Writing Off the Grid

From across the crowded room, I glimpse the round caramel face glowing with inner contentment. Then I see the gold-winning smile, and instantly I’m hooked. He doesn’t notice me, though. How can he? People are elbowing each other to gain the front position, wanting to be the first to shake his hand or pat him on the back. I don’t know who is or why he’s so popular, but now I’m determined to find out.

I turn to my cousin, Ethan, who’s standing next to me, and tap his arm. “Is he why we’re here?” I don’t need to point, and by the sly look on Ethan’s face, he knows exactly who I’m talking about.

“Yes,” Ethan says, that one word resonating his annoyance.

“But…” My throat locks, like it did back in high school when I went to ask Grayson Ball to the prom. That didn’t go so well. “Who is he?”

“Oh, Tobias,” Ethan says in his crotchety tone, “please don’t make a fool of yourself. You can’t afford to have your jaw broken again.”

A broken jaw. That’s what I got for asking Grayson to the prom. Despite our regular hookups in the woods behind the school, where we took turns sucking each other off, he wasn’t gay.

“Just tell me who he is,” I say askance.

Ethan takes a long sip of his wine, turning slightly away to survey the room. He’s doing it all on purpose … to torment me. Just like when we were kids. “What’s a boner?” I’d asked him one day, when we were ten, on the way home from school. He smirked and kept walking. Ethan was older, and I thought that meant he knew everything … about life and boys. That’s why I looked up to him. But he could be a cocky son of a bitch. Back then and now.

I kick his foot. “Ethan!”

“Sean Mendonça. He’s a writer.”

“Do you know him?”

Ethan throws me a knowing look. “We wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“So you can —”

“Absolutely not,” Ethan interrupts, his eyes on fire and locked on me. “I’m not playing matchmaker. And if you need to get laid, there’s a gay bar two blocks down the street.”

I focus on the crowd, searching the faces for his, but I can’t find it. He’s hidden behind his fans now clamouring for autographs and selfies. I’m annoyed that they’re taking up all his time. Shouldn’t he be working the rest of the room? Really, I just want him working me — to feel his reddish-brown lips touch mine, the weight of his arms wrapped around me, to inhale every single breath of him.

Then it happens, as if God hears my prayer and answers it. He bursts through the multitude, shaking hands along the way as he nears Ethan and me. My mouth goes dry, my stomach clenches and, oh God … my cock quickly swells.

“Sean, I want you to meet my cousin, Tobias,” Ethan says, almost with a snicker. “He’s a big fan.”

“A pleasure,” Sean says and grips my hand.

Our eyes lock, and Sean doesn’t immediately let go. I’m not sure he’s ever planning on letting go. Maybe he’s waiting for me to say something, but I just stare back at him. His dark-brown eyes hold me in a trance, my mouth agape and unable to say a word. The unexpected elbow in my side makes me wince. I shoot a menacing look at Ethan, turn back to Sean and finally spit out, “He-Hello.”

The handshake is over, yet the chill cast over my body remains as Sean moves off.

“Smooth,” Ethan says, chuckling. “Is that how you pick up guys?”

I punch Ethan in the arm and stare him down. Like he used to do with me when we were kids. It was his way of announcing his arrival, leaving me to explain — unconvincingly — the bruises on my arm to my mother. “What the hell was that? ‘He’s a big fan?’ You made me look like an ass.”

Ethan, rubbing the spot on his arm where I hit him, sucks his teeth. “You did that all on your own.” He steps past me and folds into the crowd.

I stand there, my heart racing, scanning the faces again. He’s there, a few feet away — the man who has me under a spell, makes me feel buttery inside. The man I want to love me forever. Crazy, I know … because I don’t know him. But isn’t that how relationships start? Out of curiosity and attraction? Or maybe even a weird, unhealthy infatuation?

Our eyes meet. I can feel my lips curling into a smile. When Sean winks, I’m rock hard in a flash. I hold myself back. I want to walk over to him, take his face in my hands and press my lips to his. And let the kiss go on forever.

Then he’s gone, one more time devoured by the throng. I sigh, swept up in an emptiness always riding roughshod over my life — the aftereffect of one failed relationship after another. I snatch a wineglass of the tray of the passing server and take three big gulps. Drinking takes the edge off, yet I know I should stay sober. Sober, I won’t make a fool of myself. Sober is safer. I rise up on the tips of my toes and look for Ethan’s buzzed head. I see him near the bar and edge my way towards him.

I take two, maybe three steps when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around, and my gaze latches onto those dreamy eyes. I’m seventeen years old again and trembling like I did while waiting for Grayson to respond to my invitation. The silence tortured me then. It tortures me now. I try to speak, but I can’t.

Sean smiles. “I hope you’re not rushing off.”

“No … I…” I swallow hard. Why can’t I say anything?

“Things should die down in a bit,” Sean says. “If you don’t have any plans, maybe we could go for a drink?”

I just stare, blinking magnificently.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Sean chuckles. “I’ll find you.”

He’s gone again.

I do not — cannot — move as my heart swells. My face starts to hurt because I’m smiling so hard, already imagining our first kiss and the life we’ll build together. Suddenly, it hits me: this is my ‘prom’ night, and I’m there with the most popular guy in the room. Okay, it’s not exactly a prom, but it is a moment that could dramatically change my life.

The big question is … am I ready?

Oh, hell, yes.

Jeff stood there, his eyes sweeping the room and trying not to smirk. That the room — small and dimly lit with sleep-inducing music playing in the background — was empty seemed almost fitting. And sad.

“I love his smile —”

“What?” Jeff turned to his right and there was his sister, Daniella, leaning over the casket.

“I love his smile,” Daniella repeated.

“I wouldn’t exactly say that he’s smiling.”

Daniella reached out her delicate hands and adjusted the white handkerchief in the suit jacket pocket. “There,” she said, patting it twice. “I can hear him laughing…”

“Laughing?” Jeff rolled his eyes. “Joke’s on him. He’s dead, you know. And laughing? You obviously have a different memory of our father than I do. Laughing…” He threw Daniella a knowing look. “God, you crack me up.”

Jeff took a quick glimpse of his father, who lay there still and quiet and … dead. No, Henry Gooding wasn’t smiling. And Jeff couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard his father laugh. Maybe never. Henry Gooding wasn’t a well-liked man, nor a happy one. Maybe the divorce, when Jeff was ten, had broken his father. Maybe it was losing his job after thirty-three years of service. Maybe it was the accident that claimed his eldest son and left him living. Maybe it was all those things. Something had made Henry miserable, which led to the kids in the neighbourhood calling him Mr. Grumps — a moniker carried from one generation to the next. Jeff could still hear his father’s raspy voice yelling at the children walking home from school to “Get off my lawn!” Or when the neighbours said, “Good Morning,” and his father thundered back, “Not when you’re still taking up space.” No wonder no one showed up to send him off.

“And he’s not dead,” Daniella said, choking back her tears. “He’s crossed over into the next world.”

“That pine box is costing us ten grand for the journey,” Jeff shot back. “I don’t know why he didn’t want to be cremated.” He yanked on his tie. “Can I take this thing off yet?”

“You never did like to dress up,” the sultry voice said.

Jeff and Daniella turned away from the casket and stared down the attractive, middle-aged woman coming towards them. Dressed in a rather plain black dress and wide-brim hat, she extended her arms. Daniella stepped forward and accepted the flimsy embrace.

“We were hoping you wouldn’t make it, Andrea,” Jeff said as he slipped his hands into his pockets, a quirky smile on his face. “In between suitors?”

Daniella shot her brother a harsh look. “Jeff, you promised me…” She looked at the woman. “And so did you, mother.”

Andrea raised an eyebrow. “Me? Well, I didn’t say a word.” She eyeballed Jeff. “Have you gained weight?” She pushed past Jeff and stood in front of the coffin. “Oh, Henry, you rascal. Always smiling, even in death, like you’re having the last laugh.”

Jeff stomped his foot. “He’s not smiling!”

While Daniella and Andrea stood with their arms wrapped around each other in front of the casket, Jeff slinked off. He loosened his tie and plunked himself down in one of the floral covered armchairs pushed up against the far wall. Just then another woman entered the room and marched straight towards Daniella and Andrea. Jeff sat up straight and cringed. Dealing with his mother was bad enough. He wasn’t in the mood for his father’s equally disagreeable sister, Anne.

“Oh, the Lord does have a sense of humour,” Anne said askance. “I swear that’s a smile on Henry’s face.” She looked at Daniella. “Did he suffer?”

“Uh, no, I don’t think so,” Daniella said.

“Pity,” Anne said, then grabbed the handkerchief out of Henry’s pocket and dabbed it at her dry eyes.

“Christ…” Jeff drawled, and ran his hand over his face. In that moment, he could have used a stiff drink.

A stout bald man entered the room and cautiously approached Jeff. “Should we start the service, Mr. Gooding?”

“Don’t suppose we can just throw him in the furnace?” Jeff stifled his laugh when he caught the man’s wide-eyed look. “I guess not.” He stood and announced to the room, “Show Time.”

“I don’t…” David collapsed onto the deep oversized sofa. “I don’t understand. That’s not what I mean. I just thought —”

“We’d give it more time?” Peter cut in, slipping his hands into his pockets. “We’ve given it three months. Nothing’s really changed.”

“You haven’t changed is what you mean.” David levelled his gaze at Peter, instantly remembering how those gorgeous eyes, like perfect emeralds, had hooked him. Back then, he could stare for hours at Peter’s muscular bubble ass and his kissable lips. It was sick how into Peter he was, and how his look said, “Let me devour you.” Now he felt nothing, and maybe that was a sign. “I can’t believe —”

“I don’t want to do this, David,” Peter said with an edge. “We said we’d try. We tried. Now —”

“Now we pretend like the last seven years didn’t happen,” David interrupted. He hid his face briefly in his hands. “I’d understand it if there was someone else, but all you’ve said is that you’re ‘unhappy’ and I don’t know what that means. Did I do something? Did I not do something?”

“It means I’m not happy,” Peter said, almost shouting. He shrugged. “Look, I’ve … I’ve packed a few things.”

“You’re leaving now? Tonight?” David’s voice carried his disbelief.

“We shouldn’t put it off any longer.” Peter pulled his hands out of his pockets. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t!” David bounced off the sofa and stood in front of the fireplace. He could feel himself trembling. “Don’t say you’re sorry. Christ, don’t treat me like…” He censored himself and spun around, his eyes on fire. Nothing he said now would matter and he knew it. He’d already let too many questions go unanswered, too many things left unsaid. “If you’re leaving…”

“Right,” Peter drawled and slinked out of the living room.

David rubbed his eye, drew in a deep breath, then followed Peter into the foyer. When he saw the suitcases by the staircase, his body went rigid and he had to push down the acidic fluid edging up his throat. He’s really leaving. This isn’t just a bad dream.

Peter pulled on his jacket, then grabbed his keys off the occasional table and looked at David. “I’m crashing with my brother for now, until we figure out what to do next.”

David bristled. “Do next?”

“Do we sell the house —”

David’s eyes went wide, and he found himself involuntarily holding out his hand. “Your keys.”

“What?”

“I’ll keep the house.”

“I still have a few things I’ll have to come back for,” Peter said weakly.

“Make an appointment,” David spat. “When you walk out that door, this isn’t your home anymore. You don’t get to come and go as you please.” He saw the panic in Peter’s eyes and smirked. He knew Peter wanted some type of backup plan if things didn’t work out, but it wouldn’t be him. This was all on Peter, and David wasn’t going to be his doormat any longer. “Your keys.”

Peter fumbled to remove the two square-topped keys off his key ring, but eventually succeeded and handed them over. “David, look —”

“Peter … just … go.” David, pressing the keys tightly into the palm of his hand, crossed to the door and opened it.

Their eyes were locked, each of them searching for some semblance of truth, of who they used to be. But in that moment, they realized the two men who’d fallen in love no longer existed. Peter picked up his suitcases and dropped his head as he walked out of the house.

David closed the door with a bang and locked the deadbolt. He tossed the keys onto the occasional table and then made his way into the kitchen. He opened a bottle of Wolf Blass Merlot and poured himself a generous glassful. He retreated back to the living room, taking up his earlier position on the sofa.

He listened, and the stony silence set his heart racing. He couldn’t say how, or when, they’d fallen out of love, but it happened. And maybe none of that mattered now. Maybe love just ended.

Maybe … what he called love never existed at all.