by Kevin Sean
“Yeah, I’m living in Chicago now like I always of doing,” Zach says. I don’t remember him ever talking about wanting to move to Chicago. “I love it so much.”
“Awesome! Good for you,” I say. I wonder if I’m even a little convincing.
The line goes silent for a moment. I wonder if Zach is busy watching a super-cut of all of our mistakes and best memories like I am… or if he’s just bored by this conversation. Then I hear a faint crash and Zach gasping.
“Bubbles, no! Listen, Ben, I just saw my puppy knock something over and I should attend to it before he hurts himself. Sorry to hang up already! But… I’d love to talk to you again soon. Maybe next time I’m in the city we can catch up for real!”
It’s hard for me to match Zach’s optimism regarding our friendship, but I don’t doubt his sincerity. I think he’s a good person, even if our relationship didn’t work out.
“I—I’d like that,” I stammer. “We can do this again sometime.”
“Okay, cool. Well… let’s chat soon. Bubbles! Dammit. Okay, bye, Ben—” Beep. And he’s gone.
After we’ve ended the call I scroll through Zach’s social media. It’s an indulgence I’ve abstained from until this very moment. I’m taking in photograph after photograph of Zach, who used to be my Zach, posing and smiling with his new boyfriend, Byron.
My heart should shatter as I look at these snapshots of Zach’s new life, right? Or at the very least develop a hairline fracture. But I feel nothing of the sort. If anything, I feel… a flush of relief. Lighter.
I feel as if I just finished a long book I promised myself I’d read but stopped enjoying halfway through and then forced myself to slog through until the end. And I’ve finally reached the very last sentence. El fin.
It feels great to know I can move on from a relationship I’ve spent the last year convincing myself would haunt me forever. I just hope I’m not jumping from one sinking ship to another. I’m not exactly guaranteed domestic bliss and stability with Logan, now, am I? Strangers to fuck-buddies isn’t how I pictured my fairy tale love story unfolding.
What if it is love, whatever this thing is, sprouting up and taking hold over both of the single gay men in this mansion? Or worse, what if it’s nothing more than lust? What if Logan’s just bored out of his mind in this unexpected isolation and once the weather clears he’ll be done with me? I inhale sharply, already anticipating an inevitable downward spiral if I’m tossed aside in a few days’ time.
The thought of Logan leaving me behind wouldn’t sting so damn bad if it had nothing to do with my art. But now my art and my time here with Logan are intrinsically connected. How the hell am I going to inspire myself to paint when the storm’s over? I’ve gotten my mojo back and it’ll be slipping out of my fingers before I know it.
An infinitesimal part of me hopes in secret that the storm never ends, however sadistic or unrealistic the thought may be. It’s selfish of me to want the destruction and chaos to continue, I know. I also know that Logan wants the storm to end so he can get back to his business affairs.
But maybe, just maybe, he’s grateful for our forced confinement together. I have to admit that I am, now, even if I was initially reluctant about staying here for more than one night. Not like I had any choice in the matter. Thanks, mother nature.
I’ll have so much to consider when I rate this experience from the comfort of home, after all of this blows over. There’s the food: impeccable. The staff: dedicated. The accommodations: spectacular. The sex: mind-blowing.
And I can’t forget the painting inspiration I derive from making love with Logan. There’s no way I will ever find a muse like him again in my life, right? I knew that this entire arrangement with Logan was all far too good to be true.
I knew that, so I never should have let myself get so deeply involved.
Of course, I didn’t realize that I’d gotten so… attached to Logan until I was staring down a nude portrait I’d painted of him, and by then it was far too late to ignore the sparks flying between the two of us.
If my isolationist behavior after my breakup with Zach seemed grim, I have a feeling the aftermath of my time with Logan Lexington will be downright catastrophic.
I try to shake off these thoughts and return my attentions to painting, but my attempts are feeble and futile. Every time I pick up the paintbrush or mix a fresh shade of paint or adjust the canvas on the easel, I see Logan, standing in front of me in the nude and waiting to have another portrait painted.
I hear Katarzyna’s words echoing in my head. Logan sees something special in me.
I don’t know whether to take them to heart or swat them away. Even the aftertaste of her home-cooked food in my mouth is both bitter and sweet. What remains of donut glaze on my tongue reminds me not only of how comfortable this mansion is and how inviting Logan and Katarzyna have been, but also of how far removed this situation is from my ordinary life.
I don’t belong here. I belong back in The Castro, in my tiny apartment. I belong with my cat Jade, lounging on the couch and watching Bridalplasty reruns while the sun sets over the bay. I belong back at the easel I’m used to, and ideally I’d be painting a man I’m not starting to find myself falling in… fuck, I can’t even get myself to say it.
Shaking off the nerves which have gripped me in this moment of self-reflection, I put down the paintbrush that’s been dangling aimlessly in my hand and I head to one of the hideaway’s walls of windows. I watch the rain pour down. It brings destruction and hope. The storm knocks things over and tears them apart, but it also washes away the grime and makes the world brand new.
Do I want this storm to clear up already so I can go home or to rage on so I can stay here with Logan forever? I have a sinking feeling that I already know the answer… I’m just not willing to accept the truth.
14
LOGAN
I must have aged eighty-four years since we started this conference call.
Ideally I’d have spent this morning naked next to Ben, but instead I’ve been talking with engineers and sociological analysts all day. I’m trying not to make it obvious that I’m bored out of my mind.
The engineers are making this very difficult for me by ranting for what feels like hours on end about algorithms, mathematical equations, and server capacities. Normally I’m game to get down to brass tacks and tackle these topics of conversation, but my mind is elsewhere today.
“…And I think that about sums it up,” concludes Edison, one of the chief engineers. At last, we’re finished. I thank my lucky stars and say goodbye to everyone on the call before hanging up.
As I place my phone down, the photos app opens to a snapshot I took of the paints Ben mixed. The shades are gorgeous and calm me in an instant. A thought occurs to me. If Photogram has stolen our original color scheme, we must outdo them with an even more beautiful layout. Maybe these rich colors could be the key.
I’m newly inspired so I strike up a text conversation with Dan from LexTech’s design team.
ME: Hey-o. All good on the western front?
ME: How’s my favorite software design team holding up?
DAN: While the cat’s away, the mice will play. I mean… keep slaving away!
ME: Damn right!
DAN: Seriously though, all good here. Business as usual.
DAN: Have you seen the latest prototypes we sent Sue of our new emojis?
ME: The updated middle finger particularly impressed me. That and the “#SEXY” emojis.
DAN: What can I say? Our graphics team lives to serve the greater good.
ME: Mother Teresa has nothing on LexTech’s designers.
ME: Speaking of your glorious sense of design…
ME: I’m sending you photos of a few different color palettes and images. Is there a way we can integrate these color combinations into the ConnectMeet interface? They’re so relaxing and alluring.
DAN: Sounds good.
I send him pictures of all the paints—vivid blues and fiery o
ranges—and a photo of Ben’s flower painting.
DAN: Damn, you weren’t kidding. These are gorgeous. Hell, even I’m getting all sappy just looking at them. If we use these colors, we’ll have customers proposing to their matches by the third message they send.
DAN: I’ll send you a rough draft mockup ASAP.
ME: Perfect. We’ll touch base tomorrow—have a great night.
I put down my phone and feel joyous yet confused. Why the hell is Ben still the only thing I have on my mind? I know I should focus on the progress of my app’s development. More importantly, I should be upset with myself over the fact that I’m not sufficiently focused on my app.
It’s so cheesy how everything is becoming Ben, Ben, Ben with me but I can’t help it. He’s just… always there, at the forefront of my mind, flashing those gorgeous green eyes and smiling that sweet smile.
I’m sure there’s some kind of psychological study regarding intense attraction which has been conducted on people forced into isolation together. I’m positive that in some sterile lab out there in the world, scientists have watched newly matched and newly confined couples start polite, get comfortable enough to argue, understand one another enough to agree, and then need each other enough to make love, over and over again.
There must be a logical, rational explanation for the fact that I’m teetering on the edge of falling head over heels in love with Ben Carpenter.
I walk back to the bedroom. When I’m nearly there and about to drown in daydreams of Ben, my phone rings and throws me a life raft. It’s Sue. I answer right away.
“Sue! To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“The pleasure is all mine, sir. I’m happy to hear from you, and…” Sue pauses to collect her words. She sounds as formal as ever, but I sense that something isn’t right. I think I hear Sue almost… stammer. Her hesitation when speaking is shocking, considering the superhuman level of composure and decisiveness with which Sue carries herself.
“Is everything okay, Sue?”
She inhales sharply. One, two, three seconds pass before she answers.
“Honestly, Mr. Lexington? No, everything isn’t okay.” I stiffen up but remain silent, hoping she’ll take this as an invitation to continue. Sue, being the best secretary ever, does exactly that and proceeds. “Things are spiraling out of control in the office.”
“What do you mean? Are there setbacks in the software development? I thought the engineers said they were a day or two away from getting our final algorithm working! I just talked with Dan, and things didn’t sound too bad…”
“They are very close, yes, and they are still working on it. But that’s not what’s out of control, it’s… it’s morale that’s spiraling out of control. I’ve never seen LexTech’s employees at large so unmotivated and complacent in all my years working for you, Mr. Lexington. Everyone is putting on a happy face so you don’t worry too much, but I can’t bring myself to lie to you, sir. It’s…”
Again, Sue struggles to finish her sentence. I’ve never heard Sue not speak in complete, concrete thoughts. I can tell she’s upset and rattled by this turn of events like she never has been by any other trials of her job.
If what Sue’s saying is true—and it is, I trust Sue—then the current state of affairs at LexTech is serious. I need to fix this issue right now before it becomes an even bigger deal. It’s my company, which means it’s my problem.
Why didn’t I know this was happening? What the hell is going on over there? It’s been less than a week since I last was in the office, and I’ve been checking in on my team’s progress on ConnectMeet via digital means.
“Why is morale so low, Sue? Is it something I did?”
“Well… more like something you didn’t do,” Sue says. “A lot of employees think you expect the dating app project to fail because you’ve been distancing yourself from it. People are starting to consider it a sinking ship. Investors feel the same way too… some have withdrawn their financial support and intend to reinvest their money in Photogram.”
“Pulling out of the deal? Losing a rapper for the commercials wasn’t enough. Now our investors are going to Photogram?” Nails on a chalkboard are a glorious symphony compared to the sentences Sue just uttered.
It’s bad enough for my investors to be abandoning their faith in me and my business, but for them to place that faith in my low-rent rival who can’t even think for himself or get ahead without cheating? My nightmare scenario somehow just got even worse.
“People were doubtful about this project’s success two days ago, but when the investors pulled out this morning, morale plummeted further than ever before.”
“Why didn’t anyone alert me or tell me about this?” I ask, but I already know that’s not what I should be asking. I ought to interrogate myself and question why I was so uninvolved with my company to not even notice such major events happening.
I can’t believe I didn’t realize what was going on sooner. Looking back now, it’s all too clear: I was productive and focused on work the first couple of days of working from home, but work started going on the back burner the second time Ben and I went from one night stand to live-in lovers.
My stomach feels like it’s turning somersaults. I can’t tell if it’s giddy with love or wracked with anxiety.
Being with Ben doesn’t feel wrong. It feels so fucking right. But somehow this thing between us, whatever connection is holding us together… is also pulling my company apart at the seams.
It’s not Ben’s fault, I’m completely to blame. After all, I made us happen. I invited him over.
Then again, I’m the one who explicitly said that this would be a one-time thing, and then when that proved impossible, that it would be an impermanent relationship. I’ve never strayed from my policies of staying out of love affairs before and now—when my company is falling apart—isn’t the time to break the rules.
I push away the thought of my own broken heart when this entire ordeal is through. I have faint but ugly memories of the pain of breaking up with Aaron a decade ago at the age of eighteen. I remember the raging red-hot anger and the pure unfiltered melancholy, the sadness that sinks you under bedsheets for weeks. I’ve been engineering my life specifically to avoid going through such a scenario and experiencing such discomfort ever again.
I arrive to Ben’s bedroom and swing the door open without knocking. I’m greeted by the sight of Ben in nothing but his underwear, looking so beautiful that I’m all the more conflicted about whether I ought to end things between us. I don’t want to, but I know it’s the best thing to do for the wellbeing of my business and my employees.
Ben leaps over to me at lightning speed and throws himself in to my arms, he’s so excited to see me. He wraps himself around me, his arms twisting around my arms, his ankles crossing my ankles. The entangled position we’re now in feels like a metaphor for the messiness which has ensued after Ben and I entwined ourselves in one another’s personal lives.
If I hadn’t just realized I was fucking up my business by devoting all my attention to Ben, I’d return his displays of affection with equal enthusiasm. In my current confused and concerned state of mind, however, I just stand still—shell shocked—while Ben showers me with love.
I’m positive that he senses my discomfort and hesitation, because all the excited kissing and hugging and touching ends just as quickly as it began.
“What’s wrong? Did Photogram do something again?” Ben asks me. I shake my head, unsure what to say. Ben continues his line of questioning. “Is there something going on at the office?”
Before I can stop myself, I give in to all of my fears and doubts and rip off the bandage. “It’s just that this… isn’t working for me.” I could have put that more tactfully.
“Wha-what!?” The immediate look of pain which clouds Ben’s face is like a knife in my gut. A sweet heart like his wasn’t meant to be hurt like this.
“I hate myself for letting this get out of hand. I just have so many things
on my plate right now at work, and this… this is interfering with that,” I attempt to offer as an explanation. I know it isn’t enough, but it’s too late to turn back on what I’ve said. The damage is done.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” I murmur. “I’m so sorry.”
I reach out a hand to comfort Ben and he swats it away. “No, it’s not that I have no words…” He furrows his brow. “I have too many words. Choice words.”
“Ben, listen—”
“Listen to what? Listen to you talking about business sense, about the danger of being emotional?” My mouth is dry now. I don’t know how I expected Ben to react, but it wasn’t… this. “Because that’s what this is about, isn’t it? Your business. Your company.”
I open and close my mouth, attempting to summon the right words, the exact turn of phrase which will smooth this all over. But it still won’t come to me—and I’m starting to think those magic healing words don’t exist. He isn’t incorrect in placing blame on my business and my priorities.
My commitment to silence and trepidation, which stands in grand contrast to Ben’s heightened emotional state, seems to serve only to make Ben even more upset.
“So I was just a live-in fuck, I guess? You wanted to ring a bell and have some anonymous guy from the street come service your cock while you distracted yourself between meetings?”
“Ben, no. You know it wasn’t like that between us.” I thought we already had this fight.
“I don’t know that. I don’t know what I know. I don’t…” he trails off, teary-eyed. “Right now all I know is that you’re throwing away flesh and blood and a beating heart that loves you… for an app?”
When he puts it like that—so plain, so vivid and so poetic—it takes everything in me not to shed a tear or lose my balance. It’s as if a wrecking ball of emotion, of pure unfiltered hurt, just slammed into me at 180 miles per hour.