When the Stars Come Out (12 page)

Authors: Rob Byrnes

“So you understand.”

“I didn’t say
that
. . .” Bart smiled. “Okay, yes, I understand.”

With that, he retreated to the back of the bar, alone again with his Corona, and Noah walked out to the hazy porch to retrieve Tricia.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“We’re more similar than I would have believed.”

“That’s good!”

“Uh . . . no. One big similarity is that we’re both just passing through town. He leaves the day after tomorrow, and so it
really
doesn’t make sense to get together.”

“Did you ask where his home is? Maybe he’s from DC, too!”

Noah shook his head. “Let’s drop it, all right?”

R o b B y r n e s

It had been twenty minutes since his encounter with Noah the

writer, and Bart Gustafson had spent seventeen of them regretting

that, as impractical as the dinner date he had proposed would have been, Noah wouldn’t take a chance. It had to be more than coincidence that their paths kept crossing. And it wasn’t as if Bart was proposing marriage . . . although, he acknowledged to himself that he probably wouldn’t object if the dinner date spilled over into a sleepover. That, at least, would rescue his vacation.

But maybe Noah was right. Bart, too, had his responsibilities,

and responsibility dictated that he return to Southampton no later than Sunday. Maybe a date between two men who very likely would

never see each other again wasn’t a great idea.

Then again, was it that bad of an idea? If nothing else, maybe

he’d even discover that Noah was really a writer. Whatever . . .

Noah had made the decision for both of them, so there wouldn’t

be a date and they’d never know why fate kept bringing them to-

gether.

He glanced at his watch. It was early—only a few minutes after

six—but he had already broken his three-beer rule. Now he had to

try to justify extending it, making it a five-beer rule. It
was
the second-to-last night of Bart’s Sanity Tour, after all. And, more importantly, he had no place better to be.

And then that woman, Noah’s stepmother, was at his side. He

smiled at her, noticing as he did that she was weaving slightly.

“Pardon me if I’m interfering,” she said, “but Noah is a really nice guy.”

“I’m sure of that,” he agreed.

“And he’s a catch.”

Bart laughed. “Are you trying to be a matchmaker?”

“No!” she insisted, ringing a false note. “I’m just saying that he’s a catch.” She lifted up on tiptoe, steadying herself against Bart’s solid body, and whispered in the general direction of his ear. “He’s just a little . . .
wary
of getting involved.”

“Did he tell you I asked him to dinner?”

“You did?” She looked out to the porch, where Noah was strug-

gling in his attempt to finally bond with the Four Stooges. “No, he didn’t tell me that. So what did he say?”

“I don’t think he’s interested.”

W H E N T H E S T A R S C O M E O U T

She sighed. “Do you want me to talk to him?”

He thought about that before answering. “Honestly, I’m not

sure. I mean, maybe he’s right. If we’re both just passing through New York, maybe it’s not worth it. And I have had one hell of a bad vacation . . . besides meeting you and Noah, that is.”

She put a hand on his back. “Vacations aren’t supposed to be

miserable. That’s what people have jobs for.” She took another glance at the porch and added, “Wait right here for a minute.”

Bart’s eyes followed her as she walked outside and started an an-

imated conversation with Noah. He sipped his Corona, watching

them for the next several minutes, until she began talking to the

other smokers and Noah, clearly on the losing end of the discus-

sion, walked back into the bar.

“About dinner,” he said softly as he approached Bart. “Are you

still interested?”

“Listen, don’t feel obligated. Your stepmother sort of took this

on herself. I didn’t ask her.”

“But it can’t hurt, can it? And you’ve had a bad vacation, right?

It’s the least I could do as a guest New Yorker.”

Bart smiled. “No, it can’t hurt. And you don’t know the half of

my vacation.”

“So,” asked Noah, “do you like Italian?”

And so it came to pass that telephone numbers and last names

were exchanged and reservations were to be made for 7:30 the fol-

lowing evening.

Maybe, Bart thought, as he climbed onto the sleeper sofa a few

hours later after having once again revisited his employer’s earlier years through another lengthy conversation with his host, the vacation would not be a
total
waste. At least he’d get to talk to a cute guy.

That might not fully compensate for the months of deprivation,

but it would be better than striking out completely.

He felt his penis stiffening, and realized that he was again get-

ting ahead of himself. If Noah was already promising to be a reluctant dinner companion, it was far too premature to think of him as a willing sexual partner.

Don’t get your hopes up
, he told himself, as he struggled to sleep.

Don’t get your hopes up . . .

R o b B y r n e s

At the same time, Noah tossed and turned in his father’s guest

room, thinking similar thoughts. He wondered what Bart looked

like under those clothes . . . if he was hairy, or smooth; if his muscles bulged as impressively under naked flesh as they had seemed

to in the dim lighting of the bar; if he was experienced, or awk-

ward . . .

And then a dim recollection of Harry—so different, physically,

from Bart—popped into his head, and he remembered why he

needed to exercise caution. With the memory of Harry quickly di-

minishing his erection, he shifted again in the bed, searching for both physical and emotional comfort.

Chapter 3

I first met Jimmy on the set of my last movie. He was a dancer,

and the moment our eyes met I knew that we were meant to be

together. I even followed him to his car on that first night, hop-

ing to get his attention. Believe it or not, I never dreamed that

he would be interested in me.

But he was, which thrilled me, but also opened up new chal-

lenges. After all, I had a wife and child. I had responsibilities.

It’s never as easy to fall in love as it looks in the movies . . .

A
t 7:30 on Saturday evening they met at Viggio’s, an Italian eatery in the West Forties. The pre-theater crowd was just clearing out

and they were promptly ushered to a banquette in a quiet back cor-

ner.

Noah and Bart engaged in the smallest of small talk until the

waiter took their order. The moment he departed, Bart set his el-

bows on the table and asked, “So is this date still comfortable for you?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. But are we calling it a date?”

“Well, it
is
a date,” said Bart. “It’s just a date with no expectations.”

“Ah, I see. An open-ended date.”

“Exactly. Maybe it’s a one-time thing, maybe more than once.

We’ll just take it as it comes.” He looked at Noah, trying to gauge his comfort level, but his expression was unreadable. “So . . . you’re a writer.”

“Yeah.”

“And what’s your day job?”

Noah stiffened. “That
is
my day job. I’m a writer. I write.”

“Sorry,” said Bart, working to paper over the offense. “It’s just

that I meet a lot of people who say they’re writers, but . . .”

Noah completed his sentence. “But they turn out to be untal-

ented illiterates who have no hope of ever being published.” He

smiled. “Right?”

“Right.”

“I’m one of the real ones, Bart. I have a real contract with a real publisher and everything. And I used to publish a weekly newspaper in Massachusetts. I know the people you’re talking about,

but I’m not one of them.”

“Glad to hear it. I get tired of the bullshit.” He paused, then

asked, “So your book
. . .
Tell me about it.”

Noah knew he had left himself wide open for that, even as he

hoped he wouldn’t have to discuss it. But since Bart had asked
. . .

“I’m writing about closeted congressional staff members.”

“That sounds interesting,” said Bart, taking liberties with his definition of the word “interesting.” “How’s it coming along?”

W H E N T H E S T A R S C O M E O U T

Noah looked down and stared at his silverware. “Slowly.” He

deftly shifted the conversation away from his book by bringing up

his father’s heart attack. It was a cheap ploy, but he was much more comfortable talking about human mortality than literary mortality.

Bart expressed his concern, Noah accepted it and assured him that

the heart attack was mild, and then their food was on the table.

Cannelloni in front of Noah; veal parmigiana in front of Bart.

“Okay,” said Noah, after the waiter had once again departed. “So

now you know what I do, but what about you?”

“Me?” Bart shook his head. “There’s really not much to tell. Like

I told you, for the past three years I’ve worked as personal assistant to this older couple in the Hamptons, and, well
. . .
I don’t get out much. In fact, this was one of my big vacation weeks.” He paused,

and added, “Unfortunately.”

“Yeah, you said you were having a bad week.”

Bart sighed, and debated letting the subject drop. They were on

a date—however they qualified it—and he was afraid his complaints

about his week in New York would come across as whining.

Unless, that was, he could turn the minor tragedy into a funny

story.

To his credit, the intense and ambivalent Noah Abraham found

a great deal of humor in his tale of being ejected from The Pent-

house because the bartender thought he was a hustler. Maybe too

much humor, since his gales of laughter focused the entire restau-

rant’s attention on their table.

“You know what?” Noah asked, as he dabbed tears from his eyes.

“I’m glad we’re having this
. . .
date, or whatever. And I’m really sorry right now that we’re not both New Yorkers.”

Now it was Bart’s turn to stiffen. Noah seemed determined that

this date could not possibly lead to anything else. That was logical, Bart acknowledged, but it wasn’t hopeful. And Bart liked “hopeful”

much better than “logical.”

“It
is
too bad,” Bart agreed, determined to play his own best hand and remembering the fantasies that had kept him up far too

late the previous night. “Because I’d bet the sex would be phenom-

enal.”

Noah’s eyes darted to Bart. He looked so wholesome
. . .
“Did you just say what I think you said?”

“You don’t believe in sex?”

R o b B y r n e s

Noah laughed. “Yes, you said what I thought you said. For the

record, I believe in sex. In fact, I have believed in sex many, many times. You just caught me by surprise. I’m sort of off it at the present moment.”

“Not permanently, I hope.” A sly grin crossed Bart’s lips, and,

feeling bold, he rubbed his leg against Noah’s under the table.

“Uh
. . .
no. And in case you wondered, your leg is having the exact effect I’m sure you intended.” He took a bite of cannelloni

and added, “Are you sure they made a mistake at The Penthouse?”

Bart laughed. “Am I being forward? Sorry about that. I’ve been

deprived recently.”

“Too bad we don’t live closer together,” Noah said again. “If we

did, I promise you there would be a follow-up date.”

Bart frowned. Even the allure of sex wasn’t bending Noah. The

man was absolutely, 100 percent determined to avoid a connection.

Which only made Bart try harder.

Across the table, Noah felt the swelling in his groin as Bart’s leg slowly rubbed against his calf. He tried to mentally force it away, but knew he had lost the battle when he heard himself giggle. Noah
had
to change the topic, and quickly.

“So
. . .
tell me about this couple.”

“Huh?” Bart had been distracted by the dimples Noah was now

trying to hide.

“The people you work for.”

“They’re
. . .
they’re nice.” He pulled his leg back to his side of the table.

“Nice? That’s it?”

“I just don’t feel it’s my place to invade their privacy. That’s why I’m keeping them . . .”

“To yourself?” Noah hoped his smile was sincere.

Bart smiled shyly and shook his head. They returned again to

their dinner and no more was said about the couple. Until, that is, Bart brought it up again, because Noah’s silence—especially in the wake of his horniness moments earlier—was deafening.

“You think I’m holding back.”

“You
are
holding back. But you have that right. We barely know each other. We don’t have to rush into the sordid details. Although if we
don’t
rush, well . . .”

“There’s nothing sordid . . .”

W H E N T H E S T A R S C O M E O U T

“Just kidding. All the un-sordid details, if you prefer.”

Bart leaned back heavily in the banquette. “Ah, shit
. . .
Okay, you know what? I do want to get to know you better, Noah. I don’t

want to start things off with you thinking I’m keeping secrets, like your congressional aides.”

“I’d hardly equate—”

“I know, I know. But I think we both feel that something could

happen between us.” He stopped, then looked at Noah with alarm

at the speed at which his thoughts poured out of his mouth. “Am