Page 11 of Breakout Year
Eitan sat. Fiddled with the paper napkin wrapped around his beer. Tapped his toe against the floor. Shifted in his chair.
Logan yawned. Somehow, Eitan was fucking this up already. “Sorry,” Logan said, “I’m still on teacher hours and this is way past my bedtime.”
At least that was an opening. Eitan didn’t know much—anything really—about dating men other than he possibly wanted to do it in a way he couldn’t fully articulate to himself, a thrumming energy that sat somewhere between his ribs and his belly. He didn’t even know if this counted as dating-adjacent. But he was there, trying. “What grade do you teach?”
Logan’s smile tipped up the corner of his mouth. Oh he’s good-looking. A thought Eitan had had before about guys in the clubhouse that he’d always put down to aesthetic appreciation. Different here, sitting up on the roof in a warm summer wind. “It’s summer school right now,” Logan said. “Mostly kids who want to avoid repeating a grade, but a few are taking enrichment courses…” And then he was off and going, and all Eitan needed to do was ask the right questions at the right moment.
“I didn’t think you’d be like this,” Logan said after a while.
Eitan glanced down as if the logo on his shirt had suddenly rearranged to say First Time Hitting On A Man. “How so?”
“My ex only talked about himself, but that’s probably why he’s my ex.”
“So you are gay,” Eitan blurted, then attempted to sink through the metal surface of his chair.
The corner of Logan’s mouth—and Eitan didn’t necessarily think he had a thing for lips, but maybe Eitan also didn’t know what he had a thing for generally—pressed inward as if in slight dismay. “Yes,” Logan said simply.
“Oh.” Eitan picked at the napkin that was more and more a wet paper clump. “Uh, good.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you seem new to this.”
“I’ve never really spent time in New York before,” Eitan said, like he’d simply misunderstood what Logan had meant. He was new. Apparently obviously so. He’d watched enough porn to know this whole thing he was feeling wasn’t wildly off-base. He’d been in his message requests folder on Insta long enough to determine that he should never do that again. He just didn’t know…how to do any of the rest of this or who could answer his approximately one million questions and not immediately rat him out to the press. His heart didn’t so much sink as capsize.
Logan hummed over his beer—his second beer, that Eitan had gotten him from the rooftop bar—then yawned again. “It’s getting pretty late. I should get going.”
Which could be real or an out. “I’ll walk you to the train,” Eitan offered.
“You’re sweet.” Logan said it in a way that didn’t entirely sound like a compliment, like Eitan had rolled into New York with hay sticking from his hair rather than coming from the second-largest city in Ohio. Which might as well be the same thing.
“If you give me your number, I’ll call you,” Eitan said, but Logan was already peeling himself up from his chair.
They’d only gotten about five feet outside the bar when a flash went off in Eitan’s face. “Fucking hell,” Eitan said. “I should’ve warned you.”
Logan ducked a look around. “What was that?”
Eitan shook his head. “Press.” They weren’t even touching—just two guys who happened to be exiting a bar at the same time. Eitan could not—would not—do what he wanted to and break Dave’s camera. Dave was just doing his job, shitty though it might be. Except Dave had brought friends or competition, judging by the guys milling around next to him. “I’m gonna go tell them to knock it off,” Eitan said.
“Hey.” Logan tapped his arm. “I can make it to the train. It was really great to meet you. Enjoy New York.”
And he’d already walked off before Eitan realized that he’d never actually gotten his number.
Later, when Eitan was back at his apartment, still too new to think of as home, when he’d drunk his oat milk, listened to ten minutes of his audiobook to decompress, and counted all the ways dating someone might be a series of exciting firsts for Eitan and never-ending media scrutiny for his potential boyfriend—when he’d realized that he’d left his hope for normal back in Cleveland, along with his aspirations for a contract extension and his dream to be loved by his hometown—he took out the card for the modeling agency Isabel had given him and flipped it around a few times.
Reaching out on his own felt terrifying, so he did what he usually did in times of crisis and texted Gabe a call me, not expecting an immediate response.
Eitan’s FaceTime began ringing almost instantly. He clicked to accept the call. Judging by the pillow crease on his face that extended up to his shaved-bald scalp, Gabe must have been asleep. He had two ex-wives who he’d sometimes reconcile with for a while, but neither was in evidence.
“It’s not an emergency,” Eitan said. “Sorry for disturbing you.”
Gabe suppressed a yawn. “Well, I’m awake now.”
“The team offered to set me up with a fake girlfriend from a modeling agency.” Eitan held up the card illustratively.
“That’s not a bad idea.”
“Yeah, I was thinking about it.” And before he could lose his nerve, Eitan added, “But I think I’d prefer a fake boyfriend.”
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