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“Hey. It’s me.”
“Is everything alright?”
There’s a centimeter of concern in his tone, and for a second, I feel my throat go tight with emotion. The bar is the floor, and small scraps of humanity from him send me into a tailspin.
“Yes. I mean...no. Not really. Yes, physically, I’m okay, but...”
“But?”
“Nadine and I got a divorce.” I blurt the words out, like marbles, sending them scattering far away for someone else to pick up.
There’s a long silence on the other end and for a moment I worry he’s hung up. But then he says, “Is it finalized?”
“Yes. Three weeks ago. It’s been...a long time coming. We didn’t want anyone to know until it was done.”
“A long time? You’ve only been married six months. How can you know anything in that time?”
“We knew,” I say firmly.
He lets out a tight breath. “She was good for you.”
“She was good,” I correct. “Just not for me.”
“Don’t tell your mother. I’ll inform her. It will break her heart, you know.”
Words like a ball of twine in my throat—lumpy and wooly and thick. “Can I come stay with you?” I ask. “Just until I figure out my next steps.”
“You’re a grown man,” my father snaps. “You’ll figure it out, I’m sure.”
This time, when he goes silent, I call his name and he doesn’t answer. He’s hung up on me.
I exhale deeply and put my head between my knees, trying to keep my heart from pounding out of my chest.
6
Donovan
It takes a little over an hour to get from Hannsett Island to Penn Street Station.
My favorite bar in New York, however, is a gay bar in SoHo called the Golden Lantern. It’s tucked away in a corner by the A, C, E trains, on the edge of a couple homely brownstones. Inside, the walls are plastered with polaroid images of people who have come in and out of this bar over the past decades or so, and there’s a string of holiday lights above the bar that probably haven’t been changed since the place opened up.
I like it here because it’s one of the quieter gay bars in New York City. It’s not a club and I don’t have to pretend to be a twenty-one year old who can pull off a full spandex suit. I can just sit at the bar, enjoy a glass of merlot, and scope the place out.
For the first fifteen minutes, the bar is mostly compromised by lesbians, queers, and young millennials. But, finally, I spot him.
The most miserable guy in the room.
He’s a middle-aged guy sitting at the very end of the bar. He’s handsome in a George Clooney sort of way—older, suave—and he looks utterly out of place here. His suit is tailored to fit, yet he keeps tugging at the collar of his shirt like it’s choking him.
Like I said. I have a thing for strays.
There’s a TV hanging above the bar playing an old black-and-white film—Nosferatu. He’s staring at it blankly, not because he’s watching it, but because he can’t bring his eyes to go anywhere else.
I pick up my glass and come sit down next to him. “Big fan of vampire movies?” I ask, nodding to the screen.
“Not really,” he confesses.
I knock back my glass. “Want to buy me a drink?”
