by Cara McKenna
“Both.”
“Okay. So there was last night. Then there was this outing. Where does that leave us, as far as kissing good-bye goes?”
“There’s no hard-and-fast answer to that. I wouldn’t have been offended either way . . . I think if you’d gone in for a kiss just now I’d have been a little surprised, even if you weren’t as shy as you are. Not offended, and not disappointed. But surprised.”
“Okay. That’s good to know. I had a feeling it wasn’t quite right. Nice to hear I have some kind of intuition.”
“If we’d gone on more dates or were getting serious, and we were more lovers than we were friends, it’d be a different story. Jeez, you know, it’s weird. I mean, our relationship’s almost completely sexual, despite the fact that we never touched until last night. But the friendship we’ve got going here is so intense, it almost trumps how we met, and what went on last night.” She sighed, squinting through the windshield, thinking. “So to answer your question, I clearly don’t really know, but yes, your instinct squares with mine.” A smile warmed her expression as she turned to meet his eyes once more. “But as the topic’s been broached . . . You could kiss me now, if you wanted. If your intuition’s on board.”
He considered it. He wanted to do everything right with this woman, even as he knew he was tromping around blindly in completely uncharted territory, with no map, no compass, no business being there, frankly. “Perhaps something chaste? A kiss on the cheek?”
She smiled deeper, cheeks growing round and enchanting and rather kissable. “That’d be sweet.”
He held the wheel with one hand and leaned over, pressed his lips to her cool skin and stole a whiff of her shampoo. What was that? Ginger?
As he sat back, Suzy said, “Send me a text when you decide if you’re okay with Meyer tagging along. Again, no pressure. Seriously.”
“If you give me the option to think about it, I’ll chicken out.”
“Ah. Is that an option you want?”
“Well, you tell me. Do you think it’s a good idea? I don’t know the man. You know us both, or at least you know me a little bit.” Better than almost anyone, however, which was a testament to both his hermithood and her uncanny ability to open him up.
“I think it’d be fine. Meyer’s shameless but he’s also harmless, really. And he’s charming, in his astringent way.”
“Let’s call that a yes, then.”
She gave a single, curt nod. “It will be done. Pick you up at seven fifteen? That should give us plenty of time. I’ll call in a reservation.”
“Sounds good. Thanks for yet another ride.”
She waved the thought aside. “Think of it as my ploy to get ‘accidentally’ stranded in your room again, if we wind up coming back for one too many nightcaps.”
He smiled, though the gesture expressed only the weakest little spark of the fireworks now going off in his chest. “You must be one of those femmes fatales I’ve read so much about.” A clever enough retort, though his mouth felt clumsy as the words tumbled out, the whole of him flustered and flushed.
“If only. If I ever wind up a villainess in one of your books, make sure I’m a classic, vaguely racist dragon-lady type.”
“Never.”
“Oh, always. Anyway, see you in a couple hours.” And she leaned close, offering her cheek once more.
John gave it a soft, brief kiss. And it did feel so exquisitely right.
Chapter Fourteen
John was a writhing, swirling mass of nerves as those two hours wore on, and in the end he abandoned the notes he was attempting to transcribe in his room and left the hotel entirely, taking an impromptu walk in the deepening dusk.
He headed in the general direction of the restaurant where they’d all be meeting, and merely moving felt good. It was a nice neighborhood, and he felt only fleeting pangs of anxiety as other pedestrians neared and passed him on the sidewalk. He tried to focus on the book, on the climactic scene he’d been researching this afternoon, but his thoughts all came back to Suzy, and to Meyer. To Mr. and Mrs. Parks.
How utterly bizarre they should live here, in his state, in this city he’d been scheduled to visit for months now, since he’d conceived the book’s outline and arranged the mill tour.
Bizarre, or perhaps fated?
He wasn’t normally the type to credit destiny, but it felt . . . Well, it felt. He wasn’t normally the type to credit feeling all that much, if he was honest. Suzy had done that to him, undeniably. She made him trust himself, in ways and in parts that were rooted deeper than his brain, formerly the only organ he trusted. He wondered if he ought to try to find her a thank-you gift once he went home, to be accompanied by an exceedingly earnest note. If there was one thing he could do, it was words.
After several dozen blocks, he checked his phone. “Oh shit.” It was seven-oh-two. He prayed she hadn’t already hit the road as he texted, Change of plans. Meet you at the restaurant?
Christ, how rude. How unlike him. Normally only the untangling of a book’s logistical knot could leave him so distracted. Plus he’d been relying on the drive to loosen him up, to offer him a chance to chat with Suzy and feel marginally passable as company before he met—
Brrrzzz. No problem. See you in a few. Reservation’s under Park if you beat me there.
A wash of relief, chased by a fresh flash of nerves. See you soon.
He checked his phone’s map, found the restaurant was only five blocks away. At least he’d be on time.
Though with every step he took, the question of how things would go when he met Meyer seemed to rock him anew.
Luck was in his favor, happily. He arrived at seven ten and was led to the table, finding only Suzy waiting. She stood as he neared, revealing a long, colorful dress and offering a smile.
He stooped to kiss the cheek she proffered. It was only his own clothes that had him feeling even remotely confident; those, and the relief that he could put off meeting the last member of their dinner party for a little while longer.
“You look lovely,” he said, meaning every letter of it.
“Thanks. And you look very dapper. And thank you further for the excuse to dress up—as Suzy, that is,” she added with a smirk.
“My pleasure. Sorry for the last minute change of plan—I was walking and completely lost track of time.”
“So not a problem. Meyer’s on his way. He’s extremely punctual, so he should be here any second.”
John nodded, anxiety settling over him. Suzy caught it. She reached across the table and squeezed his wrist. “You’ll be fine—”
“Starting the petting without me?”
The voice had come from behind John, and he turned in his seat. Fair warning aside, it felt utterly bizarre to suddenly be staring up at Mr. Parks in real life. John pushed out his chair and got to his feet, finding them nearly eye to eye.
“You must be the infamous John Lindsay.”
“I am.”
“Pleasure. Meyer.” His shake was firm and formal. It fit the rest of the man.
He was quite extraordinary, John thought. Beautiful—untouchably so, even without the aid of mood lighting—yet somehow here they were, skin to skin. This was the man John envied above all others in a way, one who could do so effortlessly, so shamelessly, all the things that were beyond John’s grasp.
John got crushes on men perhaps half as often as he got ones on women. They were typically celebrities, actors largely, no more than passing curiosities. They might intrigue him enough to track down the bulk of their films, but as often as not he wondered if his attraction to those men was as much sexual as it was . . . something else. A desire to be them, as much as to kiss or touch them.
But standing before Meyer now, he felt an undeniable magnetism. He wanted to put his face to Meyer’s throat and breathe him in.
They took their seats.
/> “Thanks for letting me crash the party,” Meyer said with a smirk, eyes bright and mischievous. Thrilling.
Like staring into the barrel of a loaded gun, John thought, the simile extreme yet perfectly fitting. “Not at all,” he said. “It’s a little strange seeing you in person, but I’m flattered you wanted to meet me.”
“You’re far and away the biggest surprise of my year,” Meyer said.
“Am I?”
Meyer signaled the waitress over with a flick of his wrist. John admired that simple gesture. Surely Meyer thought nothing of it, but even the tiniest interactions with strangers—particularly attractive women—left John shaking inside.
The young lady arrived with a basket covered by a cloth napkin. “Some bread to start you off. Are we ready to order drinks?” she asked, addressing Suzy.
She folded the wine list. “A glass of whichever pinot grigio you’d recommend.”
“Lagavulin on the rocks, please,” John said when the server looked his way, pleased not to have stuttered.
Meyer smiled deeply. “Water’s fine.” Once she’d left he told John, “I’m a raging alcoholic.”
“He’s not raging,” Suzy said. “He’s eighteen months sober.”
“But if I were to fall off the wagon,” Meyer said, draping his napkin primly over his lap, “I would plummet straight down into the hottest depths of hell.”
Not entirely sure what to say to that, John offered, “Congratulations on your eighteen months.”
Meyer waved the thought aside. “I do well if I don’t touch the stuff. But offer me a thimbleful and I’ll hand you back an empty cask.” He unfolded the cloth from the bread basket, steam rising. He tore a roll in half in a way that was at once brutal and elegant.
“Are you originally from Pittsburgh?” John asked.
Meyer shook his head. “New York. Upper East Side.”
“Oh. Isn’t that the, um . . .”
“The posh area?” Meyer finished for him. “It is. Lots of money, both old and new. I’m not Manhattan royalty by any stretch, but my family does well. I come from a long line of jewelers. Though my link has since been severed from that chain, if you’ll forgive the pun; I’ve been estranged from my family for about fifteen years.”
“That’s a shame.”
Meyer nodded, spearing a ball of butter from a little dish. “Theirs, not mine. If you think my mother was horrified when I dated girls who weren’t Jewish in high school, you should have seen her face when I came out as bisexual.”
“Are they Orthodox, your parents?”
“No, but they’ve got very traditional expectations. Particularly when it comes to where their son wants to go sticking his cock, apparently.”
John flushed, praying it didn’t show. Meyer’s candidness was as intimidating as it was entertaining, and he couldn’t guess if he was meant to laugh or to frown his sympathy. “Are you an only child?”
Meyer shook his head, finished chewing then said, “I’ve got two sisters, one older, one younger. My younger sister still speaks to me, but I’m not very good at returning her calls. I’d prefer to leave my past in my past, if I’m honest. I always felt as if I was grafted onto my family. Like an organ transplant that never quite took.”
“Do you miss New York at all?”
“Yes, sometimes. Certain times of year. I miss the smell of Manhattan in the summer,” he said wistfully. “Sweat and horse shit and sizzling meat and baking brick. That sounds thoroughly disgusting, but I miss it.”
John wished he’d come up with that description, himself. “What brought you to Pittsburgh?”
“Grad school. Suze and I met at Carnegie Mellon, if she hadn’t said.”
“She did. You studied history?”
“European history.” He set down his butter knife and looked up for the first time in a minute, arresting John with his eyes. Hazel, neither blue nor gold, but a mix of both. “What about you?”
“I grew up in Philadelphia and I went to Temple. I eventually earned a Master of Fine Arts in creative writing, though I still wound up peddling genre fiction.”
“Yes, well, savor your peers’ lofty literary judgment while you’re cashing those checks.”
John smiled and reached for a roll, relaxing a little, at last. “It’s funny, but as much as I always imagined I wanted to write the great American novel, every time I sat down and got going on some high-concept project, I wound up bored to death.”
“Oh?”
He nodded. “I’d ‘cheat’ on my so-called real projects with the thing I really loved, deep down—mysteries. Eventually I just gave in and decided to pursue what I wanted to write, instead of what I thought I should be writing.”
“And now you’re a best seller,” Suzy said.
“Oddly enough, yes.”
“Fuck expectations,” Meyer said, gesturing with a wad of buttered bread. “Pursue pleasure and you’ll always enjoy the chase. You might wind up with herpes and a rotted liver, but you’ll have your memories.”
“You’re clearly the poet at this table,” John offered, and blushed to realize he was attempting to flirt. He turned his full attention to buttering his bread. Still, he felt charming, or close to it. The same way Suzy made him feel. Maybe it was having her here that lent him a measure of confidence, or maybe it was what she’d said to him, on their walk from the bar to the hotel the night before—about certain people who made it easy to open up, made you feel more likeable.
“Tell me, John,” Meyer said, “what’s the most disgusting way you’ve killed someone off in one of your books?”
“Ooh . . . Vat of acid, probably. Oh, wait, no—there was a drawing-and-quartering, too. It wasn’t on-screen, though, as it were, just the body found . . . you know.”
“The old D-and-Q,” Meyer said. “Classic.”
“That was a serial killer with a penchant for antiquated execution styles. I’d have consulted you if I’d known. I’m sure you know all about history’s grizzlier atrocities of justice.”
“And how. The Chinese are the true masters of old-timey torture, but the Europeans devised a few gems. The Catherine wheel, for one, and impalement—”
“Let’s save this conversation for after dessert, thanks,” Suzy said, and stabbed a butter ball demonstrably with her knife, brows raised at Meyer.
“Spoilsport. I could go on for days,” he said, looking to John, “but I shan’t.”
“Appreciated,” said Suzy.
“She’s so delicate, for a gal who enjoys getting tied up,” Meyer stage-whispered to John.
John picked up his menu and said, “That’s a woman’s prerogative.”
Suzy pointed to him, to Meyer, and back to John as she chewed her bread, nodding. “Catch that? Chivalry.”
“Chivalry’s all well and good, but this filthy fucker,” Meyer said, tapping his own chest, “has probably given you five hundred orgasms in the past—” He closed his mouth as the waitress returned with their drinks.
“Water,” she said, delivering Meyer’s glass. “Lagavulin . . . and the pinot.” She ran them through the day’s specials. “Are we ready to order?”
“I am,” Meyer said, glancing at the others.
John hadn’t even looked at his menu but he opened it, scanning. “Come to me last, please.”
“The seared salmon special,” Suzy said.
“Excellent. Sir?” She looked to Meyer.
“Filet mignon, aggressively rare. With the roasted potatoes and whatever the vegetable is.”
“Wilted spinach with garlic?”
“Perfect, thank you.”
She looked to John just as he’d found his selection. “The duck, please. With mashed potatoes and the spinach.”
“Excellent,” she said again, smiling and gathering their menus. She left them.
“Duck?” Su
zy asked.
“I love duck,” he said. “You don’t see it on menus often.”
“It’s on my too-adorable-to-eat list,” she said, though she didn’t look offended. “No duck, no bunnies—”
“No kittens,” Meyer lamented, “no babies.”
She reached over to smack his arm, and John felt something odd, watching them—a pang of jealousy. Not toward Meyer on account of his evolving feelings for Suzy, but toward the both of them. The way they were with each other. So easy, flirtatious, challenging, familiar. And to know how they were in bed together . . . John knew it was complex, but he couldn’t help but think that if he found what they had together with someone, he couldn’t imagine not hanging on to it tightly, making it into something. Something permanent and private, for keeps. Did they at least know it was special, he wondered?
Some of his giddiness paled, a faint shadow cast across his heart. He trusted he and Suzy had shared something—perhaps something even deeper than simple pleasure—the night before, but seeing these two together again, and for the first time in person . . . He felt naive afresh, outpaced, silly, and soppy.
He made a conscious decision to set the emotions aside and immerse himself fully in the company. These two were like celebrities to him, idols of a certain stripe. He wouldn’t waste this opportunity, hung up on tiresome insecurities.
The topic moved on. Meyer grilled John about his job, and John did his best to dispel any misconceptions that it was anything approaching glamorous. He volleyed back with questions about Meyer’s interest in history, but couldn’t find the courage to broach the topics that truly interested him.
How many people have you slept with?
How many have been men?
How long have you known you were attracted to both? Does everyone in your life know?
Were you born this fearless, or can it be learned?
What on earth would it feel like to kiss you?
Are you even vaguely attracted to me?
Alas, by the time their entrées were delivered and John’s tumbler was empty, the courage never did arrive, and so neither did any of the answers he craved. But miracle of miracles, he didn’t feel any of the things he’d feared, sitting across from this man. Not awkward or dull or pathetic. A couple of his comments had even managed to make Meyer smile, or crinkle his brow with interest, and by dessert, he’d settled into himself in a way he almost never could with anyone except his family, let alone two near-strangers.