Someone down the street fired up a lawnmower. I dropped a hand to Khalid’s knee and began rubbing my palm over his hairy shin. It was bliss lying here as we floated back to earth. Neither of us seemed to be in a hurry to talk and that was fine, sometimes the soft silence was better. I drifted a bit, the quietude of the moment luring me into a tiny rest. When I snapped awake a few minutes later, Khalid had scooted around to lie facing me crossway on the bed. I touched his cheek and then ran my fingers into his hair, sweeping it back from his brow. He never even complained this time. I found myself searching his eyes as I tried to find the courage to say what needed said.

  “After my failed marriage to René, I spent months telling myself that I needed to give up on the notion of romantic love because we only have one chance of experiencing that kind of magnificence in our lives. I’d touched that perfect love along Cranberry Creek.”

  “We also touched it in the pool house, my room, and behind the eighteenth hole of the golf course.” He joked, making me smile, and time whirled and spun around us, a vortex that lifted us up and back to that summer at the lodge when the whole world consisted of me and him and the tender folds inside his elbows as my lips tasted the dewy droplets of chlorinated water resting there.

  “Yeah, we did, in all those places but with only one person. My heart has been searching for that kind of love for years, Khalid, and it’s only with you that I’ve found it. Everything else…everyone else has been a shimmer of you. This pale version of you they floated into and out of my life like specters through a wall, leaving just a gloss of what could have and should have been behind as evidence of their existence.”

  “I still love how you arrange words. Tell me you took up poetry on the side.”

  “No, no poetry. Fictional accounts of wonderful worlds filled with ordinary people is all I write.”

  “Pity.” He sighed as he dragged his foot up over my calf. “Someday I insist you write some so that we can lay abed and you can read it to me and cite me as the inspiration.”

  “Mm, perhaps I can write you some as we travel the world. A poem in each country. We’ll start with a trip to Paris.” I stroked the shell of his ear and chuckled at the grumbling sound he made.

  “I guess I could possibly do France.” He pushed up to one arm, resting on an elbow, to look down at me staring at him like a starstruck lad who’d just bedded the matinee idol of his dreams. “As long as he who must not be named isn’t in the country when we are, and you’re willing to translate.”

  “You and me?” He nodded, eyes shining like the stars that we’d watched over the Poconos all those years ago. “In Paris?” He nodded again.

  “You could write sonnets about my stupid receding hairline and how the fact that my hair creeping back makes my gigantic nose look that much more gigantic.”

  I kissed his nose then. “I adore your nose.” I kissed his eyebrows. “And your eyebrows.” I kissed his chin. “And your chin.” I kissed his jaw and his neck and his clavicle and his dark nipples and his navel and the head of his cock until my lips settled on it and then his prick got over being timid and grew and filled my mouth. Then I sucked him off because I had to get his seed on my tongue or I might just wither and blow away. Jesus, I was quite melodramatic this morning.

  After our showers, we grabbed some food. Breakfast was light, fruit mostly and some sort of energizing shake made from yogurt and bananas then topped off with some kind of powder that had a jacked-up man on the label.

  “When did you become a health food nut?” I asked as I poked around in search of a coffee pot and a fucking brioche or éclair. “Why do you not own a coffee pot? Where is the real food?” I threw the fridge open, gaped at even more fruit and a half gallon jug of something called skim milk amid a slew of juice bottles. “What the hell is this?” I lifted the milk out and showed it to him as he blended the loving shit out of his drink.

  “It’s milk. Hand me the honey. And I’m not a nut. I ate half a pizza last night, remember?”

  “Milk?” I opened the jug, peeked down into it, and made a sour face. “No, this is not milk. This is white water. Why don’t you have cream in here for your coffee? Where are the pastries? What kind of sick hell is this?!”

  He chortled and turned off the blender. “You’ve gotten to be quite the little drama queen over the years.” He poured some of the yellow sludge into two glasses and offered me one.

  “I wear that badge with honor.” I turned my nose up at the goop he’d made. “Is there no coffee anywhere?”

  “Try this. It’s better for you. Once we’re over thirty we kind of have to start watching what we eat and drink.”

  “You’re a marvelous man and a glorious lover, but just show me where you’ve hidden the caffeine and sugar. I beg of you.” I made the saddest face I could manage. “I think I’m this close to death or something equally as bad.”

  “Wow, you should have been an actor instead of an author. There’s some instant coffee in the cupboard. I don’t have any brioche warm from a Parisian oven, but I have some whole wheat bread you can toast and put honey on.” He leaned in, gave me a peck on the cheek, then padded off to dress for work, yellow glass of goop in hand, all the while humming a bouncy tune. I flounced around a bit as I made toast and instant coffee which was disgusting but I drank it anyway to get my brain into gear and wash down the dry toast crumbs snagging in my throat.

  “When you come to Paris,” I said as I walked into the bedroom to find him tucking a green polo shirt into a clean pair of chinos, the official work outfit I had come to see. “I’ll show you what a real breakfast is like. We’ll have dark, rich coffee with thick cream as we lay abed feeding each other toasty warm rainbow-colored macaroons.”

  “If I come to Paris,” he corrected as I lounged in the doorway, shoulder to the frame.

  “You said you would. A poem in every country, remember?”

  “That was pillow talk.” He threaded a slim black belt through the loops of his pants, his gaze darting to me then back to his belt. “Reality is something vastly different. I have a job. I can’t just pick up and fly to France.”

  Ouch. That one stung a bit. “Are you saying that what I do isn’t work?”

  His head jerked up, the fastening of the buckle abandoned for the moment. “What? No. God, no. Dane, I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I just meant that my job isn’t as travel-friendly as yours. You said it yourself, as long as you have pen and paper, you can work.”

  I nodded and let the sting fade away. We authors tend to get prickly over the assumption that creating a book is easy. It is not easy. It’s damn hard, and I bristle whenever anyone suggests that it’s otherwise.

  “Yes, that’s true but surely you have vacation time.” He cinched his belt tight. I had a serious wish to undo that belt, strip him bare, and take him back to bed even though we’d slaked our desire for each other several times already. “You’ll be closer to your mother. Maybe we can take a fast trip to the UK and visit her while you’re there.”

  He gave me a slightly dirty look. “Okay, using someone’s mother to tempt them is pure rubbish.”

  I shrugged. “I do what I must.”

  His angry brows loosened a bit. “Let me think on it. And by the way, have you been to see your mum since you’ve been here?”

  Shit. The man was too clever by far. “No, but only because I’ve been too busy trying to woo and bed you.” He tsked me as he loaded his pockets with wallet, keys, phone, and spare change. “Oh, don’t try to use guilt about my mother. That’s low.”

  “Yeah, right so.”

  I sighed. He stepped to me and kissed my wrinkled forehead. “I’ll call her and James soon, I promise.”

  “Mm, good man. Now, let’s get rolling. I’m already late.”

  I stole a long kiss and then, as much as I did not want to break the sultry spell we’d been enjoying, we stepped out his front door and faced reality. The real world came up sadly lacking that morning.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I learned a great deal over the next few days as a guest of Silver Fir Lodge. Aside from how damn quaint the refurbished cabins were and how unromantic the new bridge over Cranberry Creek was—they never even put that adorable signpost back up—most of my knowledge was about Khalid and how the man was far too skilled to be hacking about in the Poconos.

  He had this flair with people, a firm but calming way, that eased employees and customers alike. Sitting around the lodge, writing and watching, it became apparent that the man was frittering away his talent here. He should be working in a hotel in a major city like New York, Rio, London or, yes, Paris. Something elegant with a world-famous name where his salary would match the professionalism and ability he’d bring to management.

  I broached the subject with him one night at his place, after some stunning blowjobs, as we cooled ourselves on the back porch, in nothing but baggy shorts, sipping on bottles of watermelon and mango infusion crap. Supposedly the nasty ass drinks were full of antioxidants and would help us recover all the fluids we’d lost. A bottle of Moscato would do the same thing and taste much better. He’d waved my thoughts off that night, spouting off some claptrap about how I was biased and how a higher salary and prestige didn’t guarantee he’d be happy rubbing elbows with the elegant jet setters. After I argued a bit, he then stood up, pulled me to the creek, and eased me into the water, making me sit on his lap in a dangerously deep fishing hole. Needless to say, all thoughts of wheedling quickly turned to survival as I clung to him for dear life while water swirled around my chest.

  Two days after that, I was on my way to Cheltenham to surprise my mother. James had tracked me down then reamed me out for not letting him and Gloria know I was stateside. When I explained what I’d been doing in the Keystone State for the past week, he relented a bit, eager for news about the reunion that I was not about to pass along. Things were going well with Khalid and me, remarkably so, but we were just sexing it up. Most of the heavy conversations, the important ones about trust issues and such, had been swept under the carpet—for now.

  I did know that I wanted to keep being with him. Making love to him, spending evenings with him on the back porch or sofa, waking up beside him, talking about current events or even mundane things like the weather or how he thought my espadrilles were hideous. I craved more Khalid and fantasized about taking him home and living with him there forever but whenever I spoke of love or the future he diverted the conversation deftly. He was a master at handling people as I previously said. His adroit skill with sidetracking me from any talk of this visit maybe being a stepping stone to a total reconciliation made me feel as if I were balanced on the edge of a cliff staring down at the thunderous surf as someone—Khalid I was sure—placed a hand to the middle of my back in preparation for a massive shove.

  So, I had to be contented to let things ride for a bit longer for fear of pushing him too far or too fast. I’d been writing daily, not on a blurb for the next in my Black Star series, mind you, but on Odom’s tale. Still, I was writing so when Ruth emailed me daily seeking more information, I’d tell her I was writing and then say the internet was shit and pretend the Wi-Fi dropped out.

  Today was not a writing kind of day. Today was a mother, brother, and sister-in-law kind of day. Khalid had begged off, the possibility of having to speak to my father keeping him behind the main desk, and I didn’t fault him. I had no plans to say jack nor shit to him either. Mostly we just grunted when we passed, which seemed like a grand tradition that should continue. Not that we saw each other much. He had never come to Paris in the nine years that I had called the country home. Mom came every year. I flew her over, but he refused to set foot there even if the “flaming homosexual” I’d married was now out of the picture. Guess he should have said he couldn’t deal with two flaming homos.

  Whatever. I’d spend a couple of hours at home with Mom before Dad got home. Then we were headed off to dinner in town with James and Gloria. Dad could sit at home and eat a frozen lasagna. I rolled up to the old homestead around two p.m., parked in front of the attached garage, and sat there for a moment just looking over my childhood home. Dad kept the place up, there was no denying that. The two-story tan and brown house was just as tidy as it had been twenty years ago. How they’d ever been able to handle the mortgage on his salary alone was a mystery to me, but they had. James and I had really never wanted for nothing. I exited the red midsized Buick rental and made my way up the curved walk. The flower beds were freshly barked, by my parents I’m sure. Bright flowering bushes and annuals added color to the dark brown mulch. I rang the bell, rocking up to my toes and then back to my heels until the screen door opened and my mother saw me. She nearly knocked me off the small front porch with her exuberant greeting. I hugged her close, the screen door drifting into my ass.

  “What are you doing here?” She sniffled into my chest. I held her tight, resting my chin on top of her head until she got herself under control.

  “I flew over to visit an old friend.” I kissed her hair then wiggled free of the maternal death grip.

  She smiled while crying for a moment, and then her smile slipped. “Wait. You flew over and didn’t tell me?”

  “Mom, it was a last-minute kind of thing. Khalid and I didn’t even really plan to meet up but—”

  She lifted her hand, palm out, and I fell silent. “Khalid? As in your first boyfriend Khalid?” I wondered if my face showed how just hearing his name warmed me inside. By the return of her smile, I had to assume it did. “Come on in here and tell me everything.”

  I laughed at her pulling me through the house as if I were four. Past the living room with the fireplace we went with not even an offer to sit down. Nope, Mom would take me to the kitchen, plunk me down at the table we had eaten all our meals at, and want to feed me. I still loved this kitchen even if it was in need of some new appliances. Dad and Mom both felt that you didn’t replace something if it was still working. I wasn’t sure if that was just them being practical or them being parents who put off the better things so the boys could go to college. Probably some of both. Seemed I would have seen that when I was younger instead of moaning about having to drive an older model car when I was sixteen.

  “Mom, I’m sorry for being a jerk when I was a teenager.” I sat down at the round wooden table as she moved around the kitchen, putting on coffee then opening the fridge to see what she could find. She peeked around the refrigerator door.

  “It’s what teenagers do. I have some leftover scalloped potatoes I can warm up.”

  “No, Mom, no food. I’m taking you, James, and Gloria out for dinner tonight.” I sniffed at the air, inhaling the rich aroma of coffee brewing. “I will take some coffee when it’s done.”

  “Oh well, dinner! That’s exciting.” She shut the door of the Amana after taking out a pint of heavy cream and rushed around getting two mugs of coffee ready. Once we had our coffee she sat down across from me, mug between her hands, and stared openly as I sugared my java. “So, tell me about Khalid. I haven’t heard you mention his name in years.”

  I stopped stirring, lifted the spoon to my mouth, and licked it clean before laying it on the flowery placemat in front of me. A rose-scented breeze blew into the spacious room through the screen door leading to the backyard. Mom’s roses would be a stunning sight now. I’d make a point to go see them before we left today. She was always so proud of them.

  “Dane, you’re drifting. Must be seeing Khalid again is making you dreamy.” She teased, her eyes dancing with impishness. I liked the short hair on her, and the fact that she was not dying it to cover the gray creeping into the rich brown.

  I shrugged and then sighed. “Maybe a little. It’s been…something.”

  With her hanging on my every word, I told her everything that a son could tell his mother about his love life. When I was done, we both had empty mugs, so Mom refilled them and then took her seat again.

  “And now you’re just playing it by ear, is that it?” She took a small sip of her coffee. I nodded, fingers moving over the soft edge of the placemat.

  “Yeah, I guess so? I’m not sure where it will go and that kind of freaks me out, you know?” She bobbed her head, her expression soft. “I have done nothing but foul things up with all the relationships in my life.”

  “Two. You’ve had two relationships,” she corrected and lifted two fingers into the air. “Number one was a first love and you were too young to comprehend the depth of emotions you both were feeling while you had to deal with school, family, and self-discovery.”

  Wow. She’d really hit that one the head.

  “And the second?” I nudged because she was still harboring motherly animosity toward the man who had hurt her baby boy.

  “The second was a mistake that you made because you’d been hurt by the first and someone took advantage of your miserable state.”

  I sat back, blinking. She nodded as if that were that, and I guess it was. In a nutshell, as they say. We exchanged smiles as I worked on what to say. The screen door opened, and my father walked into the kitchen dressed for golf. Needless to say, he was stunned to see me sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee with Mom. He faltered to a clumsy halt, the door slamming shut behind him.

  “Dane,” he said, his voice a little thicker than usual.

  “Dad.”

  He looked at my mother then back at me. “I thought that red Buick in the driveway was Peggy’s new car.”

  “Nope. It’s a rental,” I flatly said. As if his cousin Peggy would ever drive a Buick.