I don’t like it. “Have you read it?” he asks.
I nod.
“Do you think it’s a good portrait of this place?” he asks me.
“Well, the author lives here.”
“I know.”
Our eyes hold. Of course he knows. Of course. That’s why he’s here. That’s why I’m here, covered in slimy peach juice. That’s why Luke cruised me at Tea in the first place.
So he could meet Jeff.
Story of my life. How many guys have approached me on the dance floor and asked me if I’d introduce them to my friend Jeff, who they find “just so fucking hot”? And ever since Jeff wrote the most popular gay novel of three summers ago, it’s gotten worse. Everybody’s always trying to meet him. He’s written two more books since—he’s like a fucking book-writing machine—but Boys of Summer is still the one everyone talks about.
The afternoon’s events are now much clearer in my mind. Luke is a fan of Jeff’s. He probably came by the guesthouse looking for him. Jeff’s readers often do, wanting him to sign their books. It’s common knowledge that Jeff’s lover Lloyd Griffith owns Nirvana Guesthouse in Provincetown. Jeff’s talked about the place in several interviews. Even if somehow Luke didn’t know, as soon as he got here anyone could have told him, and also explained that Jeff and Lloyd live in the house adjacent to Nirvana. And that, working as manager and living above the guesthouse in a little apartment, is none other than yours truly, Henry Weiner—the “stud muffin” Luke so conveniently found so hot and handsome.
Goddamn it. How could I have been so gullible? The kid’s game plan is obvious to me now: cruise me, eat peaches off my chest, and presto. An invitation to meet Jeff O’Brien. Story of my fucking life.
“I suppose,” I say, drawing out a very long breath, “you’d like to meet Jeff.”
“Sure. Do you know him?”
I hold eye contact with him. If he’s playing games, he’s very good. There’s no deceit in his eyes. There’s just a reflection of my own.
“Yes,” I say. “Jeff is my best friend.”
“Really? Well, sure, I’d love to meet him.” He snuggles up to me, nuzzling me with the tip of his nose. “Maybe we can hang out again sometime, Henry.”
I should get out of here now. He wants Jeff, not me. Just like Joey wanted the blond goy instead of me. Just like, before Joey, Daniel had wanted someone else, and before Daniel, Shane had told me it was over, and before Shane, Lloyd had looked me in the eye and told me he could never love anyone the way he loves Jeff. Jeff—who it always seems to come back to.
Jeff—my best friend. Who’s had a lover now for more than sixteen years, not to mention numerous part-time boyfriends all along the way—while I, thirty-three and in the shoulder season of my life, have never managed to hold onto a relationship for even a year. There are times I ask myself: is this it? Will I never have a boyfriend? I know guys who never have, who at forty, fifty—sixty!—look back and sigh, lamenting that they never found Mr. Right. It terrifies me. Am I one of those people destined never to find a lover? Time keeps ticking, and I’m still alone.
“Well?”
I blink. Who is this boy sitting in front of me, peering up at me again from under those damn long lashes?
I thought you were hot, and so when I saw you today I had to make a move.
I want so much to believe him. I want so much to believe he’s telling me the truth.
“Well what?” I ask.
“Can we hang out again sometime?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess so.”
“Excellent.”
Why don’t I just tell him it’s over? I should just thank him for the hot sex and then get the hell out of here. Why am I keeping this charade going on any further?
But then I look over at Luke lighting another cigarette. He glances back at me again with those eyes.
“Here,” Luke says, tossing me one of his clean T-shirts. “I dribbled peach juice all over yours.”
I pull his shirt on over my head.
“We might have time for one more dance downstairs,” he says.
“No, thanks,” I respond. “I’ve got to get back to the guesthouse. I’m supposed to meet somebody there.”
“Okay.” He blows smoke over his shoulder. “But can I call you sometime?”
“Sure.” I give him my number, which he punches into his cell. Then I make my way outside, back into the daylight.
Luke follows. After he closes the door behind us and we’re heading back down the stairs, I realize I never grabbed my slimy T-shirt off the floor.
I wonder if it’s one more that I’m going to lose.
2
ABOVE THE NIRVANA GUESTHOUSE
Back home, I pop open the refrigerator door and stare inside, contemplating dinner. There’s one thing, at least, that I can be grateful for.
There will be no more green peppers in the tuna fish.
I don’t like green peppers. Or peppers of any color for that matter. Why anyone would want to put green peppers in tuna salad is beyond my comprehension. But Joey did, and when Joey made my lunch I always had to pick them out or swallow them whole with my milk.
Now that I’m alone, I make my own meals. Every single one of them. And most of the time, I eat them alone, too.
I remove a bowl of tuna salad—pepper free—and start picking at it with a spoon. Alice in Chains’ Dirt is playing on my stereo. A paean to isolation, in my opinion, and therefore rather fitting for my mood.
Outside, below my window, I hear a gaggle of boys heading back to their guesthouses after Tea Dance. Cautiously, I peer down at them. They’re a little drunk—or tweaked—or maybe just high on life, laughing in that way only gay boys can laugh when they’re together in their little posses. Testosterone-driven girlishness, if such a thing is possible. Their laughter is high-pitched, grating and giddy, but aggressive and sensual, too, their eyes bouncing off passersby like rubber balls. One of the boys, a shirtless dark Latino with a goatee and abs for days, catches sight of me eating my tuna fish at the window. I look away quickly, letting the curtain fall back in front of me.
I lied to Luke. No one was waiting here for me to meet. No one but my bowl of tuna salad—which will serve as my dinner this Saturday night, when most everyone else in Provincetown is heading out to fabulous meals at fabulous restaurants looking absolutely fabulous. As for me, I’m happy to be able to call it an early night—one of the benefits of tricking in the afternoon. I’m able to curl up on the couch and watch Leave it to Beaver and Bewitched on TV Land.
The problem with such early evening hibernation, however, is the sun. If only it would get dark, I could pretend it was just a Tuesday night in March, a night when you can go to bed early and alone without feeling you’re missing out on the party. But here it is, the hands on the clock already passing eight, and the sky remains defiantly bright. I can’t escape the fact that the night is young, very young. But not for me.
There was a time, and not so long ago, that I’d be out there with those boys, laughing in that same high-pitched way, ogling passersby and gearing up for adventures to come. But ever since Joey left, I just haven’t had the drive, the spunk, to get out there and play the game. Neither have I had the body. Already I’m thinking about that half-eaten carton of Chunky Monkey ice cream in the freezer, the tuna salad quickly losing whatever minimal appeal it may have had. That’s how I’ll spend my night, eating ice cream and mouthing along as Endora casts campy spells on Bewitched.
Alone.