Private Relations (2 page)

Chapter 3

Nothing like coming home to an empty apartment.

I collapsed onto the sofa, not even bothering to turn on the lights. The snow had died down during the cab ride, but seemed to be picking back up. Flakes gathered on the windowsill, and a harsh wind pushed against the glass.

The thought of what Vanessa had done -- telling Eric about Bobby and I -- weighed heavily on my mind. How could she have done that? What did she have to gain by revealing the so-called “affair” that happened between Bobby and me when I was only sixteen years old?

My parents never earned much money. We lived in the Tacony section of Philadelphia, a neighborhood that was marginal at best. The public schools were even worse. Being “bright” or “gifted” or otherwise smart was a liability. Nothing like being identified as intelligent to encourage bullies to beat you up each day after the bell rang.

Charter Schools seemed like a viable solution, if only they didn’t fill up so quickly. As for private schools, we assumed they were simply out of reach, until we discovered a boarding school called New Hope Academy.

Nestled on ninety bucolic acres in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, it was one hour outside Philadelphia but felt like a world away. The campus resembled a small New England college, right down to the ivy-covered brick buildings and students lounging on the grassy quad. Most importantly, New Hope Academy had an excellent reputation when it came to the college admissions race.

Princeton. Berkley. NYU.

And that was from the
same
graduating class.

The price for academic serenity was more than thirty-thousand dollars a year. But then, for the first time in my life, I experienced a massive dose of luck. New Hope Academy had scholarships available -- and when a spot opened up for that fall, I was invited to take the admissions test.

I got the phone call a few days later. I’d passed.

It was certainly an adjustment. New Hope Academy was far more academically rigorous than my sorry excuse for a public school, but I acclimated soon enough. I had a “buddy” on-campus, a fellow classmate that was assigned to show me the ropes and ensure I was aware of all the academic and extracurricular resources available.

And then I’d met Bobby.

Robert “Bobby” Allen was my junior English teacher, and had a reputation as one of the best instructors at the school. Handsome, single, and in his mid-thirties, it was odd to see someone so young and gregarious at a boarding school in rural Pennsylvania, but I didn’t complain. For the first time in my life, I had someone who was as passionate about fiction as I was.

“Who is your favorite author?” he’d asked me. “And if you say James Patterson or Dan Brown, we might have a problem.”

I’d rolled my eyes and scoffed. “More like Anne Rice, Neil Gaiman and Stephen Chomsky. I read a lot of commercial fiction, but only the good stuff, you know?”

“Horror, fantasy, and a quintessential coming-of-age story? Well, at least you have diverse tastes. Any favorites among the authors you just mentioned?”

“
The Witching Horror
is my favorite from Anne Rice. I really liked Neil Gaiman’s
Sandman
series. I know they aren’t novels, but those comics were some of the best damn storytelling I’ve ever read. And as for
The Perks of Being a Wallflower…
”

“It’s one of my favorite books, too,” Bobby added. “Even if I am a little old.”

Bobby was unlike anyone else I’d ever met. Not only did he encourage my love of reading, but he also encouraged me to write. Over the next few months, he’d dedicated countless hours to reading my short stories and providing feedback along the way. Eventually, we’d stopped meeting at the library and started having sessions at his house on the banks of the Delaware River.

I didn’t think anything of walking the half-mile from campus to his home not far from Downtown New Hope. He’d ordered a pizza for the two of us, and there was even a six-pack of Yuengling Lager on the kitchen counter.

“Sorry,” he’d said. “I shouldn’t have alcohol present with a student around.”

“Like I haven’t had beer before?” I grabbed a bottle, twisted off the cap. “Unless you’re going to call the cops and report me for underage drinking?”

Bobby had actually blushed.

He was handsome, almost breathtakingly so. His blue eyes were by complimented by the dark blonde hair that flowed in thick waves. Stubble marked his cheeks and chin, and his lips were slick with the remnants of our beer.

Looking back, I couldn’t have been more naive. What kind of grown man invites a teenage boy into his home? And on the flimsy pretense of reviewing a short story that could have easily been edited in Microsoft Word and emailed back to the student to review on his own time?

We sat on the sofa in front of the fireplace, right as a heavy rain began to fall. Bobby had taken one last bite of pepperoni, then picked up the short story I’d emailed him a few days before. It featured a sixteen-year-old boy who’d uncovered a terror plot at his own high school.

“Please tell me you don’t think New Hope Academy is under siege from al-Qaeda?” he’d teased. “Where did you get the inspiration from?”

“Well, I was watching CNN in the student lounge last week, and apparently, a majority of ‘terrorists’ in the world are young men. Like, under the age of thirty.”

“Is that a fact?”

“That’s what this old guy from the FBI was saying. So I’m wondering, if al-Qaeda really wanted to inflict some damage, what would stop them from trying to recruit the best and brightest right here in America?”

“That’s a terrifying thought,” he’d said. “But one that made for a great little novella. You do realize you emailed me close to fifty pages, right?”

“Oops.”

“No, don’t apologize.” He’d handed me the printout, featuring his thoughts and edits in his trademark blue pen. “You’re the best student I have in class by far.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

It was at that moment I’d felt something change.

The alcohol had lowered my defenses. Rain pelted the glass windows overlooking the river, and the flickering light of the fire threatened to put me to sleep.

His hand reached out and brushed my cheek. I’d just opened my mouth to speak when he’d leant in and pressed his lips against my own. He’d kissed me again and again -- even going so far as to reach between my legs and massage my groin.

“Wait,” I’d said, breaking off the kiss. “No. Stop…”

He didn’t listen. He’d kissed my forehead, my cheeks, my neck. He’d gripped my shoulders and pressed me down onto the sofa, knocking over the empty beer bottles in the process. His stubble burned my face and I could barely move beneath his iron grip. Despite this, I didn’t put up much of a fight.

It’d felt too damn good.

My cock stiffened in my jeans; I’d shuddered when he’d reached up my shirt and brushed a thumb over my nipple. Yes, I’d told him to stop -- but I hadn’t done much else. He’d moved down to my abdomen, where he’d lifted up my shirt and kissed a trail down my stomach. Then, he unbuttoned my jeans, stripped me naked from the waist down, and took me into his mouth.

“Fuck…!” I’d hissed. His mouth was warm and wet and his tongue dragged along the length of my shaft before circling around the head. I’d held on for a maximum of five minutes before I shut my eyes and came in his mouth.

He slid his mouth off from me and swallowed. “I’ve wanted to do that from the moment I saw you,” he’d added. “You’re gorgeous, Jesse. The most gorgeous student I’ve
ever
taught.”

“I need to go.”

I practically ran out the front door. Yet over the following weeks and months, I hadn’t told a soul. Life continued on as usual: go to class, study my ass off in the library, and actually enjoy the many friends I’d made along the way.

Bobby, for his part, had no intentions of giving up on me.

“I need to see you,” he’d pleaded. “Please. Don’t do this to me.”

I’d already had myself transferred out his class under the guise of wanting to take an art course that was scheduled during the same period. The administration For reasons that I still didn’t know, I eventually gave in to his demands.

I’d given myself over to him, literally and figuratively. No matter how conflicted I was over what we were doing, one thing never changed: every time we had sex, he’d always made me come.

Then, in the fall of my junior year, someone came along who’d “stolen” me from Bobby for good. He’d hated Vanessa ever since.

I rubbed my hands over my face, shook myself out of my memories. There’d be plenty of time to brood tomorrow if I wanted to. And so I got up, padded over to my bed, and cocooned myself in the sheets. I turned on my iPad to distract myself, but was met with an equally unsettling headline.

THIRD PROSTITUTE FOUND DEAD IN LONG ISLAND

FBI Task Force Rumored to Begin Hunt for Apparent Serial Killer

No matter how complicated my life was, the Long Island Ripper had a way of reminding me just how good I had it compared to others. I gave the article a quick read, noting that it summarized what was already known: that some lunatic was picking up prostitutes off of Craigslist, only to rape and murder them. He’d dump the bodies on secluded beaches in Long Island, and the cops were completely clueless.

It was all too much for what’d been a very strange night. And so I turned off my iPad, shut my eyes tight, and surrendered into oblivion.

Chapter 4

I woke up wondering if last night was just a dream.

So much had happened, most of which I had yet to process. I’d been reunited with Vanessa, one of few people I’d ever truly loved. And then, her gay husband made a pass at me in the shower. Which, of course, led me to reminisce about Bobby, another man that’d overstepped his bounds when I was too young to know any better.

I sat up in bed and let out a yawn. Coffee would settle this, and like any other New Yorker, I had a Keurig machine in the kitchen. Before long, I had a steaming cup of French Vanilla in my hands. Vanessa, if I remembered correctly, preferred Hazelnut, if not Pumpkin Spice during the autumn months. During Christmas, it was all about Peppermint Mocha.

Jesus
.
Ten years later and you still remember her favorite coffee flavors?

My phone vibrated on the kitchen table just as I was about to make another cup of coffee. I picked it up, didn’t recognize the number, but accepted it anyway.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” Vanessa said.

“How did you get my number?”

“Eric had it in his iPhone. I jotted it down after he fell asleep last night.”

“Right. Look, I’m not sure what you were trying to achieve last night, but if you wanted to see me again, all you had to do was ask.”

“Is that a fact?”

I paused, all too aware of what she was alluding to. “I’ve said it a thousand times, Vanessa. I forgive you.”

She let out a sigh, and I could practically see her raking a hand through her light brown hair. Her mouth would pinch into a thin line if she was really upset. I’d picked up on all her nonverbal cues when we were together. Ten years later, I still hadn’t forgotten them.

“Forgive me if I don’t quite believe you,” she said.

“Look, we need to hash this out. Do you want to meet for lunch? Just the two of us. There’s a lot I need to know. A lot I
want
to know.”

“Fine. Where should we go?”

“Let me hop in the shower and get dressed. I’ll text you the address in a few.”

*
 
 
  
*
    
*

Sometimes, on a cold winter day in Manhattan, all you want is a good diner.

TriBeCa, like most neighborhoods in Lower Manhattan, was known for its exorbitant rents, high-end boutiques and celebrity residents. Converted warehouses lined the spacious cobblestone streets, where well-dressed residents sipped coffee in cafes, dined in the restaurants, or browsed the many art galleries.

Parents pushed children in strollers, with a few Dads giving them a bird’s eye view atop their shoulders. Quiet, safe, and spacious, TriBeCa was one of the most desirable neighborhoods in all of New York City. And when the sun shone down from a cloudless sky, and the winds blew snowflakes off the rooftops, I couldn’t help but appreciate how far I’d come.

I looked down, and saw the red-cheeked little girl standing atop her scooter. I’d been blocking her way, and consequently, she was rather irritated with me.

“Sorry,” I said, stepping aside. “Careful. The streets are slippery.”

“Yeah, my Mom already told me that.”

Moments later her mother arrived, out of breath and struggling with a slew of shopping bags in her hands. “Rachel, slow down!”

“I don’t think that’ll do much good,” I said.

The mother shook her head, chuckling. “Headstrong -- just like her father!”

I continued on, laughing about the little girl. Only a child could get away with telling a stranger more than twice their size to get the hell out of their way. A few friends I’d kept in touch with from the Academy were married now, and some were even expecting their first child. For those who decided to pursue a corporate career in New York City, having a child was something that didn’t usually happen until their thirties, if at all.

Tell people that you weren’t sure about having children, and they’d inevitably tell you that you’d change your mind, that it was all a matter of finding the right person to settle down with. Little did they know that at one time, I was about to become a father, albeit at far too young an age. Of course, I was completely ignorant of my impending fatherhood at the time.

Vanessa only told me she was pregnant
after
having the abortion.

I shut my eyes, cleared my throat. A cold wind whipped through Greenwich Street and shook me out of my memories. When I arrived at Gee Whiz Diner, I pushed through the wooden doors, grateful to be out of the cold. I found Vanessa seated at a booth near the window, and joined her without saying a word.

“Really, Jesse? This place?”

“What? This place is great.”

“You always were a creature of habit. Let me guess, you found this place when first arrived in New York and didn’t have any money. They were nice to you, maybe gave you a free slice of pie, and you’ve been coming back ever since.”

“That about sums it up. Cherry pie, for the record.”

Vanessa rolled her beautiful blue eyes. Not out of spite, but due to the fact that I was confirming an old adage she had about men: No matter if they’re fifteen or fifty-five, men never change.

The diner itself was spacious for the area, and featured a mix of wooden tables and cozy booths. The food was standard burger-and-fries fare, and it attracted everything from students to families to the occasional tourist who’d wandered in from Midtown. Mostly, it was families. Many of whom weren’t much older than us.
       
“I’ll order for you if you like,” I said. “You can get a grilled chicken salad if you’re watching your figure, but I’ll tell you right now I am starving.”

“Burger and fries it is, then. With a Coca-Cola and some ice cream for dessert.”

I smiled on the inside. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one who’d held onto our memories together.

“I guess we both remember more than we’d like to admit,” I said. “Too bad I don’t even know where to begin now.”

“What do you mean?”

I arched my eyebrows. “Seriously?”

“You mean Eric and me? Clearly, it’s complicated. Yes, he’s gay. But believe it or not but I didn’t know that when we got married.”

I wasn’t sure whether I could believe her, but I decided to keep listening. She sang his praises: handsome, charming, a Wharton graduate with a dual degree in international finance and economics. He even spoke Mandarin Chinese, which came in handy when he had to go to Shanghai for business. Wonderful as he was, after a few years of marriage, she started noticing things.

“Sometimes, it would be the way he looked at other men,” she said. “The way his eyes would linger a little too long on them. I shrugged it off, told myself that maybe he was just feeling competitive.”

“Competitive?” I asked.

“He’s insane, Jesse. I’ve never seen someone so insecure. Seeing you again just reminded me how different the two of you are. The way you sauntered into the hotel bar, walked right over to our table? The way you maintained your cool even when you recognized me and knew something was up?”

“For the record, I was terrified.” The waitress returned with our food, then quickly disappeared. I nibbled on a french fry, my appetite suddenly waning.

“It didn’t show,” Vanessa offered.

“Thanks.”

I picked up my burger and was about to take a bite, when I finally decided to throw caution to the wind and ask Vanessa why she bothered staying with Eric at all. How could she? I wasn’t a homophobe -- clearly -- but why the hell would she stay with a man who couldn’t possibly love her the way a husband should?

“I need him,” she said. “You don’t understand…”

“What is it, Vanessa? The money? You don’t need it; you have your own.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. Hell, I’ve been to your parents’ house, remember?”

She looked at me, incredulous. “You can’t be serious, can you? My father’s in jail. He’d been bilking his clients for years, and the Feds finally caught on. After the civil suits came rolling in, we lost everything.”