Cool for the Summer

1. Donovan

ONE

DONOVAN

I’ve got time to kill. How exactly should I pass the hours until meeting Jack and Pete at their magazine-spread-perfect Cape-style house? I definitely can’t show up early. My friends are probably sleeping or fucking, since their wedding party only broke up late last night.

I shudder involuntarily, still processing the fact that Pete’s married, like an actual, well-adjusted grown-up. I still think of Pete Blekitny as the fresh-faced, dumb-as-a-brick (in a nice way) kid I met when we both answered the same ad for a roommate in Chelsea nearly a decade ago. Neither of us had gotten the room, but we’d decided to go in on a place together. By pooling our resources and finding a third roommate, we’d been able to afford a shitty walk-up in Chinatown. Pete had been trying to break into the art scene, while I was desperate to put my NYU theater education to work as an actor. Pete had more success as a barista, while I perfected my acting skills waiting tables at an upscale seafood restaurant. It took every ounce of my talent to pretend to be nice to the snobby patrons. At least the tips were good.

But I haven’t waited tables in years, and Pete left the city for Rosedale, Connecticut, three years ago now. Rosedale was supposed to be a temporary refuge, a place to lick his wounds from a toxic relationship, but he ended up meeting his creative and life partner, Jack Avery, and stayed put. Together, they write and illustrate a best-selling series of books for middle schoolers. They’ve done well for themselves. Honestly, the success and domestic bliss couldn’t have happened to a couple of nicer guys.

Not that I want what Pete and Jack have. I might be taking care of their house and dog for a couple of months while they’re on their boinkfest of a European honeymoon, but their life is definitely not for me. I’m already missing having all of New York outside my front door, not to mention access to the buffet of men that is Manhattan.

The car service that picked me up from my no-frills motel lets me out on Rosedale’s main drag. The sleepy small-town vibes of the three-block stretch of two-story brick buildings don’t inspire me. Then again, I remind myself the whole point of this house-sitting gig is to get away from the city for a while, and do a favor for an old friend.

I have to take the good with the bad. So there’s not going to be a plethora of guys to choose from for the next couple of months—I’ll survive. I’ve been going through an uncharacteristic dry spell, but if I get really horny, I can always fire up one of my dating apps and see what the pickings are like in this corner of Connecticut.

Rolling my suitcase behind me, backpack over my shoulders, I head for the only place in Rosedale I really know, thanks to Pete talking my ear off about it.

Hot Brew is a small but stylish coffee shop smack in the middle of Main Street. The mid-morning sun gleams off the black and white tile interior and the pastry case is filled with tempting golden brown baked goods. My mouth waters at the scent of roasting coffee beans, a hint of spice underneath.

I met Pete’s friend Meadow, Hot Brew’s manager, at the wedding reception last night, but I don’t see the pretty goth behind the counter today. Instead, a diminutive redhead with translucent skin works the register while a hulking bear of a man handles the espresso machine as efficiently as any New York City barista. To my surprise, I may actually get a decent cup of joe in this place.

I set my bags down at an empty two-top in a corner, marking my territory, and get in line behind a woman on a cell phone with a small child at her knee. The kid alternates between coughing and smearing his snotty nose on his mother’s jean-clad legs. I take a step back. Kids are also not my thing. Another reason not to envy what Pete and Jack are embarking on. Sure, they have a sweet house, thriving careers, and they seem super happy. But wait until they have a rug rat or two—their sex life will disappear, mark my words.

The child peeks around his mother’s legs and smiles up at me. I weaken against cute little milk teeth and chubby cheeks and find myself smiling back accidentally. In self-defense, I pull out my phone to check the weather. Looks like sun for days.

When the kid and his mom have left holding their bag of goodies, it’s my turn at the counter. I start with a simple, “Good morning.”

The tiny redhead blinks at me. “Good morning?” she responds, making it into a question.

“Can I get a red eye and…something healthy?” I scan the menu on the wall. “How’s the veggie breakfast bowl?”

“It’s good?”

“Sold."

“Name for the order?”

“Van. And what’s your name?” I tap my credit card to pay.

“Ruth.”

At least she seems certain of that.

“Thanks a million, Ruth,” I say, deepening my smile as I tuck a five into the tip jar.

She blushes crimson and I chuckle to myself as I sit down at the table I’d claimed earlier. I can be charming when I want to be, and there’s no reason not to be charming to the woman in charge of my breakfast.

Mindful of the hours I still have to fill, I get my pen and notebook out of my backpack, open to an empty page and lose my smile.

I’m supposed to be writing a play.

It’s not going particularly well.

I sigh and close my notebook. Maybe I’ll think better after eating.

Ruth brings my coffee. I thank her effusively and it’s not entirely a put-on. I worked in food service long enough to know a simple thank you goes a long way. Also, after the watery crap at the motel, I’m grateful for a jolt of caffeine. She blushes again and scurries away. I can’t pretend it doesn’t do my ego good. I’m enough of a narcissist to appreciate my effect on some people. It comes in handy at auditions, not to mention social situations. I take pride in my pickup game. Lord knows I’ve had enough practice since?—

Nope. Not thinking about that. I take a sip of the red eye, piping hot and pleasantly strong, and let the drink distract me from things that shouldn't still hurt this many years later.

Halfway through my meal, I’m still wondering how I’m going to spend the next few hours until it’s safe enough to show up at Pete’s house when the chime indicating a new arrival to Hot Brew sounds. I’m surprised to recognize the man who walks through the door. He was at the wedding, but weweren’t introduced. I would’ve remembered.

This guy and Jack have the same thick honey blond hair and fair skin—they’ve got to be related. But the coffee shop newcomer is slimmer and shorter than Jack. And right now he looks like death warmed over in a preppy pink untucked button-down with the sleeves rolled up over knobby wrists. Ray-Bans cover his eyes. The baseball cap pulled low over his forehead is similar to the one I’m wearing, but this guy’s is chalk white, where mine’s a simple black.

He doesn’t remove the sunglasses as he stumbles to the counter, and I diagnose a world-class hangover. I wince in sympathy as the guy puts a hand over his stomach and whispers his order for black coffee and dry toast.

He pays with his phone and turns around. I realize I’m staring when the guy seems to stop his survey of the room at my table. I drop my head and take a bite of my food. A silly instinct, but somehow I don’t want to have been caught looking.

Even though I keep my eyes on my breakfast, I can see him walk in my direction and stop a couple of feet away. Damn my excellent peripheral vision.

“You were at the wedding,” the guy says. “Can I sit down?”

I can’t think of a reason not to share my table, even though there are a couple of open spots on the other side of the room. I lift my gaze and stare at the opaque lenses of his glasses, then shrug. “Sure.”

The man gingerly sits on the wooden cafe chair. “I’m Beck Avery.”

Beck. The only other Beck I know is a burly short-haired stagehand who shuns her given name of Rebecca.

“Donovan Eastman,” I say, surprising myself by giving my full name. Most of my friends call me Van, even if Donovan’s what’s in the playbill.

“Pete’s actor friend, right?” Beck says. “I’m Jack’s cousin.”

“You could be brothers.”

“You think? Wish we were. Jack’s the best.” Beck pulls a bottle of ibuprofen out of his pocket and sets it on the table. A thin leather bracelet dangles around his left wrist; it's woven with small beads whose colors make a rainbow. “If I die before the coffee gets here, let Jack know, okay?”

He clearly feels like shit, but I appreciate his self-deprecating sense of humor. “I guess you had fun last night.”

“A little too much fun,” Beck admits. “Haven’t partied that hard since college.”

“Must not have been that long ago,” I comment. The guy looks young, despite his current ashen pallor.

“A few years,” Beck says vaguely. “Anyway, last night was a celebration.”

“Weddings are happy occasions, I’m told.”

“I’m happy for Jack. Pete’s really cool. They’re kind of relationship goals, you know?”

I wince. So he’s one of those.

Ruth forestalls the mild rant that’s on the tip of my tongue by setting Beck’s coffee and toast on the table, and I stop her before she can hurry away. “Ruth, honey, can you bring us a big glass of water?” She nods and rushes off.

Beck takes a bite of toast, chews slowly. I feel like I’m getting a sympathetic stomachache watching him force it down.

“Dry toast is a mistake, friend,” I say lightly. “You need something greasy.”

He groans. “Don’t think I can handle it yet.”

“Black coffee on an empty stomach won’t do you any good, either.”

“I have a system,” Beck says. “Or at least, I used to. Actually, bacon sounds pretty good.”

When Ruth comes back with the water, I ask her for a bacon-and-egg breakfast sandwich and push the glass across the table. “This is for you.”

“Thanks.” Beck alternates small sips of water and coffee with bites of toast until the breakfast sandwich arrives. Then he takes the pain meds and devours the sandwich while I finish my veggie bowl. The bacon smells good, and I regret opting for the healthier choice, but I choke it down, anyway.

“Feeling a little more human?” I ask when Beck sits back in his chair and takes off his sunglasses.

“Getting there. Thanks for the assist.”

With his glasses off, I can see Beck’s eyes are pale blue. A little color has come back to his cheeks, highlighting strong cheekbones. He’s a good-looking man.

“No problem.” I turn my charming smile on full force, testing the waters. Gratifyingly, Beck’s eyes widen slightly and the color in his cheeks deepens. I’m not exactly trying to pick up Pete’s new husband’s cousin, but I’m not exactly trying not to. What am I going to do for the next few hours—actually work on my play?

“So, now that you’re no longer at death’s door, you got plans?”

Beck flicks his eyes to the big wall clock behind the register. “Not for a while. Why?”

“I was going to explore Rosedale a little. Up for a walk?”

Beck puts his hand over his flat stomach. “I think so. Fresh air sounds good.”

We clear the dishes to the counter, and I slip Ruth a ten for the breakfast sandwich.

“You don’t have to do that,” Beck says.

“My treat. Ruth, can I ask a huge favor? I’m a friend of Pete Blekitny. Could I leave my suitcase here for a couple of hours?”

“Sure?” Ruth says. “I’ll put it in the back?”

“Thanks, darling.” I tuck another five in the tip jar and shoulder my backpack. “You ready?”

Beck slides his Ray-Bans over his nose like he’s donning armor. He nods carefully. “Ready.”

As we walk outside, Beck laughs lightly. “Does your charm work on everyone? I think that girl was about to offer to have your babies.”

“Mostly just on straight women and gay men,” I say, affecting false modesty.

“Oh, I hate being a cliché,” Beck says with a dramatic sigh.

I’d been pretty sure, but I like getting the confirmation. “Don’t worry. My charm is a power I only use for good.”

“And for getting hapless men into your bed?” Beck asks wryly.

“That’s what I said. I use my power for good. And I’m very good,” I say, riding the line between smug and confident.

Beck just laughs again. “Wow. Jack said you were, um, friendly. But do lines like that actually work?”

I stop on the sidewalk outside a thrift store and put a hand on my hip. “Why do I feel like I should be offended?”

“Oh, I’m not judging. But you’re an attractive, charming actor. You probably haven’t had to work for it in a while.”

How did this conversation turn into a critique of my pickup style? But maybe I need it, since it doesn’t seem to be working on Beck. Even though he just called me attractive, he seems more amused than interested.

“What about you?” I ask, prickly now. “You never fall for a line?”

“Oh, I have. That’s how I know to be wary of them. You want to go in here?” Beck gestures to the open door of the thrift shop, then walks in without waiting for me to respond.

The interior of the shop is much darker than the bright June day outside, and I have to let my eyes adjust for a moment. Beck keeps his glasses on as he starts browsing a table full of kitchen stuff.

“This is nice,” he says, lifting up what looks like an ordinary mixing bowl.

“A bowl?”

“It’s a great size.” Beck turns it over and glances at the price. “A steal.” He tucks it under his arm and continues his perusal of the shop, stopping at a rack of used books.

I watch him for a moment, intrigued against my better judgment by this young man with wholesome good looks, a faint Texas accent, preppy clothes, and a predilection for random kitchen tools. “So, you travel far for the wedding?”

“It’s complicated,” Beck says, taking what looks like an old cookbook from the rack and putting it in the bowl. “I came from Boston, but that’s because I’ve been couch-surfing for a few weeks. Before Boston, I was in Portland. Maine, not Oregon. And before that, Hackensack. I’ve been putting a lot of miles on my car the last few months.”

“I’ve never met a preppy vagabond before.”

Beck laughs again. He seems to do that a lot. He has a nice laugh, not a giggle, but not a belly laugh, either. Somewhere in the middle.

“Preppy vagabond. I like that. No, I’m just” — he pauses as if searching for the right words, fingering the sleeve of a jean jacket with hideous patches sewn all over, then belatedly finishes his sentence — “at loose ends.”

That I can identify with. Ever since finishing the run of my last play, I’ve been at loose ends, too. I’m at a crossroads, career-wise, and I keep putting off my decision as to which path I should go down.

“Well, you’re young,” I say, to keep things casual with this near stranger. “You’ll figure it out.”

“I’m twenty-five.” Beck sighs. “Not that young anymore.”

I chuckle. “Look, I’m thirty, so don’t talk to me about not being young.”

“You’re only thirty?” Beck says, sounding surprised. Then he must realize how that sounds. “Not that you look—never mind.”

“It’s okay. I always read older. It’s the nose.” I resist touching my crooked nose, the feature that pushes my face from handsome to merely interesting.

“I like your nose,” Beck says quietly.

“Yeah?” My sixth sense for a possible hookup sharpens. Sure, it’s eleven-thirty in the morning, and we’ve only just met, but those are details. On the other hand, we can’t exactly hook up in the alley behind the thrift store. But maybe Beck’s staying an extra night in Rosedale and we could get together later. I’m about to ask what his evening plans are when Beck’s phone buzzes in his pocket, surprisingly loud in the quiet shop.

“Hold these, will you?” Without waiting for an answer, Beck pushes his finds into my arms and gets out his phone. He glances at the screen, types out a quick message, and flashes me what seems to be a regretful smile. “I gotta get going earlier than I thought.”

“Hitting the road?” I shouldn’t be disappointed.

“No, but—” The chime of my phone interrupts whatever Beck was going to say. I shift Beck’s stuff back to him and get out my own phone to see a text from Pete.

Hey, can you meet us at the house now? If you’re not free, 1 still works.

Since my outing with Beck has been cut short anyway, I don’t see why not.

I type back a quick reply and order a car from my favorite ride app while I’m at it. Beck chats with the gray-haired lady behind the sales counter as she rings up his purchases. She coos over something he says—clearly Beck has his own skills in the charming straight women department.

The ride app tells me my driver will meet me in front of Hot Brew in six minutes. Outside on the sidewalk, I feel an urge to get Beck’s number, which is ridiculous. I’m going to be spending the next two months right here in Rosedale, and who knows where Beck’s off to next?

“All set?” I ask when Beck walks out with a brown paper shopping bag with the store’s name, Second Time Around, stamped on the side. The midday sun is brighter than ever, and Beck pulls the bill of his hat down a little farther over his forehead.

“Yeah, that was fun. Sorry I have to run.” Beck smiles and again, I want to ask him for…something. I’m not sure quite what I’d ask for, and not knowing throws me off.

Finally, I say, “Keep drinking water.”

“I will.” Beck doesn’t move, but I can’t think of anything else to say.

“Well, nice meeting you.” I hold out my hand.

“Nice meeting you, Donovan,” Beck says, shaking my hand. His skin is warm and dry, and it occurs to me this is the first time we’ve touched.

Then he lets go, crosses the street, and unlocks a spiffy little black European hatchback parked at the curb.

I turn my back on him reluctantly, but I have to hustle back down the block to meet my ride, a big gray SUV.

I ask the driver to wait while I collect my bag from Ruth, and by the time I’m settled inside the vehicle, Beck’s hatchback is gone.

I shake off an unexpected pang of regret. So Beck is cute, and funny, and just a bit mysterious, with all his talk of loose ends and his strange love of mixing bowls. But I’ll probably never see him again.

The idea is strangely depressing.