“You know, if you don't have any plans, a bunch of Fast Trackers are having brunch at a member's apartment. He lives somewhere right off Prospect Park. The address is in my backpack.”
It was a bold and impulsive move, and Liam immediately questioned whether he was going to get in trouble for it. The members had thrown the gauntlet down with the Urban Bobcats and now here Liam was inviting the nemesis to brunch. And judging from the scales that seemed to balance in Didier's eyes, there was the equal possibility that this straight runner bemoaned the fact that his cordial exchange of pleasantries had been reciprocated with a come-on.
“You're sure it isn't a members-only kind of a thing?” Didier asked, surprising Liam with his shyness.
“We're friendly people, Didier, and there's always a sense of community when you're around fellow runners.”
“I
am
starving. Let me get my bag and meet you back here in a minute.”
Liam stared at the thin straps of Didier's singlet, which jostled up and down with his stride as he jogged toward the baggage van. From the other direction, someone shouted his name. Liam spun around to see Zane suited up in his post-race outfit with his backpack on, ready to leave the park.
“I'm Popsicle city over here.” Zane's lips had chapped and salt stained his face in zigzags. “I feel like I was waiting for you forever.”
“Thanks, that makes me feel just wonderful.”
“You know what I mean. It's just cold. What was your time, anyway? Did you break 1:23?”
“I broke 1:22. I had a huge PR today. I think it was a 1:21:15. And you?”
“I managed a six-minute pace. A 1:18 something or other. You know I hate these long-distance races. I only did it because of that dreadful challenge that Gary got us into.”
“So what was the team order? Was I second to you? Did Marvin end up running?”
Liam had been so caught up in getting to the start of the race because of all the drama and then in staying neck-and-neck with Didier that he had forgotten about his goal of beating Marvin.
“He beat us both, my friend. He looked fully recovered by the time I dragged my sorry ass across the finish. He thought his time was 1:16 flat. He already scooted out of here to meet up with the new BF. Talk about a short chain.”
“I totally pushed myself and he beat me by five minutesâthat's a fucking coffee break!”
“Look, this is his specialty. You are built for speed. Pick a 5K or a 4-miler to beat him. It's never going to happen on a 13.1 mile course. I am in your corner; we just have to be smart about what's real and what's not. Hurry up and get your bag, I want to jog over to Craig's.”
“Okay, but we have to wait for someone before we leave.”
“Someone? All the Fast Trackers know where to go. No one needs an escort.”
“This isn't a Fast Tracker.”
“Don't tell me. Did you really invite that closet case from the Armory? You do realize how seriously Gary & Company are taking this competition bullshit with the Bobcats?”
Liam got his bag and hoped that Zane underestimated the warmth of the club. Would Gary even be there, he wondered, after the huge scene he had caused with Mitch? By the time Liam returned, Didier had joined Zane and the two were making small talk about their respective races.
It took less than five minutes to jog to Craig's apartment. Standing tall right on the edge of Prospect Park, the pre-war building had a regal façade of clean red brick and oversized windows. Craig's living room faced the park, directly at the tree-line level. With all the fauna still leafless, the view had a certain enchantment. It made Liam feel as if he could hop right out the window and swing from tree to tree through the park.
Because they had rushed out of the park after the race, Liam, Zane, and Didier arrived at the brunch a full twenty minutes before anyone else. Craig must have been up for days preparing his apartment for this feastâevery brunch food imaginable had been placed strategically throughout the kitchen, dining room, and living room. Craig kept a meticulous home and his placement of each food matched its likeliness to spill or stain. His trays of pancakes and waffles, browned perfectly and accompanied by little pots of blackberry, raspberry, and grape jams, had been safely lined up in the tiled kitchen. Foods that did not beg for gooey toppings but could still stain if dropped on the floor, such as the trays of scrambled eggs and the mushroom, spinach, and artichoke quiches, sat on the dining room table. The dry bagels, bowls of almonds and cashews, and piles of cereal and energy barsâa race had just been run, after allâwere artfully displayed on the end tables and ottomans, far enough from the sofas and settees, in the expansive living room.
Didier ate a banana and a piece of quiche while standing uncomfortably in the kitchen, explaining to Liam that he had to go meet weekend guests arriving later in the afternoon. Zane scurried around Craig's apartment helping him tend to the final touchesâplacing sprigs of fresh flowers in little bud vases and napkins with inspirational quotes etched in gold script along the edges. Liam's noted that “a journey of ten thousand miles begins with one single step.”
As Liam apologized for the low turnout and explained that people must have lingered at the finish, the door to the apartment opened and a huge groupâeasily two dozen peopleâentered. Mitch and Ben were among them and immediately stormed over to Liam in uncharacteristically urgent form. Mitch's face was flush and his hands gesticulated wildly.
“Can you believe that queen?” Mitch yelled the words at Liam more as an assertion of fact than as a question. “After all we're doing for the club, he shits on us like that.”
“Mitch and Ben, this is Didier. I don't know if you know him from the Urban Bobcats. He trains a lot at the Armory.”
“Oh, I thought you looked familiar. Hope you don't mind hearing me bitch about the president of our club. He's been having Royal Diva Syndrome recently and every single one of his subjects has been in the line of fire.”
“I don't know, Mitch, maybe he was just having a bad morning.” Liam needed to defend Gary, not so that the president of the club would look normal in front of the competition but because he felt that Gary was being victimized for his kindness. While he had no iron-clad evidence, Liam sensed that Gary would give anything to be at the center of the clubâand that there were plenty of people willing to take whatever goodwill he dispensed.
“Please, he gets off on the drama. If it isn't there, then he creates it.” Ben stepped forward, speaking with command. “Who would think someone could have a hissy fit over dropping off race numbers? Would anyone on the Bobcats do that, Didier?”
“Dealing with big personalities is probably something you don't have to worry over, Didier,” Liam interjected. “At Fast Trackers, it isn't all about the running unfortunately. But we can move this conversation along so that it returns to the running, right, Ben?”
Liam searched Ben's eyes to see where he was going with this line of questions.
“No need to protect me, Liam.” Didier laughed, and Liam realized that it was the first time he had seen his gaunt face with anything other than a deadpan expression. Didier's smile dimpled his sunken cheeks and threw a mischievous sparkle into his chocolate eyes. “I've been around the block a time or two myself.”
“So where do you get all those fast runners?” Ben asked.
“I don't know, really. We don't do any outreach or marketing, if that's what you're suggesting. I guess it's our reputation.”
“But I'm curious,” Ben continued. “Why did you join there, for instance? Is it because there is superior training?”
“I knew someone from the gym and when he heard that I was competing in the marathon, he told me I should run the race under his team's name. It was word of mouth. People like being around people who are like they areâfast people want to be part of the fast team. Surely you can understand that? All your runners want to be part of Fast Trackers because they're gay, right?”
“So how do the fast gay runners choose, then?” Ben asked beguilingly. “What would you do if you were both fast
and
gay, Didier?”
Liam realized that when Shakespeare coined the saying “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” that the famous bard must not have had the pleasure of witnessing a jilted gay man in action.
Didier swallowed the last forkful of quiche on his plate and used his napkin to wipe the crumbs from his face, which had started to redden slightly.
“That would be a quandary, I guess. I would love to entertain more of these questions, but as I just explained to Liam, I need to straighten up my apartment for some house guests who are traveling in this afternoon. I'll see you boys at the track. Thank the host for me. And Liam, would you take this plate for me.
Every
thing was delicious.”
Didier disappeared within seconds. Liam took the plate to the garbage can in the kitchen. As he used the napkin to dust off the crumbs, he saw ink scribbled under the gold quotation (“To thine own self be true”) on the edge of the paper. It said, “Call me if you'd like to run sometime. It's good to have someone chasing you,” with Didier's phone number jotted down below.
MILE 14
D
own the hall someone hollered something about the number of pepperoni pizzas that should be ordered. It was Loretta, the summer temp on break from Swarthmore, making her Thursday night rounds and demanding everyone report the status of their articles for the magazine's close. It was seven o'clock and copy had to be fact-checked and ready for the senior editors by 7:30 or else heads would roll. In just a few short weeks at the magazine, Loretta had canoodled her way into the front pocket of the executive editor and several features editors. Just this afternoon a rumor circulated through the
Entertainment Weekly
cafeteria that she had convinced an editor to run her article on celebrity pet collagen and Botox treatments.
“So what's the status, Walker?”
Loretta tapped her pencil officiously against Liam's desk as she waited for his response. Normally, Loretta would engage in “Little Ivy” banter about whether Amherst or Swarthmore would be at the top of the
U.S. News & World Report
ranking of liberal arts colleges, but today she was all business. Liam ignored her icy power plays by reminding himself that she had been drinking cheap beer in the quad less than six weeks ago.
“The Ryan Adams piece is finished and I'm tidying up Sinéad right now,” he answered without looking up from his computer monitor.
“
Tout de suite
it along, buddy. You know who gets lulu when she's waiting to read copy.”
“I just sent Ryan Adams to print right now.”
“Did you give the new CD an
A?
I found it completely
brill
.” Four or five r's rolled off her tongue as she enunciated her verdict.
“You'll have to read the review. I can't chat now, remember? I need to fact-check this Sinéad piece.”
Why the senior staff agreed to do a retrospective on Sinéad O'Connor's life and music baffled Liam. He thought the artist herself would find it maudlin, and even a tad insulting, when she had decades more to record. The number of remote Irish towns and abstruse Gaelic names in the article had irked Liam. He had triple-sourced everything and was finally ready to print out his annotated copy and do one last read-through when the phone rang. He let it go straight to voice mail. The phone rang again, and he answered it with a curt, “Yes?”
“Don't ignore me! I need to know our exact coordinates.”
“Look, I'll meet you outside the Williams-Sonoma in twenty minutes. Things are tight here. See you then.” Liam hung up before Monroe had the opportunity to prolong the conversation.
Liam smiled as he made his way through the 900 words of copyâan encyclopedic length for an
EW
articleâknowing that he had caught a huge number of spelling and factual errors (town populations, the names of cavernous Irish pubs). He always received the toughest assignments because he had a killer instinct for accuracy. And with this Thursday night magazine close out of the way, Liam could now allow his
evening
to begin.
He decided against taking a cab and jogged up the West Fifties to the Time Warner Center. The evening had the smack of perfection that only comes for about forty-eight hours in mid-Mayâthe promise of summer without any of its ill humor and humidity. Possibility without disappointment. As Liam approached Columbus Circle, the dark plum sky reflected in the tall glass towers at the base of Central Park. Cars were just beginning to switch on their headlights as evening descended on Manhattan.
Monroe stood outside smoking a cigarette and doing 360-degree turns in the store front windows, assessing himself from each new perspective. The purple Izod polo he wore tugged slightly at his stout midsection, but his complementary houndstooth sports jacket and butter-colored summer trousers slimmed him somewhat. Liam fought off the smile that tickled the corners of his mouth, knowing Monroe would feel judged and infantilized by any positive comment on the outfit.
“Spare some nicotine for a friend?”
“I'll let you know when I see one.” Monroe put out his own cigarette and lit one for Liam. “Don't tell me you raced over here only to become bedraggled, and you still ended up ten minutes late.”
Liam had felt the trickle of perspiration for the past few blocks but didn't think it would be noticeable. Was Monroe testing him? Hoping to stoke his vanity to see what Liam might do? Moving closer to the glass front of the building, Liam could see damp, dark rings under the armpits of his new aubergine Marc Jacobs sweater. The high-priced tickets had set him back a week's pay, and now he would enter looking like a sweaty boor. Liam had looked flawless earlier in the dayâand he knew it. All afternoon random people had been glancing at him for that half a second longer than is socially appropriate, as if trying to recall his name or remember how they knew him.
The invitation called for “festive” attire, and Liam felt it was the perfect occasion to don the decadent outfit that Gary had purchased for him at Bergdorf Goodman. The sweater worked perfectly against his ink-blue jeans. Liam had even gotten a fresh haircut to showcase the angularity of his cheekbones. Everything had to be perfect, so he would simply wait outside for his sweater to dry off.
“Don't worry, kiddo. They always look at you. Tonight they'll just be looking at you and wondering if you put on antiperspirant.”
“Very funny. You know how much this fund-raiser means to me. We're going to wait until I'm presentable.”
“We're already fifteen minutes into the cocktail hour and Mama needs to have herself some Grey Goose on the rocks.”
“The third person? Monroe, we've talked about this.”
“Don't ruin your evening, beautiful.” Monroe's tone had naturally switched from sarcastic to soothing. “You spent 400 bucks on the tickets, so let's enjoy ourselves. No one inside is going to look as good as you. No one ever does.”
While Liam knew that the statement was the type of thing that one friend says to another out of a requisite sense of politeness, he found himself oddly empowered by the idea. He straightened his posture, clamped his arms tight against his sides to cover up the sweat stains, and turned again toward his statuesque reflection. Maybe Monroe was onto something. Why not go in now and get their money's worth?
As soon as they walked through the doors of Café Gray, Monroe grabbed two flutes of champagne from a waiter circulating through the foyer area. Liam hesitated as he brushed the lip of the glass against his mouth and felt the bubbles pop and tingle.
“C'mon,” Monroe insisted. “This is the perfect chaser to a cigarette buzz.”
“If the desired result is a date with the toilet,” Liam said, placing the glass on a side table that housed a cobalt vase filled with white orchids. “Now, let's go into the main room and mingle.”
Liam's hands trembled, and he knew a drink would settle his nerves. The bar was quite small and had been set up in the back corner of the room, making Liam feel desultory for tracking down a cocktail. The windows by the bar looked east over Columbus Circle, and in the short time since they had lingered outside every trace of the day had vanished from Manhattan. Something forbidden hung in the dark curtain of trees outlining the borders of Central Park. Light zoomed out in every direction from the busy streets below, but it was as though someone had taken a blanket and tucked in the green expanse of Central Park for a good evening's rest. Liam felt safe and warm inside this beautiful, overpriced restaurant. He ordered a second Ketel One and tonic.
“Why I never thought you'd actually show!” Liam felt the hot breath of the words in his ear and turned around to face Didier.
“Well, it's for a good cause.” The words had come out without any thought. A reflex.
“Some might say you're supporting the wrong troops, but I can tell you that the Bobcats all appreciate your contribution.”
“Helping out coaches is something that transcends team lines. I am glad that your staff may get better salaries as a result of this evening.” Liam had come for one reason only and that reason was standing before him right now as he made a complete jackass of himself with clichéd drivel.
“I'll say, I think we took in over $40,000 tonight.” Didier's eyes lit up as he spoke.
“That
is
a hunk of change. I think I missed my calling as a coach.” Monroe elbowed slightly in front of Liam as he spoke, finally extending his right hand in a miniature curtsey. “You'll have to excuse my friend Liam here. He's frightfully rude at times. I'm Monroe.”
“Lovely to have you, Monroe. I am Didier Vallois. God, every time I say my full name it feels like I am choking on too many accents.” Didier played with the platinum wedding band on his left hand. Liam had never noticed it before. “You'd think I was from the Ile Saint-Louis not Hoboken.”
Hoboken? Liam could imagine a man being both sexy and a resident of Hobokenâperhaps if he had the grit of a mechanic or the rough, unschooled accent of some south New Jersey townâbut Didier had the high sweeping features found in the countries of Northern Europe. There had to be some mistake, something to keep Liam's fantasies alive.
“I've heard tomes about you, Didier. I feel like we ate paste together in the corner of Mrs. Daltry's first-grade class.”
Even when he was at his most vulnerable and agitated, Monroe seldom employed such guerilla tactics on Liam. There was only the slightest chance that Didier would connect with Monroe's humor. And even if he was entertained, Didier would surely feel creeped out to know he had been picked apart by Liam. Or perhaps that would feed his ego.
“Well, I hope I live up to all the talk.” Didier smiled at Monroe and then turned his head to look Liam squarely in the eyes during the pregnant pause that ensued. “I aim to please.”
“I'm going to head up to the bar, Liam. I'll get you another Ketel One and tonic. And you, Didier?” Didier lifted his half-full glass of red wine, and Monroe nodded. Midway to the bar, Monroe turned around and shouted: “Don't talk about anything interesting while I'm gone!”
Just then Liam felt the buzz of his BlackBerry through the back pocket of his jeans. He scrolled through the incoming message quickly while smiling apologetically at Didier. It was not good. The words were very few and fragmented, but it was clear that he had screwed up.
“You'll have to excuse me, Didier. My work needs me back there right away.”
“It's eight forty-five ... At this point, anything can wait 'til morning.”
“You'd think, but the magazine I work for closes on Thursday nights so there is no wiggle room. Final copy is needed by midnight, and one of the articles I submitted apparently needs some quick fixes. I seriously don't even have the time to be talking to you right now ... Tell Monroe what happened and tell him not to kill me for leaving.”
Liam raced out of the restaurant and, as he bolted down the escalator, he heard Didier short of breath behind him.
“I'm not playing games,” said Liam. “I might be fired. I need to hop in a cab right now.”
“Let me hop in with you.”
Liam stopped and looked at Didier. They stood about one foot apart from each other on the atrium of the Time Warner Center. Most of the stores had already closed, and Liam felt as though he could grab Didier and kiss him and no one would notice. If Liam embraced him, the kiss would be deep and violent. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and he needed the release.
“I said this isn't a game. It's work and it's going to be intense.”
“I'll wait for you at the Starbucks downstairs.”
“You don't even know where I work.” Liam could feel himself blush.
“You're telling me there
isn't
a Starbucks downstairs?”
Liam's nerves slackened as he smiled tentatively and walked outside to hail a cab. He heard Didier's footstep following close behind. The image of Didier twisting his platinum ring nervously flashed into Liam's mind as he spotted a taxi with its light on. A brisk rain had picked up out of nowhere, and Didier's body pressed up against Liam. They ducked quickly inside the taxi. As the driver sped downtown, Liam watched the speckled blur of the city through the dirty windshield wipers. Didier clasped Liam's wet hand inside his own and closed his eyes.