Chapter Four
Elliott liked to keep to a schedule. Although he could have completed his tasks whenever he liked, doing them at particular times made him feel less as if he was falling apart. He started every morning with coffee and a light breakfast and, three times a week, a date with his weight machine. Then he showered before logging in to his work accounts and reading panicky, barely literate emails from students. What chapters where we supossed to read for the test? Or I turned the assignment in on time but now Blackboard is saying i didnt hand it in. He pointed them to the parts of the syllabus that answered their questions, and he dealt with their various technical issues, although sometimes he needed more coffee before he could be patient about it.
Having conquered the emails, he next made sure his courses were up-to-date. Sometimes he tinkered with PowerPoints and other materials, and occasionally he recorded a lecture for the students to download. He prepared exams and assignments, then graded the ones the students had already completed. This generally took him well past lunchtime, which he ate in front of his laptop.
Every Tuesday, he dutifully scanned for new job openings and submitted his materials to any he was remotely qualified for. He wasn’t picky about geographical location or type of institution, which meant he’d sent his CV everywhere from Alaska to Florida, from tiny private colleges to huge state universities. The only places he avoided were the types of religious schools that were apt to object to his being gay; he wouldn’t go into the closet no matter how desperate he became. So far, he’d advanced to the phone interview stage three times, but never beyond. He kept on trying, though.
During the hottest months, he’d run early in the morning to avoid being roasted alive, but at this time of year, he jogged in late afternoon instead. If he had energy when he was done, he spent some time doing yard work. He hadn’t done much with the backyard aside from keeping the grass mowed and the weeds tamed, but he hoped to begin some more ambitious projects in the spring. A shaded patio, maybe, and a xeriscape garden.
Unless his teaching duties were heavy, Elliott spent the evenings reading in front of the TV. And then, if the spirit moved him, watching some porn.
It would have been an exciting and fulfilling life—if he were eighty years old.
This week he added one minor task to his daily schedule: he checked the mini library. He did that twice a day, in fact. Once in the morning, on the off-chance someone had wandered the neighborhood in the wee hours, frantic to find new reading material. And once before dinner, when he walked to the mailbox across the street. Each visit had found the library untouched, and Elliott’s heart had sunk a little more.
But on Thursday, returning from the mailbox with some bills and a catalog in hand, he’d been delighted to discover gaps on the wooden shelf. One of the fantasy/horror collections was gone, as was the dog book and the Gaiman novel. But even better, a new volume was there. It was a well-worn paperback.
He set his mail on the grass so he could examine the new book. It turned out to be a romance. He grinned at the cover, which featured an extremely buff shirtless man in tight jeans and chaps, his face hidden behind the brim of a Stetson. Rounding up cattle without a shirt on was probably dangerous—too much risk for sunburn, rope injuries, and the like. The model was very pretty, though.
With a sigh, Elliott returned the book to the shelf and shut the plexiglass door. He was tickled that someone had discovered the library and had gotten into the spirit enough to contribute a book of their own. He was not happy, though, that his biggest sexual thrill of the week involved ogling a fake cowboy on a paperback.
“His name’s probably Brock Steele,” Elliott said as he gathered his mail. “Or Rex Remington. He’s a gruff billionaire who reveals his tender heart when he tames mustangs. And his love interest is Lark Starr. She is a wild hellion who secretly wants to get married, have babies, and hold Tupperware parties. While wearing jewel-studded ball gowns, her chestnut mane tumbling over her bare shoulders.”
Elliott looked around guiltily, but there were no neighbors to hear his blathering.
Inside the house, he tossed the mail onto the kitchen counter. Then he poked around inside the fridge and through the cupboard, trying to decide what to make for dinner. But instead of finding creative new ways with chicken breasts and pasta, he found himself thinking about that romance novel. It bothered him. Not because he had anything against the genre—every reader deserved to find his or her own joy—but because of that damned half-naked rancher and the no-doubt-clichéd relationship he eventually built with the beautiful but headstrong young woman. Did anyone in real life have love stories like that? Nobody he knew, that was for sure. Ladd and Anna had met in college when they sat next to each other in American Government. And Elliott and John . . . Well, nobody was going to write a romance about that shit.
But. People had written books about the diversity of love, hadn’t they? And some of those stories were sitting on his shelves right now.
Temporarily abandoning his meal plans, Elliott strode into the living room. With barely any hesitation, he pulled two volumes: Paul Monette’s memoir and Maurice. Then he trotted outside and slipped them into the empty spaces on the shelf. He’d made sure to put Maurice next to the cowboy, just because.
“There,” he said as he closed the door. “Maybe Brock Steele will discover that he really prefers men, so he’ll dump Lark and leave for the English countryside instead. Lark, on the other hand, is going to take a closer look at the local Tupperware representative, Scarlet St. Bouvais, and they’ll end up running a lesbian dude ranch.”
Elliott smiled as he went inside to rustle up some dinner.
***
By Friday afternoon, Maurice was gone, along with the Western romance and A Hundred Years of Solitude. Elliott grinned, imagining a Merchant and Ivory film starring a gay couple who lived near a cowboy who spoke only in Latin and was busily decoding prophetic manuscripts. Oscar material for sure.
Three new books had appeared: a volume in the Harry Potter series, a different paperback romance—this one with a half-naked man in a kilt—and a guide to photographing nature. Another interesting combination. He speculated on which of his neighbors had taken his books and who had left theirs. It could be anyone, though. A lot of people used his street on their way to the greenbelt. He spent the rest of the day feeling more optimistic than he had in ages, simply because his library was proving a modest success.
But by the time he woke up on Saturday, his mood had sailed toward gloomier shores. The library had nothing to do with it. His impending dinner obligation was the culprit. He liked Anna and enjoyed spending time with her and Ladd, and he was sure Kyle was a great guy. But he just didn’t want this, even if it was officially a not-date. Meeting a new person, trying to make himself seem interesting and likable—those undertakings terrified him. Like bungee jumping off Mount Everest in the nude.
“Get a grip,” he told himself as he choked down some breakfast. But he had trouble following his own advice.
Instead of relaxing or doing some housecleaning, which were his usual Saturday morning tasks, he decided to take his daily jog early. Maybe the exercise would help clear his head. He ran farther than usual, heading out past the edge of town and past dairies and orchards, the leaves still clinging to the almond trees as if they weren’t ready to admit that fall had arrived.
Elliott had mixed feelings about the change of seasons. For almost all of his life, autumn had meant the beginning of a new school year. Whether he had been a student or professor, that meant the promise of new classes, new people to interact with. Sure, by mid-April he was always counting the days until summer, just like everyone else. But in October, the optimism of the academic year was still bright.
Not anymore, though. Now autumn reminded him of his failure, of the things he’d lost, and of his fruitless struggle to regain a sense of self-worth.
Wow, this run was really doing wonders to lift his spirits.
When he returned to the greenbelt, he encountered an inordinate number of bicyclists. Some were serious about the sport, wearing bright-colored spandex and riding expensive bikes. But others were more casual—some teen boys swerving erratically, a couple of families with kids tucked into bike trailers or using training wheels, a young woman with a fluffy white dog in her front basket. What they all had in common was a tendency to come up from behind him and zoom past unexpectedly, startling him even when he turned down the volume of his music.
He’d almost decided to move a block south, where he’d be able to travel the sidewalk in relative peace, when he caught sight of a familiar figure. Simon Odisho was moving slowly his way, his cane measuring each careful pace. The bicyclists didn’t seem to rattle him—he just ignored them and they went around.
Simon waved at Elliott and, when Elliott came nearer, greeted him with a wide grin. “Hey there!” Simon called.
Smiling back, Elliott came to a halt beside him. “How come the bicyclists don’t run you over?”
Simon rubbed his belly. “I’m too big. It’d be like colliding with a squishy mountain.”
That led Elliott’s brain places it shouldn’t be. Places where he was the one doing the colliding, and where he and Simon were wearing a lot less clothing. He smiled wanly and shifted his footing.
“I should let you get back to your run,” said Simon.
“I’m almost done with it anyway.”
“And I’m just starting out. God, there are snails that make better time than I do.”
“But you’re exercising, right? Isn’t that the main point?”
Simon scowled. “I guess. Although I think my PT is just looking for ways to torment me when he can’t get his hands on me.”
“PT?”
“Physical therapist. This guy’s got a place off Orangeburg, over near the hospital. It’s like a cross between a gym and a torture chamber. I totally recommend it if you want to suffer.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” And maybe, Elliott chided himself silently, he should remember he wasn’t the only person in the world with problems. The thing with John had fucked him over, but at least he was physically intact.
They stood there a moment longer. Simon looked ready to say something else, but then a woman on a ten-speed came bearing down on them as if she were in the Tour de France, and she rang her bell imperiously. Simon hobbled out of her way, while Elliott gave him an awkward wave and resumed his run.
***
The Vietnamese crawfish place was a favorite of Anna’s, so Elliott had met her and Ladd there several times before. As usual, he was there first, so he staked out a table underneath a tableau of plastic seafood and ordered a Thai iced tea, although he really wanted something stronger.
Anna and Ladd arrived five minutes later, and Elliott knew right away that he was in trouble. Anna tried to smile at him, but her face looked tight, and Ladd’s cheeks were florid. Great. Apparently they were mid-argument.
Elliott seized on the opportunity even before they sat down. “If you want to cancel—”
“No!” Anna snapped. Then she took her chair, and her voice softened. “Kyle’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“But you look—”
“Seriously pissed at your stubborn-ass brother? Yep. But I’ll get over it.”
Elliott looked to Ladd, who shrugged. “It’s domestic argument number 5B. Don’t worry about it.”
Elliott understood, although his relationship with John had been quite different, mostly because they’d rarely spent domestic time together. They’d lived several miles apart—John in a Craftsman bungalow and Elliott in an apartment—and busy schedules meant they saved most of their furtive meetings for weekends and vacations. When they did have time together, they had sex. And talked about campus gossip and their research. They squabbled frequently too, but they’d had only one big fight, when Elliott said he was tired of sneaking around and insisted they make their relationship public, and John had shouted that doing so would end both their careers. True enough, and so Elliott had given in and they’d kept everything hush-hush. But then their careers had crashed and burned anyway.
Maybe it was good Kyle arrived just then, derailing Elliott’s pitiful thought train. Kyle was a few years older than him, Elliott guessed, and a little on the short side, with close-cropped sandy curls and a trim body. He was handsome in a bland sort of way, wearing jeans and a navy-blue button-down. He greeted Anna and Ladd and shook Elliott’s hand, then took the empty chair beside him.
“Sorry I’m running late. I lost track of time.”
Elliott analyzed that statement. Did it mean Kyle didn’t really care about the not-date, or was he trying to minimize its apparent importance? And how about that handshake? Had it been too short or too long? Was the amount of eye contact sufficient? Had Kyle looked disappointed when he caught sight of Elliott?
Elliott cleared his throat. “No problem. And I’m sorry I had to cancel last time.” He didn’t elaborate because he had no idea what excuse—if any—Anna had given. Maybe My brother-in-law is a chickenshit weasel.
A round of mildly awkward small talk ensued while everyone perused the menu and then ordered. Kyle asked for a beer. Elliott couldn’t help but wonder whether it was to help him relax or to take the edge off his disappointment.
“So, um, you and Anna work together?” Elliott figured that seemed like a safe enough topic.
Kyle seized on it. “We do! I was an escrow officer in the Bay Area, but I moved to Modesto a few months ago. Anna’s been wonderfully patient with me while I learn the ropes here.”
She’d been glaring at Ladd, but she broke that off in order to nod.
So then they talked about title insurance. Which was important, Elliott had to admit, and was possibly fascinating for those in the business. Not so much for him. Still, he tried to ask questions, and Kyle gamely tried to answer, and the whole time Ladd and Anna flashed them brittle smiles between exchanges of dirty looks.
The entire situation was ridiculous. Elliott pictured himself speaking with complete honesty. Come on, guys. None of us is gonna get laid tonight. By the looks of things, either Anna or Ladd is going to end up sleeping on the couch, and Kyle and I have no chemistry at all. Not that there was anything wrong with Kyle. He was, as advertised, a nice guy, but he didn’t seem to have much in common with Elliott apart from being a gay man in Modesto. He didn’t read much, he liked to spend his free time dirt-biking or watching soccer on TV, and he didn’t make Elliott’s heart go pitter-pat. Elliott didn’t seem to do much for him either.
But everyone was civil, and the crab boils tasted great. So there was that, and at the end of the meal, Kyle insisted on paying for everyone. “Next time it can be on you,” he said to Elliott in a polite fiction.
“Sure. Great.”
Out in the parking lot, Anna and Ladd beat a hasty retreat, no doubt eager to get home and begin the next eight rounds. Elliott wasn’t sure which of them he was rooting for. Their departure left him and Kyle standing beside their cars, watching traffic zoom by on McHenry.
“That’s, um, a fun store.” Elliott pointed at the building next door.
“I’ve never been there. Comic books?” Kyle sounded doubtful.
“Yeah. I used to hang out there when I was a kid. It’s cool that they still exist.”
“Sure.” Kyle scratched under one ear. “Look, about tonight—”
“I am so sorry.” Elliott wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for—his quarreling relatives or his unexciting self.
Kyle gently grasped Elliott’s upper arm. “Don’t. That was . . . Well, it was super awkward. But you tried, I can tell. A for effort, Professor.”
“But F for execution.”
“I have the feeling you weren’t too wild about the matchmaking to begin with.”
“No offense. Nothing at all to do with you. It’s just . . . I don’t think I have my head together very well right now.”
Kyle nodded. “Been there, done that.” The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Do you want to talk about it over coffee? Nothing romantic, I promise. I’m just willing to lend a friendly ear.”
Elliott was going to refuse, but it was still early evening, and it wasn’t as if he had to be anywhere the next morning. Or any morning, for that matter. He’d kept everything bottled up inside for over two years. Maybe some venting would help. “You don’t want to hear me whine.”
“I do. I don’t know a lot of people around here, and I’m badly in need of gossip and small talk. Indulge me?”
They ended up driving separately and meeting at a coffeehouse downtown. The place was crowded on a Saturday night, and an awful guitarist was moaning something tuneless inside, so Elliott and Kyle took a table outside instead. The night air almost felt like autumn.
Kyle had ordered some kind of complicated mocha thing with a caravan-load of spices, but Elliott opted for a plain old Americano. He wrapped his hands around the oversize ceramic mug and wondered if he should have gone home instead. It was too late to bail now.
“Do you like living in Modesto?” he asked. “It’s not exactly San Francisco.”
“Not exactly. But I lived in Hayward actually and hardly ever made it into the city. Modesto’s not bad, I guess. It’s a hell of a lot cheaper to live here, that’s for sure. How about you?”
“I grew up here. Escaped for several years. But like you said, it’s affordable.”
Kyle sipped his drink, then licked a bit of whipped cream from his lip, but unfortunately it wasn’t sexy. Not Kyle’s fault. Elliott just wasn’t in the mood. Kyle probably hadn’t intended it to be sexy anyway.
“What brought you back?” Kyle asked. “Family?”
“Not really. It’s just Ladd and Anna here now. Our parents moved to Vermont a few years back.”
“Vermont?” Kyle chuckled. “Were they trying to get as far away as possible?”
“I think so. And they wanted snow. I guess they got that.”
“I guess so. Why did you come back?”
Elliott drank coffee while he considered how to answer. What version of the sordid tale did he want to share? He finally settled on a moderate account—neither too skimpy nor too detailed. “I had a really messy breakup,” he began.
Kyle winced. “Ugh. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks. My own damned fault—I knew better going in. There were practically neon lights flashing Don’t do it, idiot! Run far away! But I ignored them. I got involved with— Hell. I started fucking around with one of my profs while I was in grad school.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” Elliott wished he was drinking something stronger than caffeine. “So right around the time I got my degree, he became dean at another university. And when a tenure-track line opened up, he urged me to apply. Gave me a glowing recommendation. They hired me.” Elliott liked to think he would have gotten the job anyway—he was qualified for it—but he’d never know, and that doubt was like acid eating away his insides.
“Did the other people there know the two of you were—”
“Fucking? Nope. Not a soul, not even after I was settled into the job. Our being a couple wasn’t against the rules. If we’d been honest about it from the start, nobody would have cared. Academics maneuver jobs for their significant others all the time. But he was buried pretty deeply in the closet. We kept our mouths shut.” His coffee tasted bitter; he should have added more sugar.
“Doesn’t sound like it was destined to turn out well,” Kyle said mildly.
“Are you kidding? It was a train wreck in slow motion. But then it got even worse. Money started mysteriously disappearing from various university accounts.”
“Shit!”
Elliott drained his cup and nodded. “Yep. Shit is right. Turns out John was embezzling. Had been for years. And when they investigated, well, all the dirty laundry got dragged out of that closet.”
“Including you.”
“I didn’t know anything about the money, but it took a long time to convince the powers that be. And then nobody there trusted me anymore. Can’t blame them—I’d been lying by omission since my interview.”
“What happened to John?”
“Prison.” Elliott’s stiff smile held no humor.
Kyle nodded but didn’t say anything right away. He stared into the murky depths of his coffee cup, clearly gathering his thoughts. Then he looked up with a small grin. “I can see why you might not be eager to step into something new.”
“Yeah. Look, you’re—”
“It’s fine,” Kyle said, holding up his hand. “It really is. My ego isn’t bruised, and I don’t think you’re a jerk. But can I give you some free advice?”
“Sure.” Why not? Weren’t escrow officers renowned for their relationship counseling?
“Not everyone out there is John. Get yourself in a good place first, but don’t feel too afraid to open yourself up again.”
He was so earnest that a little of Elliott’s cynicism faded. “Voice of experience?”
“Yep. I had two serious boyfriends who cheated on me. Two. I was actually engaged to the second one, and we were in the middle of wedding plans. Made me feel like such a chump. But I’d hate to miss out on the possibility of something real just because there are assholes in the world. I guess I’m a glass-half-full kinda guy.” He lifted his mocha in a little salute before chugging the rest.
They ended up getting refills and chatting for another hour. Some of the talk was about dastardly exes, but not all. Kyle described a recent vacation in Hawaii, and Elliott found himself admitting he’d really like to write a book. The companionship was . . . nice. They parted with a brief hug and a promise to get together again soon—as friends. And on the drive home, Elliott realized that a little of the ice inside his heart had melted. Not much, but it was a good start. It looked as though he might owe Anna and Ladd a thank-you.
After parking in his garage, he checked the library on a whim. Two more books gone, including the Monette memoir. He jogged inside and chose replacements almost immediately—an omnibus of gay literature and Mary Renault’s The Charioteer. He felt almost buoyant after placing them in the box, especially when he realized he hadn’t ordered any new books for a week.
Maybe he had room for some hope after all.