Leo swallowed a bite of his eggs. Random events had landed him in HR too, but he always figured this was normal. Didn’t most people, most middle-road joes, cobble together a career? Growing up, Leo’s only goal was to get out of Florida. He came to New York to do something creative. Although he didn’t have any unique talents, he figured, how hard could it be to get a job as a magazine editor? Pretty fucking hard, it turned out, so he ended up temping. Then his parents died, one after the other. Leo plunged into a depression and drifted from job to job. At one point, he read benefits administration was a growing field, so he got his master’s in public policy and ended up at Pfizer. Then he met Rosa at a conference, and they hit it off. When she offered him a job, he said yes. Nothing about Ellery was appealing—it was small, disorganized, and he didn’t quite grasp what they did—but he decided to stay for a while and then move on. The next thing he knew, it was twelve years later.
“What do you want to do?” he asked Rob. “Forget money, experience, all of that. If you could have any job in the world, what would it be?”
“I’m married with two kids. Who gives a shit what I want? I have to make money.” He was leaning forward because Thomas the waiter was hovering, as if waiting to interrupt.
“Can I help you?” Leo asked.
Thomas flashed a conspiratorial smile. “I hate to butt in, but are you guys together?”
Rob snapped, “Of course we’re together. Do you see anyone else at the table?”
“Rob,” Leo said gently. “He’s asking if we’re a couple.”
Leo turned to tell him no, but Rob cut him off. “Of course we’re not together.” He flashed his wedding band. “I’m married. I have a wife. I have kids. I’m not gay.” He spat the word gay, which made Leo flinch.
Backing away, Thomas raised his hands, don’t-shoot-me style. “Okay, buddy. I get it. You’re not gay. But there’s a photographer outside from the Times doing a story on gay relationships; he’s taking pictures of random couples, so I thought if you were together, you might get in the paper. Trust me: I am not asking you out.” He stalked off, muttering “Asshole!” loud enough for them to hear.
“I’m the asshole?” Rob was incredulous. “How am I the asshole? He was the rude one!”
“Are you kidding?” Leo was equally incredulous. “He was friendly. You were rude. You were the asshole. You went off on him because he suggested you might be gay. That is fucked up, Rob. It’s the kind of attitude that can ruin people’s lives.”
“Come on, Leo.” Rob chuckled nervously. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”
This enraged Leo. “No, Rob. I’m not overreacting. I’m educating you about the world beyond your privileged hetero existence. You’re a white man with a wife. Your life is acceptable. You don’t have to hide in the shadows or pretend to be something you’re not.”
“I know that, Leo. I’m—”
“You don’t know shit, Rob. You’re totally blind to what goes on around you.”
Rob took umbrage. “I think I’m aware of people’s differences—more so than most men.”
“Really? If you’re so fucking aware, then how could you work with Peter Dreyfus for eleven years and not know he was a closet case?”
“Peter Dreyfus? What’s he got to do with this?”
“Peter Dreyfus was a victim of the attitude you just revealed—that it’s horrifying to be gay. Do you know why he stole, Rob? Because he made a pass at . . .”—Leo fumbled—“another employee, but was so afraid of being found out, he let himself get caught. Think about it. He’d rather have people believe he’s a criminal than be outed as gay; he’d rather be a criminal than admit he likes men.” (Leo didn’t know if this was true. Yes, Peter tried to kiss him; yes, he did steal, but these facts may not have been linked. Even so, it felt true.)
Rob snorted. “That’s bullshit. Peter had a sick mother and too much of his money tied up in real estate. It’s 2010; the stigma of being gay in business is over.”
“You know this how? Because you’re such an integral part of gay culture? Because of all your work as a homosexual activist?” Leo was so furious he could barely breathe. “Peter was a solid corporate citizen for twenty years. One day, he skims off tens of thousands of dollars, and doesn’t even bother to cover his tracks. How does this make any sense?”
“Did Peter make a pass at you?” Rob asked quietly. “Is that what’s bothering you?”
“No, Rob, what’s bothering me is that you’re being obnoxious, and if you’re so mortified that some waiter thinks you’re gay, then we can’t be friends. I’m gay, Rob. I am a gay man, and your behavior offends me. You offend me.” He meant this; he couldn’t have even one inauthentic person in his life. “And you ruined my lunch.”
Rob tugged at his T-shirt as if the collar was choking him. “I’m sorry, Leo.” His voice had a pained, reedy quality. “I was out of line.” He spoke stiffly, like he wanted to say more, but they finished their meal in silence. And when Leo checked his phone—two texts from Katie, three from Lucy, and a call from Rosa that he returned, right at the table—Rob didn’t say a word. Nor did Leo protest when Rob paid for both meals and left Thomas a fifty on a thirty-dollar tab.
Outside, Rob apologized again. “I am sorry, Leo. I’ve been wrapped up in myself for months, and I’m all over the place—but that’s no excuse for being an ass.” He paused. “I don’t care if the guy thought we were together. It just came out that way.”
“I accept your apology.” Leo was still smarting but wanted to give Rob a pass; he was his friend, after all. “Everyone says—and does—stupid things. God knows I do.”
To which Rob replied, “We kissed. Lucy and me.”
This got Leo’s attention. “Really? When?”
“The day I got fired. She told me she loved me—was in love with me; well, used to be in love—then I kissed her. She pushed me away, and we haven’t spoken since.”
“That’s it? One kiss?”
“It was a very forceful kiss.” Rob grimaced. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”
Leo considered this. Of course, he thought. No wonder why Lucy was avoiding Rob; the whole thing was probably too awkward to deal with. “I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner, frankly. You’re human, she’s human. Let it go, Rob. Let her go.”
They were on the sidewalk. Down the street—just like the waiter said—a guy in a fedora was snapping pictures of gay couples. Some held hands, others made dopey faces. Watching them, Leo felt sad for Lucy, sad for himself. Why was it so hard for them to meet nice, available guys? Leo was so preoccupied, he didn’t notice Thomas rushing out of the diner.
“I’m glad I caught you!” he told Leo, and then glanced at Rob. “I know, I know, this is totally beyond creepy, but what can I tell you? I’m gay.” And he thrust a note into Leo’s hand.
Dear nice friend of rude customer,
Hearing you take down your lunch companion was so inspirational! (I know it wasn’t a date because HE IS NOT GAY!) But I am GAY and on behalf of ME and GAY MEN in and out of CORPORATE AMERICA, I salute you. Fight the power!
Your comrade-in-arms and loyal server,
Thomas Lange Xavier
PS: You have a great body. You’re totally wasting away, so stop dieting NOW.
PPS: Waiters hear EVERYTHING.
PPSS: Drop me a line, [email protected]
ROSA WASN’T SLEEPING. All week she complained to Leo that a strange smell in her bedroom was keeping her up. “It’s thick and heavy, like my old apartment in the Bronx when the neighbors cooked soup, only it’s not soup; it’s damp and dirty.” She was also paranoid, and “churned” (her word) with anxiety. “Lucy is listening to my calls; yours, too, I bet.”
Leo was firm. “Lucy would never do that.”
“You’re a sweet kid, but a naive person. You don’t know Lucy.”
Leo had no idea what, if anything, had happened between Rosa and Lucy, though this concerned him too, that he’d been neglecting the department. H
e still called Rosa twice a day, and he was on top of her schedule; but he was distracted, and not because of work or Rosa or Rob or Lucy, or any of the other baby chicks whose lives he mother-goosed. Leo had a new friend. Leo Smalls was in lust. Leo Smalls was in—Wait, wait. WAIT!—Leo liked a guy who seemed to like him back. So Rosa was definitely on Leo’s mind, but Thomas Lange Xavier was too. Since meeting Thomas ten days before, Leo had been late to meetings, unable to follow simple conversations, and rarely showed up at his desk before nine, much to Lucy’s annoyance.
He and Thomas had yet to go on an official date, because Leo was too busy, but they spoke a lot—like, a lot—on the phone. Thomas was a freelance web designer (ding!) who waited tables for extra cash (ding!). He was forty-four (ding!), single (ding!), and “tired of all the bullshit games” (ding! ding! ding!). But this was the best part: he thought Leo was cute (ding times infinity!). “I never approach customers, even the handsome ones,” he admitted. “But when I overheard you and your friend, you sounded so smart and sane, I had to meet you. So I made up that story about the Times—I had no idea who that guy in the hat was, or why he was taking pictures!”
So yes, Leo was distracted, but he was also concerned about Rosa, which is why he’d trudged into the city today, a Saturday, to make sure there wasn’t a dead mouse, or worse, in her walls. It was the second week of July, and brutally hot; if an animal had died in her walls, the smell must be unbearable.
Leo stepped into Rosa’s lobby, and the doorman waved him up, but when he got off the elevator, Rosa refused to let him into her apartment. Door cracked, she spoke to him over the chain. “What are you doing here?” She was annoyed. “My family’s visiting from upstate. Besides, it’s Saturday. Boundaries, Leo.”
“I left you a message.”
“I know, and I called you back, saying not to come.”
A man called out behind her. “Who’s there, Rosalita?” It was Nando, her brother.
“Open the door or close it,” her sister, Marcy, chimed in. “You’re letting out all the cool air.” Leo heard Marcy’s shoes clip-clop across the floor. “Who’s there?” She tried to peer around Rosa. A large woman, she towered over her sister, but Rosa wouldn’t move.
“Hi Marcy! It’s Leo Smalls, from Ellery. I was in the neighborhood.”
“Rosalita! What’s wrong with you?” Pushing past Rosa, Marcy unchained the door and ushered him inside. “Leo; it’s so nice to see you again.” She gave him a hug.
Thanks to Rosa’s generosity, Marcy had enormous breasts (implants) and va-va-voom hips (lipo), which she showed off in a cropped sweater, tight jeans, and slide-on mules. She was the antithesis of Rosa, who looked ready to lead a budget meeting at home in a tailored blouse and pressed slacks, a strand of pearls around her neck.
Leo returned Marcy’s warm welcome. Although they’d crossed paths only briefly when Rosa was in the hospital, Marcy had explained how difficult it was for her to get to Manhattan, while thanking him profusely for his help. (Nando, by contrast, pretended Leo was invisible.) At the time Leo had judged them harshly for abandoning their sister, but Rosa kept insisting she was fine, so maybe Marcy simply chose to believe her. Every family has its own unique crazy, and it’s easy to judge when you’re on the outside looking in.
“Nando! Look who’s here. It’s Leo, from Rosa’s job, remember? We met at Lenox Hill.”
“You sound like a horse in those shoes,” Rosa snapped, stepping aside to let Leo pass.
Ignoring her, Marcy led him to the dining room, where it was blessedly cool. Nando sat at the table, which was piled with bagels, spreads, fruit, juice, and coffee. “Leo, we’re having a late lunch. Please join us. Nando and I are only here until tomorrow, and Rosa ordered way too much food.”
Like Marcy, Nando wore several gold chains, but instead of jeans, he was dressed in a tracksuit and Nikes. He was a round man with an egg-shaped forehead and loose jowls that quivered as he swallowed a heaping forkful of coleslaw. “Long time no see,” he said, but he didn’t look up, nor did he shake Leo’s hand.
“Thanks, Marcy, but I can’t stay long.” While Leo didn’t like Nando, out of respect for Rosa, he wanted to be polite. “I’m just here to check on the smell.”
Nando raised his face from his food. “What smell?”
“Rosa said there’s a smell in her bedroom. I thought maybe a mouse died in the wall.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, Rosalita?” Nando’s voice was accusatory.
“There was nothing to tell. I had the exterminator come, but he didn’t find anything.”
From the way Rosa averted her eyes, Leo knew this wasn’t true. “You know what? I’ll check it now, just to be sure.” Although Rosa glared at him, he strolled into her bedroom, which he circled a few times, sniffing the air. Everything was in order, so he returned to the dining room. “Seems okay,” he said. “Guess I’ll head out. Nice to see you, Marcy. You too, Nando.”
Rosa followed him into the hallway. “Thank you for coming, Leo. I’m sorry I was rude.”
“No problem.” The elevator arrived and he stepped inside. “I’ll see you Monday?”
“Leo, wait.” Lurching forward, she grabbed his arm. “I have something to tell you. But please don’t tell them. Please, Leo; Leo, I have to be able to trust you.”
“What’s going on, Rosa?” he asked nervously.
She glanced behind her. “Leo”—her voice dropped—“I can smell ghosts in the walls.”
“Rosa, what—” But she’d already moved back inside and shut the door. Immediately, Leo picked up the phone and dialed Lucy. “We have a situation,” he said.
LEO WAS STUNNED. A well-built man wearing aviator sunglasses, faded Levi’s that hugged his ass, and a crisp white shirt strolled into the diner. No way. He remembered Thomas as handsome, but didn’t realize he was so . . . holy shit.
“Am I late?” Thomas pointed to Leo’s empty water glass.
“I was a little early.” Leo had arrived almost an hour before. Outside, it was blisteringly hot, so he gave himself extra time to cool off. Still, he could feel his eczema flaring up. Soon his back would be a mess of angry sores. “Actually, I was very early.”
“That’s okay.” Thomas’s smile was like a flash of white light. “I circled the block three times.” He slid into his seat and put his hands on the table. “So. Here we are. Finally.”
Despite his attempt to appear calm, Leo blurted out, “Do I look different than you remember?”
Thomas gave him a once-over. “You’re even hotter. Definitely. Much skinnier, too.”
Leo smiled shyly. “It’s only been three weeks. I’m not much skinnier.”
“I know. I keep asking myself, ‘Could he really lose that much in only three weeks?’”
“Now you’re making fun of me.”
“Now I’m flirting.” He lowered his voice. “I want to kiss you, but we barely said hello.”
Maybe this won’t be so bad, Leo decided.
Twenty minutes later, Thomas was explaining why, like Leo, he was eating egg whites and dry toast. “Turning forty ruined me. I played sports all my life, so I never had to think about food. But a few years ago, my metabolism changed, and the next thing I know, I’m a big fat fuck. So I went to Weight Watchers—it’s the new AA for middle-aged men. ‘My name is Thomas, and I’m a fatty.’ This tastes like fucking sandpaper,” he added, holding up his toast. “I’d give my left nut for a blueberry muffin.”
“Me, too!” Leo was breathless. Everything about Thomas wowed him: the crescent-shaped birthmark along his jaw, the way he squinted while he listened, his disarmingly frank manner. He was very physical, tapping Leo’s arm or hand to stress a point. Leo had a tendency to stiffen when people touched him, but with Thomas, it felt (almost) natural.
“Hey,” Thomas asked. “Did you ever call Rosa’s neurologist? How’s she doing?”
This touched Leo, Thomas asking about Rosa. Leo realized he hadn’t thought about her in how long? Fifteen minutes? “I d
idn’t call, but I have been watching her more closely. She’s been fine. I mean, she seems fine, although it’s hard to get perspective—”
“Because you’re too close to her?”
“I don’t think we’re too close. I meant because I see her every day, so I’m used to her behavior—rather, it doesn’t faze me. I mean, the ghosts-in-the-wall thing shook me up, but Rosa has insomnia. As soon as she took Ambien, she slept through the night, and felt much better.” He paused. On the phone, Thomas had seemed to understand his and Rosa’s relationship; now he sounded judgmental. “Rosa isn’t just my boss. She’s like my family.”
“No, I get it, Leo. I really do.”
A waiter was clearing their plates, so the words hung in the air like toxic mist, but by the time the check was dropped off and a credit card procured (“Let me,” Leo insisted), Thomas had moved on. “This was fun!” He stood up. “Well, thanks for lunch—”
“Wait,” Leo said anxiously. “You seem mad. Did I say something wrong?”
“Listen, Leo.” Thomas sat back down. “I really like you, but I don’t think I can date another workaholic. I told you my last boyfriend was an oncologist, right? Morgan was a saint—a decent, caring man—but there are very few happy endings in his line of work. It’s a grueling profession, and he got too tangled up in his patients, but I couldn’t complain about it—ever. If he missed my birthday dinner, it was because he was comforting a thirty-year-old mother dying of breast cancer. Trust me, Leo. You can’t get angry at a saint. Back then I was at an ad agency, and also married to my job, which is probably why we lasted so long. But a few years ago, I realized I was lonely and unhappy, so I quit my job, went freelance, and Morgan and I split up.”
“But I’m not married to my job,” Leo said. “It’s just a way to make money. When Rosa retires, I don’t have to stay at Ellery; I’m just not sure what to do next.” Christ, he sounded immature. At forty-three, his dad had a family and was more than halfway through his career.
“That’s good to hear—not that you don’t know what to do, but that you’re available. I was afraid you were one of these go-go-go types. Still, you should find work that you love. You give a lot to your job; you should get a lot back.” Thomas paused. “You like to give, don’t you?” He gave Leo a sly grin, and when Leo nodded, Thomas leaned across the table and kissed him on the mouth. “This is gonna be so great,” he said. “Just watch.”
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