Summer Lessons

by Amy Lane

  “But why wouldn’t you say anything?” Terry asked, eyes bright. “Why wouldn’t you—”

  “Because you weren’t ready,” Mason said. “You’re not now. You have an apartment you want to decorate, you have friends you want to invite over. You—you get to do that, Terry. I have no right to take that away from you.” The dog splashed noisily across the creek at that point, and they both watched him struggle up the side of the ravine.

  “Then how do we do this? I don’t… I don’t have a schedule. I… I don’t want to leave you hanging and….”

  Mason took a couple of steps toward him, uncertain in the close heat of the woods. “Terry?” he said gently, taking his hand. “C’mere.”

  Terry went, hiding in his embrace like a child.

  “Do you know what taking a break means?” Mason asked softly.

  Terry glared at him, struggling out of his arms. “It means you’re breaking up with me!”

  “No.” Mason pulled him back. “It means when you know how you want us to be, all you have to do is tell me. Text me and I’ll be there. Knock on my door and I’ll probably bang you before we make it to the stairs. Call me and I’ll teleport through the phone. But… but until you tell me what you want us to be, you take your time. You go out with friends. You sit in your apartment and listen to whatever goes on in your head. You… you be you. And then….” His voice got wobbly. “Then you invite me along for the ride, okay?”

  “Can we at least have sex tonight?” His glare was almost comic, and Mason placed a sweet kiss on his forehead.

  “Only if you want to hurt me,” he said honestly.

  Terry blinked hard. “I never… in a thousand years, I’d never want to hurt you.”

  “Then let’s go back and eat. The guys are going to start leaving soon.”

  “I should go with them,” Terry said, wiping his face on his shoulder.

  “Yeah.”

  PEOPLE LEFT in waves. Terry sat down and ate, far away from where Mason was finishing up with the grill. The first wave of people left, and he stayed to talk.

  That wave of people left, and he went with them. He came to Mason and kissed his cheek hurriedly before walking with his group. Mason had heard mentions of a movie and thought wistfully of the latest action hero vehicle that had been released.

  He’d had hopes.

  Richie was out running the last of the go out of the dog, but Skip watched the whole thing from a conversation with Carpenter. He wandered, super-extra-casual-like, to where Mason was assembling his own hamburger, and offered him an imported beer.

  Mason looked at the bottle dumbly. “I didn’t bring this.”

  “Nope. But Richie said we should bring something fancy for you because you’re smart and all.”

  For some reason that felt like all that was wrong with the world.

  “I’m not that smart,” Mason said, setting his plate down so he could use the bottle opener on the side of the grill. “But the beer is appreciated.”

  “You let him go,” Skip said, following Mason to the now-empty, glass-topped table. Mason sat and Skipper pulled up kitty-corner, close enough to have a conversation and not be overheard but far enough away that Richie couldn’t imagine something that would never be there.

  “Course I did,” Mason said, taking a gulp of fine import. “’Cause I’m a good guy. And he’s a good guy too. And if you’re a good guy and an old fart, you don’t marry your newly emancipated boyfriend like a goddamned child bride.”

  Skipper watched impassively while Mason killed the beer and belched, then stared dumbly at his hamburger.

  “I problably did that backwards,” he muttered. “Probly. Probably.”

  “Probably,” Skipper said gently, taking the beer bottle out of Mason’s hand. “You eat that and I’ll go get you another one.”

  Sure. Why lose weight when your younger lover had probably just left to go see a Marvel movie and might never see you again?

  “Another beer or another burger?” Mason clarified.

  “One of each. I think I’m about to watch my boss get toasted.”

  Mason stared at his hamburger. “Well that’s embarrassing,” he mumbled, taking another bite. He dedicated himself to eating for a moment, and realized he hadn’t had so much as a potato chip since breakfast.

  Maybe that would help.

  Skipper returned with another plate and two more beers, and then Dane and Carpenter returned from seeing the last wave of people off. Richie came back with the dog—who jumped in the pool, shook himself on all of them, and collapsed at Richie’s feet—and they started to talk.

  Skipper talked about the last girlfriend he’d had and how bad he’d felt when he’d broken up with her.

  Richie talked about the first girlfriend he’d had and how he’d tried so hard, for so long, to make her happy.

  Dane talked about a boyfriend he’d had in college, the one who had triggered his big crash, and how he’d had to spend a month in a psych ward before he realized that anyone who made you choose him over your family and friends or even your principles was probably not someone you needed to appease.

  Carpenter was quiet for most of the discussion, and when he spoke, he surprised everybody.

  “I have an MBA,” he said bluntly.

  Mason almost knocked over his beer. “You what?” he said at the same time Skipper crowed, “I knew it!” and Dane smacked him on the back of his head.

  “What in the furry hell,” Richie asked, looking at everybody like they’d lost their minds. “He’s got a what?”

  “He went to school for six years to sit with me in the damned tech pool,” Skipper said, and Mason recognized the anger on his face for what it was in his heart: hurt.

  “Why would you do that?” Richie asked. “I mean… you could be making, I don’t know, Mason kind of money. Couldn’t you find a job?”

  Carpenter pursed his lips and looked at Mason. “Mace, how many decisions you think you make a day?”

  Mason tried to think past the heartbreak and beer. “I don’t know.” What had he done Friday after Terry hadn’t shown? Oh yeah. He’d had a meeting with HR about how to retain staff. He’d said something about furthering the education of the lower-tier workers—even if they didn’t use the education for Tesko, they would at least guarantee time to the company in return for the investment. He’d also mentioned stock options and a commissary for the tech crew and receptionists and even gift cards at clothing stores during the holidays, since they had a dress code requirement.

  The guy in HR—Hugh Goodman—had seemed excited about the ideas and put Mason in charge of a committee making those things happen. It all seemed simple enough, and Mason’s real job—mergers and acquisitions—was often a game of hurry up and wait. He’d done all his research, made all his offers, and was in the process of waiting for people to respond to his moves. He could implement that stuff in a week, probably less.

  And then he realized what Carpenter had asked him.

  “I don’t know?” he said, hating to think about this. “Fifty? A hundred?”

  Carpenter shuddered. “I got out of school, was interviewing for a job, and it hits me. This job they want me for? The first thing they’re going to ask me to do is put a hundred people out of work. And it’s what the company needs in terms of instant cash availability, but it’s going to fuck the company over long-term. And people are going to lose their jobs. And I can either tell them up front that this move is sucktastic, and not get hired, or I can lie, and then lie some more, and then get the job where the first thing I did was be a douche.”

  Mason found himself staring, openmouthed. He wasn’t alone.

  “So I said fuck it,” Carpenter continued, knocking back a beer. “I spent the next year dodging my parents and working in a pizza joint, and finally got tired of the dirty calls from the student loan office and got the job at Tesko.”

  “Oh, Carpenter!” Skip said helplessly. “You can do so much more!”

  Carpenter looked
at him and smiled sadly. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, Skipper. You think I would have met you working Mason’s job?”

  “I did,” Mason said, jealous. Skip was the best friend he’d had too.

  “Yeah, but that’s because your mouth is still twelve,” Carpenter said, smiling at him fondly. “You’re an A-1 guy, Mason. You’re not bad-looking—”

  “He’s fuckin’ sexy,” Richie said, surprising them all. “Seriously—would you think I’d be jealous if he was a troll?”

  Mason’s brown hair was getting silver. He had Dane’s brown eyes, a decent jaw, and deep laugh lines around his eyes. He was pretty sure all his friends had drunk too much beer.

  “So, yeah,” Carpenter continued, “good-looking, nice guy, obviously smart because they keep putting your name on all the company newsletters. Yeah, I read them. ‘VP Mason Hayes just acquired a property in San Francisco.’ ‘VP Mason Hayes just sold off a property in Burlingame, and the company netted a zillion dollars.’ You’re all over the place. I’m surprised they haven’t hired someone to come in and wax your knob, just to make sure you stay there.”

  Mason shrugged, uncomfortable. “All they really have to do is not screw my boyfriend.”

  Carpenter spit out his beer. “And see! That’s why you’re here. That’s why you and Skip are buddies and you’re breaking your heart over an itinerant tech rat who can’t track a sentence through a book. Because there’s this part of your heart that still believes all men are created equal. And you live that. And until I met you and Dane, I thought the only way I could use my education was to be a douche. But don’t you get it? My parents have been telling me for years that I didn’t have to stay in the IT pool and still be able to live with myself. But they were telling me. Like I didn’t have the sense God gave a mole. I had to see someone doing it, and doing it right.”

  Carpenter studied his beer while Dane glared at him, and Mason got the feeling there would be all sorts of shit going down he didn’t want a thing to do with. Skip was looking at Carpenter like he was fading before Skip’s eyes, and Richie?

  Richie was staring into space like he was seeing the infinite in the falling shadows over the ravine.

  “You’re talking about Terry,” he said after a moment, and Mason forgave him for everything, including winning Skip’s heart before Mason came on the scene. “You’re saying he’s got to figure out for himself what Mason is like. No one can tell him.”

  “Yeah,” Carpenter said.

  “You’re saying that he doesn’t know his own worth, really. That he’s not going to see if he’s good enough for Mason unless he goes out and screws other guys.”

  Mason buried his face in his hands. He hadn’t wanted to think about it, but yeah. The idea was there.

  “Maybe not,” Carpenter said, giving Mason a gentle pat on the top of the head. “Maybe he just needs to see. You know. It’s not the suit or the car or the kickass house. Mason’s pretty awesome just because he’s Mason. And Terry’s what Mason wants, so he’s got to be special too.”

  “You’re going to leave the IT pool, aren’t you?” Skip asked, sadness in his voice.

  Mason glanced up. “Poor Schipperke,” he said, heart twisting. “Don’t worry. I think Clay’s point is that he’s not going to leave his friends behind.”

  Skip shrugged like it was no big deal. “I know, I know. We’ll always have soccer.”

  Mason made a sound. Oh God. Terry was going to be playing soccer. He was going to be trying to spot that big play and learning where he was supposed to be on the field. Skip and Mason had been working with him since February—Terry was getting to be an amazing player. Even Mason had been getting fitter and quicker. He’d managed to find the sweet spot on the side of his foot, the one that would make the ball his bitch.

  Mason really loved playing soccer.

  But he couldn’t.

  “Skip?” he said helplessly. Oh fuck. He’d enjoyed having the guys here. It had been the peer group he’d never had. For once he’d been with a group of guys who didn’t censure his words, or judge him on his lack of taste in beer, or expect him to have food he didn’t know the name of.

  Skip glared at him. “Really?”

  “I’ll take his place,” Dane said calmly, and everybody at the table stared at him. He took a sip of his own imported beer and shrugged. “Just a season. I’ll be out of school—nothing to do but play with Holly and Jason and be on the team.” He smiled with false brightness. “It’ll be fun!”

  “You hate soccer,” Mason and Carpenter said, almost in tandem.

  “Let him miss you,” Dane said, his voice hard. “Let him look for you every Saturday and see me there instead. You want him to figure out what he wants? That’ll do the trick.”

  “You know,” Mason said, hoping Dane realized this, “he might not want me.”

  Dane shrugged, looking fierce. “Then he’s not worth you, Mason. I’ve watched you try to build a life with loser after loser. They weren’t worth your time. Unless a guy is throwing himself at your feet, trying to romance you like you were God’s gift to cosmopolitan gay, don’t fucking bother. If Terry comes back, I want him to come back humble. He needs to know who’s been waiting for him.” Dane dashed the back of his hand across his eyes. “I certainly do.”

  Carpenter wrapped an arm around his back, and they listened to the night—air conditioners humming, frogs screaming their hearts out from the creek, faraway traffic noises. In that moment Mason felt really small.

  He thought that would be it—party over. But Skip and Richie stayed to clean up the rest of the food, and when they all went in, they stayed to watch Guardians of the Galaxy on cable. And then The Man from U.N.C.L.E…. And The Avengers.

  They all fell asleep during that last one, and Mason woke up in the early morning on the floor of his living room, listening to four other men snoring and farting, and saw the dog pawing at the sliding glass door to the backyard.

  Mason took the dog outside and let him run around and relieve himself in the rapidly heating day. He thought about cooking breakfast for his friends and maybe going shopping and planning a meal—something nice he hadn’t cooked for a while—and inviting people over for something besides a hamburger cookout.

  Thought about how his new project at work was something worthwhile, and maybe he should pay attention to what he was doing there when he was just doing what he was supposed to because that’s what his job description said.

  Thought that it was working—he was making plans for life without Terry, and that he was going to be okay—and then realized he was crying, hard, and he felt gutted like a fish.

  He managed to clean up the tears and hopefully the red eyes before everybody woke up to chocolate strawberry pancakes.

  That empty feeling, though—that gutted one, like his heart was aching, bleeding, torn apart, somewhere far from his body?

  That stayed.

  He wasn’t sure it was going anywhere. Not for a long, long time.

  Reports from the Front

  “MRS. BRADFORD, that is a lovely frock you are wearing this morning. I highly approve.”

  In fact, the bright red-and-yellow tailored dress was probably the best thing about Mason’s Monday morning. He was still eating lunch with Skip and Carpenter, so things could possibly improve, but he’d woken up that morning with the same big throbbing emptiness in his chest.

  He sort of doubted improvement could happen.

  “Why thank you, sir. I notice you, too, have decided to throw yourself into business casual.”

  He mostly couldn’t have faced putting on a suit. The middle of May was apparently brutally hot, and his heart just hadn’t been in the whole pressed suit-and-tie thing.

  Not today.

  “I like green,” he said with a small smile. Terry had liked green on him. He had a lot of polo shirts and T-shirts in his closet in this exact shade of green.

  Mrs. Bradford looked at him sharply. “Mr. Hayes, if you don’t mind me asking—are
you quite all right?”

  Mason couldn’t answer her. He shrugged and looked at the files on his desk. “Mr. Goodman?” he mumbled, partly to himself. “Didn’t I meet with him last week?”

  “Yes, sir—he said he had some other ideas for those changes you wanted to implement.”

  Mason tried to pull his head in the game. “Yeah—I was going to focus on those this week.”

  “Good idea, sir—you won’t hear back on several of your bids until next Monday. This is productive use of your downtime.”

  “I could always use my downtime researching my next acquisition,” he said mildly, but she snorted.

  “You’re sort of ahead of their usual acquisition schedule at this rate anyway, sir. I don’t think the company has enough capital to keep up with you.”

  Oh.

  “Well then, let’s go about changing the world,” he said, trying for bright.

  She paused at the door and studied him like a seventh grader studied a cow eyeball. “Sir…. Mason?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Bradford?” He couldn’t meet her eyes.

  “Did something happen with your young man?”

  “He’s not my young man anymore.”

  Mrs. Bradford’s bright red-and-yellow dress approached Mason’s desk, and he finally made himself look into her sympathetic face. “I’m sorry, Mason,” she said gently. “He seemed like a sweet kid.”

  Mason grimaced. “I’m a grown-up,” he said with dignity.

  She nodded. “Of course you are. But are you still having lunch with Mr. Carpenter and Mr. Keith?”

  This smile was unforced. “Until they leave Tesko for greener pastures,” he said grandly. “Good friends are good friends, Mrs. Bradford.”

  “Indeed.”

  CARPENTER BROUGHT Noodle House for lunch. They chatted about video games and movies while Mason tried to eat pad thai without making an ass of himself. He gave up when he flipped a noodle on his shirt and couldn’t get rid of the stain.

  “Oh well,” he muttered. “It’s not like I’m trying to impress Hugh Goodman.”