by Ana Ashley
Our conversation had flowed so naturally, and I couldn't remember ever sharing so much of my life with someone who wasn't a regular presence in it. Isaac was the only person who knew everything about me, and it had taken almost two years of friendship for me to open up.
I’d lived alone since I was eighteen, making the small two-bedroom apartment I’d shared with my mom my own. There were memories of her everywhere, but I managed to add a few of my touches, including making my old bedroom into a large closet slash office. As I went in to grab a pair of boxer briefs to wear after my shower, I looked over to the opposite building.
Joel would be getting ready for bed too. A rush of need went through me, and I felt my body react to the memory of Joel's slim body pressing against mine earlier this evening. My jeans suddenly became too tight for comfort.
I walked to the balcony and did what I hadn’t done in twelve years. I opened the door. I hoped the silent message would be received on the other side of the street.
Then I went back to the bathroom, stepped into the shower, and turned it on. The hot water was like a balm to my sore muscles. I stretched and worked out the kinks from bending over the kitchen worktop all day, but it looked like my blood was determined to remain in the one area I was working hard to ignore, no pun intended.
I had known I was gay when I was thirteen. Or, at least, I thought I’d been in love with someone of the same gender at that age. I’d never been particularly attracted to girls, but then again, no other boy captured my attention, either. I just hadn’t thought of labels at the time.
Joel moved away when we were eight, and slowly but surely my feelings went from confused to realizing that my best friend, the person I’d grown up with and couldn't stand to be separated from, wasn't just my best friend; he was my soulmate.
Of course, that was at thirteen. Now, at twenty-six, I was almost confident it was just a crush. Although, if I was truly honest with myself, I hadn't been interested in anyone since, having chosen instead to honor my mom’s memory with my work at the café.
I thought of Joel's beautiful blue eyes, like sapphires, and his lips, which looked as soft as cotton candy, and I wondered if they'd be as sweet. Without much conscious thought, I grabbed hold of my cock and squeezed it hard. I stroked slowly but firmly, indulging in the pleasure. I wondered what his lips would feel—
“Fuck. No,” I shouted to no one. What sort of person does this? I shouldn't even be thinking of Joel this way. I turned the water off and grabbed a towel to dry, forcing myself to think of anything else but Joel.
Feeling unsettled and frustrated, I picked up my recipe notepad on the way to my room, hoping that going through some notes would eventually help me sleep.
It did work because after only ten minutes, I was struggling to keep my eyes open. The last thing I remembered was that I didn't tell Joel about the journal. I would have to text him in the morning.
I woke up feeling surprisingly rested. Outside was barely light enough to be called day, and I could tell this was going to be another cold and crisp morning until the sun would come out to burn the morning fog. I went to the bathroom to start my morning routine, and as I walked past the spare bedroom, I realized the balcony door was open.
Everything hit me all at once—dinner at the café, walking home with Joel, our natural conversation, and then opening the balcony door before I went to bed like in the olden days.
Then immediately guilt struck. I knew I couldn't allow myself to explore any feelings I may still be harboring for Joel. I wasn't out. I couldn't be out. I knew Joel was out to his family, and they were supportive. I’d never heard his grandparents saying anything that meant they were anything but. My own experience was very different.
As I settled into my office to do my regular exercises and weights, I allowed my mind to drift and get lost in the mess that was my life.
Being gay in Portugal didn't carry the same stigma as it once had. At least not openly. In one's home, though, it was an entirely different picture. I knew there were many young people whose parents had kicked them out of their homes and disowned them for being gay, leaving them to fend for themselves at a young age.
My best friend, Isaac, had been one of those kids. At seventeen and coming from a loving, stable family, he thought he was safe coming out to his parents. They ended up throwing him out of the only home he had ever known, and with no family left, he would have been on the streets if not for me and his brother, Alexandre.
I was a year older than Isaac, and even at eighteen, it was on rare occasions that my aunt and uncle would visit my apartment. I’d been self-sufficient and spent so much time at the café they hadn’t felt the need to do any extra checking up on me. That meant Isaac had been able to live with me while he finished school and got a job to support himself. Alexandre was also a good friend, but being younger than Isaac, it meant he’d been afraid to stick by his brother and become a burden because he knew what the likely outcome would be.
However, Alexandre did stay by Isaac’s side throughout and showed all the support he had been able to until he was old enough to tell their parents where they could stuff their homophobia.
Alexandre visited his brother as often as he could, and their relationship had only become stronger. It sometimes made me a little jealous to see them together. How close they were and the past they shared, as well as the promise of a future full of love and support for each other. I had once thought I had that with Joel, even before I realized my feelings ran deeper.
My aunt didn't know I was gay. When I realized I had feelings for Joel, it took me a whole year of trying to make sense of it all, and I hoped to see Joel the following summer. He didn't return to Portugal, and then when I decided to come out as gay to my mom, she became ill, so it didn't seem like it was an important thing to do at the time. I didn't have a boyfriend, and the person I wanted to be with was across the Atlantic. My priority then was to look after Mom and hold on to her for as long as I could.
My uncle knew, or at least he had witnessed an event and had come to his own conclusions. They weren't far from the truth, but his reaction to what he’d seen made it impossible for me to come out. I wouldn't be kicked out of my house, and my business was my own, but while it seemed as though I had the power to control my life and how I lived it, I was also afraid I would lose the relationship with my only remaining blood relative, my aunt. My uncle knew that, so for now, the status quo had shifted very much to his side.
I did wonder how my aunt would react if she found out. Deep down, I wanted to believe she would be supportive and almost felt it with every bit of love she showed me, but not having had a chance to tell my mom made me so much more reluctant to take the chance.
With my exercise session finished, I grabbed a quick shower and walked back to the café. During my shower, I’d tried hard not to let my thoughts go where they had gone the night before. I had to make a decision that I would settle with being friends with Joel and nothing more. Let's face it, even if I was out, there was a substantial possibility he wouldn't be interested in me. Who knew what kind of guys he was into, and he may already have a boyfriend. He had mentioned his friend Max, and while it sounded as though they were just good friends like Isaac and me, I didn't know enough about their relationship to put my mind at ease that it was nothing more.
It was just before six when I got to the café. I pulled the set of keys out of my pocket, feeling their comforting weight and the jingling sound as familiar as the door they opened.
This had been my mom’s set of keys. I had no idea what half of them opened, but my mom had carried them everywhere, so I did too. Holding all the keys together was a keyring with the Heart of Viana, an intricate design that my mom had always loved.
I looked for the key that opened the back door of the café leading to the kitchen, and my eyes landed on an odd key that didn’t look like any of the others in the bunch.
I’d once gone around my apartment and the café trying to open everything tha
t had a lock in an attempt to find out what it was that particular key unlocked, but that had turned out to be a fruitless search.
Maybe one day I’d find out. I held up the correct key and opened the café door.
I loved the smell of my kitchen in the morning. It was warm before I turned on the air conditioning, and it always smelled of baked goods, almost as though there was permanently something just ready to come out of the oven.
First thing in the morning, before the scent of my baking took over the space, I could also smell my mom. It was something that hit me every day, and I rejoiced in it, allowing myself to wallow in the warmth and smell of the kitchen. For those first few minutes of the day, I felt as though my mom was near me, enveloping me in her arms with the best hug a son could ask for.
I loved her so much and missed her like crazy, and I was so lucky to experience this every day. This feeling got me up every morning and made me look forward to going to work. I knew many people who’d lost loved ones wouldn't be lucky enough to have what I had, a daily dose of comfort, and I also knew people who wouldn’t even have that from their living relatives.
“Time to get to work, David,” I muttered as I made a cup of coffee and got started.
For all my uncle's shortcomings when it came to me, I couldn't fault his thoroughness when it came to keeping the kitchen spotless after my shift. It was a pleasure to have a kitchen that was ready for use first thing. We served light snacks throughout the day, which required the use of the kitchen and some of the equipment, but I always left it clean.
Sometimes I could swear my uncle recleaned some of the implements that I already had, even stuff that wouldn’t have been used during his shift after I left.
I started making the filling for the custard tarts, getting the ingredients from the pantry and lining them up on the counter in order of use. I always worked on the pastry throughout the day as it was all handmade and had to rest in the fridge in between being worked and folded to get the crispy flakes the tarts were known for.
I loved this part of the production: mixing ingredients, making sure the sugar was at the right point of boiling, and trying not to get any lumps in the flour-and-milk mix. Then there was the delicate balance of the lemon and cinnamon flavors. Leaving the cinnamon sticks in the milk too long would make the tarts taste too spicy. Not long enough and you couldn't taste it. I felt like an alchemist.
Once I had the custard prepared, I let it rest while I prepared the pastry. This part was a bit more automatic. I got the pre-made pastry dough out of the fridge and lined up the individual cases onto the trays. Then I stretched it, rolled it into a sausage shape, and cut the individual slices that would go in the cases. The best addition to my kitchen was a machine that helped shape the pastry dough. Before I had this equipment, the preparation stage of the custard tarts took me a whole hour longer as each piece of dough had to be pressed into the cases individually.
With the cases now ready, I added the custard and got them in the oven. I’d need to make two batches of one hundred and twenty-four each. Though this seemed like a lot, they were sure to sell out before the day was done.
With the tarts baking in one of the ovens, it was time to get the bread ready. I loved homemade bread and often made it for myself at home. In the café, however, we didn't have the capacity to make our own, so we sourced the best available from a company that sold it frozen. We only had to finish the baking stage in the oven. It was mainly used for sandwiches and to serve with other snacks, so I wasn't too particular about not making it myself.
At seven-thirty, we were ready to open. I usually did the first hour and a half on my own as we didn't quite have a rush of customers, but those that came in the morning for their espresso were fiercely loyal and deserved the early opening time.
On and off during the morning, I'd thought about the text I needed to send Joel, but I didn't have a chance to do it until midmorning.
David: “Hi, Joel, this is David. I forgot to mention yesterday that I have something to show you. If you want, we could grab a bite at some point, and I could tell you about it?”
As soon as I sent the text, I put the phone in my pocket and cleaned up the kitchen counters. Then I started preparing the pastry for tomorrow's custard tarts, followed by an order I had for a birthday cake.
It didn't take too long until I felt the phone vibrating in my pocket. My heart beat a little faster with the anticipation of seeing Joel's reply, assuming that was, in fact, a text message from Joel. It could also be Isaac asking for some help at the LGBTQ youth center he ran, but I wouldn't find out for a few more minutes as I had my hands in the dough.
I pulled my phone out as soon as I was able to wash my hands, and I couldn’t contain the wide smile that spread across my face when I saw the incoming text was from Joel.
Joel: “Hi, David. Wow, you got me curious. I've got nothing planned today, so if you like, I can meet you after work. How about a drink and snack at Pedro's? Are they still in business?”
Pedro's was a small snack bar on the beach. It was more accurately described as a shed, but Pedro, the owner, was a local man who knew everybody and had always shown a particular preference for the two of us since he had gone to school with our moms. I always thought he’d been that friendly so we would hang around there more often, which would allow him to report back to our moms. I still went there occasionally for a drink if I happened to do a run at the beach in the afternoon.
DAVID: “Pedro's is still there, as is Pedro. Meet me in the café at three?”
JOEL: “Sure, see you later! :-)”
6
Joel
I woke up reasonably early, familiar fresh air coming in from the small bedroom thanks to the open balcony door. In New York, I couldn't afford to keep the windows open because of the noise. The day was likely to be a hot one, but for now, the crisp bed sheets felt like heaven.
I didn't have a plan for today; it was my first full day back, so I was going to take it easy, have a lazy morning, and maybe go to the beach in the afternoon.
I shouldn’t have been surprised by the amount of food my grandmother had left for me, but I still chuckled when I opened the fridge to find it brimming with three different types of ham, sliced cheese, yogurt, and an assortment of vegetables and meats. There was also sweet bread and jam in the cupboard, so I made myself a light breakfast and sat on the balcony off the living room drinking my coffee and watching the people go by down below.
I had to admit I’d never really paid much attention to how people in New York presented themselves, but it was striking how different the people were here. Men and women walked past, going about their lives, some going to work, some running errands, and a few people carrying shopping bags full to the brim with fresh produce from the local market. One thing they all had in common was how they dressed. Men all wore shirts and women walked the uneven sidewalks in their best clothes and high-heeled sandals.
The warmth and brightness of the weather were reflected in the colors they wore: whites, bright pinks, lime greens, yellows. There were no season colors or trends, as I’d heard my friends discuss so many times. This was just how they were. They liked to present the best of themselves every day. Very few people wore casual clothes, and those that did were mostly young people or students. I wondered if social media had as much influence here as it did in America where people wore clothes and followed trends just because some allegedly famous person had done it on Instagram or Facebook.
A group of people walked by, talking loudly about someone’s wedding. It made me think of family and yesterday evening. It had been surprisingly easy to talk to my cousins. Despite the close proximity of our ages, we hadn’t been close growing up because they weren't immediately local like David, so I was pleased that we’d found some common topics of discussion.
One of my cousins, Tânia, who was also a teacher at a school in Almada, told me about the student summer exchange programs they run. Students who wanted to improve their English la
nguage would usually go to London, but Tânia would like to explore some options in America.
I never considered working with other schools abroad, but it would make sense to try and connect with Portuguese schools now that my program was likely to be made official. It was an exciting prospect for the students, and I could see myself enjoying running the program. Especially if I had the opportunity to work with my cousin. I would have to arrange to meet up with her soon and then contact my principal at the school.
As I thought of work back in New York, I remembered I hadn't texted Max yet to let him know I arrived safely and also to check that all was okay at the apartment.
By my calculations, Max would be just about finishing a shift, so I texted, and his reply came through almost immediately, letting me know that all was fine at the apartment. Apparently, I’d just got a new hunky bear of a neighbor, and then I was ordered to start having fun right the fuck now.
I laughed at Max's text and hoped for one of two things: that my neighbor was gay and open to Max's interest or that he had a great sense of humor and tolerance.
I was putting the phone down again when a text from David came through. My heart did a little summersault at David's request to meet up at some point.
Would I sound too desperate if I suggested meeting today?
Screw it. I didn't have anything else to do.
I made myself another coffee as I waited for David's reply, which felt like forever. I wanted to see him again sooner rather than later. We got along so well last night, and I hoped I would have the chance to get closer to him.
Just thinking of David got my heart beating a little faster, or maybe it was the caffeine. Regardless, I was looking forward to more time with him. I was also curious to know what it was he had to show me.
