by Kris Ripper
“I like the beach! Listen, I think that was entrapment. I never said I didn’t like the beach! Just it’s often really windy and sand blows in your face and gets, like, everywhere, and sometimes you get cold and want to go inside, so—” I broke off. “Are you teasing me right now?”
That smirk again. Oh jeez.
“Maybe a little.”
I sat back in my chair and shook my head. “YouTube doesn’t see the side of you that gets off on me tying my tongue in knots. You know that only makes me want to provoke you, right?”
“You’ve only been on one show, I don’t think you can say what I show to YouTube.”
“Except I’ve watched a bunch of your videos, so I think I can.”
They froze. “Oh. You did?”
“Uh, yeah.” Who agrees to go on a show and doesn’t watch it? “Do your other guests not watch it?”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t think you would.”
I wasn’t sure how to parse that and didn’t want to lose the thread. “Well, I did. So I know a little bit, and I think you hide some of yourself. Which is cool, except I like that. Uh. This. Thing. Wait.”
They glanced up. “You like me teasing you? I could definitely do that on camera if you wanted.”
“Hang on. I think I had the upper hand for a minute here, but I’ve lost it now.”
“I’m pretty sure any impression that you had the upper hand was an illusion. How was it, though? Not too traumatic?”
I almost reassured them without thinking, but forced myself to stop. A lot of people asked questions without being invested in the answers, but if I’d learned anything in the last half hour, it was that Sidney really liked thoughtful answers. “Not traumatic. I guess parts of it were a little...awkward? When I remembered people were watching. But most of the time it felt the way you said, like you and I were talking, which is super happy. Easy. Happy-making. Um.” Mayday, mayday. “Anyway, I showed you mine, now you show me yours—long walks on the beach? What’s your perfect vacation?”
“Oh.” They fiddled with their little wireless mouse, also red, like their frames. “A bed-and-breakfast out in the country, somewhere that’s not in the US. Lots of space to walk, not too many people. Interesting ruins to explore optional but preferred.”
“God, that sounds incredible. Not the big commercialized ruins, though, right? The ones on the side of the road that you walk through feeling almost like you’re the first one to ever see it?”
“Exactly. You can have that fantasy that you’re going places no one else has gone. Even though you know it’s not true, it still sounds compelling to me.”
I nodded. “Maybe when you make your first million on YouTube, right?”
“It’s on my ‘made my first million’ bucket list. Travel, afford grad school. The usual things.”
A very slightly strained silence fell. Not super strained or anything. For two people who barely knew each other it was pretty comfortable, with just a whiff of strained.
“So,” I said. “I guess I’ll see you next week?”
“Sure, depending on when you can set up a date.”
Jeez, I’d almost forgotten I was going to have to go on dates in order to justify coming back to chat with Sidney each week. Downer.
“I think we should go with transparency,” they were saying, “which should be easy enough since your dates will be in some sense generated by the show. I’ll set up a basic profile and sort through whoever, um, applies? Signs up? Volunteers? I’m not sure what verb to use here that doesn’t make you seem like a fire truck to ride at the state fair.”
My jaw dropped.
“Sorry, that was awful. I didn’t mean ride.” When they tried not to smile it kind of softened their face somehow, as if whatever combination of muscles was required to not-smile rounded off the edges of their usual expression.
I made my voice very prim. “I’m not against being ridden.”
They sputtered.
Mission accomplished. Now it was my turn to be smug. Sadly, I had nothing clever to follow up with and had to rely on boring logistics. “So you’ll just email me and some poor jerk who gets stuck with me for an evening?”
“Why do you think they’re a poor jerk? I’m not conning strangers on the street into dating you, Declan. They’re volunteering. We don’t even have a profile set up yet and people are already in the comments arguing that they’d be good for you.”
That was...hilarious? Ludicrous? Batshit? “Um. You, um. Have everything under control?” I’d heard scary things about YouTube comments. And seen scary things in YouTube comments.
“I feel relatively confident. I gave this a lot of thought because, essentially, however many people you go out with will know your general location—and mine. But I think a few things are in our favor. You have a car, so you can travel around a bit, which means we can keep your actual home base, um, shrouded in mystery.”
“Ooooh. I’ve never been shrouded in mystery before!”
“I’m sure that’s not true. But yeah. I’m going to make suggestions about where to meet people based on what’s convenient for them and inconvenient for you, essentially. I probably should have warned you about that in advance, my apologies.”
“No, all that sounds good. And I think I should not have sex with people. Sorry, TMI, just I’ve been thinking that for the purposes of this—of the study, the series—I wouldn’t add that into the mix on these specific dates.” I couldn’t tell by their expression if that was waaaaaay too much information.
“Maybe play it by ear” was all they said. “But we don’t have to talk about sex on the show regardless.”
“Okay.” Was that a We should not talk about sex on the show? Or a We don’t have to talk about sex on the show if you, Declan, are uncomfortable talking about sex on the show? I was usually an open book when it came to sex, but I’d never been on YouTube before this, so maybe that changed things. “I mean, are there...rules? Like. Will your sponsor flip out if I’m all ‘And then I got laid!’ Um. Not that I’m going to do that. Just that I want to know if there are rules. I definitely don’t want to risk your, you know, professional reputation by me being a dumbass.”
“Talking candidly about sex does not make you a dumbass. And no, it wouldn’t be an issue for the sponsor at all—I made sure before I started working with them since the tone of the show is sex positive, and you can’t be sex positive if you’re avoiding all mentions of sex.”
“Oh good. Okay, then. Just making sure. Because for real when I have good sex I totally want to shout it from the rooftops like HELLO I MIGHT BE A SEX GOD OVER HERE.”
They smiled widely, their eyes crinkling. “You might be a sex god? I’ll, um, make a note of that. For the show.”
I gulped. Uhhh. Oh god. That seemed flirty. Was that flirty? I couldn’t think of anything appropriately flirty-but-not-too-flirty to respond. Shit! Awkward. Since I couldn’t think of anything to say, I stood up and, also awkwardly, shifted from foot to foot. They stood too, the smile lingering on their face. A weird impulse seized me and I held out my hand to shake.
They took it.
I gave them one sharp shake, as we had when we’d agreed to never whine about the potential ableism of fashion glasses. “Thanks for hosting the first YouTube video I’ve ever been on.”
“You’re a natural. The first time really stretches the walls of your comfort zone, but after that it’s easier to relax and enjoy it.”
Was that...innuendo? I bit my lip and puzzled over it, but their poker face was amazing.
For about thirty seconds.
They laughed. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. Thanks for coming on. I’ll text you when I’ve sent the email with name and contact info for lucky date number one.”
“Lucky, please. Whoever they are, they should be getting hazard pay for going out with me.”
Sidney’s eyes narrowed, making them look darker. “I can’t tell yet if you believe that or you’re trying to be cute and self-deprecating, but I’ll figure it out eventually. Good show, Declan.”
“Good show, Sidney.” I tipped an invisible hat.
They tipped an invisible hat back and walked me out.
Chapter Four
My job is pretty unglamorous. I mean, it’s not the least glamorous job. It’s not like being a sewage worker or something. (Not that I have anything but the utmost respect for sewage workers, but it’s not exactly glam, though that would be cool. Imagine those jumpsuit things, but in hot pink with little glitter accents around the cuffs and neckline. That’d raise morale. I guess you’d have to have a variety of colors: hot pink, neon green, gold for the supervisors. Gold might be a good idea, depending on what stuff they’re walking around in. I’m just saying. Gold might be a good way to prevent stains from showing.)
Maybe I shoulda been a sewage worker. Or at least a wardrobe consultant for sewage workers.
Instead I pursued a degree in philosophy and worked my way through college doing administrative jobs. Show me a pissy copy machine and I will sweet-talk that thing like nobody’s business.
Things I enjoy about working office jobs: offices tend to have a predictable hierarchy and a familiar rhythm. Whether it’s a small business with twenty employees, or a huge one with two thousand, sweet-talking copy machines is pretty much the same.
What I especially like about temping at offices: never feeling like I’m trapped in the same desk with the same tasks seeing the same faces hearing the same voices forever. I love being able to move around and start new jobs. Not every job is great, but if you’re only there a few days or a few weeks, you don’t care.
Having said that, I’ve been shifting around covering different jobs at the same actual business for six months now. I suspect my acting boss keeps switching it up on me so I don’t go back to the temp agency and demand reassignment. She for sure knows that I’m not about being a permanent employee because I’ve been very clear about that.
But Deb has a plan and she’s not shy about it. Not in a creepy way. In a “maybe if I give Declan what he wants, he’ll finally agree to be a real boy” way. We understand each other. I was convinced that she only kept me on because she liked having another queer around until my friends pointed out that she’s the HR director and that’s not how HR directors roll. At which point I was forced to acknowledge that it’s possible I might be good at my job. All the jobs. All the jobs she’s assigned me, anyway.
Somehow she always finds me when I’m eyeing the clock because the Motherfuckers are meeting up for drinks and I need to leave the very second my shift is over. It’s as if she’s got a sense about when I’m worried about being late and is helping me overcome that fear through exposure therapy. When she tracked me down toward the end of the workday the week after the first episode of The Love Study, I was just finishing up carpet cleaning confirmation calls (yes, that’s a thing). I hadn’t even known the company did carpet cleaning until I’d moved to cover a maternity leave in this department.
Okay, truth: I have no fucking clue only sort of understand what it is the company does. It’s big, there are a lot of departments across three floors of a building downtown, and the only thing I reliably know how to get to is Deb’s office, which is in a cluster of cubicles on the middle floor.
And yes, cubicles come in clusters. Like cats.
She walked up to my temporary desk right as I was finishing the final confirmation call, smiling at me as I said goodbye to what sounded like either a very old man or a very old woman (or a very old nonbinary person).
“You’re excellent at customer service,” she said when I finally put the phone down.
“Don’t try to butter me up, Deb. Hey, did Anne get what she needed from—” I waved my hand “—uh, the book restoration place? I meant to ask you last week.”
“Origin of Book, yeah, thanks again for that.”
“Sure. Glad to help.” Deb’s partner Anne is basically that scary lesbian professor that you secretly wanted to have sex with just one time because yeah, she was terrifying, but terrifying in a hot way. I was genuinely glad to help. Any time you could tell the lion how to get a thorn out of its paw while standing a safe distance away was a total win.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” When Deb said that it sounded vaguely ominous. “Do you have a minute to talk?”
“Um...sure.” Oh, fuck. She was pissed I wouldn’t take her up on her offer and she was firing me. No, she couldn’t fire me. Getting rid of me. Sending me back into the temp pool. Which was what I wanted! I liked being in the temp pool! Except I also liked working for Deb, and if she was legit going to send me back for not agreeing to work for her for real, maybe I’d been too hasty. I’d thought we were playing. Going back and forth, with her trying to seduce me, and me playing hard to get. It wasn’t right that she’d changed the rules and now was going to dump me before we’d even properly consummated our business relationship. This wasn’t fair at all.
I opened my mouth to say that but she started talking first and I shut it.
Which turned out to be a really good thing.
“We have an event coming up that needs a coordinator. The things I need done are well within the scope of your current duties, but it would be a bigger project than you’ve ever taken on for me before, and it will require planning over a longer period of time. In all honesty, Declan, I’d need a commitment from you that you’ll see it through to the end.” As if anticipating my protest—which was in no way coming because I was still realigning from getting the whole thing wrong—she held up both hands. “I’ll iron it out with the temp agency, but I wanted to make sure you were on board. It wouldn’t be a contract, just a verbal commitment. I trust you to stay if you say you will.”
My emotions were in something of a tizzy (technical term). Relief that she wasn’t dumping me warred with irritation at that manipulative I trust you, which warred with, like, feeling humbled that she trusted me. Deb wasn’t blowing smoke up my poodle skirt; if she said she trusted me, it was because she did.
A wildly inappropriate desire to wear a poodle skirt to the next episode of The Love Study just to see Sidney’s face intruded into my awareness. I forced it back and focused on Deb.
“How long term?” That seemed like a reasonable question.
“The event is six weeks away.”
I nodded. Although the panic was receding, my freak-out response to the idea of being sent back to the temp pool seemed to indicate that I wouldn’t mind continuing to work for her that long. “I can commit to six weeks. As long as you square it with the agency.”
“It would be a long-term assignment. The first month you’d be covering other positions part of the time and devoting a certain number of hours a week to the event. The last two weeks at least would be full-time coordination.”
“Sounds good.”
She ran a hand up the buzzed back of her head and took a deep breath. “After our conversation last week I thought for sure you’d say no.”
“I, uh, thought you were dumping me. I was prepared to beg you not to.”
“Good god, no. Though I’ll file that away for future reference.” She leaned back against the wall outside the cubby where I was currently holed up. “You were going to beg me to keep you on, huh?”
“It would take a real bastard to hold that against me, Deb.”
She smiled. “How unfortunate for you that I’m a bastard. Oh, and one more thing.”
My spidey sense went to red alert. “What’s that?”
“I might assign you a staff at some point. I did check with the agency and they said you’d had prior supervisory experience, so that would be perfectly appropriate.”
“A staff?” I echoed. My “prior supervisory experience” was being lead intern at a literary magazine t
hat only ever had one issue (and it wasn’t the one I worked on; they went bankrupt two months after I got the gig).
“You’ll be fabulous. Have a good night, Declan.” The woman winked at me. Had the freaking cheek to wink at me.
“You too.” Because what else do you say?
Chapter Five
The Motherfuckers were meeting up at Mason’s apartment. I only realized why when he let me in and called, “Places, places! Everyone find their mark for the reenactment!”
This was to be a Declan roasting. I accepted my glass bottle of sparkling water—they’d spared no expense—and located Sidney in the fracas.
I smiled at them as we hovered in the kitchen while my ridiculous friends giggled and assumed exaggerated poses. “You made it to drinks again.”
“I think I was lured here under false pretenses.” At my questioning eyebrow, they explained, “Mia promised it would be fun. But now...”
I followed their gaze to where an envelope had been taped to the top of the TV screen. On the envelope, in painstaking block letters, was THE LOVE STUDY. Jackasses. I couldn’t help but move slightly closer to Sidney. For the sake of reassuring them, naturally. “I think it’ll be fun once we weather the storm. Let them get it out of their systems.” They didn’t seem convinced and it occurred to me that they might think my friends were mocking the show. “Um, this is totally just them teasing me. They already like you. Well, everyone who’s met you likes you and Oscar doesn’t like anyone.” Shit, this seemed less reassuring than I’d intended. “I just mean they’re not trying to be jerks.”
Sidney’s gaze drifted across the room to the TV again before returning to me. “I don’t think I’m taking it personally. Still, it’s a vulnerable thing, what you’re doing. I guess I feel...a little protective.” Their eyebrows drew down. “Of the show, you know. And you as an extension of that. Of how I feel about the show.”
Oh boy. Sidney felt protective. Of me. Like, that was cool. Even though I knew the Motherfuckers had no bad intentions, it was nice that Sidney was thinking about me as a person who was kind of risking something. “Um. Thanks.”