Page 55 of Torn
“Miami University.”
“In Florida?”
I didn’t bother to tell him I’d never been to Florida. “No. Small town in Ohio, near Cincinnati.”
“Okay.” He took a few steps toward the kitchen. “I could make us a big salad. There’s a farm stand down the road, and I got some glorious tomatoes and butter lettuce. And I could sear some seitan to put on top. You like seitan? I made it myself.”
“I don’t know,” I mumbled. I didn’t know what seitan was. “So, uh, I thought you told me when we were in England that you lived very frugally, that you didn’t have much money.”Like me.
“I do. I try to keep kind of footloose and fancy free, and that means not being tied down by material things. Someone told me once, or maybe I read it, that the more stuff you have, the less free you are.”
Spoken like a rich person, I couldn’t help but think. I guess it was my own fault for assuming that Walt, with his rent-a-wreck car and his house-share lodgings was just as poor as I was. And I wasn’t even poor! Or at least I hadn’t felt that way until I’d come here, to this mansion coyly called a cabin, to hook up with this Ivy Leaguer. Why did I feel somehow sullied, somehow deceived?
“So you come from money?” I blurted out.
“I guess. But really, that doesn’t matter to me. Money’s not important.”
Spoken like a person with plenty of the green. See how “not important” money is when you’re trying to decide between paying your rent or buying more food for the week. I smiled, but it left a bitter taste in my mouth. “So I guess you get a little help from Mom and Dad? Here and there?”So those European jaunts aren’t quite so grueling.
Walt stared at me for a moment, eyes narrowed. “Yes, I have a trust fund, if you’re wondering. It helps keep me afloat. A little safety net.”
“A safety net? Nice.” I smiled, but part of me wanted to be alone. I didn’t quite get why this was affecting me so. Most of my younger gay friends would be delighted happening on a rich boyfriend. But all I felt was out of my depth.
All I felt was a longing for the simplicity of Tom.
Ah, I told myself,you’re jumping to conclusions. Give the guy a chance. Rich doesn’t equal being an asshole.
“A salad?” I was trying to get back to the subject at hand. “Got any deli meat? A big sandwich sounds amazing. With some of those homegrown tomatoes and that lettuce.”
Walt looked at me as though I’d proposed ripping a leg off one of the dining room chairs and gnawing on that. “I don’t eat meat. I thought you knew that.”
“Baloney!”
“No, there’s none of that either.”
We paused, stared at each, and then burst into laughter.
For the moment, the tension that hung in the room like mountain fog dispersed. “I don’t remember you being a vegetarian.” But then, we hadn’t shared much food beyond a bun with strawberries and clotted cream.
“Since I was twelve years old I haven’t ingested anything with a face.”
“Really?”
He nodded and turned back toward the kitchen. “Seitan is kind of like meat. You can slice it up for a sandwich.”
“Tastes like chicken?” I followed him, but reluctantly. Where had my appetite gone?
I slept on my own that night, claiming—truthfully—that I was exhausted from my travels.
THE NEXTday, we did make use of the little island in the middle of the pool. With sunlight streaming down on our backs and water gurgling all around us, Walt took me forcefully from behind. It was not a gentle fuck, and we both could have roused the dead with our cries when we came, almost simultaneously. I swear to God, birds took wing at the racket we made.
It should have been wonderful.
It should have been searing hot, like something out of a Chi Chi LaRue porn video.
But it wasn’t.
As I lay gasping on the fake grass, Walt pressed against me, all I felt was guilty—and trapped. And hot—but not in a good way.
