by Jaime Samms
“Oh dear God,” Conrad moaned. “You are sorting my laundry?” He thought frantically of the underthings male dancers wore beneath their tights and sort of wished the floor would swallow him.
Dusty looked up, startled into jumping off the bed. He landed almost gracefully with most of his weight off his still-braced knee. “Conrad!” His cheeks reddened and he glanced around, sheepish.
Conrad could not believe Dusty was the embarrassed one. His bedroom had been a disgrace of discarded clothing on the floor, the foot of the bed, both chairs, even the dresser top and the side tables.
“I—I was….” Dusty glanced around. “I can’t really dust if I can’t… see the furniture.” He gulped. “Shit. I’ll go—” He shuffled past Conrad, gaze fixed on the floor. “—turn the music off.”
“Dusty.” Conrad gripped his elbow as he passed, keeping him in the room. “Don’t run away.”
Dusty’s lips tightened and he pulled free, hurrying down the stairs and rushing for the living room stereo.
Conrad followed on his heels and didn’t offer him enough room to get to the next set of stairs down to the studio. “We have to talk.”
“About?” Dusty’s glare was still angry and guarded.
“Please, Dusty.”
“We had a good time,” Dusty began, trying once more to move around him. “But we both know this can’t work.”
“You know something I don’t, then, because I thought it was going pretty good there for a bit.”
“That was sex. Life is different. More.”
Conrad waited, but Dusty had no more to say, apparently. “More what?”
“More everything, Conrad. Do you know that guy, Peridot, has been by the studio almost every day this week, looking for you? He brought roses, for crying out loud.”
Conrad had known Peridot had come by. He didn’t know about the roses, though he had fielded a few calls from him. He knew Peridot wanted to rekindle something. Conrad hadn’t quite made up his mind to even go to lunch with him yet. He wasn’t sure he was brave enough to risk the feelings Peridot had inspired in him the first time they’d been together.
“He wants to get together with you,” Dusty said. “You should do that.”
“If I wanted to do that, don’t you think I would have by now?”
Dusty shrugged but didn’t look at him.
“Dusty. I was wrong, what I said. I know that, and I am so sorry. I made assumptions I shouldn’t have—”
“You see the world one way, Conrad. I see it another. We don’t even speak the same language.” He pushed past and all but ran down the stairs.
Conrad wanted to go after him, but if he wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t hear his apology, or let Conrad make it up to him, if he wouldn’t even entertain the idea of them, was it worth it to keep beating his head against the wall?
He threw himself onto his couch. There on the coffee table, prettily arranged in a vase he’d forgotten he had, was a bunch of pretty pink roses. How long had they been there? He tried to think back to when he’d stumbled through the room to the stairs up to his bed the night before. That morning, hurrying down to get to class on time… he couldn’t remember if he’d seen them or not. He checked the kitchen garbage, blue box, and compost. All of them had been emptied and put to the curb. Wednesday was collection day, so whatever wrapping and trimmings they had arrived in were gone in the refuse collection the day before.
“Well shit.” He sank back onto the couch and pulled out his phone.
Speaking of Peridot, there was another missed call. He’d turned the phone off in class and forgotten to turn it back on. He did now, and hit the Redial button. When Peridot answered, his voice was welcoming—excited, even—as though he wanted to hear from Conrad.
“You still want to meet for lunch?” Conrad asked.
“Sure.” There was a wide swath of happiness through Peridot’s voice. “When?”
“Now?” Conrad glanced toward the stairs, but they remained empty. “My cleaning guy is here. I gotta get out of the house.”
“Sure. Okay. Camille is at her grandmother’s, so that’s perfect.”
They made plans to meet at a restaurant Conrad hadn’t been to in years, and he snatched up a jacket and dashed down the steps.
He passed Dusty at the bottom. The cleaner—he was the cleaner, not his lover—was sifting desultorily through a stack of junk mail. He had a catalogue in his hand. It was opened to a page covered in glossy pictures of expensive menswear. He recognized the sweater he had lent Dusty that day he’d brought him in out of the rain. Dusty had loved the feel of that sweater so much Conrad hadn’t ever asked for it back. “That can all go,” Conrad told him as he passed. “Nothing but trash.”
Dusty snapped the catalogue closed and tossed it onto a pile at his feet.
Conrad left, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter 17
WHY WAS he surprised? He shouldn’t have been. It would have happened sooner or later, so better now. Dusty knew Conrad would come to his senses. He knew the way the dance dad, Peridot, looked at Conrad. Eventually, Conrad would notice it too. And Peridot obviously came from the same place Conrad did. He dressed the part, at least, and he walked like a dancer, talked like an aristocrat, acted like the world bent to his bidding.
Dusty shoved his glasses in place and scooped up the pile of junk mail to carry to the blue box. Best he stick to his place and be the cleaning guy. That, he could do. He returned to the apartment and cleaned the living spaces in silence. There was a long way to go before the place was actually done, but he had a few more hours that day before he could go home. He’d leave before classes started, then come back that evening to mop up. Then, according to Marcello, he had Friday off. On Monday, if he asked, maybe he could report someplace else to clean someone else’s messes.
Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he tried not to feel the crush of defeat and disappointment as he dialed Marcello. He had to do this while the resolve was fresh. When his boss answered, he let out a sigh.
“I can’t,” he said quietly.
“Dustin?”
“Yeah, Marcello. I just… can you find someone else to take over at the dance studio Monday? I just….”
“Talk to me, mio ragazzo.”
“I just….”
“You just, you just. Calm down. What happened?”
How would he explain? I had sex with your client. Twice. He was nice. I was an asshole. It was a disaster. And now I want to dance so bad my heart hurts.
“Nothing, really. It’s just that….” He looked around the apartment. He’d spent nearly a week swamping the place out, but the sheer quantity of old paperwork, discarded costumes, piles of magazines and catalogues, and the basic detritus of life in general was enormous. He’d only managed to find the surfaces of the bathroom and the kitchen so far, and those spaces he constantly had to reclaim after every time Conrad breezed through.
“He’s a tough one, yes?” Marcello asked.
“He’s a slob.”
Marcello chuckled. “You come to my house tonight, Dustin. Let the wife feed you. We will talk.”
“Sir, I—”
“Six sharp. Don’t be late. She’ll make something special for you.”
“You told her it was my birthday tomorrow.”
Marcello chuckled. “Let her give you this nice meal. We don’t get to spoil people often enough.”
And so he went, because who said no to their boss? The Penzas had no children of their own to indulge, so why the hell not? He called up the contact on his phone, plugged the address into Google Maps, and figured out the bus route that would get him there. It took him more than a few tries, back and forth between apps, to get the route figured out, but he managed, and at 5:45 he stood on the Penzas’ front porch with a handful of carnations for Mrs. Penza and a bottle of red wine for his boss. He had no pocket change left, but he’d managed to find a decent bottle and pretty flowers for the people who actually wanted him around, so it was all good.
Dusty did, suddenly nervous. If he did tell his boss the whole story, he was going to lose this job. There had to be a rule in the contracts about sex with the clients. Didn’t there? He hadn’t had the patience—well, the ability, really—to wade through all the fine print, but that only made sense. He’d lose this job, like he had so many others, because of a rule he should have known better than to break, even if he hadn’t read it specifically.
Not that sex was the reason he’d lost the other jobs. For most of them, he hadn’t been quick enough, adaptable enough, sociable enough, or some other thing enough to hang on to them. His brain just didn’t work the way it once had, and he’d been let go before he’d been able to catch up to what was happening.
Marcello patted Dusty’s knee, bringing his attention around. “So. Tell me what happened, yes?”
Dusty flashed a weak smile, pushed his glasses in place, and flopped his hands onto his lap as he tried to find an explanation. “I—he’s… messy,” he finally said rather lamely. “He—”
“He is charming and kind and beautiful, yes?” Marcello asked.
Dusty’s mouth went dry and he stared.
“I know you, Dusty. Maybe you haven’t worked for me that long, but look at you. You are young and virile—”
“Mr. Penza, sir.” Dusty hastened to his feet. “Maybe we should just forget I asked. I’ll figure something out. I’ll just—”
“Relax.” Marcello patted the sofa cushion. “Sit down, sit down.”
Dusty perched on the edge of the seat, hands clenched in his lap.
“Let me tell you a story, yes?”
Dusty lifted a shoulder. He was hardly going to say no at this point.
“When I was a young man, working like you do for me, but for my father, I met a small boy in a very large and beautiful house. He lived with his mother and father, three older brothers, and twin sister. His brothers were quite a lot older than him and had little to do with him. His parents were very busy and traveled a lot. His sister was a ballerina of rare skill. He was a lonely little boy. He followed me around that big house, chatting away, and do you know, I don’t even think he cared if I was listening to him. I was a living, breathing human being who acknowledged his existence. And he was a good, sweet boy who wanted someone to see him.”
“Conrad?”
Marcello smiled an indulgent smile. “His older brothers moved away. His parents spent more and more time working. Then tragedy took his sister and the household imploded. I left their employ, and I lost him for a little while, Dusty. We all lost him, but when he called me to ask for my help, how was I to say no?”
“So I don’t understand what this has to do with me?” Although he kind of did now. Conrad had called Marcello at the beginning of his studio career and asked for help. Now—was it only a few weeks ago?—he had called again and asked Marcello for Dusty specifically. Marcello could not say no to the man.
“Of course I will never force you to do a job you cannot do. I won’t. You are a good man. You’ve worked hard. You deserve good things. I thought—I hoped—you and Conrad would bring good and real things to one another.”
“Oh my God.” Dusty rose. “You set us up?”
Marcello shrugged both time-rounded shoulders up to his ears and spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “Can I say I am a hopeless romantic?”
“I thought I was going to lose my job over this.”
“Well”—again, he shrugged—“your job is safe.”
Dusty sank back onto the couch. “But… I… he….”
“Dusty?”
“He went on a date with some guy called Peridot.” He shook his head and sighed. “It’s fine. I’ll keep cleaning his place unless he doesn’t want me to. I’ll just….”
Just what?
“Just be patient and listen to him talk. Sooner or later, he will say something important. Someone should be there to hear it when he does.”
Dusty stared at Marcello a long time.
“Trust me on this, yes?”
Dusty nodded. “I might have already missed it.”
“So try again.” Marcello smiled. “But not tomorrow. Take the day off and enjoy yourself. You don’t turn a year older every day.”
“Thank God.” Dusty would have been perfectly happy to not even remember the next day was his birthday. But whatever. Tonight he would enjoy this little birthday meal his boss wanted to give him.
By the time he took his leave of the Penza house, he figured classes would be over, and most likely, Conrad would have gone to bed. Dusty could sneak in and clean the studio floors tonight and then have his birthday off. Huzzah.
Chapter 18
PERIDOT SANK back in his chair and set his wineglass—with its sparkling water—down with a soft tink against the edge of his plate.
“Are you here?” he asked quietly.
Conrad blinked at him. Around them, the hushed murmur of voices and dinnerware, muted by the superior acoustics of an upscale restaurant, faded into the background. “I’m sorry, what?” he asked.
Peridot smiled as gently as he’d done pretty much everything since he had arrived at the table. “I asked if you were here. Clearly not.”
“Perry, I’m sorry. I—”
“Does he have a name?”
Again Conrad blinked. “Who?”
“Whoever you are mooning over.”
“I’m not.” Conrad sighed. Mooning? He studied Peridot, who watched him back, his face neutral. “Dusty Hatch.”
“Hatch.” Peridot thought for a moment, then his brows drew down. “I’m not familiar with a Hatch family. But the name is familiar.”
“He’s not from a family. Well. I mean he must have a family, but not a family like you mean. Not like ours. He’s the guy who cleans the studio.”
Peridot grinned. “You’ve fallen for your janitor?”
“He’s not just a janitor!” Conrad had leaned forward in his chair, fist a tight ball, but Peridot was already holding up both hands.
“Okay, okay. Calm down. What else is he, then?”
“Really, really pissed off at me.”
For a few minutes, Peridot said nothing, just tilted his head and frowned at Conrad. “The guy you like is pissed at you, so your solution was accepting a date from an old flame? I don’t understand. How does that help?”
“That isn’t why I accepted.”
Now Peridot leaned forward, spinning his glass by the stem. “Then why did you accept?” His green eyes peered right into Conrad. He’d always been able to do that, and this new version of him, stripped down, sharper, wearier, but maybe kinder for all the wear and tear, was no different.
Peridot commanded respect and attention from the people around him. He’d demanded it on stage, from the other dancers, and from the audience. He’d gotten it, and received so much attention it had broken him. His marriage had crumpled under the weight of all the consideration he got from the other dancers, men and women. Conrad had gravitated to the strength in Peridot’s presence but never quite felt complete, even pinned down in the man’s bed. There had always been a part of Peridot that held back, revering Conrad in a way he didn’t any other person, not even his wife.
Conrad’s family was at the apex of the social circles they had run in as children and young men. Everyone deferred to him. It hadn’t really stopped, even when he had dropped out of society, out of the world, really, when Clarice died. Everyone in the dance community had pandered to him when he didn’t have the skill to warrant the platitudes people offered. They gave him the esteem because of who he was, his family name and money, his dead twin, not because he deserved it.
Peridot had always been the better dancer but had never been strong enough to carry the weight of the company that depended
on him. Conrad had seen the weakness, and it frightened him. He’d pulled back, left Peridot to the dance and the women, and eventually, his marriage and everything that came after: the quagmire of injury and drug addiction, a poor pairing, and the depression Peridot finally seemed to have pulled himself out of.
Looking at him now, Conrad could see the strength in the addict who was recovering and the father who had nurtured a strong little girl. That strength had never been there in the young man. Conrad pushed forward, leaning on his forearms so he could grasp Peridot’s hands.
“I accepted because you asked. There’s more in you now—”
“No.” Peridot pulled free, not unkindly but determinedly. “No, Conrad. Not more of what you think. What you want. I still can’t give that to you.” He paused, studying Conrad for a long moment. “Does he?” he asked at last. “Your janitor?”
Conrad clenched his fingers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.” Instead of staying away, Peridot moved back in and drew light lines and swirls over Conrad’s clenched fists with the very tips of his fingers. “You want strength. Confidence.” He smiled, and it drew deep lines into his face, but unlike the lines a smile drew on Dusty, these lines echoed pain Peridot maybe still felt.
Peridot rested his hands lightly over Conrad’s wrists. “I am stronger than I was, Connie. I’ve had to be. Karen wanted nothing to do with me or Camille. She wanted only to dance. To lose the baby weight and the burden of motherhood as fast as she could manage and to get back onstage. I had to be strong to get better, be better for my little girl, before she forgot who I was. But I’m not strong in the way you crave. I never will be. I want a lover who wants easy. Sunday brunches, flea markets, backyard swings. I want domestic and soft and tender. Loving sessions in bed that never get to those intense, hungry places where you need the sex to go for it to feel real. I love you, because you have always been good to me, always been my champion, but you know I can never be yours, right?”
“Then why all the phone calls? The flowers? Why all the attention?”