Gulliver Takes Five (35 page)

Gulliver?

I’ve been dying to see you again.

But not like this.

Fuck no. No way in hell! The guy I’m staring at looks nothing like my former roommate—he has bright-blue hair, a chinstrap, an eyebrow ring. I just looked at him ten minutes ago, zoomed in to make the name correction, and didn’t even think...

It’s not him. It can’t be.

Gulliver would never do this.

But Gulliver would also never fuck a guy behind my back and lie about it, jeopardizing my other friendships—until he did, that is.

I move closer to the screen, staring the blue-haired twink in the face. His squinting eyes. His dimpled smile. I look at the postcard again, like the words on it could have changed somehow. Then back at the invoice, like THAT could have changed.

Nothing has changed. Except my mood, for the worse.

I type the Screwniversity’s address into a browser and am greeted by the same photo of the boys that is on the projection. There’s a button under the blue-haired boy’s picture that says,
Get to know Marty Brayden—click right here!

Marty Brayden, huh? Fuck.

It’s a video testimonial—just “Marty” in a booth introducing himself. It starts playing as soon as the page loads. I hear his voice. See his smile. He stands, showing off a tiny pair of underwear and a growing bulge. He lifts his eyebrow and laughs.

I know that laugh.

Motherfucker.

I can’t watch anymore.

Sometimes it’s good to NOT be in charge of the party. Like this weekend. I’m back on Fire Island. It’s been a month since we were last here, for my event, and four weeks before eWrecksion, my next event. This is my last chance to just chill, get smashed, do stupid shit, all with my boys, before I jump into the whirlwind of planning Mikey Drama’s historic party. Servando, Rowan, Shane, and Brayden are along for the ride, everyone but you-know-who. We’re even crashing in the same house
.

Not a word is spoken of Gulliver, wherever the fuck he is. No one cares to open that can of worms. For the purposes of my crew, it’s like he never came to New York at all. And I can ALMOST pretend along with them that he’s still safe and happy on the West Coast
.

Almost
.

I leave my boys in the roped-off VIP corner by the long wooden bar, instructing the bartender to take special care of them and warning them to not take advantage. (Shane has a thirst for the fanciest-looking bottles on the top shelf.)

“Todd!” a voice shouts from across the club. “Todd!”

It’s Kenton, pushing his way through the crowd like he’s in a race to get out, his face a mask of concern. As a bartender, surely he’s had his share of shit to deal with on a night packed like this. But I’m off. Tonight, I party. I’ll redirect Kenton to Drama, who gets to be the bad cop to unruly drunk patrons; I’m the good cop, the one who bends rules and pulls strings and might let you borrow his handcuffs for sexy recreational purposes. A few screams from Drama will settle any dispute, and I can go back to getting fucked up
.

“What’s up, lover?” I ask. Kenton seems put off by my smile, shocked by it. “What’s going on? Tell me there’s drama. Let me text Mikey now. I haven’t seen him in an hour. If he ducked out early, I’ll kill him. This is HIS event, not mine.”

“You didn’t get my voice mail? My texts?”

“Tonight? No,” I say, checking through the hundreds of texts that remain unread on my phone. When they stack up as high as mine do, you just sorta give up, figuring that the truly important matters will keep bubbling to the top
.

“No, WEEKS ago. Did you get them?”

“Maybe?” I ask, scrolling through the texts. “They may have been lost in the pile...”

“I left you voice mails too, Todd.”

“I check those less than I check my texts, babe. What’s up?”

I usually tell people not to bother with voice mail. I may be able to work out two hours a day; I’m on my feet from 9 in the morning ’til 4 the next morning juggling a full-time day job and another, more-than-full-time nighttime career. But for some strange reason, I just can’t muster the energy to dial my voice mail, put in the pass code, and sit there while someone speaks from the past about something they probably already tried texting me about too. Especially when there are forty damn voices with all sorts of shit to tell me. Just text, I advise. Then the chances of me getting back to you increase exponentially—though, clearly, not even that works sometimes
.

Did Kenton call me a few weeks ago? Yeah, I remember now. Did I avoid getting back to him? Yes. I was busy. There were other priorities, like Gulliver disappearing and ramping up for eWrecksion and day job shit and who knows what else. The last thing I needed was ex drama added to the heap. What happens on Fire Island is meant to stay on Fire Island, not follow you home so you have to deal with it back in Manhattan
.

ESPECIALLY when “what happens” involves hooking up with your ex. I suppose I meant to give Kenton a jingle once I got everything else out of the way—but who am I kidding? Everything else is NEVER out of the way
.

“Fuck,” Kenton says, rolling his eyes. “Can’t you tell when a text might be important?”

I put my hands up, trying to get Kenton to tone down his voice, which is carrying despite the blasting music. “What’s up, K?”

Kenton’s face screws into a grimace. “Can we go talk somewhere, please?”

My stomach is in my shoes. I have so much shit to do, even if this isn’t my fucking event. My guests are bitching about the door guy, who apparently isn’t comping them when they drop my name, even though Drama promised it would be okay. One of the bartenders is having issues with a drunken partygoer who is refusing to leave him alone, and apparently he’s one of my guests who DID get in. The last thing I have time to do is take a stroll with my ex
.

“Can it wait?” I ask, flashing him a smile. “You know how crazed I get at these things.”

“Todd, for once, please give me two minutes of your fucking time!”

It takes me a minute to realize he’s crying. I nod and tell him to lead the way
.

We escape from the party, down the stairs, and out to the edge of the adjacent docks. We’re at the end of Fire Island, with Long Island just a dot on the horizon. Around us, houseboats and fishing boats bob up and down in the water, the boardwalk creaking as if ghosts are dancing around the planks. It’s still loud out here, even though we’re over two hundred feet from the club. The sounds of DJ Christian Robert blare out of the second-floor windows and waft down to us. Christian was my recommendation to Drama, and Brayden seems to think he’s SUPER cute—which I’m sure will prove to be a negative in no time
.

“Dude, what the fuck is going on?” I ask finally, after what feels like an hour of silence
.

Kenton, who I never saw cry even once when we were together (or apart), has regained his composure. He stares out at the bobbing boats, his head shaking slowly. “Fuck, Todd...”

“What, babe? What’s going on? You know if this were any other night, I wouldn’t rush you. But they need me up there. Drama will be blowing up my phone any second.”

“And you’ll respond to that. Right? Because THAT’S what’s important. Parties.”

“Not parties. WORK. For me, it’s WORK. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Yeah. Rough life.” Kenton catches himself and turns to face me. His face looks drawn out, skinny, deep circles around his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. And I’m sorry about, uh...”

“Sorry about WHAT?” I ask, losing my patience. “What the FUCK is going on with you?”

And then he tells me
.

At approximately the same moment, the world ends
.

I make him tell me again
.

“Are you sure?” I ask. Now I’m the one staring at the boats and the black water. I can feel Kenton’s eyes on me
.

“Yes,” he says
.

I nod. I get up. I walk away. Kenton calls after me only once, knowing full well I won’t be turning around and coming back
.

I return to the party and switch to drinking water. Two hours later, when the event ends and hundreds of sweat-soaked boys trek back to their weekend shares, I head home with my crew. They want to pull an all-nighter. I tell them to have a blast, but I’m going right to bed. They
stay up drinking and dancing; I can hear them through the windows of my room. At some point, they trade indoors for outdoors, head out to the pool. I hear guests arrive. I hear sex—loud, drunken—all around me. I hear silence when everyone finally passes out
.

I don’t sleep
.

The next morning, I leave the island, telling the boys they can stay for the rest of the weekend, but I have business back in the city. No one questions that. No one protests. Todd DiTempto does what he has to, and what he says is rarely challenged
.

On the ferry and then the train, I don’t turn on my phone, don’t check e-mails or voice mails or texts. What might have been urgent yesterday is now a frivolous waste of time and energy and life. It’s not important. Nothing is anymore
.

Back in the city, I walk to my apartment alone, close the door behind me, and go to bed
.

I sleep for sixteen hours. And even that isn’t enough
.

I tear up the postcard and throw it in the trash. Then I walk around the apartment in circles for what becomes an hour, Señor yipping and following me, perplexed and wondering if this will count as his evening walk.

I sit back at the computer and go back to the New York Screwniversity website, where I find hundreds of photos and videos of
blue-haired Gulliver. I don’t enlarge a single photo, don’t play a single preview video. I don’t want to see my traitorous best buddy having fun for the past two months, given what I’ve been going through.

I don’t know what the fuck to do.

The boys are texting me. Shane first. Then Servando and Rowan. I don’t respond. If they recognize Gully, see him up on that stage getting fucked by a dozen of his dorm mates, then that would be it. That would be the end of any respect they ever had for him. However much might be left after what he did to Brayden.

Fuck, how much respect do
I
even have for him? The little shit got into this situation by thinking with his dick and lying about it. And his way out of it is to fuck even
more
people and continue hiding it from those of us who still care about him?

It’s not like he didn’t have options. Friends here. Friends in LA. One of the most loving, functional families you could ever meet. Christ, think of how ashamed they’d be if they found this out.

Gulliver moved here for a fresh start. Now that’s shot to shit, if anyone ever finds out who Marty Brayden really is. And putting on a live sex show in front of a crowd filled with boys you once knew? Well, that’s a really great way to blow your cover, amongst other things.

I call Drama to tell him I won’t be coming out tonight.

“What?” Drama screams on the other end of the phone. “Of course you’re coming! You HAVE to.”

“I feel like shit, Michael. I can’t. But don’t worry, bro, I got your projections taken care of. The place is going to be packed. You don’t need me there.”

“Excuse me? Who the fuck is this, and why are you calling me from Todd DiTempto’s cell phone?”

Michael’s right. At the moment, I’m not Todd DiTempto. Todd DiTempto is a man who has all the answers, who always knows what to do. He deals with shit. Confronts it head-on. Or at least, he used to.

Todd DiTempto was invincible—but he’s not anymore. If only they knew.

I can’t be at eWrecksion tonight. If I see Marty Brayden, I don’t know what I’ll do. Hit him? Hug him? Throw up? Most likely all three, right before I pick him up and physically drag him kicking and screaming out of the club and out of that life. I’ll lock him in a trunk and ship it express back to California, preferably back in time too, if it’s possible. Why would he do something so fucking dangerous? Put his health and future at risk? Even if he was disease-free, those fucking tapes come back to haunt you when you least fucking expect it. The idiot. The fucking moron. Does he think he’s hit rock bottom? He has NO idea how much worse shit could get.