4. Beck
FOUR
BECK
Okay, so maybe this summer won’t be a total shitshow.
After Donovan and I raid the fridge for wedding reception leftovers and serve ourselves a curious, but not unsatisfying, early supper of mini quiches, fruit skewers, and carnitas from last night’s taco bar, my headache is almost gone. The liter of water I down helps, too.
We manage to feed Cleo her dinner according to the comically detailed instructions left by Pete. Next up—escorting her on her evening walk.
I don my sunglasses again, but that’s because the sun is still high in the sky this close to the solstice, not because I’m going to die if I don’t.
Still, I happily let Donovan take charge of Cleo’s lead while we walk on the grassy shoulder of Wild Rose Lane. Pete sketched out a couple of his and Jack’s favorite walking routes, and I study the directions. “If we turn left up here, there’s a long street that ends in a cul-de-sac.”
“Left, got it,” Donovan says easily. He’s been pretty easy since I woke up from my nap. He gave me the short version of Pete’s care guide and cleaned up the kitchen after our meal. I’m still getting my bearings, but so far it doesn’t seem like this co-house-sitting, co-dog-sitting thing will be a huge problem.
“So, tell me your life story,” I say as we veer onto Turner Street.
Donovan stumbles but rights himself before he actually falls. “Excuse me?”
“Your life story,” I repeat. “We’re going to be living with each other for the next two months. Let’s skip to the good stuff.”
“I’m pretty boring.”
“Well, that’s a total lie,” I scoff. “You have a super cool job, for one thing. Did you always want to be an actor? Where are you from? Do you have any siblings? What about college?”
He laughs and pauses to let Cleo sniff a mailbox post in front of a colonial-style house. I slow to wait for them.
“You really want to know? Or are you just being polite?”
“‘Stop being polite and start getting real,’” I intone.
“You’re too young to have watched The Real World ,” he says skeptically.
I grin, pleased he picked up the reference. “I had cool older cousins, remember? I watched a lot of shit I probably shouldn’t have.” I think about waiting out hot Texas summer days in Jack’s parents’ basement watching TV and playing video games with Jack and his brother and sister.
“Where were your parents while you were rotting your brain with reality TV?” Donovan asks.
At the mention of my own parents, I suppress a grimace and deploy my well-practiced deflection technique. “Nope. I asked you first. Come on, pony up the deets, Donovan.”
Cleo, done with her inspection, ambles on, and we follow obediently.
“Fine. I wanted to be an actor from the first time I saw live theater. I grew up in Upstate New York and?—”
“Where upstate?”
“This tiny little town near the Finger Lakes. Beautiful and boring. Kind of like Rosedale, actually. Anyway, in seventh grade my mom took me to see a touring production of Phantom . I was hooked. Unfortunately, I can’t carry a tune in a tote bag, so I stick to plays.”
I eye him and try to picture an adolescent Donovan being captivated by a romantic eighties-era musical. It’s hard to think of him as anything but effortlessly charismatic, but it’s comforting to imagine he was a theater dork before he was Donovan Eastman, Broadway star.
When I realize I’ve been looking at his charmingly crooked profile for too long, I rush to fill the silence. “I’m not that into musicals, no offense.”
“What? Don’t they revoke your gay card for that?” he asks with mock severity.
I smile wryly. “I know, I’m such a disappointment.” If only it were that easy.
“Anyway, what were your other questions?”
“Siblings? College? Big break?”
Donovan shakes his head, as if he can’t believe he’s letting me bully him, but he answers anyway. “One sister, married with kids, is still upstate. I went to NYU, did the theater program, waited tables forever, finally broke out a few years ago with a great part in a hot play that got nominated for a bunch of Tonys. I’ve been supporting myself as an actor ever since, mostly theater but some commercials and guest spots on TV. I’ve been lucky, but I also could have quit so many times and I just…didn’t.”
“That’s cool.” I admire him for sticking with what is no doubt a demoralizing job with more lows than highs. “You don’t seem like a quitter.”
“According to Pete, I’m stubborn.”
“Huh. Don’t like people telling you what to do?”
“Hey, I can take direction. When called for,” Donovan says with a sly smile.
I purse my lips. He could be referring to the directors of his plays, but it kind of sounds like he’s talking about taking direction in the bedroom. I hastily push the mental images that crop up as far to the back of my brain as I can.
“So, why are you here?”
“Why are any of us here?” Donovan answers facetiously, gesturing grandly to the tree-lined street of large grassy lots and well-kept post-war houses.
I give him my bitchiest glare and Donovan relents, dropping his hands to his sides. “I’m here because Pete asked me to take care of Cleo, and he never asks me for anything.”
For the first time, it occurs to me that maybe he and Pete have a romantic history. I swallow. Should I press my luck and ask? It really isn’t any of my business, and Donovan and I are getting along so far—I don’t want to make the next two months any more awkward than they’re already going to be.
Instead, I say, “That was nice of you, to upend your life like that.”
He lets out a little huff. “Well, if we’re being honest here, I was kind of excited about the chance to get out of the city. I lost my lease about a month ago and I’ve been imposing on another friend ever since. My last show ended around the same time, and my agent’s working on setting me up with something for the fall, but in the meantime, I’m supposed to be writing a play.”
“You’re a playwright, too?” How many layers does this onion have?
“Not really.” Donovan seems uncomfortable at the term. When I lift my eyebrows, he elaborates. “I wrote a little one-act on a whim and, without telling me, my agent entered it into a contest. Somehow it won. Suddenly, I had producers wanting to talk to me. I never thought about writing seriously before, but Joan thinks I’m getting burned out, told me to take a break from the grind of auditions and eight shows a week and stew in my creative juices. Whatever that means.”
The irritation in his voice doesn’t distract me from the vulnerability on his face. It’s strange to see him uncertain about something, since he’s projected effortless competence all day. I want to be reassuring, but despite this accelerated get-to-know-you game, I really don’t know him well enough to be sure what to say, so I keep it light. “Stewing in creative juices—sounds delicious.”
He laughs a little, making the corners of his eyes crease attractively. I deliberately turn my gaze away and land on a house at the very end of the street. It’s different from the others we’ve passed—the front yard is an overgrown tangle of grass and rose bushes, the windows are dark, and there’s no car in the gravel driveway. A yellow newspaper sits disintegrating on the front step. The dark blue paint on the charming two-story wood frame house is peeling around the windows and the front door looks like it was once white but is now mottled green with some kind of moss.
“A fairy-tale cottage,” I whisper, pushing my sunglasses down my nose so I can see it more clearly.
Donovan squints at the property. “A dump,” he says flatly.
“A fixer-upper,” I correct him. There’s something about the house, clearly unlived-in, that makes me ache a little. Every other house on the street is tidy and neat. Boring. This one has gone to seed but has more character than all the rest. “I wonder if it’s on the market.”
“You looking to buy?” He makes it sound like a joke.
I open my mouth, then think better of it. People tend to treat me differently after I explain about my family. Instead, I shake my head. “You’re right. I shouldn’t tempt myself with things I can’t have.”
Donovan stares at the house for another minute, letting Cleo explore the overgrown flowerbed outside the split-rail fence that separates the front yard from the sidewalk.
“Wonder what the story is,” he muses. “Squabbling relatives? Maybe it’s haunted.”
“Ah, your writer’s imagination is showing,” I say, delighted.
He shrugs. “More likely the owner got moved to assisted living and their kids don’t know what to do with it.”
“Way to take the romance out of it,” I say dryly. “Well, anyway, you’re right. It would be a lot of work to fix it up.”
“You know about that kind of thing?” Donovan asks when we turn back toward home, Cleo leading the way.
“Not really. I once painted my dorm room purple—other than that, I’m not really handy. But I could learn.” I picture myself as a house flipper, rewiring and, uh, doing plumbing…things. It doesn’t exactly appeal. But I could hire people—that’s what Jack and Pete did when they bought their house. They redid the kitchen and bathrooms, added a studio for Pete, and completely overhauled the pool.
I wonder what the kitchen’s like in the dark blue house. I might not be handy, but I like to cook, and I love to bake. The kitchen is usually the only place I can fully relax.
“Purple?” Donovan sounds appalled.
“Yeah, it’s the color of passion. I thought it would help me get laid.” I laugh, remembering the irony of my first college boyfriend being color blind.
“Wouldn’t have thought you’d need much help,” he says mildly.
I glance at him, surprised. He was definitely flirting with me this morning, but now it’s hard to tell if he means anything by that. Our little coffee klatch feels like a million years ago.
“Thanks, but it was harder than you might think. I went to a small college in a small town. The odds were not in my favor.”
“Shoulda gone to college in the city.”
“I’m not really a city person. I grew up in one and it didn’t exactly work out, either.”
“What city was that?” he asks.
“Austin.”
“Was growing up gay in Texas the nightmare I’m picturing?”
“It was okay.” I’m not lying. It wasn’t great, but it could have been much worse. But high school sucks for everyone, and I don’t like to live in the past. “I wasn’t out, so it was a little lonely.”
“Yeah,” Donovan says simply, as if he knows what I mean. I can’t imagine growing up gay in Upstate New York was much better than my experience. We don’t talk for a while and I enjoy the breather. I started the twenty questions routine, but my headache’s coming back. I want to go to sleep and wake up feeling like a different person.
Which reminds me—“Hey, where are we going to sleep?” I ask as we near the turn back to Wild Rose Lane.
“Where are we…oh, which rooms?” he asks, his brow clearing as he figures out what I mean.
“Yeah. What did Jack and Pete say?”
“Well, there are three bedrooms upstairs, if you count their room, and the one off the kitchen.”
“I’ll take that one,” I say quickly. “If that’s okay with you.”
“Sure. I’ll take one of the guest rooms. Probably the one in the front.”
“Sounds good.”
“They said Cleo gets up early to be let out. You want me to do it tomorrow?”
“No, you’ve already done more than your share. I’ll get up with her.”
“Okay.”
Negotiations concluded, we walk in silence back to the house. Cleo flops on the bed in the kitchen. Donovan disappears upstairs, and I bring my bags out of the car where they’ve been roasting all day. I set the paper bag with the mixing bowl and eighties-era cookbook I bought that morning on the kitchen island and let my shoulders drop. My lungs expand as I breathe in deep, then let the air out slowly.
This day has not gone at all how I thought it would, but after waking up with the worst hangover of my life, I’m ending it in a pretty good spot. I have a place to live. I have a gorgeous kitchen to bash around in. And I’ve made a new friend.
Sort of.