7. Donovan
SEVEN
DONOVAN
I’m bored.
After retreating from Beck I opened up my laptop with the best of intentions—to look at the scenes I’ve already worked on—but somehow I spent the last few hours reading random news articles, texting a few friends, and checking my bank balance. I haven’t written a word.
Something’s off. Maybe it’s that if I was in the city, I’d have all manner of distractions to fill my day. I could go meet up with friends for a drink, or catch a movie, or visit a museum, or just walk around the park. I’m not sequestered in this house—it’s not a prison—but what is there to do in Rosedale, honestly, besides get coffee at Hot Brew or walk around Main Street? It might be fun to do those things with someone. With Beck, specifically. But I’ve managed to offend him somehow, and it rankles.
Okay, so that’s what’s really bothering me. Beck’s a nice guy, but he’s been throwing up red flags all day. Starting with the cute—and tasty—breakfast for two, and then the cozy little shopping trip. Beck has boyfriend material stamped on his forehead. Even if we weren’t sharing the house for the summer, I wouldn’t want to hurt the guy by dangling a relationship in front of him that’s never going to happen. Beck obviously thinks Jack and Pete’s marriage is something to aspire to, and he’s clearly unimpressed with my attitude.
Well, that’s fine. I don’t need Beck to approve of me. I just need to coexist with the guy for…one month, three weeks, and six days.
I push away from the little desk in front of the window that looks over the driveway and the street beyond and collapse on the navy blue quilt covering the guest bed. This isn’t going to work. Beck doesn’t actually need anybody to help with Cleo—he’s obviously capable of doing the job single-handedly. I’m completely superfluous.
Pete might be disappointed, but he’ll get over it. Beck will probably be happy to get me out of his hair. Then he can have the whole place to himself. I picture Beck here alone—baking cookies for no one. I sigh.
My phone vibrates on the desk. I consider ignoring it, but it buzzes again and I force myself up. I grab it and take it back to the bed, sliding open my notifications.
Pete
Hey! Sorry for just now checking in. How’s the pup?
I forgot to tell you I got a new pack of chew toys if you need them. In the pantry.
I shake my head and type back a reply before he can barrage me with more mother-henning.
Cleo’s happy as a clam. How was the flight?
Great. We’re trying to get on London time. Need anything before I sign off for the night?
Nope, we’re good.
I hit send before I can rethink that wording. It’s not as if Beck and I are a unit. We aren’t a “we.” But maybe Pete will think I mean me and Cleo. Whatever. It doesn’t matter.
Another thing I forgot — even though she doesn’t like car rides, she’s usually okay if I take her to the loop in the woods by the cemetery in town. It’s pretty short, and she loves that walk. Just keep her on the lead.
And don’t give her too many treats before bed.
And give her lots of kisses for me.
I laugh and type as fast as I can to stem the tide of texts.
I’m taking good care of her, promise. Hang on.
I jog downstairs to the kitchen but don’t see Cleo in her bed. I panic for a second, until I realize Beck must have taken her outside. I slide into shoes I left by the French doors and head outside across the patio. The afternoon sun is a stark contrast to the air-conditioned house, but the heat feels good on my shoulders as I cross the lawn to the fenced-in pool area, where I hear classic rock coming out of a poolside sound system. The gate’s latched, so I let myself in. Cleo is here, as predicted, gnawing on a tennis ball under the shade of a sand-colored canvas patio umbrella. Beck is here, too, lying on his front on a towel draped over a deck chair.
I stare shamelessly for a long minute. Beck is practically naked. The only scrap of fabric covering him are black briefs that barely cover his ass. His exposed skin is shiny, and there’s a lot of it. I catch a whiff of sunblock and hope the kid was smart enough to slather himself with it, though his shoulders look a little pink. I swallow heavily, remembering why I came out here.
Walking over to Cleo, I drop into a crouch to rub her head. “Hey girl, your daddy misses you.” I thumb open the camera on my phone and take a couple of snaps, then rise to my feet.
“What’s up?” Beck asks.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him turning from his front to back. I concentrate on sending the photos instead of letting myself look at him from this angle.
“Pete texted me. I thought I’d send him some pics to prove we’re not falling down on the job.”
“Good idea. I’ll send Jack more later.” He drapes his sunglasses over his face.
I look up from my phone with careful nonchalance. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it.”
“The pool’s really refreshing if you want to take a dip.”
The denial is on the tip of my tongue, but the only reason I’d turn down the chance to go swimming on a beautiful summer afternoon is because I’m feeling contrary. And maybe I don’t trust myself around a mostly naked Beck.
“You staying out here for a while?” I ask.
“I’ve almost had enough sun,” Beck says. “But I’ll go in for a few more laps before starting dinner.”
“Okay.”
I read Pete’s thank you message for the Cleo pics on the way to my room. I shed my clothes and pull on my swim trunks, which seem old-man fogyish next to Beck’s banana hammock. I grab a towel from the stack in the guest bathroom, though there are probably pool towels somewhere. I’ll have to investigate. A minute later, I’m back by the pool, dipping my toes in the deep end. Chilly.
“It’s heated,” Beck says reassuringly.
“It doesn’t feel that warm.” I try to remember the last time I went swimming. Must have been vacation in Florida, a couple of years ago.
“Do you need me to push you in?” he asks, amused. Sitting up to watch the show, Beck’s flat abs form little ridges as he curves his spine forward and puts his arms around his ankles.
“No, thank you.” I make my way to the shallow end of the long, narrow pool. I don’t have goggles or anything, so laps are out. But I can’t back out now. I leave my sunglasses on the edge, leap over the side, and plunge in, the cold water hitting everywhere at once, at first a shock and then a delight. I swim a few feet and come to standing in the middle of the pool, grinning at Beck. “Feels good.”
“Told you.” He grins back and gets up, changing his sunglasses out for blue-tinted goggles that he produces from somewhere. He goes to the deep end and dives in smoothly, takes a few strokes, and easily comes up next to me.
“Of course you’re a good swimmer,” I say with affected grumpiness.
“My parents made me do a sport. They were picturing football, but I picked the swim team.”
“Ah. That explains what you’re wearing.”
He laughs and glances down at his crotch. “What—you wouldn’t wear one of these?”
“Not in public.”
“Well, this is private property,” he says. “But I guess some of us are more mature than others.” And then he splashes me, hitting me square across the face with a spray of water.
I snort in surprise, wipe my eyes. The little shit. “Very mature.”
Beck laughs again and I take the bait—I splash water back in his direction, but he’s too fast.
He throws himself backward and starts reverse frog-kicking out of the splash zone. I launch myself forward, and a chase ensues. He’s fast, darting like a fish to evade my attempts to get him back, but I have a longer reach, and eventually I succeed in pushing a wave of water into his face, leaving him sputtering and laughing and retaliating with his own wave of water.
I ignore the slight ridiculousness of two grown men having a splash fight in the middle of the afternoon. It’s too much fun. Beck finally calls a truce and swims to the side of the pool, where he takes off his goggles. I swim up to him, breathless, my cheeks aching from smiling so hard.
“You look like a raccoon,” I say, raising my finger and grazing the delicate skin under his right eye, where the goggles have left a pink imprint. At the contact, I yank my hand back. I hadn’t intended to touch him.
“I’m sure I do,” Beck agrees. He sighs. “You look like a cologne ad.”
“Huh?” I look down at myself, waist deep in water, the hair on my chest matted down, my nipples standing at attention. My skin is naturally tinted olive, though if I spent more time shirtless in the sun I’d brown like a roasted almond. Water drips into my eyes from my hair. I sniff and run my hand through my hair to get it off my forehead. I don’t get the compliment, if there was one.
“Never mind,” Beck says, hoisting himself out of the water with ease on arms that flex with lean muscle. He walks briskly over to his lounge chair and wraps himself in the large towel. “I’m going to get dinner started. Bring Cleo in with you?”
“Sure.”
He collects his things and latches the gate behind him, leaving the music playing. I have the feeling I’ve done something wrong, but I’m not sure what. I push away from the wall, swim a couple of lazy laps, keeping my head above water. It feels good to move, but it’s not as enjoyable out here alone.
I force my thoughts away from how much fun Beck is and think about practical matters. Swimming is good exercise. I should order some swim goggles or find the nearest big box store and buy some. I could get some more shorts, too. Maybe a few board games. Unless Jack and Pete have a collection. Does Beck like games? I happen to know Kingston is a poker player. Maybe we could get a group together this weekend?—
With a start, I realize I’m no longer considering bouncing and leaving the house and Cleo to Beck. I made Pete a promise, and I’m going to keep my word. But more than that—I owe it to Beck to hold up my end of the bargain. To be the kind of roommate he deserves, even if it means I’m sometimes bored in this Pleasantville of a town.
My mother used to say boredom is good for you—it forces you to get creative.
Maybe I’ll get so bored I’ll actually write my play.