CHAPTER 25 Charlie
CHAPTER 25
Charlie
“ Y ou ready?” I glance at Tristan, who’s sitting in the driver’s seat of his late-model Mercedes-Benz. We’re parked in his reserved spot in the main faculty parking lot of Albrecht College, which is situated on a bluff in Santa Barbara overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The view must be gorgeous during the day.
Tristan nods, his lips pressed tightly together. He’s as handsome and put-together as always, in a dark burgundy velvet jacket, black slacks, and a bow tie. His familiar expensive aftershave is subtle but present. But he’s pale, with a bead of sweat visible on his forehead.
“Are any other faculty here LGBTQ?” I ask.
“Based on statistics, yes, but none that I know of.” He looks over at me. “It should make me feel better that so many brave people have gone before me and told the world who they are, but it’s the opposite. I feel pressured. Like, why haven’t I done it yet?”
“I’m sorry if you ever felt like I put pressure on you,” I say, now thinking about all the times I wished he was out. Except … I think, deep down, I was glad he wasn’t, because then I didn’t have to face some truths about myself. Truths like how Tristan’s better as a friend and I don’t want to marry someone to check a box on my ten-year plan.
He waves my concern away. “Whatever you did or said doesn’t matter, because what I said in my head was a hundred times worse.”
He’s wringing his hands. He needs a distraction.
“You know,” I say, as I look in the lit-up mirror on the back of the sunshade and straighten my tie, “I once attended a speech where a straight dude argued that the concept of ‘the closet’ is a gift to the world from gay people.”
Tris squints at me like I told him he should dye his hair pink and cover his body in cartoon tattoos. “What? Like, he wanted to put all queer people in the closet? What a bigoted idea!”
I snap the mirror shut. “No. The opposite. The speech was gorgeous. His proposition was that there isn’t just one kind of closet, and everyone must deal with their own. While the idea originated with sexuality, it’s universal.”
“Hmm. If we didn’t have the concept of ‘the closet,’ we’d still have people who lived life on their own terms and didn’t care what others thought of them,” Tristan argues.
His color’s returned, and he’s not looking so ill. Mission Distract Tristan accomplished.
“But the metaphor helps,” I say, “because it lets us visualize the idea of embracing who we really are. And also, that it’s—hopefully—a decision to step out that’s available any time, depending on the society we live in.”
Not that I’ve been struggling with figuring out what I truly want or who I am lately or anything. Without my ten-year plan, which I’ve pretty much tossed out the window like Rowan’s Wilbur, who am I? I don’t want to think about it at the moment. Easier to focus on Tristan.
I continue, “We all have secret parts of ourselves we hide because we fear we’ll be shunned, shamed, and ostracized if we let others know about them. And we see people who have stepped out of the closet, who are shunned, shamed, and ostracized, so the fear is valid.”
Tristan sighs. “What a painful and awful truth. If you’re trying to give me a pep talk, it isn’t working.”
I reach out and touch his velvet-covered forearm, forcing him to look me in the eyes. “All I’m saying is that you’re not alone, and this is tough, and you’re being brave. Also, I know you feel under a lot of pressure to come out, and I don’t want to add to it. If you want to turn around right now and go home, we can. I won’t hold it against you. Ever . The idea that people are somehow entitled to your truth is a bunch of bullshit. In a perfect world, which I’ll admit doesn’t exist, you come out only on your terms. If that’s not tonight, it’s absolutely okay.”
Tristan’s quiet for a long moment as he first stares at me in his passenger seat, then looks out his front window, exhaling so the glass fogs up.
I’m quiet, too. Because I’m serious. I’m never going to push him on this. Just because I work in a very inclusive and accepting environment doesn’t mean that the rest of the world is that way. And Tristan is one of my best friends. I haven’t previously acknowledged him as such—excluding him from my mental list of confidants like Danny, Cam, and Reyna—but over the years, we’ve learned a lot about each other and have become close, even if I’ve realized there’s no spark between us.
I now know what a spark really feels like, thanks to Rowan.
But I can help Tris with this.
“Thanks for saying that,” Tristan says quietly. “I do feel a lot of pressure to tell people my sexual orientation. By not being out, I’m letting down the team. I’m sitting on the bench while others are playing the game.”
“If you’re a benchwarmer, then so be it. Again, no one’s forcing you to do this.”
Another long, silent moment where Tristan taps the steering wheel and stares out the window. Finally, he straightens his shoulders. “No. It’s worse than benchwarming. I’m hiding in a maintenance supply cabinet behind the locker room. I want to come out. I’ve had enough of feeling like I have to hide this major part of me from my colleagues. My family. The world. Enough .”
“I’m here for you,” I murmur. “You got this.”
“Thanks.”
“How do you want to arrive? Together? Want me to meet you inside?”
“I want to walk in there holding a man’s hand,” he says, another bead of sweat appearing on his forehead. It makes my heart squeeze.
I give him a confident and hopefully encouraging smile. “Then let’s do it.”
We exit the car, I extend my hand, and Tristan takes it. I’ve touched this man hundreds of times. This is the first time his hand has ever been clammy. He’s holding my hand tight, like I’ve fallen down the bluff we’re standing on and he’s pulling me up.
We walk briskly out of the parking lot and along a well-landscaped, winding path lined with lights. A few other dressed-up people are walking toward a grouping of several older, smaller structures that must be administration buildings and perhaps the chapel. I think the dorms, classrooms, and library are in the other direction.
“Where is the party being held?” I ask.
He gestures toward a smaller, storybook-style building with a steep roof, uneven shingles that look like thatching, stained glass, and lots of gables and turrets. “The manor house. This property used to be my great-grandparents’ estate. They gifted it to the university.”
I dig in my heels, which makes Tristan stop. “Wait, your great-grandparents? I thought your last name was Graff, not Albrecht.”
Tristan shrugs. “I hadn’t told you? My mom’s an Albrecht. Veronica Albrecht Graff. I’m sure she’ll be here tonight, as will other major donors. My father’s now the chair of the school’s board of governors.”
I raise my eyebrows, and we start walking again. “I wasn’t nervous before,” I say, trying to joke, but also being serious, “but you just upped the stakes. I have to be on my best behavior, or, what, Albrecht doesn’t get its endowment? You get sacked?”
“I have tenure, and the school’s endowment is only slightly less than Harvard’s, so I’m not concerned about that.” He sighs. “It’s more … social standing. Getting shunned, shamed, and ostracized—or whatever it was you said just now.”
“Okay.” I pause. “I’ll do the best I can.”
He opens the heavy wooden door to the manor house, and as we step inside, we’re hit with the scents of fresh pine, cinnamon, and warm, savory food. The interior is tastefully lit with gold-hued lamps and candles, and guests are dressed in holiday finery or business attire. Lots of people in little black dresses and heels, or suits and ties like me. At least I know we fit in in terms of appearance.
I’m still holding hands with Tristan. No one’s even noticed us.
Well, that was anticlimactic.
We go to a table where Tristan picks up his name tag—the faculty apparently have engraved brass ones. There’s a preprinted disposable one for me. After we pin them on our jackets, he grips my hand again.
He really is being brave. Okay, let’s do this.
“Want to get a drink?” Tristan asks, a slight tremor in his voice.
“Definitely.”
We make our way over to the bar. Tristan’s holding my hand so tight, I think he might be cutting off my circulation.
But I’m looking around with my head held high. Finally, I notice a few people who’ve clocked our arrival. We get some curious looks, but as I secretly suspected, being in a same-sex couple on a liberal arts campus—even one with a conservative donor demographic—isn’t the end of the world. Me showing up and posing as Tristan’s partner is 10 percent about his work environment and 90 percent about Tristan and his demons. But we still have to face his family, so I reserve the right to adjust my percentages.
Tristan orders us each a glass of red wine, and once we receive them, we stop to talk with a slim man in his late thirties or early forties who’s standing by himself. The guy looks professorial, and he’s rocking a bow tie and a glen plaid jacket. “Hey,” Tristan says. “Good to see you. Wolfe, this is my friend Charlie Cooper. Charlie, Wolfe LaBella.”
We exchange handshakes and greetings, and Wolfe looks us up and down, his eyes zeroing in on our joined hands. There’s an awkward pause.
“Wolfe is a professor here,” Tristan says. “Charlie’s a lawyer in Century City.”
“And what are you doing up here? Are you thinking of working as an adjunct professor?” Wolfe asks.
I glance at Tristan, because it’s his moment. He can decide how to describe me to every person we meet tonight. “No, Charlie’s here as my … friend. At least, now we’re friends. We used to be … more. Not partners, but more than friends.”
Wolfe heaves a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad to know that. I’ve been feeling alone in this faculty, but I figured I couldn’t be the only gay professor on campus. Or, you know, queer person identifying with whatever letter in the alphabet.”
Tris lets his head fall back, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath.
I knew he wasn’t alone.
“You aren’t,” Tristan assures him. “And this is the first time … You’re the first person I’m coming out to.”
Wolfe touches his chest. “Me? Wow. Thanks, Tristan,” he says, with awe in his tone. “That really means a lot.”
Tris blows out a breath. “Okay. One down, ten thousand to go. ”
“It’s a never-ending process,” I say. “Don’t get me started on every time you fill out a demographic form.”
“Right,” Wolfe says. “Ugh, forms.” Apparently Rowan isn’t the only one who dreads filling out forms.
My chest gets warm. Should I text Rowan and see how he is, or is that being too daddy ? That baby boy has me overthinking. No, I don’t want to be rude and have my phone out constantly. I’ll check in on the menace in a little bit.
When I’m back paying attention to the conversation, it seems I missed something, as Wolfe is choking on his drink.
“Sorry?” I say. “I zoned out for a second.”
“I was just asking Wolfe if he was seeing someone,” Tristan explains.
Wolfe rubs the back of his neck. “Um. Well, that’s a hard question to answer. It’s complicated.”
“Say no more,” I chuckle, holding up a hand.
Wolfe’s voice drops. “Can I tell you both something in confidence?”
Tristan and I nod, our shoulders brushing as we face him.
“I kind of got together with this guy who’s really great. It was a one-night stand, but I wanted to see if there might be something there with him, you know?” We nod. “Before anything more could happen between us, though, he walked into my classroom this fall as a student.”
“Holy shit,” Tristan says.
Wolfe quickly adds, “He’s an older student. I didn’t know. But”—he rubs his cheek—“I have no idea what I’m doing now.” A group brushes past us, and Wolfe shuts up. Looking at Tristan, he says, “I’ll catch up with you later, Tris. Maybe we can go to lunch and talk.”
“I’d like that,” Tristan says. Wolfe smiles at us and moves to talk with another group.
I squeeze Tristan’s hand. “You did well.”
“Thanks. ”
We move toward a few women I presume Tristan knows, given how he greets them all with kisses on the cheek. “This is Bree St. Thomas,” he says, introducing me to the first one, and I do a double take. The St. Thomases are one of the richest families in the country. The whole world knows the St. Thomas name—they’ve been one of the biggest American business titans for the past century or so. “She’s the director of donor relations.”
Bree is a slim, tall woman, older than me, younger than my parents, wearing a sapphire satin cocktail dress with a large bow on one shoulder and matching high heels. On some people, that could look like the eighties redux, but on her, it looks chic and appropriate. Her matching jewelry probably cost more than my house.
But I’ve met plenty of rich people. They hire lawyers. While some of the attorneys at Weston & Ramirez do their estate plans and I tend to do litigation, it doesn’t change the fact that, most of the time, our fees are paid by people like her.
Bree seems … calculating. Like she’s evaluating my net worth based on my shoes—which are nice—and deciding whether I’m worth her time.
Fuck her and what she stands for.
Regardless, I can still be polite. I shake her hand. “Nice to meet you. Charlie Cooper. I’m a friend of Tristan’s.”
“I’m sure you are,” she says, with a knowing look that’s on the judgy side. I see no need to correct her assumption, because one, what I said is true, and two, it’s up to Tristan to say what he wants to her. She doesn’t seem very accepting, but her thinking we’ve seen each other naked is accurate.
Thinking about sex makes me think about Rowan. I really should text him.
“Part of Bree’s extended family lives up here in Montecito,” Tristan is saying.
I do my best to be polite to her when I really just want to text Rowan. Finally, Bree leaves us when someone comes up and tugs her away, and I have a chance to pull out my phone.
Charlie
Checking in on you. You doing okay tonight?
I get no response, which is weird. He usually responds right away.
Hmm. Maybe he’s doing a rideshare pickup and can’t talk right now.
I slip my phone back into my pocket, and when I turn around, about to reach for Tristan’s hand, I see a pained expression on his face. He’s looking at a tall, older woman wearing an impeccable black tweed Chanel suit.
“Hello, Mother,” he says.