Page 41 of Romeo vs Romeo

“I don’t remember saying you could come,” I texted.

To that, Roman simply wrote, “Oh fuck.”

And although Roman’s lust was subdued for a little while, mine raged unrestrained. I also knew with growing confidence that Roman was never satisfied for long. I had seen it the first time, and I had seen it the other night. I knew that glassy look that accompanied his rosy cheeks when he was ready to go again.

We arrived at the sprawling resort of green hills, quaint meadows, artificial lakes with sandy beaches, and copses of trees scattered as far as I could gaze. The place was a secluded haven for powerful people such as my father. Here, with security checks and anonymity guarantees, they could speak far more freely.

Today, with the drizzle coming and going on occasion, the grass was wet, and a light mist was lingering in the distance. Our car pulled up before the clubhouse, a magnificently opulent mansion that would have horrified Monsignor O’Connor but didn’t burden the souls of my parents.

I followed my father inside. We passed the massive lobby and went through to the bar. On the terrace looking over the endless green grass and flaming leaves of fall trees, we found Robert Jacobs enjoying the view. He sat on a wooden white chair by a table cluttered with breakfast dishes and drinks. At the sound of our footsteps, he looked up, his smile open and welcoming. “Harry, it’s good to see you, my old friend,” he said, and Dad greeted him happily.

“This is my son, Everett,” Dad said. I wondered if I really heard a touch of pride in his tone. My mind was mostly still clouded with desire, although I reined it in far enough so the heat wouldn’t show on my face. “Children are the future of the world,” he went on. “He better start learning the ropes soon, eh?”

Jacobs, a balding man in his late thirties, shook my hand with the same welcoming warmth with which he had greeted my father. “It’s good to meet you, Everett. That’s a strong grip.”

We sat around, and I wondered what it was that I should pay attention to. From Dad’s point of view, I imagined he just wanted me to listen to the adults talking. Some years ago, close to ten probably, he had changed the way he saw me. I had gone from a child to a young man. The trouble was Dad never updated that view since then. I was still a teenager in his eyes.

Robert Jacobs had an espresso before him, and his fingers moved over the small handle of the espresso cup. He asked about my mother and if the ride here was pleasant. He mentioned that he hadn’t been in the city for a week. He remarked on how wonderful this season was. “Or perhaps it’s just this one week, huh? One week in the year when the sun is not too hot and the clouds are not too thick. Wonderful days to be alive. What’s it like in the city? Not too cloudy, I hope.”

“Cloudy or not, there’s a storm brewing,” Dad said, clearly taking the opening to slide into the conversation he meant to have.

It seemed to me that this was precisely what Jacobs had been aiming at. “Is that so?”

“Not our first, eh, Robert?” Dad said this almost fondly, like he was revisiting some dear memories from a time long gone. “Let me be forward, my friend. These queers imagine that just because they laid their little pinky on something, it must be culturally significant. We gave them too much, you know. Theythink it makes them untouchable when, really, this business with that bar has nothing to do with their proclivities.”

“Harry, you’re worrying too much,” Jacobs said. It struck me as an odd thing to say. He was completely undisturbed by what my father was saying.

Dad went on, reaching for the plate with a serving of champagne-poached pear with vanilla bean mascarpone. He waved his spoon to illustrate his point. “It’s the ego that bothers me, Robert. Not everything is about them.”

I wondered why he never spoke this way with my mother. She would have appreciated it. There, in a moment of observing him and thinking this absurd thought of how my father’s homophobia would please my mother, I realized I no longer loved him.

My fingers were swifter than my brain. They tapped the screen under the table, and I only gave it a cursory glance to make sure I did it correctly.

“They will be dealt with, Harry,” Jacobs said. “These days, they fill up every picket line. Don’t let that concern you.”

“Don’t let it? They were in front of my home, Robert,” Dad grumbled. If there had been any pretense that this was a formal meeting, that thought was gone. These men had been rubbing elbows for long enough to speak frankly. “Last week, a crowd of them waited across the street until my car pulled out. They’re fortifying, I’m telling you.”

“So what? Are you worried about your safety? Come out here.” Robert shrugged. He gestured vaguely at the beautiful surroundings. “Besides, it’s only a matter of time before he caves in. You’ll get that sale sooner or later.” I realized he was talking about Mama Viv, and some part of me I hadn’t known existed was furious. Possessiveness or protectiveness, whichever it was, blazed in me.

“Sooner would be preferable,” Father said.

“I thought you would be delighted at the prospect of a forced sale,” Jacobs replied.

“Right now, Robert, I’m more interested in clearing the paperwork and being done with it. If that wig-wearing son of a bitch continues to fan the flames, we’re all in deep shit. It’ll take bulldozers in the night to make him sign the goddamn transfer.” My father ate his champagne-poached pear like it was a medieval potion against some terrible affliction, his face sour and reddening. Here, I saw why he didn’t care what my mother’s rants were about. “If, by any chance, the city sent an inspection that found a crack in the foundation, perhaps we could speed it up. What do you say, Robert?”

“I say, you never know when those inspectors might show up,” Jacobs replied smartly. He glanced at me suspiciously, and the warmth and welcome were gone from the table. “Can I be frank, Harry?”

“He’s my son,” my father replied. “Say what you mean.”

Robert Jacobs smoothed the suspicion right out of his face, the fool that he was.You almost got me, I thought.Your instinct was right, you fucker. “The sheer amount of, er, research—for the lack of a more accurate word—that has been submitted with our application is enough to win you any challenge in court, Harry. Those people are welcome to try, but they’ll lose. And if it truly drags out—believe me, I don’t want to see it drag out; my stake is high enough as is, and my returns are tied to this project—we will bring out the big guns.”

“You’re goddamn right they are,” Dad grumbled about the returns. I wondered if Jacobs had a stake in our company. He might. It wouldn’t surprise me if he waited for the shares to shoot upward once this project is safely underway.

I wondered how much my family stood to lose. Oddly enough, it didn’t bother me to think they might spend their winter in Monsignor O’Connor’s dormitory for the homeless.

“Are you sure about that?” Father pressed on. “You made sure the research can’t be challenged?”

“Challenged? Of course it can be, but they’ll never be able to disprove our conclusions as quickly as we can find more reasons why the building needs to go. Now, tell me, how is Lavinia? Hilary would love to host a dinner when Lavinia is free to join. Young man, you will find our dinners deeply boring, but the invitation is extended to you, too.” Jacobs opened his expression with warmth again, and a shiver ran down my spine. This was a ruthless man. I had no doubt about it.

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