Pretend You Love Me (29 page)

What? If he thought I was going to answer his ridiculous question, he was the delusional one.

I’m not, I told myself. I’m not like him.

Squeezing down hard, I lifted my legs. Up. Down. Up. Down. I was going to get so ripped. My fourth circuit. Feel the burn.

“Take it easy, Mike.” The pressure on my ankles released and Armie hovered over my head. “You’re gonna crash. What are you
lifting?” He calculated the amount I was leg pressing. “A hundred and ten? Jesus. That’s suicide.” He began to ratchet down
the weight.

I rose to sit up on the bench and felt woozy. I hung my head between my legs, gulping in deep breaths. My quads were spazzing
bad. Sweat drenched my undershirt.

“You’re done for the day.” Armie draped a towel over my head. “I don’t want you coming back here alone. From now on, you have
access to the equipment one day a week and only if I’m here as your spotter. Go hit some softballs.”

He swaggered off. Jerk. I wanted to chase him down and beat the crap out of him. I could too. I could take him. If I wasn’t
so dizzy. And my knees didn’t buckle when I tried to walk.

I stood in the shower until my muscles relaxed, recovered. I cranked on the water full blast. The sting felt good, soothing,
familiar. I turned off the cold completely and let the hot needles prick my skin. My hands crossed over my chest, cupping
my breasts.

Proof I wasn’t like Jamie. I wasn’t a guy. I wasn’t queer.

Yeah, okay, I was gay. Did that make me queer? I hated that word. It implied something like, “not normal.” I was normal. I
was gay. So what? That was fine. I wasn’t
that
gay. There were degrees, weren’t there? Jamie was off the scale. I was barely pushing the gauge.

Could you be a little bit gay? A hollow laugh might’ve escaped my throat. How deluded was I? Jamie was right.

The boiling water finally made me gasp with pain and I wrenched off the faucet. I noticed a slight drip and made a mental
note to repair the plumbing for Armie. I owed him that. He was right; if I kept up this pace, I’d damage myself.

I toweled off, remembering a conversation I’d had with Jamie a few years back. He was just coming out. We were lying on his
living room floor after school, surfing the Dish networks for a decent movie. This had to be sixth, seventh grade. We always
hung out at Jamie’s house, since Ma lived at mine. Dottie had fixed us a hot sandwich—meatloaf with ketchup. I remember that.
I loved Dottie’s sandwiches, her home cooking. I loved Dottie.

“Listen to this, Mike,” Jamie had said. He was reading from a book he’d checked out of the library. “It says there are three
stages to coming out. One: Admitting to yourself you’re gay.”

I surfed channels, half watching for movies, fully tuned into what he was saying.

“Two: Accepting the truth of it.”

I stopped on
Tomb Raider
. I loved Angelina Jolie. She was hot.

“Three: Embracing your difference, your identity, and your sexual orientation.” He’d closed the book and turned to me. “I
think I’m at two: Accepting it. Where are you?”

A cold claw had gripped me. Without looking at him, I’d said, “What makes you think I’m gay?”

I remember he’d laughed. He’d laughed uproariously. “I guess that answers my question,” he’d said.

Yeah, mine too. I hadn’t come very far, had I?

X
anadu called me the minute I walked in the door. “Can you talk?” she asked. She always asked that, Can you talk? Like there
were people around listening, caring. Like I’d ever say no to her. I still hurt, my muscles from working out, my head from
thinking too hard. My heart too. It ached.

“He asked me to go with him to a family reunion in Colby,” she said. “Isn’t Colby some kind of cheese?” She laughed.

I smiled. Jamie was wrong about her. I knew it in my bones. She had feelings for me if only she’d face the truth. She was
dreaming about me. Lesbian action dream. Sex dream.

“Where is Colby?”

“North of here,” I said. “About thirty miles.” I checked my messages from Darryl. Ledbetter. Fountain. Why hadn’t the Redmans
called about the replumbing job? They had to have reviewed the bids by now and been ready to get going. It’d been weeks.

“I’m going to tell him today,” Xanadu said.

“Tell him what?” I asked.

She made a sound, like an irritated scoff. “You know. About my past. What I’ve done. Who I am. He’s going to hear all about
the real me.” Her voice changed. “The real me. Won’t he be surprised.”

I hoped, prayed her confession, her reality, included me.

She went on, “His whole family’ll be there though. It might not be the best time. Bailey’s mother creeps me out, the way she
looks at me when she thinks I don’t see. Like she wants to throw a bucket of water on me so I’ll melt. Isn’t that how Dorothy
killed the Wicked Witch? So Toto. Anyway, I really need to tell him and soon. It’s driving me crazy.”

I knew the feeling.

Xanadu said more intimately, “I’m glad I have you for moral support. What are you doing today?”

“Me? I, uh, promised to fix the town fountain this weekend for Coalton Days.”

“What are Coalton Days, anyway?” she asked. “Bailey and Beau keep talking about them like it’s some huge deal.”

Bailey should shut up. Likewise Beau.

“Is it a big cow pie–eating contest or something?” Amusement in her voice.

“No. Well, yeah. It’s a celebration. Town history. Tradition. All the businesses put merchandise on sale. Saturday we have
a parade and an arts-and-crafts festival. A tractor pull. Then Sunday people get together at the park to eat and play games—horseshoe
pitching and bingo, that kind of stuff.” I was talkative, babbling.

“Bingo?” Xanadu said. “Are you serious?”

I shut up.

“Oh God. You are. I should know by now you guys are never joking.”

When I didn’t respond, she let out a long sigh. “Okay, I’m going to Colby. God. What should I wear? Bib overalls?” She laughed
again.

I couldn’t bring myself to tell her Everett’s most popular clothing item was bib overalls.

I was hungry. Weak. Needed carbs, protein. My canister of protein powder was down to one last scoop and we were out of eggs.
On my way to pick up the PVC pipe for the fountain, I decided to make a pit stop at the Suprette. Replenish my Whey and get
a dozen eggs. I might buy a whole precooked chicken and a bunch of bananas if they were ripe and on sale. I’d never been so
hungry.

Deb Pastore was cashiering and waved to me. She’d worked part-time at the Suprette since ninth grade. Half the town was here
today. Saturday morning—Coalton’s unofficial grocery day. Observed by everyone but the Szabos, of course. The Szabos got their
groceries delivered. La di da.

The day-old bakery goods were on display up front by the register. Next to them were cards and candles and bug spray. Everything
was fifty percent off for Coalton Days. I should buy Xanadu a candle, I thought. A gift. A Valentine’s card on sale. Behind
me I heard a crash, then a bloodcurdling scream.

“Todd, I’m going to kill you! I can’t leave you alone for one minute and you’re destroying the Suprette. Wait’ll I get you
home.”

Uh-oh.

Charlene stormed out of the canned foods aisle with her overloaded shopping cart. The baby, who was strapped in a baby seat,
was wailing like a banshee. “Deb,” Charlene called, “my little monster just wrecked the soup display. He’s putting it all
back together though. Aren’t you, Todd?” She threatened him with slit eyes. I wondered where the other two monsters were lurking.

Deb and I made the exact same face. Scary mother. Scary kids.

To avoid a run-in, I hustled to the meat case.

The chickens in the rotisserie looked fresh. That charbroiled aroma. I slid a juicy one off the skewer and bagged it. The
bananas were too green, so I settled for a tub of banana pudding.

It would’ve slipped my attention altogether if the flickering fluorescent light over the register hadn’t caught the glitter.
“You’re making a killing here,” Deb said, smiling at me. She lifted the coffee can off the top of the register and shook it.
Change clanked around.

“The mayor puts in a ten-dollar bill every time he comes in,” she said. “In fact, almost everyone contributes. Nel tells me
she had to put out three more cans at the tavern to keep up with all the donations.”

I paid. I bagged my groceries. I walked out. I slammed the truck door. Squealed onto Main.

How many were there? Three, four? Were there cans all over town? I’d finally hid the one at the Merc behind the cigarette
tray. The Suprette and the tavern. Where else?

The VFW, the coffee counter, Renata hiding the evidence. Is that why people had been so nice to me lately?

No, they were always nice. But they’d been smiling more, feeling sorry for me more.

Dammit. This town didn’t owe me. Nobody owed me.

I veered off Main Street toward Highway 83. The softball camp was maybe, maybe a possibility. But if I was going, it’d be
on my terms. Me paying my own way. My choice. My life.

At Rock Hill I exited and followed the graded road eight miles, the way I had the previous time. Past the five blue silos,
the oil rig. Why hadn’t the Redmans gotten back to me? It was rude. The one time I called, no one answered and I didn’t leave
a message. I should have. I should’ve said, “This is Mike Szabo, from Szabo Plumbing and Heating. I came by and gave you a
bid on replumbing your house, remember? I haven’t heard back. You might’ve called and I missed it, since the tape in my machine
is scratchy, and my brother is a retard, and my Ma can’t get off her fat ass to answer the phone.”

There were two orange vans parked in the Redmans’ drive. At the barn, a tractor and a Jeep Cherokee. I eased in behind one
of the vans.

I took the front porch steps two at a time and knocked on the storm door. No answer. “Hello?” I called.

A shadow materialized in the living room. “Oh.” Mrs. Redman opened the door. “I didn’t hear you through the racket.” She squinted
her eyes. “I know you.”

“Mike Szabo.” Last time I was here she was all dressed up like she’d just gotten off work. Today her clothes were paint-smeared
and baggy. She had a smudge of green on her nose. I was tempted to reach up and wipe it off.

She was pretty. She’d told me, when I came to give her a bid, that she and her husband and three kids were moving in because
her parents couldn’t keep up the place anymore; the house was a shambles. It didn’t look that bad to me, but what did I know,
living in a snake pit? They were planning an entire remodel, rewiring and replumbing, adding a third bathroom. It was the
biggest job I’d ever bid on. Okay, the only job.

Dad had done the cost estimating. I’d helped order supplies and made sure everything got delivered to the job site, but he
had crunched the numbers. Before he crunched himself.

“I was wondering if you decided on a plumbing contractor,” I said.

“Um… yes. We did.” Mrs. Redman looked sort of sheepish. “Applewood, out of Garden City.” She eyed the vans over my head. I
turned to look. A
PPLEWOOD
P
LUMBING
, H
EATING, AND
A
IR
C
ONDITIONING,
the panel on the side of the van read. The rushing sound from an acetylene torch drew my attention back to the house. A guy
yelling from the basement, “Rafe, grab me another roll of solder from the truck, will you?”

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Redman said. “I guess I should’ve called. I’ve never done this before—gotten estimates, hired contractors.”

“No, that’s okay,” I heard myself saying. “I should’ve called you
sooner.” Damn. Why hadn’t I called? Maybe if I’d called the next day to follow up, she would’ve hired me.

Backing down the steps, stumbling a little, I said, “Well, good luck with your house.”

She smiled. “Thank you.” Then headed back inside.

On second thought… “Ma’am?”

She reappeared.

“If you don’t mind my asking, was my estimate way higher than Applewood’s?” Because it couldn’t have been. I’d barely priced
the job above the materials cost, figuring I had most of what I needed in stock. A company like Applewood charged union rates.
Two vans, three or four guys. Their bid had to be twice mine. Three times.