Chapter 5 #2
“Yeah, that’d be great. I’ll just put on a fucking polo and some dad jeans and join the fucking Kiwanis.”
Darnell takes out his phone. He starts typing. “Step one: a meaningful relationship.”
This is one of the things we don’t talk about—not because we have rules, but because we never have. “Uh, yeah, not exactly my thing. I mean, not that I’m not—I mean, a few times a month, like, maybe once a week, or if I’m crazy horny maybe—”
“Please stop talking,” Darnell says without looking up. “I’m not talking about a romantic relationship. You could get a pet.”
“If I want to pick up somebody’s shit, I’ll get into that daddy/little scene.”
He actually pauses and takes a breath.
“Dude, some of those guys will pay a lot of money for you to put them in a diaper.”
“Okay,” he says because that’s his way of moving on.
“No pets. What about a friend group? And I’m not talking about Emery and John-Henry.
I know they’re your friends, but they’re dealing with their own stuff right now.
You need a group of friends—ideally, friends who are grounded in the community, who have connections, who can talk about you and WISP to their friends.
And they need to be people you genuinely like. ”
“Throw a key party,” I say. “Got it.”
That makes him look up. “You ought to be taking this seriously.”
“Come on, this isn’t going to work. Find a group of friends? And what? Circle-jerk while we talk about lawn care and parenting tips and the fucking PTA?”
“It can’t be just you, Gray. That’s what you’re not hearing.
You want these donors to take you seriously, and they want to see someone who’s stable.
That means more than showing up on time and fulfilling your responsibilities.
They’re looking for patterns in your life to make them trust you, and you do that by showing them that other people love and trust you, outside of the work you’re doing and the professional commitments you already have. ”
“But that’s so fucking stupid!”
“That’s life.” Darnell flashes a surprisingly evil grin. “Welcome to adulthood.”
“Bro, no. Adulthood is the fucking worst. I want to fuck adulthood raw.”
He shrugs. “Then do it. You don’t have to change anything. You can keep being Gray Dulac. Do whatever you want.”
He doesn’t have to say the part at the end: and watch WISP fall apart.
Dirty looks aren’t enough, so I say, “Fuck, bro.”
He shrugs again.
“If I get a cat,” I say, “do I have to carry it everywhere and talk to it in public and that kind of shit?”
“Yes. You have to do all of that.”
He thinks he’s fucking hilarious.
“Gray, you’re so good at talking to people. When you want to, I mean. When you’re not trying to rub them the wrong way, or when you’re not trying to get attention, or when you’re not trying to get in their pants—”
“Bro, okay, I get it.”
“And I know you know you’re good at it. I know that’s part of the reason you started WISP.
Because you wanted to help people, and you knew you could.
So, you can put on this show about how you’re a reformed fuckboy—well, kind of reformed, I guess—and I guess I wonder why you’re still pretending to be something that you’re not.
Maybe that’s not the right way to say it.
Maybe you’re not pretending. But you’re not being honest, either. ”
“Yeah, well, talking to somebody when they drop in or call the crisis line, that’s one thing. Because eventually, they walk out the door, or the phone call’s over, and I don’t stick around to fuck up their life. And I’m not pretending to be anything.”
I jump down from the tailgate. Darnell drops the door.
“You want to pick up something to eat?” I ask, trying to make my voice casual. “And then we’ll get this unloaded.”
He’s still red from the move, but I swear to God, his cheeks get a little pinker. “Yeah, actually, I only needed your help this morning.”
“You’ve got to unload all your shit, bro. It can’t sit in the truck.”
“I know.”
“You can’t do it yourself.”
“I’m not going to do it myself.”
“All right, then, but—” Sometimes I think I’m smart. And sometimes I realize I’m a fucking moron. “Oh shit.”
Darnell looks physically pained. “It’s—”
“What’s his name? I’m going to cut him. No, wait, bro, I’m happy for you. No, I’m going to cut that bitch. For real, what’s his name?”
“It’s not that serious, Gray.”
“He’s helping you move. That’s pretty fucking serious. Wait, are you moving in with him?”
“No. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Is he a baby? Did you find a twink fresh out of his packaging?”
“Bye, Gray. Thanks for the help.”
“Oh my God, is he super old? Is he rich? Does he have a big dick?”
Darnell starts toward the cab of the truck.
“Does he have those really saggy balls? Do they feel spongy like—dude, you know when an orange is about to go bad?”
Darnell stops, hand on the door, and then he looks at me. “Are you seriously not dating?”
“Uh, no, definitely not. Wait? Why? Is he into threesomes? A rich, big-donged old dude who’s kinky as fuck? Fucking hell, Darnell, how’d you get so lucky?”
“Why not?”
The day feels colder now. I adjust the tee over one shoulder. Darnell stands there, waiting.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess I’m not ready.”
He makes a noise that sounds a lot like yeah fucking right.
“I’m not, bro. I just—I have a lot of bad patterns. And I’m working on them, trying to do better. And I’m still healing, too, okay? It’s okay for me to take some time for myself.”
Darnell nods. “Is it the scars?”
If he were somebody else, I might have popped him one, but there’s this weird, transparent vulnerability between the two of us that never totally went away, and so I hear myself saying, “No. I mean, if it’s a problem for them, fuck them. But no.”
“Then why?”
“I told you—”
“Why?”
“I fucked up your life,” I say. The tee is sliding again, so I hitch it up one more time, and the breeze is cold in my hair. “Isn’t that enough?”