All For Show: A Fake Boyfriend Gay Romance Page 4

  I turned away from the mirror. This was going to be a rough, rough few days.

  “I was born in this tiny little town in the mountains,” I said. We were sitting outside The Breakfast Nook, the little diner I often got my coffee at. Owen sat across from me, while Mr. Thurgood enjoyed a few bits of toast, looking quite dignified as he munched.

  “Should I be writing this down?” asked Owen. I could hardly look at him this morning, after that dream. The sun was streaming down on him, practically making him glow. His hair looked so soft, I found myself wanting to touch it. What a stupid idea! I didn’t like him, not like that!

  I cleared my throat. “I don’t know if you should write it down. Maybe? Will you remember it?”

  He tapped his fork against the edge of his plate. “I’m suddenly nervous, like the night before an exam. It’s not even my show. But I feel like I’m going to get quizzed on all this. Okay, born in the mountains. Then what happened?”

  I gave him a brief run-down of my biography. We’d moved when my dad got a job at the shipyard up the coast, but every few weeks, we’d make the run down here to Oceanside and spend the day, until it felt like a second home to me. I started to talk about how during high school, my friends and I would drive down every weekend, but noticed Owen fidgeting in his seat.

  “What?” I asked.

  “No, go on, it’s fascinating.”

  “You look like you’re going to crawl out of your skin.”

  “That’s just the way I look when I’m memorizing. Please, tell me more about your high school adventures going to the soda fountain and listening to the radio.”

  I glanced away. “It’s not that boring.”

  He groaned. “But it is, Nat, it really is! It’s so dull! I don’t mean your life specifically, but anybody’s. We all do the same things, we go to school, we’re alternately uncomfortable and giddy, and then some of us go to college and some get jobs and none of it really matters, it’s just a long, long string of things happening, and oh my god how can I remember any of it? There are so many details in anyone’s life that are useless! What kind of car did you take to the beach, what kind of shorts did you wear, how did you do your hair back then, I mean it’s an endless litany!”

  Bemused, I watched him put his head down on the table. I wasn’t sure what was worse, watching his reaction to memorizing my life, or the implication that my life had been dull. “Setting aside how judgmental that sounds, we have to be able to tell them things about each other.”

  “Can’t we just make stuff up?”

  “No! They’ll catch us in a lie! It would be so embarrassing.”

  “It’s not like they’re coming to unravel the secrets of your life. I’ve seen this show, it’s not an exposé. No big surprises. They just want us to look stressed out but hopeful, and then when the kitchen reveal happens, we should act shocked and relieved and happy, like we’re about to faint with joy.”

  I couldn’t shake the feeling that if we went in unprepared, bad things would happen. “We have to know something about our fake couple-hood,” I said. “What about how we met?”

  “Well, once upon a time, I was walking Mr. Thurgood, when I got a call from my ex-boyfriend saying you were in terrible trouble and needed help.”

  “Yeah, yeah, let’s not do that. What about, we met at a party--”

  “You’re not the sort of person who actually meets people at parties.”

  “What do you mean? I meet all sorts of people.”

  “I’ve seen you at parties,” said Owen. “You stand there looking like a dog at the animal shelter--no offense, Mr. Thurgood--with your big eyes hoping someone will notice you.”

  “Fine. We met at the bookstore.”

  “Pages by the Pier? I hate that place!”

  “How can you hate a bookstore?”

  “They always look at me like I’m going to steal something. Which I’m not. It’s all for tourists, and there’s never anything interesting to read, and they’re so snotty. I think they look down on me because I’m in journalism.”

  “You’re not exactly in journalism. You’re more journalism-adjacent.”

  “Now who’s being judgmental?”

  “But none of this gets us closer to how we met!”

  “Oh, I know!” Owen leaned over the table. “This one time, Mr. Thurgood got away from me when we were taking our Sunday walk. It was a holiday weekend, and the streets were just packed with sightseers. I was running down the sidewalk calling him, when I ran into this guy, this massive guy, he was like six and a half feet tall, shoulders twice as wide as mine. I remember he was wearing one of those lumberjack shirts, not like normal flannel, but that really uncomfortable stiff flannel in a boring pattern. He had a dark beard--”

  “Where is this story going? I’m supposed to replace your big lumberjack?”

  “No, no, that wasn’t the interesting part! The thing was, as I was standing there apologizing, I saw Mr. Thurgood out of the corner of my eye, running into the ice cream shop across the street! So I started to follow him, but there was this car coming, a little hybrid so it was really quiet. It was this mint green, not a really loud mint, not like something you’d associate with toothpaste, but really kind of subtle, almost a moss--”

  Why are you so bad at telling stories? I wanted to ask, but then he’d get all offended and we’d have to start over again with apologies. Instead, I said, “We have to keep it simple. Okay? Mr. Thurgood got off the leash, I found him, we met that way. Wouldn’t that work?”

  “But the real story is funny! See, at first I thought I was doomed, being hit by a car, but it was going really slowly, so--”

  I have to admit I glazed over at that point. He was very animated while telling the story, using his hands, his face lighting up, but I had no idea what he was going on about. There were at least three more chapters in the story, each time with him meeting another cute guy.

  While he was talking, my mind had wandered back to my dream. What a weird mix of anxiety and...lust? Was that an okay word for what I’d felt? It had been such a long time since I’d been on a date with anyone. Work had been busy, and the condo was depressing, and just everything in life seemed to conspire to keep me pretty lonely. And so here I was with a guy I’d actually been dreaming about, wondering if his actual body was similar to his dream body. But I was thinking about it too much, and realized with horror that I was getting hard. Thankfully I was sitting close to the table, so no one could see, but I tried to put those thoughts out of my head and focus on what he was saying.

  “--but by that time, the ambulance driver had admitted he was straight, and so I had to sit there watching my ice cream melt until the dog-walker brought Mr. Thurgood back to me! Then that afternoon we went to the pet store and got a much stronger nylon leash, so he never escaped again.”

  I shook my head. “Which of those guys am I supposed to be, for the purpose of telling this story?”

  “The ice cream guy, definitely. You’re all scrawny and wiry like him.”

  “Can we please keep it simpler? I helped get Mr. Thurgood, we met, end of story?”

  “I don’t see why you expect me to remember every detail of your childhood, when you can’t remember a simple story about a lost dog and how I discovered I was allergic to pistachio ice cream.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “Okay. Okay. So the camera crew is going to show up pretty early tomorrow.”

  “How early is early?”

  “Joan said to expect them at 5. There’s a lot of set up with lights and stuff.”

  “Wait, you’re expecting me to walk to your place while it’s still dark out?”

  “Do you want a cab? I could pay for that.”

  “I mean, I have to show up earlier than the crew, otherwise it’ll look weird. Obviously fake, you know?”

  I squinted at him. “What are you saying?”

  “I think we should stay with you tonight. Me and Mr. Thurgood.”

  “What? No! You can’t stay over!” It just c
ame rushing out, without me having a second to think about it. I literally put my hand up to my mouth to try to stop any more words coming out.

  Mr. Thurgood cocked his head to the side and stared up at me, and Owen had practically the same expression, although his eyebrow had also risen with curiosity.

  “That was a rather vehement response,” he said. He looked like he was trying to determine whether to be mortally offended or not.

  “I just...I mean...it’s an awful place,” I said, trying to recover. “It’s a one-bedroom.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I’m not asking to sleep with you, you nervous old thing. Totally fake relationship, remember? I’m happy on the couch. It’s bound to be more comfortable than my futon. You do have a couch, don’t you?”

  I thought of the dream, how he had slid down onto the couch next to me. “Um, no, no couch.” But of course he would be there, so lying was no use. “That is to say, yes, I have a couch, but my goodness is it uncomfortable.”

  “More uncomfortable than the expression on your face right now? Come on, Nat. Don’t make me get up in the middle of the night just to walk over to your place. We’ll just crash there tonight, and see how things go. Maybe the day after tomorrow they won’t be there so early.”

  The problem was, what he’d said was perfectly logical. Made sense. Surely I wouldn’t just sit there thinking about him stripping me in the kitchen the whole time, right? Surely the dream would have faded by then? “That’s fine,” I said.

  “Great! It’ll be like a slumber party! We can have pizza and ice cream and scary movies!”

  I smiled as best I could. It was going to be a long, long night.

  7

  Owen: Action!

  I wasn’t in a big rush to get to Nat’s. First off, he had no water, and was having to shower at the gym, which was a little too depressing for me. Second, why was he so weird? The whole breakfast, he had been tense and awkward. He was always tense and awkward, but it was even worse today. Was he really regretting this decision? I’d come around to thinking it’d be an interesting break in my routine, but if he was just going to look pained the whole time, maybe it wouldn’t be much fun at all.

  Today was Sunday, and Mr. Thurgood and I usually didn’t have firm plans on Sundays. We’d take a long, meandering walk, sometimes as far as the city limits, but nothing else set in stone. So after we got back home, we lolled around for a while, then I got my shoes on and whistled for him.

  We’d barely made it out of the apartment before Harris called. I sent the call to voicemail. What was with him, checking on me like this? Surely he didn’t expect an update every time I breathed.

  After all, I was fine, wasn’t I? I was getting out of the house, I was meeting new people, I was doing all the normal things. As welcome as his concern had been originally, when I’d been pretty sad and just lying around the house a lot, things had changed, and now I was finding it intrusive and weird.

  Weirder still, he called again a little later, when we’d made it almost to the pier. No, I was wrong. When I looked at my phone, it was actually Sergio.

  “I’d say this was unexpected, but actually not,” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I’m probably interrupting your day.”

  “I thought it was your boyfriend the neurosurgeon.”

  “Well,” he said hesitantly, “that’s actually the reason I’m calling.”

  I paused, and Mr. Thurgood looked up at me. “Is something wrong? Is Harris okay?”

  “No, no, yeah, he’s fine. Physically, I mean. But...has he been calling you a lot?”

  “Define a lot. He was very interested in this favor I’m doing for Nat.”

  “Yeah, Rhody told me you’d decided to go ahead with it. I’m glad. Nat’s a nice guy.”

  “If by nice you mean a nervous wreck.”

  Sergio laughed. “Yeah, he is that. Rhody swears that when he’s calmed down, though, he’s got a good heart. So, about Harris. Is he calling you every day?”

  “What a weird question.”

  “I know. Totally weird. And it must sound kind of sinister.”

  “A little bit, yeah.”

  I heard him sigh. He said, “Look, you’re not after Harris, are you? I mean, you’re not trying to get back together?”

  “Good lord, no. Why would I do that?”

  “Are you sure? You two just talk so much.”

  “Jeez, Sergio, that’s not because we’re having an affair behind your back. It’s because he’s convinced I’m going to kill myself or something if he doesn’t constantly keep tabs on me. You know what he thinks about me.”

  A long pause. “I just wasn’t sure how to take that. I mean, you’ve never seemed that depressed to me.”

  “So you thought he was making it up, so he could get into my pants without you knowing?”

  “God, you make it sound so sordid! I was just worried! He’s so distant with me lately, Owen. He has been so busy at the hospital, and he comes home exhausted, and we hardly ever talk, but every time I turn around, it’s Oh I’m worried about Owen again, or I think we should really have Owen over for dinner.”

  “You have nothing to worry about,” I said. “Seriously! I don’t even understand how you could worry. You’re the perfect couple! Everyone is horribly jealous, you’re both so beautiful, and have so much money, and your sculpture is taking off...agh, it makes me nauseated just thinking about all your happiness and success. I kind of wish a piano would fall on the both of you.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “Yes, a great big Steinway.”

  “No, I mean about there not being anything between you two.”

  “Oh, that. Cross my heart, you gorgeous, talented, yet oddly insecure weirdo. You can tell Harris that I’m very excited to be doing this thing with Nat. In fact, I’m staying over with him tonight to eat junk food and make big plans.”

  “Wait, are you dating him?”

  “No! Well, I mean, sort of, but not really. Don’t worry about it, it’s complicated. I’m just pretending to be his boyfriend for a while.”

  “That is the oddest thing I have ever heard.”

  “That’s not even the oddest thing I’ve said this morning. Anyway, it’s Sunday, and I’m sure there are no surgeries today, so go enjoy your boyfriend.”

  “Thanks for bringing me back to earth, Owen. I appreciate it.”

  I slid the phone back in my pocket and looked down at Mr. Thurgood, who began thumping his stubby tail in impatience. “Okay, okay,” I said. “Let’s go. No more calls from crazy people. I’m starting to think we’re going to have to move to some nice quiet Midwestern town where we don’t know anybody and there’s never any drama.”

  “Wow, your place...has character,” I said to Nat after he let me in. Mr. Thurgood went straight to the couch, sniffing and finding a spot to curl up, while I looked around. It was one of the most depressing places I’d ever been to. He only had a couple of fairly dim lamps that offered hardly any light to his living room. And over to the right, there was the darkest, most depressing kitchen I had ever seen.

  “I am so sorry you have to be here,” said Nat. “I mean, my welcome mat should just have the word Sorry on it.”

  “Is this where I say we could really brighten the place up by opening a curtain, only to pull the drapes and find there is no window there at all?”

  “It’s not that bad,” Nat said. He gestured at the living room window. “It’s not much of a view, but it’s pretty in the afternoons. But then that building across the street covers up all the other light.”

  “But that kitchen. It draws the eye. You think you’re looking at something else, and then suddenly realize you’re studying the scorch marks on the wall by the stove.”

  “It’s a gravity-well of badness. You can see why I needed help.”

  He said it in such a matter-of-fact tone, without a trace of self-pity. I’d known plenty of people to gripe about their places. Oceanside came into being during a shippi
ng boom in the 1950s, with most of the town being built all at once, and a lot of our buildings were not exactly modernized. Still, there was something in his voice that touched me, different than when you heard the usual complaints about apartments having small closets or creaky floors.

  It was strange being here in his place. It was like the midpoint of a successful date, when you’ve decided to adjourn to a guy’s house, for more wine and conversation and, if the mood was right, a little more than talk. Except that we hadn’t been on a date at all, and we both felt awkward and unsure of what to do with ourselves. Nat looked so bashful, even on his own territory, that I wanted to tuck him under a big blanket.

  If I can compress about fifteen minutes of awkward hemming and hawing into one sentence: We sat on the couch and ordered pizza and started a movie. But Nat said something that surprised me.

  We were watching this movie about a guy who is in danger of getting kidnapped, and the only one who can protect him is the big burly bodyguard. Nat was shifting uncomfortably in his seat while watching, to the point that he was disturbing Mr. Thurgood’s viewing. But before I could ask him if something was wrong, he said, “Do you ever get tired of stories like this?”

  “Like what?” I asked. I was generally up for a good bodyguard movie, especially when the guard was really grumpy and sour.

  He leaned against the arm of the sofa and stared at the screen. “You know, where two guys are thrown into a situation and basically fall in love within the first ten minutes of meeting, then something happens and they spend the rest of the time not admitting how they feel until the end.”

  “You have a harsh and uncompromising view of love. Haven’t you ever felt that spark right away with someone?”

  He scowled. “I don’t mean attraction. Sure, sometimes you’ll just meet somebody and hit it off and decide to hook up. I mean, I know that happens with some people. But that’s not what’s going on there. Look at the movie. The big bodyguard is already giving Little Victim Guy sensitive looks. If your walls crumble in the first ten minutes, they’re not very strong walls, are they?”