Robin and Ruby (36 page)

“Oh.”

“If it was, you wouldn’t be mad that I left your bed.”

“I guess you’re right,” George says. “That’s what makes it so baffling.”

Robin realizes that he’s starting to get worked up, that this is moving in a direction that scares him. He just wants everything to be all right. More than all right. He wants this to move forward, not to stop. He feels his heart thumping against his skin where he’s pressed up against the bed. He feels like he might implode for all the churning in his blood.

Perhaps George picks up on this, because at last he moves closer, and rests his body against Robin’s. Robin feels himself begin to calm immediately.

“If we keep having sex,” George says, “we can’t let it ruin our friendship.”

“Definitely not.”

“Because what I want, is for sex to make our friendship better.”

“Me too,” Robin says. He thinks: Better, yes. But it won’t be the same. And we won’t know what that means until we get there.

Later that night, the room dark except for last slanting ray of moonlight, Robin lies on his side, his arms wrapped around a sleeping George, replaying their words, realizing he’s just had sex, for the first time ever, in this bed, in this house. With George Lincoln. His friend, roommate, coworker, lover. Tomorrow they rise early and head back to Philadelphia, so Robin can get to work, can save his job. Can stay with George, for a while. The summer only lasts two more months, which seems like nothing and like forever, because they’re on the verge of everything new. It’s impossible to predict what might change during this next short window of time, impossible
not
to imagine that everything could turn over, all over again. Right now there is just this: George sleeping trustfully against him. There is the security of that.

For the first time in a long time, Robin falls asleep thinking, You’re going to be OK.

The last thing he hears is the sound of the television clicking off downstairs. He hears his sister’s heavy footsteps climbing the stairs. He listens as she pauses at the entrance to her bedroom, and right before the door clicks shut behind her, he hears that she is crying.

A writer needs time and space to create. For the gift of peace and quiet, and a table where I could set down my laptop and get to work, I thank these gracious hosts: Christine Murray and John Rossell; Vince Constabileo and Peter Howells; Lawrence Mendenhall and Rich Horan; Paul Festa and James Harker; and Maria Maggenti. And for allowing me to spend hours nursing coffee while I wrote, I send my appreciation to a long list of baristas in San Francisco, in particular Sal Flores at Jumpin’ Java and Kevin Cheeseman at Maxfield’s.

Various parts of this novel required research to come alive. For help with this, I thank Pat Kuchon, who gave me an insider’s tour of Seaside Heights; Ricky Paul, for sharing stories of Philadelphia; as well as Joe Elwin, Monique Jenkinson, and Blake Woodhull, whose memories illuminated my characters and settings.

David Booth, Catherine Brady, Elizabeth Costello, and John Vlahides encouraged me through a difficult period of doubt, for which I can’t say “thank you” forcefully enough; their attentiveness to my earliest drafts made all the difference. My gratitude also to these friends and colleagues who read this book in manuscript form and responded quickly, with generosity and intelligence: Kevin Clarke, Rose Haynes, Dave Hickey, PJ Jones, Christine Murray, Will Rountree, and Sonia Stamm. A special thanks to Liam Passmore, for knowing just when and how to
ping
. I’m happy also to acknowledge my father, Karl, and my sisters, Karen and Kim, for a lifetime of enthusiasm.

My collaborative relationships with Jandy Nelson at Manus & Associates Literary Agency and John Scognamiglio at Kensington Books have been the foundation of my writing life for a decade. I offer my enduring gratitude, respect, and admiration.

Finally, to Kevin: I don’t know what I did to deserve you. You lived this along with me. All acknowledgment leads back to you.