DARK ROOTS
Part 10: Starting Gate
Brian
Justin greets me at the door, he grabs onto my arm and shakes it. “How was it?
Is he nice? Did you have a good time?”
“You’re wrinkling,” I admonish, pulling my arm free. I hand him the box of cake,
shrug off my jacket and move across the loft toward the bedroom. Naturally he
follows, frisking around me like an excited puppy.
“You stayed a long time,” he points out, “So you must have enjoyed it?”
“I brought you chocolate cake.”
“Oh.” Justin notices the box he’s holding and pops it open to look inside.
Raising it to his nose to sniff, he says, “Mmm, great! Thanks, Brian! But, did
you have a good time? Do you like Dr. Shaughnessy?”
“He’s all right.” I turn away to hang up my jacket.
“You like him!” Justin guesses. “You never like anybody - that’s only your
highest compliment.”
I slip off my pants and reach for a hanger. “It is?”
“Yeah.” Justin dips a finger into chocolate frosting and licks it. He watches in
silence as I remove the rest of my clothes, containing his impatience until I’m
down to my briefs and tee shirt. “Are you going to see him again?” he asks then,
and I nod.
“Maybe. He invited us for dinner next week.”
“Brian, that’s great! See, he likes you! And. . .” Justin stops jiggling around
and stands still. “Brian, you said. . .’invited us.’ Us, as in – me too?”
“What other us is there?”
“Holy shit,” Justin murmurs. “Holy shit, Brian – you told him about me? You told
him you’re gay, and he’s, like, okay with that?”
“So what?”
“Brian - “
Then I sigh. “He acts like it’s no big deal, but who knows what he really
thinks? Anyway,” I add quickly, “It doesn’t matter if he’s ‘okay’ with it or
not.”
Justin’s silent for a moment, then he asks, “Can we go? To dinner?”
“I don’t know.” I haven’t decided yet. “I’ll think about it. Meanwhile,” I take
the cake box away from Justin and set it on the chest of drawers, pull him into
my arms and give him a quick kiss. He slides his arms around my waist and slips
his hands under my tee. “Meanwhile,” I repeat, “It’s your turn for show and
tell. Tell me about your famous artiste.”
“Oh, I had a good time too! He’s really nice.”
“It’s nice that he’s nice,” I mock.
“I mean, he’s not all snooty or full of himself. And he liked my stuff.”
I’ll bet that he liked Justin’s stuff.
Justin
“I don’t know why I was so nervous about meeting Alexander DuPont,” I explain to
Brian. “I mean, he’s famous and everything, but I met a lot of famous people in
Hollywood. And I remember being surprised at how normal most of them were.”
“Normal?”
“Like, probably the most famous person I ever met was Robert DeNiro; he was at a
reception Brett took me to. I remember being surprised that DeNiro’s kind of
short, has terrible hair, and he just isn’t that impressive. I didn’t get to
speak to him, except to say hello, so maybe he makes a better impression if he
talks to you.”
“That’s possible.” Brian’s got his tongue in his cheek but I’m ignoring it.
“So anyway, after all my experience in Hollywood, you’d think meeting a famous
artist wouldn’t be such a big deal. But somehow in my mind, I put Alexander
DuPont up there on a pedestal, you know? Like Pablo Picasso or Modigliani or
Vincent Van Gogh. And I’m sure that, if I met one of THEM,” I emphasize, “I’d
fucking pass out!”
“Hardly a unique reaction,” Brian observes dryly. “They’re all dead. Meeting a
ghost would surprise anyone.”
“You know what I mean!” I pull away from Brian and reach around him to grab the
box of cake. “Let me eat this while I tell you about him, okay?”
He nods so I lead the way to the kitchen, grab a fork and then we sit down at
the counter and I dig off a big chunk of cake and shove it in my mouth. “Mmm,
they make the best cake there, even better than my mom’s. Or,” I add guardedly,
“Your mom’s.”
“Is that so?”
Brian never touched the cake his mother brought him, that time she caught us
fucking, but I ate most of it and it was really good. Chocolate with chocolate
chips.
“The house where he’s staying is huge,” I tell him, “Almost as big as that
Pickle Guy’s place, but more modern. There’s an enormous studio with skylights,
and easels set up all over the place. Zander showed me - “
“Zander?”
“It’s his nickname. He told me to call him that, he says he hates formality. So
anyway,” I lay down my fork and give total attention to Brian. “He gave me an
overview of the project he’s working on. It’s being underwritten by the National
Endowment for the Arts. And the Human Rights Commission is sponsoring it too.
Twelve nationally recognized artists are creating posters supporting equal
rights for the LGBT community. Zander says the HRC believes we need a national
focus on the issue, instead of just reacting to the individual states’ efforts
to ban gay marriage.”
“A poster campaign?” Brian smirks. “That should be right up your alley.”
I feel my cheeks getting hot. “I know you thought my agit-prop posters were
stupid.”
“Hey,” he fixes his eyes on my face and says seriously, “I helped you put them
up, didn’t I? And they were damned effective, they made a lot of people think.
Why do you always assume that I’m making fun of you?”
“Well,” I shrug, “Sometimes you do.”
“Only when you wear a pink shirt and carry a concealed weapon.”
I draw breath for a retort when Brian forestalls me. “Now tell me,” he says,
“Why does this guy need you – what is your role in all this?”
“Partly, he says, because he wants a young person’s perspective. He says he’s
not as in touch with youth culture as he used to be.”
“And you are? You don’t even like hip-hop.”
Ignoring Brian, I go on, “And also because he needs someone who’s familiar with
drawing and painting software programs. Professor Grant told him about the one I
use, and Zander wants me to show him how it works. He also wants to catalog his
master portfolio and he needs someone who’s familiar with sorting programs and
knowledgeable enough about art to help with the cataloging.”
“Sounds like you’re the man.”
“Yeah.”
Zander had said exactly that, “You’re the man, Justin,” and then he’d given me a
hug. I don’t need to tell Brian about the hug. It was just a friendly thing to
do, but Brian might misunderstand.
“So,” Brian asks, “I forgot to ask the most important question: Is he hot?”
“Don’t make this about sex, okay? Working with Zander is totally a professional
thing.”
“So – he IS hot, then?”
I don’t want to answer that but he’s bound to meet Zander at some point, so I
might as well tell the truth. “Yeah.”
“Tall? Dark? Handsome? All of the above?”
“Yes, okay? What difference does it make?”
“Hmm.” Brian shrugs, he seems totally disinterested which naturally proves that
he’s not happy with my answer. “And so,” he continues, “How long is this project
going to take? How long will you be working with him?”
“He thinks he’ll be in Pittsburgh two or three months. Some of the stuff I’ll be
doing, I can do alone, or on my computer. But he’d like me to be with him at the
studio at least three hours a day, times to be mutually arranged. He said it’ll
probably average twenty hours a week, altogether. Anyway, that’s how much he’s
going to pay me for, and I won’t have to punch a time clock.”
“That’s too many hours. You’re at the diner, what, about twelve hours? And it
exhausts you.”
“Twelve or fourteen,” I agree before adding, “But the diner is more physical.
It’s not physical with Zander, I won’t get so tired. Plus I’ll be doing more
meaningful stuff. And it’s a ton more money, fifteen dollars an hour! And it’s
only for a couple months.” When he just looks at me, I add emphatically, “I can
handle it, Brian.”
“I offered you more than that, to work at Kinnetik. And shorter hours. Or isn’t
working at the agency ‘meaningful’ enough?”
“Brian,” I’m surprised, “Of course working at Kinnetik would be meaningful too!
I just honestly didn’t think it was a good idea – for, you know, for you to be
my boss and all. For our relationship. You know?”
“Whatever.”
I really am surprised, I honestly didn’t know that Brian was still upset about
me turning down a job at Kinnetik. I’m afraid of the answer, but I have to ask
the question anyway: “Brian, are you saying you don’t want me to take this job?”
“Of course not. It’s up to you to make your own decisions. And you already have,
haven’t you? You told him yes.”
“Yes, but - ”
“No buts.”
“Brian, it didn’t occur to me that you’d object.”
“I don’t object. Justin – I don’t fucking object, okay?” Brian stops abruptly,
shakes his head and fixes his eyes on my face. Then taking my hand and
unconsciously massaging it, his voice softens, loses the exasperation. “Look,”
he says gently, “You had your reasons for turning down the Kinnetik offer, and
I’m through rubbing your nose in it. Okay?”
I just look back at him, maybe I don’t seem convinced because he adds, “This new
job is a good opportunity for you, and the salary’s not bad. You’ll be doing
something you enjoy and get paid for it.”
“But you’re not happy.”
“Stop that shit now, don’t get fucking lesbianic on me. It’s late, let’s go to
bed.”
It’s not really late, just about midnight, but I don’t argue. “Okay,” I agree,
getting up to dump my empty box in the garbage and follow Brian up the steps to
the bedroom.
We undress silently, slip under the covers. And even though our brains are not
getting along very well right now, our bodies don’t seem to notice – hands,
arms, and legs just naturally snap together, like a pile of oversized Legos. And
when we kiss, well, everything outside this bed just ceases to exist.
Brian
Justin’s over the moon, he’s practically giddy, that he’ll be working so closely
with this “Zander“ DuPont. Zander, what a pretentious nickname.
On Sunday, while Justin was working one of his last shifts at the diner, I spent
a little time googling Alexander DuPont. He was apparently some kind of child
prodigy, dazzling the art world while he was still in high school. He aced his
way through college and made a splash in Paris, having his first one-man show
there when he was still in his early twenties.
Another prodigy for Justin to hang out with.
The guy’s thirty-five or so now and unlike most artists, he’s made a bundle. He
has a house in the south of France – so what the fuck is he doing in Pittsburgh?
I asked Justin that and he had an answer: It seems that The Artist Formerly
Known as Alexander feels the need for “an American perspective” for this poster
project.
Whatever.
And why am I feeling so negative about this guy? I really have no idea.
Justin
It’s my first day working with Zander and we spent a couple hours this morning
discussing the computer program he wants to use to keep track of his master
portfolio. He claims he’s tech-challenged and while I don’t say out loud that I
agree with him, the truth is, he’s right. But he's interested in the drawing
software I use and he asked to see samples of work that I've done on the
computer.
"I'm surprised that Professor Grant allows it, he was always such a stickler for
traditional media," Zander remarks, and when I hastily assure him that Grant is
one of those teachers who WON'T allow it, he takes one look at what must be my
woebegone face and laughs sympathetically, then grabs me for a quick impromptu
hug.
He lets go right away and turns back to the computer, and I remind myself it
means nothing. Zander is just one of those touchy-feely types, it’s reflected in
his art which is sensual and sensitive yet dynamic at the same time. It’s no
wonder he’s achieved such popular acclaim, the appeal of his paintings is
universal.
We’re still sitting by the computer when my cell rings about eleven-thirty and
I’m surprised to see that it’s Brian, he usually doesn’t call me in the middle
of the day. “Hey,” I answer, “What’s up?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Brian replies, his voice has an edge
that I don’t understand. Christ, I hope I didn’t forget to set the alarm or
something, and I open my mouth to ask if he’s mad when his voice changes
suddenly and becomes almost cheery. “I called to tell you that I’m just
finishing up a meeting in your employer’s neighborhood, so I could pick you up –
you said you’d be finished there about noon, right?”
“Oh,” I’m surprised. “Yeah, I guess so. Let me ask Zander.” Then I turn to the
artist who’s raised his eyebrows in enquiry. “Will we be finished by noon?” I
ask, then add, “If so, my partner can pick me up, but it’s okay if you need me
to stay a little longer.”
“Of course, Justin, you can leave whenever you want to, we won’t stand on
formality here.” I nod but before I can give Brian the news, Zander adds, “Tell
him to buzz from the street, he can drive up to the door. And tell him to come
on in, I’d like to meet him.”
I’m not sure that’s such a good idea but I smile anyway and pass on the
invitation to Brian. I doubt that he’ll say yes but surprisingly, he does. “I’ll
be there in half an hour,” Brian concludes before hanging up. Then Zander and I
return to our discussion about software and I don’t have time to worry about the
two of them meeting. Not that there’s any reason to worry.
Brian
I was going to wait a few days before making an appearance at Alexander DuPont’s
little villa-away-from-villa but curiosity – and absolutely no other motive than
that – prompted me to call Justin this morning and wangle an invitation to meet
the famous artiste.
Rounding the curve of the driveway, I push down a vague feeling of disquiet as I
glance up at the elegant façade of what passes for an upper-middle-class mansion
in this part of the city. It’s not often any more that I have to remind myself
that I’m not intimidated by the trappings of wealth and power, and immediately
I'm able to shrug off a very temporary feeling of being out of place. There's
nowhere in the world that I am out of place; and nothing intimidates me. I slam
the door of the 'vette and climb several stairs leading to the entrance, and the
door opens as I approach.
It's not really a mansion, and it would have been downright amusing if I were
greeted by the butler dressed in tails that my imagination had somehow conjured
up. Instead this must be the artist himself standing tall in the open doorway.
He's smiling but I have only a moment to look him over before Justin comes
around from behind and rushes to my side, grabbing my arm and giving it a hard
squeeze. "Brian," he greets me, then turns to the other man and says, "Alexander
DuPont, this is Brian Kinney. My partner."
DuPont sticks out his hand and gives me a big grin. "Happy to meet you," he
says, "Come on in." We shake briefly then I follow him into the house, Justin
still hanging on my arm.
I'm glad to get a look at the artist, and at the place where Justin will be
working. The man's definitely in the category of hot, though he looks older than
I expected - a little French anti-aging crème would have done wonders to prevent
the wrinkles gathering around his eyes and mouth, and there is the slightest
hint of sag in the skin under his chin. He obviously works out, he's got broad
shoulders, his fawn trousers outline well-muscled thighs, and there's no
suggestion of belly softness. His hair is thick and dark brown, and his face is
chiseled - handsome in the Marlboro Man sense.
Immediately on shaking the man's hand, I feel a slight frisson of familiarity.
In a sense I was expecting something like this - considering that he is not much
older than me and that he grew up in Pittsburgh, it's not unlikely that we have
met before. Perhaps in the baths, where I hung out in my late teens, when I
couldn't easily get into the bars. On that thought, and as we enter what must be
the living room, DuPont turns toward me again and asks, "Have we met before,
Brian?"
"No."
I've decided that we're not going there, and I notice that DuPont's eyes crinkle
up as he nods his head and almost-smiles. He's apparently having the same
thoughts as I am, and he may also be acknowledging my desire to leave the past –
if we share any past – behind.
"Would you like a drink?" he asks politely, gesturing toward a bar cart against
one wall.
"I can't stay," I shake my head no, "I've got a conference call scheduled
shortly; I just came to give Justin a ride to campus." I glance at Justin and he
nods.
"I've got a two o'clock class today," he confirms.
"Ready to go?" I raise my eyebrows at him and he nods again.
"Yes, I'll just go get my stuff together, it'll take a couple minutes, okay?"
"Go ahead." As he scurries from the room, I accept DuPont's gesture to sit on
the sofa and he sits in a nearby chair.
"He's a beautiful young man," DuPont comments, giving me that half-smile again.
"I'm not surprised that he's been snapped up, though he seems rather young to be
in a committed relationship."
"Does he?" I inquire - pleasantly, but giving it an edge.
The artist laughs softly. "Ah, Brian," he shakes his head, "Not to worry, your
boy is safe with me."
"Who's worried?"
"You're practically waving a sign that says 'hands off,' you know?" he informs
me languidly. "It's sweet, but not necessary. I've never been interested in the
young ones."
"Is that so?"
"Maybe once, when I was younger myself. Am I right," he asks conversationally,
"In thinking that you and I have met before? I have the craziest notion that
I've had your cock in my mouth."
"Could be," I agree easily, "Every vaguely attractive fag in Pittsburgh could
say the same."
DuPont laughs at that. "There's one way to jog my memory," he suggests. "I'll
give you my private number." When I open my mouth to say no, DuPont quickly
adds, "Or are you two playing the monogamy game? That hardly seems like it would
be your style."
Monogamy isn't my style, and I don't know if I'm playing that game or not.
"Actually," I match DuPont's languor and easy smile, "That's none of your
business."
"Touché," he acknowledges, then we both get to our feet as Justin re-enters the
room. His head swings from one to the other and his brow furrows as he studies
our faces; perhaps he's worried that I've fucked up his new job.
"Good-bye for now," DuPont tells Justin, "See you tomorrow?" And when Justin
says okay, I can see him relax – until the artist throws an arm around Justin's
shoulders and gives him a quick hard hug. Justin glances worriedly at me, and I
realize that DuPont is playing with us.
"Good-bye," I smile, refusing to rise to the bait, sticking out my hand to
shake. DuPont clasps my hand with both of his, and squeezes.
“Don’t be a stranger,” he urges, and with tongue definitely in cheek, he adds,
“I just love making new friends.”
Disengaging my hand, I slide my arm around Justin’s shoulders and lead him to
the door. DuPont comes with us and stands on the porch, waving us away.
We’re silent in the car for a few moments, then Justin says off-handedly, “Do
you like him?”
I’m not sure how to answer that, but then I shrug and remind him, “As you said
the other day, I never like anybody.”
Justin laughs, but I can tell that he’s concerned. But as long as he treats
Justin fairly and keeps his artistic hands off him, I don’t need to like this
guy. Still, I don’t want Justin to worry about it, so I slide my hand across the
back of the seat and squeeze his neck. When we pull up at a stop sign, I lean
over and plant a big juicy kiss on him, and I’m rewarded when Justin relaxes in
his seat and gives me that beaming sunshine smile.
Shaughn
When Brian hasn’t called by mid-week, I take the initiative and call his home
number on Thursday night. After meeting him last weekend, I realize that I’m the
one who’ll have to do the pursuing.
“Hello?”
“Hello, this is Shaughn. Who is this, please?”
“Hello,” the unfamiliar voice answers, “This is Justin.”
“Oh yes,” I acknowledge; “Brian’s boyfriend.”
“We-ell,” there’s some hesitation, “He doesn’t exactly like that word. We’re
partners.”
“Oh, I see.” Partners indicates a different kind of relationship to me than
boyfriends, but I reserve judgment. “Is Brian at home tonight?”
“He’s working late. Do you want his office number? Or, could I give him a
message?”
“I don’t want to bother him at work. Could you just ask him to call me?” On
impulse I add, “I was hoping we could get together this weekend.”
“That would be great,” he’s enthusiastic. “I’m sure Brian would like that.”
I’m glad he’s sure; I’m not so very confident myself. After a moment I suggest,
“He’s rather difficult to pin down. Your partner.”
“No shit! Oh, sorry!” Justin quickly corrects himself, “I mean, yes, yes he can
be.”
“Have you,” I hope I’m not prying but I’ve started this so now I go on, “Have
you known Brian long?”
“Yeah, a really long time. Three years. Umm,” Justin hesitates, then says in a
rush, “Oh, I think he’s here now, can you hold on?” and before I can answer, I
hear the phone landing rather heavily on a desk or table. There’s a loud
metallic screeching sound, then some low-voiced conversation that I can’t hear,
then in a moment Brian comes on the phone.
“Hello.”
“Brian? It’s Shaughn. Have I caught you at a bad time? Justin said you were
working late.”
“Having a chat, were you?” he suggests, his voice sounding a bit annoyed, then
he quickly adds, “No, it’s not a bad time. What can I do for you?”
Ignoring the brusqueness in Brian’s voice – something apparently necessary for
anyone intending to spend time with the man – I say, “I was hoping we could
confirm a date for you – and Justin – to come see us. Maybe this weekend?”
“That’s very soon,” he says quickly, then adds, “We might have plans.”
I can hear Justin’s hissing whisper in the background, “No, we don’t have
plans!”
“Hold on for a moment,” Brian says evenly, then he must have placed his hand
over the phone and I can hear only mumbled voices on the other end. It’s a full
two minutes before Brian comes back on the phone.
“Possibly we could make it,” he tells me. “But it’s a long way to come just for
dinner. I might have a client meeting in Boston next month, why don’t we wait
for that.”
“We can, of course,” I agree, “But you’re not just invited for dinner, Brian.
Why don’t you come for the whole weekend?” When my suggestion is met with dead
silence, I go on, “We have a guest cottage on our property – it’s small, nothing
fancy, but it’s comfortable.” When there is still no response, I add, “Brian,
please come. Barbara is anxious to meet you, and I’d really like to have time to
get to know you better.”
Finally he speaks. “Why?”
I sigh and shake my head. “Brian.”
He sighs too. “Let me think about it,” he says at last. “I’ll get back to you.”
“Come on Brian – don’t let me down. Say you’ll come.”
“Okay.” He sounds reluctant, but then he relents. “Yes, okay. Probably.”
“Good! Goodbye, till then.”
“Bye.”
As I hang up the phone, I shake my head at Barbara, who’s standing at my elbow.
“I have a feeling,” I tell her, “That getting to know this man is going to be
very God-damned difficult.”
“Well,” she shrugs, “You always enjoy a challenge!”
Brian
As we drive through the busy streets of Boston late Saturday morning, Justin is
simultaneously looking at a map, reading the directions e-mailed by
Shaughnessy’s wife, and rubber-necking what few sights there are to see on the
drive from the airport to the doctor’s neighborhood just outside the city. He’s
excited and happy and smiling and I’m. . .not.
I have this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that I’m making a very big
mistake, coming to spend the weekend with a couple of strangers, old straight
people I don’t know from Adam. I hate straights and they mostly hate us, all of
them. I know there’s exceptions – Debbie, Justin’s little friend Daphne – but
there’s no evidence that Dr. Shaughnessy is going to be any different, blood
connection or no. What have I gotten myself in for? What have I gotten Justin in
for? I’ll kick the shit out of anybody who mistreats him, whether I’m related to
them or not.
Finally we find the doctor’s house. It’s large but not imposing, a two-story
brick home on a slight rise, with a narrow front yard ringed by a wrought-iron
fence. The gate’s open and I pull the rental car into the driveway; we park
behind a silver Mercedes as a door on the side of the house opens and
Shaughnessy comes down the steps. As we get out of the car my face is blank and
feels wooden, but that’s okay, Justin’s smiling wide enough for both of us.
“Hello!” Shaughnessy greets us enthusiastically, coming around the front of the
car and grabbing my hand to shake. “Welcome!” He quickly releases my hand and
grabs hold of Justin’s.
“Justin Taylor, Gerald Shaughnessy,” I say rather unnecessarily.
“Hello, welcome,” the doctor repeats. “Barbara’s in the cottage, making sure you
have everything you need. Why don’t you bring your cases, and follow me?” He
turns and pushes open a large wooden side gate with iron hinges, and he holds it
open while Justin and I collect our cases from the trunk.
I’d rather have done that later, I’d planned to leave our stuff in the car in
case we wanted to get away quickly before we were committed to staying in the
guest house. I'm already feeling vaguely trapped. As we’re ushered through the
gate, I have this sinking sensation in my stomach when I realize that there’s no
turning back now.
Justin’s having no such qualms. "Oh, it's beautiful!" he exclaims as we enter a
large back yard, filled with flowering shrubs and plants and complete with a
small kidney-shaped pool surrounded by a redwood deck.
"Thanks - gardening is my wife’s hobby, this is all her doing."
There's lawn chairs sprinkled here and there on the deck and a round
umbrella-topped table. A paving-stone pathway skirts the pool and leads a few
yards to the guest house in one corner of the property. The door’s open and
Shaughnessy calls, “Barbara, they’re here.”
A woman comes through the doorway, she’s tall and has dark blonde hair pulled
back in a ponytail, she’s holding something, a couple books, in her hand. When
she sees me, she stops short and mutters, “Oh, my God,” drops the books to the
ground and raises her hands to her face. “Oh, my God,” she says again.
“Quite a likeness, eh?” Shaughnessy asks genially as he bends to retrieve the
dropped books.
Barbara glances from me to her husband and back again. “I’m sorry to stare,” she
apologizes quickly, “You have no idea how much you look like Shaughn when he was
young.” She moves a step closer and continues to peer at my face. “There’s
differences too, of course – your cheekbones are higher, your chin’s a bit
rounder than Shaughn’s, and. . .oh, I’m sorry to be so rude,” Barbara apologizes
again, reaching out to take my hand and shake it. “It’s such a pleasure to meet
you, Brian, Shaughn’s been so excited ever since he met you, he talks of little
else.”
“Hello,” I manage to murmur, there’s a strange lump in my throat that won’t let
me speak properly.
Justin jumps into the void, stepping forward to offer his hand. “I’m Justin
Taylor,” he introduces himself.
“It’s lovely to meet you both,” Barbara says graciously. “Bring your things into
the cottage, I was just straightening up a bit. Come in, come in,” she
encourages us as we hang back by the door. Actually I’m the one hanging back,
Justin surges forward and immediately compliments the décor.
“Oh, how pretty it is!” he gushes.
Shaughnessy's description was accurate, the cottage is small, merely a bedroom
and bath, made up very attractively in blue and white; comfortable but not
ostentatious.
"Would you boys like to freshen up before lunch?" Barbara asks. "We'll eat in
about an hour, out there on the patio. Is either of you a vegetarian?"
"No," Justin answers for us, “We eat everything. Well,” he corrects himself,
“Brian has this thing about carbs, but he does eat meat.”
“We’ll leave you alone to get settled then,” Barbara says, moving to the door to
join Shaughnessy where he’s been waiting.
“Thanks,” Justin gives them a big grin, then they turn and walk off down the
path. He moves to stand beside me and pries my frozen fingers off the handle of
my suitcase, it drops to the floor with a clunk. “Are you okay, Brian?” he
whispers, staring hard at my still-blank face.
What’s the matter with me, I feel like I’ve been hovering in suspended animation
for the past several minutes. Then I snap myself out of my weird trance and
chuff a loud sigh. “Of course I’m okay,” I answer irritably, turning away from
him and glancing around the room. I spy an open door of what must be the
bathroom and move toward it. Justin follows me but I explain quickly, “Gotta
take a piss.” Then I slip quickly into the bathroom and shut the door firmly,
almost in Justin’s face.
“Brian?”
Through the door panels, I assure him, “I’ll be right out.” Then I glance at my
pale face reflected in a mirror over the sink, and silently I ask myself, “What
the fuck am I doing here?”
4/14/05