Page 61 of Cool for the Summer

“Well, I’m really glad your temporary stay in Rosedale is becoming more permanent,” Meadow says with uncharacteristic warmth.

“Thanks. Me too.” And I am. If only I didn’t feel the deadline of saying goodbye to Donovan hanging over my head.

I set myself up at what’s apparently Jack’s regular table. I have to go over the lease agreement for the apartment I’ll be moving into. It’s a one bedroom in a small building a few blocks from Main Street, and it comes with a parking spot and a gas oven. I can’t ask for more right now. I’ll even be able to walk to work if I want to.

I laugh when Meadow brings my order to the table—she’s filled an actual white ceramic bowl, the kind they use for breakfast bowls and salads, nearly to the brim with coffee. “If I drink all that, I’ll vibrate into next week.”

“So don’t drink all of it,” she says acerbically.

The coffee sustains me while I parse the rental contract, which is pretty standard. But when the doorbell jingles and I look up to see Kingston, I’m glad for the distraction.

“Beck, fancy running into you here,” Kingston says. “Can I bother you?”

“Please.” I gesture to the open chair and he sits, spotting my bowl of coffee and giving me a questioning look.

“It’s a joke, sort of. Want some?”

“I already caffeinated, but I wanted to talk to you about throwing a little welcome home party for your cousin and his husband when they get back. What do you think?”

“That’s a great idea. How did you know I was here?”

“Van told me. He said you’d either be here or the shop. By the way, I don’t know what you’re putting in his cookies, but I want some.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve never seen the man so relaxed and happy. Figured it was some special ingredient,” Kingston says. “Or maybe he just needed a vacation.”

“It’s been a fun summer,” I say, then look down at my keyboard lest I give something away. I’m glad Kingston thinks Donovan is happy, even if I can’t claim credit for it.

“Too bad summer’s almost over,” Kingston says shrewdly.

What does he mean by that? Does he know?—

“I don’t want to overstep, but I have been known to stick my nose in other people’s business, and I’m too old to change, so I’m just going to say something and then you can tell me to fuck off and I will.” He doesn’t even wait for me to react before going on. “I’ve known Van for a long time—almost as long as I’ve known Pete. We even hooked up once, though maybe he told you about that.”

Kingston and Donovan had sex? It fits with the picture I’ve put together of Donovan’s serial hookup lifestyle. I can’t be jealous, because then I’d have to care about all the men he slept with before me, and that’s pointless.

“He’s had a reputation for going after the next shiny thing and never looking back. But it always seemed a little sad to me, more like a competition with some invisible opponent than something that was really making him happy. But you—you seem to make him happy.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying if he makes you happy, too, then you might have to fight for him. He’s not going to make it easy for you.”

Donovan has been nothing but easy with me, right from the beginning. But maybe I’ve let things be too easy for him. Maybe I haven’t asked for enough.

I haven’t asked for anything, now that I think about it. He’s given everything freely, and so have I. I just assumed there were limits to what he’d be willing to share. But what if I’m wrong, and I only have to ask to get what I want?

“Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say. Now, the party. My place, the day after the honeymooners return. We’ll do it in the afternoon so they aren’t too sleepy. You bring the dessert. I’ll get the booze. Invite whoever you want, but keep it quiet from Jack and Pete or they’ll try to talk us out of it, the antisocial jerks.”

I agree to the plan and Kingston leaves as quickly as he arrived. I stare into my bowl of coffee and wonder what exactly I have to lose by telling Donovan how I feel about him.

I can’t end up with less than I have now. We’re supposed to call it quits soon, anyway. Why don’t I go out in a blaze of glory and tell him that I want more?

The traitorous part of my heart that’s held out hope from the very beginning urges me to believe there’s a chance he’ll want more, too.

At least I’ll know one way or the other.

I snap my laptop shut, drop the coffee bowl on the counter, and speed walk to my car.

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