Out East

by John Glynn

  She stepped around him and went straight to bed.

  As we gathered for Morning Therapy, Shane moved about the house as if nothing had happened. While the rest of us convalesced in gym clothes and pajamas, he was already in pressed chinos and a button-down. He took breakfast orders and I joined him for the ride into town.

  “You were passed out on the staircase,” I told him. “D.Lo and I tried to wake you, but you claimed you were comfortable. Do you remember?”

  “Not at all.” He laughed. “Was my head facing up the stairs or down?”

  “Up, which I guess is better.”

  We drove past the hillside motels—the Briney Breezes, the Beachcomber, the Breakers. Power lines ebbing and flowing between telephone poles.

  “Well, at least I woke up in my bed. Parker was somehow on our floor this morning.”

  While we waited for our Bake Shoppe order we perused A Tale of Two Sisters, the bookshop next door. Shane liked nonfiction, especially histories and memoirs of political figures. He read the newspaper every single day, and it fueled his pessimism. He’d rather be islanded away from everything.

  “This is the first Fourth of July that I’m not on Nantucket,” Shane said as we got back into the car with egg sandwiches and iced coffees. “I’ve gone pretty much every year of my life.”

  “I’ve never been to Nantucket,” I said.

  “Oh, everything about it is very intentional. People use their houses to craft a narrative. Your Nantucket house is an extension of yourself.”

  “Yeah?” I was sipping my iced coffee, not really listening. I tended to zone out when Shane started talking about things like this.

  “I had my first gay encounter out there,” he said. “But I’m sure you don’t want to hear about that.”

  “No, go ahead. Tell me.”

  “I met these two guys at a house party, they were friends of friends. They were beautiful. Tall, blond, tan, perfectly dressed. Rich. I was acting coy around them all night, but I was obsessed with them. I ended up going back to their home. We all hooked up in an outdoor shower. The water was like, dripping down their abs. It was the hottest thing.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “I miss abs. God knows Mike doesn’t have them. Anyway, I’m going to Nantucket for my friend Clarice’s wedding at the end of July. Flying private. I need a break from this dumb Montauk scene.”

  I had a nickname for Shane when he got like this. I called him Shunt. A pretty self-explanatory portmanteau. I unwrapped my egg sandwich and started eating. I didn’t want to engage.

  As we were driving back, Mike woke slowly. His limbs ached. He was thirsty. A slant of light spilled across the orange carpet, illuminating Parker’s curled-up body. Parker’s eyes were slipping open, too.

  “Why are you on the floor?” Mike rasped.

  “I…” Parker smiled, embarrassed. He had used a folded beach towel as a pillow. “I don’t really remember.”

  Mike made room on the bed and Parker climbed in.

  “Tell me about Shark Attack,” Mike said.

  “It was insane. Like a rave, but in a country club. I’m glad I met you guys in town.”

  “I’m glad you did, too.”

  Parker turned over to face the door. They were silent for a few minutes, drifting in and out of sleep. Voices carried from the living room. A discussion about balloon curls. Something about a Princess Diana Beanie Baby, Adderall, and molly. A joke about Taylor being high on Plan B. Parker slid closer and they began to spoon.

  Mike feigned sleep, but inside, his pulse blared. Parker’s body was birdlike, breakable, the opposite of Shane’s. He fit perfectly into the crook of Mike’s arm. Mike felt himself growing hard. He arched away so Parker wouldn’t realize. Parker took Mike’s hand and rested it on his stomach, just above the line of his gym shorts.

  Mike knew he should feel guilty, but the thrill of transgression was too intoxicating. It was a forbidden moment, amplified by their stillness. Parker leaned into Mike, and Mike’s hand reached beneath Parker’s elastic waistband. They lay like that until they heard the sliding door in the living room and Shane’s voice, their infatuation solidified by what they hadn’t done.

  On the last night of the holiday weekend, we built a bonfire on the beach. Our BC friends brought beer, and other houses came. I imagined the tableau from the sea, all the bonfires lining the coast like a pagan bacchanal. We roasted marshmallows and danced in the cold sand.

  Mike was drunk and emotional. I sensed something was wrong. Once again I considered telling him about Matt, but when he pulled me down to the coastline, I knew that he was not in a good place.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  He sipped his beer and looked over his shoulder. He took a moment to gather himself.

  “I’ve been with Shane for five years,” he said. “I love him.”

  “And you’re worried about his drinking,” I said.

  “Yes. But it’s not that. It’s Parker. I have a crush on him. I…I don’t know what to do.”

  I flashed back to the night Mike pulled me out to the student parking lot to tell me he was gay. That revelation, like this one, was monumental, but not surprising.

  Now he was on the verge of tears, his hands shaking. I did my best to calm him down.

  “We’ll figure this out when we get back to the city,” I promised. “Just try to relax and have fun tonight. It’ll all be okay.”

  I realized, after, that I was invoking my mom. Her boundless ability to de-escalate and affirm. To encourage and guide. Her comforting assurances, like laundry warm from the dryer. I pictured those cloudy beach days when I’d dunk myself in the tide, then race back to her arms. She’d wrap me in a warm, dry towel and hold me, the towel becoming an extension of her. Swaddled, I’d sit on her lap in a beach chair and gaze out to sea. The water looked calm and safe.

  I’d borrowed from her tool kit that night to support my friend, knowing in turn that I would soon call on him to support me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  By mid-July Montauk reached its zenith. Days were long and slow, nights tinted with the feel of summer camp. As June/July and July/August leases overlapped, the share house population doubled. I bumped into random friends from college, childhood neighbors, old acquaintances from high school. In Montauk everyone converged. I felt lucky to have all three months.

  Every Friday inspired an uprush of freedom, a sense of possibility. People around us were falling in love. When Hicks, a second-year Hiver and NBC account manager, brought his boyfriend to Montauk, they whispered “I love you” for the first time, shrouded in the thick dark of the Hive’s chambered basement. D.Lo and Everett went on that date in the city, then another at the Montauket, an old salt hotel with the best views of sunset. They’d spent every subsequent night together. We joked that, like in the Rihanna song, they’d fallen in love in a hopeless place—the dance floor of the Mem.

  I had hoped my feelings for Matt might dissipate, but as the days pressed on they only grew stronger. I still hadn’t told anyone, and the secret was rapidly consuming me. I envisioned the conversation I’d have with Mike, rehearsing it in my head. In my imagined version, the exchange always went well and I felt better. But I was too daunted to convert thought to action.

  I spent the following weekend with my parents and the next in Boston for a wedding. I hadn’t seen Matt in three weeks and the distance further galvanized my feelings. Alone, I was free to craft increasingly elaborate visions of my life. Imagined scenarios, unchecked fantasies, cosmic versions of my future self. I had spent so much time haunted by an unnamable malaise. Now my past loneliness felt directional. I somehow believed it was leading me to the kind of mystic love my family extolled.

  Matt and I were both on the next week’s rooming email. The Hive promised a quiet weekend with just six housemates on the schedule. I awaited Friday with anxious anticipation. At that point my travel routine was highly ritualized. I took the 1:45 train from Hunter’s Point and spent the thr
ee-hour block immersed in writing, a bodega iced coffee next to me in a paper bag. When Matt and I had discussed our plans over Gchat, he’d asked if we could go out to Montauk together. He could leave work early to join me. It would be fun to ride out on the same train.

  We arranged to meet at Bryant Park. As I walked down Sixth Avenue, bag slung over my shoulder, I bucked the tides of a rising insecurity. Was he looking forward to seeing me? Was he confused about what I represented? Perhaps I had assigned too much importance to our night on the roof.

  I stressed about the details of my clothes and the lay of my hair, stopping twice to check myself in my phone camera. My shoulders looked too narrow, and my eyes were rimmed with dark circles. As I reached the corner of Forty-Second, I braced myself for the inevitable thinning of whatever magic we’d conjured.

  “There you are!” Matt called from down the street. He carried his sport coat and a leather bag. His polished shoes glinted. I’d never seen him in work clothes. The tailored wardrobe suited him. He looked staid but capricious, like someone pretending to be an adult.

  We hopped on the 7 and took it two stops into Queens, sitting beneath rainbow ads for the famous dermatologist Dr. Zizmor. I found Matt’s intense aquamarine eyes hard to meet and remember keeping my sunglasses on the whole ride. His Irish skin had grown tan, his nose freckled. His black hair had lightened with streaks of auburn.

  “I hate it,” he said, swiping his bangs. “I’m wearing a hat all weekend.”

  “No, it looks good. The sun must’ve been strong in P-town. Was it fun?”

  “It was fine,” he said, his face vacant.

  “Just fine?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know. It was a lot.”

  “Drama?”

  “No, not really drama. Just. I don’t know. How’s the Hive been? How was the Fourth?”

  I sensed his evasion, but I didn’t want to pry—not only for the sake of his privacy, but for fear of what I might find out.

  “Oh, you know. Shane blacked out. D.Lo fell in love. Perrie got drunk and made out with a lawn chair. Standard weekend.”

  The subway reached Hunter’s Point and we followed the stream of weekenders up the platform, climbing a set of grease-stained stairs into the sun. We bought our tickets for the LIRR and boarded the empty train, stretching our legs across a four-seater. Time passed quickly. We talked about everything from F. Scott Fitzgerald to Britney Spears. He told me about his childhood dog, a soft-coated wheaten terrier named Millie, and his first CD, The Immaculate Collection by Madonna. (“It should’ve been a dead giveaway.”) He had been accepted to Boston College, too, and almost went. I wondered if our paths would’ve crossed earlier, and what difference it would’ve made. As we approached Westhampton my anxiety dissolved. Our connection buzzed stronger than ever. At Montauk we took a cab to the Hive and it dropped us off at the foot of our street.

  “Think we’ll be the first ones here?” he asked.

  “I bet. The house is basically empty this weekend. I hope it’s still fun,” I said.

  “It will be. It could just be the two of us, and we’d still have a great weekend. As long as you’re here, I’m good.”

  We walked up the steep damp road, the house in view.

  “Same” was all I could manage to say.

  We were inseparable that weekend, our internal clocks in sync. When one was hungry, the other hunted for food. When one started drinking, the other kept pace. We got up early, went for runs. We lay next to each other on the beach. We were beer pong partners, tide walkers, secret keepers, Kadima opponents. We watched episodes of The OC beneath a knitted blanket.

  Ashley noticed. “You two are so handsome,” she said. She was cutting cherry tomatoes and rolling them in sliced turkey, a makeshift dinner. “You are, like, the best of friends.”

  Friends—was that what we were? I’d spent the past two months searching for certainty. Was our connection real? Was I making this up? I was so overwhelmed by my feelings that I no longer trusted my judgment. Ashley’s validation calmed some of my nerves, but I knew I was hemmed in by my established sexuality. I wanted to be more than friends, but I didn’t know how to broach it. And even if I managed to, how would he respond?

  Matt and I pregamed hard Friday night. Shot after shot of Milagro tequila, cold Bud Lights on the moonlit deck. I went upstairs and kept Ashley company while she straightened her hair. She was more determined than usual to meet someone that night.

  “It’s almost August,” she said. “I need to run into my Sloppy Tuna man again. I haven’t seen him since that June day in the city.”

  She was sitting on a tufted seat fixing her eyelash extensions. The small table was a mess of products—powder palettes, brushes, bronzer, balm, lipstick. She ordered her foundation from France. It could mask the severest hickey with just a few dabs.

  “You’re gonna meet someone tonight,” she said. “I feel it. Tell me your type. What are you looking for? I’ll find her for you.”

  I was inches away from telling her everything. A few uttered words. Contortions of the tongue. I felt trapped behind glass.

  “I don’t really have a type,” I said.

  “I’m going to find you someone,” she reiterated, clamping her hair for a second round of straightening.

  I was a coward. I hated myself. I was lying by omission to everyone around me. I didn’t have a type when it came to girls, but what was I looking for? The guy down in the kitchen. I should’ve told her. I shouldn’t have wasted a moment.

  I went back to the living room, where the others were waiting for a cab.

  “Is Ashley almost done?” asked Kirsten.

  I nodded, looking around. Matt was passed out, facedown on the couch.

  “He’s out for the count,” Kirsten said. “Too much Tina Juice.”

  The van’s headlights cut through the curtains. I ran back to the kitchen and grabbed the Milagro bottle, a couple inches still sloshing around. I drank until my eyes watered. Then I paused and drank the rest.

  Just as we pulled up to the Point, the tequila hit. I stepped out of the cab and regained my balance. Too much brown liquor made me morose and withdrawn, but tequila seemed to do the opposite. I was bombed but energized. I could feel the vibrations of the night.

  The Point was crowded, as usual. Tori, a beloved Montauk resident, was working the door. On busy nights she charged us the fifteen-dollar cover, but she’d often let us cut the line. I handed her my money and held my wrist out for the stamp.

  “Thanks, Tori,” I said, kissing her on the cheek as I walked in. I was getting to know people. I was remembering.

  Our BC girlfriends (my Tribeca neighbors) were already inside drinking Tito’s and soda with lemon. We found them in the far corner decked in wedges and loose sleeveless tops.

  “I texted you!” Mike yelled to Caroline above the music.

  “Please.” She shoved him. “This is Montauk. You know we don’t carry our phones.”

  They’d lost so many valuables to the “Montauk Monster” that summer that they started traveling light. Wallets, too, were dispensed with. Caroline was leaning against the counter for another drink, a golden flash tattoo gilding her arm.

  “Charlotte,” she snapped. “Hand me the Mutual Fund.”

  Charlotte produced a clear Ziploc. It contained a credit card, a single ID, and loose crumples of salt-watered cash.

  “What the hell is that?” Mike blanched.

  “It’s our purse,” she replied, relishing Mike’s shock. He grabbed the bag on its way to her. Its contents slid into his palm.

  “Ricardo Sanchez? This isn’t even a female ID!”

  “Charlotte just used it at the Mem.”

  “This debit card says Preferred Customer.”

  “My replacement’s in the mail.”

  When the bartender saw their Ziploc, he gave her the vodka soda for free.

  We danced to a medley of Motown songs until the body heat grew too stifling. Mike tapped his cigarettes. He was looking t
o the cordoned-off outdoor space in the parking lot.

  When I offered to join Mike outside I had all but given up on the idea of confiding in him about Matt. I’d spent the past few weeks lost in my wayward thoughts, and realized I needed time to process things on my own.

  I decided I’d let the summer run its course first. Once I had a better grip on my emotions, I’d consider opening up about them. When and if the time came, I’d tell Mike in a private setting, undiluted by rivers of tequila.

  This is what I told myself. This is not what happened.

  That night, drunk at the Point, I told Mike everything.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mike became my confidant, my coach, my aider and abettor. His reaction had been instant and unequivocal—he completely supported me and acknowledged my internal struggle. He was honored I had confided in him and he vowed to be discreet. I told him I was less concerned about others knowing than I was about dealing with my crush.

  “Regardless,” he’d said. “It’s your news to share.”

  I filled the role of ingénue, peppering him with questions. Mike understood that we were different. I had a baseline attraction to girls that complicated my position. I struggled with how to square these divergent urges. I had learned about the Kinsey scale in college. I’d grown up watching Mischa Barton experiment with Olivia Wilde on The OC and knew multiple bisexual women. But Mike and I both acknowledged the difficulties that spectrum-surfing men faced within our peer group. This was before sexual fluidity was normalized. To my mind, a guy who sucked a dick would always be perceived as gay. I feared that by openly admitting my feelings for Matt, I’d destroy any chance of ever again being with a woman. But I was so in love with him that I didn’t care. I’d risk the chance of being alone forever.