Page 3 of The Men of Summer
“Désolé!” Why do I keep apologizing around the kid? In French at that! I should keep my manners in check. On top of no more cursing, which Dante and I are trying really hard to avoid, I’ll have to add no more open-mouth yawning and improved facial hair maintenance to the list. I look him in the eye and declare, “I promise I’ll shave more often. Dante likes my stubble, especially when I—” I stop short, realizing that this is none of his business. “I don’t mean to be rude, but… I still have to get used to your presence…” He makes a weird throaty noise, which reminds me that he’s waiting for food and probably a clean diaper.
Carrying him to the cluttered bathroom, which contains a hastily arranged changing area, I attend to the latter and discuss my lack of practice with Jeremy, who’s nice enough to comply. If he had the ability to talk, he wouldn’t deny that I’ve improved over the last week. Still, my baby care skills are rusty; I haven’t been back to France in a few years, and my cousins all grew into teenagers. I inwardly thank my mom, who insisted that I babysit or take care of them as often as my sister, Farah, did. How could she have guessed that this experience would come in handy over a decade later?
I’m not even grossed out by the smell like Dante was last Friday when his mom asked him to change his godson for the first time. I’d only met Elsie a few times, but I doubt she evermade him do any dirty work. That’s why I offered to help. After all, Dante and I are in this together. For a few days, Dante’s mom, Eva, took matters into her own hands since her sister, Rita, was in no state to take care of Jeremy, but Elsie had other plans for her son. Plans that Dante had naturally accepted, back then. Of course, he had never anticipated it becoming a reality. His reality. Our reality. Little did we know how fast Jeremy would turn our well-oiled routine and self-centered lives upside down.
Closing the second diaper tab, I kiss Jeremy’s forehead. “Voilà!” I grin at a job well done. Jeremy smiles back at me. ‘Atta boy! “And now, let’s eat!” After settling him in the playpen that takes up a large portion of the living room, I continue discussing my next course of action with him in French and busy myself preparing his bottle.
Moments later, I switch back to English and am in deep conversation with the one-year-old about Dante’s fatigue, his late mother, and our love for him as I feed him. Well, I guess it’s more of a monologue, but he’s drinking my words as much as his breakfast. Dante and I agreed to be open and honest with him; he apparently approves, although I have no clue about his understanding of this whole messed-up situation. Talking about Elsie on a regular basis is the right thing to do. She’s a part of his life, and we don’t want him to question how much she loved him—and how much we do too.
I melt at the way his hungry mouth and small fingers hug the bottle, and let’s not forget the cute sucking noises.
In the blink of an eye, we’re playing together on the floor before I grasp how sluggish my body is. “I’ll be right back. Morning coffee is a prerequisite.” I plop him back into the playpen, fix my coffee to go, and get dressed within minutes. Getting him dressed takes a bit longer—understatement of the year! I’m so not used to doing this… yet.
The chilly fresh air assaults me as I lock the door behind us. I shiver, fathoming that June isn’t synonymous with warm weather; the proximity of the ocean must add to the chill. Thank God, the stroller is stored in Dante’s parents’ garage. Located above their house, Dante’s former apartment has a private entrance at the top of a zillion narrow stairs that I stubbornly refuse to count. Needless to say, this setting is neither ideal nor practical with a baby bag slung over one shoulder and an energetic baby firmly tucked against the opposite side of my tall body. Thank God, I work out consistently. Practice makes perfect. Even after a few days, I’m already much more efficient.
A flashback of the first time that I climbed these wooden stairs assaults me. I heave a content sigh, remembering how Dante’s dripping wetsuit hugged his perfect paddle instructor ass.Right after we kissed in the rain. Right before he gave his first blowjob. Right before we spent a semi-chaste night together. Five years ago, back when we were young, foolish, and carefree. Our fire for each other hasn’t subsided. The distance our careers sometimes puts between us makes the reunions explosive, turning weekends into sex-marathons, locked in my one-bedroom Palo Alto rental, embellished with a California king-size bed that eats up most of the room.
With Jeremy strapped into his stroller, we head towards the historic Seaside Promenade in the direction of Cartwright Park. My next sigh is filled with nostalgia and sadness as the events that brought us here sink in again. Part of me struggles to acknowledge reality, and taking care of Jeremy 24/7 has the advantage of sucking me into another reality. One where my priority is his comfort rather than my self-centered competitiveness at my top-secret job that I can’t even share with my significant other.
During our twenty-minute walk to the park, we don’t cross paths with any familiar faces; most of the friends I made overthe summers I spent in Seaside relocated anyway, like Dante and I have. Granted, I never envisioned being back here before our annual trip to the festival where Dante’s professional music journey began. So much has happened since then. Time’s gone so fast.
The more we progress, the more pained my breathing becomes, and not due to a lack of exercise. What’s going on with me? Rubbing my buzz cut, I take deep breaths as Jeremy coos. It’s not until I settle on my favorite blue wooden bench and watch Jeremy interact with other kids that I’m able to relax. At last!
The moms I’ve previously seen here are shooting me concerned looks. They must assume that I’m a dad who enjoys taking his son to the park early in the morning… unless they knew Elsie. If they do, they don’t disclose it, and we remain locked in a comforting silence that’s interrupted by tea-cup-sized humans from time to time.
If you’d told me last month that I’d be entertaining and taking care of Elsie’s son as if he were mine, I would have scoffed and scolded you for the sick joke. No matter what these women might think, Jeremy’s not my own, but my man has a duty towards him. Consequently, it’ll have an impact on both of our lives, whether we like it or not.
Snatching a baby wipe from the bag, I walk up to Jeremy and take my time wiping the sticky sand from his hands. Smiling, he lets me as I suggest, “Let’s go home, shall we?” Home… I wonder what’s going to happen after we go back to California. Again, I hide my mood behind a genuine smile when we say our goodbyes to the moms and kids. As we get closer to Dante’s, Jeremy dozes off. Suddenly, the silence is deafening.
My heart aches for my man, who didn’t reach Elsie’s bedside in time to say his goodbyes. My heart tightens at the memory of Dante’s forced reunion with his bigoted father. My heart racesat how welcoming the rest of his family has been to us and our long-term relationship. Even his brothers, with whom he’s never been close, didn’t bat an eye when they witnessed me comforting Dante.
Hence, Dante’s mother insisted we stay where our love blossomed years ago. What I hadn’t expected was that, in the blink of an eye, Dante and I would be entrusted with Jeremy’s care, no matter how crystal clear Elsie’s will was on the matter. Her mother’s severe arthritis makes her unfit to care for an infant, and her father hasn’t been in the picture since she was eight. Since Elsie was a single mom, that left Dante as the best candidate because—I quote—Dante Reyes was the “most responsible and trustworthy person” she knew. Elsie’s favorite cousin. Trusted godfather.
Legal guardian.
CHAPTER 3
SOMEBODY’S CHILD
Dante
Melissa’s no-nonsense Texas drawl echoes as she paces behind me. “Don’t we have the same goal, Dante? Don’t you want this album to be an even bigger success than the previous one?” Does that sound like an ultimatum or what? I grunt at her question. “Then the showreallymust go on.” Ah, here we go again! Her infamous motto is back. The woman can come off as cold, ruthless, and calculating, but she’s been acting weird all day.
“I’m trying my best, okay!” I grumble between clenched teeth, looking at the empty recording booth where I rehearsed all morning. The back of my neck stiffens at my blatant lie. I was on fire when we started last Saturday, but I’ve accomplished jack shit today. My voice is scratchy rather than velvety. This isn’t turning out right. I should have taken the day off… but then again, that’d be more money that we don’t have down the drain. Who am I to play the diva anyway?
The soft background music fades as my annoyance grows. “Look, I used to love this Queen song... until you came along…” I lean towards the edge of the massive console, hold on tight, andspin to calm my frayed nerves. Since I flew from Palo Alto to LA, I’ve been stuck in this studio crafting on my upcoming album for endless hours.
Her hands claw at the back of the chair to stop me. “Enough already!” A tinge of exasperation colors her tone. “How old are you, twelve?” I’ve hit a roadblock, and her mocking irks me. “Stop whining for Christ’s sake! Today is a good day.”
I don’t budge, although I’m seriously considering turning around and yelling that it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to ascertain why I keep forgetting the lyrics of my own songs. Instead, I rein in the impulse, inhale deeply, and exhale before finally meeting her challenging stare.
“So you say…” The fact that she basically grounded me while the crew is enjoying a well-deserved break doesn’t help me relax. “But I?—”
“And no coffee. Not a good idea in your state,” she decrees.
“Mind reader much?”
“Nah, just observant.” She winks. “You’re hyper, and it’s not even lunchtime. Coffee’s forbidden for the rest of the day.” Then the annoying woman has the nerve to chuckle at my expense.
