When the Stars Come Out (11 page)

“Because I think I’m getting burned out on Bar 51.”

She didn’t buy that, but—not knowing what was going on in Noah’s

head, and not quite knowing how to ask—she quietly accepted his

explanation and sat back for their ride across the park. When they emerged on the other side, the cab sped down West Eighty-first

Street before pulling to a stop at the corner of Columbus Avenue.

“What’s this place?” she asked, stepping out of the cab and eye-

ing the bistro in front of them.

“It’s not one of my sort of places, and it’s not one of your sort of places. So it should be perfect for the two of us.”

It wasn’t. The drinks were overpriced and the service was slow.

But it gave Tricia the opportunity to ask a few questions, questions Noah was not used to hearing from a family member, even if the

family member in question was not quite a blood relative.

“So,” she said, settling on a very blunt opening, “when are you

going to get over Harry?”

He looked up from his drink. “Excuse me?”

“It’s been a year. Shouldn’t you be dating again?”

He sighed. “This again? That’s
my
business.”

“Yes, it is.” She looked out the bistro’s tiny windows, watching a series of strollers pass, pushed by a series of fashionable mommies and less-fashionable nannies. “Do you ever think you’ll want a baby?”

He almost spat out his drink. His back was to the window, so he

didn’t know what had brought that on, but—even if he had wit-

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R o b B y r n e s

nessed the stroller derby—he doubted that question would have

occurred to him. “Where did that come from?”

“I’ve never had any desire to be a mother,” she confessed, ignor-

ing his question in the process. “And your father, well . . . you have to admit that, as a father, he’s a great lawyer.”

Noah was still confused, but that at least made him smile.

She continued. “I think that some of us just don’t need that

human connection. The parent-child one, I mean. But we still have

to connect to
someone
, right?”

“Uh . . . I suppose.”

“Take me, for instance. I have no interest in being a mother, but

I
need
to be a wife. I need to have a man in my life. Otherwise I’m just . . . alone. And alone is no way to spend your life.”

“Well . . .”

“Same thing with your father. I mean, he was there for you, and

he tried the best he could, and he certainly wasn’t a bad father, was he?”

“No.”

“But fatherhood just wasn’t his thing. He did his best, but Max

just isn’t hard-wired to be a parent. He still needs to be with someone, though.”

“Which would explain the three wives.”

She smiled. “Yes; exactly.” Leaning closer, she added, “And how

are you hard-wired, Noah?”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you hard-wired to be a parent?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Do you need someone else? Or are you really that happy being

alone?”

“Uh . . . I don’t know, Tricia. When I’m in a relationship, well . . .

it’s nice to have someone to share my life with. But . . .”

“But what?”

“But to be in a relationship, there has to be another person. And

ever since the breakup with Harry, the right man hasn’t come along.

That’s all.”

“You see, this is what I don’t understand. You’re outgoing, good

looking, confident . . . Why is it that you can’t meet anyone?”

“Because,” he said, “I’m not trying.”

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She looked over her shoulder for the waiter, who was nowhere

to be found.

“I would really like another glass of wine,” she said. “Is that too much to ask?” Noah assured her he would watch for the missing

garçon. “And what about sex?”

“Can’t I keep any secrets?”

She gestured with her empty wineglass. “Oh, please. We’re fam-

ily.”

“Okay,” he said, wondering why he had never seen this side of

her before, then realizing that until two days earlier, he had never seen her drunk. “Sex is good. I am pro-sex. But sex isn’t everything.”

She looked him up and down. “And you call yourself a gay man?”

“We’re not all looking for sex.”

“So what are you looking for?”

“Love.”

Noah swallowed. Had he really just said that? On the surface—

on a glib, cynical level—he wasn’t even sure he felt that way . . . so why had he just made that confession to his stepmother? His father’s wife?
Whatever
she was?

It didn’t matter. Once again distracted by the absence of liquid

in her glass, she was craning her neck, looking for the waiter. Noah had dodged the Freudian bullet.

“Okay,” she said, finally returning her attention to him. “Let’s

get out of here.”

“To where?”

“Anywhere but here. The service is terrible.”

Noah nodded his agreement, and it was only then, as if alerted

by silent alarm, that the waiter made his return appearance. It was also too late; Tricia was already slinging her purse over her shoulder.

Noah paid with his father’s money, and they walked back out

onto Columbus Avenue, where he held his arm out to signal for a

cab.

“Let’s see if the old man is any crankier,” he said, scanning the

approaching traffic for a lit “ON DUTY” sign.

“Home?” she asked, positioning her hands on her hips. “But we

haven’t even been gone an hour.”

“You have a better suggestion?”

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“Yes,” she said. “That bar we went to the other day.”

“Bar 51?” He shook his head. “Not again.”

She affected a pout. “Please?”

He dropped his arm and walked her away from the curb. “Here’s

the story. There’s this guy that I’m trying
not
to run into . . .”

“Who? Why?”

“It’s sort of complicated. Remember the guy we saw the other

night? The one who smiled at us when we were trying to get a cab

home?”

“Vaguely. Remember, I was sort of drunk. He was tall, right? And

he had a nice smile?”

“That’s the one. Anyway, yesterday I saw him again. In a cab out-

side the Whitney. And if that isn’t strange enough, I ran into him this afternoon near Radio City.”

“So what’s his name?”

“I . . . I don’t know. We haven’t really spoken. I just keep seeing him everywhere. And I’m afraid if I go to Bar 51, he’ll be there again, and, well . . .”

“That’s a good thing, though. Right?”

“Not really. I mean, there’s obviously something that keeps bring-

ing us to the same place—fate, or something. And that part is good.

But I don’t live here, and I won’t be here for long, so I can’t see any good that would come from pursuing it. And I’m afraid that if I go to the bar tonight and he’s there, and something happens, well . . .

I’m afraid that—”

“Yes,” she said, with determination. “You’re afraid.”

“No! I’m not afraid, I’m just . . .”

“You said it twice. ‘I’m afraid’; ‘I’m afraid.’ So you’re afraid of meeting this man?”

“No, I just meant that the consequences, well . . .”

“Damn the consequences,” she said. “Maybe you’re fated to

meet, and maybe you’re not. But if you’re going to stand here and

tell me that you can’t meet someone because some day you’ll have

to return to your lonely existence, well, that’s just bullshit, Noah.”

Which is how they ended up at Bar 51.

If Noah felt it was now no longer a surprise to see the stranger in random places, it seemed to him completely predictable that he

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75

would be at Bar 51 . . . and, as he had feared—and he had, indeed,
feared
—only moments after he and Tricia said hello to the Four Stooges, Noah saw him standing at the far end of the bar, holding a Corona.

“Is he here?” Tricia asked, looking over the crowd but not recog-

nizing him.

Noah pointed him out.

“Go talk to him.”

“Can we get a drink first?”

Tricia asked him to get her a glass of wine, and Noah squeezed

into an almost-open spot at the bar, where he tried to flag down the bartender. It took a few minutes, but finally he was able to order.

“Two glasses of chardonnay.”

“And a Corona,” Tricia yelled out over his shoulder. Noah didn’t

have to look—he had seen the bottle in the stranger’s hand when

they walked into the bar—but he did anyway and there, standing

behind him, were Tricia and her new companion.

“And a Corona,” he repeated under his breath, instantly mes-

merized by the stranger’s shy smile.

Seconds later, Noah was handing Tricia her glass of wine, and

the stranger his beer, and then Tricia was off to bum cigarettes

from the Stooges.

And Noah was alone with this object of his . . . affection? Lust?

Intrigue? He wasn’t sure. He was only certain that whatever fate

had in store for him, he was alone with it.

“I keep seeing you,” said Noah, by way of introduction.

“I know.” The stranger smiled. “Madison Avenue . . . Sixth . . .”

“Where did you disappear to this afternoon?”

“I had to take care of some things.” The stranger smiled again

and said, “You know, I almost crossed over to your side of the street when I saw you.”

“Me, too!” said Noah, enthusiastically.

“I saw you here the other night, right?” He pointed out to the

smoking porch, where Tricia was already highly animated through

the large front windows. “With her?”

Noah nodded. “Tricia. My father’s wife.”

“Well . . .” The stranger’s smile suddenly faded. “It’s kind of wild that we keep running into each other.”

“Uh . . . yeah.” Noah struggled for conversation. “It’s wild.”

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He tried to read the stranger’s faded smile. Was he shy, or unin-

terested? For his part, Noah knew he was interested; he just didn’t know if he could push himself to express that interest. Yes, he’d get grief from Tricia, but—really—what good could come of it?

Still, there
was
that grief from Tricia to consider . . .

“I’m Noah,” he said abruptly, making direct eye contact with the

man.

“I’m, uh . . . I’m Bart.” He glanced around uncomfortably. “And

it’s nice to finally meet you.”

“So, Bart . . . what do you do?”

For a moment, Bart’s face registered panic. Did
everyone
think he was a hooker? It was only when he realized that Noah was asking

about how he earned his living that he allowed himself to relax.

“Personal assistant. To an older couple.”

“Oh. Great.”

They sipped their drinks awkwardly, until Bart recognized that

politeness dictated he ask Noah the same question.

“And what do
you
do?”

“I’m a writer.”

“Oh.” Bart nodded. He had heard that line before; everyone in

New York who owned a computer called himself a writer, whether

or not they had actually written anything worth publishing. “Writer”

sounded vaguely professional, and interesting enough to supplant

the real wage-slave jobs they always held. In fact, hadn’t his onetime stalker claimed to be a writer? He thought so.

Another stretch of awkward silence followed, filled by the not-

too-loud music coming from speakers at the rear of the bar. They

each knew that they should fill the void, but neither one could

think of an appropriate topic. The coincidence of their repeated

encounters could only be discussed for so long.

It was Bart, finally, who not only broke the ice, he shattered it.

“Listen, Noah, I’m not a superstitious man, but . . . well, we keep running into each other, and . . . well, I’m running out of vacation days, so I apologize if this comes off as too forward, but I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner. Maybe tomorrow? Because I

have to leave on Sunday.”

There. That did it. Noah felt his heart race with the knowledge

that, through no direct fault of his own, he had put himself in a

place where—if he followed through—he wouldn’t be able to de-

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77

liver. Nothing could possibly come of it if he went on a date with this guy, no matter how much he might want it to work. They would

just get started, and then Noah would have to leave town and re-

turn to his real life.

Bart saw the concern in Noah’s face and realized he had gone

too far. His dinner invitation was premature, but it really didn’t warrant the look on Noah’s face. He tried to joke his way out of it. “Is that a no? Because if it is, I’ll accept it before you scream for the cops.”

Embarrassed, Noah tried to shake off his apprehension.

“Do you always come on so strong?”

“You want to know the truth?”

Noah put a hand on his arm to stop him. “Listen, I’m sure

you’re a nice guy. It’s just that I’m not really in a place where I can date.”

“Well . . . I mean, okay, I can understand that. But I was just talking about dinner.
One
dinner.”

“No, it’s just . . .”

“Coffee? Would a coffee date be better? Less, um, commitment,

or whatever?”

Noah shook his head. “Bart, you seem like a really nice guy. If I

could, I’d like to get to know you better. But I’m only in the city for a few days, and it doesn’t make sense to go on a date when I don’t even know how long I’ll be here, or when I’ll have to return home.”

Bart laughed to himself. Given his own situation, Noah’s atti-

tude was certainly ironic.

“So, no offense, but . . .”

“None taken.”