8. Donovan
EIGHT
DONOVAN
After showering off the pool water and dressing in jeans and a T-shirt, I take myself on a belated tour of the house. I find striped blue pool towels in the upstairs hall closet, and in the TV room there’s a cupboard with DVDs ranging from buddy cop action movies to foreign romances. There’s also a set of DVDs of the television show that’s based on the Super Rupert books Jack writes and Pete illustrates. Am I a bad friend for never making time to watch it? The producers based the art on Pete’s style, and Pete was consulted heavily, though he and Jack aren’t otherwise involved with the production.
In a wooden chest behind the big sand-colored L-shaped couch where Beck took his nap yesterday, I discover a treasure trove of games, from a battered chess board and Yahtzee to more modern cooperative games. There are playing cards, a cribbage board, and a large quantity of poker chips.
Score.
Beck is in the kitchen, seemingly freshly showered, dressed in the same shorts from the morning and a clean white T-shirt.
“I’m going to feed Cleo.”
“Right on schedule.” Beck smiles at me and I concentrate on following Pete’s recipe—a combination of two different dog foods, both clearly high-end brands. Cleo comes running at the sound of the canisters of dog food opening, and she waits with barely disguised excitement, watching me with soft brown eyes while I measure out her meal.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Beck says, closing the fridge door with his hip. He seems really comfortable in the kitchen, and I vaguely wish I knew how to make more than ramen and cereal. Living in New York, takeout is my friend.
“Smells good. What are we having?”
“Steak salad.”
“Perfect.” I help myself to one of the few beers in the door of the fridge. Beer didn’t make it into our cart earlier, so we’re stuck drinking what’s on hand. Luckily, Pete and Jack have pretty good taste in alcohol and this brand of pilsner is one of my favorites.
Beck takes two fragrant steaks off the cast iron pan on the stove and cuts them into strips. The salad bowl is already on the island, but I don’t see any place settings. “Want me to set the table?”
“Actually, I set us up outside.”
“Oh. Good idea.” The sky’s still light and there’s a big outdoor dining table on the patio just outside the kitchen’s French doors. “Won’t be too buggy?”
“If it is, we can come in,” he says. “And I thought I’d take a stab at the molasses cookies after dinner.”
“What do you mean?”
“I looked up some recipes online and I’m going to see if I can get close to your aunt’s recipe.”
I freeze. He wants to replicate my aunt’s cookie recipe? Seems like a weird goal, but I don’t know how to ask what his motivation is without seeming like a jerk.
He seems to sense my unease because he says quickly, “Cookies are my thing. I’ve been wanting to find the perfect molasses cookie recipe anyway, so you can be my taste tester. If you want.”
“Sounds good,” I reply stiffly. It’s not like he’s asking me for anything. They’re just cookies. And the guy’s making me dinner. The least I can do is try not to be an asshole.
Beck carries the steak outside and I follow with the salad bowl and my beer.
After my first bite of salad—crisp lettuce mixed with the perfect amount of creamy dressing and livened up with radishes, snap peas, and tomatoes—I moan my approval. “Damn, this is good. I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”
He looks pleased, but only says, “Swimming works up an appetite.”
“I’ll say.”
We eat for a minute and I can’t think of anything to say. I’ve gotten used to Beck jumping in and kicking off conversation by being nosy, but he’s quiet.
I take a sip of beer and cast about for a topic. “So, I feel like you know everything about me, but I don’t even know what you do.”
“Do?”
“Like, do you have a job?”
“Oh.” He wrinkles his nose. “Not at the moment.”
Huh. I think about the thick black credit card Beck used to pay for the groceries this morning. “What did you go to school for?”
He laughs at that. “What haven’t I gone to school for?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, undergrad was a mess. First, I thought I wanted to be a film major, then there was the semester I thought I’d be the next great choreographer and switched to dance. Thank god I sprained my ankle and changed my mind before I got around to telling my parents about that particular flight of fancy. Then I considered pre-med. But my science grades were shit.” He shrugs, and I wonder if his casual attitude is a put-on or not. “History was the only area I had enough credits in by the time I had to declare a major or risk not graduating.”
“A lot of people don’t end up using their degrees,” I say, trying to be supportive.
“What did you major in?” he asks.
“Uh. Drama.”
He grins. “It’s okay. You knew what you wanted to be when you grew up. I still don’t.”
I’m not sure how to respond to that. Knowing what I wanted to do was never the problem for me—it was breaking in. I feel like I’m starting all over again with playwriting, with no clue what I’m doing. But we’re talking about Beck right now. “So what did you do after you graduated?”
“I spent six months at a LGBTQ+ nonprofit. But I wasn’t actually that good at it. I’m not a big fan of conflict. Or getting myself to an office on time. I always had law school in my back pocket. Figured I could go and figure out what kind of lawyer I wanted to be later.”
“So you’re thinking about law school?” I lift my beer, but it’s empty.
“Been there, done that,” Beck says acerbically. “Washed out after a year and a half. That’s the thing I actually thought would stick—but I was wrong. I think I have job ADHD.”
I’m beginning to understand what Beck meant by being at loose ends. “Hence the couch surfing—you don’t have a home base?”
“Nope,” he says, sounding unconcerned, but there’s a slight shadow in his eyes. “Law school was in Boston, and I have a lot of friends there, but the winters are rough.”
“Why don’t you go back to Texas?”
Beck sighs. “Texas is fine—to visit. It’s a big state, but it’s not big enough to hold both me and my parents.”
“You don’t get along?” I lucked out with parents who were just as supportive when I came out as when I said I wanted to try acting, but I have plenty of friends who aren’t as fortunate.
“My parents are very…traditional. My dad is a strapping six-foot-tall straight man who married his college sweetheart. It never occurred to him that his son wouldn’t be just like him.”
I grimace. It’s a common story, but it still makes me ache a little for Beck.
“Growing up, I was on the scrawny side. My parents always told me I’d have a growth spurt and catch up to Dad. Never happened. They also told me I’d meet a nice girl and get married someday. So that shows you how much vision my folks have. They wanted—they expected —a six-foot Texas boy who played football and married a sweet country girl. They got a five-foot-eight gay son who likes to bake and dropped out of law school.”
“That’s tough.” My heart goes out to the kid who’s clearly still inside Beck. East Coast college must have been a much-needed escape.
“Thank god for Jack, honestly,” Beck says. “Our dads are brothers and they’re really close. Jack coming out made it so much easier for me to finally tell my parents. And Jack’s parents are super sweet.”
“So what’s your relationship like now?”
“Well, it’s not like we never talk. I’m still my mom’s baby. But they’ve got their life and I’ve got mine.”
I wonder what life Beck has exactly. No job, no ambition, no place to live. Just a car and a temporary place to lay his head for the next two months.
Still, the kid seems happy enough. His life might not fit a traditional pattern, but he certainly has plenty of enthusiasm for the small things.
After dinner, I hold up my end of our bargain and do the dishes, then run Cleo around the backyard until we’re both panting and tired. While I’ve been out with the dog, Beck’s filled a kitchen counter with mysterious tiny bottles and bags of flour and at least two kinds of sugar.
I wash my hands while he consults the recipe on his phone for his first attempt at molasses cookies to rival my Aunt Sharleen’s.
We move around each other easily, quietly, coexisting in a peaceful way I’ve never experienced in any of my other co-living situations. To me, a roommate means someone who detracts from my peace, whose very existence causes stress and the unsettled feeling of not being able to relax in my own home.
But living with Beck isn’t like that. Not so far, anyway.
I sit at the kitchen island and doomscroll on my phone while he measures good smelling things into the bowl of the mixer he’d triumphantly found in one of the many cupboards and plugged in next to the coffee maker. The beat of some French bistro-esque jazz comes over the speakers and provides an acoustic backdrop that I don’t feel the need to break by talking. The kitchen slowly warms as the oven pings, ready to be filled with the first tray of brown mounds of dough.
I look up from my screen when Beck lets out a borderline obscene sound. The blond baker licks something off his thumb and moans again.
I shift in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable at the sight of Beck with his thumb in his mouth, making noises that send the wrong signal to my downstairs brain. I look away from him to the dough-covered mixer paddle and speak up. “Can I try some?”
“I don’t know—will it mess with your taste buds? I want you to give me an honest assessment when they come out of the oven.”
“Okay. I can be patient.” I casually adjust my shorts underneath the counter and go back to my phone, only half paying attention to the article I’m reading. Beck puts the first batch of cookies in the oven and soon an even stronger scent of mingled spices fills the kitchen.
I pretend to read, but out of the corner of my eye, I’m really watching Beck efficiently clean up. He puts the ingredients back into the pantry, hums a little as he wipes down the counters. He finds a metal rack and sets it up just in time for the first batch of cookies to emerge from the oven.
“They smell amazing,” I say, eyeing cookies the size of my palm.
“Give them a minute to cool,” he says, sliding another tray into the oven.
“I bet milk would be great with these.”
Beck turns toward the fridge, but I stand up. “You don’t have to—I can get it myself.”
He smiles and waves me away. “You’re at my cookie counter. I got it.”
I feel a little weird about letting him wait on me, but I sit back down. A minute later, Beck delivers a glass of milk and a cookie on a plain white plate.
“Looks almost too good to eat.”
“They look nice,” he agrees, taking his phone out to snap a few pictures. “But how do they taste?”
He watches anxiously as I take a bite of the still-warm cookie.
All the flavors hanging in the air combine into a sharp, sweet taste on my tongue. The cookie is the perfect amount of chewy, and I wordlessly grunt my approval, then wash the bite down with a refreshing sip of milk.
“Good?” Beck asks, sounding unsure.
“Great,” I say, taking a second bite. “You’re a good baker.”
“Thanks, but are they as good as your aunt’s?”
I consider the question. It’s not exactly easy to compare the deliciousness in my mouth to a childhood Christmas memory. “Yes?”
His mouth flattens. “Be honest.”
“Beck, it’s been fifteen years. These are amazing molasses cookies.”
“Were hers lighter? Darker? Sweeter?” he persists.
“Spicier, actually,” I say, finally putting my finger on the difference. “They had a bit of heat. And I think they were darker.”
Beck hums and types something on his phone. “Interesting.”
“But these are honestly delicious.” I munch happily on the rest of the cookie and grab another from the cooling rack.
“I’ll just have to try again,” he says, sounding unbothered by the prospect. He looks at me and points to my mouth. “You’ve got a crumb.”
I dart my tongue out and fish around for the crumb in question. Beck’s gaze seems to follow along. I make contact with the bit of cookie and swallow. “Did I get it?”
“Yeah.” Beck’s voice is low. There’s a long moment where no one says anything. I don’t know if it’s the sugar or the late hour or the sensual jazz riff coming over the speakers, but I very strongly want to know if Beck tastes as good as his cookies.
The timer beeps shrilly and Beck leaps toward the oven. The moment is over, but I wonder how long it will be before the same urge comes at me again.
Later, I’m drifting off to sleep, the air still tinged with the scent of spices, when I realize I hadn’t even thought twice about staying in tonight and not hitting the bar. The sex drought continues , I think as I fall asleep with a hint of a smile on my face.