I TOLD RICHARD the truth. Fear brewed in my gut as he listened.
“I’m so sorry, Jonah,” Richard said once I’d finished. He stroked my hair.
“You don’t think I’m a terrible person?” I asked, surprised by his tender reaction.
“A terrible person? Why on earth would I think that?”
“For what I did to my father . . .”
“I think the bigger issue here is what your father did to you.” His anger on my behalf made me love him even more. Richard, my protector.
“But what I said about him wasn’t true.”
“Of course it wasn’t. But you can hardly be blamed for your reaction to the wildly unethical and damaging treatment you received during conversion therapy. That therapist was insane for doing what he did. Forcing you to ‘remember’ something that never happened just to justify his own fucked perspective on homosexuality.”
“But I just let my lie live on. Ruin my father’s life.”
“But don’t you think he deserved it? For putting you through all that trauma? Think about it, Jonah.”
And I did. I thought of my father, his face red with rage, gripping my arm as he screamed at me in our family’s living room, attempting to shake Satan from my body, my mother crying on the couch, her hands clasped in prayer.
“I . . . I guess.”
“That’s right.”
“But shouldn’t I . . . call him back?”
“And why would you do that, Jonah? So he can hurt you more? Remind you that you’re going to hell? Tell you that you’re disgusting, that you make him fucking sick?”
I started to weep softly. Richard put his arm around me, drew me close.
“No, Jonah,” he continued. “You’re with me now. I love you. And we don’t need your father fucking that up. We don’t need anyone fucking that up.”
“You’re . . . you’re right.”
“Just you and me. Those are the only two people we need now.”
“Yes.”
“I love you, Jonah.”
“I love you too.”
And then my father arrived.
A figure in the distance, in the dawn. Stumbling through the mist, dragging his left leg with both hands, his face crusted with blood. Someone, something had harmed him. I sat up in bed, heart racing. I felt heavy, unable to move as he heaved himself closer. Why is he here? I looked to my right—Richard was gone. I turned back to the window. Scamp appeared, barking, nipping at my father’s ankle. The Doberman sank his teeth into my father’s left calf, tearing through cloth and muscle and sinew, biting right down to the bone. My father kept trudging forward, dragging the dog with him. I wanted Scamp to make a meal of my father. But then, just as quickly, the opposite desire swelled in my heart: I wanted to rush into the wildflowers and haul my father to safety. Run a hot shower and strip him down and lay him on the tiled floor and let a cloud of healing steam consume him. But I didn’t. I just watched as Scamp went back for more. My father fell to the ground, landing by the hedges that lined the gravel drive. Moaning. Was he speaking? Speaking to me? But still, I couldn’t move. A small red cardinal landed on the shrub above my father. He fixed his gaze on the bird. The cardinal was joined by another and then another and then another until the air was filled with hundreds of them, the sky ablaze with a burst of red wings. But then I squinted. Looked closer. No, they weren’t cardinals. This was fire. It spread quickly, lighting the row of hedges until Richard’s home was surrounded by a wall of flames. My father lay in the grass, unconscious. The flames licked his flesh. He jolted awake. By then it was too late—my father was burning; his clothes seared to his flesh and his flesh seared to his bones and his bones crumbled to ash. The fire only burned stronger. It became a ball of flame, a divine inferno hovering above the earth, a small sun.
It shot straight toward me.
I woke up screaming.
“Jonah! Are you okay?” Richard bounded into the bedroom, holding a stainless-steel bowl filled with pancake batter and blueberries. He was making my mother’s recipe, the same pancakes I’d made for him on our first morning at the compound.
“Sorry, just a nightmare,” I said, my heart still pounding.
“You scared the shit out of me.” Richard sighed, sat on the bed. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“What was it about?”
“I . . . I can’t remember,” I lied.
“Well, lucky for you, I’m making your mom’s famous blueberry pancakes,” he murmured sweetly, kissing my cheek. “Known nightmare antidote.”
I realized how hungry I was and plucked a blueberry from the batter. “Delicious,” I said. Richard danced out of the room, stirring batter as he left. I closed my eyes and saw a flash of my father in flames. “I . . . I think I’m gonna call my dad today,” I yelled to Richard in the next room.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Richard called back.
“No. But I can’t stop thinking about it. I need to see what he wanted. I mean, maybe it’s even a good thing. Maybe he wants to make amends.”
“Whatever you think is best, honey,” Richard cooed from the kitchen. I heard his mixing spoon clanging against steel. I turned to the nightstand to retrieve my iPhone from its usual overnight charging spot.
It wasn’t there.
“And I’m sorry, by the way,” Richard continued. “I didn’t mean to pressure you last night. I shouldn’t get involved. It’s your family.”
“It’s okay,” I said, distracted. I ripped the duvet cover off the mattress, shook it. Still no phone. I dropped to the floor and searched under the bed. “Hey, have you seen my phone?” I called into the kitchen.
There was a brief pause. A pancake sizzled in the silence. “No. It’s not on your nightstand?”
“No,” I grunted. I ran into the closet, scanned every surface.
“I mean, you could use my cell.”
“I don’t have my estranged father’s number memorized,” I snapped as I reemerged. I searched increasingly unlikely locales—deep in dresser drawers, on the floor behind Richard’s potted palm, under the dusty cushion of the bedroom’s neglected Milo Baughman recliner. Nothing. I felt caged, claustrophobic. My phone was my sole connection to the world beyond the compound. A lifeline, should I need it.
But you won’t, I scolded myself. Stop being so paranoid and just eat some fucking breakfast with your boyfriend, who loves you.
I came out of the bedroom, sweating from my search. There, on the dining-room table, sat a tray of perfect pancakes, steaming below Richard’s smiling face.
“Nothing.” I sighed and sat.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll turn up.”
It never did.
I needed air.
It was too overcast for a swim after breakfast, but I went to the pool anyway. You were already there when I arrived, Mace. Swaddled in a towel, reading Variety.
“You’re too late,” you said without looking up. “The sun’s gone.”
My pulse quickened—I always felt slightly starstruck in your presence. “Catching up on breaking news?”
“Just reading a charming little story about my mother’s latest DUI.”
“Oh, wow. Really?”
“Really!” you chirped sarcastically. “Bailing her out of jail is my favorite hobby.”
I laughed politely. Your precocious, jaded wit made it easy to forget you were sixteen.
“Her timing couldn’t be better. I’m heading to New York tomorrow for the press junket of my Sundance movie. Can’t wait for literally every single reporter to ask me about my alcoholic mother.”
“That sucks. But at least you have a great movie to promote.”
“I hate doing press. It’s a parade of bullshit.”
“But people care about your work.”
“I wish I cared about my work.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I’ve been working since I was six years old. Supporting my whole family. Sometimes I want a fucking break. Sometimes I wanna open up a magazine and not read about how my drunk mother crashed another car I bought for her.”
“I’m so sorry.”
You sighed, softening. “Thanks.”
Silence descended, mixing with the unbearable humidity. The clouds were swollen black balloons. Distant thunder rumbled.
“Maybe when I’m back from this press junket, we could hang or something,” you suggested warmly. “Go into town, just you and me. Without our lame daddies watching over us.”
My heart surged. I looked up to you, Mace. Your approval, your attention meant everything to me. Meant that I was worthy of all our new “family” had to offer. You’d figured out how this world worked. I hoped I could scale the same mountain, that its peaks were meant for me. Your friendship confirmed that I belonged here, that my dreams and desires mattered. “I’d love that. I could also use a break from work. I’m having a miserable time with revisions to my play . . .”
“You’re a . . . writer?”
“Yeah, trying to be.”
“Just like Evan.”
His name hit me like an insult. He’d been a servant, not a success. “Nothing like Evan,” I blurted out defensively.
“Oh, okay. Sorry.” Pity dimmed your expression.
Then the clouds burst. We hugged goodbye in the downpour and went our separate ways through the field. Rain turned the soil to quicksand. My feet sank deeper with every step.
Nothing like Evan, I assured myself. Nothing at all.
It rained for three days straight. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Richard said on the fourth day once the sun made its comeback. “If I have to read one more word about Thomas Cromwell, I will fucking kill someone.”
Earlier that week, Richard had received an advance copy of Wolf Hall from his agents, their attempt to prod him into writing the television adaptation of Hilary Mantel’s novel. An executive from the company producing the miniseries had been at the opening of Richard’s play and, according to Richard’s agents, “fell in love” with his brain. Richard was in his self-described “fallow period” and didn’t wish to even think about work, but after much harassment from his reps, agreed to at least skim Wolf Hall.
“I didn’t realize it was ten thousand pages long,” he’d complained as he removed the volume from its FedEx box three days prior. “But what else am I going to do in this shitty weather?” Richard disappeared into the novel, spending most of his time cocooned in a striped Pendleton blanket on the couch as the rain pelted the glass walls of his home, forming vertical rivers that striped the towering panes.
Meanwhile, I failed to work on my play. Each morning, when Richard assumed his position in the living room, I’d sit at the desk in the bedroom and stare hopelessly at my laptop. I was attempting to turn my play from drama to comedy, from a cautionary tale about the dangers of ambition to a Cinderella story about a young man rescued from poverty by an older, wealthy playwright. Much to my dismay, every scene I attempted to write fell completely flat. As soon as I wrote a line of dialogue, I’d erase it, already frustrated by its wooden rhythms.
It’s so hard to write autobiographical fiction, I thought. So difficult to accurately reflect one’s personal experience. It didn’t help that I hadn’t been sleeping, that every evening marked the arrival of the same nightmare about my father. I’d sit at my computer each morning, eyelids drooping, coffee doing little to cut the fog of exhaustion.
You were gone, Mace. Off to your press junket in the city. I missed you. You were the only person who could understand my life, my relationship with Richard, and this dysfunctional Southampton family. Without your reassuring presence, a low-grade anxiety hummed at the edge of my consciousness. There were few distractions that week—Charles was also away, producing a Broadway workshop in New York. Sandro was in LA for meetings on his upcoming superhero film. Only Ira and Ethel remained, and they largely kept to themselves. There would be a group dinner at their house on Saturday when everyone returned to the compound. Despite my restlessness, I tried to enjoy the intimacy of those quiet, rainy days with Richard. I played house with Daddy like a good boy.
But now it was Thursday and the first sunshine we’d seen since Monday sliced through the living room. Richard squinted as he thumbed through the final pages of Wolf Hall.
“I do not give remotely enough fucks about Cromwell to waste years of my life on this,” he decreed, tossing the tome on the coffee table. “I’d much rather go to the beach with you.” Richard pulled me to the couch and attacked my face with kisses.
“Let me change into my new suit.” I laughed.
I wriggled out of his grasp and vanished into the walk-in closet. I stripped down and slid into the tight red Speedo Richard had purchased for me during our shopping spree. By the time I emerged, Richard had disappeared.
One of the waiters—I still didn’t know any of their names; Richard had never offered to introduce them and I’d never asked him to—stood in the kitchen, putting bottles of rosé into a cooler for our excursion.
“Richard’s just packing the trunk outside,” he said.
I saw a flash of this waiter in the basement, on his knees, his arms bound behind his back, his eyes dull and dead.
“Okay, great,” I murmured. I wanted him gone.
The waiter positioned a pile of artisanal cheeses next to the bottles of rosé. I watched his hands as he worked. There were matching red burns circling both his wrists.
From the rope.
“I’ll finish packing,” I said, pushing him from the cooler. “You can go.”
“But I promised Richard—”
“Go!” I shouted, surprising myself. He shrank from me and left the room, ducking out the sliding glass doors. Relieved, I watched him vanish into the wildflower field.
It was time to go to the beach.
“Jonah?”
I wheeled around, sweating from my attempt to plant our beach umbrella.
It was Rashad, his presence an impossible mirage. Skintight beach trunks gripped his thighs. He approached with a tall, beefy redhead. They were holding hands. Unexpected jealousy constricted my gut.
“Rashad!” I rushed up to him and gave him a warm hug. His smell—that sweet, heavy scent of coconut oil and shea butter and sweat—filled me with longing. I was glad to see him.
“This is Chad,” he said, motioning to his companion.
“What’s up, dude?” Chad offered an affected, masculine fist bump. There was an 85 percent chance that Chad took steroids and an even greater likelihood that he pretended to enjoy football. Rashad and I used to spend hours at the restaurant ridiculing the Chads of the world. Maybe he’s born with it; maybe it’s anabolic steroids, we’d sing to the tune of the Maybelline jingle. Yet here Rashad was, sleeping with the enemy.
“Hi, I’m Jonah,” I said, then returned my attention to Rashad. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Um, don’t pretend you don’t know,” Rashad huffed.
“But I don’t . . .” I trailed off, confused.
“Bitch, come on. I texted you, like, fifty times.”
“I lost my phone.”
“You really expect me to believe that?”
“It’s true!”
“Whatever. I’ll forgive your sketchy ass if you come to our barbecue tomorrow.”
“You’re staying up here?”
“Yeah, a bunch of Chad’s friends rented a share in Montauk. We’re here for the weekend. Seriously, you should come. I wanna hear all about your fancy new life.”
“Yes! I’ll totally come.”
“Great, we’ll pick up some extra meat.”
“Wait.” I winced. “I mean, I have to ask Richard first.” I motioned to my boyfriend. Richard lumbered our way wearing an awkward green bucket hat, carrying the cooler from the car. “Ask me what?” Richard said breathlessly as he set down the cooler.
“Rashad, Chad—this is Richard,” I said.
“Nice to meet you finally,” Rashad teased. “I work—sorry, worked—with Jonah before you stole him from us. Jonah told me all about you.”
“Only terrible things, I hope,” Richard joked dryly.
“The worst.”
“Rashad and Chad are having a barbecue at their place in Montauk tomorrow night, and they invited us,” I interjected.
“Oh, how lovely,” Richard said politely. “But we have reservations at Nick and Toni’s.”
“We do?” I asked.
“Well, it was going to be a surprise. Until Rashad here ruined it,” Richard replied with mock outrage.
“Sabotaging surprises is my favorite pastime,” Rashad quipped.
“We should get back, babe,” Chad grunted.
“Let me at least give you my number again, Jonah,” Rashad offered. “Maybe we can hang some other time this weekend.”
“I don’t have a phone . . .” I trailed off. Richard claimed he’d ordered a new one for me online, though it still hadn’t arrived. It will, I told myself. It will.
“Oh, duh. And I, unfortunately, forgot to stick a pen and notepad in my Speedo.”
“Here, you can put your number in my phone,” Richard said, offering his cell to Rashad. “We’ll call if things free up.”
Rashad put in the number, gave the phone back to Richard. “Take care of yourself, Jonah,” Rashad said, sweeping me into a concerned hug. I was surprised by the sudden urgency of his embrace. “I hope to see you soon.”
“What about me?” Richard shouted to Rashad as he and Chad made their way down the beach.
“Oh, honey, I think I got a full dose of you today!” Rashad called back, a salty gust swallowing the final syllables of his reply.
“Ugh, I can see why you hated working at that restaurant. Rashad is so annoying,” Richard said once they were out of earshot. “And the other one—the redheaded lump—he seems barely sentient.”
“I mean, Rashad isn’t so bad,” I said meekly.
“Sweetie, it’s okay if you don’t like him anymore. Sometimes we outgrow people.”
“I guess . . .”
“We clearly won’t be needing this,” Richard continued as he deleted Rashad’s number from his phone.
“Yeah,” I said, distracted, watching as they ventured farther down the beach. Wishing I could take Chad’s place. Longing to hold Rashad’s hand in my own.