Page 1 of Cool for the Summer

ONE

DONOVAN

I’ve gottime to kill. How exactly should I pass the hours until meeting Jack and Pete at their magazine-spread-perfect Cape-style house? I definitely can’t show up early. My friends are probably sleeping or fucking, since their wedding party only broke up late last night.

I shudder involuntarily, still processing the fact that Pete’s married, like an actual, well-adjusted grown-up. I still think of Pete Blekitny as the fresh-faced, dumb-as-a-brick (in a nice way) kid I met when we both answered the same ad for a roommate in Chelsea nearly a decade ago. Neither of us had gotten the room, but we’d decided to go in on a place together. By pooling our resources and finding a third roommate, we’d been able to afford a shitty walk-up in Chinatown. Pete had been trying to break into the art scene, while I was desperate to put my NYU theater education to work as an actor. Pete had more success as a barista, while I perfected my acting skills waiting tables at an upscale seafood restaurant. It took every ounce of my talent to pretend to be nice to the snobby patrons. At least the tips were good.

But I haven’t waited tables in years, and Pete left the city for Rosedale, Connecticut, three years ago now. Rosedale was supposed to be a temporary refuge, a place to lick his wounds from a toxic relationship, but he ended up meeting his creative and life partner, Jack Avery, and stayed put. Together, they write and illustrate a best-selling series of books for middle schoolers. They’ve done well for themselves. Honestly, the success and domestic bliss couldn’t have happened to a couple of nicer guys.

Not that I want what Pete and Jack have. I might be taking care of their house and dog for a couple of months while they’re on their boinkfest of a European honeymoon, but their life is definitely not for me. I’m already missing having all of New York outside my front door, not to mention access to the buffet of men that is Manhattan.

The car service that picked me up from my no-frills motel lets me out on Rosedale’s main drag. The sleepy small-town vibes of the three-block stretch of two-story brick buildings don’t inspire me. Then again, I remind myself the whole point of this house-sitting gig is to get away from the city for a while, and do a favor for an old friend.

I have to take the good with the bad. So there’s not going to be a plethora of guys to choose from for the next couple of months—I’ll survive. I’ve been going through an uncharacteristic dry spell, but if I get really horny, I can always fire up one of my dating apps and see what the pickings are like in this corner of Connecticut.

Rolling my suitcase behind me, backpack over my shoulders, I head for the only place in Rosedale I really know, thanks to Pete talking my ear off about it.

Hot Brew is a small but stylish coffee shop smack in the middle of Main Street. The mid-morning sun gleams off the black and white tile interior and the pastry case is filled with tempting golden brown baked goods. My mouth waters at the scent of roasting coffee beans, a hint of spice underneath.

I met Pete’s friend Meadow, Hot Brew’s manager, at the wedding reception last night, but I don’t see the pretty goth behind the counter today. Instead, a diminutive redhead with translucent skin works the register while a hulking bear of a man handles the espresso machine as efficiently as any New York City barista. To my surprise, I may actually get a decent cup of joe in this place.

I set my bags down at an empty two-top in a corner, marking my territory, and get in line behind a woman on a cell phone with a small child at her knee. The kid alternates between coughing and smearing his snotty nose on his mother’s jean-clad legs. I take a step back. Kids are also not my thing. Another reason not to envy what Pete and Jack are embarking on. Sure, they have a sweet house, thriving careers, and theyseemsuper happy. But wait until they have a rug rat or two—their sex life will disappear, mark my words.

The child peeks around his mother’s legs and smiles up at me. I weaken against cute little milk teeth and chubby cheeks and find myself smiling back accidentally. In self-defense, I pull out my phone to check the weather. Looks like sun for days.

When the kid and his mom have left holding their bag of goodies, it’s my turn at the counter. I start with a simple, “Good morning.”

The tiny redhead blinks at me. “Good morning?” she responds, making it into a question.

“Can I get a red eye and…something healthy?” I scan the menu on the wall. “How’s the veggie breakfast bowl?”

“It’s good?”

“Sold."

“Name for the order?”

“Van. And what’s your name?” I tap my credit card to pay.

“Ruth.”

At least she seems certain of that.

“Thanks a million, Ruth,” I say, deepening my smile as I tuck a five into the tip jar.

She blushes crimson and I chuckle to myself as I sit down at the table I’d claimed earlier. I can be charming when I want to be, and there’s no reason not to be charming to the woman in charge of my breakfast.

Mindful of the hours I still have to fill, I get my pen and notebook out of my backpack, open to an empty page and lose my smile.

I’m supposed to be writing a play.

It’s not going particularly well.

I sigh and close my notebook. Maybe I’ll think better after eating.

Ruth brings my coffee. I thank her effusively and it’s not entirely a put-on. I worked in food service long enough to know a simple thank you goes a long way. Also, after the watery crap at the motel, I’m grateful for a jolt of caffeine. She blushes again and scurries away. I can’t pretend it doesn’t do my ego good. I’m enough of a narcissist to appreciate my effect on some people. It comes in handy at auditions, not to mention social situations. I take pride in my pickup game. Lord knows I’ve had enough practice since?—

Nope. Not thinking about that. I take a sip of the red eye, piping hot and pleasantly strong, and let the drink distract me from things that shouldn't still hurt this many years later.

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