by E. Davies
I burst out laughing as I reach over the now-cleared table to take his hand again. “I’ll make up for it. When’s good?”
“Tomorrow?” Caleb suggests. “Or are you still busy then?”
“Nope, tomorrow’s great.” I don’t care how long it takes—I’ll finish my work tonight so that my schedule is free for him.
Holy crap. I’ve never thought that about anyone since moving here. Maybe I can let myself fall for this guy.
Or maybe I don’t have a choice—I’m already head over heels.
5
Caleb
“Let me get this straight.” Lee folds his arms as he looks at me across the dinner table. “You read your poetry out loud, this hot guy came up and asked you out, and now you’re going to his house in the deep dark woods.”
“Alone,” Elijah interjects from my right, helpful as always.
Lee nods. “Alone.”
Oh, God. All I wanted was help choosing which poems I should bring on the date. I should have known better.
The whole family is here for dinner: my parents, all three of my brothers, and my sisters-in-law. Lily, Anna, and Sarah take pity on me and rescue me sometimes, but not tonight. They’re just as curious as my brothers.
Kelvin holds up a hand, and I cross my fingers under the table, hoping he takes my side. Instead, he pipes up with exactly the words I was afraid of hearing. “You didn’t tell us about the reading.”
His frown is genuinely disappointed. More than the other two, he thinks my poetry is “pretty good,” to quote him exactly from the last time I emailed him some of my new work.
My cheeks are hotter than the sun. I grab my glass of sparkling water while I attempt a casual shrug. “It was just open mic night, nothing fancy.”
When I look at Mom, she’s frowning too, the mirror image of Kelvin. “We would have come to support you. I hope you know that,” she says, like every mother is obligated to tell their child.
“I know,” I promise her.
“Getting back to this guy who’s trying to get in Caleb’s pants,” Lee says. I’m not sure if I’m relieved about the subject change. His wife, Sarah, elbows him, but he ignores her. She’s used to him being the shit-stirrer. “We need to know more.”
“Maslow’s hierarchy disagrees,” I mutter.
“Boys, let him finish his supper in peace,” Dad says, but he’s smiling. He never takes anything seriously, and he rarely takes sides. In snowball fights and family arguments, he’s Switzerland. I suppose it’s a good policy when you have four boys, but I’ve often wished he’d make the others quit it.
I shouldn’t have told my brothers about any of this. Unfortunately, my face is an open book and I’m terrible at hiding anything.
Lee grins and pushes a potato wedge around the lemon-cream sauce on his plate. “We could talk about the deck,” he suggests.
I’d rather not spend the rest of supper being teased for my nerdy virgin status. But I’m the only one in favor of that idea. The women all roll their eyes at each other, including Mom.
Lee knows perfectly well that nobody wants to talk about the deck one more time.
Mom and Dad keep saying they want to replace their deck, but they’re always putting it off. This summer, we decided to just put our heads together and get it done. We couldn’t get past the stage where we staked it out with pencils stuck into the ground and string. They stayed out there for two months while we argued about lumber and dimensions until the birds stole the strings for their nests.
The thought of us trying to actually build the thing? I’m not sure if it would be a comedy or a tragedy. We’d end up on some Youtube DIY “you tried” channel— if we even finished.
“Not the deck,” Kelvin sighs. “It’s October. It’s too late to build this year.”
“I mean, if we’re serious about it, we should plan for the spring,” I insist in vain.
“It might be too late to build, but it’s never too late for love,” Eli agrees, straight-faced. The oldest of us, he’s the devil’s advocate. I often remind him that his knack for spotting the truth is better left in his career in family law.
Lee gives an exaggerated wink. “I don’t know if love is what we’re talking about.”
“Otherwise, the warm weather will sneak up on us again.”
Sometimes I wonder if anyone listens to me around here. Other times I know damn well they don’t.
“Are you sure it’s a date? Is he looking for an accountant?” Lee asks.
I know he’s just trying to get a rise out of me because he’s stung that I didn’t invite them to the reading.
Still, the jab works. He’s grown up enough that he rarely holds me in a headlock while poking my chest, but he’s mastered the verbal equivalent.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I tell him, irritation rising in my throat. “He didn’t check my qualifications first.”
“Qualifications? Is that we’re calling it these days?” Eli can’t resist cracking a joke, and the others laugh. Even Dad hides a smile.
“Boys,” Mom interrupts, and I cast her a grateful look. “No fighting at the table. Someone get dessert. There’s a lemon meringue pie.”
Thank God. This is my big break. “I’ll do it,” I insist before anyone else has a chance.
“I’ll help get the plates,” Anna offers and accompanies me to the kitchen. Mercifully, she doesn’t say anything, just gives me a sympathetic smile. It’s an open-plan layout anyway, so I don’t even have a wall to hide behind.
Anna gathers the stack of dessert plates and piles the forks on top while I get the meringue.
“Be careful, though,” Kelvin tells me, leaning back in his chair to look around the others at me.
The secondborn of us all and Anna’s husband, Kelvin is a pediatrician. He saves his bedside manner for his patients, but he often sees interpersonal problems where there aren’t any.
Anna sets the dessert plates in front of him, and he kisses her cheek and automatically starts passing out plates and forks.
“Of what?” I ask, balancing the meringue in my hands. “I’m very coordinated. I hardly ever drop dessert.”
He misses the not-so-subtle hint—or ignores it—and carries on down the same path.
“You don’t know the guy at all. Just because he’s a fan doesn’t mean he’s got good intentions.”
“Let’s be proud that our Caleb has fans,” Mom says with a smile. I know she’d feel differently if this were my career, but they’ve always supported our hobbies. I’ll take what I can get.
Once I put the meringue on the table, I drop heavily into my chair. “Thank you, Mom.”
“I can ask around and see if anyone knows him. Tag, right?” Lee asks, kicking my leg when I don’t look at him. “Come on, little bro. Living out in the woods by himself like a hermit. Only moved to town a few years ago. Definitely a serial killer. Does anyone know his address?”
“He bought that cute little place with the couple of acres and a garage. Eli and I looked at it,” Lily says.
“The guy with the bees, right? Oh, yeah. That place. I know where it is,” Eli says.
“Don’t you dare try to play chaperone,” I warn him with a death glare. “I’m a grown man.”
I don’t feel like one when my brothers pile on the teasing. I might as well be in middle school again, looking up to all my high-school big brothers.
“Sorry,” Eli says, and he actually sounds serious. “But we’re worried, that’s all.”
“Here, who’s cutting the meringue?” Anna’s working with me now, trying to defuse the conversation. She holds up a knife, and Dad takes it and starts cutting wedges.
I’m the overly-protected baby brother of the family. It sucks, feeling so inexperienced. They’re only a couple of years older than me, but they’re all married and settled down, but here I am dating for the first time.
“I’m glad you’re getting out there,” Kelvin says with an encouraging smile. “But people are looking for different things
.”
“You don’t have to tell me that twice.” I snort. “Why do you think I haven’t found a boyfriend yet?”
“Aw, don’t be so hard on yourself.” Lee smirks as I flip him off. “What if he just wants to get laid?”
Maybe I’d like that, I think, but no way am I saying that in front of Mom and Dad. I’ve always been the prude of the family.
“Is that a bad thing?” Eli shrugs. Apparently the devil’s advocate switch has flipped the other way now that he’s gotten a reaction. “Do what you want, Caleb.”
“Might make him loosen up a little,” Lee snorts.
“Lee,” Sarah scolds him, and he finally sighs and nods at her.
Eli takes my side, too. He elbows Lee. “Don’t talk that way about our sweet little Caleb. Let him blossom at his own pace.”
“But we are all curious about this guy who’s caught your eye,” Mom tells me, which makes me want to disappear into a hole. “We’re looking forward to meeting him sometime.”
I get the feeling she’s teasing me in her own way, but I do appreciate hearing that. My family has always been supportive of me being gay.
I think they were worried that I’d struggle more than the others to find love. It’s true, but not because I’m gay. Just because I’m a giant nerd and I’m working with a smaller dating pool.
“It’s only a date, not marriage,” I grumble. “Don’t go scaring him off now.”
With that, they finally let the subject die, to my huge relief. The rest of the lemon meringue pie disappears amidst arguments about whether we can learn to build over the winter.
I barely participate, and Anna, Kelvin, and Mom all notice. They keep giving me worried glances, so I smile at them like everything is fine. Truth is, I’m way too busy inside my own head to say much.
What is so special about me? I mean, I don’t hate myself or want to become a different person. Far from it. I’m okay with myself. I just don’t think other people are really into the kind of person I am.
I’ve never thought of myself as the type to be pretty and interesting and captivating. Yet Tag’s moving fast. Or is it me? I’m the one who asked him to The Purple Cellar.
But I have to follow my instincts, and they say not to let him go. Give it a try, even if I fall flat on my face and come off like a shy little geeky virgin.
Tag’s into shy nerds. That helps a lot with the whole confidence thing. And for my part, I’m crazy about him—he has a way of listening that makes me feel… well… seen, not just heard.
And he seemed genuine when he said that he was looking for a boyfriend, just like me.
Wouldn’t be the first time a guy said that and didn’t mean it. Usually it’s followed by some kind of statement like, But in the meantime, I’ll have fun until the right one comes along.
I’ve always shut them down there, rather than agree to a first date full of wheedling and innuendo.
Tag didn’t try any of that shit over our glass of wine. Our second date… it was different from what I expected, too. Mature and simple and absolutely thrilling.
I know him better than they think, I tell myself as I get up to gather the empty plates. He’s not a serial killer, that’s for sure. And if he’s a playboy, is that so bad?
I’ve been so determined to find The One that I’ve been ignoring guys who could end up being great for me.
Chemistry might not be everything, but when he’s around, I suddenly see why it matters so much. It helps lubricate conversation.
So to speak. I bite back a smile.
Maybe I should stop overthinking this. Tag is just who I need to bring me out of my shell. For once, I’ll ignore my brothers stifling me with bubble-wrap and good intentions, planting worries in my head.
Good things can happen without me creating probability models of disaster.
6
Tag
My first mistake was not looking at the phone before I answered. In fairness, though, I’m a little distracted. My life is chaos. I’m surrounded by a chaotic mess of rubber hoses and filter parts.
“Yello?” I drawl as I turn the valve off to stop the flow of mead. The last thing I need is to get distracted and end up flooding the place before Caleb even shows up.
“Tag, hey,” a familiar, light voice greets me. I freeze in place and then slowly straighten up, whipping the phone away from my ear to check.
Goddamn. I didn’t expect to hear from Roxanne Richardson today. Or any other day. My former band’s agent doesn’t get in touch often. Just around Christmas to say hello, and I suspect to check that I’m still alive.
I don’t begrudge her silence. She cares about me, but she cares about Jet Slack more. And I respect that. My band—no, the band, I remind myself—is still out there. They’re winning awards and selling out stadiums and demanding every minute of her time.
But it’s only October. Where’s the fire?
“Hey,” I finally manage to greet her, swallowing the trepidation. “How’s life?”
Don’t tell me they want me to take part in some stupid documentary. Or worse still, an interview. Roxy knows I don’t do interviews anymore.
“Crazy. You know, same old same old,” Roxy says with a laugh. She sounds tired, but not much is new there. I don’t know how the woman is still alive—she just seems to run on coffee and fumes. “You? Have you found serenity?”
“It dwells in me every—” I trip over a hose, send an empty bucket flying with a loud clatter, and swear as I grab the nearby shelf to keep me upright. “Every day.”
“You’ll have to share your secrets to enlightenment,” Roxy says drily, and I grin.
For just a moment, it feels like the old days. Between our management team and Roxy as the no-nonsense agent, life was fast and banter kept us moving… always moving.
But that was the problem. There was never a moment to stop and think about where we were going.
I’ve had all the time in the world since then, and I wouldn’t trade this life for that one.
“Things going well with the business, when you aren’t wrecking it?”
I laugh. “Pretty good, actually. I’m in most of the local restaurants and bars. Working on a canning line so I can hit all the shelves I want to be on, too.”
She whistles under her breath. “I’ll keep looking for your stuff.”
“Nah, you won’t. Why take up valuable tequila space?” I rib her.
“Excellent point. Have you thought about making tequila?”
“Depends how much you pay me.” I grin, but underneath the banter, I’m worried. Is she calling to offer me a payday? They never come without strings attached.
“I can pay you in records. I’m finally ditching them all. Downsizing to a studio loft with Minnie.”
I whistle under my breath, my eyes widening. The only thing more surprising than hearing her drift away from her old collection is picturing her not living in the apartment she’s rented for years from a batty but harmless old lady. We had some great parties there.
“No shit. Are you guys…?”
“Yeah, she proposed to me last month and I said yes.”
“Fuck, yes,” I grin and punch the air. “I mean, congrats.”
A lot of water has gone under the bridge between us, but I can still be happy for her. Roxy’s a rare good person in a machine that can often grind the goodness out of people. So is Minnie, her fiancée, who manages some fancy gardens in upstate New York.
“Thanks. You’re obviously invited to the wedding, but God knows when it’ll be,” Roxy says with a groan. “Minnie’s flying to England to do some gardening show and the Chelsea show and lots of other stuff I don’t understand.”
“It’ll be worth the wait,” I promise, even if I have no clue. It’s not like I’ve been married before. It just seems like the kind of thing you’re supposed to say.
And speaking of waiting, Roxy finally gets to the reason for her call. “So, this TV producer wants to license some of the old stuff. We’ve negotiat
ed a deal to make him take several and use one in another show he executive produces.”
“Oh, hell yeah. Do it. Get that money,” I tell her with a shrug to myself as I pop open the lid of the fermenter to check on the progress.
All the material I poured blood, sweat, and tears into… they’re just history for me now. Part of my old life. I’m done with them. If I can get another payday, so much the better.
“The band members all agreed on the deal,” Roxy says, her words unusually delicate all of a sudden, “so expect your share of the royalties.”
Ouch. It’s a sucker punch to the gut, remembering that I have no say on that stuff anymore. It was all part of the contract. I sold out and walked away. I get a slice of the royalties, but not a vote.
This is just a heads-up courtesy call, not asking permission.
“Right,” I manage a moment later, forcing some cheer into my voice. “I’ll choose ‘highest price first’ when I replace the fridge next month. Maybe it’ll text me when I’m out of milk and give me backrubs.”
Roxy hastily takes the escape route I offer, so neither of us have to dwell on the fact that I’m a has-been shadow from the band’s youth. “I think you need a boyfriend for that.”
“Damn,” I groan. “The salesman really was talking out of his ass then.”
I know what Roxy’s really asking. I wish I had better news. Maybe if she’d called in a few days from now…
Now, don’t get ahead of yourself there, pal.
Roxy laughs. “Oh, the glamorous life of home ownership. Can’t wait. Fixing my own sink, can you picture it? Mrs. C’s already made me swear to visit for lunch every month.”
“Mmm. Good. Get those free lunches,” I grunt, crouching by the fermenter and turning the tap on again. I still have a few minutes where I can divide my attention, and the day isn’t getting any younger.
It’s not like she needs a free lunch anymore—Jet Slack must be paying for that new condo in cash—but there’s no cooking like her landlady’s.
“Oh, and there’s another thing,” Roxy says casually. “This young guy came up and asked if I’m still representing you. Word has it he’s a newbie trying to hustle up business, looking for a quick cash cow.”