, I might have some competition. I kick Shane under the table, and watch his cheeks redden.
“Anyway, my parents found this school,” Sang explains. “It seemed like a fun experie
nce. Came here and loved it so much I couldn’t go back.” He looks down now. “And I’ll stay here if I can find a job to prolong my visa.”
“Is that hard to do?”
“I’ve tried to get jobs. But not all of them count toward extending visas here, like that Jersey Boys stint was just to cover a maternity leave. I need a full-time, long-term opportunity to come up, fast.”
He grips his napkin harder, and he still won’t make eye contact.
“I’m glad we’re all in this together.” Shane gingerly places a hand over Sang’s. “Everyone at Knightsbridge is so starry-eyed and gets feedback from professors. They perform in all these cool venues. But they’re just delaying the inevitable. We’re good enough to get these gigs, I know it. Especially you guys.”
“I’ve been searching for a little bit longer, so maybe I’m jaded.” Sang offers a sad smirk to Shane, who in turn looks defiant.
“Some days,” Sang continues, “it’s like the universe is giving me a sign. Telling me to move home, hang up my guitar, and give up this whole thing.”
Shane clears his throat and hesitantly grips Sang’s hand with his own. “Forgive me for being dramatic here, but some days the universe is just wrong.”
Sang lifts his gaze, but I see the exhaustion taking its toll. Sang’s the experienced one of our group, but he’s only eighteen.
“Is there anything I can do?” Shane asks.
“This helps.” He offers each of us a smile. “I didn’t come out of the academy with many friends. And you’ll find out the longer you get into this mess—London on your own is not easy. It’s expensive, and I have two roommates, and we live out in fucking Tooting.”
I chuckle. “Where is that?”
“South,” Shane answers, while Sang says, “Nowhere charming.”
I look up at my phone. Sighing, I grab my bag. “I hate to say this, but I have to call my parents before they have a full-on meltdown. Texting isn’t cutting it. Did you want to walk back, Shane?”
He looks from me to Sang, who’s got his eyes locked on Shane. I feel my cheeks burn from the secondhand romantic tension.
