I open my phone and enter the number. It must be the fifth one I’ve had for Otto. He’s always cancelling his phone, giving up on the materialistic nature of constant communication and then changing his mind. I knew from mutuals that he was back in Berlin working with some artists’ collective that does radical agriculture and avant-garde theater. If I were traveling by myself or with someone else, anyone else, I would have tried to find him so we could hang out. Why not? He’s an old college friend. I never did anything wrong with him.
Hayes and I were on a break when I went to see a production ofMother Couragein some classroom Otto had turned into a performance space. I was upset with Hayes for the exact thing he’s doing now, icing me out, treating me like a specimen, and I told him we should call it off for a while. He told me if that’s what I wanted, he wouldn’t stand in my way.
At the cast party afterwards, Otto made a beeline for me. “Hello, you are Brady Gibson. I’ve seen you on campus. You are very attractive. I would like us to have sex.”
I almost spit out the beer I was drinking. It was shocking but also refreshing to be in the presence of a guy who was so direct in what he was feeling. The exact opposite of Hayes, who held his emotions inside a steel fortune cookie that was almost impossible to crack open.
“Okay. I would like that too,” I said, in the spirit of openness. Otto was skinny, with black hair dyed even blacker with violet undertones. He had an elegant, angular face and wore smokey eyeliner. He was known for staging impromptu pieces of performance art in the dining hall.
On the way to his apartment, I remember telling him I liked the play and his performance. He stopped me. “I am not interested in what is called “small talk” and I do not perform for attention like so many other people. Your comments in that matter do not interest me. Have you ever used a double-ended dildo? That is a question that interests me right now.”
I thought he was joking but knew enough not to laugh. The last thing in the world anyone would call me is a prude, but even I was shocked by his question. And intrigued.
We slept together one time when Hayes and I were officially not together. Even before my tryst, Hayes was not an Otto fan. Hayes thought he was a poser. Sure, anyone who wears a beret to a Macro Econ class has crossed the line, but Otto was a nice guy and unlike so many of the people I usually hung out with. We remained friends long after that night which resulted in an incredible, memorable experience but, alas, did not include the double-ended dildo. Hayes and I were back together two weeks later and stronger than ever. Or so I thought.
Otto picks up immediately. “Halo,” he says with his German accent. I have to remind myself he went to high school in Baltimore.
“Otto, the hotel said you called and gave me your number. How did you know I was here?”
“Wunderbar.Undnot only did I know you were in Barcelona. I know your next stop is Berlin. I have a proposition for you.”
I should hang up right now. Hayes will go through the roof if he finds out I’m talking to Otto, but I think about how difficult Hayes has been today. The coldness in his eyes. The way his body repelled from my touch. Otto is just a friend, and I don’t have any interest in changing that at the moment. Why shouldn’t I see an old friend when I’m in his city? I should at the very least hear what Otto has to say.
“Go ahead, Otto. I’m listening.”
Chapter 22
Barcelona
Hayes
As soon as I leave Brady at the front desk I run up to the room, taking the stairs two at a time, intentionally overexerting my lungs. I need the physical intensity to slow down my mind and let my body take over.
Today was a disaster. He knows something is up. I walk into the suite and sit on the bed with my elbows on my knees and head in my hands, trying to catch my breath. I’m sending Brady the wrong signal, but I don’t know how to send the right one or what that even is. I need to remain calm. Examine. Diagnose. Treat.
But when I look at the bed, a rumpled mess of sheets and pillows, I’m lost again. I grab an end of the sheet and pull it up to my face to smell the strawberry and marshmallow scented shampoo he uses on his curly hair. Last night was amazing. Reconnecting with Brady in that way I’ve been aching for. Being able to pleasure him and make him feel me, understand me by using my mouth, hands and dick.
But this morning changed everything.
I replay the scene at the coffee bar in the lobby in case I heard wrong or misunderstood. Careful examination is always the first step. I was adding extra sugar and extra milk to a double espresso the way I know Brady likes it when a man and a woman dressed in suits sat down next to me. They were speaking in English, so my ears couldn’t help but connect with what they were saying. I heard them say they were at the hotel for a For Us corporate meeting with the parent company managers.
I was about to go over and introduce myself, since I figured we were all working for the same team. But then I heard the man ask about the social media for the brands team and the woman said, “Nothing has really started yet. Brands will plan a real campaign in the fall once the marketing mission is finished.”
Real campaign.That struck me as odd. Then the man said he thought he saw some posts featuring the hotel. The woman said, “Oh those. They aren’t really anything.” She let out a sharp laugh and shooed her hand in front of her. “Something to keep some rich boy occupied for the summer. His parents have high-up connections at Maximedia and the mother pulled some strings. I guess to give him something to do. Aisha is trying to make it work, to get some value out of the effort. She even offered a bonus.”
My entire body went cold. I stood a few feet away from them, my hands trembling, the heat from the espresso cups burning my fingers. I muttered a “buenos dias” as I passed them and headed out of the cafe with my head down in case they recognized me from the payola pictures online.
Brady’s parents arranged this whole thing.How could they do that to him?He thinks he’s proving something to them but the whole time they’ve been manipulating him. And why? To keep him busy all summer? So he’ll follow their orders and go to law school? It doesn’t make any sense but nothing his parents do has ever made sense to me. I had to go back up to the room, but I felt sick to my stomach. If Brady found out about the deception, it would destroy him.
Now, sitting here on our rumpled bed, I’m drowning in the irony. Brady thinks he’s finally doing something on his own, proving himself to his parents who’ve already rigged the game. That’s what people from that world do. They think their money and power also comes with the right to manipulate and deceive. I’m trapped in the exact position Brady was in Chicago. I’m holding information that will shatter someone… someone who matters deeply to me.
I’m devastated. Poor Brady. He was trying so hard to make this into something that would make his parents proud. He wanted to do something on his own without their influence but the whole thing was just a joke on him. On both of us.
The entire day I could not get my mind to click back to the present. I was distant and off in my own world which he interpreted as disinterest in him. Which it wasn’t at all. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I heard and whether I should tell him. It will make him feel worthless. I do not want to be the person who makes him feel that way. This is Chicago repeating itself; I felt so manipulated then, but I suddenly understand how stuck he felt. How he was put in an impossible position. Because now I’m in the same exact one.
I hear the door begin to open. I’m still not sure what I should do but I know I have to at least tell him that my mood today had nothing to do with him or how I feel about him. Then I can figure out the next steps in a way that doesn’t hurt him.
“Hey, I should be changing, right?” I ask. I think our next destination is the pool. I’ve lost track.
