Chapter 1

February

I TOSS my bag in the door of my rental car and practically throw myself in after it. Once the door is safely closed, I slump into the seat, close my eyes, and curse the entire state of Michigan. If Michigan didn’t exist, then I wouldn’t be sitting in a rental car at the edge of Sleeping Bear College’s tiny campus, having a premature midlife crisis at thirty.

I just spent the day interviewing for a job at Sleeping Bear, a small liberal arts college I’d never even heard of until six months ago. My interview went well, my teaching demonstration went even better, and I’m pretty sure I never let my cuffs slide up to show my tattoos. I could tell they liked me, and they seemed enthusiastic about hiring someone young to help them build the department. As they talked about independent studies and dual majors, I mentally catalogued all the bear puns I could. Of course, what they’d think if they found out that I associate bears’ hairy chests and lumbering gaits with large men drinking beer instead of the college, the nearby dunes, and the animal they are named for, I can’t say.

I’ve been working my ass off to get where I am today, and all I can think is that I’m a fraud. I’m not an English professor. I’m just some queer little punk from Philadelphia who the smart kids slummed it with. Just ask my ex. Just ask my father. Ask my brothers, especially. God, what the hell am I doing here?

Sleeping Bear is the only college where I got an interview and it is in the middle of fucking nowhere—near some place called Traverse City (which is definitely not a city, based on anything I’ve ever seen). I had to drive for nearly four hours after I flew to Detroit to get here. I could have gotten closer with a connecting flight in a tiny plane, but I’ll be damned if the first time I ever flew I was going to crash into one of the Great Lakes. No, overland travel was good enough for me, even if the flight, the rental car, and the suit I bought for the visit put me even deeper in the hole than I was before. At least I saved a hundred bucks getting the red-eye from Detroit to Philly tomorrow night.

I shudder when I think what my credit card bill will look like this month. Good thing I can turn the heat off in my apartment in a few weeks when it gets above forty degrees. Not like there’s anyone there except me. My friends from school never want to come to my neighborhood, claiming it’s more convenient to go places near campus. Richard, my ex, wouldn’t be caught dead in my apartment, which he referred to as “the crack house.” Asshole. And I only see my brothers and my dad at their auto shop. Still, I love Philly; I’ve lived there all my life. Moving—especially to the middle of nowhere—well, even the thought is freaking me out.

Now, all I want is to go back to my shitty little motel room, order a pizza, and fall asleep in front of crappy TV. I sigh and start the rental car I can’t afford.

I have to admit, though, the road from the school to my motel is beautiful. All the hotels near campus are cute (read: expensive) bed and breakfast joints, so I booked in at the Motel 6 outside of town. It’s down a two-lane road that seems to follow the tree line. To my left are fields and the occasional dirt road turnoff with signs I can’t read in the near-dark. God, I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since an ill-advised Dunkin’ Donuts egg sandwich at the airport.

It’s really cold so far north, but I crack the window to breathe the sweet smell of fresh air and trees anyway. It’s actually really peaceful out here. Quiet. It isn’t something I’m used to—quiet, I mean. Library-quiet and middle-of-the-night quiet, sure. But in the city there’s always noise. This is a quiet that feels like water and trees and, well, nature, I guess, like the time my parents took us to the Jersey Shore when we were kids and I hid under the boardwalk away from the crowds, listening to the overwhelming sound of the ocean and the creak of docks.

And peace? Well, never peace. If it wasn’t one of my asshole brothers starting shit with me, it was my dad flipping his lid over me being gay. Of course, later my lack of peace came in the form of Richard, my ex, who, while we were together, was apparently sleeping with every gay man at the University of Pennsylvania.

My hands tighten on the wheel as I picture Richard, his handsome face set in an expression of haughty condescension as he leveled me with one nauseating smile. “Come on, Dan,” he said, like we had discussed this before, “who believes in monogamy anymore? Don’t be so bourgeois.” And, “It’s not like we’re exclusive.” That, after we’d been together for two years—or so I’d thought—and I’d taken him to my brother Sam’s wedding.

Anyway, I hate being called Dan.

I grit my teeth and force myself to take a deep breath. No more thinking about Richard. I promised myself.

I glance down at the scrap of paper where I scrawled the directions to my motel. I can almost taste the buttery cheese and crispy pizza crust and my stomach growls. When I look back up a second later, something darts into the road in front of me. I swerve hard to the right, but I hear a sickening whine the second before the car veers into a tree.

ALL I can see is blackness, until I realize I scrunched my eyes shut before I hit the tree. I open them slowly, expecting to look down and see that my legs are gone or something, like in one of those war movies my brother is always watching, where a bomb goes off and the soldier thinks he’s fine, laughing and smiling, until the dust clears and he looks down and has no lower body. Then the pain hits. It’s like the cartoon physics of awareness: we can’t hurt until we see that we’re supposed to.

But my legs are there, as is everything else. I do a quick stretch, but aside from some soreness where the seat belt locked in, I actually feel okay. The car, however, is another story. I can already see that I’m not driving out of here. I jam the door open and slide out, a little unsteady on my feet. And then I hear it. A terrible whining noise.

Fuck, what did I do?

The dark seems to have settled in all of a sudden and it’s hard to see the road. I take a few cautious steps toward the noise, and then I see it. A dog. A brown and white dog that doesn’t look much older than a puppy, though it’s already pretty big. I don’t know anything about dogs, have no idea what kind it is. But it’s definitely hurt. It looks like maybe I broke its leg when I hit it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I say. The dog is whimpering, its big brown eyes wide with pain. “Fuck, dog, I’m so sorry,” I tell it, and reach out a hand to try and soothe it. As I reach for its head, though, it growls and I jerk my hand back.

“I know, dog, I’m sorry. I’m not going to hurt you. Hang on.”

I rush back to the car for my phone and try to call information so I can find an emergency vet, but I can’t get a signal out here at all. I put the car in neutral and try to rock it away from the tree enough so that I can look under the hood—growing up with a family auto shop means you can’t help but know how to fix cars, even if you don’t want to go into the family business. But there’s no way. The undercarriage must’ve caught on the tree’s roots or something.

I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder, and go back to where the dog is lying, still whimpering. I can’t leave it here. It’ll get run over by a car in the dark. Or, worse, it’ll just lie here all alone, terrified and in pain. The sound it’s making is ripping my fucking heart out. I can’t believe I did this. Christ, how did I even get here? I ease to the other side of the dog and gently run my fingertips over the soft fur on its head. It whines, but doesn’t growl.

I keep petting it, talking low as I ease my arm underneath.

“Okay, dog, you’re okay. Don’t worry, I’ve got you. Everything’s going to be fine.” I’m saying things I haven’t heard since my mother said them when I was little. Words that are meant to comfort but mean nothing.

I roll the dog into my arms and it whimpers and growls as I jostle its hurt leg. I cuddle it close to my chest to keep it immobile and try to stand without falling over and hurting it worse. I’ll just walk a little ways. There has to be a gas station, or a house, or something, right? I’ll just ask someone to call a vet. Hell, maybe this is what police do in a nothing town like this. Rescue dogs that get stuck in trees, or something? No, wait, that’s cats. Cats get stuck in trees. Right?

I walk for what feels like forever. The dog has gone quiet, but I can feel it breathing, so at least I know it isn’t dead. What it is, though, is getting heavy. I stop for a second to check if I have phone service for what feels like the millionth time. I haven’t come across a single gas station and I’m not sure how much longer I can walk.

“Okay, dog; it’s okay,” I say again, but my voice is as shaky as my legs, and, really, it isn’t the dog I’m talking to anymore. Still no service. Fuck.

Then, off to my right, I see a light. A shaky beam of light that’s getting closer. Just as I pull level with the light, a man steps out of the woods. I rear away from the large form, and the dog whimpers softly. The man looks huge and the way he’s shining the flashlight is blinding. My heart beats heavily in my throat. This guy could take me apart. Squaring my shoulders and setting my feet so I look as big as possible, I plan how I can set the dog down without hurting it further if I have to fight. Or run. Then a warm voice breaks the silence that stopped feeling peaceful the second I swerved.

“You okay?”

His voice is deep and a little growly. For half a second, all the puns about bears that I was making earlier dance through my head and I laugh. What comes out sounds more like a hysterical squeak, though.

“Do you mind?” I say, squinting and hoping my voice sounds more threatening than the noise I just made. He lowers the flashlight immediately and walks toward me. I take a half step back automatically. All I can really see in the dark, with the ghost of the flashlight leaving spots in my vision, are massive shoulders clad in plaid.

“Are you okay?” the man asks again, and he puts out a hand as he takes the last few slow steps to my side. I nod quickly. His hand is huge.

“I, um.”

He bends down and looks in my face. I don’t know what he sees there, but his posture shifts, the bulk of him softening ever so slightly.

“I didn’t mean to,” I try to explain when it’s clear he isn’t a threat. “Only, it came out of nowhere and I couldn’t—” I break off as he shines the flashlight on the dog. It whines and I gather it closer to me, suddenly unsure. “I tried to find a vet, but I can’t get a signal here and my car hit the tree so I couldn’t drive and I—”

“You were in an accident? Are you hurt?”

“No—I mean, I’m not. I’m... but my car’s fucked. Do you have a phone? Can you call a vet?”

“No vet,” he says. “Nothing’s open this late.” It’s maybe 7:00 p.m.

“Please,” I say. “I can’t let it die. Fuck! What the fuck am I doing here? I can’t believe I—” I break off when I can tell my next words won’t be anything I want a total stranger to hear.

“Come with me,” the man says, and turns and walks back into the woods. What the hell?

“Um,” I say. Am I actually supposed to follow a total stranger into the woods? In the dark? In the middle of nowhere? In Michigan? I know stereotypes about cannibals who live in the woods and eat unsuspecting tourists are just that: stereotypes. Maybe I’ve watched The Hills Have Eyes one too many times, but still. Isn’t it, like, a statistical fact that most serial killers come from the Midwest?

While I was distracted by regionally profiling the man, he’d come back out of the woods and is now standing directly in front of me, close enough that I can kind of see his face. He has dark hair and eyes, and a sharp nose. That’s all I can see in the dark. But he is definitely much younger than I assumed. His low voice sounded older, but he looks like he’s in his midthirties. And up close, he is massive, with hugely broad shoulders, powerful arms, and broad hips—how much of that is flesh and how much is flannel remains to be seen. He’s nearly a head taller than me, and I’m not short.

“You need to come with me,” he says, and his voice suggests that he’s considering the fact that I might be an idiot.

“Er, sure,” I say, figuring that if worse comes to worst, at least I can run; I have to be faster than this guy, right? I take an experimental step toward him and, in the way it sometimes happens when you rest after an exertion, nearly fall on my face as my body takes longer to wake up than my brain. The man catches me with one easy hand under my elbow and steadies me. Shit, that was embarrassing.

“Here,” he says. “Let me take the dog. You take this.” He shrugs something off his shoulder and hands it to me. It takes a few seconds to process the unfamiliar shape in the dark.

“Is that a gun?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“Why do you have a gun?” I ask warily. Though, I guess I should be reassured that he’s handing it to me and not pointing it at me.

“To hunt with,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Right,” I say. Hunting. Michigan. Michigan.

He gently sets what I can only assume is a rifle on the ground next to me.

“Let me.” He slides his hands under the dog. His hands are huge, covering practically my whole stomach as he worms them under my arms. “I’ve got him,” he says.

“I don’t know if it’s a boy,” I say. “I don’t know anything about dogs. I mean, I guess I would’ve been able to tell by looking, but I didn’t think of it. But it’s really common, defaulting to male pronouns to refer to things of indeterminate gender.” Christ, I’m babbling.

He cocks his head at me and walks away. I pick up the strap of the gun gingerly and take off after him, holding it as far away from the trigger as I can. With the luck I’m having today, I’d trip and end up shooting the man. Or myself. Or, shit, probably the dog.

“HAND ME the scissors,” the man says. I’m petting the dog’s head and surreptitiously trying not to look at the poor thing’s leg, which the man has determined is, indeed, broken. His house was only about a ten-minute walk from the road.

I hand him the scissors and examine his face in the light of the lamp. I tell myself it’s just because I’d rather look anywhere but at the dog’s leg. He has a really good face, though. Strong, high cheekbones and a straight nose; straight, dark eyebrows, one with a white scar bisecting it, and dark brown hair that waves slightly. His eyes are lighter than I thought in the woods: a kind of whiskey brown that looks almost gold in the light. Maybe one is a little narrower than the other, but he hasn’t made eye contact with me long enough for me to be sure. His mouth is set in a grim line of concentration while he works, but it’s soft and generous. He hasn’t smiled yet, but he probably has a nice one.

He stripped off his outer layer of flannel as he laid the dog down on the kitchen table. It was a bulky, quilted jacket, but even without it, he’s huge, his shoulders and the muscles of his arms tightening his blue and gray flannel shirt. He rolled up the sleeves to reveal a white waffle-knit shirt that’s too short in the sleeves, exposing thick wrists and powerful forearms. His huge hands are gentle on the dog’s fur and I can’t help but imagine what they’d feel like on my skin. What it would be like to be held in those hands, to be enveloped. My hand tightens in the dog’s fur and I force myself to relax as it makes a sound.

“She’s a girl, by the way.” His voice startles me and I meet his eyes, praying that he can’t read what I’ve been thinking about on my face. The last thing I need is for tomorrow’s local paper—if they even have a paper in this town—to carry a story that reads, “Out of town gay man found beaten to death in cabin of unfairly handsome local straight bruiser. Police assume queer panic ensued after out of town gay made a pass at straight bruiser.”

“Huh?” I say. He swallows, like he isn’t used to talking.

“The dog. You were right, she isn’t a boy.” He pats the dog gently and scoops her up, depositing her in a nest of blankets in front of the fireplace.

“Oh,” I say. “Great.” I stand and follow him. I realize I’m nodding compulsively and force myself to stop. He touches a long match to the newspaper and kindling below the logs in the grate.

“Is she going to be okay, do you think?” The fire consumes the paper and there’s a delicious, earthy smell as the bark on the logs starts to crackle. With the fire lit, he turns toward me.

“I think so. If she can stay off this leg tonight, I’ll take her into town tomorrow. Have the vet check her out for any internal injuries.”

I’m suddenly so relieved that I go a little woozy. I didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t hurt the poor dog beyond repair. I’m not a total fuckup.

“Whoa,” he says. In one step, he’s there, grabbing me by both shoulders to keep me upright. My vision is a little blurry and I blink up at him. God, he’s handsome. His brows are furrowed with worry, his eyes narrowed.

“Sorry,” he says, looking down. “I should’ve made sure you weren’t hurt.”

“No, I’m okay,” I say, stepping out from under his hands.

“You were in a car accident. Come here.” He steps behind me and puts his hands back on my shoulders, guiding me to the bathroom. When he flips the switch, I wince at the harsh light after being so long in the dark. In the mirror, I can see why he’s concerned. My black hair is messy and there’s a smear of blood on my cheek from the dog. A bruise is already coming out on my forehead, though I don’t even remember hitting my head. I blink at my reflection. My pupils are huge, even in the bright light, leaving only a thin ring of green around them.

He’s looking at me in the mirror, his light eyes fixed on mine. I can smell him behind me: wood smoke and damp wool and something lightly piney, like deodorant. Or, hey, I guess in the woods it could actually be pine. I can feel the warmth he’s giving off and it reminds me of how cold I am. He turns me around by the shoulders again, like he’s my rudder.

I shiver. I dropped my coat by the door, but even though it was cold out, I sweat through my shirt and suit coat while I was carrying the dog, and now they’ve turned cold and clammy. The tie I borrowed from my brother, Sam, and the new white shirt I bought for my interview are both streaked with blood.

“Shit.” I halfheartedly swipe at the blood. As I rub a little harder, I wince, realizing that my chest is sore.

“Were you wearing your seat belt?”

“Huh?” I feel like I’m processing everything five seconds after he says it. “Oh, yeah.”

He slides my suit jacket off my shoulders and starts to unbutton my shirt.

“Um,” I mumble. He bats my hand away and pulls my shirt apart.

When I look down, I can see a purple bruise forming in the shape of my seat belt. Well, good to know it worked, I guess. The bruise is long, disappearing into the tattoos that cover most of my torso.

“Tell me if it’s particularly tender anywhere.” He probes the length of the bruise gently.

“No, it’s okay,” I say, half because it’s true and half because I can’t think with his fingers on my skin. His hands are warm the way big guys’ are sometimes—great circulation, I guess.

“Wasn’t expecting those,” he says, gesturing to my tattoos. It’s funny. Anyone who meets me when I’m dressed professionally is surprised to find out I have tattoos, but anyone who knows me from my real life—at concerts, coffee shops, or just around—thinks my professional drag looks out of place.

I shrug and he gives me a cursory once-over, looking for other bruises. “Take your pants off.”

“Oh, um, I—” I scooch backward, away from him. There’s no way I’ll be able to keep it together standing in front of this gorgeous man almost naked. “Maybe, could I just take a shower?”

He doesn’t say anything, but turns the water on and grabs a towel from a shelf on the wall. It’s forest green. It seems like everything about him and this house is green and brown. Earthy.

“Here, give me your clothes,” he says. “I’ll get you something of mine to wear.”

When he leaves, I toe my dress shoes off, trying not to notice that anyone who looked could see the soles are worn almost through, but they’re polished to a mirror shine—or, at least, they were before my trek in through the woods. Five-dollar-new-shoes: that’s what my dad always called a shoeshine.

He knocks a minute later and hands me a pile of neatly folded sweatpants and a T-shirt. Then he hands me a drink.

“I thought you could use something to warm you up.” I sniff it. Whiskey. I down it like a shot.

“Thanks.”

He backs out of the bathroom and I undress and step under the hot water with a sigh.

I can’t let myself think any more about this shit show of a day—much less the fact that I’m in the shower of a total stranger who may or may not be about to axe murder me and wrap me up in this shower curtain—or I’m going to lose it. Instead, I pretend like Ginger is giving me a stern talking-to because, unlike mine, Ginger’s talking-tos sometimes work. Well, first Ginger would tell me to have a fucking drink, so I’m good on that count. Then it would probably go something like this:

Me: I’m having a nervous breakdown. I have no clue what I should be doing with my life. What if my dad is right and academia is for assholes who think they’re better than everyone else but never do a day’s work in their lives?

Ginger: Your dad is a fucking idiot. We know this. First of all, you don’t have to know what you’re doing with your whole life. Just what you’re doing right now. And right now, you’re being a professor. Second, you don’t think you’re better than everyone. Third, you’ve worked hard your entire life.

Me: Okay, but what if Richard’s right and I’m not really smart enough to do this? I mean, I wasn’t smart enough to realize that he was having sex with approximately 10 percent of Philadelphia, even though everyone else knew.

Ginger: Richard is a fucking idiot. Also, he looks like a boring version of an Abercrombie and Fitch model. You hate that all-American shit. You only went out with him because you were insecure about being the only one at Penn whose parents weren’t professor-types. You were flattered when he wanted to go out with you because you thought it meant you were smart. Well, you are smart, but that was stupid. You’re smart enough to be a professor; that’s why you’re going to get this job.

Me: Fuck me, Ginge—this place is ridiculous. I’m probably the only queer within a hundred miles. There’s a park near here called Gaylord, and I bet no one even thinks it’s funny. Seriously, if I get this job I’ll have to be celibate. Until some cute little gay undergrad catches me in a weak moment, after I haven’t had sex in seventeen years, and then I’ll get fired for inappropriate conduct, or put in jail for sexual harassment.

Ginger: Look, kid, you’re flipping out over maybes and you’re overthinking, as usual. Just see what this job is before you’re so positive it has nothing to offer you. Ride the wave. Besides, you know the stats. I don’t care if it’s the lunch lady, your accountant, or the butch lumberjack; there have got to be homosexuals, even in that godforsaken little slice of Minnesota.

Me: Michigan.

Ginger: Whatever, pumpkin.

She’s right, as usual. And, of course, her mention of butch lumberjacks brings me right back to... shit, I don’t even know his name.

I MAKE my way back into the living room, holding up my borrowed sweatpants in an attempt not to trip and kill myself. The T-shirt sleeves reach past my elbows. It’s like when I used to have to wear my older brothers’ stuff, only worse because I wasn’t concerned about looking attractive in front of my brothers, who would’ve told me I looked like an idiot no matter what I was wearing. Of course, it makes no sense to worry about how I look in front of this man either, since it’s not like some super masculine straight guy is going to care. These clothes do have one advantage over my brothers’, though: whereas my brothers’ hand-me- downs smelled like stale sweat beneath industrial-strength bleach, these smell like fabric softener and cedar.

As I walk past the fire, the dog lifts her eyelids and regards me sleepily, but doesn’t stir. I can hear noise coming from the kitchen.

“What’s your name?” I ask the man’s broad back, where he’s bent over the sink, washing a plate.

The muscles in his back and shoulders tense, as if I startled him. He turns around and his eyes immediately go to my hips.

“Those things are gonna fall off you,” he says. “Come here.” He rummages around in a drawer next to the sink.

Be still, my fantasies, I insist as I step toward him. The last thing I need is to pop a boner in this guy’s sweatpants and have him kick my ass. Not that it’d be the first time.

He squats down, gathers the excess fabric around my hips, and folds it over, then holds it together with a binder clip. I must look confused because he shrugs and mutters, “I use them for chip clips.”

“Thanks,” I say, and roll the T-shirt sleeves up a little so I don’t look like a child.

“What’s yours?”

“Huh? Oh, I’m Daniel.” I stick out a hand to him in a weirdly professional gesture, as if we haven’t been together for an hour, as if he didn’t just binder-clip the waist of my borrowed sweatpants. But he just takes my hand in his large palm and shakes it firmly. God, his hands are so warm.

“So?” I ask again.

“Rex,” he says, and ducks his head a bit shyly. Rex. King. It suits him.

“I guess I should go,” I say, making a vague gesture toward the door. “Oh shit, my car—I have to call someone—and I didn’t even check in to my hotel yet, so I need—” God, I’m tired.

“I took care of it,” Rex says, turning back to the sink. “Here, do you want another drink? You look like you could use it.” He pours another whiskey and holds it out to me.

“Thanks. What do you mean, you took care of it?” I sip this whiskey a bit slower. My head feels like it’s full of cotton.

“I called someone and had your car towed. It was a rental, right?” I nod. “So, you can just pick one up at the airport. It’s right near here.” Relief floods me that I won’t have to handle that. I can’t even remember the last time someone took care of anything for me.

“Thank you,” I say, and I can hear the relief in my voice. I finish the whiskey in my glass and hold it out for a refill without thinking about it. Rex gives me an amused nod and refills my glass, pours one for himself, and then gestures me into the living room.

I sink down onto Rex’s green plaid couch and pull the blue flannel blanket over me. The couch dips with Rex’s weight as he sits beside me and I open my eyes. In the firelight, he is a god. The flames flicker over the planes of his face and the straight lines of his eyebrows, create a shadow under his full lower lip, turn his stubble to velvet and his eyes to molten gold. I slug back the rest of my drink and put the glass down. I can’t look away from him. He’s regarding me calmly and I can smell him on the blanket I’m wrapped up in.

Something is happening to me. It’s like there is a magnet drawing me toward him and I am in actual danger of making an idiotic move on a stranger who is, as far as I know, straight, in a cabin in the woods, when no one knows where I am. Okay, now is when I need to remind myself of all those stereotypes of rural cannibalistic serial killers. Remember The Hills Have Eyes, Daniel! Texas Chainsaw Massacre! Or, more realistically, I just need to focus on how much it actually hurts to get hit in the face, which is what’s likely to happen if I get any closer to Rex than the other side of the couch.

I clear my throat and shake my head, trying to banish the fog that’s taken over.

“Is everything you have made of plaid?”

“No,” Rex says. “Some of it’s just plain flannel.”

I start to laugh and can’t stop, even though it’s not particularly funny. All of a sudden I realize what should’ve been obvious: I’m drunk. I’ve had three whiskeys after being in a car accident and I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Can Rex tell?

“When was the last time you ate?” he says. Yep, I think he can tell. And I almost don’t care. It’s so nice and warm here, so cozy. No one I know is here to witness me potentially losing my shit in Holiday, Michigan. No one ever has to know that I hit a dog. And no one here knows that in approximately one month I will be evicted if I can’t grab a whole lot of extra hours at the bar so I can afford my rent. None of it matters while I’m warm and tipsy here, in the land of flannel and wood.

Suddenly, the middle of nowhere seems like the best possible place I could be.

I MUST’VE fallen asleep for a minute, because when I wake up, Rex is standing over me holding a sandwich.

“Daniel.” I sit up a little and take the plate from him. “Uh, yeah.” “What are you doing here?”

I look around the room, my head still spacey. No, Daniel, he means in town. Get it together.

“I had a job interview. At Sleeping Bear College.” I take a bite of the sandwich and feel a little sick, the way I sometimes do if I wait too long to eat. But the second bite is heaven.

“What kind of jam is this?” I ask.

“Mixed berry.”

“It’s good.”

“What was your interview for?”

“To teach in the English department.” The words make my stomach clench with anxiety. Or maybe that’s just the peanut butter.

“You’re an English professor? You seem so young.”

“Yeah. Well, technically, I’m still a grad student, but if I get the job, it’ll start in the fall, and I’ll defend my dissertation in the summer, so then I’ll be a professor. It’s funny you think I’m younger than usual. Most people, when they hear I’m in grad school, they’re like, ‘Oh, so that’ll take you, what, two or three years?’ And I’ll say, ‘No, more like seven or eight,’ and they think it’s crazy because they’ve seen TV shows where all the characters have three PhDs by the time they’re twenty-three. It’s unrealistic and propagates total misinformation about higher education. Drives me crazy.”

“A dissertation. That’s the book you write to get your degree, right?” Rex seems to actually be listening, even though I’ve gone off on a grad school tirade.

“Yeah. I’ve been working on it for five years.” Alongside teaching every semester, bartending on the weekends, applying for fellowships, and, recently, applying for fifty-six jobs across the country, that is.

“What’s it about?”

“Oh, it’s boring; you don’t want to hear about that,” I tell him.

“Well, if you think I won’t understand,” Rex says, and his jaw tightens.

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. I just—no one who isn’t writing a dissertation ever actually wants to hear about them. Hell, even the people who are writing them don’t really want to hear about them; they only ask so that you’ll ask about theirs in return. Do you seriously want to know?”

“I asked, didn’t I?”

“Um, yeah. Well, I study nineteenth and early twentieth century American literature. Basically, I’m writing about authors from that time period who use social realism to explore the different models of economic theory available. So, some of them were critiquing capitalism, but didn’t offer anything in its place; some were radically anarchist; some were staunch Marxists; etc. But all of them used their writing to explore the effects of those different models.”

Rex is looking into the fire.

“Sorry. I’m boring you. That was so geeky. This stuff isn’t really interesting to anyone except me. I shouldn’t—”

“You aren’t boring me,” Rex says. “Go on.”

He has this low, authoritative voice that makes me forget that there’s any possibility except to do what he says. So I go on. I tell him about the books, about the authors’ lives; before I know it, I’m talking about literary naturalism and Marxist materialist criticism, and ranting about the job market. I never talk this much—not to anyone but Ginger.

And Rex seems interested. He doesn’t seem to think I’m a total geek or a pretentious asshole. Or maybe he just feels sorry for the idiotic city boy who got himself marooned in Northern Michigan, almost killed a dog, and is currently drunk in a stranger’s sweatpants in a cabin made of plaid and flannel. I trail off.

“So, do you think you’ll get the job?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, and sigh.

“What, you don’t want it?”

“Well, I need a job,” I tell him. “I need the money, for sure. And, no matter what, I can use this position as a springboard for another job if a better one comes along. And it’s actually a pretty good fit for me, you know. Like, I don’t want to be lecturing to three hundred unfamiliar faces at a huge university. I like how small the school is, how they’re excited about building up the English department. They even want to have a creative writing graduate program eventually. They think the—how did they put it?—‘natural isolation’ will be a draw for writers.”

“But,” Rex prompts, looking at me intently.

“But.... No offense, man, but there’s, like, nothing here. I’ve lived in Philly my whole life. I don’t know shit about trees or animals or nature. I mean, I just never saw myself someplace so... isolated.” My stomach is a knot of fear. Every word I speak hammers home how totally and completely screwed I would be living here.

I spent the last eight years in graduate school, all of it leading up to this moment—a moment, I must add, that most grad students would kill for in this crazy economy and terrible job market. But now... shit. I’m just so unsure.

“And, anyway, I don’t even know if I want to be an English professor. Like, what good would that actually do, you know? Really? It’s not useful. It’s like, what, teaching a bunch of overprivileged, sheltered kids with their parents’ credit cards how to construct a thesis statement or, if I’m lucky, getting to teach one senior seminar a year in the stuff I’m actually interested in, which no one will care about anyway.”

I can hear my voice, but it sounds like it’s coming from a million miles away. I think maybe I did hit my head. My ears are ringing and I feel like someone poured cement into my stomach. God, the idea of sitting at a desk for the rest of my life, teaching kids who don’t care, talking to other professors in their fifties and sixties about the decline of the written word with the advent of texting, totally alone in this godforsaken place. My hands are fists and I shake my head to try and clear it.

“Besides, I’m probably the only gay guy in a hundred-mile radius,” I blurt out, forgetting that I’m not talking to Ginger, like I was in the shower. Fuck. I can’t believe I just said that. “And, uh, there’s, like, no music scene here?” I look around the room, everywhere but at Rex. The dog is still snoozing in front of the fire, her front paw twitching as she dreams. I wish I were her. I wish I were asleep, in front of a fire, cozy and warm, and not having to worry about anything except whether I’ll get breakfast soon.

I force myself to meet Rex’s gaze. To look at him calmly and confidently, as if what I just said is no big deal. This is what I’ve learned over the years. You just stare, like everything is normal, make them feel like they’ll be the awkward one if they say anything to you about it. Just stay calm and narrow your eyes a little like you’re not scared of a fight.

But Rex isn’t saying anything, isn’t reacting at all. I get up, clumsily, and bring my plate and glass to the kitchen sink. I pour a quick slug of whiskey in the glass and down it, then start scrubbing the plate. Everything’s fine, I say in my head. Everything’s fine. Everything’s fine.

When Rex comes up behind me, the soapy plate slips out of my hand and shatters in the sink. I jump backward.

“Shit! Shit, I’m sorry.” I look up at him, expecting anger, maybe disgust. When he doesn’t say anything, I start to pick up the pieces of broken plate, but they’re slippery and I keep dropping them.

“Stop.” Rex puts his hands over mine in the sink. He dries my hands with the dishtowel, then takes me by the shoulders and turns me around so I’m leaning against the wall. “You need to calm down,” he says, and his voice is a warm ocean of command.

I nod, trying to calm down, but my heart is racing. What is wrong with me? It’s not like people don’t know I’m gay. Hell, I’ve always enjoyed letting idiots bro down with me and then just casually talking about my boyfriend to watch their surprise. It’s obvious that Rex isn’t going to hurt me; if he were, he would’ve done it already. I take a deep breath, his heavy hands weighing my shoulders down, anchoring me.

I look up at him, his eyes the same color as the whiskey I just drank. He steps closer, until I can feel his warmth. I open my mouth to tell him I’m fine, but what comes out is an embarrassingly shaky breath.

“Just calm down,” he says. And then he kisses me.

His hand is so big that when he cups my cheek his fingers trail down my neck, warm and rough. His mouth is soft on mine, but the power of his body behind it makes it clear he’s holding himself back. As one hand strokes my neck, the other cups my head, tangling in my hair. I open my eyes for a moment to make sure this is real, and his are open too, heavy- lidded and golden.

He pulls back and straightens up. He’s tall enough that he had to bend down to kiss me. I wonder if that’s annoying—to have to bend down all the time. Or, I guess if he were kissing someone his same height, he wouldn’t have to, but that’s probably pretty rare. Also, holy crap, Rex is gay! I wonder—

Then I can’t think of anything else because his mouth is on mine again, and this time it’s a real kiss. His hands are on my hips and my head is tilted back against the wall and he’s kissing me, his tongue filling all the empty spaces. I reach up and put my arms around his neck, trying to pull him closer to me. He slides a hand up my side and around to my back, and he hooks his hand around my shoulder, locking me to him. I gasp into his mouth as he pushes his hips forward, his hardness hot against my stomach even through his jeans.

He pulls back, his mouth leaving mine with a lewd smack.

“Better?” he asks, and when he gives me his first real smile, it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. His whole face is transformed. He has dimples and his teeth are a little crooked, one incisor slightly twisted.

I huff out a laugh and grin back.

“Better.” And, actually, I am. I feel calm and boneless. Well, not exactly boneless. In fact, I’m trying to psychically communicate that he could make everything a whole lot better if he’d just release the binder clip barely holding my sweatpants up and take me on the kitchen table, but he doesn’t seem to be getting the message.

He takes me by the hand and leads me back to the couch. He covers me with the flannel blanket, sinks down next to me, and flicks on the TV with one hand while he subtly adjusts himself with the other. When he looks at me out of the corner of his eye, I grin at him. He laughs and shakes his head.

“Just relax.”

He’s channel surfing—more channels than I would’ve expected to find in a log cabin. I think I finally have to admit to myself that I am helpless to control my dumb stereotypes about rural places and the people who live in them. As if he can read my mind, Rex rolls his eyes and points out the front door.

“Satellite dish.”

He stops changing channels at a black-and-white movie, looking totally delighted when he turns to me and points at the screen expectantly. I have no idea what movie it is. I’m not sure I’ve ever even seen an entire black-and-white movie except when I took a film class in college. I don’t even own a TV.

“Gaslight,” he says, smiling. “I love this movie.” He’s still looking at me expectantly; I shake my head.

“I’ve never seen it.”

“Really? Ingrid Bergman. I love her.”

“So you are gay,” I joke.

He fixes me with a smoldering look. “Were you in doubt?”

“No,” I squeak. He looks back at the screen.

“This version is the most famous, but MGM actually made it only four years after the UK film version. Then they somehow cut a deal so that the UK version wasn’t allowed to be rereleased in the US. I do think this one is better than the 1940 version, though. Mostly because Ingrid Bergman’s better than Diana Wynyard. It’s great, although MGM’s corniness ruins it in some parts. And, you know, the Production Code. It’s Angela Lansbury’s first film role.”

He’s speaking absently, as if I know all this, his face animated even as his eyes are glued to the screen.

“You’re a film geek, huh?”

“What? No. I mean, I just like old movies,” he says, looking a little uncomfortable.

“I think that’s awesome,” I say, desperate not to have offended him. “I never saw many movies growing up, so I guess I just never developed a taste for them. It was always sports at my house.”

“Do you still follow sports?”

“Oh, no, I never did. My dad and my brothers, though. Huge sports fans. I think as long as it’s got a ball, they watch it. Well, except soccer. They think soccer’s for pansies. Oh, and golf, because it’s not violent.”

“How many brothers do you have?”

“Three. All older. You?”

“No,” he says, and turns back to the TV. We watch the movie in silence for ten or fifteen minutes.

“Hey, wait, is this where the term to gaslight someone comes from?”

“Yeah,” Rex says, looking back at me. “Ingrid Bergman’s husband—Charles Boyer—messes with her head, trying to make her think she’s going crazy.”

It is so hot to watch him talk about this stuff. He’s so, well, burly; he doesn’t look like the kind of guy who’d be into old movies. And unlike Richard, my ex, or the people I went to grad school with, he doesn’t sound like his interest is academic. There’s none of the desire to impress with his knowledge, none of the analysis asserted as fact. He’s just really excited about an old Ingrid Bergman movie. And I want nothing more than to kiss him again.

“I guess I always thought it had something to do with gas fumes making people hallucinate or something,” I murmur.

He smiles at me. “I think that’s a common mis—”

He breaks off when I launch myself into his lap. I kiss him, throwing my arms around his neck. His mouth is soft and his body is hard beneath me. When I kiss him, his hands go automatically to my back, stroking up and down my spine, sending sparks of heat through my whole body. I moan into his mouth, and he drags me down by the shoulders. I’m dizzy with lust, his scent and his warmth and his big hands making it impossible to do anything but keep kissing him.

I reach between us and fumble for his fly, but I’m pulled out of my haze by hands holding mine still.

“Hey, hey, Daniel.” He takes my hands between his and puts them back on his shoulders. He kisses me softly, but it’s a good-bye kiss. I can tell. A we’re-done-now kiss. A pity kiss. The warmth of lust is immediately replaced with nausea. My head is pounding and I’m too hot, not to mention humiliated. I move off him with as much dignity as I can muster, considering I’m straddling someone with binder-clipped sweatpants and a too-big shirt that has fallen off one shoulder like a valley girl’s sweatshirt.

On the floor, the dog has raised her head and is looking at me as if even she can tell something is wrong with me. I stare at the fire intently, wishing I could disappear into it.

“Look,” Rex says, his voice gentle. “It’s really late, and you’ve had a long day. You should get some sleep.” I nod without looking at him.

He brings me a pillow from the hall closet, and another blanket, but instead of going into his room, he lingers in the doorway, looking at me.

“You know,” he says, and he sounds a little shy. “You kind of look like you could be one of those old-time Hollywood leading men.”

I look up at him, startled. He’s looking at me intently, leaning forward, but his eyes are sad, dark.

“You’d be wasted on black and white, though. Your eyes.” He makes a vague gesture toward my face, then turns away. “Good night, Daniel,” he says. And then he’s gone.

Chapter 2

August

THE AIR conditioning in my car died somewhere in Ohio, so it’s hard to hear Ginger above the highway sounds coming in through the windows I’ve rolled down to avoid roasting. Fortunately, the girl’s never been accused of being quiet.

“Okay,” she says, “so I google-mapped this town of yours and I’ve gotta tell you, pumpkin, I’m a little concerned.”

It’s taken Ginger all summer to be able to remember that I’m moving to Michigan—not Minnesota, not Missouri—so this is progress.

“Number one: are you aware that this state is shaped like a mitten and people actually refer to it as The Mitten?”

“I am,” I say. Ginger is one of the smartest people I know, but she reminds me of someone’s grandmother sometimes with her insistence that the things beyond her daily routine are bizarre and shocking.

“So, you’re moving to a state that people refer to by its winter wear. This state also gets a lot of snow. There is only so much geological coincidence I can bear, sweet cheeks. Also, from what I can tell, the main claim to fame of this hamlet you will soon call home is its cherries. Tart cherries.”

“Yeah.”

“Daniel! Tart cherries. Who wants a tart cherry?”

“Dunno, Ginge; I’ve never tried one. I’ll be sure to let you know.”

“Okay, fine, clearly you’re not in the mood to be distracted, so get on with it. What did your dad say?”

I didn’t tell my father or my brothers about getting the job at Sleeping Bear College until last night, after I finished packing. I got the call offering me the job only about a week after my visit. Bernard Ness, the chair of the job search committee, was enthusiastic and friendly and didn’t even mention anything about my never checking in to my hotel the night I was there. At first, I didn’t tell them because I kind of couldn’t believe it had happened. This was what I’d been working toward for about the last decade of my life. It was surreal and shocking to all of a sudden have achieved it.

Then I didn’t tell them because I was madly finishing up my dissertation and planning for my dissertation defense where my committee would decide whether or not to award me my PhD. That was three weeks of fifteen-hour days where I guzzled coffee all day and NyQuil at night, terrified I wouldn’t be able to sleep.

The thing about my father is that he’s like the world’s most accomplished boxer: there’s no predicting which direction the hit will come from. After I passed my defense, I thought of every angle I could—every way in which telling him “hey, I just got my PhD” could be met with something more negative than all the things he’d been saying ever since I decided to go to college and then grad school in the first place. It seemed like a pretty safe announcement. So, that night, I stopped by my dad’s house, knowing I’d catch at least one of my brothers on the couch, drinking my dad’s beer. And if one of them knew something, all of them knew.

My mistake was showing up a little tipsy after drinks with some of my grad school friends, on my way to meet Ginger at her tattoo shop. I’m usually able to keep it together and take whatever my dad and brothers throw at me. And I’d certainly learned long before that if they saw me get even the littlest bit upset, they were like sharks smelling blood in the water.

My dad and Brian, the youngest of my three older brothers, were watching the Phillies when I got there and they barely looked up when I came in. My other brother, Colin, came into the room a minute later and didn’t acknowledge me at all. I told them about passing my defense at a commercial break. Brian looked up, confused, and said, “Didn’t you do that last year?” Typical. My dad said, “Well, that’s great, son. I’m glad you’ve gotten that out of your system. Now what?” Colin didn’t say anything at all.

It was nothing, really. He even said the word “great,” when I’d anticipated the possibility of something like, “Ah, so now you’re a snob officially.”

“Now what?” I said, and I could hear the nasty edge creeping into my voice that tries to scare people away before I fall apart. “Now I thought I’d take a few weeks off after working nonstop for the last twelve years.”

Brian looked up again, taking in my suit, and said, “Whoa, Danielle, what are you all dressed up for?” My brothers had called me Danielle before they ever knew I was gay, but learning I was gay had made it more pointed.

“Don’t call your brother that,” my dad snapped. It wasn’t out of protectiveness for me or anything, he just hates to be reminded of how I’m not the to-the-garage-born specimen of beer-swilling, sports-watching, car-fixing masculinity that he wishes I were.

Then the game came back on and they forgot I was there.

Needless to say, I didn’t tell them about the job then, either. And, okay, I may have gotten a little choked up as I slammed the door and walked to Ginger’s shop, but I blame it on exhaustion. The upside was that when I told Ginger about the latest installment of the Mulligan family assholism, she gave me an emergency tattoo to distract me. The fact that I woke up the next morning and saw that I’d asked her to tattoo “Let Sleeping Bears Lie” above my left hip suggests that I was feeling a bit more sentimental than I’d thought.

Which brings us to last night, when I finally told my dad I was leaving Philadelphia and moving to the middle of nowhere in Northern Michigan.

“Well?” Ginger asks again.

“He was fine with it,” I say.

“Which means?” Ginger presses.

“I told him about the job and he said great, at least I wouldn’t have to borrow money from him.”

“Not that you ever have,” Ginger chimes in, a familiar chorus.

“Not that I ever have. Then I told him it was in Michigan and he seemed confused.”

“Understandable.”

“I don’t actually think he ever considered the fact that jobs exist outside the county of Philadelphia.”

“So you never told him when you went to Michigan for the interview?”

“Nah. I think I told Sam I had an interview because I borrowed a tie, but that’s it.” Sam, my oldest brother, is married to Liza, a really sweet woman—god knows what she sees in him—who does things like invite me over to dinner once a month because she cares about family and stuff. Sam... goes along with it. “Anyway, he just did his handshake-shoulder- pat thing and said good luck.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah. Well, no, he looked under the hood of my car and gave me twenty bucks for gas.”

“Which is, like, your dad for ‘I love you,’ though, right?”

“Yep. Just think: some kids only get told things like, ‘I love you, son,’ or ‘I’ll miss you,’ which aren’t actually useful for anything, whereas I get a tune-up and gas money. Lucky me.”

“So, lucky you,” Ginger drawls, clearly changing the subject, “what about this Sleeping Bear of yours?”

“Dude, would you stop calling him that?”

“Ooh, touchy. I like it. Speaking of secret languages, that’s Daniel for ‘I’m invested in someone and it’s freaking me out.’”

“If by ‘invested in’ you mean ‘made a complete fool out of myself in front of,’ then, yes.”

“You didn’t make a fool out of yourself; he kissed you.”

“Yeah, to calm me down. Then I basically assaulted him.” My stomach sinks and I shiver at the memory, despite it being approximately two thousand degrees in my car right now.

“Whatever; he obviously wanted you. He was just being a gentleman and not falling into bed with you when you were drunk and possibly suffering from a closed-head injury.”

I snort.

“Sooooo, do you think you’ll see him again?”

“Dunno. I mean, it’s not like it’s a bustling metropolis; I’m bound to, right?”

“Great. So, do you think you’ll, like, see him see him?”

“I just....”

“What, pumpkin?”

“I just can’t stop thinking about him, Ginge. It’s idiotic. I mean, I barely know the guy. But when I woke up and he was gone, I just....” I was fucking devastated.

That morning, I woke up warm, the blanket wrapped around me, soft light coming in through the curtains. It took me a minute to remember where I was, but when I registered the cedar smell of the blanket, the whole night came rushing back. I rolled off the couch, my bruised chest and my throbbing head competing for which was most pissed off at me, determined to talk to Rex. To apologize for throwing myself at him, to thank him for not only saving the dog but kind of saving me as well.

But the house was empty. Even the dog was gone. I wandered around the cabin, feeling like some demented fairy-tale character (and cursing my stupid brain for instantly supplying about ten filthy Goldilocks and the three bears references). In the kitchen were a pot of coffee and a plate of toast that was slick with butter and cool to the touch. On the lip of the plate, where I couldn’t miss it, was a Post-it with a phone number on it. I called it right away, thinking it was Rex’s, but a cab company answered.

He hadn’t left a note. Not even a Nice to meet you, or a Try not to hit any more dogs in the future.

“I’m just nervous about running into him, that’s all. I didn’t make the best first impression—you know, what with me practically killing a dog, getting drunk and sexually assaulting him, insulting his town, and all.”

“I have the feeling you made a better impression than you may think,” Ginger says in the know-it-all voice she generally reserves for lecturing me about people I sleep with and telling college students who wander into her shop that they should definitely not get that tattoo.

“Whatever,” I say, sounding petulant even to myself. “Hey, what ever happened with that new guy you hired? The one with the Motörhead shirt.”

“Changing the subject: check. Um, he’s.... Well, he’s....”

“Ah ha! How was he?”

“Let’s just say that Motörhead isn’t an inapt analogue to his approach in the bedroom,” she says.

“Um, I’m not actually sure I know enough about Motörhead to understand that,” I admit. “What does that mean: wham, bam, thank you, ma’am?”

“Yeah, only without the thank you.”

“Yikes. Well, at least he didn’t seem the type to make things awkward in the workplace.”

“No. And he’s only here for the month as a favor to Johnny. No big deal.” Johnny taught Ginger to tattoo.

Out the window to my right are trees, trees, and more trees. I’m not sure exactly where I am, but I should be about an hour away.

“Listen, Ginge, I’m getting close; I need to go so I can look at the directions.”

“Okay.” She pauses. “Hey, pumpkin, listen. I think this is a good thing. This Michigan thing. This job. I’ll miss the shit out of you and I’ll be royally pissed if I don’t hear from you at least once a week, just so we’re clear, but seriously, I have a good feeling.”

“God, I hope you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.”

“Well, I’m glad the self-esteem is coming along.” I don’t want to hang up. I don’t want to cut off the one tie I have to the only place I’ve ever called home.

“Bye, babycakes.”

“Later.”

LYING IN bed, tossing and turning, I try not to think about how freaked out I am.

The apartment is even worse than it looked online. First of all, it’s tiny. The door at the top of the stairs opens into a kitchen that’s sticky with disuse. That opens into one medium-sized room that’s the living room slash bedroom, and off to the side is a tiny bathroom with a shower stall and a sink. The walls are a greasy off white; the kitchen linoleum is yellowed and peeling up at the edges. The blue carpet in the other room is thick with dust and matted in places with I don’t want to know what. The windows are mostly painted shut, so it’s incredibly hot and stuffy. What I thought, based on the pictures, was a door to another room turned out to be a door out to a rickety fire escape that would as likely kill me as save me in the event of an actual fire. The ceiling is low, since it’s really an attic room, and even at average height it feels claustrophobic. It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever not wished to be taller.

I guess it’ll only be for a year or so, until I can pay off my credit card bills, but it’s still a little depressing. I don’t know why, since my apartment in Philly was kind of a shithole too. It’s weird, though. I’m supposed to be an adult now—a real professor with a real salary who moved to start a real job— but I’m still living in a crappy apartment, only now my concerns can be roasting and/or freezing to death instead of getting mugged.

I’d opted for an apartment that was close enough that I could walk to campus and the library. I figured if I was going to be living in the middle of nowhere, at least I could be in the center of what town there is. It’s a single apartment above a hardware store with a side entrance. Carl, the man who owns it, used to live up here before he got married, but it’s been empty since, so he let me have it dirt-cheap. At least I won’t have to worry about living in the same place as any of my students. Since Sleeping Bear College is so small, only underclassmen live in the dorms, and the last thing I want is to end up sharing a parking lot with a student angry about a grade on a paper.

After I lugged in the stuff from my car, it only took me about an hour to unpack. I’d left my shitty furniture on the curb in Philly for someone to grab and I don’t have much stuff. The bed is here, like Carl promised, and a couch, but there’s no air conditioner and no way I was staying in this stuffy place without it. So I grabbed my keys and went to go find one, figuring I could stop and grab some takeout on my way back.

Outside, the sun was setting and the air was thick, at least as humid as it was back in Philly. It smelled nature-y, though, even in town. Like trees and water and lots and lots of oxygen. It wasn’t even 8:00 p.m., but almost nothing was open.

The town of Holiday—seriously? it sounds like something on a postcard, or one of those Christmas towns that only exist during December—is picturesque. I’ll give it that. The only thing I have to compare it to is Manayunk, a neighborhood in Philly that’s gotten really gentrified in the last ten years or so and now has freshly painted storefronts and arts festivals in the summer.

The shops here are all one of a kind. On Main Street, it’s touristy shops: candles with scents like “Winter Wonderland,” “Morning Rain,” and “Indian Summer”; expensive-looking kitchen stores with hand-carved cutting boards and Swedish-looking single-use gadgets with faces painted on them; specialty food stores selling dried fruit, tiny packets of nuts that are more packaging than food, and every conceivable type of preserves. And, every other storefront or so, shops selling Michigan paraphernalia: aprons and boxer shorts and visors and scarves; oven mitts and cookie cutters, field guides and notepads. Everything cut in the shape of the Michigan mitten (the oven mitts with hearts where Holiday would be on the map) or emblazoned with it.

Off Main Street it’s a bit more normal, but still, it looks like something from a movie set—so curated and clean. The sidewalks are even and wide, separated from the streets by decorative brick, and a line of trees alternating with lamp posts, mailboxes, and the most attractive garbage cans I’ve ever seen, painted a dark green, as if they too are a part of nature.

I finally peeked into an Italian restaurant and immediately regretted it because it was kind of a nice place and I was sweaty, wearing jean cutoffs and a black T-shirt with the sleeves torn off from Ginger’s shop, which said Tattoo Bitch in bold Gothic font across my chest. I asked the hostess if there was a diner or a takeout place nearby and was peppered with overly friendly questions about my favorite foods. I wandered off in the direction she had pointed, reminding myself that this was a small town and people were probably just friendly, not trying to give me the third degree.

At the diner, people stared again. I grabbed a sandwich to go and practically ran back to my apartment with it.

It’s finally sinking in. I live here now. I live here in this tiny town. Everyone knows each other and I’m a stranger. They’ll want to know me. Know about me. And then maybe they’ll hate me.

Before, I always had the option to just disappear. Don’t like the people in my classes? No problem. Hide out in the library or hop on the subway and go work somewhere else. Don’t want to run into an ex in the coffee shop? Slept with the bartender at this bar? Just walk half a block and go to another one. Have an awkward encounter with someone? Who cares? I’ll never see them again.

But now it all counts. There’s nowhere to hide here. No blending in or fucking off. I’ve never felt so terrified or so exposed.

IN THE past week, I’ve cleaned my apartment, scraped together a quasi- professional wardrobe for teaching, finalized my syllabi for the upcoming semester, eaten at every single nonfancy restaurant in town, and answered some variation of the question “who are you” approximately eight thousand times. I ran into Carl, whose apartment I’m renting, at the diner and he was solicitous—how’s the apartment, how do I like Holiday—but I got the sense that it was mostly for the benefit of everyone else in the diner who was listening when he asked me if I had a partner. Kind of like he wanted to prove that he didn’t have any problem with me being gay.

Bernard Ness, the chair of the job search committee, had me over to his house for dinner. It was pleasant enough, and it’s lucky we have work to talk about, since I don’t think we have much else in common. He filled me in on enough departmental gossip to last a lifetime and the entire time I prayed that this would not become my life: gossiping about which of my colleagues is getting a divorce and whose forthcoming article should never have been accepted for publication.

And all week I’ve wondered when I’d run into him. Rex. Last night, I had a dream that I walked into the diner and he was working there, only it was one of those old-timey soda shoppes and he was wearing the whole soda jerk getup: white shirt and apron, black bow tie, dorky white hat perched on his perfect head. He made me a delicious-looking milkshake but then refused to give it to me. I know, right? You don’t have to be Freud.

Classes start on Monday, so the town has begun to buzz as students get back. Still, it’s nine o’clock on a Saturday night and it doesn’t look like anything is going on. At least I won’t have any distractions while I’m here; it’ll give me time to work on turning my dissertation into a book, which, among other things, will be required of me to get tenure at Sleeping Bear. More to the point, I’ll need to have a publication offer in hand if I have any hope of getting a job that isn’t in the middle of nowhere.

Now, though, I’m antsy as hell. It’s hot in my apartment, even with the air conditioner that I had to drive an hour to find. I spent the day making sure I knew where everything was: my classes, my office, the library, the one pizza joint that stays open after ten. I’ve finished all the reading and done course planning for my first week of classes. I’ve watched four documentaries that have been in my Netflix queue for ages. And I may or may not have googled “Rex + Michigan” to no avail.

I decide I just need to get out of the house, so I throw on shoes and grab my beat-up copy of The Secret History. I’ve read it a hundred times, but it fits perfectly in my back pocket and it’s a comfort book: as long as I’m reading it, it doesn’t matter where I am. Besides, the main character of the book leaves his home in California to go to college in a small town where he’s never been before, so it seems particularly relevant to my life right now. I figure I’ll take a walk and find a park bench to read on or something.

It really is beautiful here once it’s not sweltering. I’m actually looking forward to the winter; I bet it looks like a storybook village when everything’s covered with snow. The quiet freaks me out, though, so I pop in the earbuds of my beat-up iPod, saying a tiny prayer to the music gods, as I do every time I use it these days, that it’ll last me just one more year.

That was my mantra all through grad school. When I first started, it was a nightmare. Everyone at Penn came from good colleges that had prepared them for the classes. I went to community college for three years, then transferred to Temple and squeezed all my remaining credits into one year since it’s all I could afford. I’m pretty sure I only got into grad school at Penn because they needed to fill a quota of first generation college students or something. I was totally unprepared, but I told myself that after one year, the playing field would have evened. One more year. Then, when I was so exhausted from doing all my reading and writing for coursework while bartending five nights a week, I would tell myself, Just one more year and then you’ll be done with coursework and starting your dissertation. When I felt like I would never finish writing, I told myself, One more year; you just have to hang on for one more year.

Now, here I am. If I can just deal with my crappy apartment for one more year, I’ll have enough money for a nicer place. If my car will just keep running for one more year, I’ll be able to get a new one—well, a less-used one. Et cetera. One more year.

I’ve walked farther than I meant to, away from campus, and somehow, even though I’ve always associated Tom Waits with the city, his voice like pavement and whiskey and heartbreak, listening to him makes me see the winding road in front of me in a new light. He’s the perfect soundtrack to this deserted place, the only light now from the moon, the trees encroaching.

I’m looking up at the moon, feeling a bit smug and rather impressed by myself for, like, being in nature, when I’m knocked over from behind.

I pitch forward, barely catching myself on my right hand, and jerk my earbuds out, whipping my head around to see where the attack is coming from. I should have fucking known better than to be walking alone at night when I couldn’t hear someone coming. I’ve known that since I was twelve years old. I can’t believe I thought it was safe here just because there’s nothing to fucking do. Serial killers, Daniel! Remember?

All this runs through my mind in the second it takes me to see that I am, in fact, not about to be serial killed. Because what knocked me over was a dog. A brown and white dog that is now licking my face and trying to put its paws on my shoulders.

“Marilyn! Marilyn, here, girl.”

I know that voice. That low, commanding voice. Not as gravelly as Tom Waits, but so much more welcome.

Rex.

Chapter 3

August

HE COMES crashing through the trees and, from my current position on the ground, he looks even bigger and more imposing than I remember.

He practically skids to a stop when he sees me.

The dog—Marilyn, apparently—barks once at Rex and then sits down next to me, one paw on my knee.

My head is swimming, and it’s not from being knocked over. He’s here. He’s really here. If I’m being honest, I’ve thought about him so much more than I even admitted to Ginger. In the six months since I got back from Michigan, I’ve imagined him a thousand times. What he might be doing, what he would say to me if he were there—even though I have no idea what he would say, since I don’t know him. I’ve told myself that a hundred times too. I even got Gaslight from the library and watched it on my computer, pretending he was sitting next to me on my crappy couch in Philadelphia. Then I took my computer to bed and watched it a second time, pretending he was there all over again.

I don’t do this. This isn’t what I do. I don’t moon over guys. I don’t pine. I don’t wonder what they’re doing. I never have. I mean, sure, I’ve had crushes. Usually, though, I just show up and if someone’s appealing, I go for it. It’s always been just sex, except for my monumentally stupid time with Richard.

But now I’m sitting here on the ground like an idiot because the man I’ve fantasized about, dreamed of, and jerked off to is finally standing in front of me and I do not have a clue what to say.

He leans toward me, quizzical. “Daniel?” He sounds shocked.

“Hi,” I say.

We’re staring at each other. It’s really dark, so he mostly looks like shoulders and hair. He’s wearing jeans and a dark T-shirt with a tear in the neck that’s stretched tight over his muscular frame. He reaches down a hand, but rather than help me up, he pats the dog on the head.

“I guess she got you back, huh?” Rex says.

“What? Oh.” I laugh, looking at the dog. “Yeah, I guess she has.”

Now he reaches one huge hand down to me, his biceps stretching that poor T-shirt even more. His hand is warm, just like I remember it. He pulls me easily to my feet, so easily that he has to grab me by the shoulders to keep me from slamming into him. In this position, I can’t help but think of the last time he held me like this. Up against his kitchen wall, seconds before he kissed me.

He drops his hands and looks down.

“What are you doing here?” He doesn’t sound very pleased.

“Well, I got that job,” I say.

“Congratulations.” He’s looking at the dog, not me.

“Oh, yeah, thanks.” I look down too. “Oh shit.” My book is lying in the dirt. It must’ve fallen out of my pocket when I fell. I scoop it up and brush it off, but the cover is torn and there’s mud ground into the last twenty pages or so. “Shoot.”

“I hope you know how it ends,” Rex says, looking at the muddied book.

“Yeah, I’ve read it before,” I say, but I feel like I’ve injured a friend. I’ve had this copy for ten years, read its corners round. I put it in my back pocket and try to shake it off. I’m not usually sentimental about shit like this. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t have the heart to check whether my iPod survived the fall; I just stuff my earphones in my hip pocket alongside it.

“Uh, so... Marilyn?” I say, nodding to the dog. “She seems okay, huh? And she grew a lot, didn’t she?”

“She’s fine,” Rex says, smiling fondly. “She’s a good dog.”

“I didn’t know you were going to keep her. I hope—I mean, I hope you didn’t feel obligated or anything.”

“Nah, I haven’t had a dog in a while. It was time. We get along pretty good. Well, I mean. We get along pretty well.”

“Why Marilyn?”

“Like Marilyn Monroe—she just, um—you know, she was a little banged up, so I figured she could use a star’s name. Especially one who took some hits and kept getting back up. Marilyn just needed some taking care of.” He seems a little embarrassed as he explains.

“Right, of course, movies. I like it,” I tell him, smiling, but actually I’m thinking, Didn’t Marilyn Monroe kill herself?

“I had a dog called Brando for a little while when I was a kid. My mom named him. Said it was because he was ugly, so the name would balance him out. I just figured it couldn’t hurt.”

“Look,” I say, “I wanted to thank you. That night... I was a mess. I’m not usually like that, I want you to know. So, thank you for helping me. And—” I laugh nervously. “Also, I want to apologize. I... was kind of all over you and I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable or anything. I mean, it was so cool of you to let me stay and then I just kind of jumped on you and—anyway. So, I’m sorry.”

I force myself to look up, plastering what I hope is an unconcerned expression on my face: an it-was-casual, no-problem, I’m-not-mortified expression. But the second I look into his eyes, I feel it slide off my face. He looks stern, serious. Like I’ve disappointed him in some way. Or I’m about to.

But beneath the stern expression is heat. It’s dark and, okay, I can’t see him that well, but I can feel his eyes drinking me in, sliding over my face and my body like he owns them. Me. Like there’s not a force in the world that could stop him from taking whatever he wants from me. And I’ll be damned if I wouldn’t let him.

When he speaks, though, his voice is calm, controlled, giving away nothing.

“I kissed you, Daniel. Don’t you remember?”

“Hell yeah,” I say softly. My eyes are glued to his mouth.

“I think maybe you want me to kiss you again.” He takes a step toward me. Ninety-eight percent of me is desperate for exactly that. But the other two percent is all of a sudden terrified. Terrified in a way I’ve never been before when it’s come to guys or sex. Terrified because it feels like this may be the most important decision I ever make. More important than deciding to go to college when all my teachers thought I was trouble. More important than sticking my hand down Corey Appleton’s pants in seventh grade, proving to myself that I was gay and I would fuck up anyone who gave me shit about it. More important than applying to grad school or taking this job. I can feel it in my gut.

I feel myself nodding, but I can’t feel anything else. I can’t smell the trees anymore, can’t hear the irritating chirrup of cicadas that’s been buzzing at my nerves all week. He’s taken up all my senses. Every nerve in my body is tuned to his frequency, every bit of my attention focused on the man in front of me.

He takes another step forward, pushing me backward with his huge body. But instead of falling, one step puts my back up against a tree. Rex’s chest is right against mine. With every breath he takes, his chest expands, pushing me against the rough bark behind me. He is heat and power and the air between us is electric.

As if in slow motion, he raises his hand. He places it at my neck, stroking my skin gently with his thumb, then in one powerful movement, he puts pressure on my jaw, tilting my head back and my mouth open and then his mouth is on mine and I’m dissolving into his kiss.

I moan when he deepens the kiss. He tastes like nighttime, something dark and fathomless and necessary. Then he pulls back. I blink quickly, trying to figure out what made him stop. He’s looking at me, his mouth only a breath away from mine.

“Lie down, Marilyn,” he commands, and I hear a yawn and the comfortable snuffle of a well-trained dog getting comfortable. He never breaks eye contact.

“Daniel,” he says in that same voice, and I nod. Nod at whatever he’s asking because whatever he wants I want it too.

He kisses me deep and hard and I pull his hips toward mine to fit us more tightly together. He moves to my neck, his stubble scraping sweetly across my throat as he kisses my neck slowly and bites the muscle there. I pull in a breath and moan, pushing my hips into his. Every scrape of his teeth sends a pulse to my groin. I’ve gotten hard so fast I’m overwhelmed, like all the blood drained from my head and rushed to my erection.

His mouth is soft and powerful, and I slide a hand into his hair to guide his lips back to mine. I push up on my tiptoes to get better access. Our kiss is like a conversation: getting to know each other, tilting to find each other, exploring.

I nip at Rex’s full lower lip and he growls, frustrated, and grabs my ass in his hands, pulling me against him and lifting me off the ground to hold me against the tree with no effort at all. I wrap my thighs around his hips and he thrusts against me.

I’ve never been with someone so built, and his strength is driving me crazy. It’s like I could do anything to him without hurting him and he could do anything to me, which makes my mind spiral to a thousand places at once.

He pushes harder against me, spreading my legs with his body until he can grind against me. He’s holding my whole weight like it’s nothing and as he rocks into me he brings our cocks into perfect alignment.

“Fuck,” I breathe, stiffening with the effort of not coming right away. It’s been too long. He eases off a little, still kissing me, and lowers me to the ground.

“I want to feel you. Can I?” he asks, and he slides one warm palm down the back of my pants, cupping the muscle, running a thick finger between my cheeks. I shiver against him and nod again, going for his pants. He stops my hands and, for a second, I think it’s going to be a repeat of what happened in his cabin all over again. But he just looks at me intently and says, “Tell me I can touch you.”

“You can touch me—shit!” The second the words leave my mouth, he pushes my pants and underwear down and grabs my ass with both hands.

“Your book,” he says.

“Huh?”

“Your book’s getting all messed up again,” he says, and I look down to where my copy of The Secret History is once again on the ground. Note to self: try not to step on your iPod.

“’S fine,” I say, reaching for him again.

He spreads me apart and kisses me with a hunger that makes me tremble as I fumble with his pants. When I finally drag his jeans and boxer briefs down, his erection springs out, hard and thick against his belly. He pushes me back against the tree and thrusts against me and, as our cocks meet skin to skin for the first time, we both moan. He’s all hardness and heat and he bites his lip and looks into my eyes as he rocks against me.

“C’mere,” Rex says, and he lifts me again, pulling me against his body, my back against the trunk of the tree. As he holds me steady, I thrust against him and shudder with pleasure. He groans and runs possessive hands over my lower back and hips. He spreads the globes of my ass and runs a thick finger down the crevice between them, circling my opening and making me shiver and clench up. He brings his finger up to my mouth and I suck on it. Then there’s wetness at my opening, wringing tiny shudders from me. He leans in to kiss me hard, sucks on my lower lip, and strokes me open. I cry out into Rex’s mouth as his finger slides inside.

Can a scrappy professor, an intense carpenter, and a stray dog make a go of it in their cabin in the woods? !