Village Fool

by Nathan Burgoine

  “It was humiliating,” Owen said again, trying to make him understand.

  “I get that.”

  “Do you?”

  “I do. Thanks to Felix, you sexted Toma, before a first date, even.”

  “Oh my God,” Owen said, burying his face in his hands.

  “But I want to stress this, because I feel like maybe you’re missing it—it worked.” Silas did jazz hands.

  Owen regarded him through his fingers. “Except now I have to move to another city. Or at least join a new gym.”

  Silas crossed his arms. “Okay, that’s pushing it.”

  “What would I even say?” Owen said. Fuck it. He grabbed another snowball, biting it in half.

  “Well.” Silas leaned back in the chair. “How about ‘Hey, Toma, so it turns out my friend Felix…’”

  Owen swallowed. “Former and soon to be buried alive friend Felix.”

  Silas sighed. “‘My former friend Felix changed my phone contacts for an April Fools’ joke, so when I was texting you today I thought I was texting him.’”

  “Right. Which, translated, is ‘Hey, Toma, I talk about your sexy chest hair with my friends and fantasize about your ass while I work out,’” Owen said. “‘Still wanna grab a coffee?’”

  Silas repeated the jazz hands. “Ta-da!”

  “You’re kidding. You have to be kidding.”

  “Do I?” Silas frowned. “I’m not usually funny. I’m rarely funny, in fact. Could this be me becoming funny?”

  “What would you do in my position? Be honest. If this happened to you, what would you do?”

  “Oh, I’d change my name and move to a new city. Maybe leave the country entirely. Or go into space and nuke it from orbit. It’s the only way to make sure.”

  “Thank you!” Owen blinked, taken aback. “Wait, what? Nuke what from orbit?”

  Silas sighed. “You and I need to have more movie nights.”

  “Okay. But see? You wouldn’t talk to him either.”

  “Absolutely.” Silas leaned forward. “But I’m not you. You’re you. You’re really cute, and you’re clever, and you’re funny, and super successful. And I’m only going to say this one more time, you scored a coffee date with Toma. You like him. I know you like him.”

  “I can’t tell him that, though,” Owen said, shaking his head. “There’s no way. I can’t.”

  “Owen?” Silas squinted. “Sweetie? You already did.”

  Owen groaned and threw himself back on the couch.

  Silas exhaled. There was the sound of burbling coffee, and Owen turned his head to watch Silas dig his phone out of his pocket and check it. “Felix would like to apologize,” Silas said. “Before gaming night. Which is still on, by the way. I will see you there.”

  “Maybe if Felix starts digging his own grave.”

  “Owen.”

  “What? There’s no way. I don’t want to see him right now.”

  “Okay.” Silas blew out a breath. “Let’s shelve that for later tonight. But he’s still with Toma at Bittersweets, and he told Toma you were coming back.”

  “Oh my God, what is wrong with him?” Owen yelled at the ceiling.

  “He’s trying to fix it.”

  Owen sat up and grabbed his own phone. He took a second to make sure he was texting the right person—a mistake he’d never make again—and made it perfectly clear what Felix could do with his apology and his entire self.

  Silas’s phone burbled again, and Silas said, “Uh, Felix says he’s sorry again, and he’s leaving, but he says he told Toma to stay and wait for you and that you were on your way.”

  “Oh my God! I will never speak to him again.”

  “Toma? Or Felix?”

  Owen waved a hand in the air.

  Silas picked up the paper bag of coconut snowballs and held it out.

  “What?” Owen said, frowning.

  “I love you. This sucks. Take one more snowball. Eat the snowball. Then go back to Bittersweets and be an adult. I know you’re mad. I’d be mad, too. And embarrassed. But this didn’t just happen to you. Felix tricked Toma, too. And Toma was the one who asked you out. So, honestly? You’re being kind of selfish here.” Silas shook the bag. “Take. Eat. Go. Talk.”

  “When did you get so bossy?” Owen grumbled, but he picked out another snowball.

  Eight

  February

  “I’m going to need you to talk more. Tell me how you feel,” Toma said.

  “Talking more? Super. Okay.” Owen looked at him in the mirrors that lined the wall by the machines. Talking. He could do talking. About feelings. Sure. “I feel ridiculous.”

  A little line formed between Toma’s eyebrows. “How so?”

  “There’s no weight on the machine. I’m struggling to lift zero weight.” Owen leaned forward. “Everyone else in this room right now is buff. And thanks to these mirrors, I get to see all of them, and they all get to see the weird guy pumping exactly zero iron. I think I prefer the dry needling.”

  Toma laughed. “I’ve never had anyone say that before.”

  “Well, it’s true. Compared to public workouts? Bring on the needles.” Owen heard his own petulance and tried to bite it back. “Sorry. I’m apparently also feeling frustration. Are you sure I can’t go back to squeezing tennis balls in the privacy of my own house?”

  “Oh, you still have to keep doing that,” Toma said. He held out his hand. “May I touch you?”

  Yes, please. “Of course.”

  Toma asked every single session if he could touch Owen before he did so. The first time, Toma had stroked Owen’s arm, massaging and turning his hand, wrist, and elbow around, asking Owen to mimic movements with both arms and showing Owen exactly how restricted his injured arm was in comparison. The “dry needling” had been part of the early work they’d done on his tendons—literally stabbing them with thin acupuncture needles to make them release—but after that, Toma continued to be hands-on. He guided Owen through various exercises to regain his range of motion or flexibility. Some of them felt ridiculous, like the aforementioned squeezing of a tennis ball, but today they were finally moving to some of the machines.

  Which meant they were in the gym proper, not the separate physio area with the private cubbies.

  Toma rested his hand on the top of Owen’s shoulder with a nearly comical gentleness, except this time it didn’t make Owen feel warm and squishy so much as it made him want to burst into tears.

  Apparently, he was an emotional wreck as well as a physical one. Neat.

  He sniffed, quite literally on the edge of tears. He hoped Toma couldn’t feel him shaking.

  “Right now, you’re somewhere you don’t want to be, doing something you don’t want to do, and forcing yourself to do it anyway. It’s not surprising you’re frustrated.”

  Toma kept his voice pitched low, so his words would only be heard by the two of them. They’d picked the earliest time slot Toma had specifically so the gym would be as empty as possible, but it hadn’t entirely worked. The gym wasn’t anywhere near full, but the people who were here were all really fit, and obviously serious about their workout regimes, which Owen supposed made sense. Who but the truly dedicated would go to the gym before six in the morning if they didn’t really want to?

  Well, other than him.

  “It’s not that,” Owen said, though it was probably exactly that. “I’m just…” He faltered. “I don’t know why this is getting to me. It’s not like I’ve ever been the big guy at the gym.”

  “You’re taller than me,” Toma said.

  Owen couldn’t help but smile at that. He didn’t feel bigger than Toma by any means, but technically yes, he was taller. “Fair enough. Lanky, then.”

  “If it helps, I’d bet half these people are doing calorie math. For sure, some are thinking about Valentine’s Day chocolate and are pre-punishing themselves for it.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Toma shook his head when Owen laughed. “I’m not entirely joking. Th
ere are people who think about every meal or snack in terms of how much they need to exercise after. My ex was like that. One of the reasons we broke up, actually. It’s not a good relationship to have with food. Or exercise. Or your body.”

  Owen eyed him. “You’re trying to distract me, but that worked. It’s not a good thing?”

  “Well, I don’t think so,” Toma said. “Healthy eating habits are one thing, but people take it too far. A cookie isn’t a crime.”

  “Ever notice how often the people saying that have abs?”

  “Except,” Toma said, shaking his head and lifting the bottom of his tank top, “no abs.”

  It was true. Toma was built solid and wide, but there were no abs there. Honestly, the curve of the big guy’s stomach was way better than abs would have been, especially since the dark hair on his forearms was matched on his belly. Total cubcake.

  Owen blinked, flushing, and had to work to get his gaze back up to Toma’s eyes in the mirror when he pulled his tank top back down.

  “People often look fitter in their clothes. That’s another part of body image. We don’t realize we’re not comparing ourselves to what other people look like, but to what we project other people look like.”

  “You undercharge.” Owen leaned back. “This is better than therapy.”

  Toma smiled. “This is therapy.”

  “Okay,” Owen said, taking the bar in both hands. “Ready to pump no iron.”

  “If it’s okay, I’d like to keep my hand on your shoulder,” Toma said.

  “Sure,” Owen said, and tried not to wince at the way his voice cracked on the word. He cleared his throat. “Go ahead, I mean.”

  As always, Toma’s palm felt way, way too good there, but Owen forced himself to concentrate. Toma held the bar with his free hand.

  “Nice and slow, like we talked about. And tell me how it feels, okay? This is going to be different than the stretching and our time in the pool.”

  Owen tried to do as he was told. He lifted the bar up and down in as smooth a motion as he could. His shoulder was tight and the motion more difficult than he’d hoped it would be. His right arm wanted to do all the work.

  “Talk to me.” Toma shifted his palm. Owen wondered what he could feel.

  “It’s harder than I thought it would be,” he said. “Lifting is easier than lowering.”

  “Any pain?”

  “Not pain, but…” Owen frowned, trying to get the words right. “It’s more like pressure, I guess? My shoulder is sort of fighting me. It’s tight.”

  “Okay, we’re going to stop. Lower the bar, nice and slow.”

  Owen finished the movement, blowing out a breath, annoyed. He still held on to the bar. “Well, this is fun.” All around him, people were tossing around giant weights like they were nothing. That other trainer, Dino, was helping another huge guy do squats. Even if Owen was projecting abs under their shirts, their arms and thighs were roped with muscle.

  Toma’s mention of an ex who obviously spent time throwing weights around wasn’t lost on him, either.

  Owen gripped the bar. This didn’t just feel ridiculous. It was humiliating.

  “I like your birdcage,” Toma said, tapping Owen’s left hand where his tattoo, a small empty birdcage with an open door, decorated the skin between his thumb and forefinger. “Is there a story there?”

  Owen eyed his reflection in the mirror. “You’re trying to distract me again.”

  “It’s harder because you’re so smart.” Toma’s smile was just shy of impish. It did very good things for his already handsome face, adding little smile lines beside his eyes. “This isn’t always going to be easy, and taking breaks to let yourself breathe and take stock is important, especially while we figure out what sort of pace we need to set. From what we’ve done so far, I get the feeling you’re more of a checklist-and-get-it-all-done kind of guy. I admire that, but you’re going to have to set aside your list a bit more often than you’re used to.”

  “Did you just call me anal?” Owen tried for the impish thing himself. It probably didn’t work, but Toma chuckled, so at least he knew Owen wasn’t being serious.

  “Relax this again for me and lower your hands,” Toma said, and he was touching Owen’s shoulder again with gentle pressure, which made it really hard to concentrate. Owen took a breath and tried to let go. Joke or not, Toma was right. Owen wasn’t so great at the whole take-a-moment thing. He looked down at his lap and caught a glimpse of the birdcage tattoo on his hand.

  “It’s in honor of my foster brother,” Owen said. When Toma glanced up into the mirror, Owen flashed the tattoo.

  “So, there is a story.”

  “There is,” Owen said. “Finn and I—my foster brother, Finn—we were with a family. Our foster father lost his job and started drinking, and our foster mother wasn’t around since she had to take any extra shifts she could get, so she didn’t know how bad it was getting. It wasn’t a healthy situation for anyone, but worst for Finn. I kept my head down and worked hard at school. My plan was to graduate, get into university, and get out. I even had a school hustle to build up cash.”

  “This feels good. Let’s try one more. Tell me if anything feels wrong,” Toma said. “Go slow. This isn’t a race, and we’re not trying to break any records.”

  Owen raised the bar once, as smoothly as he could. There was that pressure again in his shoulder, but it didn’t feel wrong. Toma kept one palm against Owen as he raised the bar, his other hand ready to take the weight if he needed to.

  “And down,” Toma said. “Same thing. Not a race.”

  Owen lowered the bar.

  Toma watched him, only making eye contact once the bar was down. “Good. And now you have to tell me what a school hustle is.”

  “I wrote essays for other kids for cash,” Owen said. “I even had a sliding scale for the grade they wanted, and I gave them money back if they didn’t get it.”

  Toma laughed. “You’re kidding. How old were you?”

  “I started when I was fourteen,” Owen said. “But I had a lot of motivation.”

  “And brains.”

  Owen tugged at the neck of his T-shirt and tried to channel Kallax. “I’ll have you know I’ve been declared a genius by people with a total vested interest in me being declared a genius.”

  Toma’s smile returned. Such a good smile. “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Well, honestly those tests are drowning in their own biases, but school was easy for me. The parts you could study or memorize, anyway.”

  “Writing essays for cash, though. That’s next-level planning skills for a teenager. And that’s how you paid for university?”

  “No.” Owen shook his head. “That’s how Finn got out. It was the plan to pay for university, along with any scholarship or bursaries I could get, but…” Owen raised his hand again. “Finn got a tattoo. A tiny bird, right here between his thumb and forefinger, flying free. Barely anything at all, but our foster father lost it. Finn wasn’t old enough, but he looked older than he was, and he had fake ID…” Owen shook his head. “Anyway. It got worse, and it wasn’t just that Finn was miserable, now maybe he was in danger, you know? I knew he wanted to run away. I swear he only stayed as long as he did because I was there, too, but it got to be too much. So, I gave him everything I’d saved, made him swear not to tell anyone—not even me—where he was going, and we went to the bus station and he left.”

  “Wow.” Toma’s brown eyes softened. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. It was the right move, though. Our foster parents were investigated, and my foster mother was beside herself. They ended up divorcing. She and I still talk sometimes, though I got moved to another family in Quebec until I was eighteen, and they were incredible. But since I didn’t know where Finn had gone, I couldn’t tell anyone.” Owen sighed. “Of course, that didn’t stop me from freaking out at night, wondering if he was hurt or afraid or dead. I didn’t have the guts to even try to find out until a couple of years ago. I hired s
omeone, and they tracked him down. He was here, in Ottawa, and he was fine. I mean, he had some rough patches before he turned eighteen, but he made it. He’s a social worker. He’s always incredibly busy, but we manage to get together every few weekends and do a family dinner. He and his wife just had their first kid.”

  Toma had him do another lift, hold, and release. Again, he felt a sense of pressure, but it didn’t cause the pain to spike or feel like he was pushing too hard. Owen was starting to understand what Toma had meant about how important it was to go slowly.

  “I’m glad you found him.”

  “Me, too. He liked the birdcage, too. Very flattered.” Owen leaned back on the seat. “Okay. I can tell we’re doing something, even if it doesn’t feel like much.”

  “That’s the idea. I think one more set—slowly—and then you’re good.”

  Owen sat upright again, got his grip in the right places, and lifted. It still felt a little bit ridiculous to use the machine without any weight on it, but the presence of Toma’s hand resting on him, not to mention the view of him in the mirrors, certainly didn’t suck. He caught himself smiling as he raised and lowered the bar for the first rep.

  Toma met his gaze. “See? We can do this. We’ll get you there.”

  “Who thought I’d ever enjoy going to a gym?” Owen said.

  Toma pointed at his own face. “This guy. This guy did.”

  Nine

  April

  Owen made it all the way to the Village on willpower, coffee, and coconut snowballs, but he came up short at the rainbow intersection. He’d been trying to plan out what to say, a way to even start, and…

  Nothing. There was no way. He couldn’t do this.

  He eyed the colorful crosswalks, and for the first time they didn’t feel welcoming. Mocking was more like it. Owen wanted to turn around and head back home. He was humiliated and tired and sore, and Silas could talk all he wanted about how things had turned out okay, but they hadn’t. Not really.

  Because Toma hadn’t asked Owen out. He’d asked Punchline Owen out. Amusing Owen. Make-’em-Laugh Owen.