27 comments/ 25770 views/ 44 favorites The Sweetest Days By: podga I blame Jason Reitman. After five years, I had just about managed to get my friends to consider the possibility that frequent business travel does not necessarily equate to a series of one-night stands offering a smorgasbord of sexual delights. Any way I looked at it, it was a little humiliating to have to keep on affirming that I'm essentially a boring person no matter what continent I land on, and that I'm no more irresistible or adventurous in Sao Paulo or Prague than I am in Manhattan. But finally, finally, the questions on the studs I (don't) meet and what I (don't) do with them had started to peter out. And then 'Up in the Air' came out. "So you don't ever crash parties, like they did in the film?" Ah, jeez. "It never even occurred to me to try." "How about now?" I turn my head and squint at Connor, trying to figure out if he's serious or not. He's lying on his back on his towel, eyes closed, dark blond eyelashes fanning across slightly sunburned cheeks, his chin angled up a little so as to stretch out his throat in his never-ending quest of an even tan. "You're kidding me, right?" He rolls onto his side and lifts himself on one elbow, so as to look down at me. "Why?" I shake my head and close my eyes against the glare of the sun, too sleepy to do anything but lie here and bake. Anyway, how do I even start to explain to Connor? That it's rude to crash a party. That even if I got past that, I wouldn't be able to fake belonging if somebody questioned my presence. That trying to mingle with people I don't know – make that tipsy people I don't know – holds less appeal for me than root canal. "I think it would be fun," Connor insists when I don't answer. He would. Connor is like a child who's never been told that there are things that he cannot have or rules that he must abide by. It's not that he's never been handed lemons, but, nine times out of ten, Connor likes to think he's managed to make lemonade. And if he can't mold circumstances to his liking, he simply ignores them. "Well, I don't," I mumble. Though I probably would, if Connor were there with me. I roll over and bury my face into the crook of my elbow, signaling an end to the conversation. "I'm going for a swim," Connor says, and he drops his cap on my head. I feel him shoving his wallet under my towel and I shift a little, so that it doesn't dig into my ribs. "See you in a little bit." What seems like a second later, a cool, damp palm splays itself on my shoulder, startling me, and I realize I must have dozed off. "Nate. You're getting burnt. You'd better put your T-shirt on." Dazedly, I push myself up onto my elbows and find myself looking straight at Connor's lycra-covered crotch as he squats on the sand in front of me. Still caught in a dream I already only half-remember, I almost reach out to slide my palm up his thigh. Reality catches up with me before I make a fool of myself, and I shift my gaze up to his face. His eyes are a clear, deceptively innocent-looking gray, and a small scar arches one of his blond eyebrows, so he always looks a little skeptical, as if he's aware of something the rest of us overlook. He likes to say that the scar makes him look more intelligent that he really is, but he's damned smart. He advises companies on IT security and if I believe the enthusiastic client references on his website, they don't mind the extortionate fees he charges one little bit. "Good swim?" He smiles and pats me on the shoulder, then stands up. I watch the rivulets of seawater run down his long legs, clearing trails through the sand dusting his ankles and feet. He sits on his towel, lifts his cap off my head and pulls it on, the bill backwards, shading his nape. He barely looks a day older than he did back when we were All-Ivy baseball players, twenty years ago. There's some silver in the blond hair now, and the lines around his eyes and bracketing his generous mouth are slightly deeper, but he seems to have escaped most other visible effects of aging, his body still tight, his skin smooth and supple. Would that I could say the same for myself. I peaked in my mid-twenties, and it's been a long, slow slide ever since. I'm convinced that there's more scalp visible through my hair every time I look in the mirror and comb-overs don't seem quite so ridiculous anymore, although I hope and pray that I'm a good decade away from that stage. And there's only one type of six-pack in my home, icy cold and generally imported from the Czech Republic. "How long did you say you're in town for?" Connor asks me. I sit up and fumble in my bag for my T-shirt. "Three weeks or so, with just a couple of short trips out to the West Coast." "And then it's off to Europe?" I nod, surprised that he remembers my schedule. The last couple of months, Connor seems to have developed a memory for this type of thing. "So you won't be here for your 40th birthday," Connor remarks idly, stretching his legs and crossing them at the ankles, and leaning back on his elbows. "Yeah, well," I remark philosophically. In the face of his recollection, the fact that I missed his own 40th birthday three months ago makes me feel guilty; I'd meant to call him or send him an e-mail, but I forgot on the day itself, and when I remembered again over a week later, it seemed too late. "I think the big ones are best ignored." "And that's your excuse, and you're sticking with it, right?" he smirks, and I nod, trying not to squirm. "Well, you'd better not spend your birthday ordering room service. At least go down to the hotel bar. Maybe you'll meet a George Clooney look-alike." That damn movie again. I lie back down and close my eyes, the sun painting the insides of my eyelids red, and sigh. George Clooney doesn't really do it for me. If I had to describe my ideal, he'd be blond, about my 6'1" height but buff, with gray eyes and a sunny smile; like Connor, but not like him at all, because Connor doesn't do long-term relationships and over the years has steadfastly ignored any attempts on my side to change that. "Nate." "What?" "Promise me you won't stay in your hotel room all night." "Alright, already. I'll go out. I'll go out. I promise." ******************* I didn't expect a birthday e-mail or call from Connor. I didn't. And if I'm feeling out of sorts, it's because, other than a brief, if heartfelt, note from my brother and sister, nobody else seems to have remembered me either. Not a single phone call or e-mail, and no chance of a surprise birthday party, either, not when I'm in Frankfurt and my as-of-today-ex-friends are all in New York. Don't people realize that what they should be ignoring is how old I'm turning, not the birthday itself? This hasn't been one of my happier trips. As a forensic accountant with Matheson, Farber & Mayer, most of my work involves advising clients on fraud prevention or performing due diligence in cases of portfolio investments, but every now and then I get assigned to investigate suspected wrongdoing in one of our own subsidiaries. Even though I'd hoped otherwise, this time it quickly became evident that the suspicions were well-founded, and that Kurt Schaefer, my old mentor and an icon in our firm, has been systematically siphoning funds out of clients' accounts for at least two years and probably longer. It's not exactly the kind of situation that makes me feel like partying. Besides, there's really no good reason I can think of to keep my promise to Connor. He's probably forgotten all about our conversation last month and in the remote chance that he asks me about it, I can always lie. Yes, I went out, yes, I met someone tall, dark and handsome and we did the dirty into the wee hours of the morning. Across the ocean, how will he ever know? My cell phone rings at 11:00 p.m. and Connor's name flashes on the screen. It's 5:00 p.m. in New York. "Hey, Connor," I say, trying to sound less happy than I suddenly feel, but for several seconds there's no response. "Connor?" "Why am I not surprised?" he finally asks in a long-suffering voice. "Not surprised about what?" "That I can hear CNN in the background. You're in your room, aren't you?" "I'm in the hotel bar," I say defensively. "They've got CNN on." "Yeah, right." "It's a business hotel," I explain. "And CNN is the only channel in English." Lying is not my strong suit. It's not that I'm morally opposed to the occasional prevarication, but I tend to over-elaborate, even though my professional experience should have taught me that keeping lies simple is always easier and more believable. "Lemme speak to the bartender." "What? No! Are you kidding me?" I blurt out. Damn him. "Nate. Nate, Nate, Nate. I am disappointed in you." I consider hanging up on him. After all, this is all his fault. Maybe if he didn't always turn me down – well, technically I've only raised the possibility twice after a brief affair between us petered out amicably fifteen years ago, and there might have been a third time but I'm pretty hazy on that one because I'd been beaned by a line drive and he was baby-sitting me through a possible concussion – I wouldn't have turned into a workaholic. Maybe I wouldn't have accepted an assignment involving so much travel. Maybe right now I'd be in New York, finishing work, looking forward to a romantic dinner with Connor. Maybe I shouldn't have raided the mini-bar on an empty stomach. "Connor, can I ask you something?" "Sure." "How long have we known each other?" He laughs. "Some would say too long. Why?" "Why do you keep pretending I'm somebody I'm not?" Nope, I definitely shouldn't have had the little bottle of Havana Club. Or the little bottle of Absolut Citron before it, or the Tanqueray before that. I think there was also a little bottle of Jim Bean in there somewhere, and definitely a normal-sized can of Carlsberg. I never could handle mixing my drinks. "What are you talking about?" Damned if I know. All I know is, I suddenly feel like I'm suffocating, crushed by a sense of anger and frustration, some of it directed at Connor, but most of it at myself. I've always been a realist. What the hell am I doing, waiting for Connor, comparing every guy I meet to him, and finding them all wanting? He never asked for it, and since when is he such a big fucking prize anyway? At least most guys don't try to reform me; maybe it's just that they don't know me well enough or care enough to try, but they let me be. "Ah, forget it," I say tiredly. In vino veritas, especially when the vino has been spiked with a sizeable dose of self-pity, is hardly the time to begin a lengthy and meaningful exploration of one's life and relationships. "Okay." I hear relief in his voice. He was calling to rib me; getting a dose my alcohol-fuelled mid-life angst was clearly more than he expected. "So are you going to wish me a Happy Birthday?" I ask deliberately. "Happy Birthday, Nate." He pauses, then continues, sounding a little uncertain. "I'll call you when you get back, yeah? We'll get the rest of the gang together, celebrate then." "That sounds good," I tell him, and unfortunately I mean it, even though every rational bone in my body tells me that starting out my 40th year looking forward to hanging out with Connor rather than finding that special someone while I'm still in some sort of shape to do so, isn't good. It's not good, at all. ******************* I know I've seen the guy sitting across from me in the Lufthansa business lounge at Frankfurt Airport before, I just can't think where. Not only does he seem familiar, but his mannerisms do as well: the way he cranks his head to the right and then left as if to relax tense neck and shoulder muscles, or how he tugs on his right earlobe when he's concentrating. Where the hell do I know him from? For the fourth time he glances up to catch me staring at him, and his dark eyebrows lower in a scowl over his old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses. He looks more puzzled than annoyed, though, so maybe I look familiar, as well. Or maybe he just can't figure out why some guy would be studying him so intently. Which would make him straight, because he's good-looking, if in an austere, bookish sort of way; any gay guy would preen or, at the very least, understand the interest. He squares his shoulders, cranks his head again, and turns his attention back to his laptop. Hiding behind my Economist, I continue to observe him, right at the verge of recognition, but not quite. He looks up when they call the flight to JFK and starts packing his laptop. Maybe we were on the same flight coming over, it happens sometimes with Monday to Friday business trips, though that doesn't feel quite right, either. I lose sight of him on the walk to the gate, but I see him again on the plane. As luck would have it, I'm sitting right next to him, on the aisle seat. He does one of those polite but fake tight-lipped smiles at me. He seems surprised when I extend my hand and introduce myself. Truth be told, I'm a little surprised myself. "Hi. Nate Hutchins." His grip is strong, his palm warm and dry against mine. He pumps my hand once, then drops it. "Paul." In a dark grey suit with a very discreet blue pinstripe, white shirt and wingtips, he looks like an ordinary businessman, although a better-looking one than many I've come across; the sad truth is that more itinerant businessmen look like George Wendt than George Clooney. He certainly doesn't appear to be a rap artist or a Brazilian soccer player, who, as far as I know, are the only people that go by first names only. Or is Paul his surname? Either way, he's obviously not interested in getting better acquainted. Ordinarily I would respect that. Heck, ordinarily I wouldn't have introduced myself in the first place. "I'm sorry, I'm not very good with names," I plow on, and oh, what an understatement that is, "but I'm pretty sure we've met before." "No, I don't believe so," he responds firmly. He busies himself with taking his suit jacket off. His shirt is wrinkled, and as he leans across my seat to hand the jacket to one of the cabin crew, I can smell him – Hugo Boss cologne, which I recognize because Connor wears it, too, and why the hell am I thinking of Connor right now, and fabric softener, and hair gel and something sweet, like Juicy Fruit gum – and I can see the smooth skin of his nape, tan, but with a slightly paler strip near his hairline, as if he's had a haircut since his last vacation. He's wearing his watch on his right wrist, along with a small black bracelet that looks like one of those macramé things my mom used to work on in the 70s, with a single blue bead. The bracelet almost stirs another memory, though the more I try to grab hold of it it, the further away it skitters. I'm sure I know him, but for the life of me I can't figure out from where. He looks about ten years younger than me, so it can't be school or college. Maybe some neighbor's kid brother when I was growing up? "You're not from Brooklyn, are you?" "No," he bites out, clearly annoyed at my repeated attempts to identify him, and he leans back in his seat. He rests his laptop on his knees, tapping on the case nervously, and I can tell he's dying to turn it on and block me out, but we've already been told to switch off all electronic devices, so he's at my mercy. I decide to let it go for a while. We forensic accountants are a patient bunch, and I have about eight hours ahead of me to figure things out. Once we've reached cruising altitude, the flight attendant comes over to check on us. I'm still nursing a hangover from my mini-bar binge last night, so I order a Virgin Mary. Paul asks for sparkling water. He's already turned his laptop on. "And you've ordered a vegetarian meal, correct, Mr. Pappas?" the attendant simpers, and finally I have him. Most sportscasters and tennis fans referred to him as 'the other Greek'. He started climbing the rankings a couple of years after Sampras, but other than their common heritage, and the fact that they both liked rushing the net, they couldn't have had more different styles. Paul Pappas was a leftie, with an erratic serve that got him into trouble, but a lethal double-handed backhand that had as much speed and precision as his forehand. And, unlike the mostly cool Sampras, Pappas was emotional; he didn't yell or bitch like John McEnroe, but he trashed his fair share of tennis rackets on court, and when he missed his second serve or committed one of his many unforced errors, you could see his lips moving, presumably swearing a blue streak, though never out loud. I saw him play live once, in 2005 or 2006, in the outer courts at Forest Hills. He lost that day, didn't win a single game, even though he was getting most of his serves in. He was oddly calm throughout, didn't throw a single racket or temper tantrum. Now that I think about it, I can't remember that he played much longer after that; he certainly never again reached the level of success that would have earned him any notice in the press. Trying not to be too obvious, I steal another look at him. He's still sitting upright, fully absorbed in whatever's on the screen of his laptop; it's got one of those privacy filters, so I can't tell what has him so enthralled. From this angle his profile looks like that of an ancient Greek statue, his forehead and strong nose almost a straight line, his lips not particularly full but a little pouty. His dark brown hair is too short to show any hint of curl now, but I remember how it used to cling in damp ringlets to his face and neck back when he was playing. "I was there when you played that Russian in Forest Hills. In 2006." He tenses, then exhales with a sigh. "He was Czech and it was in 2005," he corrects me, still resolutely facing forward. "I didn't play the US Open in 2006. Rotator cuff injury." "Is that why you retired?" He laughs without humor. "No. I retired because I wasn't good enough to make a living from the game or to get a sponsorship." It seems like an overly harsh self-assessment, but by all accounts, the world of professional sports is brutal. "So, what do you do now?" "I work for the family business," he says shortly and then shoves his table to the side and stands up. "Excuse me." I crank the footrest down, so that he can get around me. When he returns, he barely looks at me, and even though I feel a vague need to apologize for intruding on his privacy, I'm also a little irritated by his attitude, so I'm happy to ignore him, as well. "We import gourmet foods from Europe," he says during meal service, a couple of hours later. "My grandfather started with olive oil and honey from Greece, but we've expanded since then. We mostly work with small farm cooperatives, vineyards, that sort of thing." It's so out of the blue, that I actually look around to see who he's talking to. He catches me at it and smiles for the first time, a small dent, not quite a dimple, forming in his right cheek. "I'm sorry I was rude. I don't expect people to remember me." "And you don't like it." He shrugs. "No, not really. It's not very flattering, being remembered as the other Greek, is it?" "You were a good player in your own right," I tell him, but he just shakes his head. "I got lucky for a while. If it hadn't been for Sampras and people watching to see if I'd pan out the same, nobody would have even known my name." He rearranges the food in his plate, firmly patting down the rice, then running his fork through it, creating grooves, almost like he's designing a small zen garden. He starts working on the peas next, creating a little hill on one side. "What do you do?" "I'm a forensic accountant." "Is that like the Tom Hanks character in that movie with Leonardo DiCaprio?" The Sweetest Days Not even close, but it's not like I'm going to see him ever again. "Uhm, yeah. Sort of." A quick smile, that not-quite-dimple making an appearance, as if he knows I'm exaggerating slightly. It doesn't seem to put him off. "And you live in Brooklyn?" "All my life." "And you travel a lot. Chasing teen-aged criminal masterminds," he says gravely. I laugh and he smiles again, a full grin now, brown eyes sparkling behind his glasses. I want to keep the conversation going, to know him better, but I have no idea what to say. He doesn't exactly feel like a stranger to me, but that's what he is, and talking about tennis is clearly off bounds. And somehow the weather never seems like a natural topic of conversation when you're cruising at over 35,000 feet. "Are you a New Yorker, too?" I try. He shakes his head. "Not originally. I grew up in New Jersey. Bridgewater. Ever heard of it?" "Sure. A couple of friends moved there a few years back. They've got a big garden in the back and deer drop by and drop loads in the morning." "It's a good place to raise a family." "So my friends say. You still live there?" "No. Working with them, I spend enough time with my family as it is. I moved to the city after I stopped playing. It's a bit of a reverse commute, but it helps keep the peace, and anyway, it's not as if I need to go into the office every day. A lot of our clients are in Manhattan." "Restaurants?" "And gourmet and specialty shops. A few catering companies." "So, how do you find your suppliers? Do you travel around tasting wines and cheeses? Do you need an assistant?" He laughs. "Are you volunteering? If so, I could have really used you a couple of days ago for a jellied pig knuckle tasting." After my empty plates and his zen food garden are taken away, we both stretch out and continue talking in low voices; despite the prosaic topics, the conversation feels oddly intimate, even though we're surrounded by people. For the first time in a long while I'm sorry rather than relieved when the preparations for landing begin. After the flight attendant brings us our jackets, Paul fishes in one of his pockets and pulls out a small yellow package, offering it to me. "Gum?" I reach for a stick of Juicy Fruit, careful not to touch him, but somehow our fingers end up brushing together anyway. I look up slowly, trying to determine if he did it on purpose, and his lips curve in an odd little smile as he bends to slip his shoes back on and tie his laces. If there was a moment there, it came and went too quickly for me to be sure. Sometimes people just like testing the waters or playing a hunch, regardless of their own interest or further intentions. I try to remember if there were ever any hints in the press regarding his love life, but I can't think of a single instance, one way or another. Paul stands next to me as we wait to go through passport control. Suddenly there doesn't seem to be anything to talk about, and after a few awkward moments, we both reach for our BlackBerries and scan through our messages, though we continue to move forward in tandem. I wave him ahead of me when we reach the customs desk, and when I'm processed through, I find Paul waiting for me. "Do you have luggage?" I shake my head. "Do you know how much time you lose by checking it in?" He frowns in thought, although his pouty lips are curving upward. "I don't know. Five, ten minutes?" "Are you really asking me or quoting back at me?" He grins. "I fucking hated that movie. You wouldn't believe the kinds of things my mom and sister asked me afterwards." "Do you crash parties? Do you meet George Clooney look-alikes?" I falsetto, rolling my eyes. "Well, actually they ask me if I meet women that look like Vera What's-her-name and if I do, to watch out, because they might be married and just out for a good time." I run my last words through my head and yes, I did say 'George Clooney'. Fuck. "I... I, uh..." I stutter, heat rising to my cheeks. "You're not married, are you, Nate?" he asks silkily. "I... No. No, I'm not." And though I've never had reason to consider it before, I don't look a thing like Vera What's-her-name, either. "How about out?" He pauses a beat, then continues. "For a good time, I mean?" "It depends. Mostly with my friends," I respond cautiously. "So, you're discreet." I nod. He shifts his laptop case from one shoulder to the other and cranks his head to the right and left in that familiar gesture that I now realize he used to repeat before most serves, especially the second ones. The fact that he's nervous, too, somehow reassures me. "I have my car in long-term parking. Would you like a ride into the city?" I offer on impulse. "You live in Brooklyn and I'm in Manhattan," he reminds me. "So what? It's not that much of a detour." He considers my offer for a couple of seconds and finally smiles. "Thanks." I'd been listening to Verdi on the way to JFK five days ago, and the music comes on again when I start the engine. "I can switch CDs or turn on the radio," I tell him once we're on the Van Wyck, but he shakes his head. "No, this is fine. What is it?" "Verdi. La Traviata." I can feel his eyes on me. "What?" "Nothing. I just didn't picture you as listening to opera." "Really? Why not?" "I don't know. I've never been to the opera, but in movies it seems like people are always crying. And you don't seem like the weepy type." I laugh. "Well, I'm not. Not all opera fans burst into tears at 'Morir si giovane'. I just like the music." "Do you also like musicals?" "Some, sure. You?" He shakes his head. "Not really. Everybody suddenly starting to sing and dance. They just seem kind of stupid." He listens to Maria Callas for a while longer. "This is nice, though." He lives on E. 73rd Street, near 1st Avenue. Cars are parked solid on both sides of the street, and I pull over to the left, parallel to a beat-up old Toyota, so that he has room to climb out but traffic can still get around us. "Well," Paul says, releasing his seat-belt. "Thanks a lot." "You're welcome." "I'm not out. To my family or anybody," he suddenly blurts. "That must make things difficult for you." "Sort of. And sort of easier, too." "I guess." "I don't know why I'm telling you this," he mutters. "Maybe because it's something I'd need to know if I were interested in seeing you again?" "Are you?" he asks slowly. "Sure. Are you?" He scowls, which isn't very encouraging. "Generally, I just hook up with guys in clubs in Europe. Less risk, that way. But yeah, I am." He pauses, then grumbles, "This feels really weird. The only thing that would make it weirder would be if you suddenly started singing. You're not going to, are you?" "Not if you give me your phone number." He laughs and pulls out his BlackBerry. "Gimme yours, and I'll send you my contact details," he instructs, and so, I do. I hear my own BlackBerry buzz reassuringly in my pocket, indicating that he's kept his side of the bargain. Which means I should keep mine. Nah. I reach over and turn the CD off. "And, oh, the towering feeling / just to know somehow you are near / the overpowering feeling / that any second you mmphhh..." He starts to back away after trying to shut me up with his mouth, but I cup the back of his head, holding him in place, and the second kiss is less rushed. He tastes like Juicy Fruit gum, and his lips feel chapped and a little rough, when I lick at them. He touches my cheek, his fingertips rasping against my stubble, and he pushes at my tongue with his own, and I accidentally knock his glasses askew, when I try to tilt his head a little. He pulls away and readjusts his glasses, pushing them firmly up his nose, looks around as if to ensure that nobody has seen us, then reaches for the door handle. "I'll call you," he tells me, then jumps out of the car. A second later he's pulling his suitcase and laptop bag out of the back. I watch him through the rear-view mirror until he slams the tailgate shut and waves goodbye. I peek back when I reach the corner. He's still standing on the sidewalk, looking my way. ******************* "You know, Evan, sometimes I feel like you really don't accept me and it hurts me. It hurts me deeply," I sniff. "Ah, screw you, you douche," Evan says, then calls out a perfunctory "sorry, honey," at his wife's outraged squawk. Although he's six year younger than me, my brother and I look enough alike that people who don't know us well are sometimes confused. Our dissimilarities are only matters of small degree, his straight floppy brown hair a couple of shades lighter than mine, his eyes a little deeper blue; at six foot even, he's one inch shorter than me, but probably around five pounds heavier. "One Saturday morning. That's all I'm asking for." "Hell, Nate, you know I hate playing baseball with your friends." "Because you don't accept me." He always falls for it. There's nothing that raises Evan's hackles quicker than the unfair accusation that he doesn't love and support his family, gay brother included. Though he is sometimes uncomfortable with me; I suppose finding out one's brother is gay by walking uninvited into said brother's room and finding him on his knees unzipping another guy's pants is bound to leave some lingering trauma, even if it happened almost twenty years ago. "No, it's because your friends don't take the fucking game seriously. Sorry, honey," he yells at Louise again. "You know apologizing to me is not going to stop Junior from repeating all the swear words, don't you? In fact you're giving him a cue that he'll learn to listen for," she hollers from the living room. "Louise, Theo's five months old. I think we have at least another five months before we have to start worrying. And you don't need to use a code name for him, he doesn't know you're talking about him." He rolls his eyes at me, but I can tell he's so proud he's fit to burst. Evan is my proof that good things come to those who wait. I think he fell in love with Louise when they were both in third grade, but she never even knew he existed, not until she'd been in numerous failed relationships and finally noticed that somehow Evan was always there to pick up the pieces. They married two years ago, and five months ago, Theo was born. "A few hours, that's all I ask. And I promise you, everybody will take the game completely seriously. I'll make sure they wear cleats, not heels, and there will be absolutely no stuffing of crotches or other attempts to make the uniforms look sexy." Evan harrumphs. "And you'd better tell your boys not to pat my butt." "Absolutely. No patting of butts, yours especially." "I hate being your token straight guy." "You're only our substitute token straight guy," I reassure him. He sighs. "Fine. But you owe me." "Thanks, Evan. Anything," I rashly promise. "Saturday night, you're babysitting. Louise and I are going to paint the town red." "What? Wait. No. No way. Any other night than Saturday. Or Friday," I append hastily, when I see him open his mouth. "Saturday," he says firmly. "And we're dropping Theo off, so that we can have the house to ourselves when we get back. We'll pick him up Sunday morning. After church." "Evan, you don't go to church." "Around ten thirty or so. Maybe later, depending. We'll call you." All I know is, somebody from the team had better help me baby-sit. And who the hell uses the expression 'paint the town red' anymore? ******************* "He struck out. With bases loaded, he struck out. And we lost and we're out of the tournament." "Well, that's not my fault, is it? You're the one who suggested Evan. You can't bail on me," I plead. Connor already has his jacket on, and he's making funny faces at Theo, who's stolidly staring back at him with a constipated expression. Which is extremely misleading, because Theo is most definitely not constipated. And he's proven that twice in the last hour. It was the second time that sent Connor running. "Listen, hon, I put in my time, and now I need to go and drown my sorrows with the guys. What possessed you to agree to do this on a Saturday night, anyway?" "I guess I missed the part where I had an option not to," I mutter sullenly. Connor gives me a bracing hug and kisses me on the cheek, then heads for the door. "I'll tell everybody you said hi," he grins. "Bitch," I yell after him, then apologize to an absent Louise. This is what I know about babies: They scream a lot for no obvious reason. They make messes. They will require the wealth of a small nation to raise. And they ruin their uncles' social life, such as it is. I have Theo slung over one shoulder, trying to stop the little vampire from sucking at my neck and to get him to fall asleep, when the phone rings. "Hi. Is that Nate?" "Yeah. Hi." "It's Paul Pappas," he says stiffly. "Yeah, I know. Hi," I repeat. "Why are you whispering?" "It's a long story. You don't want to know, believe me." I pace from one side of the living room to the other, ten slightly bouncy steps, waiting for Paul to say something. I'm halfway on my return trip, and he remains silent. Maybe he does want to know. "I'm babysitting my nephew." "That's nice of you." "Yeah, well," I say modestly. "I like to help out. Family, you know?" Greeks are big on family, aren't they? Maybe this will impress him. "So, you're stuck at home for the time being? Are you going out later?" "No, I've got him until tomorrow morning." "Oh. I was just calling to see if you wanted to do something. Maybe some other time, then." "Yeah," I agree with regret. I wonder if I'd feel better if we'd at least won the stupid game, but I doubt it. And I'm pretty sure Connor would have bailed on me, either way. "So, how old is he? What's his name?" "Five months. Theo. Theodore." "That's Greek, you know." Sounding awkward, so awkward, but he's still on the phone, and I find his effort at a conversation touching. "Gift from God," I say. "My name means sort of the same thing. Nathaniel." "Listen, I'm not really doing anything. Would you like some company? I could stop by," he blurts. "Yeah, sure," I agree hastily, before he has a chance to change his mind. "Have you eaten? I was thinking of ordering pizza." "Could you make one half vegetarian?" "Sure." I give him my address and he tells me he'll see me in about forty minutes. "You'll like Paul," I assure Theo, as I take him for another walk around the living room, and he blows a raspberry. I hadn't realized they turn into obnoxious teenagers quite so early. ******************* I'm trying to change my shirt and simultaneously reassure Louise that her precious baby boy is still alive, when the doorbell rings and wakens Theo, who immediately starts bawling. "What was that?" Louise asks worriedly. "It's nothing, I just dropped him on his head," I tell her, hastily doing up buttons. "That's not funny, Nate." "Listen, Louise. Theo's fine. He was fine ten minutes ago. He'll be fine in ten minutes, when I'm sure you'll call to check on us again. Right now, though, I've got to open the door for the pizza guy." Without checking first, I buzz the guy in, then pick up Theo and cradle him against my shoulder in an effort to calm him down. I hear footsteps on the stairs and I open the apartment door. Instead of the usual teen-aged delivery boy, Paul is standing on the landing in a tan leather jacket, slim-fitting dark brown cords, pizza box in one hand, a six-pack case of beer with a label I don't recognize in the other. The whole combo is mouth-watering. "Hey. I didn't think you'd make it here before the pizza," I welcome him, then frown in sudden realization. "Wait a minute. Did the kid just hand the pizza over to you? They can't just give people's food away to anybody that happens to be around to pay for it." "I swore an affidavit that half of it is mine," he reassures me. I back away from the door so that he can come in, and wave a hand towards the coffee table, where I've already laid out plates and napkins. He sets the pizza and beer down, and takes off his jacket, revealing a cream-colored Henley. He looks as good in casual clothes as he did in his suit. Better. "This is nice," he says, looking around at the living room, decorated in what I like to think is an elegant and understated style, all browns, olives and grays, though my friend Iggy scathingly refers to it as 'corporate hotel boring'. The only bright colors are from Theo's travel cot and his soft toys, which are lying all over the carpet. "Thanks. You didn't have to bring beer. I've got plenty." "Hey, you volunteered to help with the taste tests, right?" he smiles. "There's this beer we're considering importing from Italy. I thought it would be a good occasion, since we're having Italian food." He pulls two beers out of the case. "Bottle opener?" "I'll go get it." I'm reaching into the drawer, when the phone rings again. Evan this time around. I sigh in exasperation. They're probably checking to make sure I'm not trying to feed Theo pizza. "Evan, look—" "I took the phone from her," Evan interrupts me. "I just called to tell you that she won't be bothering you any more, and that you owe me another one. See ya tomorrow, bro." He hangs up and I stare bemusedly at the phone. Theo is calmer and chewing on my collar, but I don't dare put him down yet. For a little guy, he can sure get loud. "Something wrong?" Paul is standing at the kitchen door, the two bottles still in one hand, the case in the other. I take the case from him and put it in the fridge, then give him the opener and he flips both caps off. He hands me one of the bottles. I raise it in a brief toast, sniff at the earthy hops, and take a cautious sip, as he watches me. It's a classic pilsner, still cool from outside, and surprisingly good, a real contender for the Urquell I generally drink. "Hey, this is excellent. And, no, nothing's wrong. Quite the opposite. My brother called to tell me that they won't be calling me every three minutes to check on Theo anymore. It's been a very long couple of hours." He comes a step closer, and lays a cautious hand on Theo's small back, then cocks his head to take a closer look. "He looks like you," he tells me. "You really think so?" I ask, trying not to swell with pride. He hesitates. "Well, no, not really. With those cheeks, he looks more like Orson Welles." I laugh and lead Paul back into the living room. I put little Orson in his travel cot and give him a soft toy; he grizzles for a few moments, but then his eyes start to drift shut. Finally. I sit down on the couch next to Paul and reach for a slice of pizza from my half, which is loaded with pepperoni. "I'm glad you stopped by. Everybody seems to have deserted me in my hour of need." "I wanted to see you again." He sounds a little unsure, maybe shy, and it gives me pause. I know my strengths: I'm good at solving puzzles, I can be funny when I'm feeling comfortable, I sing well enough not to empty a room. But I don't think of myself as the kind of guy anybody would go out of their way to see again. Most often it's me doing the chasing, and with mixed success at that. My biggest asset is that when I'm interested, I have this I'm-a-sure-thing-but-not-desperate vibe, which means that guys are rarely uncertain or shy around me. And God knows I'm interested in Paul. Does he not sense that? "Good. Because I wanted to see you, too." He leans forward for his own slice, turning his head to smile at me as he does so. "What was that you sang the other night, when you dropped me off?" The Sweetest Days It takes me a couple of seconds to remember. "It's from 'My Fair Lady'. Lerner and Loewe." "I don't think I've heard of it." "The movie was with Audrey Hepburn and Rex Harrison?" He shakes his head. "Must have been before my time." "Well it was before my time, too, boyo, so watch it with the age insults." "And you know it well enough to sing songs from? You really must like musicals." He says it like it's a bad thing. "We had a production in college, and I was an understudy for the part of Freddy. Do you know that the guy, who played him in the film, went on to play Sherlock Holmes on that BBC series?" He seems unimpressed by my knowledge of trivia. "You sang in musicals in college?" "Just the one, and I never actually made it on stage. I also played baseball. How about you? Tennis, I'm sure, but anything else?" "I didn't go to college. I'm trying to finish an online business studies program now, but it mostly feels like a waste of time." "Why are you doing it, then?" He shrugs, finishes his slice, and stands up. "I'm going to get another beer. Do you want one?" "Yeah, thanks." I watch him walk to the kitchen, admiring how his broad shoulders taper down to narrow hips, a tight butt and long legs. At some point he took his boots off and the heel on his right sock has a small hole, which I find oddly touching. He comes back and hands me my beer, then sits sideways on the couch, stretching his arm across the back and tucking one leg under him. "I don't want to be the only guy in my family without a college degree. My two older brothers and my sister all have MBAs and I barely finished high school." "Yeah, but did they play tennis professionally?" He waves a dismissive hand. "Tennis is just a game." I gape at him. "You don't really believe that, do you? I mean okay, it's a game, but not when it's played at the level you played it at." "You don't know anything about it. Anyway, it's in the past and I don't want to talk about it." Fair enough. "What do you want to talk about?" "Can I kiss you?" I set my plate on the table and wipe my greasy fingers on a napkin. "You didn't ask me the first time. Why the sudden manners?" He casts a worried look at Theo, who's fast asleep. "Seriously?" I grin. "You think he'll mind?" "I don't know. I've never been around a baby before. What if we..." His voice peters out and he swallows nervously, his Adam's apple bobbling up and down. "What if we what? Fuck?" I ask deliberately. I didn't think it was possible for his face to get any redder, but it does. "Well. Yeah," he chokes out. "So let's take it to the bedroom, then." I stand up and look down at him. His upturned face looks young and vulnerable, and I feel a small kick in my chest. I sit down again. "No?" "You probably think I'm an idiot, but I've never dated before." "I don't think you're an idiot," I tell him automatically. He thinks we're on a date? Fine, there's food and drink and we did have some getting-to-know-you conversation, so most of the 'date' boxes are ticked, but it never occurred to me to he'd consider this as anything more than a casual hook-up. "Don't think of it as a date, if that helps." He's still blushing, and he ducks his head, avoiding my eyes, and mutters something. "What?" "You make me feel naïve and stupid," he says finally, his voice a little angry. "Even on the plane." "I'm sorry. I certainly don't think you're stupid. Or naïve, really. Just, maybe, young." "I can't be more than ten years younger than you." "So perhaps it's just a reflection of how old I feel," I assure him, and I'm more or less sincere in that. I do feel old, some times more than others, and this is fast becoming one of those times. I don't really know if I want to start something with a closeted guy, no matter how casual it might be. Been there, done that, and it's not much fun. And yet, when he called, I didn't hesitate for a second, I was even anxious that he might change his mind. And I wasn't only thinking about fucking him, though it must be confessed that wasn't too far in the back of my mind. "Is it okay if we just leave him here?" he asks stiltedly. "It's the warmest room in the house. And I've got the baby monitor; the receiver's in my bedroom." "He'll probably wake up the moment we take our clothes off. Murphy's law." "Probably." Paul thinks about it. "Then again, he might not." "I'm willing to risk it if you are. Plus, we could keep some clothes on, so as not to tempt fate." He smiles slowly, his head cocked to the side; my dick hardens in response to the way he's looking at me. "That sounds like a good plan," he tells me, his voice a little huskier than before, and this time, when I stand up, he stands up too. Not-so-way back when, I used to hook up with guys on the internet, and they'd drive to my house or I'd drive to theirs, so it's not the first time I've stood with someone in a bedroom, wondering how to break the ice and get down to business. Yet this feels more awkward. Probably because I couldn't care less what an anonymous trick thinks about me, as long as I get off, but I don't want to disappoint Paul. In fact, I want to impress him. We smile at each other, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Finally Paul takes his glasses off and sets them on the nightstand, then pulls off his Henley and drops it on the floor. He stands in front of me, his shoulders squared, and he does that head crank thing again, which I find utterly endearing and sexy. Without his glasses, his brown eyes are a little unfocused, their normal laser-like intensity softened. He's absolutely beautiful. Lean, defined pecs and abs covered by a dusting of brown curls, small dark pink nipples peaking through. I put my hands on his hips, his skin warm and smooth under my palms, and he rests his hands on my biceps, squeezing gently. "Yes," I tell him. "Yes, what?" "Yes, you can kiss me." He's still smiling when he does, a light playful peck, then he pulls me against me, wrapping one arm around my shoulders and cupping my chin with his left hand. He has calluses from years of holding a tennis racket, and their rough scrape causes me to shiver. "Pepperoni breath," he mutters against my lips, but it doesn't seem to bother him very much, and he kisses me again, his mouth open, his tongue wet and slick, and nobody's playing anymore. I slide my hands under his waistband and cup his firm ass, pulling him firmly against me, his erection unmistakable against mine. He grinds against me, gasping a little, and I inhale his hot breath. He's a wet and sloppy kisser, which is normally a turn-off for me, but his obvious hunger more than makes up for it, and I return his kisses, just as wet, just as hungry. I back my hips away from him so that I can unbutton his waistband, and his hands are there as well, helping me lower his zipper and push his cords and underwear down his thighs. Hard flesh covered by silky skin pushes into my fist, and I stroke him, my knuckles brushing against the wiry hair at the base of his cock. "I want you to suck me," he tells me breathlessly. "I want your mouth on my dick." I've always liked a guy who knows what he wants, especially when he wants the same thing as me. "Lie down." He does so after hurriedly shucking his clothes the rest of the way off, and leans back on his elbows, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee, his erection curving up against his belly, waiting for me. I nearly tear the buttons off my shirt, trying to get it off. I kneel on the bed between his legs, nuzzling at the base of his cock, the smell of his arousal turning me on even more. I should have gotten the goddamned rubbers before, because I don't want to leave him now. "Drawer," I almost growl as I lick his balls, rolling their heavy weight against my tongue. I hear him fumbling, the scrape of the drawer opening, then of a foil pack being ripped open. He rolls on the condom himself, then his fingers comb through my hair and trace my ears. "Suck me," he instructs again impatiently, his rough tone at odds with the gentleness of his caresses, and when I swallow him, he groans, his hips jerking. I love bringing a guy off with my mouth, controlling the tempo, leading him to the edge and then backing off to start all over again. "You fucker," he half-laughs, half-moans, when I yet again block his effort to quicken the pace, and then he flops flat on his back, his arms flung out, and he lets me have my way with him. I look up and see his face, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth hanging open, gasping for breath, and I reward him by taking him as deep as I can, over and over again, until he comes. "Okay?" I ask him, as I crawl up his body, licking the salty skin of his belly, briefly sucking at one nipple, kissing the curve of his shoulder and his throat. I need to take more time with him, really explore him, and I will. Later. "Oh, yeah," he laughs. I grind against his thigh, and he lets me do that for a few minute, then flips me onto my back and dips in to kiss me, one hand burrowing into my jeans and cupping me over my boxers. "What's that?" he asks suddenly. "What's what?" "That," he says needlessly, as I hear Theo's wail both through the baby monitor and through the open door. "Oh, shit," I groan. "Maybe he'll stop." We lie tensely, listening, Paul's hand still on my cock, but Theo's cries only get louder, and after a final squeeze, Paul finally pulls his hands out of my pants with a rueful smile. "I'm starting to figure out why they needed a night off," I grumble, as I sit on the side of the bed. "Shit." "And you didn't even undress," Paul laughs, sounding truly relaxed for the first time since he arrived. Yeah, easy for him, he got his rocks off. I turn to glare at him, then get up to check on my nephew. A quarter of an hour later, Paul makes his appearance in the living room, fully dressed. He watches me for a while as I walk around the apartment rocking Theo in my arms and singing to him, then sighs. "You want a fresh beer?" he asks me, and I shake my head. I barely touched the second one and I doubt it's even had a chance to get warm. He goes and gets one for himself, then sits on the couch and reaches for a slice of pizza. He's obviously not going anywhere, which both surprises and pleases me. "You have a nice voice," he tells me. He blushes a little when I meet his eyes. "You don't mind if I hang out for a while, do you?" Maybe he's thinking that Theo is bound to fall asleep soon, and he's waiting for round two. "No," I tell him, and it comes out a little strangled, so I have to clear my throat. "I don't mind." I take Theo for another round of the living room, feeling Paul's eyes on me the whole time. "You can turn on the TV, if you want." He nods and reaches for the remote control, switching to a sports channel and muting the sound. Tennis, but I don't recognize the players or the venue. Paul's face is expressionless as he watches, and I wonder if he misses playing. "That game I watched you in, in Forest Hills," I start out, and he flicks me a quick angry look at me, his mouth growing mutinous. "You seemed, I don't know, out of it." He doesn't respond. "Were you in pain or something?" "Or something." "What was wrong?" "Why do you want to know?" he grates. I shrug. "No reason, I guess. I just wondered about it." He shakes his head, then sighs. "I've never talked about it." "That's okay. It's none of my business." "Are you out? To your family and friends?" I nod, nonplussed at the sudden change of subject. "And they're okay with it?" "I guess. Things were awkward with my dad and mom for a long while, but they eventually got used to the idea. They've both passed away now. Evan, my brother, he was okay for the most part from the start. I lost a few friends, but made others." "When did you know? That you were gay, I mean?" "I can't remember ever not knowing. I didn't know what my feelings meant, not until junior high, and I didn't exactly have a label for them, but I knew. I think most of us do, deep down." "I didn't." "No?" "No. I played tennis. That's all I did, all I focused on. My mom tried to get me to do other things, to have a normal life, but my dad, he thought I had a gift, and I guess I did, too." "You wouldn't have gotten to where you did if you didn't." He waves his hand in a dismissive 'whatever' gesture. "So when did you know?" I prompt him. "In 2000, I got a new trainer. I was having trouble with my legs and my shoulder, and my coach heard of this Romanian guy, who had recently immigrated to the US. He was based in LA, so we went to see him." "And?" I ask after a while. He spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. "You can't guess?" "You fell for him at first sight." "Oh, yeah." He laughs shortly. "Hard. I was twenty years old, so you can imagine how surprised I was. After that my life was tennis and Liviu. Or Liviu and tennis." "Did he reciprocate?" "Yeah. Maybe not the emotions, but the rest, yeah, he did." Theo is quiet now, sleepily sucking on his fist, so I sit next to Paul on the couch, and Paul reaches over and places a hand on his back, like he did before. "He's so little," he says in amazement. I smile at him. "So what happened to Liviu?" "He quit. He realized that I wasn't going to avoid surgery and that I probably was never going to make it into the top ten in any case, and he got headhunted by somebody who was, so he quit." "Did you ever see him again?" "Yeah. Only a few months later. In 2005, in Forest Hills. He was working for Libor Martisek. My opponent at the game you saw," he explains, when he sees my blank look. "Maybe if I'd met him later in the tournament, but it was the first round. I just couldn't get it together." "Yeah, but..." "When you're out there on the court, you've got to do it by yourself. Your coach can't tell you if you're doing something wrong or suggest a different play or strategy, and sometimes, when things are going to shit and you're hurting, all you've got to draw on is hearing someone's voice yelling your name, and if it's someone you love, so much the better." He smiles, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "And Liviu's voice always carried." "I guess he wasn't calling your name that day." "No." "They psyched you out." "Yeah, but I hadn't had it in me for quite a while. That was just the final straw. You gotta know when to quit, get on with the rest of your life." "Do you miss it? Tennis?" "Sometimes. Not really, though. I still play for fun." I want to ask him if there was anybody else for him after Liviu, but I don't. I lean my head against the back of the couch, drowsy and comfortable, Theo a warm small weight on my chest. Paul rests his arm along the back of the couch, his fingers rubbing my scalp lightly in an almost furtive caress. "I should go," he says softly. "You don't have to," I tell him, responding to the reluctance in his voice. "In a little while, then." ******************* Paul is still here when the doorbell rings, curled on the couch, his head on the armrest and his feet in my lap. At some point after he fell asleep, I put Theo in his cot and the left-over pizza in the fridge, then returned to the couch. I briefly considered waking Paul up, but finally I just sat on the opposite end of the couch, stretching my legs onto the coffee table and watching the muted sports channel. I dozed off a couple of times, but never for long. Neither man nor baby even stirs at the sound, and I scoot out from under Paul's feet to go buzz Evan and Louise in. It's only minutes past seven. I guess they're used to getting by on a few short hours of rest and decided to take pity on me. When I open the door, it's not Evan I see coming up the stairs, but Connor. He grins at me, his bloodshot eyes, blond stubble and rumbled clothes indicating that he's hasn't been home. He waves a white bag in the air. "Hey, uncle! I come bearing bagels. Is the coffee on yet?" "What the hell are you doing here?" I hiss at him, half-heartedly trying to block his entrance into the apartment. Apparently he misinterprets my move, because he wraps an arm around my waist, kisses me on the temple, then shimmies his way around me and inside. "You look like you haven't slept all night," he tells me. "I could say the same for you." He beams at me as if I just paid him a compliment, then looks around, his eyes falling on Paul who's blearily pushing himself upright. "Who's this?" Connor asks me. "Paul, Connor. Connor, Paul," I introduce them and I hear them mumble something at each other as I go to the bathroom to relieve my bladder. After I wash my hands and face and unsuccessfully try to smooth down a cowlick with damp fingers, I return to the living room to find them eyeing each other warily. "Lucky I bought four," Connor says. "You like sesame bagels and cream cheese, Paul?" Something about his tone and the way he's behaving like he's the host of this impromptu breakfast get-together sets my teeth on edge. "Sure," Paul says easily, standing up. "I'll be back in a minute." We watch him leave the living room, then Connor raises his eyebrows at me. "So who's that?" "Paul." Connor follows me into the kitchen and sets the bag on the table, then reaches into the cabinet for three plates and serves the bagels. "Yeah, I heard his name the first time, hon. But who is he?" "A friend." "I know all your friends. I don't know him." "Then I guess you don't know all my friends. What are you doing here, anyway?" He leans against the counter and watches me measuring coffee into the filter. "I figured you'd want some company." "That's big of you. After you had your fun and all." "Looks like I wasn't the only one," he says sourly. I briefly puzzle over his irritation, then decide to ignore it. I'm too tired to be figuring out Connor's sudden weirdness and anyway, he's probably still half drunk. He's certainly not smelling too fresh. "There's OJ in the fridge if you want some." Paul joins in the kitchen, leaning against the door frame, his arms stuck deep in his pockets. "So how do you know Nate, Paul?" "We were sitting next to each other on a flight from Frankfurt last week. How do you know Nate?" Paul asks insolently. "Nate and I go way back. Way, way back." They have me feeling like the belle of the ball, which is sort of nice, actually, but then the penny drops. Connor is just having some fun at my expense. As for Paul... Well, I don't know what the hell Paul is doing. "Connor and I met and suffered together through wind sprints our freshman year in college, and it's been downhill ever since," I say briskly, ignoring Connor's wounded "Aw, baby," and I start pulling mugs out of the cabinet and thumping them on the counter with unnecessary force. "How do you take your coffee, Paul?" "Black, please," Paul answers politely. All three of us wait in silence for the coffee maker to stop burbling, then I pour Paul and myself a mug and hand him his. "Thanks," Connor says sarcastically, as he's left to serve himself. "You're welcome." I take one of the plates and head back to the living room to collapse on the couch. Connor plonks himself where Paul had been lying before, and Paul sits in armchair opposite, studying us both expressionlessly. Now would be a good time for Theo to wake up and create a diversion, but contrary as ever, he sleeps on peacefully. After a mostly silent breakfast, Paul checks his watch. "I should get going," he says. "I have to meet a client at ten." I get up and walk him to the door.