Real Life(10)

“Well, that’s enough of a show,” Wallace said.

“No, not yet.” Emma kissed him on the mouth. Her breath was warm but sweet, like she’d been sucking on candies. Her lips were soft and sticky. The kiss was brief, but the noise it drew from the nearby tables was deafening. Someone swung a flashlight beam at them, and there they were, kissing down by the water, like something out of a movie. Emma, naturally dramatic, flung her arm back and fell across his lap.

Wallace had never been kissed before, not by anyone, not really. He felt vaguely like something had been stolen from him. Emma laughed against his knees. Thom came down to the water’s edge with Scout’s leash fisted tightly in hand.

“What the fuck was that?” he asked Wallace, sharply, meanly. “Do you just go around kissing other people’s partners?”

“She kissed me,” Wallace said.

“I kissed him,” Emma said as if that explained it. Wallace sighed.

“Emma, we’ve talked about this.”

“He’s gay,” she said, sitting up now. “It doesn’t count. It’s like kissing another girl.”

“Well, I appreciate that,” Wallace said.

“See?”

“No, Em. It’s not okay. It doesn’t matter if he’s gay—no offense, Wallace—”

“I mean, I am gay.”

“You’re still kissing other people,” Thom went on. “That’s not okay.”

“Don’t be such a puritan,” Emma said. “What, are you a Baptist all of a sudden?”

“Don’t make fun of me,” Thom said.

“His dad died. I was being a good friend!” She had stood up now. The edge of her skirt—some floral thing, probably rummaged out of someone’s closet and sold for pennies—was damp. Wallace sucked in a breath. Thom looked at him.

“Your dad died?”

“He died,” Wallace said, with a faint singsong quality.

“Man, I am so sorry.” Thom drew him in for a hug. His skin was hot and flushed. His dark beard bristled against Wallace’s neck. He had hazel eyes that seemed brown in the evening light. “I had no idea. That’s really hard. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Wallace said.

“No, it’s not. And that’s okay,” Thom said, patting Wallace’s back with what to Wallace seemed like self-satisfaction. Scout licked Wallace’s hand, passing her tongue over palm and knuckles. He crouched down to ruffle her ears. She jumped up and put her paws on his shoulder. She had a woody fragrance like a lime tree. Emma and Thom shared a conciliatory kiss while Scout licked the inside of Wallace’s ears.

The three of them walked back to the table, which had grown cramped and boozy. The pitchers of beer had arrived, and a cider for Wallace.

“I ordered it for you,” Miller said.

“How thoughtful,” Wallace said dryly despite himself, but Miller only nodded.

Fat hornets swam in lazy circles overhead. They occasionally dove for the sweet beer and cider, but Yngve, a conservationist at heart, had been trapping them beneath a cup and walking them to the edge of the pier to release them. By the time he came back, new hornets were buzzing nearby.

“I hate bees,” Wallace said.

“They’re actually not bees,” Yngve tried to interject.

“I’m allergic to wasps,” Wallace said.

“Bees and wasps are not—”

“Me too,” Miller said. He yawned and stretched. He rubbed his eyes with his hand, which was salty and messy from the popcorn and nachos. He jumped up right away, nearly upending the table. Wallace saw the empty tub of nachos and knew immediately what had happened.

“Shit,” Miller said.

“Oh no.”

“You okay?”

“No, Yngve. I am not okay,” Miller said and was gone, up the stone path, away from them.

“I’ll go,” Wallace said, before Cole could.



* * *



? ? ?

AMONG THE CLUMPS of white people, Wallace saw: a large red man whose golden body hair was lit by the high-wattage lamps at the concession stands; two small boys with toy cars they ran around and around the smooth surface of their table and up the arms of their vaguely tired, athletic parents, whose faces were tight in the sort of mean way that fit people carry; several tables of frat boys all in tank tops, their skin so healthy in the milky dusk light under the trees that they almost glowed with possibility; and groups, here or there, of older people, their bodies and lives gone soft, here to recapture some bit of the past like coaxing fireflies into a jar. The band on the stage, the whole lake at their backs, played something that sounded to Wallace like a Caribbean swing, but as if out of time, on a delay. They wore Hawaiian shirts, and they looked to be about Wallace’s age, with shaggy blond hair and keen noses, each so like the other that they could have been siblings. Several torch lamps had been lit throughout the sitting area, but the concession stands had powerful high-wattage lights that pooled in front of them, and it was like emerging from night into day when you stepped up to order overpriced beer, or decent soft pretzels, or brats. Wallace waited in line behind the man with the golden shoulder hair, and when it was his turn at the concession stand, he asked for a small bottle of milk. It cost him $3.50, and the attendant, a scraggly bearded boy with a flat nose, looked at him skeptically as he dug around in the cooler under the counter for the bottle.