Chapter Text
So this is the thing about bartending on a Sunday night: it’s got perks, as long as you can tolerate a certain amount of bullshit.
Now, people always bitch about working Sunday night - they call it the punishment shift, try to swap it for other nights, promise you all sorts of shit if you cover for them (word of advice: don’t ever believe them). And, yeah, I get that it can suck because it’s fucking Sunday, but give me a slow and boring Sunday night over a balls-to-the-wall hectic Friday night anytime, because you know what doesn’t suck? Being the only bartender rostered on.
It means you get to choose the music. It means you don’t have to dodge around all the other bartenders. It means you don’t have to tell Marco to pull his fucking finger out of his ass and pour some goddamn drinks, look at all the customers, what is he stupid or something? And, best of all, it means you don’t have to pool your tips at the end of the night just to avoid someone else having a bitch fit.
(It’s not my fault that people like to tip me more, okay? Maybe if other people pulled their fingers outta their asses, they’d get more tips. Just saying.)
Anyway, my point is: tips can go a long way towards raising your tolerance level for bullshit.
Take this guy sitting at the end of the bar, for example. Came in about an hour ago. He’s English, going by the accent I hear whenever he orders a drink. Bulky guy. Could be fat, could be muscle - I can’t tell because of the clothes he’s wearing, all loose and shit. He’s got a mouth like a chick, like the girls in the best blowjob videos (that I don’t watch anymore). And he’s been staring at me ever since I walked over and asked him what he’ll be having tonight.
It’s not obvious staring, like the losers do. You know, staring at you all night because they want you, but they don’t have the balls to make a move? This guy isn’t the type to do that sort of staring - he’s got confidence, you can tell. But he watches me out of the corner of his eye, tracks me as I walk around behind the bar like he’s sizing me up. If it wasn’t for his tips, I’d probably be asking if he’s got a problem.
(Do you see what I mean now, when I say tips help raise your tolerance for bullshit?)
Then again, even if I did ask him if he’s got a problem, I don't think he’d have a problem if you get my drift. But that just makes his staring a different kind of annoying.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have anything against gay guys. I don’t think they’re pussies - I’ve got a cousin who’s gay, and he could beat anyone’s ass if they started talking shit. And I don’t think a guy thinking I’m hot makes me a pussy either, because if you’re hot, you’re hot, you get me? The staring just gets to me because it makes me feel like I’m a piece of meat or something.
(Esther laughed her ass off the one time I said that. Never could get her to explain why she thought it was so funny, she was laughing that hard.)
Anyway, eventually, the guy makes up his mind about me. Or maybe I’m just not hiding my annoyance as good as I think. Whichever one it is, he gets up, grabs his drink, and walks to the end of the bar I’m standing at, polishing glasses.
I start thinking up ways to turn him down, hoping he’s not the kind of guy who takes rejection badly. (And by badly I mean making a scene because people don't go out on a Sunday night to see drama.) But it turns out that’s not necessary because the guy doesn’t hit on me. Instead, he says, “So this is where you've been hiding?”
I frown at him. “‘scuse me?”
“Rather unconventional for you, isn’t it?” the guy says, like I hadn’t even spoken. “Last I checked, you had some dull cover as a systems analyst. Although I have to admit, you aren’t half-bad at the drinks mixing—” well, I’d fucking hope I’m not half-bad, I’ve been doing this since I was twenty-one, “—so kudos to you for that. And the accent.”
It takes me a few seconds to realise what’s going on, because I’m still trying to get over the ‘not half-bad’ comment, but once it clicks, it’s like a light bulb switching on.
Remember that cousin I mentioned, the one I said could beat anyone’s ass if they called him a pussy for being gay? Well, me and him— we’re like twins. Fucking identical. I look more like him than I do my own sister. We look so alike, people used to joke that either my dad or my Uncle Nick was screwing my mom and my Aunt Maria both.
(The jokes stopped when me and my cousin learned how to throw a punch. And even when we were kids, people only made those jokes when my dad or Uncle Nick were nowhere nearby.)
So this sort of thing - total strangers coming up to me, talking to me like they know me - it’s happened a couple of times. It’s still annoying, but it’s not as annoying as guys staring at me like I’m the buffet table at the Atlantic Club, so I’m not too pissy when I say, “You got the wrong guy, English. I’m guessing you want my cousin, Arthur.”
English blinks. “Cousin?” He stares at me for a while, and suddenly I can’t read his expression at all— until he smiles. “I suppose I do,” he says, and the smile is really more like a leer. “Want him, that is.”
Right. Should’ve figured he’d be one of those friends of Arthur’s. Arthur’s got a fucking type, you know?
“Well, he’s not here,” I say. “He’s hardly ever in Jersey, but you can leave a message if you want. I’ll make sure he gets it.”
English raises his eyebrows - stares at me like I just told him Lucy Liu is actually a man. “You can get in touch with Arthur?”
“Of course I can get in touch with Arthur.” I give English a weird look. “He’s my cousin.”
Fuck knows what Arthur does for a living. My mom thinks the sun shines out of Arthur’s ass - says he’s responsible, sensible - but I don’t believe for a fucking second that he’s a systems analyst. Systems analysts don’t associate with the kind of people who sometimes walk up to me, thinking I’m Arthur.
“Interesting,” English says. He sips his drink, looking thoughtful. “You know, I think I would like you to get a message to Arthur for me.”
The phone rings seven times before Arthur answers with, “This had better be important.” He’s breathing a little fast, like he had to run for the phone, or like I’d interrupted him in the middle of jerking off. I’d give him shit for it, except—
“You still doing that weird news reporter voice?” I ask. “You ashamed of being from Jersey or something?”
Arthur sighs loudly. The sound crackles over the line. “Jonny,” he says, heavy on the ‘Jon’ sound, all long and drawn out, no fake accent this time.
“That’s better,” I say. “And is it so hard to say ‘how you been?’ before you start sighing at me? You haven’t come around for a visit in months.”
“I’ve been busy,” Arthur says, like he always does. “And you sound like your mother. Or my mother.” I hear some metal clicking noises, and the sound of paper being shuffled around. “Did you really call me up to talk about my accent and bitch about how I’m a lousy relative?”
“Nah,” I say, “I called you up to tell you your boyfriend’s missing you.”
Arthur doesn’t say anything for a while. Probably trying to figure out which guy I’m talking about. It’s the Martello genes, man. Doesn’t matter which way you swing - if you’re a Martello, you can pull like a fucking champion.
“He says his name is James,” I add helpfully. “Says you two met in Paris, just finished working together in Lisbon?”
“Oh, James,” Arthur says, sounding amused. “Right. What does he want?”
“I told you. He wanted me to tell you he’s missing you.” Stupid message, if you ask me, but there you go.
“...That's it?”
“Yeah, man.”
Arthur snorts. “Christ,” is all he says, and the thought hits me then: maybe this James guy isn’t a boyfriend. Maybe he’s an ex - one of those exes that doesn’t know how to let go, and Arthur’s been dodging him. Maybe Arthur changed his number, and that’s why this James hasn’t been able to get in touch with him.
I’m standing just inside the back room, and I stick my head out around the door to see if James is still there. He is. He waves at me, smiling and ignoring the brunette three seats over who’s trying to catch his eye. The brunette looks back and forth between me and James, puts two and two together, and comes up with five. She makes this prissy sort of face, picks up her purse and her drink, and stalks away. If I was still pulling randoms, I’d be pretty fucking pissed at James for cockblocking me, especially when he’s sitting at my bar.
“Alright, fine,” Arthur says eventually. “Let me talk to him.”
“You sure?” I ask. “Look, Arthur— if he’s one of those stalker ex-boyfriends, I’ve got no problem telling him to fuck off, or saying I couldn’t get a hold of you—”
“It’s fine, Jonny,” Arthur says, and this time I can hear the smile in his voice, clear as anything. “Thanks, though. Let me know how much this call ends up costing, okay? I’ll transfer the money into your account.”
I shrug, even though he can’t see me. “Sure. Whatever you say, man.”
When I hand the phone over, James takes it and immediately turns away from the bar, saying, “Darling!” his accent all exaggerated, before going silent, head tilted. The music isn’t up that loud tonight, so I don’t even have to strain to hear him saying, “Didn’t your cousin convey my message? It was a rather short message. And, speaking of your cousin, may I just say that he is the absolute spitting image of you, which leads me to— what’s that?" Another pause, a longer one this time. Judging by James’ pout - and what kind of man fucking pouts? - Arthur’s giving him an earful.
James glances at me, then points wordlessly at an alcove beside the bar. It’s a quiet spot that some people like to use to make phone calls, rather than walk outside and risk the bouncers telling them they have to line up again. I wave a hand and nod to let him know it’s fine. James walks off, ducking his head and lowering his voice until I can’t hear him anymore. I only just manage to catch him saying, “We may have some unfinished business with—”, but a couple of girls make their way to the bar then - one blonde dressed in black, one brunette dressed in gold - and I have to turn away to serve them. They pay by card, verify it with a signature. When I take the receipt, there’s a phone number scribbled on the back. The brunette throws a smile over her shoulder as she walks off with her drink.
I smile back politely, and stick the receipt on the spike without another look.
It’s close to the end of my shift when Esther comes in. More than a couple people turn to look at her. She sticks out because she’s the only person not dressed in clubbing gear and because she’s at least ten years older than everyone else. She doesn’t look uncomfortable, though, and that’s the most noticeable thing about her. No masks, no bullshit. She’s like fucking gold in a room full of fakes.
“You’re watching that guy pretty closely,” Esther says when she reaches me. She points at James.
“He’s got my phone,” I say. I pour her a Long Island on the house. Perks of working Sunday night, after all.
Esther blinks. “You’re letting drunk customers call cabs from your phone now?”
“He’s my cousin Arthur’s boyfriend.”
“His boyfriend?” She turns to look at James again, squinting to see past the neon lights. “Your cousin has good taste,” she says finally. She turns back and rests her elbows on the bar.
“I guess.”
“You don't think he’s good looking?”
“I don’t go for guys,” I say as I start to wipe down the bar.
Esther rolls her eyes. “Come on,” she says, smiling. “You’ve got eyes. You don’t have to be sexually attracted to someone to think they’re good looking.” She nods back toward James. “What do you think? Does your cousin have good taste or not?”
It’s the tone she uses when she's convincing me to try Ethiopian food or whatever. This teasing, encouraging, fond tone of voice that always gets me doing what she wants. Not because I want to make her happy, because she doesn’t need me to make her happy, but because she makes shit sound fun. Like I might be missing out on something awesome if I don’t at least try it.
So I put down the bar cloth down, sighing, and squint at James. I’m looking at him in profile because he’s leaning against the wall while he talks to Arthur. He’s got his free hand on his hip, pushing his jacket away from his body, so I can see he’s kind of got a beer gut, which I don’t think looks good at all. But the pose also pulls his jacket tight against his arms, and I can see he’s got broad shoulders and good biceps. He’s got that mouth that’s as nice as any girl’s, too. It’s nicer than most girls’, actually. The whole package doesn’t do anything for my dick, but that’s not really why Esther’s telling me to look, is it?
“Yeah,” I say finally. “Arthur’s got good taste.”
Esther pats my hand. “Wow, look at that,” she says, grinning, “the world didn’t end just because you said a guy was good looking.”
I smile because I can’t not smile back at her. “Keep that up, lady, and I’m cutting you off,” I say, pointing at her Long Island.
Esther laughs and toasts me with her drink. “Can't have that,” she says, and takes a sip.
James wanders back then, while I’m still smiling Esther. He hands my phone back to me, gives Esther a once-over, then looks at me again. It’s nothing like the looks we usually get. Well— if I’m being completely accurate, it’s nothing like the looks Esther usually gets. She usually gets these scrunch-faced looks - you know, with the wrinkled noses and sneering? - and you can tell what people are thinking: that she’s this sad, desperate, cradle-robbing cougar, and what’s wrong with her that she can’t find a man her own age? It pisses me off sometimes, because what do they fucking know, and why do they even fucking care? But Esther doesn’t seem to give a shit, so I try not to either.
James, though. He’s not staring like that, although he’s looking at me like I’ve surprised him. He holds his hand out to Esther. “I’m James,” he says, “I’m Jon’s cousin’s boyfriend.” And he must’ve gotten my name from Arthur because I sure as shit didn’t tell him my name.
“Nice to meet you,” Esther says, “I’m Esther.” She shakes his hand, but doesn’t specify how she knows me - just gives James this knowing smile, and that really seems to please James, for some reason.
No one says anything for a few moments, and it almost turns into one of those totally awkward silences, except that’s when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and look at the screen: Arthur.
Arthur? What? Guy gets in contact once every couple of months, if that, and now I get two phone calls in one night? Maybe the world is ending because I said James was good looking, and it’s just taking its sweet ass time about it.
(Come on, I'm just playing.)
I step away to the back room again, but it’s completely unnecessary because the first thing Arthur says when I answer is, “Jon, I need to speak with E— James again.”
What am I, a fucking messenger service? Well, whatever. I walk back out and hand the phone over to James again. James takes it with a frown and turns away to have another conversation with Arthur. He keeps his back to me and Esther this time.
“Something up?” Esther asks me, but she’s watching James. I watch too, frowning as I see his shoulders tense up then relax deliberately.
“Something’s definitely up,” I say.
(Seriously - systems analyst my ass.)
After half a minute, James comes back. He holds the phone out to me. “Arthur wants to speak with you.”
“You know, I’m actually working here,” I complain, but I take the phone and head to the back room again. “Yo, what’s up?”
“I need you to do something for me,” Arthur says, sounding tense. Actually, he sounds kind of constipated.
I straighten up. “Name it.”
“I’m heading to Jersey on business and I’ll be meeting James there,” Arthur says. “But he needs a place to stay for a few days, and—" he sighs, then says in a rush, "look, can you help him out with that?"
“Yeah, sure,” I say, keeping my voice easy because Arthur’s always had this habit of working himself up for no good reason. “I can give him the names of a couple good hotels in the area, no problem.”
There’s a short pause. “Uh,” Arthur says, “I was actually hoping you could help him out... more... than that.”
“Huh?” And then I get it. “Wait— you want him to stay at my place? What? Why can’t he stay at a hotel or something?”
“He’s got a gambling problem. He doesn’t have the money to keep paying for a hotel.”
I raise an eyebrow, even though Arthur can’t see me. “He’s been paying for drinks all night. He's got cash.”
“I highly doubt that it’s his money.”
“Well, wherever it’s coming from, he’s got it. He doesn’t need to stay at my place.”
“Why do you always have to get so fucking perceptive at the most inconvenient times?” Arthur grumbles.
“Fucking talent.”
Arthur makes an annoyed sound.
I walk back to the doorway and stand there, looking out at James. He’s leaning an elbow on the bar and talking to Esther. Well, nodding and listening to Esther. Esther’s waving her hands around, gesturing, talking fast. Probably over-sharing, like she usually does. “The guy’s gonna cramp my style,” I say.
“Oh, for the love of—” Arthur says, before cutting himself off with a huff. There’s a long silence. Then: “Look. Just let him stay with you, okay? It’ll be for two or three days, tops, and then I’ll be in Jersey to get him out of your hair.”
“I don’t know, man…”
“Please?” Arthur says desperately. “I’ll owe you one.”
Now, the ‘please’ throws me already, but it’s the desperation that really gets to me. If I’m being completely honest, I don’t really care about a lot of people. And I don’t really care about having people owe me favours. But I do care about my family, and Arthur's family, so—
“Yeah, alright, fine,” I sigh. “He can crash at my place until you get here.”
After my shift, I drive James over to his hotel to pick up his stuff, and it turns out he’s not even staying in New Jersey. He’s staying in New York, in a hotel on the Upper West Side. How he ended up in New Jersey, let alone in my club, I have no fucking idea.
The hotel isn’t some dinky place either. It’s got to be at least four stars, based off the decor - all hardwood floors and antiques and shit - and James is staying near the top floor, in one of the deluxe rooms. It makes me wonder how bad his gambling problem is because he must’ve had a shit ton of cash to even get a room in the first place. And then I wonder why the hell Arthur is with this guy because it’s not like Arthur has trouble pulling. The sex must be really fucking good or something.
Esther comes along too. James surrenders the front passenger seat to her, both on the way there and on the way back, but she spends most of the time twisted around in her seat, talking to him. It’s good because this way I don’t have to keep James entertained while I drive. (Esther turns my music down, though, so she can hear James’ answers better, which sucks.) They mainly talk about travelling overseas, comparing experiences. It’s not a topic I can really contribute to since I’ve never been out of the States. Hell, I’ve never even been to the West Coast, although I’d like to go. One day, maybe, if I ever get mad paid.
“Get out of here,” Esther is saying when I tune back into their conversation. “I was there then! We might’ve walked past each other without even realising.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” James says warmly. “I’m quite sure I would’ve remembered you.”
I snort. Smooth, smooth. This guy’s a Don for sure. Esther raises an eyebrow at James. She clearly doesn’t buy his line, but she laughs and smiles anyway, because compliments are still nice, you know?
When we finally get back to my place, Esther takes up position at the kitchen counter while James looks around at my living room. “My God,” he says under his breath, looking at my shelves, “the anal-retentive tidiness is genetic.”
“Tidiness?” I look at him, confused. “You think Arthur is tidy?”
James gives me a look that’s just as confused. “You’re saying he isn’t?”
I shake my head.
See, back when we were kids, my Aunt Maria and my mom would take turns looking after me, Arthur, and Monica. Whenever we went to Arthur’s place, me and Monica would have to kick piles of Arthur’s clothes and stuff out of the way before we could even get into his room. The only time he cleaned his room was when he knew people besides our family were coming over. That never changed, even as we got older.
James looks overjoyed to hear that Arthur isn’t a neat freak, which makes me wonder how long he's actually known Arthur. Then again, what do I know? Last time I saw a place Arthur was living in, he was in college. (His side of the dorm was still a mess.) Maybe he’s learned to clean up after himself since then.
“I don't have a spare room, so you’ll have to sleep on the couch,” I tell James.
“That’s fine,” James says. “I’ve slept in far worse conditions.”
I doubt that. Not after seeing the hotel he was staying at, and his rich guy manners. He hasn’t once said thanks for me driving him around or being willing to put him up for the next couple of nights. He’s acting like he’s— fuck, what’s the word? Entitled. He’s acting like he’s entitled to all of this.
I don’t say anything about it, though. Bitching people out isn’t exactly my style. I go to the linen closet instead, pull out some sheets and spare pillows, and start making up the couch.
“Oh, I can take care of that,” James says, as I tuck a sheet over the couch, but you can tell it’s one of those fake polite offers, like how my mom's friends say oh, you really don’t have to when she brings out the coffee and cake.
“It’s no problem,” I say. Judging by how sloppily he’s dressed - tie crooked, with a shirt and jacket that don’t fit right - James would do a shit job of making up the couch anyway. He’d probably just lie down on the bare couch with a pillow and a blanket, and end up sweating all over the leather.
Shit, just thinking about it is disgusting.
“It’s best to leave Jon to it,” Esther says, smiling. “He’s very particular about this sort of thing.”
“Well, that sounds familiar,” James says. “I’ll keep it in mind.” He retreats back to the kitchen counter and takes a seat beside Esther, leaving me to it.
I’m woken up in the middle of the night when a beam of light falls across my face.
I grunt and crack my eyes open a little, squinting because the light is mad bright. I roll onto my side, toward the windows, wondering what’s up with the blinds—
And I nearly piss myself, because Jesus fucking Christ, James is standing in my bedroom.
“The fuck are you doing in here, man?” I say, pulling my blanket closer to me.
Now, look, I don’t believe that shit about gay guys having no self-control and wanting to fuck every dude they see. I mean, I definitely don’t want to fuck every chick I see, so why would gay guys be any different? But I do look like Arthur. What if James is confused because of jet lag? That’d be all kinds of fucked up.
James blinks at me, but doesn't say anything - just waves at me to be quiet and turns back to the window. He cracks the blinds open a little more and peers out.
“Man, seriously. What the fuck are you doing in here?” I kick the blanket away since James doesn’t seem like he’s going to jump on me. “I don’t mind you staying here or anything—” well, I do, actually, but it’s for Arthur, “—but this is my fucking room.”
James frowns and steps back from the window, letting the blinds fall shut. The room goes dark.
I blink the after-images away, scowling. “I swear to God, if you don’t tell me what you’re—”
“I thought I heard a— something,” James says. He sounds annoyed, and what’s the fucking deal with that? If anyone has a right be annoyed, it should be me.
“You heard a something,” I say, voice flat.
“I thought I heard something out on the fire escape,” James says. “And I saw a shadow through the living room window.”
Shit, is Arthur’s boyfriend a junkie, freaking out at shadows? “We’re on the third floor. It was probably just a cat, man.”
“Right. Of course,” James says. I can just make out the shape of him, moving toward the bedroom door. “My apologies for bursting in and startling you.”
“More like creeping in and freaking me out,” I mutter, pulling my blanket back up. I don’t lie down or close my eyes until James closes the door and I hear the thump of him throwing himself back onto the couch.
Seriously, what does Arthur fucking see in this guy?
The next morning, James is up before I am.
It surprises the hell out of me because I figured him for the type of guy who sleeps in until someone kicks him out bed.
I can hear him moving around in the kitchen, which... makes me a little uncomfortable, to tell you the truth. I don’t have guests over much. I mean, my boys stay over sometimes when it’s late and they’ve had a little too much to drink, and I used to have a new girl in my bed every weekend, but that’s different. I know my boys, and the girls… well, they didn’t really leave the bed, you know? James isn’t one of my boys, and I’m definitely not fucking him, so it’s weird having him walk around my place when I’m not awake.
I find him in the kitchen when I walk out. He’s eating toast and wandering around, and I’m instantly pissed because he’s just walking around with that piece of toast - no plate, no napkin, no nothing. There are crumbs on the counter, and I bet there are crumbs all over the floor too. Annoyed, I walk over, grab a dish towel, and start sweeping the crumbs off the counter and into my hand.
James turns around and looks at me, surprised. “Good morning.”
“Yeah,” I say, still sweeping. “Morning.”
There’s another pause. “I suppose if I said I was going to see to that after I was done eating, you wouldn’t believe me?”
“I believe you, man,” I say. I don’t try that hard to sound convincing. “It’s just— habit for me.”
James raises an eyebrow. “Of course.” He takes another bite of toast, then slowly - really slowly - cups his other hand beneath the toast to catch the crumbs. I give him a look, and James gives me a happy smile. It’s the smile of a shit stirrer.
“You know,” he says, still smiling, “you look just like your cousin when you’re glaring like— oh, don’t give me that face,” he adds, when I step back without thinking. “I’m not in the habit of trying to seduce straight men. It’s frightfully déclassé.”
English fucker doesn’t even speak English.
But, okay, yeah, he’s got me there. It’s still pretty annoying to get called out, though, especially by someone who’s left crumbs all over my kitchen, so I don’t say anything. Just shake the crumbs into the trash can, then grab my protein powder out of the cupboard.
“I’ve got today off,” I tell him, as I scoop the powder into the blender. “But I have stuff to do and I’m going out tonight as well, so...” I look up at James, expectant, but he just gives me a polite nod and doesn’t say anything.
Damn it.
I clear my throat. “See, the thing is, I don’t have a spare key—” (I do, actually, but like hell I’m giving it to him) “—so if you wanna head out, I’m not gonna be back until pretty late. I dunno if there’s someone else you can crash with or—”
“Oh, there’s no need to trouble yourself over me,” James says, waving a hand. “I actually have plenty of work to do.” He points at a laptop and a stack of files he’s set up on my coffee table. “I doubt I’ll be going anywhere today.”
I stare at the laptop, trying not to make a face as I think of James sitting in my apartment without supervision.
This is a favour for Arthur, I remind myself, and Arthur is family. I force myself to smile. “Great. I’ll see you later then.”
My days off usually go like this: go to the gym in the morning, go out with Esther or my boys afterwards, and then some downtime in the evenings (unless Esther’s come home with me or I’ve picked up a girl for the night).
It might sound kinda rigid, but believe me, I used to be a lot more rigid than that. I’m switching things up a bit within my routine.Like, I used to only do weights and cardio at the gym, right? But these days I’m trying out other shit. Basketball, indoor soccer, swimming— I even tried yoga once because the chick at the front desk was cute and teased me into trying it.
(It’s not my thing.)
They're not huge changes or anything, but they're something. Baby steps and all that.
Today, though, I'm in the weights room. Just because I'm trying out new shit, it doesn't mean I'm gonna let myself turn into a shrimpy motherfucker.
By the way, this is another advantage of working weekends: you pretty much get the gym to yourself because everyone who works a regular nine-to-five, Monday to Friday, is holed up at work. Now, that’s no good for the people who use the gym as a place to pick up, but I’m not one of them, so the shits I give are practically zero.
There’s only me, another guy on the leg press, and one of the trainers wandering around the room, inspecting equipment.
When I’m close to finishing my current set, the trainer walks over to me. He must be one of the seasonal workers because I’ve never seen him before. He’s kinda scrawny for a trainer, but hey, maybe he specialises in cardio.
“Mr. Martello?” He says when he gets close. His name tag says ‘Phillip’.
"Yeah?" I set the dumbbell down and straighten up. I’m pretty surprised he knows my name, but then I figure he’d just been watching the computer when I scanned myself into the gym. It’s not like there’s a lot of people to keep track of this morning. "Something the matter?"
"Oh, no,” Phillip says, waving his hands. “Nothing major. It's just the men's showers are out of order today—"
“What, all of them?”
Phillip shrugs and gives me a helpless smile. “Yeah. Crazy, isn’t it? If you need to use the shower, you'll have to use the sauna showers. Do you know where they are?" He gestures toward the door. "I could show you if—"
"Nah, I know where they are," I say, waving a hand and turning back to my weights. "Thanks, though."
“Right, right.” Phillip nods and backs away. “If you need anything, I’ll be around.”
And he seriously is. He comes over every ten or fifteen minutes, always with that dopey little smile and something to say. He reminds me about the sauna showers at least three times, and that’s so fucking weird that I’m ready to yell at him to fuck off the next time he walks up to me.
The opportunity comes when I head to the lockers to grab a protein bar, and, sure enough, Phillip follows me.
I take a breath, fuck off at the ready—
And then my phone rings.
I dig my phone out from the bottom of my bag and look at it. The screen says ‘Mom’.
"Sorry, man," I say, holding up the phone and stopping Phillip-the-sauna-spokesman in his tracks. "Gotta take this."
Phillip looks hugely pissed off at the interruption, which is just— what the hell, you know? I give him a polite nod and move away so I can answer the phone in semi-privacy.
“Hey Mom. What’s up?”
“Your father’s gone to work!” My mom says, without even saying hello.
“...okay?”
“It’s Monday. We got that new lounge set delivered on the weekend, but your father didn’t have time to move it all until today, and now he’s gone to work because of some... emergency,” my mom says. There’s this strain in her voice that makes her sound like she’s about to die. “I need you to come over and finish moving it all for me.”
I pause for a second. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t love my mom, or that I don’t wanna help her, it’s just… "Do I have to do it right now?"
"It’s Monday,” my mom says again.
I don’t say anything. I’ve got no idea why that’s so important.
“Remember?” my mom says, and it’s obvious from her tone that I really, really should. “Nina and Kathy always come over Monday afternoon, and the lounge room is a mess, and there are boxes everywhere. The afternoon’s going to be a disaster!"
"Okay, okay," I say, aiming for soothing. "Relax. I'll be there in twenty."
Just like that, my mom's all sunny again. “You’re a good boy, Jonny."
"Yeah, I know."
I wait, but she doesn’t hang up immediately like she usually does. Instead:
"But you weren't at church again yesterday,” she says. “And you didn't come to dinner last night. Jonny, is everything—”
“I was working last night,” I say quickly. “I told you that, remember?”
“You never used to work Sundays.”
“Yeah, I know. But I'm trying to save up a little, so…”
“Well,” my mom says, “that’s good. Responsible.”
That word sets off alarm bells in my head.
“You know,” my mom goes on, way too casually, “your Aunt Maria and Uncle Nick are on vacation in Hawaii at the moment.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“They’re staying at the Hilton in Waikiki right now, but they’re leaving in a few days to go to Maui. They’re going to visit one of those beaches, you know the ones with the black sand? And Maria said they might even try snorkelling.” I’m about to ask her why she’s telling me all this, but then she saves me the trouble by saying: “Arthur paid for the entire trip.”
Oh man, here we go.
“He’s such a sweet boy,” my mom sighs. “He offered to pay for tickets for me and your dad as well, can you believe it? We didn’t accept, of course. That’d just be too much, spending Arthur’s money like that.”
“Yeah, of course,” I say, doing my best to stuff down my annoyed groan and come up with something that'll distract her. But shit, the only thing I can think of now is Arthur. “Hey, I, uh— I actually spoke to Arthur the other day.”
“Did you?” my mom says, all happy again. “How is he? What’s he doing now? And when is he coming back to visit?”
Never, if it was up to Arthur, I think.
"He's fine. Working, I guess. He sounded busy." I fiddle with my gym bag for a few seconds. "He's coming to Jersey on business in a couple days."
"He is?" I can just hear her clapping over the phone in joy. "Jonny, make sure he comes to dinner. I want the both of you here for dinner this week."
"I'm working Sunday night again—"
"Thursday night, then. Will Arthur be here by then?" my mom doesn't even wait for me to answer before adding: "Your sister will be here as well! Oh, it'll be like a mini-family reunion. Such a shame your aunt and uncle are in Hawaii—"
But not too much of a shame, you know? Because now my mom will get to give them an update on their own son, who they haven't seen since last Christmas.
"I'll tell him about dinner," I say. "But I don't know if he'll be here by—"
"Don't just tell him about dinner," my mom replies, "make sure he comes. Call me whenever he arrives and bring him around. I'll make sure dinner's ready. I mean it when I say I want the both of you at my dinner table this week."
"I will, I will. I'll do my best, but c'mon, you know what Arthur's like."
My mom hmmphs. "More like what both of you are like. But I can be just as stubborn as you two. Dinner. This week. No excuses."
I only let the sigh out when she finally hangs up.
The instant he sees me put my phone away, Phillip comes up to me again, his smile now weird and strained at the edges. Jesus, is he getting paid commission from people using the gym showers or something?
I don’t wanna use the fucking sauna showers, bro, so quit insisting - it’s making you look really gay, I want to say— and then it hits me.
Man, Phillip is probably one of Arthur's random hookups. Like I said, Arthur hasn't been back since Christmas, but he tends to stick in people's memories. Dudes' memories, especially. Before he left for college, he always seemed to have some sad-eyed motherfucker trailing after him, hoping for a bit of attention outside of the bedroom. Or wherever it was that Arthur took guys to screw around. Probably not his bedroom, since his parents still think he's fucking straight as anything.
Anyway. Back to Phillip.
I put my hand up, stop the guy in his tracks. "Look, man," I say, as nicely as I can, "if this is about Arthur, I can't help you."
Phillip's mouth drops open and his eyes practically pop out of his head.
Yeah. See? I knew it. I almost feel sorry for the guy, but he's a grown ass man, you know? I doubt Arthur was giving him some load of bullshit about calling him later, so if Phillip's hopes are up, it's his own fault.
Phillip looks around, panicked. "How did you—?" His hands clench into fists.
"Whoa, fuck." I raise both my hands. "Relax, bro. I'm not gonna say anything about— y'know. Take it easy."
Phillip doesn’t take it easy. For a second there, he's got this look on his face, like he's gonna do something stupid like try to punch me out. And then he looks around, spots the other guy (still going all out on the leg press). He seems to remember then that we're in public, and that punching out a gym member probably isn’t that great for business.
I walk backward to the exit, hands still raised to show I’m all harmless and shit. "Sorry about Arthur, man," I say. "If you want my advice, you're probably better off looking at other dudes if you want something long term." Either that, or he needs to turn himself into James.
Phillip's eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. "Wait, what?" he says, but I've got no time to explain (and, to be honest, I don't actually care that much).
As the sliding doors slip closed, I see Phillip pull a cell phone out of his pocket and call someone, eyes cold as fuck.
He doesn't take his eyes off me the entire time.