She’s right. The pain of leaving would hurt more this time.
“I should get back,” I say and put my hand on her arm. I want her to know that I’m not angry in any way. I have a lot to think about.
“I know I push you but I also want you to know how thrilled I am to have you back.” She gets up and gives me a hug. I don’t have the guts to tell her the next time she sees me I might be saying goodbye again. As she wraps her arms around me she whispers in my ear, “You can do it. Remember, let the poem write itself.”
I leave and I walk out onto the street and walk back down Main to the inn. I can’t help thinking about what she said about staying open to things. What would it be like to see this thing through with Tack?
I don’t know where it will go but she’s right, maybe I need to let the poem write itself.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Tack goes to culinary school in the mornings, and dinner service is getting busier each week. Whenever I can, I’ve been spending time with Tack and Jules. We went to Point Pleasant and tubed down the Delaware River watching the world float past us and found the best blueberry ice cream at a dairy in Solebury. We go to visit the goats at Uncle Kevin and Uncle Evan’s whenever we are in range and even sometimes when we aren’t because of Jules’s love for Paul.
While the days are scenes from an affable sitcom, the nights are pure lust. We make out for hours on the couch while my laptop plays whatever Hulu show is on auto-play. I wake up with his mouth on my dick, hungrily waiting for my orgasm. The showers are just excuses to have sex standing up. I learn Tack’s body in a way that I had only imagined. Years of fantasizing about him have actually created an endless menu of possibilities. We have been sucking and getting off multiple times a night pretty much every night for a few weeks now and I don’t feel like we’ve scratched the surface of our passion.
We don’t talk about the past or the future. We don’t talk about what we mean to each other or where this is going. We just work hard and play harder.
Tack is working even harder than I am since he’s also going to school in addition to making the inn a raging success. We’re closed on Mondays since almost nothing is open in town and everyone seems to need a day to recuperate from the weekend.
I find Tack in the dining room alone, surrounded by books with his laptop open and his head on the table and the curtains drawn.
“Should I make you a double espresso?” I ask him and put my hands on his shoulders for a gentle massage.
“I’m not sure it would help,” he grumbles, slowly raising his head. “It’s not exhaustion. It’s spreadsheets. I don’t know how you keep the books for this place. It’s impossible to keep track of everything and get the numbers to balance. I thought culinary school would just be about cooking. My Restaurant Operations class is kicking my ass. Again.”
“Maybe I can help you,” I say, walking over to the espresso machine. I try not to make a big deal out of it.
“I’ll figure it out. It’s just that the problems in the book don’t make any sense. I’ve got to calculate a weekly cash flow statement for Cafe Paris,” he says, clicking some keys on his laptop.
“Cafe Paris? Where is that, in Doylestown? Philly?”
“I wish. If it were a real place I could figure it out. It only exists in the mind of the author of this textbook. She has given us random numbers and inventory so none of it makes sense. They can’t spend more on lemons than they do on meat. It makes the whole thing confusing.”
“Hold on,” I say. I run into the kitchen and grab my laptop and then come back to the dining room and grab the seat next to him. “Why don’t I just walk you through our cash flow last week from the inn.”
“I don’t know if I’ll understand it,” he says. I put my hand on his thigh. Everyone sees Tack as the easygoing, handsome farm boy who never has to work at anything. I know Tack works hard at keeping up that appearance so when he is able to show me that he is unsure about something it’s powerful. He’s revealing a part of himself that no one else gets to see and it makes me feel even closer to him.
I start showing him each line in the cash flow and explaining how each part relates to an actual part of our operations so it makes more sense. The numbers are pretty simple and I know he understands them. It’s the abstract nature of a textbook assignment that makes it confusing. I go over our beverage budget and then I look at the produce and dairy and other perishable goods the inn needs to create his menus. Then suddenly it clicks. I look at his face and I can see it all coming together.
“So that means the net change in cash from this week to the next should be...” He pauses for a moment then clicks a few keys. “That!” he says, pointing to a cell on the spreadsheet with the exact right number.
“Exactly!” I say. My phone rings and I look down at it. It’s Barry. I can almost feel the blood drain from my cheeks down to my feet. I’ve been in complete denial about Barry and the deal that’s brewing. Barry is relentless. It’s what makes him so good at closing deals. I can’t avoid him forever.
Tack sees me look at my phone and says, “You can go respond to that if you need to.”
“It’s not important,” I say and shut off my phone completely. I sit down next to Tack but this time I’m physically much closer. Our thighs are touching but I stay focused on reviewing his computation.
“Excellent,” I say. “It’s perfect. This is exactly right.”
“Thank you,” he says but then his excitement gives way to a quietness. “No, really,” he says. “You never made me feel stupid when I didn’t understand something.”
“Good, I want you to feel confident,” I say and put my hand on his shoulder but this time my touch is not as gentle.
He looks at me and I take the opportunity to show him how I feel by moving my face next to his lips and kissing him slower than local honey moves downhill. My mouth opens to his and my tongue enters his mouth, searching for his, and when I find it our mouths open deeper and I feel even more connected to him. These long kisses have become as regular as our bread deliveries but much more exciting.
I look up from the kiss quickly just to make sure the shutters are closed in the dining room and then I stand him up, my mouth still on his. I grab for his pants, start undoing the fly and strip off all of his clothes in a matter of seconds. He goes to unbutton my shirt but I only let him get halfway down.
“No, I want to look at you.” I’m fully dressed. Tack is completely naked. The power dynamic is raw and off-kilter and it makes me so hard. I want to just unzip my pants and see what it feels like to be inside him like this. I want him totally naked and vulnerable while I pound him in my shirt and pants. I approach him to find out when I hear loud knocking at the kitchen door.
“Anita?” Tack asks.
“It’s Monday and she has a key,” I remind him. The potential orgasm is affecting his thinking.
“The only person who should be knocking on your back door is me,” he says and moves his fingers between my thighs right to my ass. “I’ll go answer the door,” he says, retreating from my ass.
“No, you study and stay naked. I’ll take care of whoever it is.” I button my shirt quickly and walk into the kitchen. I check myself once in the mirror to make sure nothing is hanging out that shouldn’t be.
“Serilda,” I say as soon as I open the door. “How nice to see you again.” They are wearing a pair of lavender slacks and a floral blouse with multiple gold chains around their neck. “Stunning as always. I trust the LGBTQ Historical Society is having a good summer after the luncheon here Memorial Day weekend?”
“I know you’re just flattering me but the ears hear the compliments just the same. Came by to discuss a little business with you but I must say I am quite disturbed by what I have seen.” They raise their perfectly manicured eyebrows at me. Oh no. Did I miss a set of shutters? Did I just let the entire town see me strip Tac
k naked in the dining room?
“What did you see?” I ask, unable to hide a warble in my voice.
“Actually, it’s what I didn’t see.”
“Excuse me?”
“What happened to the pride flags? They are a symbol of our community and let everyone know this is a safe place.”
“Oh, yes,” I say, relieved. “Those. Yes, I understand. The ones that were left behind by the previous owner were faded and, frankly, our community deserves better.” The words come into my head like a sales pitch but by the time they are out of my mouth they don’t feel that way at all. They feel like the truth. Maybe I should let the rainbow fly. Why not?
“I’m glad to hear it.” They sit and then open a small notebook. “The historical society would like to host our fall luncheon at The Hideaway. Everyone is talking about how well you and Tack are doing.”
I look over at the kitchen door and think about Tack’s nearly naked body on the other side and how even a few seconds away from him is beginning to feel like too long.
“It’s a bit of a bigger function than the one we had on the books when you took over the inn because it coincides with the High Heels Race. Local shopkeepers and officials race down Ferry Street in various forms of drag carrying a pumpkin. It’s a fundraiser. Our community has found a home in this town for many, many decades. I know young people aren’t always aware of the fact that they aren’t the first person to fight the battle or that those before them have helped pave the way.”
“I am aware,” I say.
I think about meeting Toula all those years ago and how her kindness helped me do well in my classes despite all the tormenting. She recognized me in a way no one at school did. I know New Hope wasn’t able to always protect me and those moments hardened me but the truth is without all the other good ones, like being in the bookstore, I wouldn’t have survived.
“Let me be frank,” they say, their tone changing from pleasant formality to familiar realness. “We ain’t got a lot of money and the inn has always given us a steep discount. Are you gonna keep helping us?”
My first instinct is to say yes, of course, I would be happy to, but this response shocks me. When I hosted them in the spring I did it because it was already on the books and even though the profit was small I needed to show some money coming in. I told myself it was the last time I would be giving discounts and that I would be focused on making money not giving things away. But I want to help Serilda. What happened to my killer instincts?
“You are a very hard person to say no to,” I tell them.
“I know. It’s by design. I’m assuming that is a yes.”
“Let me get the reservation book,” I say, implying that a significant discount is in their future.
“Thank you, Vincent,” they say, opening up a calendar from their purse.
“When is the event?”
“It’s always the last Saturday in October.”
“October?” I ask like they just said it was in the year 2050.
“Yes, I hope I’m not too late. Are you already booked?”
Booked? I had planned to be back in New York by Labor Day and lately I’ve been wondering about moving that deadline, but October? Even if the contract took longer than expected I thought I would close on a sale with FunTyme before October. Then I remember the night after the reopening and Tack telling me that Jules wants the three of us to be a s’more. Sure, I briefly fantasized about going to the Halloween party as a—the word resists being summoned in my mind but then suddenly bursts through—family. But it didn’t seem like it could be a reality. Now I can’t help seeing the three of us dressed in brown and tan costumes that we need to explain to everyone we meet. An inside joke that makes the three of us laugh harder each time we have to explain it.
I remember my conversation with Toula. I can hear her reminding me that the pain will be worse this time. When I left New Hope last time I didn’t know what I wanted. I was just a kid. But now I know exactly what I want and Toula is right—living a life alone without Tack and Jules would be miserable.
I don’t want to sell to FunTyme or anyone else. I want to stay put and protect The Hideaway Inn.
I look over at the door to the dining room. I wonder if Tack is still naked. Still waiting for me. It feels like we have been waiting for each other forever but maybe the wait is finally over. My heart is so full of love for Tack right now that I think it might bust right out of my chest. I want to be with him and not just for the summer, for always. I want to be with him right here, working and loving together.
“Vincent? Are you available?” they ask, snapping me out of my pleasant daydream.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I was just clearing out a few things on the calendar to make sure we are available. I will most certainly be here,” I say and turn to the correct page in the reservation book. “I’m putting you in for the last weekend in October. I will be at the door happy to see you and everyone in the LGBTQ Historical Society the day of the event.”
“That’s wonderful. I’ll email you with details. Goodbye, Vincent.” They put their hand on the door and then stop. “Oh, and tell Tack that if he wants to spy on your business meetings from the dining room he should at least put on a shirt.”
They leave and I look over at the window in the door to the dining room. Tack’s taut naked torso quickly darts away and I run through the door after him, ready to let the poem finally write itself.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Tack
“Read it again. Start with the part that goes Chef O’Leary is the ‘boss of flavor’ but this time slow down and really put some feeling behind each word.”
Vince has his phone in his hand and he’s next to me in bed in his room which has slowly become our room over the past few weeks or so. His hairy legs are entwined with my smooth legs as he reads a customer review. We haven’t been open long enough to have a ton of reviews but there are a few and they are pretty over the top.
The restaurant operated at a mad pace tonight—organized chaos that felt like being plugged into a power circuit. Every shake of a saucepan or sprinkle of a garnish felt like it was guided by intuition. The orders kept coming in and I had to keep a running tally in my head of everything that needed to be done and when. Every now and then I would glance over at Clayton as he brought in plates from the dining room and make sure they were empty. I swear a few looked like they were licked clean.
It was so busy I barely spoke to Vince but that doesn’t mean we weren’t connected the whole night. He spent most of the evening in the dining room with Anita, making sure each guest was enjoying their meal. Occasionally when the door swung open I would catch a glimpse of him listening to a customer or shaking someone’s hand. My heart would swell with pride. But when he entered the kitchen and our eyes connected there was this understanding between us that we were working together, as a team. We had different tasks in front of us but each complemented the other.
It feels amazing to be appreciated in this way for something that I learned to do. I’ve always been told I’m handsome or I have pretty eyes or a sexy smile. That’s nice. I mean, that feels good too but that’s just winning the genetic lottery. This is different. This is being appreciated for something that’s really a part of me.
I rub Vince’s legs with my toes and he puts his arm around me as he reads the next. “‘The summer gazpacho made with local heirloom tomatoes is Ah-MAZE-ing!’” he says. “That’s how Chuckles456 wrote the word, just so you know. Then she says, ‘It was a hot August day when we ordered the chilled soup and it was the perfect blend of cooling and zesty. I LOVED IT!!!’ That is three exclamation points and all caps.” I can tell he is trying to do his best dramatic interpretation but he refuses to let his voice rise into his upper register. I wish he would relax more with me, really trust me enough to be himself. But we’re getting there and with each part of himself that he shares
, I feel closer to him.
He reads one of my favorite lines and it’s almost as good as hearing him moan when I’m about to make him come. I look at him reading and I can tell he is not only happy that the inn is doing well but he’s proud of me and I think that is the best feeling of all.
“These are really great reviews. Anita and I should set up a media event,” he says, pushing his finger across his phone to scroll through them.
“What do you mean?”
“Invite some big papers like The Philadelphia Inquirer or The New York Times and host a meal, maybe you do a cooking demonstration. Would help us get some press.”
“If you think it would help, sure,” I say. He takes his hand and softly moves it over my shoulder. It’s so gentle and soft like he is barely making contact but that makes it that much more intense. Then he moves his hand off me.
“Oh, wait a minute, wait a minute,” he says, sitting up in bed. “Who is this YoungBuck2525?”
“I have no idea,” I say.
“Well, this YoungBuck on Yelp certainly knows who you are. Listen to this. ‘It’s no surprise that Tack’s food is as delicious as he is. His ancho chile tamales with local goat cheese and artisanal honey were hot, spicy and perfectly golden just like the chef.’”
“No, it does not say that,” I say, suddenly feeling bashful.
“It most certainly does.” Vince holds his phone up to show me.
“Well, what can I say? I guess there are parts of me that are more golden than others.” I roll over and show him my ass which is significantly paler than the rest of my body after a few days of playing shirtless with Jules by the river. I know the tan line looks sexy and I don’t mind showing it off for Vince.
The Hideaway Inn Page 15