“Well, I’m thinking of a local interest piece on building restoration in the Victorian district for next Sunday’s paper. You interested?”
Hunter straightened up. “Of course. I’d love to do it.”
“This is your chance, kid. Don’t fuck it up.”
Blood buzzed in Hunter’s veins as he left Nugent’s office. He loved talking to the old people who’d been around in the golden years before the district had settled into poverty and disuse. Now things were changing, and with the help of the government and private benefactors and charities, hundreds of old homes would be preserved as historic landmarks, without the gentrification that usually resulted from such projects. It wasn’t a front-page story, but it wasn’t the obits either. Hunter couldn’t erase his idiotic grin even when the girl in the adjacent cubicle gave him a funny look. Until then, the internship had mainly involved writing tiny pieces that hardly ever made the cut, not to mention the grunt work. Now all those hours of photocopies and mail merges and coffee runs seemed worth it. Maybe. If he didn’t fuck it up.
The next day he met the photographer, a cute guy named Charles, in front of the coffee shop on Third.
“I’m gonna grab something real quick before we head downtown. You hungry?” Charles asked. He was tan under his hipster glasses, with just the slightest hint of a gap between his front teeth and a headful of shiny, artfully mussed blond hair. Hunter had noticed him often enough—there weren’t many attractive guys his age at the office—but they’d only spoken a few times. He was surprised Nugent had sent Charles along, though, as he was the paper’s lead photographer. Hunter had expected an intern like himself.
“I’m good. You go ahead and get something.”
“You sure? Coffee?” With his warm, contagious smile, Charles didn’t seem like the type to take no for an answer. For an instant, he reminded Hunter of Jake, and a swell of longing rose in Hunter’s chest.
He nodded, tamping the feeling down. “Okay.”
“Cream, no sugar?”
“How did you know?”
“Oh, I have my ways.” With a wink, Charles disappeared into the shop. Hunter sighed and blew into his hands to warm them up. It had been an unusually cold winter thus far, with no sign of changing; bad news for the farmers, but Hunter enjoyed it. He tried to think about the forthcoming interviews, going over the questions in his head, all the while wondering if Charles had been flirting with him. Even though months had passed since the last time he’d spoken to Jake, Hunter hadn’t thought about seeing anyone else.
A few minutes later, Charles reemerged with two cups of coffee and a brown paper bag. He passed Hunter a cup and smiled as he took a sip.
“Too much cream?”
“It’s perfect, thanks.”
They turned and headed down the street, Charles munching a bagel, with his camera swung over his shoulder, Hunter sipping his damn good cup of coffee. “All right, kid. So what’s your angle?”
Hunter snorted a laugh. Charles sounded like Nugent even though he couldn’t be more than three or four years older than Hunter, tops. Hunter shrugged. “Angle? I don’t really think this kind of story has an angle, you know? It’s basically just a human interest piece.”
“Well, that’s a kind of angle. You’re going to focus on how these new renovations are changing the lives of area residents, yeah? Well, we better go talk to some interesting area residents, and I happen to know a few.”
“I already set up some appointments.”
“Ah, but this you won’t want to miss, believe me.”
“I thought you were a photographer.” Hunter paused midstride. “Wait a minute, did Nugent send you to hold my hand?”
Charles winked. “Ha, now that’s a fabulous idea. No, really, this is your show. I just want you to meet someone.”
So the flirting was a yes, definitely. Hunter sighed as they turned onto a quiet, tree-lined street just a block away from his first interview appointment. He wished he could think of something witty to say in return. Naturally shy, he’d never been one for easy flirtation. Jake had.
Some kids playing in the yard of a run-down house stopped their antics and stared with wide eyes, whispering and giggling as Charles and Hunter passed. A few doors down, one of the houses, a rambling Victorian with blue, peeling paint, sat sagging on its foundations, but another showed signs of recent carpentry—the porch was freshly rebuilt, and there was a work van parked in the drive. Hunter wasn’t surprised when Charles urged him up the concrete path to the front door.
Charles rang the bell, an old-fashioned chime, and a few seconds later, a handsome, salt-and-pepper-haired man wearing coveralls answered. He smiled when he saw them; the crow’s feet around his eyes crinkled pleasantly.
“Hello, Charles,” the man said. “And you’re the reporter, Hunter, is it?”
Hunter nodded. “Yes, Sir. Though I’m afraid I don’t know who you are. Is this your house?”
“No,” said the man. “It’s one I’m working on. I’m Andy, and that’s my van out front. Charles, you could have told him.”
“I wanted it to be a surprise.” Charles smiled and lifted his camera to snap a picture.
Andy rolled his eyes. “Y’all come on in.”
He held open the door, and Hunter and Charles passed through. The vacant, high-ceilinged rooms smelled of paint and sawdust. Andy gave them a brief tour, eyes lighting up as he described the renovations he’d made so far, and then he led them out into the backyard to sit around a weathered picnic table.
“So,” Hunter said once he’d turned on his tape recorder. “How’d you get the funding to start? Is the City Restoration Fund paying you?”
“In general, yes, but I’m actually doing this one out-of-pocket.” Andy gestured toward the house behind them. “It’s going to be a halfway home for poz teens who age out of the system.”
Charles cleared his throat. “What Andy isn’t telling you, because he’s too modest for his own good, is that he’s the mastermind behind it all. That’s one thing Nugent won’t want in your article, Hunter, the fact a black, gay, HIV-positive man is at the helm of the restoration project in his dear city.”
“Leave it to Charles to make everything political,” Andy teased.
“It is political, and you know it. Hunter,” Charles said, turning to him. “I’ll bet you didn’t know they very nearly leveled this entire neighborhood and built a Super Walmart—” He shuddered. “Can you imagine?’
“I thought the city had declared this whole area a historic district.” Hunter looked from one man to the other. If what Charles said was true, then all the reports he’d heard thus far had been giving credit to the wrong people. The injustice of it all made his skin crawl.
“Yeah, well, Andy and his crew were the ones who started the petitions, everything. Without him, we’d probably be standing in a giant parking lot by now.”
“You make me sound like a superhero.” But Andy was smiling.
“You are, dear, don’t you know?”
Hunter sighed. So he hadn’t just gotten lucky with this story. “And if I don’t know, no one outside of the district knows either. Which is why Nugent sent me. What a dick.”
“So you do have a brain in that pretty head.” Charles grinned and leaned forward. “What are you going to do about it?”
After they left Andy, Hunter and Charles spent the rest of the day walking through the district and interviewing other residents—a couple who’d been married for sixty years and had almost been evicted, some college students who’d bought a house on the cheap and were helping restore it themselves. Everywhere they went, people had kind words for Andy. The angle Hunter would need to take with the story became increasingly clear to him, in spite of the fact he’d probably be fired for it. Charles stayed largely silent during Hunter’s subsequent interviews, stepping back and letting him lead. He snapped hundreds of candid photos, and Hunter wondered what he saw through the lens.
“You know, I had a nice time today,” Charl
es said once they reached their parked cars near the coffee shop where they’d met that morning. “We should do it again, but in a non-work-related context.”
Hunter bit his lip. “Are you asking me out?”
“Maybe. I guess that depends on whether or not you say yes.”
The late afternoon sun glinted in Charles’s straight, shiny hair. Behind the glasses, his eyes were open and honest. Hunter paused, irritated at himself for his indecision. Why shouldn’t he jump on this chance to go out with a guy who was into him? At the very least, it would get his mother to stop nagging him. They might even have a good time.
Finally, Hunter nodded. “All right, yeah. Sounds like fun.”
Charles grinned broadly. “I know this is going to make me sound too eager, but how about Saturday?”
“Okay. And hey, thanks for introducing me to Andy—for all your help, really.”
For the first time since they’d met, Charles blushed. “You would have gotten there on your own, but I happen to know Andy well, so it was my pleasure.”
“Oh. Have you two ever…”
Charles laughed. “No! No, Andy is happily partnered. He just helped me out when I was younger, got kicked out of my parent’s house for being queer, you know the drill.”
“Jesus, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, that’s all in the past.”
Hunter regarded the man in front of him and nodded. Letting go of the past could be a good thing.
HUNTER SPENT that evening and night in a writing frenzy. He doubted he’d be able to sleep, anyway, with all the events of the day churning in his mind. There was something sinister about the way Andy’s efforts had been obscured by the ruling powers of the city, people who seemed happy to take credit for the popular project without publicly recognizing its roots. It was a huge story, really, meant for a seasoned and fearless writer, and it had been dropped into his lap. He just hoped he had the talent to do it justice.
After he’d gotten the internship, Hunter had decided to move out of his old place and into a more modern apartment closer to the paper. He’d packed up Jake’s belongings—clothes, movies, books—and taken them to Gran’s. But there was one thing he hadn’t been able to part with.
Once in a while, his eyes drifted away from his laptop to the oil lamp on his bedside table. He’d never polished it; for some reason, the thought seemed wrong, as though it would be erasing the history of the object, all the hands that had touched it—if he was being honest with himself, a certain set of hands in particular. Maybe it was stupid and sentimental, but he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it.
Those first few weeks had been hard. Every time his phone rang, his heart rose into his throat only to plummet again when it was just Allie, his mom, Gloria, or a telemarketer. Every time he checked his e-mail, the same tango of hope and disappointment had left him emotionally and physically exhausted, and all for nothing, since he and Jake had agreed not to contact each other. Hunter had no idea where Jake was, if he’d already been redeployed. He could be back in Afghanistan by now; he could be fucking someone new. So Hunter needed to move on with his life. And he had. Every day it got a little easier, the knot in his chest loosening. Between the night classes he’d enrolled in (thanks to some urging from his mom), the paper, and weekends at the bookstore, he didn’t have time to think of Jake. Much. And now there was Charles.
He seemed like a genuinely nice person, and Hunter was sure he’d done the right thing saying yes. Jake didn’t want him to waste his life. He wanted Hunter to be happy.
At around three in the morning, Hunter stood and stretched, leaving his laptop on the bed. He grabbed the lamp and yanked open his closet door. There was a box with things Hunter rarely used—a tennis racquet, old shoes, Halloween costumes he should probably throw away. After a few muttered curses, he managed to wrangle the box out and into the light. He opened it and set the lamp inside.
BOB NUGENT was not pleased, but he wasn’t exactly angry, either. He looked like an overgrown, perplexed catfish as he stared Hunter down.
“You expect me to run this on Sunday?”
Hunter nodded. “Yes, Sir.”
“You understand this piece is gonna get a lot of folks worked up, folks who sponsor this paper and pay your salary—and mine.” Nugent rested his steepled fingers over his substantial belly.
“Yes, Sir,” Hunter said as a trickle of sweat ran down his spine. He’d expected such a response and practiced his argument several times over the last day—with some encouragement from Charles. But he would need perfect execution and delivery.
He leaned forward. “Sir, I understand this isn’t the piece you expected or that some of your subscribers will appreciate, but I think it’s just what we need to reach out to a more diverse population—the population you’re trying to mine for the subscriptions we need to keep the paper alive. As far as alienating funders and advertisers, I don’t think that will happen when they see the sales. People love Andy Harper; he’s widely admired not only in the district but around town as well—by people of all races and political persuasions. Sir, if you run this piece, you’re going to be able to counter all of those critics who say you’re in the city’s pocket. Wouldn’t you like to see the look on Councilwoman Edgars’ face when she reads this?”
Hunter held his breath, hoping the last shot wasn’t going to get him fired. Nancy Edgars and Nugent had been at odds for years, a personal feud that had gone public after their messy divorce. She was famous in the city for advocating against gay marriage, a position the paper, in spite of its conservative bent, had opposed.
“You rehearsed that speech a few times now, didn’t you, son?” Nugent’s eyes twinkled.
“Yes, Sir, I confess I did.”
“Hmm.” During the long silence that followed, Nugent regarded the article on his desk and another drop of sweat slid down Hunter’s back. Then the older man slapped the paper. “We’ll do it. But this is your neck, kid.”
“Yes, Sir.” He wiped his damp palms on his jeans and then brought one hand to said neck to rub out the tension.
“Well, whaddayafuckin’ know.” Nugent barked a laugh. “Nancy’ll shit a brick.”
CHARLES ORDERED a second round of tequila shots even as the first one burned its way into Hunter’s belly. He was already light-headed.
“No, I can’t. I’ll just have a beer.”
“Don’t be silly. We’re celebrating!” The bartender poured another shot into each of their glasses and supplied new limes, which Charles urged Hunter to pick up. “Cheers to the Daily’s newest star reporter! On three!”
The second shot went down more smoothly than the first.
Charles fished out his phone and scrolled. “And I quote, ‘Mr. Coval’s eye-opening article about the resilience and power of disenfranchised people serves as a stark warning to those who refuse to acknowledge human rights for every citizen.’ I can’t believe the mayor said that. I can’t believe it. Three weeks ago, she was calling Andy a menace—in private, of course, but I have it on authority.”
He did seem to have a contact in every office. Hunter smiled as Charles leaned into him to speak. For their second date, they’d chosen a Mexican restaurant downtown, and the bar area was crowded with people. Loud mariachi music played over the dull roar of conversation, making it hard to hear. It still hadn’t sunk in yet, but his story had quickly gained the public’s attention and forced the mayor’s office to respond. When he’d received the call that afternoon, Hunter hadn’t been sure whether he was dreaming or not. He still wasn’t.
Charles wrapped an arm around his waist. “I say we get a margarita with our tacos—or three.”
“You’re trying to get me drunk, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that.” Charles grinned. “But I would like to have my wicked way with you.”
“You don’t have to get me drunk for that.”
Hunter inhaled the citrusy scent of Charles’s cologne. They’d kissed after their first date, but Hu
nter hadn’t been quite ready for anything else. Tonight, though, was a different story. With Charles pressed against him, Hunter found himself glad the bar was so packed.
“Or maybe we should just skip dinner altogether,” Charles suggested.
Hunter was on the verge of agreeing when he heard a familiar voice over his shoulder.
“Hey, Hunter, I thought I saw you over here.”
His pulse raced as he turned around, coming face-to-face with Brian, Jake’s best friend from high school; or rather, face to chest, since Brian was the closest thing Hunter had ever met to a giant. He grinned down at Hunter, but his smile faded when he noticed Charles. Hunter dropped his arm from Charles’s waist as though he’d been caught stealing.
“Hey, Brian, how’re you doing?”
“Oh, can’t complain,” he said. “Jenna and me are out for the first time since the baby was born.”
Hunter nodded and glanced past Brian to give his wife a nod. They’d been high school sweethearts and married right out of college, but Hunter hadn’t known they were expecting.
“Wow, congratulations. Boy or girl?”
“Girl.” Brian took a swig of beer. “And you, you seem to be doing well. Read your article in the paper.”
“Wasn’t it simply brilliant?” Charles came forward and extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you; I’m Charles.”
Hunter breathed in deeply. “Charles, this is Brian, a friend from high school. Brian, this is Charles. My photographer.”
“Oh, I’m yours now, am I? That’s good to hear.” Charles grinned over his shoulder.
“Gotcha,” Brian said, eyes flicking between them. “Well, enjoy your night out. I think our table’s being called.”
For some reason, Hunter felt sick. Maybe it was the tequila on an empty stomach.
Without thinking, he rushed to catch up with Brian as he maneuvered through the crowd after the waitress. “Wait, Brian. Hold up a second.”
“What?” Brian’s jaw clenched when he turned.
Taking Flight Page 4