Real Life(5)

“Because that’s a job. That isn’t— What we do is different,” Yngve said.

“You talk about it all the time because you don’t have anything else to be proud of,” Vincent returned. Wallace whistled. The voices from the other table rose in pitch and volume. Every so often, they gave a shout of either celebration or anger. They were all gathered around a phone now, Wallace could see, watching some kind of game. Now and then the bodies parted, and he saw the brightness of the screen for just an instant before it was lost to the cluster again.

“There’s more to life than programs and jobs,” Vincent was saying. Some noise from the lake, more playful shouts. Wallace looked out over the water, where the dark shapes of the rocks folded into the depths of the shadows over the water. There was music coming from some of the boats nearing the shore, but it all came together in a crackle like static at the start of a radio signal.

“I’m not sure that’s true, Vincent,” Wallace said. Yngve grunted in agreement. Wallace did not think, however, that he and Yngve were entirely in sync on this point. How could they be? Yngve’s father was a surgeon; his mother taught history at a liberal arts college. Yngve had lived his entire life in this world of programs and jobs. For Wallace, to say that there could be nothing more than this meant only that if he should lose it, he might not survive his life. Wallace wondered if he had been too sharp with Vincent, and he turned to him to apologize, but just that moment, Cole and Miller were returning. The pale interior of Miller’s thighs flashed. The skin seemed smooth and chaste compared to the rest of his body. His shorts were too short. The cords of his life vest jangled. Cole had a flat-footed, sweeping step and a smudged, puppylike enthusiasm. He and Miller carried white cartons of popcorn and something in a large plastic container: nachos drenched in oozy, rubbery cheese generously spotted with jalape?os. Miller let out an oof as he sat down. They had also purchased tacos, which Yngve snapped up, writhing in pleasure.

“Oh yes,” Yngve said. “Yes, yes, yes. This is it, boys.”

“I thought you weren’t hungry,” Miller said.

“I never said that.”

Cole handed Vincent a small dish of vanilla ice cream. They shared another kiss. Wallace looked away because it felt too private to watch them.

“Do you want some?” Cole asked him, offering nachos, offering popcorn, offering food to Wallace the same way Wallace had wanted to offer food to Miller.

Wallace shook his head slowly, turned from the warmth he felt. “No, thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” Miller said, but Wallace could feel the weight of his gaze, its heat. He knew when he was being looked at, being watched, as if by some predatory animal.

“Are we still on for tomorrow?” Cole asked, unfolding a white napkin on the table.

“Yes,” Wallace said.

The grease from the tacos soaked the napkin through until the wood was visible through its thin, translucent layers. Cole frowned, laid another napkin, and another. The aroma of food cut against the putrid sweetness of the lake. Dying plants.

“On for what?” asked Vincent.

“Tennis,” the two of them said in unison.

Vincent grunted. “Why do I bother asking?”

Cole kissed Vincent on the nose. Miller cracked open the container of nachos. Wallace squeezed his hands under the table so hard they popped.

“I might be a little late,” Cole said.

“It’s fine. I have a bit of work to do anyway.” Though it was not a bit of work. He felt sick just thinking of it. All that effort wasted. All the effort it would take to repair the damage, which very well could end up wasted too. Wallace had been doing well not to think of it, to set it aside for now. A wave of nausea pressed upon him. He shut his eyes. The world spun in slow, dark, slick circuits. Stupid boy, he thought. Stupid, stupid boy. To have hoped that things would turn out okay, that it would finally be his turn for things to come out all right. He hated himself for being so naive.

“That’s why I’ll be late,” Cole said, laughing. Wallace opened his eyes. There was a metallic taste in his mouth, not like copper or blood—something else, silvery.

“You’re working tomorrow?” Vincent asked. “We have plans, and you’re working?”

“Not for long.”

“Tomorrow is Saturday.”

“And today is Friday, and yesterday was Thursday. It’s a day. There’s work.”

“I don’t work on weekends.”

“Would you like a medal for that?” Cole asked, a wet streak of spite wicking across his voice.

“No, I don’t want a medal. But I’d like a weekend with my boyfriend, for once, in the summer no less. Forgive me!”

“We’re here now, aren’t we? Yes? I am here. You are here. We all are here. We’re here.”

“What great fucking skills of observation.”

“Can’t we just enjoy the last bit of summer?”

“Wow, sure—as it’s ending. Brilliant.”

“There’s a new year starting,” Yngve said tentatively. “You know what that means.”

“New year, new data,” Cole and Yngve said together, their eyes filling with refulgent, desperate optimism. Wallace laughed a little at that. For a moment, he forgot himself, buoyed on their warmth, by their belief in what was possible. New year, new data. He didn’t believe it for himself. It was just a thing people said sometimes. A way of getting by. He rapped his knuckles hard against the table.