Family Man (8 page)

I took another step toward him. Then a second. We were only a few inches from each other. His cheeks started to turn red again, but he didn’t back away.

“The thing is, Vinnie, for most guys I meet, ‘date’ means ‘sex’. Nobody ever has one without the other. But I…” I looked down at the floor, trying to figure out how to finish my sentence.
I don’t have sex? I’m still a virgin? I’m not that easy?

“You don’t
date
,” he said pointedly.

I thought maybe he was teasing, but when I glanced up, I was surprised at what I saw. Yes, he was amused, but there was something else in his eyes too. Maybe not respect. Not quite. But I thought maybe he understood. That hint of fear I’d been seeing since I’d walked in the door was gone.

“Right.” I was relieved he understood. “I don’t date.”

He smiled at me, finally. That goddamn cute, quirky, smartass smile like I’d seen the other night, and I knew I was on the right track.

“So,” I said, “since
you
don’t date, and
I
don’t date, how about if we
not
date together?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, looking thoughtful.

“Tonight?” he asked.

My heart just about jumped out of my chest. It took a conscious effort to not squeal and start bouncing like a teenage girl. “I’d love to.”

Chapter Eight

Even though it wasn’t actually a date, Vince was determined to get everything right.

He went to the address Kyle had given him with the tickets. As it turned out, Kyle was in, and the man welcomed him with a smile and urged him to have a seat in his office.

“I can’t stay long,” Vince warned. “I just wondered if you had seats available for a show tonight, unless it’s too short of notice.”

“Oh yes! Absolutely. Some nice ones off center left.” He smiled as he scribbled something on a piece of paper. “Just take this to the box office and they’ll give you what you need. Have you seen
Icarus
before, or will this be your first time?”

Vince hadn’t even known what the play was. He realized he should have asked about that. “Uh, no. Is it—?” He cut himself off from saying “good” at the last second. “Does it have a happy ending?”

Kyle looked thoughtful. “Difficult question. I don’t know that I’d call it a tragedy, but there aren’t rainbows and puppies at the end, either. A good discussion piece for after, is how I’d describe it.” He gave Vince a sly look. “Good date piece, in other words.”

There was absolutely no reason to blush, which was why it annoyed Vince that he did. “Well, I don’t know that it’s a date.”

“Ah, one of those,” Kyle said wryly. “I remember the days.” He passed the paper over. “Best of luck to you. I hope the show helps push you over the mark into a romantic kiss on the doorstep after, at the very least.”

Vince nodded and tried to murmur his thanks, but it probably sounded like little more than a grunt to Kyle. Hurrying out of the office, he hit the box office, got the tickets and went back home to look for dinner reservations.

His choices around Theater Wit, where the production was held, were an American restaurant, an Italian place and Flat Top, a make-your-own-stir-fry place. Italian was obviously out unless he wanted to face a herd of outraged family, but he still couldn’t decide between the other two. The American place sounded too boring, but what if Trey didn’t want stir-fry? What if it only sounded okay and actually wasn’t?

Well, it wouldn’t matter then, would it, because this isn’t a date.

In the end he decided to forget the whole thing and searched Urbanspoon for something entirely different. He settled on Tango Sur, an Argentine BYOB steakhouse. He knew Trey ate meat, because he’d seen him do it.

Breathing a little easier after having made a reservation, Vince got on with the rest of his preparations.

The only other hiccups came when he tried to get dressed and when he fumbled over transportation. There wasn’t much to do about his clothes; he only had three suits, and he looked like a frumpy old man in all of them. He didn’t think anything else he had would be dressy enough. Though maybe he shouldn’t dress up too much. What if he wore a suit and Trey was in jeans?

As for the other, he’d told Trey he’d pick him up at six—but in what? A cab? With an EL ticket? Usually on dates he got his car out of storage and drove, but would that be too date-like?

Why the hell was this so
hard
? It was supposed to be women who were difficult. Who knew not-dating a man would be even worse?

In the end he became paralyzed by indecision on both counts and called Rachel. Which meant he had to confess about Trey before he explained what help he needed.

It was both more difficult and easier than he’d thought.

“So Trey Giles is gay? I always wondered. Funny, he’s never brought a date by the restaurant. Because you know we’d have heard about it. Oh—you don’t think he thinks we’re all homophobic, do you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think he dates much. Which is why I want to get this right. Even though it isn’t actually a date,” he added quickly.

“You
should
date him. Trey is a sweetheart. Just don’t be a dick to him.”

“Rachel,” Vince said in warning.

“Yes, yes. I’ll be right over.”

Vince glanced at his watch. “Rach, it’s almost five now.”

“Like I said, I’ll be right over.”

She hung up, and Vince spent a frantic twenty minutes driving himself crazy. When the door opened and Rachel swept in, he almost pounced on her before she could even get her key out of the lock.

“
Relax
,” she told him, taking his shoulders and turning him around to aim him at his bedroom. “Show me what we’re working with.”

Rachel ended up putting him in a pair of suit pants but with a dark plum-colored shirt with iridescent silver pinstripes she dug out of the back of his closet. He tried to shoot it down, because it had always felt too flashy to him, but Rachel insisted.

“You’re gay now, big brother. You can be a little flashy.”

“I am
not gay
.”

“Right. You’re just making yourself a nervous wreck over a night out with a man. Completely different story.”

Vince ran a hand over his face. “Shit. Maybe this is a mistake.”

Rachel pushed his hand away and cupped his chin. “Stop. Stop this right now. You’re either going on this date or you aren’t. Stop worrying about your machismo cred. Fierro boys, gay or straight, don’t stand up dates. Or not-dates. You told Trey you’d be there at six; you’re going to be there at six.” She looked him up and down and smiled appreciatively. “And you’ll probably make him melt into a puddle, which is as it should be.”

Vince turned to the mirror, braced for the worst, but to his surprise he found that he actually looked pretty damn good. Except…he fussed with his collar. “I need a necklace or something, though, don’t you think?” He rooted around on his dresser for a gold chain.

Rachel laughed. “Yes, Italian boy. Add a single red rose and you’ll probably get laid for sure.”

“No.” Vince put the chain he’d found back down, unsure now. “That’s the deal. Trey doesn’t do that.”

“What, get laid?” When Vince simply stared at her, Rachel’s eyes widened, and then they softened. “Oh, Vinnie.” She kissed him on the cheek. “You’re such a good boy, you know that? I hope it does work out with Trey. I hope this evens everything out for you, that it really is your magic bullet. I’d love to see you happy.” She patted his shoulder. “Now put on your gold chain. Even if it does scream Hot Italian Sex Machine, there’s no harm in making Trey desperate.”

“You’re vicious,” Vince said, watching his reflection in the mirror as he reached around to fasten the chain.

“Yes.” Rachel took the clasp from his hands, finished it, then dusted him off. “Go get on the EL, walk up to his door and ask him if he wants a cab or a train. Traffic in the Loop will be hell at this hour, so you might as well not even try to drive both ways.”

That was a good plan. Vince took a deep breath, let it out and squared his shoulders.

“Okay?” Rachel asked.

“Okay,” Vince agreed.

Chapter Nine

I had all day to think about the date that wasn’t a date. As the afternoon wore on I began to realize one thing: I had no idea what to expect.

Where would we go? Why hadn’t I thought to ask? Where would macho, Italian, “I’m not gay” Vin take a boy like me? One thing I was absolutely certain of: he would go to great lengths to keep things casual. He’d want to make sure it felt like something other than a date. I figured I was looking at some kind of male bonding, boys’ night out. It was possible we’d end up bowling and drinking Bud out of a can.

In the end, I narrowed it down to the three most likely scenarios: a movie—probably one with explosions and plenty of bosom. A restaurant—probably a sports bar. Or, best-case scenario, back to the jazz club, where we could dance—and I’d be lying if I said that option didn’t make my heart skip a beat and my blood head for places south of my brain. In truth, I didn’t care where we went, so long as I had a chance to flirt with him a bit.

I had to go into campus to do a little research at the library that afternoon, and I was childishly impatient on the way home. The EL seemed to be moving half its normal speed. I fidgeted in my seat and checked my watch repeatedly, just to assure myself that I did indeed still have plenty of time. I practically skipped up the front steps to my door.

I walked into my own private version of hell.

If there’s one certainty about living with an alcoholic, it’s that nothing is ever certain. Nothing, that is, except the next relapse.

My mom had been sober for three months this time. Three months where we all smiled and laughed and acted like a happy family. Three months where we all pretended like we believed it might last this time. I knew as soon as I walked in the front door that her clean streak was over.

There are a lot of stereotypes about alcoholism, most of which look like some kind of movie of the week: screaming, yelling, blackouts. In my early teens, I’d seen the movie
The Burning Bed
. I’d been haunted by the character of Paul and the cruel, sadistic, almost sexual heat in his eyes as he stared at his wife and calmly told his kids to go to bed so that he could do unspeakable things to her. I’d thought over and over about how much he deserved what he got. Yet at no point did I connect his illness with my mother’s disease.

Disease.

I fucking hated that word.

The beast that ruled our house wasn’t full of rage or violence. There were no screaming fits or visits from the police. My mother’s alcoholism was the clichéd elephant in the living room. The weight around our necks that had settled in after my father had died, the silent beast we tiptoed around and pretended not to see.

The house was eerily still, yet not silent. My mother sat alone on the couch, watching Home Shopping Network with blurry and unfocused eyes. The cheery chatter of the saleslady on the television seemed false and obnoxious.

I found my grandmother in the kitchen unloading the dishwasher. Her shoulders were permanently stooped, her fingers crooked from the arthritis. She had weak knees that were aggravated by the extra weight around her hips. She had to move with exaggerated slowness, putting away one dish at a time, shuffling from one side of the kitchen to the other in her muumuu and slippers.

“Gram, you don’t have to do that,” I told her. “You know I’ll take care of it.”

She waved her hand at me dismissively. “It does me good to move around.”

This is one of the games we play, as we dance around this “disease”. The truth was, my grandma couldn’t stand to sit in the living room with my mother, watching her sway, listening to her slurred words. My mother would stare resolutely ahead, refusing to acknowledge that she’d done anything wrong. It was easier for my grandmother to occupy herself with chores than to face what her daughter-in-law had become.

“I forgot to thaw the hamburger for dinner,” she told me. “How about some nice fish sticks?”

“It’s okay, Gram. I won’t be here. I have a…” Not a date. “I have plans.”

“Oh?” She turned to me with a twinkle in her eye. “What lucky boy has finally talked you into going out?”

While my mother did her best to pretend my homosexuality didn’t exist, my grandmother seemed to find a reckless kind of joy in it. She teased me all the time about finding a nice boy. I felt myself blush under her curious scrutiny. “It’s Vin,” I said. “Vin Fierro.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Little Vinnie?” She shook her head. “I never would have guessed.”

“I don’t think he’s really out, Gram, so don’t do anything to embarrass him, okay?”

“Okay. Okay.” She turned back to the dishwasher with a sigh. “I guess you saw.”

Another step in the dance, acknowledging without saying the words. “I did.”

“Are you meeting Vincent out somewhere?” Another step, moving on to the next subject before we could say anything that might actually matter.

“He’s picking me up at six.”

She glanced at the clock and
tsk
ed her tongue. “You better start getting ready. You don’t want to keep him waiting.”