Page 9 of Cool for the Summer

After Donovan and I raid the fridge for wedding reception leftovers and serve ourselves a curious, but not unsatisfying, early supper of mini quiches, fruit skewers, and carnitas from last night’s taco bar, my headache is almost gone. The liter of water I down helps, too.

We manage to feed Cleo her dinner according to the comically detailed instructions left by Pete. Next up—escorting her on her evening walk.

I don my sunglasses again, but that’s because the sun is still high in the sky this close to the solstice, not because I’m going to die if I don’t.

Still, I happily let Donovan take charge of Cleo’s lead while we walk on the grassy shoulder of Wild Rose Lane. Pete sketched out a couple of his and Jack’s favorite walking routes, and I study the directions. “If we turn left up here, there’s a long street that ends in a cul-de-sac.”

“Left, got it,” Donovan says easily. He’s been pretty easy since I woke up from my nap. He gave me the short version of Pete’s care guide and cleaned up the kitchen after our meal. I’m still getting my bearings, but so far it doesn’t seem like this co-house-sitting, co-dog-sitting thing will be a huge problem.

“So, tell me your life story,” I say as we veer onto Turner Street.

Donovan stumbles but rights himself before he actually falls. “Excuse me?”

“Your life story,” I repeat. “We’re going to be living with each other for the next two months. Let’s skip to the good stuff.”

“I’m pretty boring.”

“Well, that’s a total lie,” I scoff. “You have a super cool job, for one thing. Did you always want to be an actor? Where are you from? Do you have any siblings? What about college?”

He laughs and pauses to let Cleo sniff a mailbox post in front of a colonial-style house. I slow to wait for them.

“You really want to know? Or are you just being polite?”

“‘Stop being polite and start getting real,’” I intone.

“You’re too young to have watchedThe Real World,” he says skeptically.

I grin, pleased he picked up the reference. “I had cool older cousins, remember? I watched a lot of shit I probably shouldn’t have.” I think about waiting out hot Texas summer days in Jack’s parents’ basement watching TV and playing video games with Jack and his brother and sister.

“Where were your parents while you were rotting your brain with reality TV?” Donovan asks.

At the mention of my own parents, I suppress a grimace and deploy my well-practiced deflection technique. “Nope. I asked you first. Come on, pony up the deets, Donovan.”

Cleo, done with her inspection, ambles on, and we follow obediently.

“Fine. I wanted to be an actor from the first time I saw live theater. I grew up in Upstate New York and?—”

“Where upstate?”

“This tiny little town near the Finger Lakes. Beautiful and boring. Kind of like Rosedale, actually. Anyway, in seventh grade my mom took me to see a touring production ofPhantom. I was hooked. Unfortunately, I can’t carry a tune in a tote bag, so I stick to plays.”

I eye him and try to picture an adolescent Donovan being captivated by a romantic eighties-era musical. It’s hard to think of him as anything but effortlessly charismatic, but it’s comforting to imagine he was a theater dork before he was Donovan Eastman, Broadway star.

When I realize I’ve been looking at his charmingly crooked profile for too long, I rush to fill the silence. “I’m not that into musicals, no offense.”

“What? Don’t they revoke your gay card for that?” he asks with mock severity.

I smile wryly. “I know, I’m such a disappointment.” If only it were that easy.

“Anyway, what were your other questions?”

“Siblings? College? Big break?”

Donovan shakes his head, as if he can’t believe he’s letting me bully him, but he answers anyway. “One sister, married with kids, is still upstate. I went to NYU, did the theater program, waited tables forever, finally broke out a few years ago with a great part in a hot play that got nominated for a bunch of Tonys. I’ve been supporting myself as an actor ever since, mostly theater but some commercials and guest spots on TV. I’ve been lucky, but I also could have quit so many times and I just…didn’t.”

“That’s cool.” I admire him for sticking with what is no doubt a demoralizing job with more lows than highs. “You don’t seem like a quitter.”

“According to Pete, I’m stubborn.”

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