Chapter 8
I was in the middle of decorating a retirement cake when my phone vibrated, but I gave up a few seconds of concentration to glance down at the screen. I didn’t need a cheesy ringtone like “You Are the Sunshine of My Life” to know the message was from Robin. Since Sunday we’d kept up a regular stream of text messages.
You need something like this for your foyer. He’d sent a picture of a light wood table.
I wasn’t so sure that the still half-done entryway warranted a fancy name, let alone a midcentury modern sideboard, but it made me smile that Robin was thinking about me and my house as he wandered around Southeast Portland’s shops on Tuesday morning. His work was slow again, so he was out shopping and taking pictures for future design projects.
A few hours later, another text came in.
Want to come over after work tonight?
My palms started sweating and I had to make myself wait a few minutes before replying. Sure. Want me to cook?
He replied almost immediately. That would be nice but not necessary. Paul wants to get his stuff. You still game for being my pretend boyfriend?
Ouch. That stung a little, made my shoulders tight and my hands tense around my phone. Made sense that Robin wanted a buffer between him and Paul. And I had been the one to suggest carrying on the ruse. But I’d kinda hoped we were on our way beyond that.
Anytime, I texted back, because the alternative was not seeing Robin, and that would suck way worse than me being a little put out over labels.
I showed up at six with a bag of groceries. I’d showered after work and put on a nice shirt. If Robin wanted a pretend boyfriend for the night, he was going to get a classy one, not me looking like I was just there to fuck. I wouldn’t mind showing Paul exactly how a guy like Robin should be treated.
Of course the smarmy bastard beat me there. Probably came earlier than he said just to fuck with Robin. When Robin let me into his tenth-floor studio, Paul was already there, sitting on a red couch next to a small box of odds and ends: two shirts, a toothbrush, a book, and some other crap. Nothing he couldn’t have lived without.
“Sorry I’m late,” I greeted Robin with a quick peck on the cheek.
“You brought dinner!” Robin’s tone was overly chipper and his smile two sizes too small, but the lingering kiss he gave me was far less fake.
“You staying?” I sent Paul a good long glower. “I only brought two steaks.”
“Paul was just leaving, weren’t you?” Robin said, not sounding terribly sure. I hated how Paul seemed to zap his confidence. Robin stayed close by my side. I set the groceries down on a nearby stool and put an arm around Robin.
“Robin, you don’t have to be nasty.” Paul shook his head, like he was scolding a dog. “We could still be friends. I want to help you.”
“No, you couldn’t,” I spoke up.
“Babe. Are you really going to let your thug here dictate who you talk to?”
“I don’t think we can be friends. Not right now.” Robin’s hand worried the pocket of his jeans and his eyes stayed on the dark hardwood flooring. “And Vic’s not a thug.”
“Yeah, I am,” I said, keeping my tone overly polite while my eyes attempted to incinerate Paul, sending him a clear don’t-fuck-with-me message.
“Fine. Fine. I’m going.” Paul stood up, brushing invisible dirt off his perfectly pressed khakis. “But, Robin. Babe. You can do better. Really.”
My fists clenched and I stepped toward Paul. It was like I was fifteen again, a hotshot Richie Rich kid looking down on me. Fuck that noise. I hadn’t put up with that crap then and I wasn’t about to start now. That Robin could do better was an undisputed fact. That Paul didn’t get to talk to me like that was also an undisputed fact.
“You wanna mess with me? Seriously?” I got up in his face, using the extra fifty pounds and four inches I had on him to look him over like the spineless gym rat he was. All pretty boy and no substance.
Paul swallowed hard, his eyes going to Robin. Robin shrugged, a little smile tugging at his lips.
“I’m out of here.” Paul stalked out, but I didn’t breathe easy until I heard the ding of the elevator arriving on the floor.
“How was that? That enough scowl for you?” I turned toward Robin.
“Oh, yeah.” Robin’s mouth pursed, like he’d just eaten something supertasty, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips. “You could have kissed me more, though. Little more PDA would have been nice.”
“Yeah?” I kissed him again, this time just for me. He tasted liked soda and the now-familiar taste of himself, the familiarity of it making warmth uncurl in my gut. There was a comfort in knowing his scent and his taste. “Turns you on when I threaten to make a cutlet out of your ex?”
“Is that so wrong?” He laughed. His eyes were full of dirty mischief. “Not like I wanted you to throw a punch or anything. I . . . I didn’t want to feel backed into a corner by him, you know? I didn’t want to agree to his stupid let’s-befriends plan. He was the one to end things.”
“You still love him?” I’d wanted to ask that for days.
“Love?” Robin made a dry, bitter sound. “No. I’m pretty sure I was more in love with the idea of a boyfriend than the actual boyfriend. Actually, the more I hang around you, the more I realize what a controlling jerk Paul was.”
“You keep standing your ground with him,” I said, trying not to let on how pleased his admission made me. “Now: Where’s your stove?”
“What are you making us?” He started to look in the grocery bag, but I shooed him away.
“No peeking.” I’d also brought along a little something for after dinner, if things went my way.
“As far as the kitchen, that’s it.” He motioned to the far end of the studio, which held a single short row of cabinets and an island with a cooktop and a breakfast bar.
“I don’t cook much, so I don’t have much in the way of pans and stuff.” After showing me the layout, Robin grabbed a plastic cutting board in the shape of an apple. “What can I do to help?”
“I got this.” I plucked the cutting board from his fingers.
“Can I get you some water? Or soda? I have diet.” Robin got two glasses out before I could decline.
“Water’s fine.” I unwrapped the steaks. “This is a nice place,” I said as I mangled some garlic. Robin’s knives were for shit, but his pans were top of the line. The studio was one long, open space, with the living area on one end, the kitchen on the other, and a bed tucked into an alcove near the kitchen area. A second alcove off the living area held a computer station.
“Eh.” He made a sour face. “It’s through my dad. He’s part of the property management group that owns this building.”
“Ah.” I suddenly wished I’d brought nicer food to cook. Damn; I’d known Robin probably came from money, but there was money and then there was Donald Trump or Lex Luthor money.
“After I got sober I finished up my degree at the Art Institute, then my dad gave me this as a graduation present.”
“Nice dad.” Mine gave me a pat on the back and a pen set when I got my associate degree. Didn’t live to see me graduate culinary school, but my ma gave me a set of nice knives.
Robin watched me roll the steaks. “Oh, wow, that’s fancy.”
“It’s nothing.” I was doing a steak roulade with spinach and cheese. It looked far harder than it was. Ditto the rice pilaf I was planning to plate it with.
“Come on, you have to let me help.” He drummed his fingers on the granite counter. “Salad? Lettuce be your sous chef?” He held up a wilty head of romaine from his fridge.
I laughed, catching him for a kiss. “Fine. You can do salad, but I brought my own greens. And you don’t want to be my sous-chef. Trish is always getting on me for terrorizing the assistants.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“I made one cry by making him redo a birthday cake at midnight. But he misspelled the kid’s name.” I got the rice cooking with a little onion and garlic.
“So, am I like the only one who gets to see your nice side?” Robin peeked around the cooktop.
I thought about that as I seasoned the rice. I was civil to darn near everyone, scary to more than a few, and helpful to people who needed it, but nice? It wasn’t really a word people used with me. But something about Robin made me sweeter, made me want to be the nice guy.
“Is it weird if I say yes?”
“No. It’s sweet.” He leaned in, kissing me on the cheek. “Man, that smells amazing. I can’t ever have you meet my parents. My dad will want to fire poor Posy and hire you to be his personal chef.”
My hand tightened around the stirring spoon. Meet the parents. I’d suffered through each of my sister’s parade of boyfriends, but I hadn’t ever been the one to bring a dude home to meet my family. But maybe . . .
“You close with your parents?” I asked.
“Eh. My dad’s okay. Things were really strained between us when I was younger. They’re slightly better now.” The twisted look on his face said they still weren’t on great terms.
“My old man couldn’t deal with the gay thing. We fought all the time about my leaving the Church.” A decade’s worth of guilt and doubt lodged under my shoulder blades, throwing me right back to those arguments. I squeezed the lemon for the steak too hard, making juice hit my face.
“My dad took it personally when I came out at fourteen—like I’d chosen to fuck up his life. That was when I started using.”
“I’m sorry.” Such an inadequate expression for such a shitty thing. “I used to hide from mine—stayed in the kitchen with my mom and grandma so he couldn’t go on about me being a pansy or whatever.”
“Year I came out my mom eloped with her masseur. Housekeeper was this German lady who hated me. So no kitchen to hide in.” He smiled wryly. “But it’s ancient history now.”
He looked impossibly young and full of hard-earned wisdom at the same time. Old soul, my nonna would say. My chest tightened. For all my dad had given me a hard time about religion and manhood, he’d been around my whole childhood—full of rules and questions and game playing. My mom too. No one could ever accuse the Degrassi kids of being neglected.
“Yeah. And families do come around. Mine is pretty great now, even if they weren’t at first. My little cousin Lance just came out. Whole family’s been really good to him. Guess I taught them well.”
“To pioneers.” He raised his water glass to me. “And to not being teenagers anymore.”
“Amen.” I threw together a quick vinaigrette for Robin’s salad, using a fancy glass when I couldn’t locate any measuring cups or little bowls.
“Man. You even brought your own vinegar.” Robin smiled up at me. “Didn’t trust my kitchen?”
“I wanted to make my—you—a nice dinner, not play Chopped.” I laughed.
“You know how to spoil a guy, Vic.” Robin gave me a sad little smile. I reached across the counter and ruffled his hair.
“You’re fun to spoil. And it’s just steak.”
“Steak. Rice. Real salad dressing. And I spied a bakery box over there. You’d think this was a real date.”
I could have demurred, but instead I decided to swing for the fences. “Why can’t it be?”
“Oh, Vic. That would be a terrible idea.” Robin pushed away from the counter, went to stand by the large picture window.
My chest felt squashed, like the time my little sister jumped off a couch and landed on me, cracking three ribs. My whisk hit the counter with a clatter and I stalked after him.
“Why not? We get on good together. Why not date? See where things go?”
“Because I’m on the rebound. I’m not really in a position for a relationship.” His voice shook.
“But you can’t deny we have fun together. So let me be your rebound guy.” I wrapped my arms around him. He didn’t pull away, instead sinking into me with a gratifying sigh.
“Oh, Vic. You’re almost too sweet.”
“Sweet doesn’t have half the plans I do for after dinner.” I kissed his ear. “Brought something I think might help you. If you’re game.”
“Oh, I’m always game. And that’s what I mean—you really want to help me with my fucked-up sex problems?”
“Rather self-serving of me, but yeah, I do. I’m not entirely convinced that your issue isn’t simply poor taste in dudes, Paul being exhibit A. But yeah, I want to make you feel better about sex. Because you deserve that. Doesn’t matter if it’s me or the next guy. You deserve to feel good about fucking again.”
“Yeah.” Robin sighed and tilted his head to give me better access to his neck. “Vic, the benevolent baker who moonlights as a sex therapist. And rent-a-boyfriend.”
“Hey, the bodyguard thing comes free of charge. I’ll come and look tough for Paul any day.”
“I’m not going to break your heart if we keep doing this? Casual, I mean? The whole rebound thing?”
“Nah. My heart’s way tougher than that.” I hope. The organ in question gave a strange little flutter. Below us, the city spread out, buildings and roads and river looking pristine, as much an illusion as my words.
“Good.” He gave me a funny look, like maybe I’d said the wrong thing. “Because I do want to keep doing this.”
He wiggled around until we were face-to-face. “And not just because whatever you’re making smells amazeballs. I . . . I like you, Vic.”
“I like you, too.” And then I had to kiss him because the alternative was to keep looking into his deep brown eyes that saw too much.