Copyright © 2020 Interlude Press
All Rights Reserved
Individual Story Copyrights:
Gilded Scales by Julia Ember © 2020
The August Sands by Jude Sierra © 2020
I Ate the Whole World to Find You by Tom Wilinsky & Jen Sternick © 2020
Love in the Time of Coffee by Kate Fierro © 2020
ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-89-4 (trade)
ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-90-0 (ebook)
LCCN: 2020934448
Published by Interlude Press
www.interludepress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and places are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Book and Cover Design by CB Messer
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Interlude Press, New York
Contents
Introduction: On Ending Up Happy
I Ate the Whole World to Find You
The August Sands
Love in the Time of Coffee
Gilded Scales
Introduction: On Ending Up Happy
I love a good meet-cute story. You know the kind: On first meeting, two would-be lovers dislike each other, but they eventually fall in love. Someone is usually a jerk in the beginning. Someone misunderstands something. Circumstances conspire to make things worse. The should-be lovers, against their wishes, are thrown together and must muddle through somehow. During all that muddling, the improbable couple falls in love. It’s a convention full of hope—tough beginnings make happy endings.
Maybe that’s why the meet-cute is so right for stories of LGBTQ folks: We usually find ourselves in tough beginnings. Then circumstances conspire to make things really hard on us. Falling in love happens against all odds.
But darn it if we don’t deserve our happy endings too.
My wife and I had our own meet-cute story. I was a young professor, and she was a new therapist at the university’s counseling center. She wanted to start an LGBTQ student group, and several folks told her to contact me to do it, since I’d already started a women’s center on campus and was a generally gung-ho kind of professor. But our first meeting went off the tracks—she showed up on the wrong day, and I wasn’t even on campus. Then, thinking she’d showed up on the right day but had been stood up by me, she stood me up on the day I was there. As a result, when we finally met, we were both cranky and a little rude to each other.
Luckily for both of us, we realized the mishap, and she invited me over to watch a movie and help fix up a couple of her friends. During all the matchmaking machinations, my future-wife and I clicked, and we’ve been together ever since—eighteen years and counting. (I’m not sure if Kyle and Stephen are still together, but I hope they are.)
I’m sure my wife would tell this story differently—I’m sure in her version, the mistakes were mine, not hers, and I was probably somehow a jerk. But I have the pen right now, so I get to be the decider of everything. That’s the power of telling a story: How it happens and what it means is up to you.
It’s not far off from how it feels to write your own love story, if you choose to do it. LGBTQ people cannot always rely on the old love story scripts because our plotlines are often very different from the most common traditional ones, with unique pleasures and dangers. Most of the old love stories don’t apply to us, unless we bend them to fit. For instance, when legal marriage was not a possibility, we made our own traditions of faithfulness. When our families and communities rejected us, we made our own families out of those who did accept and care for us. LGBTQ folks have always had to keep a grain of salt in our pockets.
Until recently, we haven’t had the opportunity to tell—or read—stories about ourselves at all. Having few models in literature, movies, or even in our own lives to show how it can be is tough, but it also gives us great opportunity to write our own stories. We’re not limited by readymade models. We had to get creative. Nobody has to be a helpless princess or a tirelessly dashing prince. Nobody really needs those models, but because the models often don’t fit us at all, it’s easier to see we don’t need them. We don’t even need a “happily ever after,” as long as we’re happy.
Each of the stories in this collection, in its own way, is a “meet-cute” story. First, there’s the classic versions, in which two people meet under impossible circumstances but wind up falling in love. In “I Ate the Whole World to Find You” by Tom Wilinsky and Jen Sternick, a budding chef meets a crotchety Olympic swimming hopeful and wins him over by cooking delicious, specially crafted meals. In Jude Sierra’s “August Sands,” two boys on the verge of adulthood (college, independent lives) meet and fall in love while on one last vacation with their families. Falling in love, however, is only the beginning—they have to decide whether to cling to each other or dive alone into the unwritten future. In both of these classic “meet-cute” stories, big life changes loom on the horizon. Deciding to let yourself fall in love in the shadow of those big changes is daunting, a bit dangerous, brave.
“Love in the Time of Coffee” by Kate Fierro takes the basic idea of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Love in the Time of Cholera (friends separated by another love interest, then reunited in newfound passion) and turns it on its toes. Now two best friends, Gemma and Anya, learn to see past boy-craziness and convention to meet each other anew as lovers.
Finally, Julia Ember’s “Gilded Scales” roams furthest from the classic “meet-cute” story—it’s more of a classic “girl-meets-dragon” tale. You know the old formula: a would-be warrior is barred from combat because she is a girl; through a series of mishaps, she meets a dragon and romance ensues. Okay, it’s not exactly an old formula, and you probably don’t know it, but I don’t want to give away too much of the story. It is the tale of a very unlikely couple, and of how real love can rescue you from the palest prison of a life, even if it doesn’t look like everybody else’s idea of love.
The thing that holds all “meet-cute” stories together is hope. Love, in all its forms, is always an act of hope. It means you’re willing to leap unprotected into the future, to risk safety and familiarity to be with another person. This can be especially true for LGBTQ people, who often have much farther to leap.
Things may look dire, but we are powerful people. Things may be darkest before dawn, but we don’t need to wait for the sun to rise; we can turn on a light. We can rewrite the old stories. Tough beginnings make happy endings. We can make our own happiness and we don’t have to slay a dragon to do it.
—Alysia Constantine, January 2020
About the Editor: Alysia Constantine is a critically acclaimed author whose novels blur the line between reality and fantasy, feature luscious prose and explore complex themes of otherness. Her novels Sweet (Interlude Press, 2016) and Olympia Knife (Interlude Press, 2017) received starred reviews from Publishers Weekly and Foreword Reviews, respectively. She lives in the Lower Hudson Valley with her wife, two dogs, and a cat and is a former professor at a New York arts college.
I Ate the Whole World to Find You
by Tom Wilinsky and Jen Sternick
Basil
4:30 a.m. We are out of Strawberry Milkshake Pop-Tarts.
Dad is already in the car, listening to NPR. I sling my gym bag, emblazoned with the black Submergd fin and weighed down by two water bottles, sunscreen, goggles, my workout notebook, and two swim caps, over my shoulder. The only thing in there wit
hout a Submergd logo on it is the pair of neon-orange lifeguard trunks. Usually, on the way out the door, I add two Pop-Tarts to the top to eat during the ride, but the box in my hand is empty.
4:32 a.m. I grab a couple of granola bars and a jar of peanut butter. This is a bad start to the day.
During the drive, Dad mutters at the radio while I dip the granola bars in the peanut butter and eat them. I review the workout notes Koji gave me last night. Starts. Fly to back transition. Sprints. At the bottom of the page is the note Contact Mr. Taplin to set up WUA interview, with a number. This is the fifth day that item has been in my notes.
As if he’s reading over my shoulder, Dad asks, “Did you call yet?”
When my parents signed the official sponsor paperwork with Submergd last winter, the company made it very clear that I can only train and compete in Submergd gear, I am not allowed to wear clothing with a Submergd competitor’s logo (Leo Taplin helpfully provided a written list of forbidden brands), and I must participate in scheduled media appearances, including a half-hour, in-depth biopic on Wake-Up America! in their New York City studios to kick off “Meet America’s Next Olympians” week.
I groan, wedging the last bit of peanut butter-laden granola bar out of the jar. It’s delicious. I’m going to pay for this.
“I haven’t made the Olympic team yet. Trials aren’t for weeks. I don’t see why I have to do this now.”
“Basil, we’ve been over this. The interviews are part of the package. They need to start building interest in you to get the most from their investment. I know you hate hearing the M word, but—”
“Okay, okay, I got it. I’ll call him, all right?” Three years ago, after I broke the Under-15s Individual Medley national record, we moved halfway across Connecticut so that I could live closer to Koji. We need the Submergd endorsement money for his coaching fees. I’m being a brat. I mumble an apology as Dad pulls through the gates of the Upper Collingford Swim Club and drops me in front of the pool.
4:42 a.m. My gut churns. The peanut butter was a mistake. I can’t keep making those. I don’t have time to think about facing a camera lens, fumbling to explain how I know when to start my flip turn, and, worse, having to listen to the constant comparisons. “You have a six-foot, seven-inch wingspan, just like Michael Phelps. You’re double-jointed, just like—” I rush through the club, drop the Submergd track shorts, and scramble for goggles. I’m in the pool at 4:46.
“Late,” is Koji’s only comment.
* * *
Two and a half hours later, my solo practice ends, and my teammates wander in to warm up. As Koji drones through the day’s practice focus, I stare at the metal corrugated cover of the pool snack bar—still closed. All I can think about is eggs. And bacon. Pancakes with maple syrup. Orange juice. I eat two protein bars, a banana, and a bag of trail mix I swipe from one of the girls.
Team practice starts at 7:30. Back in the water.
I argue with Koji about back work. He punishes me for being late this morning by not letting me work on anything else.
“A minute,” I say, “I was one minute late. Let me do one free for every two back. You know I hate back.”
‘“You hate it because you’re bad at it,” he snaps. “Get better and you won’t hate it.”
As soon as Koji releases the team at 8:45, I head to the snack bar while tugging a Submergd tank top over my head. Thank God, it’s finally open. Part of my deal with the club is that I get all the food I want, every shift.
The cook behind the grill is new and about my age. He’s chopping an onion so fast I’m scared for his fingers. He’s got what my mother would call a Roman nose and bluish-gray eyes. He’s really focused on that onion until I put my hand on the counter. He looks vaguely familiar, as if we’ve met before, but I don’t know him. He knows me, though.
“Hey, good workout?” he says, as if we’re friends. This happens more and more. People who never speak to me at school come up and fist bump me at the lifeguard chair. Girls ask for selfies. My parents’ neighbors bring their kids to say hi and explain that I’m training at Upper Collingford for the Olympics.
He wears a real chef’s jacket, not just an apron, and black-and-white checkered pants. He’s shorter than I am—I’m guessing he’s not quite six feet tall—and a little heavyset. His dark hair is almost buzz-cut, and he cracks eggs one-handed into a huge metal bowl.
“Can I get a five-egg omelet with onions and cheese, some pancakes, and a couple of cartons of orange juice?”
“Sure! I’m working on a new recipe for the omelets. Wanna try spinach and feta?”
I shrug. I’m starving. I’ll eat just about anything right now.
The pancakes come out first, and I wolf them down. He’s got a little grin on his face as he pushes the omelet across the counter. It smells delicious, like butter and caramelized onion. There’re green flecks sprinkled over it. But it’s the only thing on the plate.
“Hey, last year, Toby always added home fries and toast. Can I get those?”
He arches an eyebrow. “Sure.” He pulls bread from a bag as he talks to me, then scoops potatoes onto the flat-top grill. He knows where everything is without looking for it. He doesn’t take a step, and yet, less than a minute later, he serves me four pieces of perfectly buttered toast and a heap of home fries, studded with garlic.
“Sorry. I thought you wanted pancakes instead of toast.”
There’s something familiar about his eyes. I guess I should ask his name, but I’m still eating. The home fries taste amazing. Instead of mentioning it to him I mentally replay that last split. My breathing was off. I’ll ask Koji tonight.
After I finish, I go to the locker room to shower and change into my uniform. I sign in at the front desk, avoid Raheem, the manager, and check my texts. The pool opens at 9:30. Mirrored aviators in place, I’m on the lifeguard stand when I see the whiteboard through the snack bar window. He must have written on it while I was inside. My name is in bright green letters.
“Special Today: Basil Rickey! Like lime and mint, only BETTER!”
I’m so pissed I almost jump off the guard stand. I never agreed to let the pool use me to sell food. But there are kids in the water, and I can’t leave. I stare at the sign, furious, for the next twenty-eight minutes. I have to barter lifeguard time for free pool use; it’s the only way to get enough time in the water. When I worked all of this out with the pool manager last summer, he never said anything about UCSC using me as an advertising ploy. I don’t know anyone here other than the team and I’m not interested in making friends. Our old home in Manchester is over an hour away. That was the best part about working here. I could practice without people knowing who I was and bothering me—until now. And with the Submergd contract it will only get worse. Goddammit.
I just want to swim. I want to swim faster and better than I did yesterday. I don’t want to pose for magazine pictures in a Submergd swimsuit. I don’t want to call Mr. Taplin. I don’t want to nod and smile when people compare me to that other swimmer, the one who first qualified for the Olympics at age fifteen, the one who has twenty-eight medals, more medals than any other Olympian, in any sport, ever. And I definitely do not want to be this summer’s Upper Collingford Swim Club celebrity mascot.
The second it’s ten o’clock, I blow my whistle to announce adult swim. Kids whine and complain, but straggle out of the pool and, as three adults calmly swim laps, I seize my chance.
I’m at the snack bar window in seconds. The cook gives me a big grin. “Hungry again already?”
“What the fuck is a Basil Rickey?”
My tone startles him. “It’s today’s special, a drink. I’ll make you one. I think you’ll like it. You can help me figure out how many limes to—”
“Take my name off it.”
“Your what?” He turns away, pitcher in hand. He actually pretends he doesn’t know what he’s do
ne.
“Take. My. Name. Off. It. I train here. I work as a lifeguard. I get free food when I’m on duty. I’m nice to people when they want an autograph or a selfie. That’s the deal. I’m not pitching products for you. I’m not for sale.”
Whoever-he-is puts the pitcher down, calmly turns back to me, and leans against the counter. The grin is gone. One taut forearm has a tattoo of a whisk. We glare at each other, and I remember where I know him from.
“You’re Toby’s younger brother. He brought you to work a couple of times last year.”
“Yeah, I’m Will. And you’re an asshole.”
Will
“Toby, what’s with that swimmer, Basil?”
“You mean The Orca? He’s an aquatic predator—swims fast, stays in the water, kills his competition, and eats everything in his path. What happened?”
“He told me I can’t serve my new drink because it has basil in it.”
“What did you say?”
“I called him out, and he stormed off. Why is he such a douche?”
“Dunno. I just fed him—more crap than you can believe. I didn’t get a lot of thanks or any tips, just more orders. You can forget setting your sights on him, dude, he doesn’t have any friends, let alone romantic interests. He’s all swimming and eating.”
I pocket my phone, a little less confused but still pissed off. I stare at the pool from the counter of the snack bar. This was supposed to be a fun summer job, taking over the snack bar from Toby, who’s spending the summer at a tony private school to make up for his crappy grades. I was supposed to get to watch for hot swimmers, earn minimum wage plus tips, and show off my cooking chops. Instead, I’m playing waiter to some jock who thinks everything’s about him, including my first fabulous culinary innovation.
“Did you make a drink about The Orca?”
It’s Keisha, one of the senior-team swimmers, smiling and dripping. Before I can answer, she laughs and says, “I’ll take one, but he’s not going to like it.”
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