Fin&Matt

by Charlie Winters

  Fin&Matt

  Charlie Winters

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Fin&Matt

  ©2015 Charlie Winters

  Cover Art

  ©2015 Brian Toombs

  All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  For Jaber

  My friend. My inspiration. My Fin.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  I had always been less than masculine. I liked piano. I admired the keys – the way my slender fingers glided over them with ease, closing my eyes and finding myself as far away from Arnold (a blip on the Missouri map) as I could escape in my mind.

  I’d grown up in Jefferson County, our large estate boasting an unparalleled view of the great Mississippi. A single chair sat by that river, one that I had perched in thousands of times, contemplating the inevitable conversation I had been avoiding for years. My parents likely knew I was gay, yet they never quite gave up on linking me to some society daughter with good genes and a hefty bank account. My own account was nothing to be ashamed of, but for my Irish-born father, “a little extra never hurt.”

  Patrick MacAuliffe – or Pat, as his friends called him – had one child: me. All of his eggs were, sadly, in my basket. I would never marry (a woman) and may never produce offspring (of my own). These were the sad facts. One look at me would tell him this – overly feminine features, chin-length wavy mane, delicate figure, shy demeanor. Nevertheless, I had at no time been candid with either of my parents about my sexuality. They had shown me nothing but love and support; I, on the other hand, had deceived them.

  Now, days after my college graduation, I could be open. I could be… gay.

  Still, I had to tell them.

  The walk was long from that river, the glassy aquamarine pool coming closer with each step. My mother Chloe sat in a chaise lounge, a long stream of smoke pooling around her full, over-injected lips. The moment she saw me, she snubbed the cigarette into a vase filled with sand, carefully trying to cover the evidence. She smiled and clapped her hands together. “Finlay! You’re back!”

  “You shouldn’t smoke,” I whispered, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “Dad isn’t dumb, you know.”

  She waved me off. “Hey, let’s do something great tonight.”

  “In Arnold?” I teased.

  She rolled her eyes. Arnold wasn’t her cup of tea to say the least. Yet, she had taken up residence with my father twenty-plus years earlier and kept mum about her genuine feelings. She was still breathtakingly beautiful at fifty-two years old, a former model and budding actress. Once she met him, everything changed. She left New York and moved so he could further his career, one which proved to be quite lucrative. Plastics.

  MacAuliffe Plastics.

  Yes – I was the heir to the plastic throne.

  I wanted nothing to do with that resin castle. I chose music instead, much to Patrick MacAuliffe’s dismay. Still, he loved me and – honestly – I couldn’t have chosen a better father.

  “I don’t know. Oooh! We could watch Downton. I taped the whole season but waited for yoo-oou,” she said in a singsong.

  “Actually, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.” My voice cracked. “Both of you, really. You and Dad.”

  “Sounds serious,” she joked.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess.”

  Her hands found my face, her thumbs rubbing tiny circles on my cheeks. Faint cigarette smoke lingered on the tips. “Baby, you okay?”

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  She nodded back, though I could see recognition there. She knew.

  “Fin,” my father boomed as we joined him in the living room. “Sit. Let’s talk about the future.”

  “Dad—”

  “Actually, Paddy, our son has something he’d like to talk to us about.”

  My father sat in the oversized leather sofa and patted the seat next to him, gesturing to my mother. She snuggled close to his side, lightly biting his earlobe with a soft laugh. He turned his head, lowering his lips to her waiting mouth. When she leaned in, her brown eyes automatically closed as she breathed in his scent with a sigh before pulling away.

  “You’ve been smoking,” he whispered with a smile before kissing her again.

  I lowered into the leather chair with a chuckle. “You guys need a minute?” I joked.

  “No,” she said with a smile. “You are our favorite child and we want to know everything going on with you.”

  “I’m your only child, but I appreciate the sentiment regardless.” I took a deep breath and continued. “I wanted to tell you… see, the thing is—”

  “You’re gay,” my father answered. “We know.”

  I swallowed breath after breath of thick air, tucking a few overgrown strands of hair behind my ear. “How?”

  “You forgot to clear your history.” He motioned toward the laptop on his oversized mahogany desk. “About two years ago, you forgot to clear your history.”

  “Shit,” I mumbled.

  “Your mum and I had always suspected, but I was a little surprised by your type.”

  My face flushed a shade of deep purple as I peeled at my cuticles. “You watched it?”

  “I was curious. You like… large men, I guess?”

  “Paddy!” My mother lightly smacked him on the back.

  “Jesus, Dad!” I screamed.

  “I don’t mean like that, Finlay. I meant a large frame. A large man, for Christ’s sake. I was surprised, I suppose, because you’re—”

  “So small?” I clipped.

  “No, honey,” my mother amended. “You’re tall!”

  “But… skinny, slender, slim, dainty – I know, Mom. I’ve heard all of these words before.”

  “You’re gorgeous,” she gushed. “Simply gorgeous. Any man would be lucky to have you.”

  “This is the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had,” I mumbled.

  “For us, too,” my father said with a smile. “We love you, you know.”

  My response was simple. “Love you, too.” A few seconds of silence passed before I blurted, “Why did you try to set me up with girls? Why did you ask me if I had any ‘special lady’ in my life? It was torture.”

  “Torture?” she asked. “Hardly. Girls doted on you. You can’t tell me that even if you didn’t want to date them, you didn’t like the attention.”

  I smiled shyly. “Sometimes, I guess.”

  “We wanted you to come out of yo
ur shell. Even if you didn’t want to date girls, you needed to know how to date, at least.” My dad ran his finger over a scratch in the side table. “We didn’t want you to get hurt.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “You’re… shy,” he responded. “Men can be aggressive. If they could tell you were inexperienced—”

  “We didn’t want them to take advantage of you, Finny.”

  “I know, Mom. I can handle myself.”

  “Can you? Have you dated many men?” My father cleared his throat and continued to scratch at the table.

  I shook my head, quietly responding “no.”

  “Promise not to go to the gay bars,” he said softly.

  I threw my hands up in defeat. “Where am I supposed to meet a nice gay man, Dad? Church? Fuck that.”

  “Finlay!” my mother squealed. “Respect, okay? We’re just talking. We just know what goes on there.”

  “Really? You and Dad go to a lot of gay bars?”

  “We’ve seen The L Word,” she added. “Well… a few episodes.”

  “First of all, that’s a lesbian show, not to mention it’s like ten years old.”

  “Those women weren’t very nice to each other.” She turned toward my father. “They weren’t, right, Pat? Tell him. They cheated and were basically awful people. And there was this scene where one of the girls – well, they thought she was a man or something. Anyway, she went to a gay bar – not a lesbian one – and someone slipped something in her drink, I think.”

  “I don’t think that’s how it went, Chlo.”

  She swatted him away. “Regardless, there are men there that are only looking for sex. They’ll drug you.”

  “They’ll drug me?” I questioned. “All of the men in this supposed bar are looking to drug me?”

  “I never said that. I just said that—”

  “Chloe, stop. We’re getting off subject. We want you to be happy, yes. We just think that maybe the bars aren’t the right place for a young man like you.”

  “A young man like me? What’s wrong with you guys?”

  “You’re impressionable,” he responded.

  “Seriously, Dad?”

  My mother popped off of the couch and stood. “Up,” she demanded. When I rose, she wrapped her long arms around me. We were nearly the same height, my mother just a few inches shy of my five-foot-eleven frame. Our body types were similar as well; her slender build resembling more of a runway model than one of the curved variety.

  “I love you, funny bunny,” she whispered. She snuggled her head into my neck and rocked slowly. “Who’s my funny bunny?”

  “Mom, stop.”

  She pulled away and pointed her finger in my face. “I asked a serious question. Who’s my funny bunny?”

  I gave her a quick eye roll and answered, “Jesus… fine. I am.”

  “So,” my dad said, picking up a group of letters from the side table and shuffling through them, “I see you’ve got a few offers to teach. Anything in here worth accepting?”

  “I want to stay around here, I think. Maybe move into St. Louis, but I want to be near.” I shrugged. “I got one for a prep school near Lafayette Square that looks promising. Teaching music and helping out in the theatre department.”

  My mother slid back onto the couch and started scratching absentmindedly at the nape of my father’s neck. “Sounds so good, honey. I’m so happy you’re staying around here. I would, of course, be happy if you decided that it was better for you to venture out and see the world. Sure you want to stay?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. I don’t want to leave yet.”

  “So why now, Fin? Do you – I don’t know – have someone?” my father asked. “You know… a young man in your life?”

  “No, Dad. I just wanted you guys to know. I’ve been tired of hiding. I’ve only kissed one man and afterward, he told me never to tell or I’d be sorry. He actually said that.” I swallowed, shifting my eyes toward my mother. “I want to wait until I find someone who wouldn’t care if I told everyone.”

  “Mm hmm,” she responded with a sniffle.

  “Mom, don’t cry.”

  “I’m not,” she said, wiping at her eyes. “I’m proud of the man you’ve become. Know that you can come to us with anything. We mean that.”

  “Then I do need you. Help me find an apartment?”

  ♂♂

  As far as I could tell, the apartment my mother found was possibly the most expensive one-bedroom unit in Lafayette Square coming in at nearly eighteen-hundred dollars a month for less than a thousand square feet.

  Yet, I had to agree with her. The unit was simple and modern with every amenity I would ever need. Penthouse level fitness center. Underground parking. Valet services. Rooftop terrace. A Starbucks in the fucking building.

  But the real selling point? The view.

  My God, that view.

  “It’s too much,” I whispered to her.

  “You’re our only son. You like it?” she quietly responded.

  I walked over the hardwood floor noisily and out onto the balcony. Leaning against the rail, I peered over the Old Post Office Plaza at the human specks below. Her arm wrapped around my waist, squeezing once before letting go.

  “We love you, Fin.”

  “I know, Mom, but fuck… two thousand bucks a month?”

  “Last year, when your father sold that contract to a certain toy company,” she said with a wink, “he brought in enough cash for us to fill our pool with. Think of this as a little baby bathtub, okay?”

  “I’m twenty-two years old, Mom. I should be able to take care of myself.”

  “And you will. We’ll pay for this place and all of the utilities. You’ll pay for the rest.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at her. “And my graduation present?” I asked, thinking of the new, glossy black Porsche Cayenne collecting dust in my father’s garage.

  She bumped my side and gave me a gleaming smile. “You can pay for the gas.”

  Chapter Two

  I was intimidated. The walls seemed longer. The classrooms seemed larger. I stood at the helm instead of behind one of the chipped wooden chairs in front of me. Luckily, there were only ten seats; music classes never filled. It also didn’t hurt that the entire graduating class was made up of fifty-two students.

  After the bell rang, I cleared my throat and stood.

  “My name is Finlay MacAuliffe. Welcome to beginning piano. I realize that some of you are taking this class as an elective while all of the rest of the suckers are down in art. However, I still expect participation while you are here. This class is fifty-five minutes. All I need is fifty-five minutes of your time each morning. Are any of you experienced?”

  A few mumbles and a little laughter rose from the back.

  “With piano?” I amended.

  One girl in the front shyly raised her hand.

  I studied the call sheet in front of me. “Miss Anderson?”

  She nodded. “I took a year.”

  “Oh, wow. That’s great,” I answered.

  “In second grade.”

  Shit.

  “Well, that’s alright. Anyone else?”

  Crickets.

  “Let’s start with the basics. I’ll start with how I was taught. Get out a ruler and a pencil. We’re going to draw a piano.”

  ♂♂

  “You must be Finlay. Wait; is it Fin-lay or Fin-lee?” A petite woman with wild red hair stood in front of my table, her hands cupping an oversized mug of cream-filled coffee.

  “It’s pronounced Fin-lee, but you can just call me Fin,” I responded with an outstretched hand.

  “Fin MacAuliffe. What a cool fucking name. You Scottish or something?”

  “Irish. I mean, my dad is. My grandparents still live in Cork.”

  “Wow,” she breathed. “Now you’re even cooler. Mind if I sit?”

  “No.” I cleared my throat. “Please.”

  “I’m Eden Broyles. I teach English Lit.” She fisted her h
and into a masturbatory gesture and jerked it a few times.

  I cleared my throat again. “How long have you been here?”

  “This is my third year. I’m twenty-six. Luckily, I look like one of the students.”

  She didn’t. She looked closer to forty. But if there was one thing I had learned from my father, it was that you never guessed a woman’s age. Take how old you thought they were and then deduct ten years from that. In Eden’s case, I still would have been over.

  I nodded and chewed a piece of salad. “Mm hmm,” I mumbled.

  “So, who have you met? Radcliffe? Pearson? DiFiore? Jesus, Matt DiFiore is the reason why gym class was invented. He’s our phys ed guy. I think he’s a doctor or something. I mean, like sports medicine or whatever. Not sure what he’s doing here, but I’m not gonna start asking questions. Most of the time, I spend my lunch period watching him work out. He runs laps on the track.” She shoved a few potato chips in her mouth. “He wears those shiny shorts, you know? The winter sucks because he runs indoors. Not like I can take my chips and park in front of his treadmill.”

  I smiled at her, but remained quiet.

  “Fuck… there he is. Don’t look, don’t look.” I turned instinctively and she smacked me on the shoulder (hard). “I said don’t fucking look.”

  It was too late.

  If there was a God, he made Matt DiFiore personally. Disheveled, straight black hair which appeared to be self-cut. Chiseled cheekbones. Tanned smooth skin. A white henley stretched over massive, broad shoulders which only covered as much of him as it could without tearing at the seams. It was an inch too short, riding north of his waistband when he reached into the refrigerator.

  I knew I was staring. His lower half was covered by track pants with side snaps, but I knew that beneath those snaps housed the most glorious legs in existence. He put an apple into his mouth and bit down, using both of his hands to open a bottle of mineral water. As soon as he turned, a smile formed around that bite and he turned to walk… my… way.

  He drew the apple out of his mouth and set it on the table before extending a hand toward mine. “Hey. I’m Matt. Sorry… DiFiore. I’m the—”