In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)(62)

“Hey, Dan,” he said. “Not a great time.”

The man he was with was the opposite of me in every way: a gorgeous little twink, thin and blond, with big blue eyes and apple cheeks and an arm slung around Richard’s waist with the casualness of long habit.

I had no idea what to say or do and, suddenly, what seemed like the absolute most important thing was that Richard not have the slightest inkling that I cared at all.

“I need my book,” I said, and my voice came out scratchy and high. The twink shifted a few inches to the left, so I could squeeze through the doorway.

At work that night, as I mechanically poured drinks and stared at the lights strobing over the crowd, I played the conversation Richard and I had over and over in my mind, trying to make sense of the pieces.

Things Richard said:

“Well, it isn’t as if we’re exclusive,” and, at my shocked expression, “I’m sorry if you thought that, Daniel, but we never had that conversation.”

“Don’t look at me like I’ve betrayed you. I would never cheat on a boyfriend, but when did we ever decide that’s what we were?”

Socking me softly in the shoulder, “Come now, if you were my boyfriend you would’ve had to spring for a real birthday present.” In fact, I’d spent more money on Richard’s gift, a first American edition of John Dalton’s A New System of Chemical Philosophy, than on any other gift I’d ever given.

Months later, I learned that I was about the only one at Penn who didn’t know Richard and I hadn’t been exclusive. Months later, I learned that Richard had been f*cking his way through the entire city of Philadelphia and everyone had known. Months later, too, I realized that I hadn’t ever even liked Richard that much, that the reason I’d never noticed that he saw other people or cared that we spent so little time together was because I was fairly indifferent to his company. Months later, I mostly felt incredibly stupid to have it pointed out so clearly that I had no idea what it was to be in a relationship, and quite ridiculous to realize how easy it was to be living a life completely different than the one of the person in bed beside you. But that night, I just felt shocked.

And it was probably because I felt shocked that I didn’t pay better attention as I was leaving work and walking to the subway. The bar paid us in cash—one of many reasons I liked working there—and I had years of experience being careful walking around with it late at night. It usually helped that I didn’t look like I had anything to steal: shitty old iPod, disposable pay-as-you-go phone, and my keys.

They might have seen me move the cash from my wallet to my front pocket outside the bar, they might have seen a bulge in my pocket and hoped it was a nice phone, or they might have just jumped me randomly. I don’t know. But when I was a block away from the subway entrance, its awning awash in friendly light, two guys grabbed me and dragged me into an alley where a third man waited with a knife. They punched me in the face so I knew they were serious, and threw me against the wall where the guy with the knife leaned, looking on dispassionately. Gang initiation? Debt paid? I don’t know. They found the money in seconds and broke a few ribs anyway. They shoved my face against the dirty wall and even took the time to rifle through my wallet, dropping it when they found nothing worth taking. Took one look at my ancient iPod and shitty phone and didn’t even bother once they had the cash in hand.

I called Ginger and she came and picked me up, silent tears running down her face as she drove me back to her place and put me to bed under her covers.

And when I told Ginger about Richard the next morning, she said I should go to the police.

“Nah,” I said. “I don’t want to deal with it. What’s the point anyway? They were probably just kids.”

“No,” she deadpanned. “Not about the mugging. About Richard. You should see if you can file an incident report for rampant douchebaggery,” because she is the best friend in the history of the world. We both started laughing, which killed my ribs, so I tried to push Ginger, who, in trying to dodge me, fell off her chair. A regular Three Stooges routine.

I had nightmares about it for months afterward—no surprise there—but they went away for the most part, and I hadn’t had one in two years.

So why the f*ck am I having them again, especially starting on a night when I was really happy? My brain supplies a flash flood of answers, most of which are automatic analysis: you feel like Rex stole something from you, you feel like your world has been turned on its side, everything’s collapsing, etc.

Before I can settle on any one of them, I turn the volume on the TV up and click over to the food channel that Rex mentioned liking, and I fall asleep to the sound of chiffonading, creaming, emulsifying, and zesting—or so the narration tells me.




THE NEXT morning, I wake up with the television still on and am greeted by a plump, motherly looking chef making some kind of breakfast feast of challah french toast and something called shirred eggs. My stomach gives a growl and I fumble around for the tiny coffeepot. I didn’t eat much yesterday. My stomach was in knots every time I thought about my fight with Rex.

There are two sessions I should attend at the conference this morning, but I can’t do it. I’m exhausted from all my socializing yesterday, from the fight with Rex, from all of it. And I can’t help but think that I owe Rex an explanation. That, like Ginger said, I need to just tell him some shit about me and let him decide what to do with it.