by Rachel Ember
Their waitress chose that moment to arrive with the food. Emile had never been nauseated by crepes before, but anxiety had his stomach in knots.
“Are they of age?” Oliver asked at last. He always went straight to the crux of a matter.
Emile nodded shortly.
“Has anything happened?”
Emile’s brow furrowed. “Yes.”
A predatory gleam lit in Oliver’s eyes and he leaned over the table. “Oh, do tell.”
Emile thought about the night at Laramie’s and realized that nothing which had happened there would qualify as ‘anything’ by Oliver’s definition, so he skipped to what had happened that day after class. “We kissed.”
Oliver’s eyes widened and then narrowed, like he’d just opened a fancy gift box but found it empty. “Who initiated?”
“He did.”
“And did anyone see?”
Emile hesitated, remembering the student with his eyes glued to his phone. “No.”
“If all of that’s true, I don’t see how this is bad enough to put you off crepes. You love crepes.”
“These crepes aren’t that great,” Emile muttered, mostly because he felt like being grumpy. His Cajun mother would scoff at him eating anything so inauthentic when she’d raised him on secret family recipes. But crepes were kind of like wine, in Emile’s opinion. They didn’t have to be great to be good. “Anyway, it’s my ass that loves crepes.”
“A few more crepes would do your ass some good. So bony.”
Emile’s flash of self-consciousness must have shown, because Oliver chuckled and nudged his ankle under the table.
“I’m teasing. You’re beautiful and you know it.”
Flustered by how happy the stray bit of flattery made him, even if it was just coming from Oliver, Emile cut into his crepe for something to do. Buttery almond syrup bled through the delicate breading and coated his fork.
“So, what are you going to do?”
“Nothing. He’s a student.”
Oliver gave him another long, irritatingly knowing look. “‘Nothing.’ You realize that’s just what you said about Ben?”
Emile fumbled his fork against the edge of his plate. “This isn’t anything like that. Ben was…”
“A terrible idea,” Oliver finished. “Maybe not quite as terrible an idea as he was in reality, somehow. But still. Your history doesn’t suggest good judgment.”
“I would rather talk about the dog you got accidentally,” Emile said briskly. His eyes narrowed on Oliver’s hand. “What happened to your finger?”
“Nothing.”
“Is that a bite?”
“It’s nothing!”
“Looks too small to be from one of your devotees—”
“Devotees? Please.”
“So, that means it was your dog!”
“She’s still settling in.”
Emile was incredulous. “I didn’t think you could shock me like this. Bravo.”
“Believe it or not, I didn’t bring home a dog just to bewilder you,” Oliver said primly. He looked down at his hand and spread his fingers to show Emile the four neat puncture wounds.
Emile winced. “Okay, you’re going to have to tell me how it happened.”
Oliver sighed gustily while propping his chin on his hand, sandwich abandoned. No surprise there; just as he always tried to nag Emile into eating, he always barely ate in restaurants himself. “I haven’t decided if I’m going to let you change the subject or force you to swear you won’t seduce your student. And before you sputter and claim you’re too sweet and docile to do such a thing, I’ll remind you that I know exactly how pushy a bottom you are.” He winked eloquently.
Emile glared. “I was more expecting you’d try to talk me into seducing my student.”
“It crossed my mind, but I’m not sure the satisfaction of seeing you listen to your instincts for once outweighs the possible headache of dealing with the fallout if it all goes to hell. I’m still considering.”
Emile rolled his eyes and pushed his crepes around for what had to be at least a full minute. Then, he dropped his fork on his plate and demanded, “Well?”
Oliver blinked at him in a decent impression of someone guileless. “What?”
“What do you think I should do?”
“Isn’t the question whether I think you should do anything at all?”
Emile slouched. “Fucking lawyers.”
Oliver chuckled, and apparently took pity on him. “If you must know, I think that you should follow your heart.”
“See, I know you’re giving me shit, because you don’t even believe people have hearts to follow.”
Oliver chuckled again. “I’ll take the matter under advisement,” he said, with all the gravitas that Emile imagined he would use when he was in the courtroom. He then held up his hand and inspected the small bite marks. “And because I’m a very good friend, and I can see you want to be distracted, I’ll tell you about my dog. But first, give me the number for that dog nanny.”
On the last Friday in September, Emile had his first in-person faculty meeting of the semester. He would have preferred the mild trauma of Ben’s emails to the major trauma of seeing Ben in person.
And to make matters worse, Sydney wouldn’t even be there to run interference. She had some sort of flu. Or, in her words, an evil pestilence brought into our community by the return of the plague-ridden youths. Emile thought about coming up with an excuse or pretending to be ill or just not showing up at all, and seeing if Ben had the nerve to call him out on it. It wasn’t as though there was anything important discussed at these meetings; Emile was pretty sure the most boisterous discussion item that night would be whether or not it was time to replace the Keurig in the English Department’s staff room.
But in the end, he was an adult, his career was important to him, and it was his own fault he’d put himself in a position to work under an ex, so he was going.
As though to strike an absurd contrast with his mood, campus was particularly lovely, full of the golden light of a late-summer evening while the gilt edges of still-green leaves heralded fall.
Their meetings were at the alumni center auditorium, a new building in another part of campus from the old quad where Emile generally taught. The architecture had less charm over here, in Emile’s opinion, being more modern and sleek. But the space had also been planned with long stretches of grass, verdant landscaping, and shady trees, so it had an undeniable appeal of its own.
He was passing the old football stadium, now used for student recreation, when Oliver called him. Eager for the distraction, he answered on the second ring.
“You weren’t kidding about this dog nanny,” Oliver said by way of greeting. “He really is something. Cujo took to him right away.”
“Cujo?” Emile echoed with an incredulous laugh. “When are you going to let me see this dog?”
“Not yet,” he said, voice hesitant. “She’s still getting used to strangers.”
“I haven’t decided if I believe your so-called dog exists, or if this is an elaborate prank.”
“What?” Oliver sounded annoyed. “No. I would come up with something much more brilliant than a fake dog if I wanted to gaslight you.”
Emile laughed. “I just can’t picture an animal in your house, messing it up.”
“Yes, yes, as you’ve said. I’m a cold-hearted monster who cares more about my carpet than companionship.”
“I don’t think I put it quite like that, but actually, yes, that’s exactly what I think.”
“Hilarious. Anyway, I’m calling you right now because my date canceled, and I’m already dressed. I thought I might convince you to help me keep my reservation.”
So very tempted, Emile sighed. “Can’t. I have a faculty meeting. I’m about to walk into the building.”
“That sounds like the kind of thing you should blow off for filet mignon. I’ll even pick up the tab. I’m craving red meat.”
“Is that a euphem
ism?”
“Yes,” Oliver shot back without missing a beat. “But I’ll console myself with food. Will you come?”
About to walk into the building, Emile smiled into the phone. “No. But you should go alone. That would be very mysterious of you, and you might meet a handsome stranger.”
“Ugh, you’re the worst. Go to work, then. I’ll text you a photo of my perfect, medium-rare steak, and you can text me a photo of some asshole droning on about low enrollment.”
It’d be a picture of Ben, Emile realized, laughing to himself.
“Sure thing.”
Call ended, he pulled himself up the steps toward the second floor, noting the elegance of the space. The alumni center had been paid for by existing donors and designed for courting new ones. Enormous, multi-paned windows framed the first landing of the staircase before it doubled back against itself, offering a lovely view of the old stadium.
At the top of the stairs was the open meeting room door, and standing in the doorway was Ben, laughing as he spoke to Helena, one of their colleagues. He had his hand cupped around his mouth—his habit, like he had to make an effort to contain every smile. Emile had always loved the way his strong hand looked against his neat grey beard, but now he saw no charm in the gesture—instead, Ben looked like he was trying not to cough on his conversation partner.
The top stair squeaked under Emile’s weight, and both Ben and Helena turned their heads his way.
Ben’s hand fell away from his mouth; he no longer had a smile to hide. All real mirth left Helena’s expression, as well, her own smile turning small and pitying. She was a matronly older woman who always carried around wallet-sized photos of her innumerable grandchildren, and like everyone else on the department faculty, she had known Ben and Emile were together all those years, and she had known when they’d split.
Fortunately, she was less salacious than some of the faculty, and didn’t linger to observe their standoff. She fled into the meeting room, leaving them alone. The wide hallway was quiet except for the murmur of voices carrying from beyond the open door. Emile reluctantly stepped fully off the staircase and stopped, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.
“Hi, Ben.”
“Hello, Emile. You’re looking quite well.”
It was true. Emile hadn’t been able to help dressing with special care, even ensuring his hair had all the soft volume Ben had admired during their years together. Now, he felt silly, transparent, knowing all his effort showed. He wished he’d worn a T-shirt and jeans. Not that he owned a T-shirt and jeans… well, there were a few denim pants in the bottom drawer that he was pretty sure would no longer button, from back in his clubbing days.
But though the shame and awkwardness was intense, seeing Ben wasn’t as bad as Emile had imagined it would be. He felt sadness, but no longing. Anger and shame, but only the faintest flare of residual attraction. Ben was tall and broad-shouldered with blue eyes and sandy hair; he’d always been Emile’s type. But the dynamic they’d nurtured over the years—which had conditioned Emile to be alert to Ben’s every move and gesture, to crave his touch—had withered over their months apart.
Standing in front of him, Emile felt less of an attraction to Ben, after six years with him, than he did to Jay.
That was not a helpful thought. In fact, it just left him feeling confused and bereft in a new way. He didn’t get to have Jay, either. Apparently, the only one who could fuck students without remorse was Ben.
There it was, that latent bitterness. He’d tapped into it and now it rushed through him in an instant. He narrowed his eyes.
“How’s Seth?”
Ben’s jaw stiffened and he glanced into the meeting room, then at the empty, open staircase. He sighed. “Emile.” The exasperated tone was so patronizing, Emile’s temper spiked again. “I told you. He was not—and is not—important to me.” Ben’s eyebrows beetled. Once, Emile had loved to see that severe expression on Ben’s face, but now it just made him want to slap him. “After I begged you to discuss this, and you refused—you really want to bring it up here?”
Emile took a deep breath. “No, I don’t,” he said. It was true. The anger had receded as quickly as it had come. He looked at the open door, then back at Ben. “I really don’t.” With that, he walked past Ben and into the room.
“Here, honey,” Helena said as soon as he walked in, patting the chair beside hers. “Saved you a seat.”
The meeting was terrible, but much more tolerable than Emile had expected it to be. In the midst of the Keurig debate, he took a photo of Ben’s concentrated frown and sent it to Sydney after typing out a caption.
Boss only supports a Keurig investment if we prohibit disposable K-Cups. Employees concerned about possible bacteria in reusable silicone pods. Much strife.
His phone buzzed within seconds and he looked down expecting her reply, but instead he was briefly confused to see a photo of a handsome young man’s sensually parted lips… before he realized that the subject of the photo was being fed a bite of steak.
He read the accompanying text from Oliver and snorted. You’re a prophet, Mendes. Met my handsome stranger, just as you predicted.
Emile made sure he was the first one out the door when the meeting ended. He thought his escape might have been on Helena’s mind when she’d chosen their seats, and made a mental note to hug her later.
He wandered back down the stairs and happened to pause at the landing again, the one with the facing window that looked out over the old stadium.
It was in use; the perimeter lights were turned on to illuminate the square of turf against the dimming evening light. Instead of a few random kids running laps, there was some kind of organized practice taking place. A handful of young men were sprinting across the field in a tight formation. One of them was kicking a ball.
A soccer ball.
His eyes narrowed and he leaned closer to the pane of glass, careful not to leave smudges someone would have to come along and clean up later. Still, he was practically pressed against the pane. From where he observed, Emile felt a slight shift in temperature—the cool of the early-autumn air passing through the glass.
Even from a distance, Emile quickly recognized Jay.
He was a few yards from the kid kicking the ball and keeping pace. His hair was messier than it ever was in class, the fading sunlight striking the top of his head like a match and filling his blond waves with fire. He moved with economical grace, his long limbs carrying him over the grass without visible impact, like he was afloat.
The kid with the ball feinted left and right, but Jay never broke stride. He somehow read the other player’s true intention without missing a beat, and before the kid had taken two strides in his chosen direction, Jay intercepted him, his rangier body giving him a reach that enabled him to snatch the ball with the side of his foot. He turned with easy grace and raced away from the pack, the ball a short kick ahead of him, tight and controlled, through the empty stretch of field toward the window where Emile stood.
One of the hazards of being a poet was seeing symbolism where it wasn’t. Walking around in the world and being painfully aware of its asymmetry, wounded by signs that the universe wasn’t interested in telling him anything or aligning the stars on his behalf.
Emile knew it was ridiculous, but it was just how he was wired. And all those ridiculous, particularly wired circuits were flooded with raw electricity at the vision of Jay sprinting through the vibrant green of the field under the golden floodlights, untouchable to the other young athletes who streaked after him.
He was heading straight for Emile.
Seven
Jay
September
Jay had finally called Bria’s friend about the dog-walking job, and today was his first day.
Blake had been terse on the phone, but he’d more or less hired Jay on the spot. Well, he’d hired him after Jay had mentioned Bria. Jay hadn’t realized Bria was capable of making a friend who would feel compelled to do her favor
s. Actually, though, maybe Blake’s feelings for Bria had been more fearful than friendly. He had sounded more resigned than excited to hear her mentioned.
“You can come by tomorrow,” Blake had said just ninety seconds into their call. “I’ll text you the address.”
So now, after sitting in the library for an hour, staring at his sociology notes and wishing he hadn’t spent most of the lectures diagramming soccer plays, Jay was heading to Blake’s.
It was only a five-minute walk from campus. The address was for one of the units in a nondescript four-plex. The lawn had recently been mowed; Jay could smell that sweet, just-cut scent rising from the grass. He knocked on the door for unit two, glancing at the dark window adjacent to the door. Was Blake home? If he was, why were the lights out at ten a.m.? Surely, he couldn’t be asleep.
The door opened. The guy standing there was big, almost Jay’s size, with olive skin, green eyes, and ruffled black hair. He was wearing athletic shorts and a T-shirt. The unmistakable smell of pot emanated through the open door.
He was a little older than Jay had expected. Probably in his mid-twenties. And he had a fierce scowl on his face, like he’d been expecting the person who knocked on his door to throw a punch as soon as he opened it.
Then, he looked Jay over and his demeanor immediately changed. He slouched against the door frame, cocked his head, and narrowed his eyes. “So, you’re Jay.” A tattoo snaked up the curve of his bicep and disappeared under the loose sleeve of his T-shirt.
“Yeah,” Jay said slowly. “Am I early or something?”
“No.” Blake’s face was blank. “Why’d you knock?”
“So you’d know I was here,” Jay replied, wondering what he was missing.
“That’s what texts are for. What are you, fifty years old? Come in, you weird little shit,” Blake muttered, walking into the apartment and leaving Jay to close the door and follow.
“Little?” Jay echoed incredulously. Blake was at least an inch shorter than Jay, though he was considerably broader. Blake probably had twenty pounds on him; not muscle exactly, but aesthetically pleasing mass rounding out his shoulders and his chest and his thighs. And oh, great, Jay was checking him out. Not eye-fucking, exactly. But it was a definite once-over, and based on the bemused look on Blake’s face, Blake had noticed.