Summer Lessons

by Amy Lane

  “Who’s a good man?” Skipper asked, and Mason had to look at him twice to see that his eyes were twinkling.

  “Very funny. He’s the guy who might be able to give our tech pool education benefits and get us a commissary that’s decent and available to everybody so you guys don’t have to drive to Noodle House every Monday.”

  “Ooh,” Skip said, eyes wide. “Could he get us a Starbucks? I mean… a Starbucks.”

  Mason shrugged. “Why not? We’re trying to minimize company turnover in places like the tech pool and the administrative assistant pool. Little stuff, big stuff—it all adds up.”

  Skip gazed at him in admiration. “Lookit you—you really are an executive.”

  Mason rolled his eyes.

  Which was good, because he had it all out of his system when Hugh Goodman knocked on his door. A slightly built man with thick blond hair, high cheekbones, full lips, and just enough laugh lines in the corners of his green eyes to show he was over thirty, Hugh Goodman had a charming smile and a way of making you feel like you’d just pleased your fourth-grade teacher.

  Mason had spent his morning typing up outlines and personnel requirements and a cost/benefit analysis, and he laid things out for Goodman in a short hour. When he was done, he sat back and waited for a reaction.

  It wasn’t long coming.

  “This looks… this looks amazing, Mason. I’m not sure where you got your inspiration, but most of these things are minimal-cost sort of ideas. The ones that aren’t can be written off, but even if they couldn’t—I’m just very impressed. Most executives aren’t this in touch with their employees. Tesko was very lucky to snap you up.”

  Usually you keep your tender bits away from stuff that snaps.

  The quip crossed his mind, but he… just didn’t. Not enough energy, maybe. Maybe he just couldn’t be the only one to laugh at his own joke.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said humbly. “I’m glad you appreciated the idea.” He started to gather his files up and organize, smiling every so often in Hugh’s direction. Why wasn’t he moving? Mason needed him to move so he could call Mrs. Bradford in and they could plan on stage two. He needed time to study his computer and see if any of those bids had been reported early. He had at least three-dozen e-mails to answer.

  Finally he couldn’t stand it anymore. “Mr. Goodman?”

  “Call me Hugh.” He smiled then, a sort of odd, hooded smile that made Mason think of gecko lizards.

  “So, uh, Hugh—is there anything else you needed?”

  “Are you married, Mason?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Seeing a woman?”

  “No, sir, I’m gay.”

  “Good!”

  Mason looked at him sharply. “Mr. Goodman?”

  “Hugh!”

  I’m not Hugh, you’re Hugh! But again, he kept it to himself. “Uh, Hugh—can I help you with anything else?”

  An odd expression crossed Hugh’s face at this point—something between exasperation and longing. It was the same sort of face Terry made when he was planning a vacation he couldn’t afford to take.

  “Uh, no, Mason. I’ll….” He brightened. “I’ll see you tomorrow—same time. Let’s see if we can’t have a hiring schedule and a budget request drawn up by the end of the week!”

  “Sure,” Mason said. “That will be fine. Thank you so much for asking me to work on this.”

  They shook hands, and if Hugh’s hand lingered in Mason’s a little longer than necessary, Mason was already figuring out how they could get Skip into upper-division humanities classes so he could use his new benefits to go for his BA. He barely noticed when Hugh left.

  But he did notice Mrs. Bradford’s rather determined walk into his office.

  “Mason?”

  “Yes, ma’am?” When she used his first name, he could tell she was getting maternal.

  “Was that handsome young man trying to hit on you?”

  Mason thought about it. “No—why would he do that?”

  She closed her eyes as though begging for patience, and Mason had a sudden urge to go fetch her a Kool-Aid and vodka. “No reason, Mason. No reason at all.”

  HE SAW a lot of Goodman that week. In fact, they had lunch together on Friday, since Mason wasn’t expecting any sandwiches delivered at his door. Goodman brought bento boxes from home, each one made up with homemade sushi and chilled ahi and salmon. Mason appreciated the artistry, but he had to plan on getting a hamburger or something on his way home.

  “That was, uh, very kind of you, Hugh,” he said quietly, putting the lid on his bento box and handing it back so Hugh could put it in the little case. “I had no idea people packed their own sushi.”

  Hugh blushed, twin red crescents popping up on his high cheekbones. He cast an appealingly shy look in Mason’s direction. “It’s a hobby of mine. Do you cook?”

  “Sometimes. For company, I guess.”

  “Do you want to come to the farmer’s market with me? There’s a couple—one by Sunrise Mall and the other one is out in Roseville—and—”

  “I usually just go to Whole Foods. I’m not as excited with open-air markets as everyone else seems to be.” This was no more than the truth, and Mason was damned if he was going to end up with another Ira, who hauled him from one thing that he absolutely loathed to another.

  “Oh,” Hugh said, seemingly lost. “So this weekend—”

  “I’m cooking for my brother and his boyfriend and a couple of friends of ours,” Mason said, because Skip and Carpenter had planned this with him on Monday. He knew they were humoring him by planning a dinner party on Saturday night, but he was so depressed about Saturday without Terry that he was letting them. “What were you planning to do?”

  “Nothing,” Hugh said, and this thought apparently made him a little sad, but Mason couldn’t fix that. He could barely fix himself.

  THE NEXT Friday Hugh brought him salmon risotto, expertly prepared. He said something about a music festival at Fair Oaks Park—something about chickens that Mason didn’t get, although the damned things seemed to be everywhere. Mason and Dane were taking advantage of their last weekend before soccer to go visit their parents on their anniversary, though, and Mason had to give his regrets.

  Well, they were polite regrets. He didn’t see Hugh as the kind of guy who would go to a chicken festival and play all the stupid games and buy too many tchotchkes and spices he might never use. Mason was that guy. He really didn’t want to put anyone else through that.

  MASON AND Dane took their parents out to dinner at Baumé for French food because that was their mother’s favorite. Dane had argued fiercely for Wakuriya in the car on the way down, but they needed reservations much further in advance.

  The service was excellent, the food superb…

  But the conversation?

  Not Mason’s favorite.

  “So,” his mother said, tracing her finger through the sauce on her plate after the first course. “Your new young man…?” She smiled coquettishly, and Mason thought for the thousandth time that she was the prettiest woman in the world. The gray in her hair and the lines around her eyes only made her more Mom.

  “Is no longer mine,” he filled in, looking at his brother to help. It was only fair—Mason had toned down the severity of Dane’s meltdown that March. Dane owed him.

  Dane apparently didn’t think so.

  “Terry finally moved out of the house at the tender age of twenty-five, and Mason told him they should take a break while Terry figured out what he wanted from life. This is fine for Terry, who can apparently go out and hump like a champion if he wants, but it’s depressing as hell for me, because Mason’s broken heart is fucking bleeding all over the kitchen.”

  Mason stared at him. “You are no longer my brother.”

  “Whatever. If you actually cared about me, you’d go date someone and at least try to pretend you were happy.”

  “I don’t feel like dating. Remember the last time you suggested I date? I think it was
in December. And that brings us to now, when I don’t feel like dating.”

  Dane narrowed his eyes. “You’re leaving out the part where you went and fell in love with someone completely unsuitable who, by the way, I’m pretty sure loved you back.”

  Mason glared back. “How would you like to be the first person assaulted with a fork in Baumé?”

  “Now boys,” Roger said, his voice tinged with impatience. “I’m really more interested in hearing about the good things in your life.”

  “The good things?” Mason thought about it. “I may be able to get Dane’s boyfriend an entry executive job at Tesko and get his adorable best friend a job as his assistant.”

  “Dane has a boyfriend?” his mother said, looking at Dane in shock. Well. Dane had been phoning home for the past two weeks—apparently he’d neglected a few details.

  “I hate you,” Dane muttered.

  “I got Carpenter and Skipper better jobs for better pay, and Skip can go to school,” Mason sallied. “Hate me now.”

  “He may not take the job,” Dane said staunchly, and Mason rolled his eyes.

  “He’ll do anything to look like your hero. Jesus, you two are stupid.”

  “Tell us about him, Dane,” Roger said eagerly, and while Dane glared at Mason, that did not stop him from launching into an epic poem about the mighty hero and slayer of psychological dragons that was Clay Carpenter, muscular and scruffy god with an MBA and champion of the working class. In fact, his dissertation on Carpenter’s virtues kept them rolling through the next five courses.

  Of course, in mentioning Carpenter, he had to mention Skipper and Richie and their gargantuan brown dog who, Mason suspected, kept crapping in the neighbor’s yard on the other side of the ravine. He also had to mention soccer.

  “So you’re not playing soccer this season?” his mother asked, concerned.

  Mason smiled as though he didn’t miss it severely when the season hadn’t even started. “Dane’s playing my spot this next session. I’ll go back when it’s over.”

  “Mason?”

  Mason looked up at the unfamiliar voice at his shoulder. “Uh….”

  “George? George Williams? I’m a friend of Ira’s?”

  George Williams (stupid name!) was tall—as tall as Mason—and a carbon copy of John Cena with a Jem Finch style Boy Scout cut instead of a buzz cut. He had a square face, deep laugh grooves around his lean mouth, a square jaw, and piercing gray eyes.

  Dane looked at him and made a little sucking sound through his teeth.

  Mason smiled through a locked jaw. “Ira and I broke up.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I kept expecting to run into you after that—you know, restaurants and such, but I never did. I wanted to tell you Ira shouldn’t have gotten all of the friends in the split.”

  Wonderful. “Well, I moved to Sacramento in August—you’re only seeing me here because I’m here with family.” C’mon, George—get the hint.

  “That’s excellent. Can I join you for dessert?”

  “Of course you can,” Janette said warmly. “Any friend of Mason’s is welcome here.”

  George sat down, and Mason’s father ordered another helping of crème brûlée and Mason steeled himself for polite small talk.

  George wasn’t a bad talker. He was on a rec league softball team, and when he found out about Mason’s soccer team, he genially compared notes. Dessert was not awful, but Mason’s father yawned twice during the first cup of coffee, and Mason stood up.

  “It was so nice to see you again,” George said, standing up to go with them. “Give me your phone number, and I can call you the next time I’m in Sacramento.”

  “I actually live in a suburb a few miles out. It’s not really next door.” Of course, Sacramento was one big sprawl of feeder suburbs, so that was probably not news.

  “Which one? My sister lives in Folsom, and I visit her all the time!”

  “Fair Oaks,” Dane said eagerly. “We’re practically neighbors.” Mason didn’t even bother to glare at him. That look obviously had no power, and his eyes were getting tired. “Here,” Dane continued, oblivious and irritating to the extreme. “Let me give you Mason’s number—meeting up would be great! Mason and I have a pool.”

  “Dane!” Mason hissed, shocked. Meddling brat!

  “Well, we do.” Dane batted his eyelashes at Mason, and Mason fought off a headache.

  “I’m sure his sister does too.”

  “No, actually—and she regrets it!” Dane handed George back his phone, and George’s lean mouth stretched into an impossibly wide smile. “I’ll be sure to call!”

  Mason didn’t realize he was growling until he was helping his mother into the SUV.

  “Mason, what’s wrong? He seemed like a nice man!”

  “He’s peachy,” Mason said. “Whatever. I’m just not—”

  “I know you’re not,” Dane said, shamelessly crawling into their conversation as he climbed into the passenger seat. “That’s why you need to.”

  “That’s the furthest thing from the truth. It took me a few months to recover from Ira—”

  “Oh, this is worse—way the fuck worse than Ira,” Dane said seriously. “Dad, are you in?”

  “In the car, yes. In this conversation? Not if you paid me.”

  “Smart man,” Mason said, smiling at his father benevolently. Roger winked at him, letting Mason know whose side he was on.

  Mason got into the car and started it up, and Dane got rolling too.

  “So aren’t you going to ask me?”

  “I can’t. I’m not talking to you.”

  “Look, I know you’re hurting,” Dane said, because he was the king of not taking the hint. “But Terry’s going to come back or he’s not. You know how you need him to be okay being alone? You’re already okay being alone. So maybe look at being okay with someone else besides Terry.”

  “This makes no sense. None. Not to my head, not to my heart. And you know something else? I’m tired of being with people who don’t make me feel like Terry did. So if all I have of that feeling is the memory and the hurt, I’m going to cling to that until someone comes along who’s worth leaving that behind for. So far? No contenders. Throwing people at me isn’t going to help.”

  “I don’t have to throw people at you. I understand you’ve become gay-nip.”

  “Who besides George? And there’s no such thing as gay-nip.”

  Behind them, their mother chortled, and Mason and Dane made the exact same sound at the exact same time.

  “Stop picturing John Barrowman without his shirt,” Roger said mildly. “It’s scaring the children.”

  Janette’s throaty chuckle was enough to make them both groan.

  “Mom!”

  “Oh my God, yeah, could you not?”

  “I could, but I won’t,” she said unapologetically. “Go on and tell us about how Mason is gay-nip, Dane. This is the best anniversary present ever.”

  “So let me tell you about Hot Hugh,” Dane said, obviously relishing the gossip.

  “Oh Lord,” Mason muttered. “He’s not that hot.”

  “Smoking hot. Hot Hugh. Hugh of Hotness. Blond god of human resources—Skipper and Carpenter verified. Hugh the hottie, who is even hotter for Mason.”

  “Jesus,” Mason mumbled, negotiating off of De Anza Boulevard toward his parents’ house. “This is not my life.”

  But it was. It was his life. And that night—after harboring a deep grudge for the treasonous Mrs. Bradford, who apparently dished to Skipper and Carpenter way more than Mason ever suspected—he had a little talk with Dane about letting it stay his life.

  “You can’t keep doing this,” he said as they settled into the same queen-size bed they’d shared as children.

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “Don’t be. It’s a broken heart. They happen every day.”

  Dane’s sigh shook the bed. “Not to you. You usually just bounce off the thing that breaks you and blame yourself for not being g
ood enough to be happy.”

  Mason grunted. “That’s fair. This time’s different.”

  “I know. This time Terry got you. He got you. And he thought you were perfect. And you couldn’t have him. And you’re… you’re broken. I had to hear about Hot Hugh from Carpenter, Mason. Carpenter. Not one word about George Williams and how he had the most boring name in the world and muscles like forged steel so maybe he was Superman.”

  Mason chuckled. “See, I was thinking John Cena,” he said. “Superman is inspired.”

  “Mason—”

  “I’m hurt,” Mason said. “Remember all the times you said that to me? You said ‘I hurt, but I’m still functioning. Just stop worrying about the hurt and let me function.’”

  “This isn’t—”

  “No. It’s not mental illness. It’s less. It’s temporary. And if it isn’t, I’ll still live with it.”

  “‘It’s less’ is bullshit, Mason. There’s no fucking yardstick for this type of pain. You can’t shove a ruler into a wound and say, ‘Oh, Dane’s is three feet deep and Mason’s is only two.’ They both fucking hurt, so don’t weenie out, okay?”

  Mason faked a snore, and Dane walloped him over the head with a pillow.

  Mason stole it.

  Dane smacked him on the back, snarling, “Asshole!”

  “You kids quiet down in there!” Janette called. “Don’t make your father spank you!” Then she giggled, and so did Roger, and Mason threw the pillow back.

  “Please, Mason?” Dane said softly.

  “Time, Dane. It’s a thing.”

  “Fine.”

  THE NEXT week soccer started. Without him.

  He was having Skip and Richie over for dinner again, and Carpenter, and Mrs. Bradford and her husband. Mrs. Bradford had been a last-minute invitation, but she’d started bringing him lunch on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. When he’d asked her why, her response had been puzzled.

  “I have no idea. I’ve never felt the urge to cozen you before. It’s very strange. If you don’t mind, sir, simply shut up and enjoy it. I don’t cook this much for my husband.”

  “Okay, then,” he said, baffled. “Well, I can return the favor. Saturday I’m making something new and interesting that I plan to find on the Internet on Friday. Would you and your husband like to join us?”