The Graylock Protocol
The CSA kicked off in June, which made the work level on the farm go nuclear.
The produce stand at the end of the driveway spilled radishes, baby beets, heads of lettuce, asparagus and strawberries.
The hens and ducks were laying like there was no tomorrow.
The tops of the egg cartons flipped up to display shells in a watercolor palette of brown, green, cream and blue.
The yolks dazzled bright orange and the whites barely moved as they dropped into a sizzling skillet.
Liko ate two every day and said he didn’t feel bad about it.
Dane got a rise watching Liko lick the plates clean and didn’t feel bad about it.
Dane was consumed with work, but his eyes were ever watchful for the Green Man, who moved in shifts between his writing and the farm.
For the latter, he helped fill CSA boxes, manned the register, or did whatever little task Dane left in a note on the kitchen table.
Whether assigned to pick peas, thin carrots, weed or prune, Liko’s buddy Jeffrey was always tagging along.
Dane knew grief tagged along, too. It always would.
Liko had days where he didn’t write a word, didn’t lift a finger.
A morning walk turned into a six-mile hike, just to kill time.
Dane saw him pulled away in the farm’s secret spaces, crying into Jeffrey’s feathers or Salma’s fur.
More than once, Dane watched Liko crouch on the bottom of the pool, holding his breath long past the comfort zone.
Wondering if he could really take himself out this time.
Dane knew because he often did it himself.
He stayed at a respectful distance from the pool, but he watched and counted seconds, scanning the surface of the water.
Playing the role of the Japanese courtesan Kiku, but instead of watching until Captain Blackthorne vanished from sight, Dane did the honor of watching until the pilot reappeared.
Which he always did: In a bubbling geyser, Liko would resurface, gasping, flipping water out of his hair and putting his face in his hands.
“You are much man,” Dane whispered each time. “You are reborn and you are Samurai now. Liko-san, you are so much man…”
He believed Liko’s soul was in agony, but it wanted to stick around. Dane hoped it was because Liko liked this place. He liked the work and the crew and his emotional support duck.
And maybe because he liked Dane.
The Pub opened its outdoor seating area, strung new lights, and put its sandwich-board sign close to the road, heralding each night’s specialty.
Wednesday was Pork Rinds & Cabernet. Thursday was Champagne & French Fries.
The bubbly could span a budget from $250 bottles of Grand Cru to a six-pack of Miller High Life—champagne of beers.
The fries came one way: shoestring thin, fried in duck fat, sprinkled with Himalayan pink salt.
Friday’s happy hour was called Cocktails & Suspicion. Ethan Hasen had first envisioned it as Cocktails & Slander, but the Pub couldn’t manifest an environment where people came to talk shit about each other. So slander was downgraded to suspicion.
“I’m suspicious because you don’t drink coffee,” someone would accuse over drinks.
A collective, horrified gasp.
The accused would counter, “I’m suspicious because you have no celebrity crush.”
“What?”
“None?”
“Come on, nobody is that mentally disciplined.”
All the beer, cider, wine and liquor was local.
There was no set menu during the farm season: Whatever was pouring off the field and vines at Schoenfeld’s was delivered to the Pub and made into flatbreads or salads.
Grilled asparagus was tremendously popular right now, as was the sign at the door bidding departing patrons, Goodnight, thanks for coming! Think of us later when you pee!
Cocktails & Suspicion was followed by an open mic night. Tonight was the first of the season and Dane told Liko it wasn’t to be missed. “Wear your party shirt.”
Dane wore his leather vest and covered up his blue eye.
“Not a lot of your pipple at the Pub?” Liko asked kindly.
“There are. But also strangers. Strangers stare. Sometimes I don’t mind, other times I just don’t want to deal with it.”
“I Googled famous people with heterochromia. You keep good company. Like Robert Downey, Jr.”
Dane gave a purist snort. “He has partial heterochromia. Different color flecks within the iris.”
“What do you have?”
“Heterochromia iridum. Also known as Fred’s sexual orientation.”
They took a couple gin and tonics to a high top and toasted.
“Welcome to Cocktails and Suspicion,” Dane said. “You’re up.”
“I’m suspicious because the second, no, third time I met you, you were dressed as a woman.”
“Fair.” Dane smiled. “I’m suspicious because you still sleep with your ex-wife.”
Liko opened his mouth. Closed it. “Fair.”
“You still love her?”
“It’s hard to mourn a child when you’re no longer a couple,” Liko said slowly. “I don’t know if I still love her. I know I kind of need her right now. It’s hard to explain.”
“She’s the last link to Kyle.”
“The last human one.”
“She really cheated on you with your accountant?”
“Pathetic, right?”
“Did you find out or did she confess?”
“She confessed. After she slept with him, which violated the Graylock Protocol.”
“The what?”
Liko smiled. “Let me ask first: Did you, Nomi and Ethan have outside partners?”
“No.”
“You had a conversation about it? Laid out rules and expectations and defined infidelity? Made it clear?”
“It was many conversations,” Dane said. “Did you and Janelle?”
“When we got engaged we went camping up in the Berkshires. We brought along this book, something like, 50 Questions to Ask Your Lover.”
“How do you define infidelity,” Dane said, pretending to read. “Do you fold towels in quarters or thirds? Do you have an irrational fear of snakes in the toilet?”
“All important things to know before you tie the knot,” Liko said.
“So we went through the whole book, every question, talking while we hiked, or sitting around the fire. We talked a lot about fidelity. We liked the idea of it. Believed in it. We both came from really solid families and parents with good, long marriages. We wanted to emulate that. So, we set the intentions and made it clear: Crushing is allowed, crushing is human. Sleeping with anyone else is cheating. But…”
Dane tilted his chin. “But?”
“We made a deal. If either of us was feeling an attraction that was inching toward the forbidden fruit bowl, we would make space to have a conversation about that, too. Just us. Or with a counselor. However we wanted to say, I’m feeling something more than a crush and I need to talk about it.
We even made a safe word: Graylock. It was the name of the campsite in the Berkshires. ”
Dane half moved out of his seat. “Hold on, let me get my Scrabble tiles.”
Grinning, Liko raised an arm like he was going to backhand Dane.
A slice of sun hit his face, lighting up the violet of his eyes.
He was dazzling right then and the laughing rapport suddenly suffused Dane with memory.
Recalling the New Year’s Eve party and how, for a couple hours, he felt on.
Astounded by himself. Realizing he was a charming person.
“I need some food to go with the cocktails and suspicion,” Liko said. “Otherwise you’re taking me out of here in a wheelbarrow.”
Dane watched him go, liking him intensely and not knowing what to do. He bit his bottom lip, thinking how close they’d been to kissing. How weirdly relieved he was when the plate broke. How eager he was for the moment to come back.
Liko leaned on the bar, hands placed wide, a foot crossed over an ankle. He looked especially good from the back.
Desire always hit Dane in the back of his throat first. A little thick thrum, like eating too much cake frosting at once. Squeezing his breath in a rich fist, then letting go and melting down into his chest and migrating toward the rest of his body.
This is a wicked crush, Diane said. If memory serves.
Dane definitely remembered this heady feeling from his youth, curious excitement making his cells sit up and crane their necks at Liko. Charmed by everything he said and did. Wanting to charm in return, show off, be impressive, make him crush, make him want.
Physically speaking, Liko was unlike anyone Dane had ever been with.
Good. He’d been forced back onto the dating scene without a warning, without consent, without even a goddamn consultation.
So he was entitled to a few rules. He wanted a lover that wouldn’t remind him, either in looks or body.
Dane, Ethan and Nomi had absurdly similar physiques.
They wore each other’s clothes easily, even shoes.
Lowered in water, they would all displace the exact same amount. Three hares occupying equal thirds.
Liko was taller than Dane. Broader. Ten years older.
Dark-haired once, but heading toward silver.
The beard couldn’t mask the air of tired sadness, nor the way his expression often stopped cold, as if his son’s death had freshly blindsided him.
Even with a thousand-yard stare, he had a quiet sexiness that made Dane’s toes curl.
Liko was a wreck, but he was a confident wreck.
No doubt he could throw Dane around a bed and show him things. Fuck him in a way Ethan could never…
He looked away, clenched and blindsided.
He fished a pen out of his pocket and wrote Graylock on the placemat.
His pen flicked between letters before he finally wrote rock.
Then Glock, which Ethan would’ve discounted as a proper noun, but screw him.
Oh, and yak. Good word, probably worth a mess of points in Scrabble.
“Here we go,” Liko said, setting down a woodfired pizza, the cheese still bubbling in between asparagus spears and caramelized onions. “God, I’m starving.”
Dane realized he was too, and they demolished the pie in minutes.