Winter Oranges (13 page)

“Why would you want to do that?” one man asked him. “Most folks don’t like being haunted.”

“That’s because they aren’t haunted by Ben.”

A few days later, they settled together on the couch to watch the most recent of Jason’s movies,
Summer Camp Nightmare 3
.

“I’ll be so sad when it’s over,” Ben said before Jason had a chance to hit Play.

“Why?”

“Because it’s the last one. You’ll have to go make more movies for me to watch.”

Jason winced, thinking about the script sitting in the desk drawer. “I wasn’t planning on acting again.”

“Why not? Don’t you enjoy it?” Ben asked.

“Yes and no.”

“Is there something else you’d rather be doing?”

Jason laughed. That, of course, was the crux of the issue. As much as he sometimes wanted to swear off acting forever, it was the only thing he really knew. He sure as hell didn’t want to get an office job, or work in retail. Dylan always laughed when he said that, reminding him those weren’t the only options. He was right of course, but nothing in the world held the same appeal as acting.

“Yes,” Jason answered at last. “I’d rather be sitting here with you.”

Ben smiled, but shook his head. “That doesn’t count.”

Jason didn’t want to argue about it, so he pointed the remote at the TV and hit Play. It seemed like the easiest way to end the conversation.

Watching
Summer Camp Nightmare 3
was nothing like watching
Alley of Blood
. That movie had been tainted from the get-go, but he found as he watched
Summer Camp Nightmare 3
that he had fond memories of the shoot. Yes, there had been the incident of the actress who’d been given bad weed. And yes, there’d been the usual pain of watching Dylan fuck his way through the cast. But for the most part, the shoot had been several months of hanging out with friends.

He became aware of Ben next to him, flailing his hands to get Jason’s attention. Winding the music box had become habit for Jason, whether they were watching TV or sitting on the veranda or walking in the woods. He rarely had to be reminded, but he’d been so caught up in watching and reminiscing, wondering if maybe he should take the part in
Summer Camp Nightmare 4
after all, that he’d nearly forgotten Ben was present. Ben pointed emphatically at the globe, and Jason paused the movie before obligingly turning the key so Ben could be heard.

“Back it up a bit,” Ben said.

Jason did.

“Stop! That guy there. That’s the guy who was here, isn’t it? The one you were with on the balcony.”

“Yes,” Jason said, feeling that horrible pain in his chest he’d come to associate with the object of his unrequited love. “Dylan.”

Ben glanced over at him, frowning. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“No.”

“A friend?”

“Do you know the term ‘friends with benefits’?”

Ben’s image flickered for a second. Jason sometimes thought of those strange flickers as blushes. “No, but I think I get the list.”

“Gist,” Jason corrected. “You get the gist.”

“But you
are
friends?”

“Yes.”

Ben chewed his lip thoughtfully, studying Jason, and Jason squirmed under the sudden scrutiny. “Then why does seeing him and talking about him make you so sad?”

Jason didn’t necessarily think of what he was feeling as sadness, but he supposed it did seem that way. He hit Play again. “It’s hard to explain.” Of course, it wasn’t. It was quite easy. He loved Dylan, and Dylan would never love him back. And yet now, sitting next to Ben, seeing Dylan up on the screen, Jason found he didn’t want to dwell on it for another day. Whatever it was that Dylan made him feel—whether it was sadness or regret or something else entirely—Jason was tired of wallowing in it. He was tired of justifying his own unhappiness. He was here now, in his new house, away from Hollywood and the reporters and all the hype, and yes, away from Dylan too, and he felt better than he had in ages.

He was glad he didn’t need to explain any of that, though. Ben had already turned back to the movie. They’d come to the requisite sex scene in
Summer Camp Nightmare 3
, and the camera showed Jason kissing one of the actresses while he undressed her. “What about her?” Ben asked.

“Kayleigh?”

“Yeah. It seems like you really liked her. Was she a friend with benefits too?”

“No, not at all.”

“Why not?”

Jason found the entire line of questioning surprising and mildly amusing. “Lots of reasons.”

“Like what?”

“Mainly because I wasn’t interested, and neither was she. She had a boyfriend at the time. I mean, she was a perfectly nice girl. Great to work with. But this?” He indicated the on-screen action. “This was just part of the job.”

“So, you didn’t find her attractive?”

“Not really.”

“Do you find
any
women attractive?”

Jason leaned back on the couch, seeing where the conversation was going and hoping it wouldn’t be awkward. “Not like that, no.”

Ben hesitated, his image flickering again. “Are there lots of men like you?”

“Gay men, you mean? Homosexuals? Men who prefer other men? Is that what you’re asking?”

“Not exactly.” Ben kept his eyes on the floor as if he was unable to make eye contact. He hesitated, choosing his words. “I know there are men who are attracted to other men,” Ben said at last, his voice low, “because I am one.” He stopped, glancing nervously at Jason, as if waiting to be questioned or reprimanded.

The admission surprised Jason—Ben had given him no such indication until now—but he didn’t want to make Ben even more uncomfortable by making a fuss over it, so he simply waited.

Ben took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “My father said it was because I was runty and weak-natured.”

Jason blinked, trying to put it together. “Your father told you that being ‘runty’ and being gay were the same thing?”

Ben nodded. “He said if I’d been a dog, he would have drowned me in the river because I was skinny and sickly, and my lungs were small and worthless, and my sexual responses . . .” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “He said I was abnormal.”

“You’re not abnormal,” Jason said. “Absolutely not.”

Ben nodded. “I’ve sort of learned . . . Well, I haven’t seen it much. I remember stuff on the news about this terrible disease that was killing men, back when I’d watch TV with Edith—”

“AIDS.”

“Yes. But then, in my years at the antique shop, I realized . . . Well, it was owned by two women, and so I heard them talk about wanting to get married, and how it was happening all over. But . . .” He shook his head. “I’m not making any sense.”

“You’re doing fine.”

Ben glanced his direction, and he must have liked what he saw on Jason’s face, because his tension seemed to dissipate. He unclenched his fists, and his slumped shoulders regained a bit of their levity. The lines of concern on his face gave way to a hesitant smile. “You’re like me,” he said at last. “But you’re not. And so maybe my father was wrong.”

And finally, Jason saw the crux of the issue. “Your father was a fool. Or just deluded, maybe. I’m sure everything was different back then. But I promise you, being gay is not synonymous with being ‘runty,’ or sickly. Those things have nothing to do with one another. Physically, gay men are as varied as straight men.” He leaned forward, wishing he could take Ben’s hand. He settled instead for reaching across the couch, resting his fingers on the edges of Ben’s cushion. “You’re absolutely perfect, Ben. There’s nothing wrong with you at all.”

Ben turned away, his image flickering fitfully. “Thank you,” he said, his voice tight, barely louder than a whisper. Jason suspected he was holding back tears.

“You don’t need to thank me. I’m only telling you the truth.”

Ben nodded once, and Jason turned back to the TV in order to give Ben some semblance of privacy while he pulled himself back together. They returned to watching the movie, and Ben eventually returned to his usual cheery self. He didn’t mention his sexuality again, and yet Jason felt things shifting in his mind, as if Ben’s confession had turned a light on some previously undiscovered room in the house that was his life. Looking across the couch at Ben—hearing his laugh, watching his animated face and the way his lips curved so readily into a smile, knowing what he now knew—Jason suspected he’d never see Ben quite the same way again.

Having exhausted Jason’s less-than-vast filmography, Jason and Ben searched for new forms of entertainment. They walked in the woods. They watched TV. And then, on the bitterly cold morning of Thanksgiving Eve, Ben asked to see more of the house. It was a strange realization, that Ben had only seen the couple of rooms Jason had taken him into thus far. So Jason took him slowly through his house, letting him explore each room in turn, even opening drawers and closet doors for him, when requested. It was in this way that Ben learned about
Summer Camp Nightmare 4
.

“I haven’t even read it yet,” Jason confessed, hefting the script in his hand as if he could weigh its worth.

“But you’ll do it, right?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like there’s no point in trying when I’ll never be anything more than I am right now.”

Ben frowned at him, his image flickering. “But what you are right now is wonderful. Why would you want to give that up?”

Jason shook his head. It wasn’t worth explaining. Ben would never understand what Hollywood was like. He’d never comprehend that terrible scramble to reach the top, or the insatiable and futile need to have the world acknowledge your talent. He’d never know the petty, shameful pang of bitterness when some seemingly less-deserving star suddenly got their big break, or the deep-seated resentment when you worked your ass off on a film only to have it snubbed by critics and viewers alike.

“It’s hard,” Jason said at last. “It’s like ripping out my soul just so people can wipe their feet on it. Nobody really cares if JayWalk makes another film.”

“I care.”

Jason couldn’t help but smile. “I appreciate that, even if you can’t actually buy a ticket at the box office.” He regretted it as soon as he said it. He’d meant it as a joke, but he was afraid it sounded petty. He needn’t have worried, though. Ben laughed anyway, and as he did, Jason had a sudden thought. “Hey! You want to go see a
real
movie?”

“You mean Off Demand?”

“It’s
On
Demand, but no. I mean in an actual movie theater. Something big and spectacular, up on the big screen. There might even be an IMAX in Coeur d’Alene or Spokane. Do you know what that is?”

Ben shook his head, his eyes wide. “I have no idea. Is it wonderful?”

Jason laughed. “I have a feeling you’ll think so.”

He pulled up their options online, and they debated. Jason’s first instinct was to take Ben to one of the IMAX films at the museum—one of the visually stunning documentaries about space or the arctic or the depths of the sea—but the film playing that week was described as “poignant” and “heartbreaking,” and Ben shook his head emphatically. “I’d rather see something fun.”