15. Beck
FIFTEEN
BECK
It’s past Cleo’s dinnertime when I park the GTI haphazardly in the driveway and rush into the house, my brain filled to the brim with information and ideas. After talking to Noelle, Sergio’s real estate agent, on the phone, she immediately persuaded me to look at a few houses and the retail space on Main Street. That took up most of the afternoon, and then when I found out her sister owns a bakery in Brooklyn, I lost track of time picking her brain about that.
I should have been home an hour ago to start dinner and make sure Cleo was okay, and my heart’s racing with excitement over all the possibilities I’ve thought of today and with the fact that my actual job right now is to take care of one very cute dog.
When I skid to a stop in the kitchen like a harried cartoon character, I’m astonished to find it completely empty. No hungry pup. No hungry Donovan, for that matter.
I worry for half a second until I spot them through the French doors. Donovan’s throwing the ball for Cleo, his tight black tee showing off his elegantly muscled arms as he arcs the ball across the yard. The sun’s starting to go down, bathing the backyard in gold. His profile is perfectly outlined by the flare of the setting sun filtered through the leafy deciduous trees that ring the property, making him look more like a sexy model than usual. My heart, still galloping, doesn’t slow down as I watch him play with Cleo, but it feels as if it’s being squeezed unpleasantly tight even as it tries to hammer its way out of my chest.
I know it’s beyond foolish to let myself feel any sort of way about him, but he’s making it really, really difficult not to fall for him. It’s not just the way he looks, so objectively beautiful that I’m still not sure how he exists—though the more we get to know each other the less his beauty surprises me and the more his goofy, dorky sides come through and humanize him—it’s more the things he says, as if we’re actually friends and he really cares about me. I have a lot of friends in a lot of parts of the world, but it feels really good to have a live-in cheerleader who takes me as I am and seems to think I’m pretty awesome.
After twenty-five years of hearing I’m not what my parents hoped for, it’s a small miracle to have someone accept me for who I am, and who believes in what I’m capable of.
So yeah, my heart doesn’t listen to my head as I stare out the French doors and wish that he wasn’t my roommate. I wish he was just… mine.
A moment later, Donovan confiscates the tennis ball and rubs Cleo’s neck. When they start for the house, I shake myself and flip on the recessed lights in the kitchen.
“You’re back,” Donovan says with a wide smile.
“Yeah, sorry I’m late for dinner. I got caught up looking at properties with Noelle,” I say, yanking open the refrigerator door to remind myself his smile doesn’t mean anything except that he’s happy to see me. His roommate/friend.
I startle at a touch on my arm and close the fridge door to reveal Donovan standing close. “Hey, you don’t have to feed me every night,” he says. “And you don’t have to apologize. I had leftover pizza. But you should eat. Who knows if the food at Sparkle is any good?”
I stare at him, confounded by the words coming out of his mouth until I remember. Sparkle. The bar. That’s tonight. “Oh, right.” I glance at the wall clock. “Aren’t you meeting Kingston and Sergio there soon?”
“ We’re meeting them at eight,” he says easily.
“Oh we are, are we?” I put the emphasis on the ‘we’ the way he did. As if we’re a package deal, even though I know he wants to go to Sparkle to hook up, and I can’t imagine he needs me along for the ride.
“Yeah. You have to come. It’ll be good for you to get out of the house,” he says.
“I was out of the house most of the day,” I protest.
“And I want to hear all about it. You can tell me on the way.”
“I’m a mess,” I say, lifting my shirt away from my chest and wrinkling my nose dramatically.
“So take a shower. Please? I’ll have more fun if you’re there.” He blinks slowly, his thick eyelashes sweeping down to almost touch the tops of his cheeks.
It would take a stronger man than me to deny those eyelashes.
“Fine. Heat me up a piece of pizza, will you?”
“Done.”
An hour later, I’m driving us toward Midville, the closest small city to Rosedale. It has a movie theater, a bowling alley, and, apparently, a gay bar. I’ve been telling Donovan about the retail space—how it’s already set up to take industrial ovens, and how Noelle’s face lit up when I mentioned the cookie shop idea. “Sugar cookies are her favorite, so I’m going to drop some off on Monday. She said the owners would look at a lower offer, so we’ll see.”
“You’re going to put in an offer?” Donovan sounds surprised, but not skeptical.
“I know it’s kind of rushed.” I bite my lip. I have so much to figure out, but something about this feels right. “I don’t want to lose this space—it’s perfect.”
I’m expecting Donovan to say something like, “When you’re ready, the right space will come along,” but he just says, “Cool.” His phone pings with a notification. He checks it and swears.
“Damn. Kingston and Sergio are bailing.” He types a short reply and glances sideways at me. “Looks like it’s just you and me tonight.”
“Right,” I respond tightly. I don’t have a good feeling about this. Donovan’s goal is to have sex tonight, and I think it’s going to kill me a little to see him be physical with someone else. I don’t have any claim to him, but that doesn’t mean I want to see him all over some random guy.
“What’s wrong?” Donovan, as ever, seems to read my mood.
“I’m just not good at bars,” I say, which is partly the truth.
“What do you mean?”
“I never know the etiquette. In college, we just drank in the dorms. And I always feel self-conscious in gay bars and clubs, like everyone has an agenda.”
“Well, our only agenda is to have fun,” Donovan says. “We’ll get something to drink, we’ll check the place out, and if it sucks, we’ll get out of there. Okay?”
“Sure.” I promised myself I’d be the best roommate ever, and that means being a good wingman if it comes to that. Donovan’s sweet to reassure me, but I know the score. He’s looking for something different tonight—someone different.
As I pull the GTI into the parking lot next to the stand-alone brick building with the neon sign, I wonder if maybe I should take inspiration from him tonight. My last boyfriend and I called it quits months ago, and while I don’t really mind not having constant sex, being around Donovan—being able to look but not touch—has had me feeling slightly turned on since we met. I’m not a complete stranger to hookup culture, I just don’t usually feel comfortable getting physical with someone I just met.
But if Donovan can do it, maybe I can, too. After all, if I’m going to start putting down roots in Rosedale, getting to know the queer scene is a good idea. Maybe I’ll hit it off with a local and start working on the Jack-and-Pete-style happily ever after I want for myself. Who knows, I could meet the love of my life tonight.
I push away the idea that the odds are slim I’ll meet anyone as interesting, nice, and hot as Donovan and instead try stay optimistic as we lock the car and walk to the entrance. A beefy, bored-looking guy sitting on a stool glances at us and says, “ID.”
I hold up mine and he gives me a nod, then he says, “You too, sir,” to Donovan, and I snort.
Donovan glares at me and fishes his wallet out of his back pocket, flipping it open to his license.
“Sir?” I mutter under my breath as we get ushered into the cool, dark interior of Sparkle. Despite the name, the inside is fairly restrained. There’s a disco ball over the dance floor on one side of the room, but it’s not like it’s all glitter and feathers. The heavy wooden bar looks old, and I wonder how long this place has been here. Maybe it used to be something else.
It’s also pretty busy. Almost every barstool taken—mostly by men, but there are a few women—and a healthy amount of the low tables on the bar side of the place are filled with patrons. The dance floor is emptier, but it’s still early, and there’s just generic pop music coming from the speakers. I see a DJ setting up, so I assume there’ll be more activity in a little while.
Meanwhile, I endure the social anxiety of not knowing the best place to claim. Should I go to the bar and squeeze in between the existing patrons, or look for an empty table?
Donovan solves the problem for me by striding confidently up to the bar, immediately catching the eye of one of the two bartenders, an attractive older guy with short silver hair and a black tee with Sparkle emblazoned on the front in metallic blue.
As if communicating by telepathy, the bartender seems to indicate to Donovan that it’ll be a minute, so Donovan looks over his shoulder at me. “What do you want? I’ll get the first round.”
“Uh.” What do I want? I should have figured this out earlier. “What are you having?”
Donovan’s looking over the draft beer menu. “A pilsner.”
“Okay. Me too.” I don’t love beer, but I can’t think of anything else, and the bartender is now looking at Donovan expectantly. He puts in the order and hands over a credit card, and a minute later we’re carrying our filled-to-the-brim pint glasses to a table that seems to appear magically under Donovan’s gaze.
“Cheers,” he says, tapping the rim of his glass against mine.
“Cheers.” I take a sip and purse my lips involuntarily. It’s kind of sour. Probably better with something greasy, like a burger and fries. My stomach rumbles. A single piece of leftover pizza was not enough for dinner.
“You hate it,” Donovan says.
“No—well, it’s not my favorite.”
“Then why did you order it?” He sounds confused rather than angry.
“Because I’m bad at bars!” I wail.
He cracks a grin, shakes his head. I laugh a little, knowing I’m being dramatic. I push my glass across the table at him. “You can have mine.”
“Oh, it won’t go to waste,” he says, “but let’s start over. What sounds good? Do you need a menu?”
“I am kind of hungry. And I don’t really feel like drinking. I have to drive later, anyway.”
“Okay.” Donovan looks around the room, then leans over and asks a guy sitting alone at the table nearest us if we can borrow his menu, which is sitting folded on the table. The guy smiles and nods and looks like he’s about to say something, but Donovan’s got the menu now and he opens it, no longer paying attention to the other guy.
“They have your standard bar food. Burgers. Pizza.”
“No pizza.”
“Right, we just had pizza. Sweet potato fries? Meatball sub?”
“Meatball sub?” I take the menu out of his hands and scan it. There it is. Meatball sub. Huh.
“You didn’t believe me?” He’s smiling again, and it’s distracting.
“Meatball sub at a gay bar just seems kind of on the nose,” I say with a wave of my hand. “I’ll have a burger. And fries. And a root beer.”
“We’re not at a baseball game,” he says mildly.
“I’m hungry. You asked what sounded good, and that sounds good.”
“You’re the boss,” he says, standing up from the table. “Stay here and try not to have a panic attack. It’s just a bar.”
On his way to the bar, he drops the menu on the table of the guy he borrowed it from. I don’t miss the way the guy’s eyes track Donovan. Donovan again somehow smoothly puts in the order with the bartender, and I’m a little annoyed at how together he is. On the other hand, he’s getting me food, so how can I complain about that? The bartender hands him a tall glass that presumably holds my root beer and Donovan heads back.
I’m not surprised when the guy from the table next to us gets up to intercept him. He’s tall and fit and wearing a slim-cut short-sleeved button-down and cutoff jean shorts. His blond hair hangs around his shoulders, and I wonder if Donovan goes for guys with long hair.
“Hey, haven’t seen you in here before,” the guy says to Donovan.
“First time,” Donovan says briefly, but not rudely. He looks the guy up and down subtly.
“I’m Ken,” the guy says.
“Van,” Donovan says. I always forget that’s the name most people know him by.
“I’d love to buy you a drink, Van,” Ken says.
I realize I probably shouldn’t be listening, but our table is right there, and it’s hard to pretend to be doing something else when they’re like three feet away. I happen to meet Donovan’s gaze when he looks my way, the hint of a smile on his face. I hold it for a second. Do I want him to let Ken buy him a drink? Not really, but I’d be an asshole for holding him back. The most I can do is shrug, as if I couldn’t care either way.
“Thanks, but I already have one. Two, actually. And I have to deliver this,” Donovan says, holding up my soda.
Ken looks over his shoulder at me, as if he’s just now noticing my existence. “Boyfriend?”
Donovan laughs a little, maybe at the guy’s transparency, maybe at the idea of me in a role he’s not looking to fill. “Friend.”
Friend is accurate, which both fills me with satisfaction and leaves a cold little pit in my stomach. But then he goes on, “Again, thanks for asking.”
He comes over to sit down and Ken watches us for a second, then turns away, apparently taking the hint.
“Here you go.” Donovan slides the drink my way. “They said the burger would take a few minutes.”
“No rush.” I take a sip of root beer and the sweet drink immediately washes away the sour taste of beer. Maybe the sour taste of jealousy, too. After all, Donovan’s sitting here with me, and he’s easily the hottest guy in the place.
While we wait for the burger, Donovan drinks and I tell him about Noelle’s sister’s Brooklyn bakery. It’s way too easy to forget my resolution to keep my eyes open for a guy of my own when Donovan’s attention is on me, but it’s hard to miss it when a cute chubby guy with round glasses and a nice smile asks me to dance.
I’ve just finished my meal and I’m feeling a little bad about talking Donovan’s ear off, even though he hasn’t seemed bored—if anything, he keeps asking questions and giving me good ideas for next steps. But when the guy, who says his name is Casey, comes up just as the DJ’s starting a set with a song I love, it’s hard to say no.
I glance at Donovan anyway, but he’s just got a bland smile on his face. I hesitate—he hadn’t bailed on me before with Ken. But then he’s looking across the room and I see him making eye contact with a muscular guy in a tank top. I guess the friends-hanging-out portion of the evening is over.