10. Donovan
TEN
DONOVAN
When I amble downstairs around noon for lunch, Cleo looks up from her bed, but when she sees it’s only me, she settles down again. I’ve begun to suspect that she likes Beck more than me, which, fair. I think I like Beck more than me, too.
He’s been a constant presence this week, but not in a bad way. How can I complain about someone who cooks seemingly effortlessly delicious meals and keeps trying to replicate my aunt’s cookie recipe for fun?
By the third night and third attempt, I had my fill of molasses cookies for about a year, but I haven’t had the heart to tell Beck. Each batch has been good, but either not quite like my aunt’s or not up to his standards in some way. So he keeps trying, and I keep feeling that if I never have another molasses cookie again, I’ll be good.
I glance in the fridge, checking that the leftover potato salad from last night is still there. I pull it out and grab sandwich fixings, then it occurs to me there’s no music coming through the kitchen speakers. I don’t hear anything from Beck’s room, and if he’d gone out to the pool, he’d probably have taken Cleo with him.
So where is he?
It’s not like he has to check in with me. Neither of us have ventured far from the house this week. It’s been surprisingly relaxing to stay put, and it occurs to me that I haven’t had a real vacation since that jaunt to Florida a couple of years ago.
Still, I’ve gotten used to Beck being in the background. He plays music wherever he goes, and I like his eclectic taste. I don’t know how he got his phone to sync up to the sound system, though it was probably on one of Pete’s pages of instructions about the house.
But currently the house is quiet. I make my sandwich, dollop a healthy helping of potato salad onto my plate, and wonder where Beck is for the sixth time.
He’s an adult, I remind myself as I settle in the TV room and flip on the TV. I decide to watch some of the Super Rupert series and dig out a DVD. I’m halfway through the first surprisingly entertaining episode when my phone dings and I startle myself with how quickly I pause the show to take a look at my messages.
But the text isn’t from Beck.
Kingston James
Van the Man! Jack told me about the dog-sitting double-booking. You and Jack’s cousin doing okay? I’m coming to Rosedale for the weekend. Want to get together?
Kingston is more Pete’s friend than mine, but we get along well. We even hooked up a few years ago. It was fun, but neither of us was interested in a repeat. I’ve socialized with him a few times in the last couple of years since Pete moved to Rosedale and my circle of New York friends shrank by one. Kingston works in the city during the week but has his Rosedale house for when he wants to get away, or to lend to hapless friends when they need an escape.
Anytime. How’s your poker game?
I’m a little rusty.
I bet. I’m willing to be schooled if you’re up for it.
Sure. Tonight? I have a friend in town who might be interested.
I agree before I realize maybe I should ask Beck before inviting people over for a poker night. Well, if he has a problem with it, then we’ll just sequester ourselves in the den or something. I’m spending way too much time thinking about the kid, anyway.
Food might be an issue, but I’m not going to ask Beck to cook for guests. We can order pizza or something. Alcohol might be more of a problem, since we don’t have much on hand.
Where do you get alcohol around here?
Might as well ask a local.
For a curated selection, Wine and Roses on Cross Street. For the mass stuff, there’s a big box place on Route 7. But I can bring my own.
I need to stock up anyway. Thanks for the recs. See you tonight.
Okay, I can do this. I can leave the house by myself. I clean up from lunch, take Cleo out for a little exercise, then get my hat, wallet, and, finally, the keys to Pete’s car. I open the side door to the garage. The silver hybrid SUV is parked dead center, the lingering smell of exhaust in the stale garage air.
I take a minute to adjust the seat and the mirrors. The location of the garage door clicker eludes me until I find it in a hidden compartment above the center console. I open the garage door, start the car. It’s shockingly quiet. I wipe my palms on my shorts and give myself a pep talk. “You can do this. You’re a fine driver. It’s like riding a bike.”
I laugh at my own weak metaphor and carefully put the vehicle in reverse, backing out of the garage and onto the gravel driveway at a snail’s pace. I put the car in park while I tap the clicker to shut the garage door. Okay. So far so good. I pull up directions to Wine and Roses on my phone and see that Cross Street is one of the offshoots from Main, just around the corner from Hot Brew.
I put the car in drive. Here goes nothing.
Ten minutes later, I’m pulling into a town parking lot behind Main Street and feeling pretty proud of myself. It helps that Pete’s car has great visibility, and the directions were pretty simple. But I definitely have my driving confidence back. Just don’t ask me to go above forty miles an hour.
I lock the car and head to the shop, missing the sun. Today’s warm but cloudy and I hope the gloom breaks for the weekend.
Wine and Roses is a narrow, cluttered store, and a familiar man is inspecting a wall of red wine. He’s wearing a cardigan I’ve never seen on him before and his short hair’s charmingly messy. The boho-meets-preppy look really suits him.
“Beck! Guess what?” I bound up to him, and he turns and gives me a surprised smile.
“What are you doing here?”
“I drove!” I know it’s dumb, but I’m exhilarated by my minor accomplishment. “I haven’t driven in I don’t know how long.”
He laughs, and I laugh along with him. “Good for you.” He doesn’t make fun of me and I appreciate the simple acceptance.
“How did you know where to find me?” he asks, smile broad.
“Oh. I didn’t—I mean, I wasn’t looking for you,” I say haltingly. Why should the admission make me feel guilty? “I thought I’d get some beer and wine for the house. Kingston and maybe a friend of his are going to come over later.”
“Oh right,” he says, turning back to the shelves of wine.
“Hope that’s okay.”
“Of course. Jack said Kingston might stop by sometime.”
“We’re getting together a little poker game. You play?”
“Poker?” Beck seems distracted, running his finger over the label of a bottle of merlot.
“Yeah, poker.” I don’t know how else to describe it, honestly.
“I know how to play,” he says vaguely. “I’m looking for some cooking wines. I don’t really drink red.”
“I’m more of a beer guy, but I thought I’d get a bunch of stuff.” The place is too small for a cart, so I start pulling things at random. A couple of bottles of red, a couple of white. I set them on the counter in the back of the shop and nod to the blonde woman behind the register who’s helping another customer. I remember Kingston likes bubbles, so I cross over to the sparkling wine.
“Can you get me some Prosecco?” Beck asks, at my elbow again. He’s juggling two bottles of red and a bag from Second Time Around.
I take the bottles from him, add them to my collection, then return to his side.
“What did you get?” I ask, indicating his bag.
“You’ll see,” he says mysteriously.
“So, Prosecco. This look good?” I pick something mid-range, and then grab a bottle of something French and expensive that Kingston won’t turn his nose up at.
“Sure. I’m not really an expert,” Beck says as the woman from behind the counter walks over to us.
“Can I help you?”
Beck turns his small-town smile on her. “I think we’re okay, thanks.”
“Where’s your beer selection?” I ask.
“Your first time in the shop?” she asks as she shows us a refrigerated case. “We mostly carry stuff from local breweries.”
“Cool, and yeah, first time,” I say. “What do you like?” I ask Beck.
“Anything,” he says, lifting a careless shoulder. “I’m easy.”
I get a variety here, too, accumulating a small mountain of booze on the counter. “Anything else?”
Beck thinks and then snaps his fingers. “I was going to get some vodka so I can make penne alla vodka.”
“We only sell wine, beer, and cider,” the woman says. “But you can get spirits at the place up Route 7.”
Beck pouts for a second.
“I can swing by there on the way home,” I say. “I wanted to go to that big box store and get some swim goggles and a few other things.”
“Oh, that would be great,” he says, face clearing. “Thanks, Donovan.”
“Sure.”
The woman starts ringing us up, and Beck pulls out his black credit card. I put a hand on his arm. “Let me get this.” I’m still a little unclear on Beck’s finances, but whatever they are, I need to pull my weight. Beck hesitates but lets me get out my wallet.
“You new to Rosedale?” the blonde asks as she grabs a couple of empty wine boxes to organize our purchases into. “I don’t remember seeing you around.” Then she smiles at Beck in such a way that has my eyebrows shooting up my forehead. “I’m Ariana, by the way.”
“Like Ariana Grande?” Beck asks.
“Yeah.” She brightens even more. “You a fan?”
“I’ve seen her three times live,” Beck says enthusiastically.
“That’s awesome,” Ariana says, leaning forward a little over the counter. Is it just me, or does she tug her shirt down a little in the process? “I love live music.”
“She puts on an amazing show. I’m Beck, and this is Donovan.”
“Like Beck, Beck?” Ariana tinkles out a laugh, her gaze glued to Beck’s face. “I love his music.”
“Me too.” Beck smiles and I bristle.
“I have the same name as a famous musician, too,” I put in, but neither of them seems to care. Probably neither has heard of the Scottish hippie single-named musician. He was a favorite of my parents.
“Well, Beck, I hope I’ll see you again soon.” She tosses her hair and gives him a flirtatious smile, completely ignoring me.
“Sure thing, Ariana.”
I grab the box of wine and Beck manages the beer and his other bag.
As soon as we’re out of the shop and heading toward Pete’s car, I hiss at him. “She was totally hitting on you.”
“What? No.” He shakes his head.
“Seriously. She was into you.”
“But I’m so gay,” he says, as if it’s self-evident.
“Seeing Ariana Grande three times live would have been the giveaway for me,” I say. “But I guess she didn’t care.”
“Wow. I thought it was weird that she didn’t pay you any attention.”
My ego thought it was weird, too, but I get it. She’s probably around Beck’s age, and he’s cute and approachable, open and friendly. And as I’ve established already, there can’t be that many people to choose from in this town.
Before I can respond, Beck adds, “I would have thought she’d have assumed we were a couple.”
I look back over the interaction and have to agree. Is that bad? Are we acting too couple-y?
We’re just roommates , I remind myself. And however it looks to the outside world, that’s how it’s going to stay.