Page 67 of Disco Witches of Fire Island

“Not really necessary,” Fergal mumbled, letting his eyes linger on Joe.

Another huge wave rose and crested inside Joe’s chest, swallowing his heart and swooshing it around with all sorts of sand, saltwater, and shells. It was the most overwhelming thing he had felt since he first met Elliot. It was both a joy and an agonizing fear that his soul’s small vessel could not contain all his longing.

“So,” Joe said, trying to make the moment normal, “have you heard any of those whacked-out rumors about the boys being Disco Witches? Freaked me out at first.”

Fergal momentarily puzzled his eyebrows—most likely from Joe’s sudden change of subject. “You have to take everything with a grain of salt out here. I will say, Howie, Lenny, and Max are pretty special. That’s for sure. Anyone who’s been out here long enough has heard some crazy stuff.”

“Like what?” While Joe was curious, he was more grateful for the diversion from his desire.

“Just stupid stories. Like how when they used to go out clubbing, weird shit would happen. Really bad dance parties would suddenly become the best night of people’s lives. Or they’d show up dressed in some nutso outfit and start dancing, and suddenly broken amplifiers or lighting systems would start working again—tons of crazy coincidences. Really, whenever they’re around, the island always feels safer. Like someone is watching over us, protecting us. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “As a matter of fact, I do. Dory and Saint D’Norman too. It’s weird.” He laughed. “There were times before I really knew them, I worried they might be psychotic arsonists, but even then I still got a warm feeling.”

“Nothing like the warmth of a psychotic arsonist.” Fergal laughed and then took Joe’s hands into his. His calloused palms reminded Joe of the satin nubs of his favorite childhood blanket, which he’d rub for comfort. Between Fergal’s fingers there was a slight webbing close to the palm, similar to what Joe had noticed between his toes.

“Weird, right?” Fergal said, stretching his long fingers to exaggerate the deformity.

“I kind of love it,” Joe said, kissing Fergal’s fingers, then the sun-bleached hairs on the back of his wrist.

Fergal pulled Joe to him and entwined his arms with his own, as if Joe were a small tree being consumed by a huge thick vine.

“How can this feel so good?” Joe said. “Just last week I hated your guts.”

“That’s summer on Fire Island for ya.” Fergal wiggled his eyebrows. “One moment you wanna kill someone, the next you want them to have your butt-babies.”

“Eww,” Joe said, grimacing even though Fergal’s comment made him hard again—like he had a direct mental connection to Joe’s cock. Joe took another sip of the special cocktail. Again, the heady taste of the drink confounded him. He took several more sips, trying to decipher the mysterious mix of herbs and spices. Fergal drank as well. The whole time their unused forearms and hands remained entangled, unwilling to part.

“So, your name.Fergal.That’s Irish, right?” Joe said, an attempt to regain his individuation and slow things down. “Is that your background?”

“Yep. Or half Irish anyway. My mom was Irish, but I never met my father. She said he was something like Italian or Greek.”

“Did you ever try to find him?”

“Couldn’t. My mom didn’t know his name. I know that makes her sound kinda trashy, but she wasn’t. She was working as awaitress out in Montauk, and one evening after her shift, she headed down to the beach to watch the sunset. She thought she saw a sea lion, but then realized it was a man playing in the surf. She said he was ‘devastatingly handsome,’ with long black hair and a beard. When he saw her, he stopped swimming and treaded water for a really long time, staring at her. Finally, he waved for her to come into the ocean with him. So, she did. After a bit they went up into the dunes and made love. When they finished, he gave her this.”

Fergal pulled out the gold chain around his neck and showed Joe a small pearlescent shell decorated with tiny ornate carvings and what looked like some foreign language.

“It’s really beautiful.” Joe touched the shell, brushing his finger on Fergal’s clavicle.

“After that, he split.”

“What?” Joe said. “That was it? Just that one time? And she got pregnant with you?”

Fergal smirked. “They don’t call them ‘breeders’ for nothing.”

Joe laughed, but then his Armenian eyebrows signaled distress. “Hopefully you’re not like your dad,” he half mumbled, but then immediately wished he hadn’t shown his hand so blatantly. “Sorry, that was a stupid thing to say.”

“I’m not,” Fergal said. “At least not in that way. I do like the ocean a whole lot, though. But I was raised by my Uncle Harve, who is a real gentleman. He taught me to be kind and respectful to all people, and to make sure that if someone is important to you, you show up for them. That’s why I came out to him before I came out to my mother. Uncle Harve always stood by me. My mom, not so much.”

“What do you mean?” Joe asked.

Fergal picked up the special green cocktail and gulped it as if it would give him the power to speak his mind. “So, Uncle Harve says something weird happened to my mother after she gave birth to me. She lost it and started disappearing for days, saying she was searching for my father. They’d find her sleeping on the beach. If it wasn’t for Uncle Harve, I’m not sure what would have happened to me. I hate that I let him down sometimes.”

“How?” Joe asked.

Fergal shrugged. “Nothing big. Sometimes I drink a little too much and stay out here on the beach, which probably reminds him of my mother. He worries I’ll end up like her—or worse.”

“You can’t blame him,” Joe said. “It’s a pretty crazy time we’re living in.”

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