by P. J. Vernon
“Nothing beats it,” I say, voice catching. Detective Henning questioned him, but I don’t know that he fired Kristian because of it. Either way, Darryl’s loose-end status has turned life-threatening. And if Kristian somehow gleans where we are because I’ve just stupidly told his maybe-still boss? What happens next is as predictable as any slasher film bloodbath of an ending.
“Well, take it easy and enjoy yourselves. I’ll have that bathroom looking better than you left it.” I hang up as the gravel jetty bleeds into the Kleins’ sandstone pavement. Nathan whistles happily as if he hadn’t been diligently eavesdropping.
Enormous palm trees line the long driveway, and the cabin draws dark under their shade. Hundreds of fronds—as wide as I am tall—snap in the wind like flags.
“I’m happy to be here.” Nathan pulls up to the front. “It’s always been a good place for perspective. To connect.”
I don’t question what he means.
We brake before the pillared facade of an imposing Bahamian-Colonial mansion. Pink stucco, broad shutters, and an Ernest Hemingway vibe. If Hemingway helped tank financial markets in 2008 at no expense to himself thanks to stock buybacks and “charitable” wealth sheltering.
When I step out into salt air, the sun cooks the ground and the water, but outdoor ceiling fans cool the double wraparound porch. They spin lazily all year long because who gives a shit about electric bills?
“Grab our bags?” Nathan asks, unlatching Tilly’s crate from the back seat.
Gulls cry overhead as I roll our luggage up to the front door. I tell myself they’re welcoming me, but the shrill pitch is anything but welcoming. Crowning the house like a tower is a single third-story room, itself encircled by a widow’s walk: Kathy Klein’s sewing room.
I may have escaped, bought more time, a blithe week of sea and sun before it all comes violently crashing down, but from here on out? Everything I touch, everything my eyes find is a stark reminder of one thing: how different Nathan and I are and, barring a miracle, how doomed.
So much of him is out of reach. I can’t grasp his past with any real depth. The same must also be true of me for him. Just not in a way that’s so—I glance up at the house a second time—desperate.
Nathan’s already unlocked the front door, Tilly trailing him, and I drag luggage into a soaring foyer of elegant decor and a rain forest of lush house plants. A lot here could steal my breath, but I lose it from something else entirely.
Lavender. The air swims in the purple cleaner. I couldn’t be farther from Haus, but I’m suddenly back. No sunlit windows or white linen drapes tumbling two stories to polished parquet. No, everything darkens. Dims to a low red hue—like a darkroom for developing photographs. Purring AC fails, and a sticky heat sprouts. Steam billows in through unseen vents. I start to tremble.
“Hey?” Nathan crosses the dining room. Its muraled egrets are suddenly lost in a lavender-soaked sauna. “You okay?”
My chest tightens.
“Oliver?”
His words break Haus’s spell, and I swallow. Again, invisible piano wire wrapped around my throat loosens. “Yeah. Yes. I’m okay.”
“I’m gonna turn on the pool heater.” Nathan’s eyes are narrowed and suspicious. Once more, he’s unsure just what the hell’s wrong with me. “The switch is in the wine room. Want me to grab a bottle for you while I’m there?”
I nod, but the reek of lavender cleaner still perfumes everything. I chew over the practicality of recleaning the whole place. Scrubbing that Haus away from this house.
“Maybe a malbec?” Nathan didn’t register my nod because he repeats himself. “Oliver, what do you want?”
The question snaps its finger—loud and sharp and asked of me over and over and over again. He means what bottle of wine, but Detective Henning meant something else entirely when she put it to me. As did Kristian.
What do you want, Oliver? I never answered because I thought I couldn’t. But after the drive down with Nathan—being alone with him and away from all the bullshit and the pain and the panic—it finally dawns on me.
I do, in fact, want something. And I know what that something is. The answer is the only thing in my life worth protecting. Worth lying to shield. Worth viciously hoarding and risking my life for. It’s why I’ve suffered so much, why I’ve been reckless in my efforts to contain the damage, why I frustrate Detective Henning and why I’m still terrorized by Kristian and why I can’t go back to drugs or to Tyre or to anywhere that Nathan is not.
The answer is simple, and I say it out loud: “I want you.”
Nathan hesitates, gives a confused laugh. “I want you too?”
“I mean, I want us to do it.” By my side, I spin my ring with my thumb. “For real.”
“Do what?”
“Nat,” I say. Our eyes meet and he starts to smile. “I want to get married.”
45
In the evening, I roll over alone to an empty bottle of malbec by the bed. A sleek table clock says it’s half past eight. I throw on a tee and cotton shorts and follow the smell of dinner down a winding staircase.
“I’m yours,” I’d told Nathan suddenly. “I should’ve said this years ago, and I’m sorry for that, but what I want more than anything is to marry you.”
“You are mine.” He took both my hands in his.
“So,” I said, a childlike awkwardness taking hold. “That’s a yes?”
“Emphatically.”
Then we’d kissed and drank and made love and lain in silence under the canopy of his parents’ bed. For the first time in what had been a very long time, no one existed but us. No friends or parents or dangerous people. Me and Nathan felt possible again.
I meander out to the back deck to find him grilling swordfish. A whiskey glaze, though much of the whiskey found its way to his glass.
“Smells amazing, Nat.”
“Glad you like it.” He kisses me and, turning back to the grill, asks, “What do you think about moving?”
“For real?” I take a seat at the patio table. “Like, live somewhere else?”
“Washington’s not doing it for me anymore.” He shrugs, and as his words sink in, something close to hope flutters in my chest. “The upkeep on the house is endless. It’s way too big for two people. It just feels like the right time for a new beginning.”
“A perfect time.” I strain to temper my glee. A euphoric surge bordering on mania.
“What if we found a small cottage somewhere? Like on a mountain or a lake or”—he sips from his tumbler—“a beach like this?”
“It would be perfect.” My heart swells at the thought of leaving everything behind. Same as it did when he pitched escaping Indiana. With all the hurt I’ve brought Nathan, it’s not hard to figure out why DC’s suddenly “not doing it” for him.
“I can work anywhere.” He gestures to the ocean. “This could be us every day.”
Nathan returns to cooking and, on the cusp of liberation, I find the courage to check my phone. No messages. But also no service. I’m not catching the Kleins’ Wi-Fi yet, but the signal is never strong here.
At my back, waves break on the shoreline, rhythmic like a heartbeat.
“I’m gonna walk to the water,” I say, standing. Nathan nods. Maybe he smiles, but the flames over his shoulder draw his face dark. Everything suddenly feels like a lucid dream, but I know better than to pinch myself.
The path to the ocean’s edge is winding. Planked steps and landings and more steps until the final stretch crosses dunes to the beach. Flower beds line both sides. Pineapple lilies and marigolds and dahlias; even at dusk, they knit a dazzling quilt. Where the steps vanish into sand stands a steel mast. Tethered flags snap in the wind—one for New York, another for South Carolina. And an enormous rippling red, white, and blue.
The sand’s cooled, and it massages my feet as I ma
ke for the waves. Tiny shards, splinters of shells, needle my heels, the in-betweens of my toes. My situation has changed. Freedom, the chance to start fresh, is within reach, and with it: oxygen.
I was suffocating mere hours ago. My face blueing and my heart starting to seize. Barring a miracle, I’d scoffed as we pulled up to the house. But, miraculously, Nathan’s found a way to save me again. Deep in my subconscious, I must’ve known he’d solve everything. I just needed to buy him the time to save me. Which I’ve done, and now the idea of walking straight out into the Atlantic is laughable.
Low waves mask hungry riptides and no question, I’d have considered the release that simply strolling into them promised. I’d never look back because nothing and no one behind me would care. I’d be far from the first person to do it.
But now in the wake of violence and sadness and calamity, I’ve survived. Painkillers were mere inches from my mouth, and I still flushed them. Nathan was mere seconds from gone, and I still have him. We survived because we were meant to, and we’re stronger than ever for it.
I have my whole world to lose again, and I stop in ankle-deep water.
Then my phone vibrates in my fist.
A stray signal carried by salt winds like a modern message in a bottle.
A message from MeetLockr.
A searing reminder I’m not free yet. And the ocean is as deep as it is patient.
Lots of reminders, in fact. All from Kristian’s account. Sent over the course of the day. Every hour or so. Only now do they come through and fear scales my spine like a spider.
Tell Nathan.
Tell Nathan.
Tell Nathan.
Tell Nathan.
Tell Nathan.
Tell Nathan.
Tell Nathan.
46
“Tom and Jeff get in today,” Nathan says cheerily over breakfast. His fork pierces a poached egg and its insides spill out. Impending Tom Vogt and his boyfriend sour my appetite. It’s not a short drive, and I’d hoped Tom would cancel. He’s never flaky when he should be.
“When?”
“Sometime before lunch.” He snaps his bacon in two. “A whole boozy beach day. Figure we’ll head into Charleston tonight. Maybe hit up Spin.” Spin. One of the few gay bars within thirty miles. Spin, Trance, Dance, Duck, Hide, Sit, Squat, Shit, they’re all the same.
“Sure.” I tip a pitcher of orange juice. I wanted more time alone with Nathan. More quiet meals and languid sunbathing and soaking in a happiness that came wholly as a surprise. Or maybe I’m being selfish. The universe gifts me an undeserved second (third?) chance, and I still find something to bitch about.
“You’ll like Jeff. A lot, I think. He’s funny. Not in the cynical way Tom is. A good foil for the unending sarcasm.” Nathan pauses as if weighing his next words carefully. “Attractive too. Really attractive. I think Tom’s actually smitten.”
As Nathan carries on, paranoia gathers like bad weather. Or the steam that blooms and wisps and swirls within jungle-humid Haus. Something about the way Nathan says Jeff is attractive. Really attractive. That’s how anyone with eyeballs and minimal brain function would describe Kristian. He’s attractive, but the word alone doesn’t quite capture the flaxen-haired, ocean-eyed Adonis. He’s really attractive.
You’re avalanching, Oliver. You’re almost free.
“I’m so relaxed just thinking about a move.” Nathan stretches, changing the subject. “You’ll think I’m crazy, but I called my director this morning. Told him a family emergency came up and I couldn’t give notice.”
“You resigned?”
“Sure did.” He reaches across the table for my hand. “Asked Darryl to give the spare key to my Realtor. We won’t go back for more than a day or two at most.”
“This is fast,” I stutter, and hope he doesn’t hear it as a complaint. As great as a day or two at most is, I’d take even sooner.
“It is, but”—he touches my wedding band—“I never realized how asphyxiating DC is until now.”
“Me too.” His word choice is interesting, but I couldn’t agree more. “It’s like I can breathe again.”
“I can’t wait to see Tom’s face.” The shine in Nathan’s own hints at how close our future is. “When we tell him we’re getting married.”
“I’ll let you have the honor, then.”
We finish breakfast in silence, but afterward I struggle to stifle panic. Rationality isn’t my strong suit—sure as hell not for the past few weeks—and I note the time at every opportunity. A countdown till whenever sometime before lunch is. When vapid Tom and Jeff—really attractive Jeff—travel the jetty to the Klein mansion.
The minutes practically crawl by on their bellies, and keeping my phone from Nathan’s sight is all I can manage. The messages roll in each time my service bars spike. Tell Nathan, Kristian demands. Tell Nathan. Two words. Over and over and over again.
I still need to call Detective Henning. When I say we’re moving in a matter of days, there’ll be no need to share the truth with my now fiancé. I’ll fly back after Kristian’s arrested. To ID him or testify or whatever but for now, a phone call to Detective Henning should settle it. When Tom and Jeff arrive, I may not have the chance. Or be alone at all, for that matter. That’s how overbearing Tom’s narcissism is. His ego swallows whatever space it occupies—even in a house as sprawling as this one.
Seated on the edge of the bed, I stare at the sea through a sweeping bay window and steel myself. Call her. Call Detective Henning and tell her about The Jefferson.
The Jefferson. Something snaps like a firecracker. Where I met Kristian, and now a man named Jeff is on his way here. I’d been certain Kristian would tip me off, because if I don’t know, it’s no fun for him. My chest sinks and heat snakes up my back. He may have done just that.
Call Detective Henning now! Before it’s too goddamn late!
But when I swipe for her number, Nathan opens the bedroom door.
Too goddamn late is now.
47
NATHAN
Our eyes meet, and my agenda is obvious.
“Let’s have sex,” I say. “Before they get here.”
I’m pitching a tent in my swim trunks. There’s a transgressive thrill in the shamelessness of it, but I’m a new person—an Other Me, as Tom says.
Other Me will live in Other City and marry Other Oliver who finds this Me desirable. Who appreciates the power of marriage. The legal codification of Other Us. The claim we’ll stake in a right that’s been withheld for so long. Detective Henning’s going to fall hard when I kick that spousal privilege soapbox out from under her.
I draw closer, part Oliver’s knees with my leg. My groin’s mere inches from his mouth, when something in his eyes tells me to brace for disappointment.
“I’m not feeling it right now, Nat.” He exhales. “Maybe tomorrow?”
A silence unspools and I dial down my expectations: “Okay. That’s okay. We can still fool around.”
Really attractive. It was how I’d spoken about Jeff earlier. I knew it was a mistake the instant I said it. If it bothered Oliver, my timing must be suspicious. He could think I’m blowing steam before the man gets here. Get it all out with the fiancé I’m permitted to fuck so I’m not prowling the house in heat when Jeff is half-naked in swim trunks all afternoon. If that is what he thinks, he’s not entirely wrong.
“I’m sorry.” Oliver’s tone is both genuinely apologetic and sharp.
“Fine.” I take a step back, cheeks suddenly hot. Thrilling, transgressive shamelessness becomes shameful shamelessness. I’d contrived a sexual heat—standing so close, dick hard—and now I can’t help feeling foolish for it. I tuck my hard-on into the waistline of my trunks and head for the bathroom. The rejection that flushed my face is an emotion I’m all too familiar with.
Old Oliver made Old Me fe
el it all the time.
* * *
• •
It’s easy enough to guess what I intend to do as I lock the door behind me.
Regardless, I wait three deliberate minutes. Then flip a faucet on, make for the water closet on the far side of a sunken tub, and shut this second, inner door.
My heart pumps like an animal on the verge of springing. My palms are wet. My fingers tremble while I uncoil the headphones from my pocket.
Waking Oliver in the middle of the night, and the weight of him inside me. Dinner with Tom and Jeff. I undressed Jeff and redressed him and tore his clothes and spread his legs and bent him over and slapped his ass and spit in his mouth and fucked him mercilessly. And that was just before aperitifs.
He told me where he was from, what he did, how he met Tom, and in my head, I took him from behind and choked him. Like Oliver had been.
Then there’s the stranger. The one that costs so much. The degradation, the filth, the rawness of him, the unfettered power. The price for stripping the humanity from the act. What happened in that piece-of-shit room in that piece-of-shit Motel 6 can never happen again. It’s an utter impossibility and could not be more so.
But I can still have him, to a degree. A tiny piece for replaying over and over and over, and maybe it will lose the sheen of novelty—certainly it will—but not yet. In fact, not for quite some time. The deeper the transgression, the more durable the high.
Even Oliver knows that.
I open an encrypted storage app on my phone, find the file, and tee up a clip. The one the escort shared with me. When it begins to play, I grip myself and stroke. Furiously.
“Devin. Twenty-two.”
“I’m straight. I have a girlfriend.”
“Nope. Never done anything like this before.”
“I’m nervous.”
“Okay. Sure.”
“You got my cash? Just gotta jack off, right?”
48
OLIVER