Page 52 of Cool for the Summer

“Dinner’s all set up on the back porch. I got takeout from the new barbecue place because it’s too fucking hot to cook,” Kingston announces. “Bring your bottles.”

Donovan and Reed head outside together, chatting about their favorite kinds of barbecue, while Lani sticks close to my side as I top up my glass. “How long have you and Reed been married?” I ask. Apparently, I’m anxious for relationship and business insights.

She laughs, a bright silvery tinkle. “By some counts a decade, by others, four. It’s… complicated. How long have you and Van been together?”

I start with a denial but can’t keep it up. “Oh, we’re not… well, uh… it’s complicated. Kingston doesn’t know,” I say, hoping that’s explanation enough.

She winks at me. “I won’t tell.”

“Thanks.” We go outside while I fret. What am I doing that makes it so obvious to a stranger that Donovan and I are more than friends? Then Donovan’s face lights up when he sees me and he pats the chair next to him, indicating he’s saving it for me.

Maybe it’s not so much what I’m doing at all.

TWENTY-TWO

DONOVAN

Two days after poker night,in which Kingston’s friend Lani indeed walked off with most of the pot and everyone gushed over Beck’s chocolate pecan cookies, I make a phone call I’ve been putting off for weeks.

Beck left an hour ago to meet Lani for lunch downtown, and I procrastinated by throwing the ball for Cleo until my arm was sore and she collapsed at my feet, thoroughly worn out. But now I force myself to page through my contacts and hit the number for Joan Starr, agent extraordinaire. I breathe slowly and channel a confident, successful actor. Wasn’t that Beck’s advice—to act the part if I don’t know what else to do?

The coward in me is hoping she won’t pick up, but after three rings, I hear her bark in my ear.

“Van! How’s the play coming?”

“I’m fine. How are you, Joan?” I say, because she likes it when I push back at her.

“I might need cataract surgery, but I’m still here so things could be worse. Now you go.”

“So the short answer is I don’t have a draft for you—yet.”

“Yet?”

“I’ve been working on it,” I answer truthfully. “But it’s pretty slow.”

“What else is there to do in the sticks?” she asks. “You’re still in Massachusetts, right?”

“Connecticut.”

“You sick of it yet? If you were in the city, I could get you three auditions this week.”

“Plays?”

“Commercials, mostly. TV’s ramping up, too.”

A job is a job. I’ve done both before and was grateful for the paycheck and the experience. But watching Beck these last few weeks, I’m not sure what I want anymore. He’s living on passion. I already hit my goals—I was on Broadway; my show was nominated for Tonys. I paid off my student loans and have worked steadily as an actor for four long years. Now I’m thirty and I have no idea what’s next.

“There’s a theater group at the local art center here,” I say. “I’m teaching a class about auditioning there soon. But it’s just a one-off. The play is… going okay. But I don’t know…” I stop, frustrated with my inability to articulate what I’m feeling.

“Teaching. Interesting,” Joan says. “Look, Van. You’re a good actor, you’ve got some hits under your belt. You might think I want you to write that play so we’d have a great hook for your next part—and we would. You are writing a part for yourself, aren’t you?”

I think about Julian, his breezy exterior and his insecure center, and nod, then realize she can’t see me. “Of course.”

“But I had an ulterior motive for nagging you to write something. I could see you burning out on the grind. Eight shows a week ad nauseam. It gets old, and I could see it happening to you. That’s why we decided you should take the summer off, remember? You needed to shake things up. And it sounds like maybe it’s working. You’re confused. That’s a good sign.”

“But if I’m not acting…” I stop before finishing my own sentence with the truth—if I’m not acting, I don’t know who I am. In New York, I knew who I was, what I wanted. I was Van Eastman, NYU grad, Broadway actor, man-slut, perpetually living with crappy roommates, and always striving for the next audition, hookup, and place to live.

In Rosedale, I’m Donovan. I have stability. I have a house and a dog and—Beck. I didn’t think I wanted any of that.

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