In the Middle of Somewhere (4 page)

I force myself to meet Rex’s gaze. To look at him calmly and confidently, as if what I just said is no big deal. This is what I’ve learned over the years. You just stare, like everything is normal, make them feel like they’ll be the awkward one if they say anything to you about it. Just stay calm and narrow your eyes a little like you’re not scared of a fight.

But Rex isn’t saying anything, isn’t reacting at all. I get up, clumsily, and bring my plate and glass to the kitchen sink. I pour a quick slug of whiskey in the glass and down it, then start scrubbing the plate.
Everything’s fine
, I say in my head.
Everything’s fine. Everything’s fine
.

When Rex comes up behind me, the soapy plate slips out of my hand and shatters in the sink. I jump backward.

“Shit! Shit, I’m sorry.” I look up at him, expecting anger, maybe disgust. When he doesn’t say anything, I start to pick up the pieces of broken plate, but they’re slippery and I keep dropping them.

“Stop.” Rex puts his hands over mine in the sink. He dries my hands with the dishtowel, then takes me by the shoulders and turns me around so I’m leaning against the wall.

“You need to calm down,” he says, and his voice is a warm ocean of command. I nod, trying to calm down, but my heart is racing. What is wrong with me? It’s not like people don’t know I’m gay. Hell, I’ve always enjoyed letting idiots bro down with me and then just casually talking about my boyfriend to watch their surprise. It’s obvious that Rex isn’t going to hurt me; if he were, he would’ve done it already. I take a deep breath, his heavy hands weighing my shoulders down, anchoring me.

I look up at him, his eyes the same color as the whiskey I just drank. He steps closer, until I can feel his warmth. I open my mouth to tell him I’m fine, but what comes out is an embarrassingly shaky breath.

“Just calm down,” he says. And then he kisses me.

His hand is so big that when he cups my cheek his fingers trail down my neck, warm and rough. His mouth is soft on mine, but the power of his body behind it makes it clear he’s holding himself back. As one hand strokes my neck, the other cups my head, tangling in my hair. I open my eyes for a moment to make sure this is real, and his are open too, heavy-lidded and golden.

He pulls back and straightens up. He’s tall enough that he had to bend down to kiss me. I wonder if that’s annoying—to have to bend down all the time. Or, I guess if he were kissing someone his same height, he wouldn’t have to, but that’s probably pretty rare. Also, holy crap, Rex is gay! I wonder—

Then I can’t think of anything else because his mouth is on mine again, and this time it’s a real kiss. His hands are on my hips and my head is tilted back against the wall and he’s kissing me, his tongue filling all the empty spaces. I reach up and put my arms around his neck, trying to pull him closer to me. He slides a hand up my side and around to my back, and he hooks his hand around my shoulder, locking me to him. I gasp into his mouth as he pushes his hips forward, his hardness hot against my stomach even through his jeans.

He pulls back, his mouth leaving mine with a lewd smack.

“Better?” he asks, and when he gives me his first real smile, it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. His whole face is transformed. He has dimples and his teeth are a little crooked, one incisor slightly twisted.

I huff out a laugh and grin back.

“Better.” And, actually, I am. I feel calm and boneless. Well, not exactly boneless. In fact, I’m trying to psychically communicate that he could make everything a whole lot better if he’d just release the binder clip barely holding my sweatpants up and take me on the kitchen table, but he doesn’t seem to be getting the message.

He takes me by the hand and leads me back to the couch. He covers me with the flannel blanket, sinks down next to me, and flicks on the TV with one hand while he subtly adjusts himself with the other. When he looks at me out of the corner of his eye, I grin at him. He laughs and shakes his head.

“Just relax.”

He’s channel surfing—more channels than I would’ve expected to find in a log cabin. I think I finally have to admit to myself that I am helpless to control my dumb stereotypes about rural places and the people who live in them. As if he can read my mind, Rex rolls his eyes and points out the front door.

“Satellite dish.”

He stops changing channels at a black-and-white movie, looking totally delighted when he turns to me and points at the screen expectantly. I have no idea what movie it is. I’m not sure I’ve ever even seen an entire black-and-white movie except when I took a film class in college. I don’t even own a TV.

“
Gaslight
,” he says, smiling. “I love this movie.” He’s still looking at me expectantly; I shake my head.

“I’ve never seen it.”

“Really? Ingrid Bergman. I love her.”

“So you
are
gay,” I joke.

He fixes me with a smoldering look.

“Were you in doubt?”

“No,” I squeak. He looks back at the screen.

“This version is the most famous, but MGM actually made it only four years after the UK film version. Then they somehow cut a deal so that the UK version wasn’t allowed to be rereleased in the US. I do think this one is better than the 1940 version, though. Mostly because Ingrid Bergman’s better than Diana Wynyard.

“It’s great, although MGM’s corniness ruins it in some parts. And, you know, the Production Code. It’s Angela Lansbury’s first film role.”

He’s speaking absently, as if I know all this, his face animated even as his eyes are glued to the screen.

“You’re a film geek, huh?”

“What? No. I mean, I just like old movies,” he says, looking a little uncomfortable.

“I think that’s awesome,” I say, desperate not to have offended him. “I never saw many movies growing up, so I guess I just never developed a taste for them. It was always sports at my house.”

“Do you still follow sports?”

“Oh, no, I never did. My dad and my brothers, though. Huge sports fans. I think as long as it’s got a ball, they watch it. Well, except soccer. They think soccer’s for pansies. Oh, and golf, because it’s not violent.”

“How many brothers do you have?”

“Three. All older. You?”

“No,” he says, and turns back to the TV. We watch the movie in silence for ten or fifteen minutes.

“Hey, wait, is this where the term to gaslight someone comes from?”

“Yeah,” Rex says, looking back at me. “Ingrid Bergman’s husband—Charles Boyer—messes with her head, trying to make her think she’s going crazy.”

It is so hot to watch him talk about this stuff. He’s so, well, burly; he doesn’t look like the kind of guy who’d be into old movies. And unlike Richard, my ex, or the people I went to grad school with, he doesn’t sound like his interest is academic. There’s none of the desire to impress with his knowledge, none of the analysis asserted as fact. He’s just really excited about an old Ingrid Bergman movie. And I want nothing more than to kiss him again.

“I guess I always thought it had something to do with gas fumes making people hallucinate or something,” I murmur.

He smiles at me. “I think that’s a common mis—”

He breaks off when I launch myself into his lap. I kiss him, throwing my arms around his neck. His mouth is soft and his body is hard beneath me. When I kiss him, his hands go automatically to my back, stroking up and down my spine, sending sparks of heat through my whole body. I moan into his mouth, and he drags me down by the shoulders. I’m dizzy with lust, his scent and his warmth and his big hands making it impossible to do anything but keep kissing him.

I reach between us and fumble for his fly, but I’m pulled out of my haze by hands holding mine still.

“Hey, hey, Daniel.” He takes my hands between his and puts them back on his shoulders. He kisses me softly, but it’s a good-bye kiss. I can tell. A we’re-done-now kiss. A pity kiss. The warmth of lust is immediately replaced with nausea. My head is pounding and I’m too hot, not to mention humiliated. I move off him with as much dignity as I can muster, considering I’m straddling someone with binder-clipped sweatpants and a too-big shirt that has fallen off one shoulder like a valley girl’s sweatshirt.

On the floor, the dog has raised her head and is looking at me as if even she can tell something is wrong with me. I stare at the fire intently, wishing I could disappear into it.

“Look,” Rex says, his voice gentle. “It’s really late, and you’ve had a long day. You should get some sleep.” I nod without looking at him.

He brings me a pillow from the hall closet, and another blanket, but instead of going into his room, he lingers in the doorway, looking at me.

“You know,” he says, and he sounds a little shy. “You kind of look like you could be one of those old-time Hollywood leading men.”

I look up at him, startled. He’s looking at me intently, leaning forward, but his eyes are sad, dark.

“You’d be wasted on black and white, though. Your eyes.” He makes a vague gesture toward my face, then turns away. “Good night, Daniel,” he says. And then he’s gone.

August

T
HE
AIR
conditioning in my car died somewhere in Ohio, so it’s hard to hear Ginger above the highway sounds coming in through the windows I’ve rolled down to avoid roasting. Fortunately, the girl’s never been accused of being quiet.

“Okay,” she says, “so I google-mapped this town of yours and I’ve gotta tell you, pumpkin, I’m a little concerned.”

It’s taken Ginger all summer to be able to remember that I’m moving to Michigan—not Minnesota, not Missouri—so this is progress.

“Number one: are you aware that this state is shaped like a mitten and people actually refer to it as The Mitten?”

“I am,” I say. Ginger is one of the smartest people I know, but she reminds me of someone’s grandmother sometimes with her insistence that the things beyond her daily routine are bizarre and shocking.

“So, you’re moving to a state that people refer to by its winter wear. This state also gets a lot of snow. There is only so much geological coincidence I can bear, sweet cheeks. Also, from what I can tell, the main claim to fame of this hamlet you will soon call home is its cherries. Tart cherries.”

“Yeah.”

“Daniel!
Tart
cherries. Who wants a tart cherry?”

“Dunno, Ginge; I’ve never tried one. I’ll be sure to let you know.”

“Okay, fine, clearly you’re not in the mood to be distracted, so get on with it. What did your dad say?”

I didn’t tell my father or my brothers about getting the job at Sleeping Bear College until last night, after I finished packing. I got the call offering me the job only about a week after my visit. Bernard Ness, the chair of the job search committee, was enthusiastic and friendly and didn’t even mention anything about my never checking in to my hotel the night I was there. At first, I didn’t tell them because I kind of couldn’t believe it had happened. This was what I’d been working toward for about the last decade of my life. It was surreal and shocking to all of a sudden have achieved it.

Then I didn’t tell them because I was madly finishing up my dissertation and planning for my dissertation defense where my committee would decide whether or not to award me my PhD. That was three weeks of fifteen-hour days where I guzzled coffee all day and NyQuil at night, terrified I wouldn’t be able to sleep.

The thing about my father is that he’s like the world’s most accomplished boxer: there’s no predicting which direction the hit will come from. After I passed my defense, I thought of every angle I could—every way in which telling him “hey, I just got my PhD” could be met with something more negative than all the things he’d been saying ever since I decided to go to college and then grad school in the first place. It seemed like a pretty safe announcement. So, that night, I stopped by my dad’s house, knowing I’d catch at least one of my brothers on the couch, drinking my dad’s beer. And if one of them knew something, all of them knew.

My mistake was showing up a little tipsy after drinks with some of my grad school friends, on my way to meet Ginger at her tattoo shop. I’m usually able to keep it together and take whatever my dad and brothers throw at me. And I’d certainly learned long before that if they saw me get even the littlest bit upset, they were like sharks smelling blood in the water.

My dad and Brian, the youngest of my three older brothers, were watching the Phillies when I got there and they barely looked up when I came in. My other brother, Colin, came into the room a minute later and didn’t acknowledge me at all. I told them about passing my defense at a commercial break. Brian looked up, confused, and said, “Didn’t you do that last year?” Typical. My dad said, “Well, that’s great, son. I’m glad you’ve gotten that out of your system. Now what?” Colin didn’t say anything at all.

It was nothing, really. He even said the word “great,” when I’d anticipated the possibility of something like, “Ah, so now you’re a snob officially.”

“Now what?” I said, and I could hear the nasty edge creeping into my voice that tries to scare people away before I fall apart. “Now I thought I’d take a few weeks off after working nonstop for the last twelve years.”

Brian looked up again, taking in my suit, and said, “Whoa, Danielle, what are you all dressed up for?” My brothers had called me Danielle before they ever knew I was gay, but learning I was gay had made it more pointed.

“Don’t call your brother that,” my dad snapped. It wasn’t out of protectiveness for me or anything, he just hates to be reminded of how I’m not the to-the-garage-born specimen of beer-swilling, sports-watching, car-fixing masculinity that he wishes I were.

Then the game came back on and they forgot I was there.

Needless to say, I didn’t tell them about the job then, either. And, okay, I may have gotten a little choked up as I slammed the door and walked to Ginger’s shop, but I blame it on exhaustion. The upside was that when I told Ginger about the latest installment of the Mulligan family assholism, she gave me an emergency tattoo to distract me. The fact that I woke up the next morning and saw that I’d asked her to tattoo “Let Sleeping Bears Lie” above my left hip suggests that I was feeling a bit more sentimental than I’d thought.