by Laura Stone
I could say out loud, in each and every place we go, that I love you.
And I do. More importantly, I will.
I can’t wait.
Yours, Seth.
Oliver had wanted that so badly. He’d had dreams, that last year of high school, of the very things Seth described: the two of them, holding hands on park benches, laughing and kissing and being together; in a favorite café, where they could kiss and talk and love each other. He had wanted all of it so desperately.
Seth had loved him completely, had wanted nothing but a forever in which the two of them were together. Oliver had wanted that, too.
He opened a new tab and began looking at plane tickets from London Heathrow to Kansas.
Chapter Two
Nov. 20, 4:48 PM GMT
From: Oliver Andrews
To: Gus Schreiber
Subject: wtf
I had planned on a nice long email catching you up on everything, with hints of how I hoped you and Emily were still a thing in order to get you to tell me all about how happy you both are, but I think we both know that I just want answers to what that last email was about.
And I know you’re home for Thanksgiving, so you have no excuse for not replying to me ASAP. We both know your parents will spend the vacation sitting quietly reading Scientific American magazines while you watch C-SPAN 2.
~O. A.
p.s. Tell your mother I said hello, please.
Nov. 19, 11:57 PM CST
From: Gus Schreiber
To: Oliver Andrews
Subject: re: wtf
It never fails to amuse me when I get an email from you with the time stamp a day ahead. It’s like you’re communicating with me from the future. If you could, let me know who wins the World Series and Preakness, thanks buddy.
Also, are you having trouble sleeping? No one should be awake at that hour.
The video? Oliver, don’t you want to know that a fellow classmate is becoming a success? That should be enough of an answer.
…
Okay, I couldn’t send this without adding more. We email every now and then, just like all the guys in choir and swim team. You should see the list of people I email from my frat. It’s called networking—you should give it a try.
Let’s just say that I thought it could be interesting for you to see how far he’s come. And where he is. Specifically. For the next several months.
I’m going to bed now. Busy day tomorrow with all the watching my parents reading magazines coupled with the ever-riveting C-SPAN 2. And you’re wrong; they’ll be reading The Economist. It’s like you don’t even know us anymore.
Gustav Schreiber
“The real leader has no need to lead; he is content to point the way.” —Henry Miller
Nov. 20, 3:22 PM GMT
From: Oliver Andrews
To: Gus Schreiber
Subject: re: re: wtf
Of course I want to know how all the guys are doing. Well, not all, because Bad Breath Brian was a jackass then, and he’s probably a jackass now. I noted that you didn’t send me any mention of Chance’s engagement, so I have to wonder about your motivation in keeping me up to date on “everyone.”
You talk to him? Rather, you email him? How’s he doing? I mean, his father, that sort of thing. I don’t want you to divulge any confidences, of course. Forget I asked.
And yes, it’s incredibly helpful to know that he’s in New York City in a sold-out musical. Especially as the only break I have is going to be six weeks spent with my parents in Atchison. And hanging out at your place, of course, watching your parents read Harper’s Bazaar.
~Oliver
“Justice means minding one’s own business and not meddling with other men’s concerns.” — Plato
Nov. 20, 11:33 AM CST
From: Gus Schreiber
To: Oliver Andrews
Subject: I hate all of the colons—too cluttered.
Nothing like waking up to a full inbox. There was this email, and another one from another particular friend. I had asked that particular friend a specific question, and he was incredibly helpful and gracious. You might take a page from his book, Oliver.
And I knew that you knew about Chance already, so why be tedious? Speaking of, my father wouldn’t touch Harper’s Bazaar with a ten-foot pole, and you know it. Now, if it were Harper’s Magazine… this is fun, you getting things wrong and me pointing them out. I like this.
Speaking of fun, want to go on a little side trip with me over the holiday?
Oh, and because I know you actually do want to know, it seems His father is doing very well. Healthy and accounted for.
Gus
“A leader is a dealer in hope.” —Napoleon Bonaparte
Nov. 20, 4:41 PM GMT
From: Oliver Andrews
To: Gus Schreiber
Subject: SIDE TRIP??
Your quotes are telling, but you haven’t been. What side trip?
Who was the particular friend?
WHAT SIDE TRIP, GUS?
~O
“You are most ungentlemanly to treat me this way.” —Oliver Andrews
Nov. 20, 12:01 PM CST
From: Gus Schreiber
To: Oliver Andrews
Subject: Who has two thumbs and tickets to Seth’s show
This guy.
I’ll take it as an automatic yes that you’ll come. Be at my place on Dec. 6th. Road trip! I’m in charge of all musical selections. You can sit and grin nervously. It’ll be fun, like we’re kids again.
You’re on your own for accommodations. I already have plans for use of my just-booked suite—and Emily says to tell you hello and that she recommends the boutique hotel around the corner from the theater. Small and intimate, good staff. And really, go for the Entertainment Suite if you do. Much more comfortable if you end up with an unexpected guest. In case you haven’t put two and two together, we’re staying there.
Gus
“Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you have imagined.” —Henry David Thoreau
Nov. 20, 5:05 PM GMT
From: Oliver Andrews
To: Gus Schreiber
Subject: re: Who has two thumbs and tickets to Seth’s show
If ever I have given you the impression that I do not admire the very ground you walk on, allow me to apologize for that.
Okay. Yes. I’ll touch base when I get my itinerary in order.
~Oliver
Oliver immediately hit “Undo” at the top of the email screen, which called it back before Gus could read it. What the hell was he thinking? So, what, he’d just drop everything and go see Seth? Someone he hadn’t spoken with, let alone seen, in more than five years? He’d gotten a degree since then. He’d left the country. He was almost finished with another degree. Oliver was a completely different person now.
Well, there wasn’t as much straight-acting to please his father since he wasn’t in the Midwest any longer, and not having a piano meant no more playing music—he hadn’t even thought of playing in ages. He’d always been athletic, so it had been easy to keep fit in college running or swimming, and he wasn’t physically that much different than before: tall, lanky, but decently muscled. His black, wavy hair was longer, but truthfully he was too tired to bother with regular trips to the barber. He still dressed like a prep, but simply because it was comfortable. He was still fairly idealistic; he’d be the first to admit that. He still wanted to help people. He still tried to give people the benefit of the doubt and knew that it took something huge to shock him into seeing anything negative in a person.
Hmm. So he was still the same person, just older, hairier and less straight-acting. But he couldn’t just show up. He couldn’t just hop into Gus’s sports car—Gus would want to listen to something like barbershop just to mess with him—and drive to New York City to see Seth perform.
Then again, his reaction to seeing Seth singing on a YouTube video was proof enough that there was still some hurt deep do
wn, still some longing. But that was the purpose of a first love, right? To give your heart a few calluses so it wouldn’t hurt like that ever again? And it hadn’t; it hadn’t ever hurt like that again. He’d hooked up randomly a few times before realizing he wasn’t built for casual, had then dated a few men over the years. One time it was on the road to something serious, but that was more out of habit, he’d come to realize. Like it was what one did after dating the same person for several months. He’d caught himself saying, “I love you,” and knew it was a lie as soon as it left his mouth. He knew what love was, and the basic familiarity he’d come to rely on with his boyfriend at the time wasn’t it.
It never felt like that first time.
He leaned back in his chair, sighing as he buried his hands in his hair. He had to finish an outline for his report, he needed to email his parents his flight itinerary, and he needed to get some laundry done. Maybe get some sleep eventually. He didn’t need to fixate on an ex-boyfriend in another country.
Oliver stared at a blank space on the wall. He couldn’t control his thoughts; they veered back to the current possibility like a magnet pointing north. Say he did go. And then… what? If he went—and he wasn’t committing to it yet, but if he did—then what?
“Hey, Seth, that was great! I know we broke it off years ago and we both cried and it was awful and I didn’t shower for three days and I haven’t been able to find anyone who could hold a candle to you since, but I just wanted you to know how wonderful your stage presence was tonight. Excellent choices you made in that second act. Well done. Ta!”
Take out all of the woe-is-me crap, and yes, that was what he should say. Except he wouldn’t, because he wasn’t going.
Oliver sat back at his desk, minimized his email and pulled up his spreadsheet. He got about halfway through his hastily scribbled notes before he groaned and pulled his email back up. Biting his lip as his fingers wiggled over the keys, he thought carefully before typing a reply.
“Fuck it.”
Nov. 20, 7:13 PM GMT
From: Oliver Andrews
To: Gus Schreiber
Subject: re: Who has two thumbs and tickets to Seth’s show
First, I haven’t agreed to going. I need to think it through. It’s Seth’s night, and I don’t know if my being there will sour that for him. We didn’t end as friends—you know that much. I don’t want to give him any reason to be upset. That would be churlish of me.
Second, if I did agree, I’m not sure that I’d want him to know I was there. See above.
Third, you absolutely would not be in charge of music.
Let me think on it? I don’t know how I feel about seeing him, either.
Thanks, Gus. I know you have my best interests at heart, even though I’m kind of really upset with you right now. We’ll talk soon.
~Oliver
Oliver logged off the Internet and shut his computer down. There was no way he was going to get any work done tonight. He’d just not have another weekend—as had been the case all term, he supposed.
After brushing his teeth and pulling on some wool socks, he slipped into his bed, his glasses perched on his nose as he tried to read and fall asleep.
His thoughts kept drifting from the words on the page to memories of how excited he would get at the sight of a new letter, in Seth’s distinctive handwriting, in his mailbox. The way Seth’s blush went all the way from his cheeks to his sternum. How soft the scant amount of hair on Seth’s pecs felt under his palm. How wonderful and warm Seth had felt in his arms as they danced to a slow song at Seth’s senior prom, one of the few times they dared that night. How intense his hope had been of getting to slow dance with his love for the rest of his life when they lived in New York together.
Oliver let the book drop to his chest. He blinked rapidly and rubbed at his eyes. He wasn’t crying. He didn’t cry over that; he hadn’t cried about that in a long time. Years. He was just tired and had experienced a shock; that was all. He folded down the corner of his page, set the book on the side table and switched off his bedside lamp.
He stared into nothingness in the dark. It took him a long time to fall asleep.
He woke up grumpy, almost disoriented, then showered and dressed quickly, loath to be without multiple layers in the drafty house for long. He spent a few minutes with the coffee pot, dumping the spent grounds into a composter Janos had brought with him (“Why do you throw these away? They are from the earth, so you put them back. Americans!”), refilling the filter to make enough coffee for them both. The warmer would keep it hot for Janos until he woke up.
While he sipped at his coffee, he checked over his plans for the day. He had to spend a lot of time on the computer if he wanted to graduate on time and not piss off his research partners. Fortunately, he could do that in the comfort of his own apartment.
He needed to be at the lab in an hour, leaving him with thirty minutes free. Just enough time. He let his laptop power up as he made a quick bowl of oatmeal. Pulling up a browser, he entered “hotels times square Broadway district” and spooned a little sugar over his oats. Just satisfying some curiosity.
The Paramount looks pretty swank.
There were lots of reasons to go to New York, after all. There was nothing like the city at Christmastime. He could do a little shopping for gifts; he’d have far more options than in Kansas, for sure. The Lion King was still playing. If Gus was going, there wasn’t anything wrong with tagging along and maybe seeing some shows he really enjoyed. And there was the latest revival of Miss Saigon, which was getting good reviews, he noticed.
Oliver casually clicked on the ad that popped up on the side of his screen and just happened to feature Seth’s show. He had always known that Seth was destined for stardom. That is, he’d known it would be true if Seth were ever given the chance to show the world just how amazing he was. Is. It might be gratifying for Seth to know that someone who “knew him when” was proud of him. That he had always known Seth Larsen was a star in training.
He didn’t have to speak to Seth, he realized. He could go and simply be proud that he’d once known this amazingly talented person onstage. Once upon a time Oliver had loved him, and he had loved Oliver back. Oliver could sit in the dark theater and just be happy for someone whom he’d always wished the best. Seth didn’t ever have to know.
He pulled up his last email to Gus. After rinsing off his bowl and depositing it in the sink, he wrote a quick reply.
Nov. 20, 7:17 PM GMT
From: Oliver Andrews
To: Gus Schreiber
Subject: re: Who has two thumbs and tickets to Seth’s show
Okay. I’ll go. But let’s keep it between us, okay? I just want to be an anonymous admirer in the crowd.
I’ll see you on the 6th.
~O.A.
He took a deep breath and was surprised to feel a little tension leave his shoulders. He’d go. He’d be proud of Seth, see a great show and then maybe write a card telling Seth how great he’d been. That was a good plan. No stress. No need to worry about ruining Seth’s post-performance high. This could work.
* * *
“Right, Yank. Spill.”
Oliver, startled, clamped his teeth around his pen, his hum switched off mid-note. “Spill what?”
Moira narrowed her eyes, the look intensified by her thick, black eyebrows.
“You’ve been swanning about the place all morning. I just caught you humming what sounds suspiciously like a teenager’s pop tune, and I daresay your eyes are fair sparkling. Positively crinkled at the edges. You, my dear boy,” she sighed dramatically and patted his arm, “are clearly smitten. It’s that or you’ve done me an unkindness and forgot to share the little green man.”
Oliver laughed; he couldn’t help himself. Moira’s lilting Irish accent and random use of foreign slang always tripped him up. She spoke with a voice out of a fairy tale. Well, until she got drunk, which was often. Then she told the bawdiest, raunchiest stories he’d ever heard—and he’d gone t
o an American all-boy’s school, so that was impressive. She was a teeny thing in her early twenties, same as Oliver, but could throw a punch and outdrink everyone he knew (barring the redheaded girl from New Zealand in his Childhood Development course—no one could outdrink a Kiwi, he’d been told), and was one of his closest friends.
He had been surrounded by serious people since he started college, and now in England there was a general air of stuffiness all around, a drawback of the department he was in, no doubt—not to mention his tendency toward a “corn-fed, American sense of idealism,” according to one sharp-tongued professor. The first time he got drunk with Moira at The Eagle—not much of a feat since he was a bit of a lightweight—she told him a positively filthy story about her best friends getting the best of some sexually aggressive “posh wankers” that left him curled over the tabletop, laughing himself sick.
Now she winked at him and went back to her computer. “And if I didn’t know you better, I’d say you got a leg over last night.”
“Uh, no.” Oliver affected disappointment to say, “Janos said that was officially off the table, unfortunately.”
She brayed a laugh and turned in her chair to face Oliver. “He didn’t! Oh, to be a fly on the wall for that conversation. Well,” she huffed out a sigh, closed her eyes and held a hand over her heart, “there goes that fantasy. You’ve killed it dead for me. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”
Oliver laughed and turned back to face his computer.
“Hang on, you stupid article. You didn’t tell me the tale of your footie tossing you over! How ever did that conversation come about? Finally tried to feel him up, did you? Obviously I wouldn’t blame you; I’d climb him like a tree.” She dropped her voice, whispering, “Sure, he’s probably dumber than bottled shite, but I bet he’s the mutt’s nuts in the sack.”
Oliver closed his eyes and dropped his face to his forearm. “I don’t know why I’m friends with you.”
“Sure you do: because I’m so fetching and sympathetic.” She tapped the side of his leg with her foot. “And I picked up the slack at work yesterday when you were evidently mooning over some boy. You sure it’s not Janos?” She poked him in his side.