Family Meal E-Book

Bryan Washington

• Herausgeber: Atlantic Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 327

Beschreibung

From the bestselling author of Memorial, a novel that will 'break your heart twice over, with sadness, sure, but more unexpectedly, with joy.' Rumaan Alam Growing up , TJ was Cam's boy next door. When Cam needed a home, TJ's parents - Mae and Jin - took him in. Their family bakery became Cam's safe place. Until he left, and it wasn't anymore. Years later, Cam's world is falling apart. The love of his life, Kai, is gone: but his ghost keeps haunting Cam, and won't let go. And Cam's not sure he wants to let go, not sure he's ready. When he has a chance to return to his home town, to work in a gay bar clinging on in a changing city landscape, he takes it. Back in the same place as TJ, they circle each other warily, their banter electric with an undercurrent of betrayal, drawn together despite past and current drama. Family is family. But TJ is no longer the same person Cam left behind; he's had his own struggles. The quiet, low-key, queer kid, the one who stayed home, TJ's not sure how to navigate Cam - utterly cool, completely devastated and self-destructing - crashing back into his world. When things said - or left unsaid - become so insurmountable that they devour us from within, hope and sustenance and friendship can come from the most unlikely source. Nourishment has many forms: eating croissants, sitting together at a table with bowls of curry, sharing history, confronting demons, growing flowers, showing up. This is a story about how the people who know us the longest can hurt us the most, but how they also set the standard for love, and by their necessary presence, create a family.

Leseprobe

Family Meal

Also by Bryan Washington

MemorialLot

First published in the United States of America in 2023 by Riverhead Books,an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC.

First published in hardback in Great Britain in 2023 by Atlantic Books,an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

Copyright © Bryan Washington, 2023

The moral right of Bryan Washington to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint “Bad Mode” © 2022 Sony Music Publishing (Japan) Inc. All rights on behalf of Sony Music Publishing (Japan) Inc. administered by Sony Music Publishing (US) LLC, 424 Church Street, Suite 1200, Nashville, TN 37219. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidentsportrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance toactual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Hardback ISBN:978 1 83895 444 4

Trade paperback ISBN:978 1 83895 447 5

EBook ISBN:978 1 83895 445 1

Printed in Great Britain

Atlantic Books

An Imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London

WC1N 3JZ

www.atlantic-books.co.uk

For T, A, P, and L

This is a work of fiction that touches on self-harm, disordered eating, and addiction. If you’re dealing with mental health struggles or body dysmorphia, then this novel could be taxing for you. So please be kind to yourself. And go at your own pace. There’s no wrong way to be, and the only right way is the way that you are. Care and slowness are two gifts that we deserve, boundless pools we can offer ourselves and those we hold dear.

Thanks for reading. Really.

This is, then, a light tale that becomes heavy.

ALEJANDRO ZAMBRA, BONSAI

Here’s a diazepam

We can each take half of

Or we can roll one up

However the night flows

“BAD MODE,” UTADA HIKARU

Flowers return with the seasons.

If only we could, too.

LUCKY CHAN-SIL

Family Meal

Cam

Most guys start pairing off around one, but TJ just sits there sipping his water. Everyone else slinks away from the bar in twos and threes. They’re fucked up and bobbing down Fairview, toward somebody’s ex-boyfriend’s best friend’s apartment. Or the bathhouse in midtown. Or even just out to the bar’s patio, under our awning, where mosquitoes crash-land into streetlamps until like six in the morning. But tonight, even after we’ve turned down the music and undimmed the lights and wiped down the counters, TJ doesn’t budge. It’s like the motherfucker doesn’t even recognize me.

For a moment, he’s a blank canvas.

A face entirely devoid of our history.

But he wears this grin I’ve never seen before. His hair tufts out from under his cap, grazing the back of his neck. And he’s always been shorter than me, but his cheeks have grown softer, still full of the baby fat that never went away.

I’m an idiot, but I know this is truly a rare thing: to see someone you’ve known intimately without them seeing you.

It creates an infinitude of possibility.

But then TJ blinks and looks right at me.

Fuck, he says.

Fuck yourself, I say.

Fuck, says TJ. Fuck.

You said that, I say. Wanna drink something stronger?

TJ touches the bottom of his face. Fiddles with his hair. Looks down at his glass.

He says, I didn’t even know you were back in Houston.

Alas, I say.

You didn’t think to tell me?

It’s not a big deal.

Right, says TJ. Sure.

The speakers above us blast a gauzy stream of pop chords, remixed beyond comprehension. Dolly and Jennifer and Whitney. They’re everyone’s cue to pack up for the night. But guys still lean on the bar top in various states of disarray—a gay bar’s weekend cast varies wildly and hourly, from the Mexican otters draped in leather, to the packs of white queers clapping off beat, to the Asian bears lathered in Gucci, to the Black twinks nodding along with the bass by the pool table.

As the crowd finally thins out, TJ grabs his cap, running a hand through his hair. He groans.

Feel free to hit the dance floor, I say.

You know I don’t do that shit, says TJ.

Then you really haven’t changed. But I’ll be done in a minute, if you want to stick around.

Fine, says TJ.

Good, I say, and then I’m back at my job, closing out the register and restocking the Bacardí and turning my back on him once again.

I hadn’t heard from TJ in years.

We hadn’t actually seen each other in over a decade.

Growing up, his house stood next door to mine. My folks were rarely around, so TJ’s kept an eye on me. I ate at his dinner table beside Jin and Mae. Borrowed his sweaters. Slept beside him in his bed with his breath on my face. When my parents died—in a car accident, clipped by a drunk merging onto I-45, I’d just turned fifteen, cue cellos—his family took me into their lives, gave me time and space and belonging, and for the rest of my life whenever I heard the word home their faces beamed to mind like fucking holograms.

Not that it matters now. Didn’t change shit for me in the end.

Before I start mopping, Minh and Fern wave me off. When I ask what their deal is, Fern says it’s rude to keep suitors waiting.

He seems pretty into you, says Minh.

He isn’t, I say.

And he’s not your usual type, says Fern. I’ve never seen you go for cubs.

I’m constantly evolving, I say, but we’re not fucking.

Spoken like an actual whore, says Minh.

Fern owns the bar. Minh’s his only other employee. After I flick them off, I step outside and it’s started to drizzle. And TJ’s still standing by the curb, sucking on a vape pen as he taps at his phone, blowing a plume of pot into the air once he spots me. The rain pokes holes through his cloud.

You’ve lost weight, says TJ.

And you’ve gained it, I say.

Nice.

It’s no shade. You finally look like a baker.

But it’s different. You’re—

That’s what you want to talk about?

It was an observation, says TJ. I have eyes.

Did you park nearby, I ask.

Nah.

Then I’ll walk you to your car like a gentleman.

Ha, says TJ, and we drift along the sidewalk, ducking into the neighborhood under stacks of drooping fronds.

. . .

The middle of Montrose is busted concrete and monstrous greenery and bundled town houses. Scattered laughter bubbles along the roads snaking beside us, even at this time of night. Bottles break and engines snarl. But TJ’s pace is steady, so I ease mine, too. Sometimes he glances my way, but nothing comes out of his mouth.

Deeply stimulating conversation, I say.

I don’t think you get to be like that with me, says TJ.

Is that right? After all these years?

It’s not like I planned on running into you tonight, says TJ. This isn’t a date.

So you’re actually dating now, I say, instead of fucking straight boys?

Shut up, says TJ. How long have you been in Houston? And don’t lie.

Relax, I say. Just a few months.

What’s a few?

A few since Kai died.

Oh, says TJ.

He stops in the center of a driveway. A gaggle of queens searching for their Lyft walks around us, whistling at nothing in particular.

Shit, says TJ. Sorry.

Nothing for you to be sorry about, I say.

No, says TJ. Not about that. Or not completely. But I never got to talk to you, after what happened.

After, I say.

After, says TJ. You know.

He keeps his eyes on the concrete. One of his hands forms a fist.

The reaction’s totally human. But it still isn’t good enough for me.

So I walk up to TJ, standing closer.

You didn’t kill him, I say.

I know, but—

No buts. Don’t be a fucking downer.

TJ doesn’t say anything. He takes another hit of the pen. And he extends it to me, dangling the battery from his fingers, so I take that off his hands and huff a hit of his weed, too.

We walk a few more blocks, hopscotching across Hopkins’s sidewalks, toward Whitney and Morgan and the gays honking in Mini Coopers behind us. We pass a pair of Vietnamese guys steadying each other by the shoulders, torn up from their night out, taking care not to step on any cracks. We pass a huddle of drunk bros holding court on a taquería’s corner, swinging their phones and laughing way too loudly. When one of them asks if we’re looking to party, I feel TJ tense up, so I tell them we’re good, maybe next time, and add a little extra bass in my voice.

But the guys just wave us off. TJ and I duck under another set of branches. And then we’re alone on the road, again, beyond the neighborhood’s gravity of queer bars, where it’s as silent as any other white-bread Texas suburb.

Hey, I say. Does showing up at the bar mean you’re finally out?

I was always out, says TJ.

Right, I say. But are you—

My car’s here, says TJ, nodding at a tiny Hyundai parked by the intersection.

He leans against the door while I fiddle with my pockets. It makes no fucking sense that I’m nervous. But when TJ asks if I need a ride back to my place, I decline, pointing toward the neighborhood.

I’m local, I say.

Of course you are, says TJ.

Staying with a friend. Another friend.

One that knew you were in this fucking city.

TJ speaks plainly, like he’s describing the weather.

What the fuck would you have done if I’d told you, I say.

I guess we’ll never know, says TJ.

He makes a funny face then. Another one I’ve never seen before. Something like a smirk.

So I think about what I’m going to say, and I open my mouth to launch it—but then I change my mind.

Because TJ’s earned at least this much.

Instead, I reach for his pen, pulling another hit. I blow that back in his face. When TJ waves it away, I blow another.

Listen, he says. Seriously. You’re really okay?

It’s a short walk, I say.

No. I mean, are you all right?

I twirl TJ’s pen a few times. He really does look like he means it.

Come back to the bar and see me, I say. I’ll be around.

TJ gives me a long look, pursing his lips. Then he reaches into his car, snatching something, pushing it against my chest.

It’s a paper bag filled with pastries. Chicken turnovers. They’re flaky in my hands, warm to the touch, and the smell sends a chill up my neck—entirely too familiar.

Are you the fucking candy man, I say.

Try them, says TJ.

How do I know they aren’t laced?

Because I’d have poisoned you years ago.

So I take a bite of the pastry.

It’s just as delicious as I remember.

And when TJ sees my face, he nods.

Then he steps into his car without glancing my way, and I watch him drive off, and I wait for him to wave or throw a peace sign or whatever the fuck but he doesn’t. TJ turns the corner and he’s gone.

So I take another bite of the turnover, tasting the food, rolling it around my mouth.

Then I spit it out.

It’s only another block before I find a trash can to dump the rest.

. . .

A few streets later, my phone pings from one of the apps. The message’s sender drops his location. This park’s tucked a couple of blocks away. But the guy doesn’t send a photo of his face, just his dick, and I’m not entirely sure who I’m supposed to be looking for.

Cruising’s a nightmare this way. You always risk running into some fucking homophobe. Or bored frat kids looking to blow off steam with a baseball bat. Or a drunk married dick with twelve kids and a lovely, clueless wife. But eventually, I spot a dude sitting on this bench beside a playground, and I recognize him immediately: it’s one of the bros we passed at the taquería.

He looks shook at the sight of me. Late thirties, early forties. When I’m close enough, this guy sticks out his hand for a shake, and when I tell him to calm the fuck down, he apologizes, blushing.

I wonder how drunk he is.

Or what it took for him to work up to this point.

But I let him bend me over anyway.

He fucks me on the bench. Our motions feel routine, like they’re untapped muscle memory—and it reminds me of something Kai liked to say, about how the steps may be the same, but we each have our own particular rhythm, and this was just another one of his nonsense manifestos but I still haven’t forgotten it—and that’s what comes to mind as this stranger stuffs one hand in my shirt while his other one plays with my ass, searching for an angle.

But it isn’t long before we start to stall.

I reach for the guy’s dick, guiding him, and he grabs my wrist.

Wait, he says. Do you have a condom?

No, I say. You’re fine.

Really?

Go for it.

You’re sure?

Are you a fucking doctor?

And I’m thinking that this guy will ask a fiftieth time but he doesn’t. He enters me slowly. Starts pumping his hips tentatively. And then quickly. I steady myself on the wood, buckling from our momentum, thinking of how I’ll probably find someone else to fuck after this, until, all of a sudden, I hear Kai’s voice, clear as day, and I’m pushing his face from my mind while the guy behind me grunts under his breath—and when he comes, our bodies jolt, and I almost start to laugh because it’s fucking hilarious and nothing short of astounding that I thought the world could ever be anything but what it is or that I’d ever truly find myself outside of its whims.

A while back, Kai asked about TJ. We lived in LA. I still had my bank gig. Kai worked as a translator, and he still looked at me in a bewildered way, like he couldn’t believe our luck, as if the fact of our finding each other was such a fucking miracle. He liked hanging out in the park a few blocks from his apartment in Silver Lake, despite the tents and the drunks and the sugar babies snapping photos under the roses, and a few years into our situation this was a thing that hadn’t changed.

So I started joining him.

Not always. But occasionally.

On the way over, Kai grabbed lemonades from this tiny Japanese convenience store. The owners knew his name. They’d talk about Kansai, which is where Kai flew every few months for work, and also the food and the cherry blossoms and whatever the fuck else and the sight never failed to confuse everyone in line: a lumpy Black dude chatting with these hundred-year-old Asians about the way that snow falls halfway across the world. I didn’t get it either.

But then we’d split from the shop, sprawling across the park’s grass, shutting our eyes to the tune of toddlers and traffic. Kai liked saying that you’d never find this in Louisiana, where he’d grown up, as if I didn’t already fucking know that.

Houston’s the same, I said. You get your concrete and your brown and that’s it.

You’re exaggerating, said Kai.

I wouldn’t be paying a brick to live here otherwise.

What about that one friend back home?

Who?

The only one you’ve ever mentioned, said Kai.

He reached into the plastic bag between us, flicking a cherry tomato at my face. I caught it with my mouth. Some Black women in shades formed a yoga circle beside us, working their bodies into the lotus position. Every few minutes, their group burst into laughter, sending ripples through the park.

There’s nothing to tell, I said. TJ and I grew up together. His folks owned a bakery. I worked there until college, and then I left, and TJ got weird. His dad died a few years later. You know most of this already.

But you could be more generous, said Kai.

Maybe, I said. But that’s life. I grew up with his old man, too. I didn’t freak out when he passed.

Kai’s eyes flickered. The women beside us raised their arms, working their way up toward the warrior pose.

Thank you, I said.

For what, said Kai.

For not saying that he wasn’t really family.

Now you’re being silly, said Kai. What’s TJ doing now?

Nothing, I said. Stuck at the bakery. Dating closet cases.

Hey, said Kai, sitting up. There’s no clock for coming out. No one way to be queer.

Word. But it’s different.

How?

Kai bit another mouthful of sandwich. The women beside us released their stances, exhaling and settling back onto their mats. And I thought about Kai’s question, but I couldn’t come up with an answer.

Or whatever answer for TJ’s situation I conjured felt like it’d take too fucking long to explain.

So Kai flicked another tomato. This one hit me in the eye.

Fucker, I said.

You’re spacing out, said Kai.

I’m thinking.

That’s cute. Did you and TJ ever fool around?

Please.

It’d be natural! You were teens!

While Kai laughed, I slipped a finger in the hip of his boxers. He pushed at my chest with his palm. It was enough for a few of our neighbors to stare, blinking before they turned back to their huddle.

Anyways, I said. We fell out of touch. The end.

But you loved him, said Kai.

Did I say that?

You didn’t have to, said Kai. It’s on your face.

Is that right?

Yeah, babe. That’s love.

And then Kai crossed his eyes, sticking his tongue out and shaking his head.

I meant to ask Kai what he’d seen in me.

What love looked like to him.

It was a stupid fucking question and I never got around to it.

And then, obviously, he died.

But sometimes I still talk to him.

Still don’t know how it happens.

Or why.

Sometimes there’s a warning.

Like I’ll get this fucking chill in my neck.

But, mostly, Kai just shows up.

I’ll be in the shower, or taking a piss, or just about to nod off, and then, poof. He’ll appear. Sitting cross-legged right in front of my fucking face.

The last time it happened was a few weeks back. I was in bed, alone, tapping at my phone. Looking for dick. And then, out of the fucking blue, I felt Kai on the mattress beside me.

We lay there in silence. With me breathing up all the air and him being dead and still.

And then Kai burped.

I said, Fuck.

That’s cute, said Kai. It’s been a while.

I didn’t ask Kai where he’d been.

Or what the fuck he was doing now.

Because he was there. As sure as I was.

But he was also gone.

And he’d been gone.

You’ve been busy, said Kai.

I was making moves, I said. Reorganizing my life.

You make it sound so easy.

It’s slower in Texas. You like slow things.

Liked, said Kai.

Yeah, I said, sorry.

You’re apologetic now, said Kai. Don’t start being decent on my account.

It’s not like you tried to change me.

Why would I? Romance with qualifications is just a crush.

But there’s less room for that kind of trouble here, I said.

Where the fuck is here?

Wherever you aren’t, I said.

You know that’s bullshit, said Kai. Trouble’s always around if you know where to look.

You weren’t looking for me, I said, and you found trouble.

We don’t always get it right, said Kai.

Then did you regret it, I thought, but I didn’t say the words, and Kai sneezed so loudly that I jolted.

He said, Things are different now. I’m the only one who gets to ask questions, okay?

And then he was gone again.

Just like that.

Like a little bitch.

Our bar’s called Harry’s and Minh spells that with an i. Fern inherited the property. He says the place was named after some innovative white man, who allegedly unified the neighborhood against other marginally more racist white men, but whenever Fern tells that story he starts laughing halfway through so I can never tell if he’s bullshitting or what.

The building sits on a shrubby curb of Montrose. It’s hidden under too many pine cones. Houston is shit for seasons, so the neighborhood stays inexplicably green year-round. The block itself was patchworked from a hodgepodge of estates, alongside a bunch of half-built condos, and evergreens, and the occasional upper-middle-class assemblage of curated flowers planted by homeowners who’d scarfed up property before the housing loophole closed. It’s beautiful garbage.

But the bar’s always in danger of closing. Fern bitches about this daily. Not that he needs to—the queer bookstore and the queer grocery store and the queer sex store and the lesbian tailors and the queer coffee shops just beyond our bubble are already gone. Their buildings got bulldozed. Or they were priced out. And now, between the construction fences, we’ve got signs advertising high-rises and boutique strip malls named after even more white men whose great-grandfathers probably owned slaves.

Sometimes they’re splattered with graffiti. But it’s only like a day before they’re wiped clean with fresh coats of paint.

Fern set me up with the bar gig. He’d known Kai in LA. They’d met at some fucking nerd convention, because Fern’s husband read this book Kai had translated and they’d all stayed in touch. Which was yet another pocket of Kai’s life that I hadn’t been privy to—but then Fern called me a few weeks after the funeral in Louisiana.

Which I hadn’t gone to.

But I wasn’t invited.

The job’s nothing fancy, said Fern, and the pay’s pretty shit. But you’ll be around people you won’t have to explain anything to.

I took the call on our balcony. I hadn’t really been going outside. Hadn’t really been getting dressed. In the mornings, I watched daylight hit the road from our bedroom window. In the evenings, I watched the sun set from our kitchen. Sometimes, around midnight, I’d slip out to Melrose for tacos, or I’d splurge on dim sum delivered from downtown, ordering enough stir-fried noodles and BBQ buns for six.

Sometimes I ate everything.

Although I mostly didn’t.

I don’t know, I told Fern. Houston’s far. And I don’t love Texas.

Didn’t you grow up around here, asked Fern.

How do you know that, I said, and I listened to Fern breathe on the phone, because I wanted to see if he’d dare to say Kai’s name but he didn’t.

Look, said Fern. There’s no pressure. It’s your choice. But a change of scenery might do you good. Even if it’s only for a little while.

I don’t think you know me well enough to say that.

I know you’ve lost someone. I know you’re grieving. And I know Los Angeles is probably the last place you want to be right now. Given, you know, all of it.

Doesn’t matter either way, I said. I wouldn’t even have a place to sleep.

You can stay with me.

What? Why the fuck are you doing this?

Don’t worry about that, said Fern.

Then he added: We loved Kai, too. He talked about you all the time.

I started to say, He never mentioned you—but I didn’t.

My toes bent into the tile instead.

TJ called, too.

Week after week. A few times every day.

I let his messages run straight to my voice mail until it was finally full. Never felt the need to listen.

But when TJ’s mother called, I answered.

We were silent on the phone until Mae said my name. She asked how I was doing, and if I was eating, and if I had money. She didn’t bring up Kai even once, but I couldn’t make myself hate her for it.

If you need anything, said Mae, you know where to find us.

Thanks, Mae.

Our home is still your home, too.

Thanks, Mae.

Whenever you need to come by, she said, there’s a place for you here.

I don’t think I can do that, I said.

There was a pause on the line. I could hear the words before she spoke them.

That’s all right, said Mae. As long as you know that you can change your mind.

The very next morning, I called Fern back.

I booked a flight that evening.

Made it a one-way ticket.

A few days later, TJ’s back at the bar. He fingers his phone, wincing in the same black hoodie. And if he sees me, he doesn’t let on.

He nearly has the place to himself. Weekday traffic doesn’t keep us afloat. A Black guy in a ball cap sits at one end of the counter, stirring his cocktail. A pair of Filipino gays giggle just under the television, drowned out by the sounds of Janet Jackson. And a Venezuelan dude frowns at his phone, glancing continually at the entrance, until I ask if he’s expecting anyone and he says they’ll be here any minute.

Eventually, Minh calls me over from the register. He’s taking stock of the liquor with Fern, docking everything on a tablet. Business is slow enough for him to lodge an ASL textbook under the counter—Minh’s been studying speech pathology on and off, and he swears this is the year that he’ll finish.

Your trade is back, he says.

You’re projecting, I say.

Maybe, says Minh. Is he mixed?

His dad’s Korean, I say. Mom’s Black.

I think he really is just a friend, says Fern.

No one asked you, says Minh.

I’ve got an eye for these things, says Fern. And baby boy would’ve told us if he had a paramour, right?

Absolutely not, I say. Can you cover the bar for a bit?

Is this a favor, says Minh.

If that means you’ll do it.

Then it’s my pleasure, says Minh, waving his palms in a flourish.

That makes Fern grunt. But he can’t do shit about it. And it’s not like all of us need to hang around by the register anyway. Like every other gay bar that’s survived, we’re held hostage by Saturdays. Between theme nights and game nights and holidays, most of our revenue arrives in lump sums, and since Fern’s sworn off hosting circuit parties we’re rarely an event planner’s primary choice.

Fern assures us rent isn’t an issue. Swears he’ll remortgage his house before he drops us from payroll. But Minh told me he’s seen our landlord around more often lately, although I never seem to catch her myself.

When I asked Fern about this a few weeks back, he narrowed his eyes.

So now you want to balance the books, he said.

I just don’t want to end up on the street, I said.

You won’t, said Fern. I’m handling it.

It was the gruffest he’d ever been with me.

But now, taking the seat beside TJ, the amount of people in here is hardly reassuring. Our other patrons are stuck in their own tiny constellations. When the door behind us opens, the Venezuelan dude jolts, but a flinty voice calls out Sorry, honey before it slams again.

So, I say.

You thought I wouldn’t show, says TJ.

When I said to come back, I didn’t mean on your lunch break.

Too bad, says TJ. I brought a message from Mae.

How’s she doing?

Ask her yourself. It’s been years.

We talked a few months ago, I say, which is enough for TJ to finally look up.

He sips from his glass—another fucking water—before clearing his throat.

Okay, Viola Davis, I say. Don’t be dramatic.

Fuck you, says TJ.

You wish. And it’s not like we talked shit about you. She was just looking out.

I don’t care.

You know we’ve always been close, I say. You and Jin would disappear wherever, and she’d hang back with me.

But apparently not close enough for you to drop by when you got to town, says TJ. She wants to see you in person. Couldn’t believe it when I said you were back.

You told her you ran into me at a gay bar?

TJ wipes his nose at this.

The baby gays sitting under our television yelp. When we glance their way, they’re laughing into their hands, rocking their table and spilling beer all over the tile. Minh glides over with a towel, shaking his head, and they apologize between spurts of giggling.

How are things at the bakery, I say.

We’re still around, says TJ.

That’s good.

You didn’t have to leave.

That isn’t what we’re talking about today, I say.

I just wanted you to hear it from me, says TJ. In case you’d forgotten.

You don’t get to do that.

I’m just saying.

Then stop, I say. What the fuck are you even doing here?

You told me to come back, says TJ.

That’s all it took?

I’m not the one who left.

It suddenly occurs to me that we’re yelling. Fern and Minh gawk our way. Everyone else is staring right along with them.

The stereo dips into a glossy city pop. Anri’s voice blankets the entire bar. And TJ crosses his arms, leaning against the counter.

Let’s drop it, he says. I didn’t drive across town to argue.

So you’re just here to pick up ass on a Wednesday afternoon?

I thought I was being a friend.

You’ve done a phenomenal job, I say. A-plus-plus-plus.

TJ lifts his water, downing the rest of it. But as he stands, his barstool tumbles, and I catch his shoulders before he slips.

Which leaves us holding each other.

Looking entirely out of sorts.

You know what, says TJ, fuck you.

And then he’s out the door. Slamming it behind him.

Fern and Minh start clapping. The boys by the television shake their heads, resuming their flirt. And the Black guy lost in his vodka soda raises a glass my way, but I tell him to fuck right off.

Fern’s place sits a few blocks from the bar. It’s a single-story three-bedroom, flanked by a laundromat and a Guadalajaran bakery. He lives with Jake—the husband—and sometimes his son passes through during the week, unless Diego’s staying with his mom out in midtown.

Jake works mornings as a nurse at an urgent care clinic. Fern works nights at the bar. The first few months, I tried goading them into letting me find another job, or at least to pitch in on groceries, but they wouldn’t have it.

It’s part of our arrangement: Fern refuses everything from me but my third of the utilities. Which is basically nothing compared to LA. They own their fucking house. So I told Fern that wasn’t fair—I still had some savings from when I worked at the bank—and Fern told me life wasn’t fair, and this was the argument we rehashed every evening, but one night Jake spoke up and said he’d heard I used to work in a bakery, so maybe I could cook for the three of them?

Not happening, I said.

Totally understandable, said Jake.

Wait a minute, said Fern. That’s actually not a bad idea.

I said I want to pay you.

Then think of this as another kind of transaction, said Fern.

I don’t fucking cook anymore, I said. That was a long fucking time ago.

We aren’t picky, said Jake, and I started to protest again, but Fern only told me to think about it since I was the one who’d brought this shit up in the first place.

Now I hand Fern a plate with scrambled eggs smothered in Cholula, flanked by a slice of bacon. We’ve just made it back from the bar. He breaks the yolks with his fork, inhaling the entire plate.

Jesus, I say. Stop that shit or you’ll choke.

Would you cry, says Fern.

For days. You really think there’s nothing to worry about with Harry’s?

There’s always something to worry about, says Fern. But we’re safe. I promise.

I start to say something else, but I catch myself.

Fern folds his arms on the countertop, resting his elbows. He never really grows his mustache, but a layer of fuzz creeps above his lips.

I’m not putting you out on the street, says Fern. You worry too much.

I worry precisely the correct amount.

And look where it’s gotten you, says Fern.

But there’s no malice in his voice. Fern finishes the food, carrying his dish to the sink. Then he waves me away, slinking down the hallway, back to bed, while Diego leapfrogs down the stairs with his backpack, juggling a violin case in one hand and a jacket in the other.

The middle school’s only a few blocks away, but Fern insists that Diego be walked. And I get where he’s coming from. Working in Montrose, we know just how much is possible on these streets, even with the neighborhood’s changes. Lately, it’s all ice-cream parlors and pop-up boutiques and twelve-dollar coffees on overgrown patios—but a few years back, you wouldn’t catch white boomers walking down Fairview or Dunlavy or Hazard in broad day for anything.

Still though—you never fucking know.

And also, Diego has asthma.

So this is another part of my days: cooking everyone breakfast and babysitting the kid on his way to school.

But Diego still sulks from block to block, chattering about who has a crush on who, or which YouTuber he’s sick of, or connecting the choruses of one K-pop track to another, mostly jabbering to himself, until he looks up at me expecting a response.

You could at least pretend to care, he says.

I’m the prime minister of caring, I say.

Then I should throw a coup.

There’s an idea. The people would thank you.

Nah, says Diego. You’re too much of a pushover. It’d be too easy.

Diego’s a short little guy. He’s Fern’s kid from his first marriage. Jake does Diego’s haircuts, and they’re generally good enough, but somehow his hair always ends up looking like he’s just parachuted from a fighter jet.

Our walk’s decent though: the neighborhood’s still recovering from the night before. A handful of white moms fawn on coffee-shop benches. Barbers and clerks unlock their shops lining Westheimer. And when we make it to his school’s gates, Diego takes a breath.

You don’t have to wait for me this afternoon, he says.

You know that’s not how this works, I say.

I know. Just not today.

Is something special happening?

No.

Got a cute date?

No.

What’s their name? What’re their pronouns?

Stop, says Diego. It’s not like that. I just think we should change things up.

Mm, I say. Let me ask your dads how they feel about that.

I already did.

Sure. But let me ask them myself.

Diego squints. He raises his fist toward me, and I bump it, before he lets his hand explode, spinning and sprinting toward the school’s steps. He looks back at me before the doors close behind him, flipping me off. But Diego smiles before he’s gone.

I check my phone not even eight seconds later and the nearest guy online is like twenty feet away. But I’ve already fucked him. And he came two minutes in. So I keep swiping, and the distances multiply—from twenty-five feet to fifty to seventy-five to nearly a mile.

Then I get a photo from a faceless profile.

It’s some guy smiling with too many teeth.

Cute, I write.

Thanks, he writes. Looking?

depends

?

you a top?

Vers

that’s what everyone says, I write.

For real, writes this guy. Honestly just looking to party.

Interesting, I write. You hosting?

This is my routine: during the day, while Fern sleeps and Jake works, before I head to the bar, I stroll around the neighborhood and these walks are punctuated with sex. Since I’ve been back in Houston, I’ve fucked delivery guys and lawyers and dry cleaners and architects and engineers and college kids and kindergarten teachers and graphic designers and real estate agents and salesmen and house husbands and professors. Someone’s always just coming home from their gig out in Pearland, or getting ready to leave the gym in Memorial, or out on a jog at Hermann Park, or taking a sick day or sending their kid to school or whatever. But most encounters follow a familiar formula: a rushed introduction before some fucking, until one of us finally comes, and then there’s the sprint for the other to finish before we nod and leave, never once exchanging our names and probably never seeing each other again until we pop up on the apps a few days later.

Kai called this the fag tax: perpetual proximity. He swore that we always ended up online, interlinked atoms scattered across a permanent digital grid. I don’t know how I got caught up in that, at least to this extent, because of course I fucked around before I met Kai, hooking up here and there, but at some point after he died here and there became everywhere, all the time, and naming a thing doesn’t prevent you from succumbing to it, and when I knock on this guy’s door, behind a walk-up complex three blocks from the school, a burly Latinx dude answers.

Hey, I say.

Howdy, he says.

He asks if I want some water. I tell him that’s cool if it’s bottled. And as he steps off, I look around his place—the pastel walls are full of family photos. A handful seem to have him in them. In one, he’s grinning beside a lady who might be his grandmother. In another, he stands arm in arm with three men, looming over a Chihuahua. In every last picture, everyone’s beaming, and I wonder if they know he sucks dick.

Is this your place, I ask.

My parents’, says the guy. I’m between jobs.

That’s cool.

It’s cheap. Got let go from a tech contract in Denver, and it just made sense to move back. But I feel like a fucking deadbeat in Texas.

Sounds unbearable, I say.

When this guy makes it back to the living room with two waters, I cheers him.

You have any leads on a job, he asks.

What?

I’m joking, says this guy, and he places a hand on my back.

We jerk each other off in front of his prom portraits. When we amble our way toward the sofa, he asks if I’m cool with fucking him.

Sure, I say, but could we do a line first?

We could, says this guy.

And you’re sure it’s clean?

I bought it a few years back. Thought I’d save it for a special occasion.

Well then, I say, and this guy gives me a blank look until he finally stands, leaving me in the living room with eighteen photos of his grandmother. When he makes it back, spreading out all of his shit, I take a whiff and instantly feel more like myself.

Wait, I say, you don’t want any?

It’s a little early, says this guy.

Touché, I say, and that’s when we start to kiss.

He asks me to bite his lip. Then he asks me to stroke his balls, and to squeeze his chest, and to finger him faster.

Any other requests, I ask.

Could you be a little rougher?

That’s not really my thing.

Okay. But could you try?

So I do. He muffles his moans in the cushions, and I manage to last for twenty minutes. When I tell him I’m coming, he asks me to pull out, and I finish across his back.

Afterward, I sit on the floor while he wipes up the mess beside him. Then this guy sits next to me, downing his water, and he asks for my name.

Um, I say.

That’s fine, he says. I get it. But do you want something to eat? Before you go?

I’ve got lunch plans, I say.

Right, he says.

Except I don’t get up right away. And this guy doesn’t either. If I’m honest, his openness is jarring—niceness for the sake of niceness doesn’t fit into our transaction. But when I finally stand, the guy walks me out, telling me to get home safe.

After I’m maybe a block away, I find him on the app and I block him. We’re both better off that way.