Chapter Five
Elliott’s spirits stayed remarkably light during the following week. He knew it was ridiculous to be happy just because of a few borrowed books, but logic didn’t matter. Evidence that others were enjoying his reading material—and getting into the spirit by adding their own—warmed his heart. It also made him look at his neighbors with fresh eyes, wondering which households currently harbored which volumes.
His curiosity was especially sharp about the gay-themed books. He’d been slightly hesitant to include them in the first place—Modesto was a relatively conservative place, at least by California standards. But those books were important. Important to him, important to the world. He wasn’t about to censor himself. Besides, he’d figured the titles might help a homophobe or two see the light.
Every gay-themed book he’d put out had disappeared within a day. Some had been returned, while others remained out in the wild, replaced—at least temporarily—with thrillers. James Patterson, mainly. Elliott wasn’t a huge fan, but to each his own. At least they were books.
After considerable thought, probably when he should have been doing something more productive, Elliott concluded that one particular person was borrowing the books by Edmund White, James Baldwin, Gore Vidal, and the rest. Someone, obviously, with an interest in LGBT themes, although Elliott’s collection was mostly lacking in the L, B, and T parts. Not only did this mean he couldn’t fully assess the mystery person’s curiosity, but it showed Elliott’s own literary net wasn’t cast very widely. He got as far as logging in to Amazon and surfing to the transgender nonfiction category before he remembered he was supposed to be on a book-buying moratorium. With a pang of regret, he closed the laptop.
He wandered to the couch and sprawled comfortably, trying to imagine his mystery reader. He decided to assume the person was male, although he knew that wasn’t necessarily a safe assumption. How old was he? Not a kid. Some of the books were pretty heavy reading, so the person was probably an older teen at the least. And was he gay or just wanting to learn more?
Elliott sat up quickly. “This is stupid. I need to get a real life . . . and stop talking to myself.”
He needed a change of scene—something more than his familiar neighborhood. After slipping into shoes, he grabbed his phone, wallet, and keys and headed for the garage.
At first, he drove without a particular goal or destination in mind. He didn’t have any errands to run, and the Modesto area wasn’t known for its intriguing scenery. After filling his gas tank, he hopped onto the freeway, and eventually he headed west.
He stopped for lunch in Dublin, at a strip mall where an assortment of restaurants would have allowed him to eat his way across Asia. After wavering between Korean fried chicken and Taiwanese noodles, he ended up opting for Afghani instead and happily munched his way through lamb qorma and rice. He hadn’t thought to grab a book when he left the house—very unusual for him—so he couldn’t read while he ate. Instead, he allowed his mind to wander, pulling it back when it meandered into dangerous territory such as jobs, his future, or John.
Happy to be going against the heavier Friday afternoon traffic, at least for the time being, Elliott continued west. His car seemed to have chosen a route—238 to 880, then over the long San Mateo Bridge, where the gray waves lapped beneath him and San Francisco gleamed in the distance like a mirage.
He didn’t go to San Francisco, though. Instead, he continued southwest on Highway 92, where traffic got more congested as he snaked his way over the hills. He emerged in Half Moon Bay, a coastal community he hadn’t visited in years. The road was lined with elaborate pumpkin farms, the type with hay mazes, petting zoos, and haunted houses. The farm parking lots were stuffed with SUVs as families prepared for the coming holiday.
Elliott drove past all the activity, turned north on Highway 1, and then pulled into the lot at the first beach he came to. Predictably, the air was chillier than in Modesto, but Elliott checked the trunk of his car and was delighted to discover a warm if somewhat tatty blanket—a holdover from a trip over the Sierras. He liked to be prepared in case of emergencies. And, really, this was an emergency of sorts—a personal crisis, at least a very small one. He’d driven all this way, after all, because he needed to somehow change his life.
Only a handful of people were on the beach. Elliott sat on the sand with the blanket around his shoulders and a large chunk of driftwood as a backrest, gazing out at the pounding surf. It was almost like meditating. His mind remained blissfully clear, with some crying gulls and a gamboling dog the biggest distractions. The passage of time ceased to matter until finally the horizon turned shades of brilliant orange and the sun sank into the ocean. Even then he remained, thankful for a cloudless night so he could watch the sparkling stars. Modesto wasn’t a good place for stargazing—too overcast in winter and smoggy over the summer. Here, though, he felt as if the entire universe was open for his inspection and admiration.
Eventually, he grew cold even with the blanket. And he had to pee. He stood, brushed the sand from his clothing, and trudged to the car.
He decided he couldn’t quite face returning home—not yet. So even though he didn’t have a change of clothes with him—didn’t even have a toothbrush—he checked into a modest little chain hotel just up the highway. He hadn’t eaten dinner, but he peeled off his clothing, climbed into bed, and was asleep almost at once.
***
During the drive home the following morning, Elliott made two dumb decisions. He wasn’t sure exactly when the resolutions hit him. Maybe when he began the rise over the Altamont, the rounded hills still brown from the summer drought. Maybe it was as he drove by a flock of sheep on the outskirts of Tracy, or when a line of semis crawled in front of him on the turnoff to Highway 99. In any case, by the time he turned into his driveway, his resolution had hardened, even though he’d chided himself for his stupidity.
“Viva la idiotez,” he murmured as he got out of his car.
Before he could shut the garage door, he saw Mike Burgess hurrying over. Lovely.
“Hi, Mike.” Elliott stood at the entrance to the garage.
Mike didn’t bother with pleasantries. “What’s that?” he demanded, pointing at the library.
“A mini neighborhood library.”
“A what?”
“Pretty self-explanatory, Mike. I put books in there, people can borrow them. Or replace them with their own. Help yourself.”
Judging from Mike’s sour expression, he wouldn’t be reading Elliott’s copy of The House of Spirits anytime soon. “You can’t have that here,” he said. “The CC&Rs—”
“Don’t forbid it. I checked. The city says it’s A-OK too.” That was a small stretch of the truth. Elliott hadn’t bothered to call anyone at city hall to check on the legality of tiny libraries. But he had looked at an online directory and discovered that several other mini libraries existed in his part of town. One of them had been there since 2012, which did tend to suggest the police chief wasn’t going to be sending a SWAT team to demolish Elliott’s small effort.
Mike pouted. “It’s stupid. There’s a perfectly good library downtown. A real one.”
“Sure. When’s the last time you were there?” Elliott received only a scowl in reply. “Thought so. Ditto with pretty much everyone else. This is just a fun little thing. It encourages literacy and education and . . . neighborhood solidarity.” He’d made that last part up, but it sounded legit.
For a moment Mike seemed at a loss, his gaze shifting around quickly. Then his face brightened, and he pointed triumphantly. “Well, you can’t have that!”
“Geraniums?” Elliott was in the mood to be deliberately obtuse.
“The sign.”
“There is no sign.”
With a small growling noise, Mike stomped up the walkway until he reached the flag. He jabbed his finger like a weapon. “This.”
“That is a flag, not a sign. A small, tasteful flag. The CC&Rs don’t say a word about flags.”
“It’s political.”
“Not especially. Even if it was, there’s nothing to prohibit it. Several of our neighbors fly American flags. That guy a block away has one that’s bigger than my living room. Are you going to tell me a US flag isn’t political?”
“It’s patriotic,” Mike said but didn’t sound entirely convinced.
They could have continued this pointless argument for much longer, but Elliott wasn’t in the mood. Besides, he was on a mission. He had stupid plans to make.
Deliberately keeping his voice soft and his expression mild, he said, “Look, Mike. We’re neighbors, and I really want us to get along. I’m sorry if you don’t agree with some of my front yard decisions, but they really don’t affect you. So I’ll tell you what. You stop complaining about my flag and library, and I won’t ask any questions about whether you followed proper procedures before you built that tool shed thing.”
When Mike blushed and averted his gaze, Elliott knew he’d scored a victory. People in this subdivision were supposed to get approval from their neighbors before erecting permanent additions or structures. Mike’s tool shed had already existed when Elliott moved in, so it was possible Mike had collected permissions, but his guilty expression confirmed that he had not.
“Fine,” Mike grumbled, still not meeting Elliott’s eyes. “But I better not see a lot of cars driving or parking on our street on account of your library. And no . . . political activity.” He waved vaguely in the direction of the flag.
“We’ll schedule the Pride march for somewhere else,” Elliott deadpanned.
“Good.” With no indication that he realized Elliott was joking, Mike stalked away.
Elliott took off his shoes as soon as he was inside the house, but he had sand in his clothing and hair, plus a grungy sensation caused by not brushing his teeth since the previous morning. So he shed his clothes in the laundry room and walked naked to the bathroom.
Standing under the warm shower, he decided it was as good a time as any to think about one of his new resolutions: to have sex. Not that he’d been celibate since returning to California. Two or three times a year, he rented a hotel room somewhere in the Bay Area and, thanks to the wonders of modern technology, found a hookup nearby. That was fine. An hour or two of fucking, and then he and the other man went home. Itch scratched.
Only, he’d realized during the past twenty-four hours that he needed more than that. He needed . . . God. He wasn’t sure. Touch. Not simply the quick and purposeful kind aimed at getting him and his partner off efficiently. He needed hugs and soft caresses. Familiar pats. Playful tickles. Tender strokes.
As these thoughts wandered through his mind, his hands wandered his body, mimicking the contact he craved. But while playing with one’s own body could certainly be fun, it didn’t fulfill his requirements. That would take someone else. Not just a handy stranger, but a . . . companion? Someone who knew him. Elliott wasn’t asking for love and devotion, just someone who cared.
He was half-hard by the time he got out of the shower, and he took extra care with the towel, rubbing himself more thoroughly than was necessary just to dry off. Still naked and now fully erect, he padded to his bed and arranged himself comfortably on the mattress and pillow. He didn’t bother to fetch his laptop from the next room or even get his phone. Porn wasn’t necessary today because he could easily imagine everything.
His partner, this mystery man, would splay himself over Elliott’s body, holding him in place with his weight, making Elliott feel . . . not trapped, but . . . secured. The man would stare into Elliott’s eyes, the intensity of his gaze proving that, for the moment, he had no interests other than what they were doing together. Proving that Elliott was currently the center of his universe.
And this man? He’d be the center of Elliott’s universe too. Past mistakes forgotten, future choices irrelevant. They’d have each other for the now; and for the now, that would be all they wanted.
Elliott rolled his nipples between finger and thumb until the sensation became almost too much. Then he closed his eyes and ghosted his fingertips across the lids, over his cheeks, around his lips. If he allowed his concentration to slip just a little, he could almost imagine they were someone else’s fingers, a bridge to another man’s nerves and blood. Those fingertips, no longer exactly his own, traced the history of Elliott’s life as writ upon his skin. The tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, the stubble on his unshaved cheeks and chin, the lean muscles he worked so hard to maintain, the bones caging his heart, the tiny scar just behind one hip—the result of one of those childhood indiscretions with a homemade wheeled vehicle. His cock, now straining, begged for the thumb that teased the tip before running the length of the shaft.
Soon he was moaning and gasping, his balls pulled tight, his toes curled, his fist flying. Deep in his fantasy, his hand was both another man’s stroking Elliott, and Elliott’s stroking another man, a duality that defied logic but was just enough to . . .
There. Like that.
Elliott came with a noisy exhalation. Even then, while his skin continued to tingle and buzz, he smoothed his palm—his imaginary lover’s palm—over his belly and chest, marking himself with his own spend.
He lay still as his overheated body cooled.
There was a flaw in his illusion, one he’d been aware of even as he chased his orgasm. His imaginary lover was really nothing but a hand. He’d had no face, no voice, no name. Elliott wasn’t about to feel guilty for that—nothing wrong with a bit of unreality while he was getting himself off. Lots of people entertained sex daydreams they would never want to replicate in real life. But now that his climax was past and his dick was soft, he was left with the original puzzle: how to find a real-life lover.
The answer didn’t burst into his thoughts with fanfare and confetti. In fact, it had been there in his consciousness for some time, patiently waiting to be acknowledged.
Kyle.
Elliott didn’t have a crush on him and wasn’t eager to get into bed with him. They didn’t really have that much in common. But he’d been fun to hang out with. Elliott could imagine inviting him over for dinner, watching a movie on TV together. Maybe it wasn’t such a big step from that to cuddling. To making out. To having sex and falling asleep in each other’s arms.
Okay, none of those ideas especially inspired Elliott. But hell, he’d just jerked off. He might feel differently if it had been a while since he’d come.
Elliott wasn’t a complete asshole—he acknowledged that thus far he’d factored only himself into the equation. What about Kyle’s wants and needs? Well, Kyle seemed to enjoy Elliott’s company—if not, he wouldn’t have invited him to coffee. So there was that. Kyle was single, new to town, probably past the age where hanging out in bars and hoping to pick someone up sounded attractive. Plus this was Modesto, which was hardly renowned for its swinging gay scene. It was hardly renowned for its swinging anything scene.
What if Elliott proposed a friends-with-benefits arrangement? He and Kyle could get together now and then for company and sex. No strings attached, no expectations. Kyle would be free to sleep with other men if he wanted to and even search for his One True Love, if that was what floated his boat. If Kyle got sick of Elliott or tired of their deal, Elliott would step away immediately, no hard feelings. If that happened, Elliott wouldn’t feel like his heart had been torn from his chest, because there was no emotional connection. It would be a . . . Well, they used to have marriages of convenience. This would be a small equivalent of that.
Energized by having decided on a course of action, Elliott got out of bed, wiped himself clean with a washcloth, and got dressed. He’d call Kyle the next day, invite him somewhere for a drink, and lay out his plan. Yes, it was a weak plan, foolish and perhaps even a bit pathetic, but at least it was something. It was like building a tiny library—inconsequential in the grand scheme of things but better than sitting on his ass and bemoaning his fate.
Elliott hadn’t eaten since the Afghani lunch the previous day. Food wasn’t a priority when he had things to strategize. But now his empty stomach growled, so he took the time to make a hearty meal of corn chowder, chili-lime chicken, and rice and beans. While he ate, he read a few chapters of a book about Magellan’s travels, a choice that seemed to fit Elliott’s recent, if unplanned, trip to the ocean.
Afterward, he washed up and moved into the living room to contemplate his other scheme. Sitting in his favorite armchair in the silent, dimly lit room, he felt a little Machiavellian. He was a miniature mastermind! That was a comforting idea, considering he’d taken so little agency over his own life.
Aside from finding someone to get up close and personal with, the other decision he’d made on the drive home was to find out who was borrowing his gay-themed books. Unlike the first plan, this one wasn’t out of personal need. Really, it was nothing more than gnawing curiosity, but since so few of his desires had been met in recent years, he felt justified in indulging himself in this regard.
Okay. How best to spy on his innocent neighbors?
He could install a camera somewhere, either a security camera outside or a more conventional one indoors. The big window in his living room offered a perfect view of the library. But either option would require him to watch possibly hours of footage to find his man—or woman. Besides, recording library visitors felt sneaky.
“I’m going to have to do this in person.” The concept appealed to him, actually. It made him feel very James Bond. But it would require some preparation because currently a low bookcase squatted beneath that window.
It took him over an hour to unshelve all the books, wrestle the empty case to the only free wall space he could think of—in the guest bathroom—and put all the books back. Then he dragged his dining room table into the vacated spot under the window. It wasn’t a big table and he rarely used it, preferring to eat and do a good chunk of his work at the kitchen table instead. Finally, he carried over one of the dining room chairs.
“Done!” He stood, hands on hips, inspecting his work with a degree of satisfaction. Yes, it was an unorthodox location for a table, but it would make a good place to slave over his laptop while keeping an eye on the front yard. It wasn’t totally weird. Lots of people preferred to work with a view. Elliott would keep the curtains open so he’d be fully visible to anyone who glanced at his house. That way he wasn’t being sneaky and underhanded.
He hadn’t gone for a run that day, but between the drive home, the scheming, and the furniture rearranging, he let himself off the hook. He set up his computer in the new workspace, and before booting it up, he strolled outside for a quick library survey. That way if someone came along and took a book, Elliott would easily know which book it was.
Satisfied his undercover efforts were fully in place, Elliott sat down in front of the window and turned on his laptop.
A few pedestrians strolled by, and a couple of people wheeled past on bikes, but none of them stopped. Nobody stopped at all, except for a fluffy white dog with a pink collar, who paused to sniff at the library pole until her person tugged her onward.
Elliott did get a lot of assignment grading accomplished, and he commented on the online discussion boards for all three of his classes. Which was a good thing, because a considerable subset of his ancient civ students were engaged in a discussion about whether King Tut’s curse was real and whether mummies—the horror-movie type—were actually a subspecies of zombies. Elliott set them back on course. Then he answered emails, most of which were straightforward. One young woman, however, was apparently in the midst of an identity crisis and had sent him a string of emails, each asking confusing questions about which classes she should take for her major. If Elliott counted correctly, she had changed her major four times within two days.
There was an email from the chair of one of the departments Elliott taught for, asking whether he was interested in three online classes in the spring: another two sections of California history, plus one on twentieth-century Europe. Elliott responded with an enthusiastic yes. He’d even get a chance to talk about the Balkans in the European class.
Just as he clicked Send, movement caught his attention. A thin lady with curly gray hair and a purple tracksuit was approaching his property, two paperbacks in hand. He watched as she surveyed the library for a minute or two before pulling out a volume; he couldn’t tell which one. She put her own two inside and closed the plexiglass. Then she looked over at the house—straight at Elliott.
He froze, a look of guilty terror no doubt clear on his face. But the lady smiled at him and waved. After a brief hesitation, he waved back. She pointed at him, pointed at the library, and gave a theatrical thumbs-up. After another wave, she was off toward the greenbelt, Elliott’s book clutched under one arm.
Elliott waited fifteen minutes—sheer torture—and finally decided the coast was clear. He walked outside, wondering whether he looked as sneaky as he felt. He was trying for casual while he checked the library.
Ah. So that had been his romance fan. The lady had left one book about a farm girl in love with a shirtless, buff lycanthrope and one about a nurse who fell for a shirtless, buff, tattooed fallen angel. She’d taken a biography of a KGB undercover agent. Interesting, but not what Elliott was looking for. Still, even if his mystery wasn’t yet solved, he was pleased to learn that he’d made someone happy with his library. What with all his assignments, testing, and grading, he didn’t often do things that delighted other people.
Dusk was falling, the temperatures beginning to drop and the moon becoming bright above his head. It was unlikely his library would have more visitors until tomorrow. Parts of the greenbelt were poorly lit, so few people used it at night.
Elliott returned to his table by the window. He’d have a light late dinner of the leftover soup, and then he’d turn in early and watch a movie—maybe two—while tucked in bed. Tomorrow he would wake up early and look for new job postings.
He shut down the laptop and started closing the drapes. But before his view was entirely obscured, someone approached from the direction of the greenbelt. The romance lady? No. As the figure came closer, Elliott saw that this person was larger, moving slower—and carrying a cane.
While Elliott watched furtively, Simon Odisho hobbled to the library and stopped. Simon spent several minutes removing books, examining them, and returning them. He finally settled on one, which he replaced with a paperback he took from his hoodie pocket. He continued on his way without ever glancing toward Elliott.
This time, Elliott waited so long that full darkness arrived. The only street light was at the end of the block, so he used the flashlight app on his phone to investigate the library’s contents. The new book made him smile—it was Neil Gaiman’s most recent, and Elliott hadn’t read it yet. Before he could decide whether it was kosher to borrow from his own library, he realized which book was gone. It was one of the nonfiction choices, a history of gay activists before Stonewall.
It seemed Elliott’s gay-themed book fan was Simon Odisho.