Summer Lessons Read online

  “Is Jefferson’s first name Terry? Because all the soccer guys are like… like last-names only. I swear I heard Skip call his own boyfriend Scoggins when he was talking about their last game.”

  Mason laughed. “Yeah, so what did you call Clay?”

  “Clay’s straight,” Dane mumbled, but the car got suddenly heated and Mason started to doubt if that was true.

  “As far as I know, so is Jefferson.”

  “Bisexual is a thing, you know,” Dane said with dignity. “I’ve harbored embarrassing feelings towards women sometimes.”

  “Why would you be embarrassed about that?” Mason asked, laughing. Mason was pretty much a 5.8 on the Kinsey scale—but Dane could be a 3 or 4 easy.

  “Because my type is usually, like, my fortyish severe female professors. It’s weird.”

  Mason shook his head and tried to negotiate through the patchy fog between Citrus Heights and Fair Oaks. “Yes, yes, it is.”

  “Thanks, Mace, for helping me accept myself.”

  “Oh, I’m totally there,” Mason laughed. “I totally accept that you’re weird.”

  “Okay, so I’m weird. But that doesn’t mean that Terry—”

  “Jefferson.”

  “Okay, Jefferson, wasn’t putting out… feelers.”

  “No, he wasn’t!” Mason hung a left on Madison in fog so thick he couldn’t see much on the other side of the intersection. Like everyone else driving at twelve o’clock on Christmas Eve, he was taking a lot on faith.

  Dane started doing an impression of the young man who had brought Mason a napkin full of cookies as they’d stood around the fire pit in Skip’s backyard.

  “‘Gee, Mason, you have some decent muscles for a guy who claims he only golfs. Are you sure you don’t run too?’ ‘Well yes, Jefferson, I do run, but I feel like a lazy bum for not running marathons because that seems to be a thing here in Sacramento.’ ‘Well gee willickers, Mr. Hayes, you could always join Skip’s soccer team if you’re looking for more exercise. Skipper would be happy to have you, because then I could get laid and you and me could stop crushing over the tall oblivious blond guy!’”

  At this point Mason was laughing so hard he was afraid he’d wreck the car. “Oh my God, Dane, you are so full of shit!”

  “I am not,” Dane replied mildly. “I can’t believe you can’t see it either.”

  Mason thought carefully back to those few hours of huddling around the fire pit, drinking hot chocolate and talking.

  And Terry Jefferson, who looked like a kid—and hell, was even younger than Dane—with carefully streaked brown hair worn in one of those wedges that would go back into a tiny bun on the top of his head if he wanted to.

  Tonight it had hung partially in his brown eyes, and he’d had a way of looking out from under it at Mason that made Mason forget about Skipper entirely for a moment.

  It had also made him remember Logan the perfidious waiter and that one night of really awesome sex that had set him back about two grand.

  It had been the best sex of Mason’s life, honestly, but it had also been one of the best lessons.

  Still….

  Terry Jefferson had the flirty easiness of Logan the perfidious waiter, but he also had a shy way of biting his lip when Mason paid attention to him, and a narrow, rectangular harlequin’s face, with a slender jaw and dark brown eyes over a pert, irreverent nose. He looked like he enjoyed the flirting, and he was good at it, but he didn’t get much practice at it. In his head, Mason replayed his conversation outside under the stars that night, before the low fog had rolled in.

  “So, would you consider playing soccer?” Jefferson had looked sideways at him through that wedge-cut hair, his hands buried in the kangaroo pocket of his Sac State sweatshirt. “Skipper always needs more people.”

  “Well, I’m sort of the old man of the group,” Mason said, looking around. “I didn’t realize how young Schipperke was when we first started talking.” Yup—Dane was probably one of the oldest here, at not-quite-thirty, and besides Jefferson’s mother, who hung back on one of the patio chairs, swaddled in blankets so thoroughly that Mason couldn’t get a bead on her appearance, that left Mason as the oldest. “I’m afraid I’d hold you all back.”

  Jefferson laughed and pulled his wedge back, letting Mason see his warm brown eyes. “Naw, man—it’s not like that. We just play to play, really—winning’s, like, a perk. We enjoy it, but we like the friends better.”

  Mason smiled, feeling like a grade-schooler. “Really? I mean… I’m sort of a social nightmare, but I’d love to play a sport.” He’d played soccer as a kid—until he’d told Tommy Perkins that the nylon soccer shorts made his penis get large if he forgot to wear his jock, and suddenly nobody invited him to their birthday parties anymore.

  “A social nightmare?” Jefferson cocked his head almost coyly and moved closer to the fire pit, shivering. It was around forty degrees out in Skipper’s backyard, and Jefferson was wearing cargo shorts, because he was apparently one of those men’s men who didn’t care about pneumonia. Mason took a side step to give him more room, and Jefferson… moved closer. Mason had to stop scooting because he was about to get really friendly with Dane’s friend Carpenter, and Carpenter claimed he wasn’t gay, so Mason didn’t want to freak him out.

  “Did you just hear me call him Schipperke?” Mason asked, half laughing but mostly despairing because he couldn’t seem to stop. “First time I talked to him on the phone, I teased him because his name’s Skipper Keith—”

  Jefferson’s laughter was low from his stomach, like he meant it. “That’s fantastic! I can’t believe he didn’t tell us this!”

  “Because every man wants to be known as a small fluffy dog,” Skipper said dryly, overhearing their conversation and holding out a tray with more cookies. Mason took one on autopilot and thanked Skipper with a hint of embarrassment.

  “Skipper Keith,” Mason said with meaning. “I mean, if someone told you their name was Bison Friese, you’d take notice, right?”

  “Is that a dog?” Skipper asked, looking puzzled.

  “Oh my God, Skip!” Jefferson crowed. “Remember the little fluffy dog from Shrek?”

  Mason’s heart stalled. He hadn’t been a kid when those movies came out, but Jefferson and Skip had.

  “Yeah,” Skipper said, rolling his eyes. “Loved those frickin’ movies.”

  “I, uh, haven’t seen them,” Mason said abashedly.

  Jefferson’s grin caught him by surprise and socked him in the stomach. “We can watch them together sometime,” he said.

  At that moment, a voice quavery with peevishness but not age seemed to slice right through the happy banter that Mason had been so enjoying.

  “Terrence! Are you going to get me some hot chocolate or do I have to go fetch it myself? And try not to put too much whipped cream on it. Makes me gassy.”

  Mason tried to catch Jefferson’s eyes to smile and let him know that parents were universally embarrassing, but then he saw Jefferson’s unguarded expression instead.

  Terry Jefferson was mortified. And miserable. And suddenly Mason, who would have said he possessed no empathy, became acutely aware that a man who would bring his mother to a Christmas party very possibly lived with his mother day in, day out, and while this might be an okay thing for Mason and Dane, it was obviously not a picnic for Jefferson.

  “Right on it, Mom,” Jefferson said. His eyes slid to Mason’s, and right when Mason was about to offer to join him, Carpenter asked Mason when they were going golfing again, and Jefferson was gone.

  Until Dane called him up to Mason’s memory, and suddenly Mason was seeing signals he hadn’t noticed in that particular moment.

  “He’s too young for me,” Mason said reflexively.

  “I don’t see that as a problem,” Dane said, doing that thing with his lips that made them pop out from the cave of mustache and scruff.

  “Really? Your brother dating a guy eleven years his junior. That doesn’t squick you out?”
r />   “You assume that you’re actually eleven years more mature than this guy, and really? I don’t think that’s the case.”

  Mason boldly refrained from rolling his eyes, partly because he didn’t want to wreck the car in the fog. Oi! The fog got worse and the streets got narrower near the river, and Sailor Bar was practically in Mason’s backyard.

  “I don’t even know if this guy is gay,” Mason grumbled, because yeah. He’d made that mistake too.

  “Jefferson might not either,” Dane said with a smugness Mason had never felt. “There’s that whole bisexual thing too—he might be bi and not know it yet. Think about that—you could be his older-man awakening. Doesn’t that do something for you?”

  “Give me indigestion? Jesus, Dane, you are not reassuring me about thi—”

  “I think Carpenter’s bi,” Dane said out of the blue.

  Mason’s breath caught in his chest. “He said very clearly he’s not gay.” Mason remembered that moment, because he’d seen the corners of Dane’s eyes droop in obvious disappointment. Well, Mason’s own eyes had been drooping that day, because he’d actually gotten to meet the Schipperke of his dreams, and it turned out he was everything Mason had envisioned. Tall, handsome, smart, kind… and taken. Don’t forget taken.

  “Yes, he did,” Dane said, sounding complacent. “But he did not say he wasn’t bi.”

  “Uh, Dane—” Oh God. Please don’t let Mason’s little brother get his heart broken by a big bear of a guy who wouldn’t hurt a flea but who couldn’t be expected to change his sexual orientation on the basis of Dane’s hopes.

  “I’m not crazy,” Dane said mutinously. “Or I am, when I’m off my meds, but imagining a straight guy is gay has never been one of my problems. Now please, Carpenter and I are going to take months and months. I rely on you for entertainment. Entertain me and tell me you’re going to get his number from Skipper and call this guy.”

  “No,” Mason said shortly, pulling into his driveway finally. The house on Eastwood Street wasn’t flashy, but it had a lovely arched patio and carport, two stories, and four bedrooms. That was one for Mason, one for Dane on the other side of the house, and two guest rooms that shared a bathroom in the middle. Unlike when they’d been growing up in their parents’ tiny home on the peninsula, they didn’t have to share a room, and they never had to pretend not to hear the other one masturbate for the rest of their lives.

  Oh. And there was an enormous swimming pool in the back, with a fenced-in deck and an attached hot tub. This was not a thing Mason had asked the realtor for, but that was only because he didn’t realize he’d be house-shopping in August and that August in Sacramento tried to kill people with fire and suffocation.

  Once he knew that, he was grateful for the real estate agent trying to up her commission, because the pool had been in use through October.

  All in all, he liked his new digs—and his new job, even if he wasn’t sure what he did. Mostly he signed papers and made suggestions, and then he asked people to carry that out for him, okay?

  He’d gotten two promotions in four months. He was apparently really good at his job.

  Which was not going to save him from his brother’s dogged determination.

  “No why?” Dane asked as they pulled into the carport.

  “No, I’m not going to call him, because tomorrow is Christmas, we’re driving down to Redwood City, and I’m sure Jefferson has plans. And we’ll be back the day after tomorrow, and I’m spending the rest of the week on home improvement.”

  Dane flicked him a glance. “What kind of home improvement?”

  “I don’t know—it’s your Christmas present. You tell me what we’re going to paint your walls and how we’re going to tile your bathroom, and all the rest will follow.”

  Dane blinked at him. “I take it this is under the tree?”

  “In card form, sure.” God, Mason was so bad at Christmas. What he really needed was a giant gift card that said “I Tried” on it, so his family could understand that this was just one more social skill he’d never mastered.

  Dane pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, and for a moment Mason really hated himself because he’d totally disappointed his little brother. But when Dane opened his eyes, they were red-rimmed, and his smile was the same sweet one he’d had as a baby, when he and the cat had made peace and all of his internal combustion functions had recently been executed.

  “That’s a really nice present,” Dane said, like Mason had somehow achieved world peace. “That’s thoughtful—including the week you’re taking off to help with the work.” He swung out of the car, and Mason saw him wipe under his eyes and thought that Dane really needed some sleep and some rest and some time to recoup after the stressful semester.

  Dane went into the kitchen through the carport, and Mason followed him, putting the bread loaf and cookies that he’d gotten from Skip and Richie that night on the table. Breakfast in the morning. Dane paused at the refrigerator and pulled out the milk carton to pour himself some chocolate milk to wash down his meds. When he was done, he leaned back against the counter in the dimly lit kitchen and regarded Mason soberly.

  “What?” Mason said after a moment.

  “Why won’t you ask him out? He’s friends with Skip—the worst that can happen is he can say he’s wild about breasts and vagina, and you know you can start again.”

  Mason fidgeted, not wanting to state the obvious but needing his brother to understand.

  “Da-ane….” And that sounded like a second-grader whining. Well done!

  “Ma-son!”

  Mason glared at him. “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe I’m just never going to find the right guy? That there is something deficient in me, something that fucks things up at the last minute, something that says the wrong thing or does the wrong thing or—”

  “No,” Dane said and kicked back a healthy swallow of chocolate milk. “No, it has not occurred to me.”

  “But Dane….”

  “I know—you told me. All lose, all the time. I think it’s bullshit.”

  “Then you haven’t been living with my penis.”

  “Thank God or that would be gross.”

  Mason groaned and tilted his head back, remembering the way he could almost see the stars in Skip’s backyard.

  “Have you noticed,” he said randomly, “how different it is here than it is in the Bay Area?”

  “If by different you mean repressed Bible-belt mentality with none of the dedication to the arts we’re used to seeing in the city? Yes.”

  Mason laughed—sort of. “I… I keep thinking that I’d like to do something with my life—”

  “You’re a very well-off man.”

  “Yes. But… I don’t know. I just keep expecting the world to be all… bright and promising like it was when we were kids. Like, I found out what sex was, and that it involved my penis, and I was expecting there to be days when my entire body felt like fireworks and I could see God.”

  “Damn,” Dane said with a whistle.

  “Have you ever had those days?”

  “Only when I was on an upswing. Have you?”

  Mason laughed unhappily. “Once. He took my cash and credit cards and left my car keys.”

  Dane grimaced, the expression clear even in the semidarkness. “Oh Mace.”

  “I just… I don’t want another relationship—not if it’s not going to be awesome, you know?”

  He’d put so much of himself into saying that. He thought Dane would understand.

  “You’ll never know if it’s going to be a prince until you kiss him,” Dane said practically.

  Mason sighed. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Me too. I’ll make breakfast in the morning. And give you your gift then.”

  “Is my gift a sausage burrito?”

  “No, smartass, it’s not. Now go to bed. I want you to drive tomorrow so I don’t get homicidal.”

  Whatever.

  DANE’S PRESENT turned
out to be a gorgeous framed print of Vincent Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Done a lot? Well, yes, but Mason didn’t care. Having it in his living room made him really happy.

  They left at noon, hoping to pull into Redwood City around three, and just about the time Dane nodded off—thank God because he was often a nervous passenger—Mason’s phone rang.

  Mason put it on speaker and hoped Dane could continue to sleep through anything like he had when he’d been a baby.

  “Hey, uh, Mason? This you?”

  “Yes….”

  “I hope it’s okay I’m calling. I got your number from Skip. This is, uh, Jefferson? Terry Jefferson?”

  “Yeah,” Mason said, hating his brother for the absurd little adrenaline spike that hit him right in the chest. “Last night, Skipper’s house. I was there.”

  “Of course you were. Anyway, after you left last night, I asked Skip if you could play soccer, and he said sure, he would have asked you sooner but he thought you only played golf. As. If.”

  “I play golf,” Mason said, a little affronted.

  “Do you like golf?” Jefferson asked suspiciously.

  “If I’m playing with friends,” Mason said, Hazel Avenue turning to Highway 50 as he spoke. “Why am I defending golf?”

  “Because usually only rich douche bags play golf,” Jefferson said, disgust lacing his voice.

  “Well, I’m a rich douche bag. Sue me. Why are you calling again?” And here was the interchange. Mason hated this section of freeway because it was usually muddling—but lucky him, the road was almost empty today.

  “To ask you to play soccer with us peasants.”

  Mason snorted softly. “Can I wear my white cleats and expect you to clean them?”

  He heard Jefferson’s reluctant snort on the other end. “You can expect all sorts of things. Mostly expect to have a beer after practice and pizza after the games and dirt rubbed into your face during play. We only win sometimes.”

  “Sounds compelling and life-changing—I’m in.”

  “Are you looking for compelling and life-changing?” Jefferson asked, and even though he was still being playful, Mason couldn’t help remember what he’d been trying to say to Dane the night before.