Robin and Ruby

by K.M. Soehnlein

Genres: General Fiction; Family Life; Women's Fiction; LGBT Gay

Synopsis

At twenty-years-old, Robin MacKenzie is waiting for his life to start. Waiting until his summer working at a Philly restaurant is over and he's back with his boyfriend Peter. . .until the spring semester when he'll travel to London for an acting program. . .until the moment when the confidence he fakes starts to feel real. "Engaging. . .capturing intimately the mood of the period." – Publishers Weekly Then, one hot June weekend, Robin gets dumped by his boyfriend and quickly hits the road with his best friend George to find his teenaged sister, Ruby, who's vanished from a party at the Jersey Shore. "A fresh, eloquent perspective to the oft-writ story of sexual and romantic coming of age." – Book Marks But Ruby is on an adventure of her own, dressing in black, declaring herself an atheist, pulling away from the boyfriend she doesn't love--not the way she loves the bands whose fractured songs are the soundtrack to her life. Then a chance encounter puts Ruby in pursuit of a seductive but troubled boy who might be the key to her happiness, or a disaster waiting to happen. Now as their paths converge, Ruby and Robin will confront the sadness of their shared past and rebuild the bonds that still run deep. . . "Lush. . .bittersweet. . .two characters who gleefully leap off the page." – Bay Area Reporter

Release date: April 1, 2011

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 289

Sample

Sometimes life throws you a job that you’re not yet ready to do. The Friday dinner shift at Rosellen’s had started deadly: just one table in Robin’s section for the first hour, and then an unexpected surge of customers, and suddenly he was in the weeds, juggling an indecisive four-top and this party of eight professionals lobbing one highly specific demand after another: five different temperatures of steak; an omelet from the brunch menu but with egg whites only; two pepper grinders to be left on the table, even though he assured them that Rosellen’s Upscale Southern Cuisine was perfectly spiced. One guy wanted his salad with dressing on the side; another wanted his salad with dressing “extra tossed,” whatever that meant. The whole bunch of them seemed to be trying to prove that they were in charge, as if the monumental shoulder pads in their pin-striped power suits didn’t already send that message. But the fussiness of their needs made them all seem like little kids.

Then they ordered wine. In thirty minutes’ time, they ordered four fucking bottles! Uncorking wine is Robin’s personal doom. You’re supposed to keep up a conversation with the table while you finesse the captain’s knife, and you’re supposed to make it look effortless, like tying your shoes, but for Robin it’s more like tying a tie: too short, too long, too short again, almost right but not quite. He sweated through the first Bordeaux, the bottle wedged in his armpit instead of in the crook of his elbow where it’s supposed to be. The second one also took effort, but it came out more smoothly, and maybe he got too confident, because with the third bottle, he snapped the cork in two and had to return to the bar for a replacement. Rosellen would take that one out of his check.

Now here he is with a fourth red, so stressed out that he decides to just rest it on the floor, clamped between his feet. Bending over, he announces, “Ladies and gentlemen, whatever it takes,” and yanks up with all his strength. Splup! The cork emerges, miraculously intact. Robin waves it in the air on the tip of the corkscrew, a little flourish, the end of a magic trick. A couple of the diners, already tipsy, put their hands together and applaud.

He sees all of this unfold in the enormous rectangular mirror on the wall behind the table, as if he is starring in a short, comic film about a clown in a crisp white shirt.

There in the mirror, he spots George across the dining room, mouth hanging open. George, who’s not just a coworker but his roommate and his best friend, smiles at him, even as he shakes his head in disbelief. Robin simply shrugs and lets his gaze float upward, miming, What else could I do? Acting his part: the boy who just can’t help himself. But he’s also aware that the hostess and the bartender have witnessed the bottle-on-the-floor stunt, and so word of this will travel back to Rosellen, who won’t be amused.

The shift ticks by in a kind of blur. The awareness of having messed up has a way of seeping out and saturating all his thoughts, leaving Robin feeling strangely indistinct, as if the separate edges of things are melting together. He starts to think he has a low-grade fever, and he touches his forehead, which is maybe a bit warm. Could he have picked up a cold, a summer flu? He touches his neck, poking at his glands, and that does it: triggers the mental spiral, the one he can’t avoid, the one he still can’t shut down, even after the test results assured him he was negative. This is not a cold, it’s a symptom of the Big One, the first sign of the virus that’s been lying in wait, ready to erupt and take him down, once and for all. . . .

“Do I feel a little warm to you?” he asks George.

George puts his hand on Robin’s forehead.

“I’m having a freak-out, about, you know—”

“Shh. Not here,” George says, looking around to see if anyone is in earshot. And then, more gently, he adds, “You’re in a restaurant kitchen in the middle of June. Of course you’re warm.”

In spite of everything, Robin lets himself smile, though it’s a smile with a tint of the gallows: If you get sick, you’ll never have to serve another table of yuppies another bottle of wine again.

As he makes his way to the kitchen to check on his last order for the night, he feels a pinch against his thigh: the folded corner of the envelope he’s been carrying all day in his pocket. He’d almost forgotten it was there. Now he rubs his fingertips along its smooth surface, as if it’s a talisman that will remove all obstacles from his path.



It had arrived in the mail that morning, before he left for work: the letter he was sure would never be sent.

Congratulations. A slot in our London theatre program has become available for next spring’s semester. Because you were first on the waiting list, we’re happy to extend to you . . .

A semester abroad, studying theater. Only a handful of college juniors are invited. Someone has apparently backed out, and now Robin gets to take his place. A few months ago, when the original letter came, the one saying, “Sorry, but . . .” his mother had insisted he not give up hope, you never knew what might happen. She said she had a feeling about this one. One of Dorothy’s famous “feelings.” He didn’t give it much weight. She was wrong as often as she was right.

But here it is on paper, his name, Robin MacKenzie, and the date, June 11, 1985, a few days ago, and the official signature of the Chair of the School of Drama. Congratulations. You won’t be spending the spring of your senior year on campus, in Pittsburgh; you’ll spend it in London. You might actually, one day, be an actor. You might even have talent.

Might, because amid the elation, he feels something else: the lingering pinprick of embarrassment from the original rejection.

George had retrieved the letter from their mailbox this morning. Robin was ironing their work shirts at the time. (George was useless with an iron, and not much better at most other household tasks, and Rosellen would probably send him home if he came to work in a wrinkled shirt.) After he read the letter, Robin went back to ironing.

“It’s great news,” George said. “Why don’t you look like you’re into it?”

“Because first on the waiting list still means second-best.”

George put his hand on the back of Robin’s head and rubbed, in that comforting way he had of asserting their friendship, and it did make Robin feel better, to know that George believed in him, wanted the best for him, wanted to see this as a prize, rather than some new setup for failure.

“You know I’ll come to visit,” George told him.

“I’ll sneak you over in my suitcase. You might fit.” A timeworn joke: at five-feet-seven, George is four inches shorter than him.

“Is Margaret Thatcher letting any more black boys into her country?” George asks. Race riots in England have been showing up in the news, and after what happened in West Philly last month, George has been paying attention.

Now, hours later, the letter is already rumpled. After sharing it with George, Robin called his mother and read it over the phone to her (“Didn’t I tell you!” Dorothy proclaimed) and then listened as she repeated the news to his sister, Ruby. “You’re so lucky,” Ruby said, which gave him a moment’s pause: was that it? Luck, and not talent?

By the time he was ready to call Peter, he’d read the letter so many times he nearly had it memorized.

Peter was the one person Robin was nervous about breaking the news to, because what would it mean to tell your lover that you’d be leaving the country for six months? He called but got no answer and couldn’t leave a message because Peter didn’t have an answering machine. Where had Peter been all morning? And then, when Robin finally got him on the phone, right before leaving for the restaurant, what did it mean that he said, “I’m glad that you’re going”? Wasn’t the idea of a separation even a little bit sad? “Oh, come on, Robin, I’m happy for you. This is what you wanted.”

“You’re going to visit me, right?”

Peter laughed as if the question was unreasonable. “I can’t make promises for next spring.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m in school, too?”

“I’m just talking about a visit. Most people would want to visit their boyfriends in London.”

And then they were having a fight: “That’s not what I meant.” “That’s what you said.” “No, you’re twisting it around.” “No, you never listen.” It went on, and got loud, and then they fell silent, and finally Robin said, “I need you to come here. I can’t stand being this far away from you for another weekend.” Here meaning Philadelphia, where Robin has moved for the summer to live with George and wait tables at Rosellen’s, while Peter stayed behind in Pittsburgh, at Carnegie Mellon, working on his dissertation.

Peter sighed and after a moment said, OK, he would come the next day, Saturday. It was the perfect, romantic end to the argument, and it reminded Robin why being in love with Peter had, from the start, given him a sense of security, a net beneath the high-wire act of being in a real relationship. He and Peter have so many interests in common, high and low: They could stand in front of a single painting in a museum for an hour and not run out of things to say; they could sit through Desperately Seeking Susan in back-to-back screenings and laugh at the same gags twice. Peter loved him. Why pick a fight? Why doubt it? Does the tightrope walker let himself fall in order to test the net?



“OK, Blanco, you’re officially on probation,” Rosellen tells him. “One more broken cork and . . .” She slices her hand across her neck.

It’s 10:30 in the morning. Saturday brunch is just beginning, but Robin has been called into the small cluttered office out of which Rosellen runs Rosellen’s. He stands across the desk from her while she shuffles through purchase orders and invoices. Her smooth bronze forehead and gold hoop earrings catch the overhead light. The smell of sizzling butter fills the air. He hates that smell; it stays in his uniform even after he washes it.

“If I wasn’t so short-staffed, I’d let you go,” she says. “You know I’m doing you a favor.”

Of course I know, he wants to say, ’cause you never let me forget it. But what he says is, “Sorry I keep messing up,” as he tries to cope by picturing himself onstage, finding his focus, as his acting teachers say. The focus here is on keeping a paycheck coming in. Paying his half of the rent. Proving to everyone—to Peter, to his mother—that coming to Philly this summer wasn’t just a foolish, impulsive move. He stops the nervous tapping of his foot and turns on his smile to lighten the mood. “Rosellen, if I could afford it, I’d buy ten cases of wine, and I’d practice at home until I got it right.”

“You know I pride myself on my wine list,” she says. “Some folks think African Americans don’t know about good French wine.”

“Luckily none of the African American waiters mess up like I do,” he says. “Blame it on Whitey.”

“I not blaming Whitey,” she says coolly. “I’m blaming you.”

Rosellen’s is a new restaurant. New, as in opened less than a year ago, on South Street, west of Broad, but new in concept, too. Early reviews in the Philly papers have dubbed Rosellen’s cuisine “Yuppie Soul Food,” words that she has banned everyone on the premises from ever speaking. She’s coined her own term, “New U.S.,” which stands for Upscale Southern, and which Robin is supposed to recite as he greets his tables.

So far, the local press has been kind. There aren’t many like Rosellen: a female African American chef. That’s another term, “African American,” that she makes them all use, instead of “black,” which is how George has always referred to himself. Rosellen is strict about language. Chinese are “Asians.” Street people are to be called “the homeless,” never bums or bag ladies. She herself is a lesbian, and though she doesn’t make too much of that with the press or the customers, she sometimes talks with Robin and George about “the struggle of the lesbian and gay community.” Rosellen is George’s cousin, which is why Robin works here, the only reason, because not only is Robin a pale, blue-eyed white boy, he also has no experience beyond busing tables at an Italian restaurant in a New Jersey mall, near where he and George grew up. Rosellen has a soft spot for George; they’re the two gay members of the Lincoln family. So she agreed to meet Robin, and after pronouncing him “easy on the eyes,” she threw a few shifts his way. During his first week, he knocked a glass of wine across a table onto a customer and had to comp the entire dinner.

As Robin leaves her office, George is standing with Malik, the other waiter on duty. “This sister is fly,” Malik is saying. “Tonight it’s all going on.”

“Word,” George answers. “But keep it safe. Pack a rubber.”

“She’s got the contraception. She already told me, one of them diaphragms.”

“Brother, you gotta think about disease.”

“Maybe you do,” Malik says, taking a step away.

Robin feels his face heating up. But George remains calm. “I’ll tell you straight up, everybody has to protect himself.”

“She’s no freak,” Malik says, as he heads off to a customer.

Robin scans the dining room. Malik and George have two tables each, but no one has been seated in his own section.

George turns to Robin. “Did you get a yellin’ from Rosellen? She cut you with your captain’s knife?”

“She made me fall on it. It’s a bloody mess back there.” He lowers his voice. “Maybe I should just go back to Pittsburgh and live with Peter. Save myself rent for the summer.”

“Oh, you’ve been paying rent?” George asks, arching an eyebrow.

“I will be. You know I will—”

“Kidding,” George says, but Robin can’t help but feel bad; George pulled a hundred dollars out of his scholarship money to cover him this month. George shrugs. “I told you, it was cheaper than paying the dry cleaners to iron my shirts.”

George carries a basket of cornbread to a four-top of pale Germans, two men and two women in their late twenties who stare with open, eager faces as he recites the ingredients in the omelet of the day. Robin sees how George doesn’t try to flirt and charm. I’ll act like him today, Robin thinks. Won’t try to please everyone. Slow and steady. Calm and unemotional. No broken corks. No sweat on my brow. You’re on probation, so play it safe. Of course, George, with his Malcolm X glasses and his two-inch fro pinched into baby dreads at the tips, fits in here in a way Robin never will. If Robin said “word” or “brother” to someone like Malik, if he said that the special of the day was “dope,” as George just did, he’d sound like an actor miscast for his role.

Maybe living in London will suit him better. Maybe it’ll even be less expensive than here; he hasn’t checked the exchange rate yet. He hasn’t thought about the everyday details because it hasn’t quite seemed real, this offer. He’s read about the program, the courses, the apprenticeship at the cavernous, concrete National Theatre. He’s studied the photos of this place in the brochure, all cool and silvery. He’s placed himself on that dark, modern stage, rehearsing in a pool of light where nobody can touch him, where there’s nothing to worry about but entering a life someone else has dreamed up. But he hasn’t actually called the program back and said, yes, I accept.



Peter’s Honda CR-X, a little metallic-blue hatchback, rolls into view on South Street. From the alley behind the restaurant, Robin watches the car slow down, blinker flashing. Peter’s face is in profile through the open driver’s side window, his wide jaw and thick neck both covered in dark stubble. His hair looks puffy, slept-on, windblown. He rushed to get here; just the idea of it gives Robin a hard-on, the idea of Peter waking up and without even a shower, getting in the car to be here before the day was old.

Robin stamps out the cigarette he’s been smoking and pulls a little tube of Binaca from his pocket. Whoosh goes the minty mist into his mouth. He runs his tongue over his teeth, trying to cover up the “ashtray breath” that Peter always complains about.

Robin waves. Peter sounds the horn, which makes a funny little Japanese-model toot, not the resonant honking of a big, American car. Just before Peter kills the engine, Robin hears a snippet of “Point of No Return,” that Exposé song on the dance-mix tape he made for Peter.

He steps to the window and leans in for a kiss. Peter’s eyes dart around, as if someone might see them, before he accepts a quick peck. When Peter gets out of the car, he puts some distance between them, as if Robin is planning to pounce on him right there in the open air. Depending on his mood, Robin can find Peter’s discomfort adorable or annoying. Right now it just seems like a fact, one of their things: Robin pushes for public affection while Peter cautiously withholds.

“Are you doing okay?” Peter asks. “Did you get through your shift?”

“Rosellen put me on probation.”

“What does that mean?”

Robin shrugs. It’s not really clear, is it? “Maybe it would have been easier if she fired me.”

“You don’t need her, now that you’re going to be a famous actor.”

“Because actors never have to wait tables?” He’s thinking now not just about rent money he owes to George, but the expensive tickets he plans to buy for next month’s Live Aid concert at JFK Stadium. He had hoped to have them already, a surprise gift for Peter.

Peter’s eyes look a bit glazed from the drive. Robin wants to drag him back to the apartment as quickly as possible and throw him into bed. Peter will want a shower first. “I can’t get dirty ’til I get clean,” he likes to say, though Robin’s on a campaign to convince him that the smell of sweat during sex is a good thing.

Behind them, the restaurant’s kitchen door swings open. It’s one of the dishwashers, Cesar, the tall one with the Sacred Heart tattoo on his forearm, the one who tells menacing and vaguely queer stories of reform school in Puerto Rico, where he grew up. He tosses an overstuffed heavyweight trash bag into the Dumpster, then catches sight of Robin. “Hey, Blanco, got a smoke?”

Robin nods.

Cesar struts over, pulls a Parliament from Robin’s pack, and takes the Bic from Robin’s hand. After he lights his own, he holds the flame, and Robin, mesmerized by the way Cesar’s dark eyes lock on to his, pulls out a cigarette for himself, too, and lets Cesar light it. They often smoke together on breaks. But as soon as he inhales, Robin wishes he hadn’t. He senses Peter shuffling around uncomfortably.

“This is Peter,” Robin says. “This is Cesar.”

“Hi. Nice to meet you,” Peter says, thrusting out a hand. “I’m a friend of Robin’s.”

Cesar squints through the smoke. “Another college boy,” he says, taking Peter’s hand and giving him what Robin can see is a crushing grip.

“I was his T.A.,” Peter says, shaking it out.

“What’s that, tits and ass?” Cesar laughs, but Peter just looks confused. “This one’s got the ass,” Cesar adds, reaching out to swat Robin on the butt.

“Cesar!” Robin protests. He hears the edge of flirtation in his own voice, the subterranean longing he knows he feels toward a lot of the rough-looking guys in the kitchen, especially this one. It’s not the first time Cesar’s smacked or pinched or grabbed Robin’s butt, usually with some comment about how much Robin’s got going on back there. “Pretty fresh for a white boy,” Cesar likes to say.

“Jesus,” Peter grumbles, after Cesar has gone back into the kitchen. “I think he broke my finger.”

Robin reaches out to take Peter’s hand, to rub the offended spot, but Peter pulls away. “What did he call you?”

“I’m the only white guy,” Robin says. “So I’m ‘Blanco.’”

“He was white, too. Hispanics are white.”

“Puerto Ricans don’t consider themselves white.”

“Sure, OK,” Peter says, sounding eager to change the subject. “Hungry? I’m buying.”

“Anything but soul food.” Robin takes another puff of the cigarette. There’s no smoking in Peter’s car, a restriction that he is not yet used to, even after eight months of dating. When you’re raised in a home where your mother smokes, and where she lets you smoke with her, it’s odd to be forbidden your habit. But Peter’s grandmother has emphysema, and he talks often, with pity and condemnation, about this hacking, skeletal woman. Robin knows that smoking is not such a good thing, not for someone who’s only twenty and has been smoking since he was thirteen. A third of your life, he thinks. At twenty-six it’ll be half your life. You’re definitely quitting soon.

“Put out that cancer stick and get in the car. We need to talk.”

Peter starts the engine, and the music kicks in again, Latin girls harmonizing, “Takin’ meeeee, to the point of no return, ah-ah-ah.” He flips on the headlights, though it won’t be dark for hours; it’s a habit he grew up with in rural Canada, driving twisty back roads. “Better if they see you coming,” he always says. “You never know who’s out there.” He drives with both hands on the wheel, perfectly placed at 10 and 2.

As they turn onto South Street, Robin glances one last time through the restaurant’s plate-glass windows and catches sight of George, gliding through the dining room, looking surprisingly adult from this distance, filling out his white shirt like a grown man. He’s not the skinny, dorky teenager Robin befriended in New Jersey all those years ago. They’ve already said a hurried good-bye, with plans to hang out tonight, as they do every night, though it seems unlikely that they’ll spend much time together, with Peter here now. George doesn’t like Peter. They’ve only met a couple times. After the first visit, George was evasive. The second time, Robin pushed for an opinion, and George admitted, “He doesn’t seem right for you. Kinda uptight.” Robin tried to defend Peter: yes, he could be a little stiff, but that was a sign of maturity, stability, trustworthiness. George was unconvinced. “You’re just seeing what you want to see.”

Peter had had his own strong reaction to George: “He sees me as his competition.” Robin told him he was being ridiculous.

George is working the post-lunch bridge-shift, the first wave of dinner guests responding to Rosellen’s “Black Plate Special,” a couple hours of a fixed-price menu. The customers now are mostly people from the neighborhood: African American seniors and young mothers with kids in booster seats. Half the tables are empty. After sunset, the next wave of yuppies will start their advance, already fueled by cocktails imbibed elsewhere. Many of these people are only a couple years older than Robin, but they’ve already staked out their upwardly mobile careers. The women travel in track shoes and switch to high-heeled pumps on the sidewalk. The men put styling mousse in their expensive haircuts, which look shiny as helmets, making them look like slick warriors for Big Business.

Robin is amazed by how robust and healthy these people seem, almost robotically fit, because the other phenomenon he was all too aware of these days was the exact opposite: all those men, gay men, getting sick and frail. He hadn’t been so aware of them in Pittsburgh, but Philadelphia was a different story: the hairdressers and antique dealers who used to spend their weekends at bathhouses were now staying home and growing full beards to hide the purple lesions on their faces. OK, it’s not just bathhouse queens, he admits, it’s lots of guys, which is even scarier. Robin thinks uneasily of Donovan, living one floor up from his mother in Manhattan. He isn’t some creature of the night, doesn’t seem like a West Village leatherman; he’s just a boring guy with a 9-to-5 city job, and now, not even thirty years old, he’s sick with it. Robin used to enjoy their passing flirtations in the elevator, but last time he visited his mom, he saw what was happening to Donovan, and he actually began taking the stairs so that he wouldn’t have to face him. He checks his own skin now all the time, fretting over every blotch and zit, constantly feeling his neck and his armpits for swollen glands.

Peter wears a white T-shirt tight enough to show that he keeps himself in shape, but not so tight to read as flaming, the word he uses to talk about gay guys he thinks are “too obvious.” His pale blue tennis shorts hug perfectly the meat of his thighs. His arms are smooth except at the wrist; his legs are wildly hairy from his ankles to his cock, a swirling, black pattern. Peter Savas, my hunky Greek graduate student, Robin thinks, glad again that fate threw them together last semester, when Peter was leading Robin’s section of Renaissance Art, an elective Robin had enrolled in at the last minute; glad, too, that Peter broke the rules and had sex with him, keeping it quiet until the semester ended. He’s never had a real boyfriend until Peter; never left half his clothes and a toothbrush at a guy’s apartment; never gotten to know a lover down to his daily habits: Peter puts honey in his coffee, hangs his shirts in the closet according to color, speaks Greek on the phone with his ailing grandmother during regular Sunday calls.

But “need to talk,” is still in the air, buzzing like a gnat. “Talk about what?”

“Oh, you know,” Peter says lightly. “Us.”

“You’re mad that I made you come here.”

“You didn’t make me,” Peter says, which sends Robin into an anxious consideration of a frayed patch on the cuff of his shirt. He tugs at the cottony tendrils while silently adding up the reasons Peter most definitely is mad at him:

I left Pittsburgh instead of staying with him this summer.

I took this job to make money, now I complain I don’t make enough.

I call all the time, whining about how I miss him.

I smoke cigarettes and let bisexual dishwashers feel my ass.

At least you’re not cheating on him! You’re spending all your time at the restaurant, or hanging out with George at the apartment, having a totally uneventful summer. You haven’t been breaking out your fake I.D. to go dancing with the queens at Equus and Key West, or hanging around the Steteler Hall men’s room at Penn, where everyone knows you can get a blow job; you haven’t been putting yourself in the way of temptation; you haven’t been risking infection. . . . Robin remembers their last argument, when Peter visited three weeks ago. The fight had been about Robin not having a driver’s license, about the burden Peter said that put on him. It did no good to remind Peter that driver’s ed wasn’t even offered at the arts high school Robin attended. What was the word Peter threw at him? Unexamined. As in, “A lot of your behavior goes unexamined.” It seemed like such a ridiculous charge, because Robin feels like he examines every thought, emotion, and action until he drives himself crazy.

“I was serious when I said you should come to London with me,” Robin says.

Peter smiles indulgently. “Yeah, well, my dissertation . . .”

“You can study the Renaissance in London.”

“The Italian Renaissance?”

“Italy, England,” Robin says, with an exaggerated flap of his hand.

“Philadelphia, Pittsburgh,” Peter says coolly.

“Look, I’m really sorry,” Robin says. “I’m calmer now. Yesterday I felt really anxious about everything. At least now we get to spend the weekend together.”

“It’s not London,” Peter says. “It’s not your phone call.” Then, with a contemplative tilt of his head, he adds, “It is and it isn’t.”

Robin falls silent, scolding himself. Why are you so bad at this? When emotions get messy, he never quite understands what he’s supposed to do. In bed it’s different. He can take charge. He can push Peter to try new things. Peter’s only been out and sexual for a couple of years. Sex for Robin is something else he’s been doing since he was thirteen, since those first boys he messed around with in Greenlawn, and it only got more intense once he moved to Manhattan.

Robin runs his hand along Peter’s thigh, lets his fingers creep under his shorts. “You believe that I’ve been missing you, right? I know I said it a million times on the phone, but I’m not sure you really believe it.” His fingers move higher, and Robin can see the effect he’s having on Peter. He thinks about going down on him right here, as they move through traffic on Broad Street, an exciting image bound up in all the sex-in-car scenes he’s read in books—the teenager in Peyton Place, distracted by the suddenly exposed breast of the bad girl in his passenger seat, driving headlong into an oncoming tractor trailer . . . or the philanderer in The World According to Garp, getting a blow job that turns into a dismemberment when another car rear-ends theirs and the woman sucking bites down hard. Sex in cars ends badly. But doing the things he shouldn’t has always made h. . .