5
Saturday morning, Tean found Jem on the couch, arm across his eyes.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Tean said.
Scipio shot to his feet.
“I can’t,” Jem said. “I’m dead.”
“You’re not dead. You had a bad week. A frustrating, discouraging week. And that’s okay. But let’s go do something fun. Something that will make us happy.”
Scipio danced a few steps sideways in case the walk in question had already been forgotten.
“I am dead,” Jem said. “And I’m rotting. God, I’m going to rot here forever. And be your trophy husband. And all I’m going to be good for is being a hung bull stud with a perfect body who fucks your brains out when you get home. A house-bull. A house-cock. What’s the term I’m looking for?”
“You know what?” Tean said. “When we practice reading, maybe we spend less time on that site with all the stories about the boys from that band getting pregnant.”
“An alpha-bull.”
“Let’s cut that time down to zero.”
“Tean, it’s art!”
Tean patted Jem’s stomach. “I’ll get Scipio in his harness.”
Scipio was so excited that the Lab missed twice trying to get his head through the harness, and his collar was jingling and jangling, the leash scraping across the floor as he turned in a circle.
By that time, Jem had emerged from the bedroom in jeans and a pullover, hair freshly combed, beard glowing with balm or oil or whatever he was using these days.
Outside, the sky looked like broken pottery—fragments of clouds that were whitish-brown like fired clay, and the blue between them a washed-out glaze. The wind cut through old trees. Scipio whined when he saw a squirrel.
Beany Bop was a dog-friendly coffee shop within walking distance, located in a historic building with bay windows and a pressed-tin ceiling.
It smelled like cinnamon and espresso, and voices bounced pleasantly without becoming too loud.
As Jem and Tean waited in line, Scipio said hi to Camilo, who stopped long enough to scruff the Lab’s ears before continuing on to deliver food to one of the tables.
The young het couple in front of them was having trouble deciding.
“Do you like McGriddles?” Jem asked over the man’s shoulder.
He flashed irritation back at them, but the woman said, “What’s a McGriddle?”
“Okay, stop,” Jem said. “Right now. Get out of here. Go straight to McDonald’s and buy yourself McGriddles.”
“Don’t tell my customers to go to McDonald’s,” Camilo said from the espresso machine.
And because this was Jem and not Tean, nobody shouted or got angry or gave a weird stare that was the nonverbal equivalent of Why are you talking? The young couple laughed. Jem grinned.
“If you like pancakes and sausage,” Jem said, “you should definitely get the maple biscuit sandwich. It’s insane. Your cholesterol will immediately go into the red. You will probably name one of your children after me.”
The het couple laughed again. Whatever that flash of irritation had been from the man, it was gone now.
“If you’re looking for something lighter, they’ve got this ham-and-Swiss crepe that’s filling but not too heavy. Or you could do one of the sweet crepes. Tean loves the strawberry and banana. In spite of the massive problem of agrochemicals.”
The young couple laughed again—hopefully not about the agrochemicals, because they were a serious problem. The man ordered the maple biscuit sandwich. The woman got the strawberry and banana crepe.
“And what are we going to name our first child?” the man asked with a big smile as they headed toward a table.
“Jem.”
The young woman probably didn’t mean to be overheard as she murmured to the man, “Jem is a cute name.”
Jem ordered their food and coffee. Camilo flirted with him. Jem pretended not to notice. Camilo flirted with Tean. Jem made sure he noticed that. Camilo even flirted with Scipio, which mostly consisted of giving the Lab a puppacino—which, Tean had learned, was just whipped cream.
They found a table. They sat. Tean’s coffee was exactly the way he liked it—way too sweet, way too rich, and definitely unhealthy.
Jem was staring out the bay window, where traffic moved slowly on the street.
“You’re so good at that,” Tean said.
Jem blinked and looked over at him.
“At everything, really,” Tean said. “At talking to people. At getting to know them. At being kind to them.”
“I told them about a delicious sandwich.”
“You’re so special.” Tean’s face heated as soon as the words came out, but he said, “You are. I know you don’t feel that way right now, but you really are, Jem. And things are going to get better.”
Jem looked down into his untouched latte. Camilo had made the foam look like a Christmas tree.
“I wish I was different,” he finally said.
“Jem.”
“I just mean—” He blew out a breath. He shook his head.
“I don’t want you to be different.” Tean reached across the table and took Jem’s hand. “You’re wonderful. I love you.”
Jem smiled, but it drained away to one side. He freed his hand from Tean’s, picked up the coffee, and said, “I took the job at the call center.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?” Jem laughed. “I already did it. It’s done.”
“Jem, I don’t want you to do that. We’re fine—”
“We’re not, actually. I know you don’t want me to stress, but Tean, we’re not fine. We need the money.”
“We’ll figure something out. You don’t have to do a job you’re going to hate.”
“I won’t hate it,” Jem said. “It’s just a job.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“There’s, like, one thing in the world I’m good at,” Jem said. He scratched his beard and looked out the bay window again. “I might as well make some money at it.”