Chapter Text
“And you can all get the fuck out, because none of you are welcome on my property again!”
The backyard erupted into chaos, the dying light of the dusk fading through the trees. Lanterns adorned the perfect white-picket fence of the Cathcart property, strung in tidy, thoughtful lines. The three-tiered strawberry-lemon cake lay splayed across the grass. Frosting gathered in chunks on the tender petals of late-summer wildflowers, utensils siphoning the flowers off into properties of their own. Clevinger stood by the street, eyes agog and body tensed in place until Dunbar grabbed his hand, palm sweaty against Clevinger’s cooler one. “Come on, Tim. Let’s go home.”
“My cake,” Clevinger’s voice trailed off, even as he accepted Dunbar’s hand and turned to leave.
“ My cake,” Dunbar corrected calmly, “I made it.”
Clevinger gave a soft laugh, something world-weary about the way it hung in the air between them, even as the shouting behind them amped up in volume. “If you told me when I was young that I’d wind up leaving a cookout with you after you tried to light the Cathcart house on fire, I don’t think I would’ve believed you.”
“Why, no tenure track?” They nearly reached the doorstep of their own place, far enough away to grant them mercy, “And I didn’t try to light the Cathcart house on fire. It was an accident. If you go around telling people I did it, I’ll go to jail for real and then our cover will be blown.”
“Oh yeah. I forgot about that.”
Two Months Prior
Clevinger sat in the center of a small room with TVs that hadn’t been updated since the 90s, and apparently hadn’t been given any new shows to play, either. He stared vacantly at the blurry episode of Full House , trying to remember if he’d seen it before, and then scanning the surrounding area to see if it was cable, or they were feeding the TV through a hidden VCR somewhere. It was almost a fight to stay awake given how long he’d been up, but he’d been concerned. “Dr. Clevinger?” a thin woman called out, with red lipstick almost as dark as the Boston Molasses Flood, “Please come in.”
Clevinger folded the newspaper in his hands and stuffed it haphazardly into his leather bag, dragging it along with him. “Thank you very much,” he tried, keeping his tone as steady as possible, “What’s the verdict?”
“You and Mr. Dunbar both qualify for witness protection,” the young man sitting behind the desk informed them, holding a piece of paper out to Clevinger, “If you’ll just sign here. You’ll both be given new identities, new jobs, and we’ll put you both somewhere out of the scrutiny of Goeing until the trial and everything else blows over.”
Clevinger fumbled for the pen tied to the desk, putting his John Hancock gingerly on the line. His signature was illegible. It was one of the last times he’d see it. “What’s the date?” he asked.
“June sixth,” the man replied.
“Thanks,” Clevinger scribbled it down, then glanced up again, his eyes wide. “Both of us? You’re putting us together?”
The man nodded, and it was clear now that his name was Thompson. Clevinger wasn’t sure whether it was a first name or a last name, but it didn’t matter. “Of course, Dr. Clevinger,” he said, like this was common knowledge and Clevinger really ought to have known, “We know that witness protection relocation can be challenging, and the fact that both of you have equal involvement in this Goeing case means that you’re both equally at risk. Since you both qualify, we’ve decided it would be psychologically healthier to keep you together in this relocation—and that way, if we need to check in with you for any information about the Goeing case, you’ll be convenient for us to find. We’ve already explained this to Mr. Dunbar, and he’ll be waiting for you in the other room when we’re done getting your signatures. Now, of course, you won’t be allowed any contact with anyone from your former life, and—”
Each word became blurry against the backdrop of Clevinger’s mind, already dying from exhaustion. His thoughts swirled helplessly in a hurricane of frustration, pushing him back and forth as he considered everything he was leaving behind. The overhead was dim, too dim. Maybe he needed someone to turn a light on. Maybe he just needed a glass of water, or twenty-four hours to sleep and get his mind straight. He didn’t have any of that. “Dr. Clevinger, if you’ll please go to the other room, we’ll have you and Mr. Dunbar reunite. You should be together when you get your identities.”
Clevinger didn’t think much of it, not when he found Dunbar looking equally exhausted, nor when he sat beside him in a leather chair, the two of them waiting for the verdict of their futures. “Alright, you both know that your old identities will be scrubbed permanently from public record. There’s no going back, not after this. You’ll keep your current ages, roughly speaking, but different birthdays. Semantics. Dr. Clevinger, you’re now Mr. Timothy Howard-Cruz.”
“You have to be named Timothy,” Dunbar snickered.
“ Not the time!”
“Mr. Dunbar, you’re now Mr. John Howard-Cruz.”
Dunbar hesitated, face paling slightly. “Thompson, was it?”
“ Mr. Thompson.”
“Right, Mr. Thompson,” he amended, which answered that question, “I think you must’ve gotten my last name wrong. It’s the same as Dr. Clevinger’s new identity’s last name, isn’t it? Did you guys run out of creative juice, or something?”
Mr. Thompson shook his head. “No, not at all. You’re married.”
“I’m not married,” Clevinger persevered gamely.
“You and Mr. Dunbar will be married, in witness protection,” Mr. Thompson explained patiently, as if he had all the time in the world, “It’s really easier for us as an agency because we’re only checking in with one location, not two, and we only have to help arrange accommodations for one set of people—not two separate accommodations. And psychologically, it’s healthier for both of you, because you won’t be entering this new life alone. Additionally, because neither of you will be looking to date or engage in sex or romance, you’ll have a lower risk of blowing your cover. It’s the most pragmatic choice you could make.”
“If it’s all the same to you,” Dunbar began, leaning in conspiratorially, “I’d rather not be married to him.”
“You’d be lucky to have me!” Clevinger glared, “I’d be a fantastic husband, for your information.”
Mr. Thompson laughed, though his face didn’t move from the sullen deadpan he’d set it in. “It isn’t the same to me, it’s already been decided, and you’re about to be Mr. and Mr. Howard-Cruz. Congratulations.”
The agency gave them a run-down on their backstory: a couple for several years, but newly-weds as of a month ago, moving into their new home together in the small town of Catchville, population 15,000. The house wasn’t bad. Two stories of marital bliss, plus a basement in case of tornado, despite Catchville not geographically receiving any tornadoes. They were permitted to choose their own furniture on a budget, everything completely new to avoid any pieces of their old life behind. They let Clevinger keep about twenty of his books. Dunbar demanded he keep his expensive set of kitchen knives and cutlery; since cooking was a hobby and not a profession, he explained, there was no reason he had to give that up. Everything in their pristine home on 22 Heller Boulevard had to be completely new, bland, and impersonal. Nothing to remind them of what came before, besides each other. “You can’t remain in touch with anyone you previously knew—no family, no friends, no former partners, nothing.”
When Clevinger found a lump in his throat and reached for Dunbar’s hand, Dunbar didn’t pull away.
The next few days passed in a blur. There were no goodbyes, only a U-Haul moving truck outside their new house, painted a bland but pretty light blue. It rained on move-in day. By the time all the boxes of their new belongings and furniture had been dragged into the house, and the agents had set everything up under the guise of helpful friends, Clevinger and Dunbar were left alone. Their living room had one couch and two chairs, all surrounding a small table and facing the built-in fireplace that had come with the house. Weariness had set into Clevinger’s shoulders and back from hauling boxes all day, and he stood, a thousand-yard stare directed towards the wall until Dunbar’s voice cut through his mind. “Tim, you’re tired. Let’s go to bed.”
“Tim,” Clevinger repeated numbly.
“Tim,” Dunbar agreed, “Let’s go.”
“Last week everything was normal,” Clevinger muttered as he made his way up the stairs, Dunbar’s steady footsteps behind him, “My sister had her baby shower. I was getting drinks with some friends from Goeing, heating up dinner in the microwave of my apartment.”
“Don’t worry,” Dunbar consoled, “You can still heat dinner up in the microwave here.”
“It’s not the same,” Clevinger argued tearfully, “It’s not my apartment. I liked my apartment. Hell, I liked my microwave!”
They reached the bedroom door, and Clevinger pushed it open, holding it for Dunbar. “I mean, it’s our house now,” Dunbar told him, “Isn’t that enough?”
Clevinger flipped the lights on, and the sight jarred him worse than the news that he’d have to sever all ties to his previous life. “Oh my god,” he murmured, “Is this… it? For the bedroom? Is there a second one somewhere?”
Dunbar shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he brushed past Clevinger, sitting down on the bed and tugging off his sweater, “Why? Don’t like the color?”
“It’s the bed.”
“Not enough pillows?”
“No, the pillows are fine. It’s just—there’s only one ,” Clevinger pouted, “I need my space.”
Dunbar rolled his eyes. “We’re a married couple, now. Of course, they gave us one bed. Look, you’re tired, I’m tired. Why don’t you shut up about it and go to sleep? It’s fine.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?” Clevinger muttered as he undressed, trying to ignore the flush on his cheeks of knowing Dunbar was in the same room, same house, “Everything is gone! We’re not allowed to dress how we want. I can’t even recognize myself in the mirror anymore, not like this. They made us both get haircuts, I had to dye my hair this hideous blond color. I mean, look at yourself! They gave you glasses, and you don’t even have a prescription!”
“I do, but I’m not going to wear them,” Dunbar interjected calmly, switching his new jeans for equally new, sterile pajamas, “Life goes slower like that.”
Clevinger didn’t care enough to make him elaborate. “We’re never going to see our families again, not in a reasonable capacity, all because of that stupid company. You know, I didn’t even study anything Goeing-related in college. I didn’t want to be there, I just needed to afford that apartment and groceries. Groceries, John! Do you have any idea how prices are rising these days? If the government wasn’t supporting us here, I’d be concerned about our jobs being able to pay for everything. I mean, I could barely afford everything working at Goeing, and that was even with support from my parents—oh, God, my parents. I’m never going to see them again. Close with them, too, and they’ll never know what happened to me. And my little niece who isn’t born yet, I’ll never get to meet her, never get to be her uncle. And here, I’m only on an archivist salary, and only because I argued against being an accountant and even though they said I technically should be doing something less involved, I… well, it doesn’t matter now. I had a doctorate! I don’t get to use any of that—well, not that I got to use it at Goeing, not really, but still! At least with the whole archival angle, I got what I wanted, but… at what cost? And your salary—you’re a…a…”
“Line cook,” Dunbar grinned, “Isn’t that great?”
“Sure. But doesn’t it bother you? Can’t you recognize yourself anymore? I can’t stand it!”
Clevinger slid into bed beside Dunbar, propping himself up neurotically on one of the pillows and turning to face Dunbar. Dunbar, meanwhile, had already closed his eyes, hands folded peacefully across his chest, his breath slowing. He flipped to his side, facing Clevinger more closely. “Of course, it bothers me. I’m human, Clev,” Dunbar mumbled, and Clevinger gave a faint smile at the sound of his old last name on Dunbar’s lips, “Go to sleep, now. We’ll start again tomorrow. Unless you’re some kind of insomniac or something.”
Dunbar tugged on the covers, and Clevinger found himself moored in hyper awareness of the feeling of someone breathing next to him, even as the small box fan he put in the corner of the room started to whir comfortably. Dunbar was in close enough proximity in their queen bed for his body heat to radiate against Clevinger, who had never slept in bed with another person before. “Goodnight, John,” Clevinger murmured, feeling a warm heat press against the back of his eyes.
“Goodnight, Timothy,” Dunbar replied softly, reaching one hand to rest on Clevinger’s cheek. Clevinger could feel the warmth of Dunbar’s wedding band against his cheek, the smooth metal heated by Dunbar’s fingers, “New hubby.”
Even in the darkness, Clevinger’s frown was audible. “I’m begging you to never say that again. And Tim , not Timothy. I don’t like Timothy . ”
“Noted,” Dunbar didn’t retract his hand, running his thumb across Clevinger’s cheek in slow, clement lines.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Dunbar shrugged. “I’ll stop if you want. Just say the word.”
Clevinger kept his mouth shut. He opened his eyes slightly, feeling Dunbar’s arm close to his. He reached up and found Dunbar’s fingers against his cheek, entwining their fingers and bringing them down by his side. “Here,” he murmured, trying to let himself dissolve into unconsciousness. Dunbar’s hand slid on top of his, thumb working circles on the back of Clevinger’s hand. “Keep it here.”
“Mhmm,” came Dunbar’s soft sound of acknowledgement, “Sure thing, sweetheart.”
Clevinger scowled, but Dunbar’s hand kept him from drifting off into a prison of his own thoughts, tormenting him about every appearance change he’d been subjected to, everything he’d left behind. It consumed him, for someone so fixated on the past. “Stop it. No pet names,” he declared with a yawn, but even though Dunbar certainly meant it in jest, a strange flutter rose in his chest, “For the love of God, John.”
“There is no God.”
The next morning was almost equally bleak and foreign. Despite how strained the comfort had been from Dunbar the previous night, Clevinger missed his absence in the morning almost as much as he reveled in having the room to himself. He found the plush slippers the agency had supplied him and slipped them on, feeling a tinge of guilt that he hadn’t showered and dressed, presenting himself neatly for Dunbar. Too intimate, almost, to be seen in just his pajamas and slippers. He tried to shove the feeling aside. Thankfully, the smell of eggs and bacon drifted through the stairwell, and Clevinger caught himself on one salty inhale, realizing that he was starving. It was only nine in the morning, soft jazz filtering through his new home. Dunbar . He made his way to the kitchen, finding Dunbar flipping bacon with a generic ‘ kiss the cook’ apron. “They really bought you a lot of new utensils, didn’t they?” Clevinger asked him, watching him sing softly along with Louis Armstrong, “That looks pretty good quality.”
“That’s because it’s mine,” Dunbar told him, “I’d be damned if they talked me out of my good cookware and utensils. None of it’s from my family, either, so they didn’t risk any ties with my personal life. I just didn’t want to spend more money, or have to buy shitty ones that don’t work right.”
Dunbar seemed more at ease in his pajamas and terry cloth robe than Clevinger did, especially because Clevinger had completely forgotten his robe and now felt cold and paltry in comparison to Dunbar. “The fully-stocked fridge and freezer was a nice touch,” Dunbar added, once Clevinger’s contemplative silence had gone from cute to awkward, “But we’ll have to take care of that going forward.”
“Always practical, aren’t you?” Clevinger asked.
Dunbar shook his head, a faint smirk adorning his face. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Clevinger opened his mouth to reply when they heard a knock at the door. “John!” he gasped; they were ordered to use only their new first names—although pieces of their old lives filtered through sometimes, “John, there are people at the door!”
“Oh, no! People!” Dunbar looked at him pointedly, “Go open the door and see who it is.”
“But—”
“Last time I checked, you’re not making breakfast.”
Clevinger balled his fists up and stormed to the door. “Fine!” He tugged the door open, greeted by too-bright sunshine and an array of ebullient, smiling faces, “Hi, what can I do for you guys?”
Four men stood together, shoulders and arms brushing to fit on the small front stoop of Clevinger and Dunbar’s new house. A small flowerpot had been knocked askew on the left-hand side, dirt spilling out across the cracked terra-cotta ceramic. When Clevinger tried to get a better look, one of the men stepped over it, blocking his view with a wicker basket about the width of his torso. He held it out in Clevinger’s direction, beckoning for him to take it. “We try to do this for all new neighbors,” he explained, waiting for Clevinger to take it, “I’m Milo Minderbinder. I run the grocery store downtown, but I live over in the green house. If you need anything at all, feel free to come to me. These are some blueberry muffins with lemon compote, I baked them fresh this morning just for you. Don’t tell my wife, though, or she’ll start wondering why there aren’t any for her.”
“John?” Clevinger yelled into the kitchen, “We have visitors.”
He waited patiently as Milo gave him a charmingly lopsided smile, and ran a finger through his starkly reddish-brown hair. Milo didn’t look directly at Clevinger, although Clevinger would have expected him to. Each eye seemed to be looking out for something else, like Milo was directly attached to surveilling the neighborhood and would do so at any chance. The tallest man in the group had tan skin and short black hair that lent itself to shiny curls, and he extended one hand to Clevinger. “Johann Yossarian,” he offered, “But John is fine. I’m over in the pink house, just past the bend in the street. It’s the only pink one. You can’t miss it.”
“He picked the color himself,” offered another man.
“Introduce yourself,” Milo hissed through clenched teeth.
The man effaced, glancing at the ground and shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot before looking back up at Clevinger—and now Dunbar, too, who had joined them, “Sorry, I’m Albert Tappman. Red house, next to Milo’s. You’ll probably run into my wife, Mary, sometimes, but she’s usually pretty busy working as a carpenter. I’m actually a relationship counselor, so if you ever need—”
“Al, isn’t that kind of presumptuous? Thinking they’ll need counseling?” asked the fourth man timidly, before presenting his hand and smiling at Clevinger. The first thing Clevinger noticed was the immodest, gigantic Rolex watch adorning his wrist underneath his tidy name-brand sweater, “Edward Nately the Third. I’m two doors down, with the big flower garden out front and the topiary. If you ever come downtown, I’m in Nately’s Books. Oh! I also brought you guys some lemonade.”
“He didn’t make the lemonade,” Milo added, eyeing it, “Store-bought!”
“Milo,” Yossarian warned.
“John,” Milo warned back, before flashing Clevinger a sharp smile, “And who might you two be?”
Clevinger opened his mouth, ready to fumble his words, before Dunbar stepped in patiently. “I’m John Howard-Cruz, and he’s Timothy.”
“Just Tim!” Clevinger added, “And also Howard-Cruz.”
“Married last month, actually,” Dunbar held up Clevinger’s left hand, tapping the smooth ring of metal gently, “He didn’t want anything fancy, aside from the hyphenated name. Isn’t he cute?”
“Very,” Yossarian said, earning him looks from several of his friends, “What? He was asking.”
“Rhetorically, I think,” the relationship counselor put in earnestly, patting Yossarian’s shoulder, “But that’s alright, John. He’s not not cute.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Clevinger frowned, holding the muffins a little closer to his chest, “John and I were just about to have breakfast, actually. But thank you so much for stopping by, it was nice to meet you all.”
Dunbar held up his hand. “Hold on, Tim, I need to see if I got them all right. I know Nately of Nately’s Books, right? Then… you’re the relationship counselor, right?”
The relationship counselor offered a cheerful nod. “Consider my services available if you need anything at all, really.”
“Tim and I are good, but thank you,” Dunbar then turned to the other two, “Alright, I missed the first part. But I think you’re also John, from what I can extrapolate. And…” he faced Milo, whose smile had not moved an inch since he plastered it to his face, “Who are you? I think I came after your introduction.”
“Milo Minderbinder, head of the M&M Market. It’s the grocery store down in the town center.”
“He likes it when you use his full name,” Yossarian put in.
As forced as Clevinger knew Dunbar’s smile was, it looked overwhelmingly realistic. Clevinger wasn’t sure what about it gave him the indication of it being falsified, but he pushed it aside anyway. “Sure. Milo Minderbinder,” Dunbar gave a nod of his head, “Tim and I are going to eat breakfast now, but it was nice to meet all of you.”
“I’m having a dinner party on Tuesday at six if you’d like to come,” Milo offered, sticking out his hand to shake both Clevinger and Dunbar’s hands again, “I’ll add two additional place settings for the two of you. It’ll mostly be us, and we’d love to have you. Get to know you a little better and all that. And it’ll be a five-course meal, if that does anything to convince you. I think it would be… tremendously good for business if we all became better acquainted.”
“Nice to meet you all,” Clevinger called after them as they left, and he carried the jug of lemonade and muffins in, “Thank you so much for stopping by!”
“Hold on,” Milo doubled back, sticking his foot in the gap between the door and frame just as Clevinger was about to close it, “This weekend, I’ll be hosting a block party BBQ sponsored by the M&M Market to welcome you and John to the neighborhood.”
“Another neighborhood tradition?” Dunbar asked, though his eyes didn’t meet the smile on his lips.
Milo waved a hand dismissively. “Something like that,” he agreed, “Pleasure to meet you, pleasure as always! Five on Saturday, green house!”
By the time they stood in the kitchen together again, Dunbar had just finished with breakfast and started to plate it on plain, unbreakable dishware that looked just as generic as everything else in their stupid house. Too clean. Too new. Clevinger felt he was choking on the scent of Lysol in every room, like everything had been hospital-grade sanitized and dehumanized to accommodate the two of them. He took a fork in hand and cut into his egg, the taste of salt on his tongue bringing him back to earth. “So, what did you think of the neighborhood welcome squad?” asked Dunbar, who hadn’t taken a bite yet and had sat, cutting his egg into thirty-seconds, “Anyone nice?”
“Just… weird,” Clevinger murmured, taking another bite as he eyed Dunbar, “John, stop that. Eat your breakfast like a normal person. You’re almost weirder than our new neighbors.”
“I can cut it into sixty-fourths instead if you’re going to complain about thirty-seconds,” Dunbar promised, but there wasn’t malice in his threat, “What’s with Gucci Two-Shoes?”
“Edward Nately? The bookstore guy?” Clevinger asked, “He seemed nice enough. Like a generic guy, just… probably one who’s got a decent amount of money. It’s probably family money.”
Dunbar raised an eyebrow. “You think? He’s the third Edward Nately in a row. There’s no way it’s not family money. You don’t produce three people named Edward Nately without a great deal of money backing a name like that. Otherwise, your kid gets beat up in public school in the first grade for having a little roman numeral next to his name, and you can’t even send him to private school so he can keep his full set of teeth.”
“I guess that settles that,” Clevinger said, “How about the relationship counselor?”
“Gonna cheat,” Dunbar told him, resolutely taking his first bite of one of his egg thirty-seconds and placing it on top of a bacon thirty-second.
“John! You can’t just say that; he’s one of our new neighbors! That’s rude!”
“It’s true . He’s gonna cheat.”
Clevinger glared at him, wiping his lips on his napkin. “You can’t possibly know that.”
“Can, too. No relationship counselor has a happy relationship. That specific relationship counselor’s no exception. He’s gay and he’s gonna cheat.”
“I don’t think it works like that,” Clevinger declared, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do, too. Watch and see,” Dunbar picked up four of his thirty-seconds this time and arranged them in a perfectly neat little square before mashing them together and eating the whole lot, “I don’t think it’s really even a matter of if he likes his wife or not at this point. Maybe they’re friends. Still gonna cheat.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“Maybe, but you love me,” Dunbar gave him an award winning grin, and if the breakfast he’d made didn’t taste so good and Clevinger wasn’t half as hungry, he would’ve left early, “That’s why you’re my husband.”
“That’s not why I’m your husband and you know it.”
“Alright, so who’s left? Just Milo Minderbinder and John.”
Clevinger said, “I’m pretty sure we knew John, back in Goeing, remember? We looked different back then, but I’m pretty sure we went through our onboarding training together, two or so years ago. He had adult braces.”
“Oh, Jackie ! I remember him,” Dunbar gave a half-smile, “We had sex in the custodial closet on the fourth floor. His braces cut through my bottom lip and I had to go to the emergency room and lie about what happened.”
Clevinger threw his napkin incredulously, winding back on Dunbar. “You what?”
“I think you heard me the first time,” Dunbar said, “He clearly doesn’t remember us. It’s not a security risk, if that’s what you’re worried about. He hated Goeing almost as much as we did.”
“I think we hate Goeing more, given that Goeing made us go into witness protection .”
Dunbar shrugged. “Potato, potahto. Milo Minderbinder’s a try-hard. Those muffins are going to be delicious; he even has turbinado sugar sprinkled on top for extra flavor. I hope he’s not nearly as good at cooking as he is with baking.”
“He’s making a five-course meal for us on Tuesday. I’m pretty sure he’s fine,” Clevinger replied, to which Dunbar frowned and doubled down on his meal, “What? You’re still a line-cook and he’s not. And anyway, it doesn’t matter. Our entire lives are gone, and you’re here worried about whether or not Milo Minderbinder is a better chef than you are.”
“I have to be worried about something.”
Clevinger dismissed it; Dunbar wasn’t wrong. It was easier to worry about the presence of their new lives than the absence of their old lives. He finished breakfast and washed the dishes with perfect Dawn dish soap that he never would’ve chosen for himself. The scent left him dazed, caught as though he was lost in a reverie. He tried to delay his morning shower, he really did. Thumbing through old books and a few drugstore magazines that belonged in a dentist office rather than his living room, Clevinger realized he had nothing to do. He was delaying the inevitable.
The bathroom was en suite to his and Dunbar’s bedroom. It had every amenity a bathroom should have, stocked with generic brand shampoos and conditioners, nothing too fancy. Clevinger tried to catch his own eyes in the mirror but his face looked different now. They’d cut his hair shorter and changed his part, and now it was all a light reddish blond, a far cry from the dull brown it had previously been. He ran his fingers through it, strands feeling thinner, softer from the bleaching process. It all framed his face differently, made his eyes look darker. It made him look like a different person. “I suppose that’s the point,” he said, to no one in particular, “I’m supposed to be a different person. That’s it, isn’t it?”
He undid his pajamas and his robe, already grateful for the aftertaste of bacon, eggs, and Milo’s lemon muffins which did indeed turn out to be delicious. Dunbar had been dismayed. Clevinger stared at his frame, something he’d stopped tending to since the Goeing work got particularly stressful and dinner became an every-other-day affair. Dunbar hadn’t been much better, living on coffee and cigarettes. Thinking about the muffin and the breakfast Dunbar had supplied, Clevinger felt his own constitution would change with time in the neighborhood. Dunbar’s, too. He stood now, only in his boxers, staring at himself in the mirror. “Tim, I’m—” Dunbar paused, making eye contact with Clevinger in the mirror, “Sorry. I think I’m interrupting something.”
Clevinger reached for his robe, tugging it over his body. He hated the dyed hair, but Dunbar had been given a crew-cut. Clevinger almost felt worse about that. “It’s fine,” he said, fighting to keep his voice even, “I was just about to take a shower anyway.”
“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” Dunbar asked, not unkindly.
Clevinger pivoted to face him, aware of how a sliver of his chest and boxers peaked out between the sides of the robe. “I’m a blond now,” he muttered, almost tearfully, “How can you be in love with a blond? It looks bad, doesn’t it?”
“First, we’re not in love,” Dunbar reminded him calmly, “And second, it’s fine. Look, Tim. You’re okay. Think about the last three people who got dirt on Goeing, and think of the graveyards they’re all lying in. A little box blond is the last thing you should be worried about. You’re still attractive.”
“You’re just saying that,” Clevinger frowned, turning back to his reflection and fighting with the comb to will his messy hair back into his old part. The new haircut made that hard to do, not without his head looking patchy and uneven. It would only be a matter of time before he gave up.
Dunbar’s gaze was even. “Maybe, but you wouldn’t know, would you? You’re pretty, Tim. Now stop wringing your hands and go take your shower. We still have some chores for today, and I’m going to make you scallops for dinner if you make the bed.”
“Alright,” Clevinger agreed absently, watching as Dunbar left the room. Seeing the way Dunbar’s head had been mostly shaved made something in his chest hurt badly, he looked older now, more serious. Clevinger inhaled deeply, filling his senses with the impregnable Lysol that seeped into every inch of their house foundation and rattled his bones. The wedding band on his finger had just started to blend into the way his hand felt normally; giving them their bands in beautiful sterling silver was one of the first agency acts, so they’d have time to get used to feeling them there without taking them off. Clevinger spun his with his thumb once before undoing his robe again and pulling his pants down, freeing himself for the shower.
Saturday arrived with little fanfare. Dunbar broke three of their glasses in the days leading up to it. Clevinger took it upon himself to sweep up the shards. He smoothed the top of Dunbar’s t-shirt as they stood in the foyer of their home, preparing for Milo’s BBQ. “You have to stop shattering our glasses,” Clevinger chastised as he took a step back, examining Dunbar like he was a work of art, “I don’t think I got all the shards from the one today. We’ll have to go buy new ones if you keep this up. What were you thinking?”
“It’s just a cup, Tim,” Dunbar told him, but he didn’t roll his eyes or gesture dismissively like usual, “Who cares?”
Clevinger glared. “I do! I have to keep cleaning them up! What’s wrong with you?”
“Not a good look on you. C’mon, everyone’s going to want to meet the newlyweds of 22 Heller Boulevard,” Dunbar held out his hand, and Clevinger took it tentatively, bobbing it up and down, “Stop shaking my hand. We’re going to go out there and we have to present a united front. Hold it, Tim. Haven’t you ever held hands before?”
Clevinger tried a few positions tentatively, threading his and Dunbar’s fingers together, then undoing them. Pressing their palms together, feeling the heat and warmth drift from Dunbar’s hand to his. “Not really,” he admitted, looking out the door, “Is this right?”
“It’s hand-holding. Just do it. We’re late.”
“Fine,” Clevinger bristled, “I just want it to look realistic, is all. And I could give you a lecture on the merits of hand-holding throughout western history, if you’d prefer that. It’s not that I’m clueless , you know.”
Dunbar frowned. “All the men in the world and they gave me the one loser who doesn’t know how to hold hands. Great.”
Clevinger tried to stand tall in his polo shirt and khaki pants, his shoulders pulled back as he opened the door and locked it behind them. His palm already started to sweat, and he shifted uncomfortably, though he didn’t let go. They made their way to Milo’s house, outside which Milo had already set up a grill and a buffet table with about twenty kinds of homemade hors d'oeuvres. He stood in a meticulous white chef coat, frying corn, hot-dogs, and burgers with the ease of someone who had years of experience, and waved Clevinger and Dunbar over eagerly when they arrived. The scenario seemed so mundane, so absolutely banal that it was easy to be lured into a sense of security, one which turned out to be false for both Clevinger and Dunbar. Of course, they had forgotten the most important part of attending a BBQ together five days into their life together: never be apart.
Physical separation was grounds for disaster, since they only had preliminary knowledge of their backstory from witness protection. It hadn’t really occurred to them to discuss further with each other, not when Clevinger spent most of his time reading to distract himself from their reality and Dunbar sulked around their house, occasionally sketching in a blank notebook or making meals for the two of them. They tried not to talk much, to pretend the other wasn’t there. Mealtimes and bedtime were the only points in which they broke this silence.
Clevinger, for his part, spent his time chattering around the neighborhood, waving at new faces and introducing himself to anyone who would listen. This included most of the men who had greeted him a few days ago on the front steps, holding treats to welcome him into their world. Milo tended the grill most of the time, his reddish-brown hair slicked back into a tidy style. Smoke wafted up into the skies, creating a slight smog around the cookout that was tangible with each hearty inhale. The laughter of the relationship counselor’s children carried high above the senseless din of suburban chatter, as neighbors spoke softly to one another, laughed vibrantly, and seeked out Clevinger and Dunbar to introduce themselves. Clevinger, for his part, took initiative. He poured himself a glass of sweet peach fruit punch with sprigs of mint and delicate orange slices adorning the ephemeral layer of ice floating on the top of the foaming drink. Far enough from alcohol and sweet; Clevinger found himself banking on the sugar rush as he tried to seek out each member of the neighborhood and recite what they’d trained him to say in the witness protection program: he’d been dating Dunbar for five years, married last month, and now he was excited to live in the lifeless drudgery of suburbia. Clevinger felt like an apostate the first time the words left his traitorous mouth in a conversation with Johnny McWatt, an attractive bachelor with slick auburn hair and freckles across perfectly smooth cheeks. His easygoing smile fit perfectly between his rosy, cheerful cheeks. “That shirt looks hot—nice—good,” Clevinger finally decided on, feeling his cheeks redden and—had it always been this humid out? “Where do you live?”
“Down the street, blue house. It’s got the garden gnomes out front and the rose garden,” McWatt pointed down the lane at the charming home, now coated in the dusky dying light of late-afternoon, “I’m the real estate agent for the block—well, beyond the block, too, actually.”
“Are you seeing anyone?” asked Clevinger before he could catch himself, “I mean—John and I are happily married of course. I’m just trying to understand the social dynamics of the neighborhood.”
McWatt laughed in that carefree way, gracefully assuaging Clevinger’s painful avidity. “No, I’m single. It’s alright, though. I’m something of a free flier.”
It turned out that McWatt not only was an incredibly handsome real estate mogul who had Clevinger tripping over his own toes, but also taught lessons at the flight school about half a mile from Heller Boulevard. Clevinger didn’t have much to complain about, especially not after McWatt invited him over for poker and a rewatch of Moonstruck! next week. From there, Clevinger found himself feeling lightheaded, the dimming light and thick smoke filling his lungs. The world seemed to blur. Each joke was a little funnier, statements a little more interesting, and Clevinger found that he didn’t mind because it broke him from the inevitable monotony of living in the neighborhood. At some point, the local avarice connoisseur Milo Minderbinder tried to give him a hotdog, and Clevinger launched into an impassioned spiel about how hot dogs were originally manufactured until Milo plucked it off his plate and pleaded with him to shut up.
He met Nately again, this time seeing the youthful glint in Nately’s eyes. “I’m twenty in January,” Nately told him happily, shaking Clevinger’s hand again, “I’m getting married then, too. You’ll see my fiance around somewhere—Clara. Her name’s Clara.”
Clevinger wasn’t sure why a twenty year old was getting married instead of going to college, but one look at Nately’s $500 polo shirt and it became almost obvious to Clevinger. He was independently wealthy, and had no real disposition to know things beyond the all-inclusive romance section of his bookstore, which he talked passionately about at length in a dazed, love-struck sort of way. Clara had clouded his vision. Clevinger glanced over at Dunbar, who had his hands in his pockets and was clearly trying to fake a smile in his conversation with the divorce lawyer, Dr. Korn. Dunbar had never clouded his vision. Then again, he wasn’t in love with Dunbar. Not the way Nately was in love with Clara. Maybe it wasn’t love, then, but premature lust, purely physical. Clara had everything men tended to want in women—or, well, everything Clevinger assumed men wanted in women, because he’d never really wanted women. He’d almost been too busy to want men. An autodidact in everything but his own pleasure. Nately had just finished talking about the fifth straight romance book in a row when Clevinger cut him off. “Do you have a philosophy section?”
Nately blinked, momentarily stunned from the question. “What?”
“A philosophy section,” Clevinger repeated, vaguely aware that witness protection had told him to suppress any former hobbies or things he’d loved, “In your bookstore. You sell books. Do you sell books on philosophy?”
“We have everything,” Nately told him empathetically, “And if we don’t have it, we’ll get it! That’s the Nately’s Books motto! And you can drink coffee in our cafe. Clara makes a great latte, if you like that.”
Clevinger saw Clara in the crowd, a sleepy, half-lidded look in her eyes as she listened to someone speak ambiently. She cared almost as little as Dunbar, only Dunbar was pretending to care and Clara wasn’t. In both cases, it was evident that neither really cared. Dunbar wasn’t particularly convincing. Clevinger sighed. “I would like a latte,” he said, acutely aware of how his usually precise words seemed to meld together, “Tomorrow.”
“We open at twelve,” Nately grinned, “Since it’s Sunday. We open around eight on any other day, though. Plenty of time for you to come and work on one of your projects, if you want. You can even bring some primary source documents and… go sit down with them and look at them.”
“That’s not how primary source documents work,” Clevinger said softly.
Nately opened his mouth to blather on about another recently published book with tacky cover art called The Dressmaker’s Apprentice , and Clevinger found himself dazed, a warm sensation rising in his chest like his body had become lighter, calmer. “It was so nice to meet you,” Clevinger said, shaking Nately’s hand when he paused to breathe, “But my husband just gestured at me.”
“Oh—it was nice to meet you, too, Tim!” Nately agreed.
Clevinger stumbled off in the opposite direction of Dunbar, pushing to avoid another lecture on thinly-veiled erotica for pent-up women who had nothing better to do than read trashy pornographic writing and call it literature. He spoke to the relationship counselor, who had a nervous tic of running his hand through his subfusc, tan hair. Most commonly he talked at length about his little children who he couldn’t pick out of the neighborhood children when Clevinger asked which ones were his. He licked his lips and tugged at his collar with shaking hands, a small cross necklace tucked away beneath his shirt collar. Between the senseless heat in Clevinger’s cheeks and the wet redness of the relationship counselor’s lips, Clevinger had a fleeting and terrible thought about kissing him. Thankfully, he caught the thought before anything could happen and mentally castigated himself for even letting something like that cross his mind. If he had noticed Clevinger’s sudden hesitation, he didn’t comment. “Are you religious?” Clevinger asked him, tactlessly.
The relationship counselor gave a laugh which came from the shallow back of his throat, propelling his words forwards as though it had been a springboard, forcing them out of his mouth. “Anabaptist,” he said solemnly, “If you’re interested in joining a church—”
“I grew up catholic,” Clevinger interrupted quickly, “I’m good.”
“Well, that’s perfectly alright. Everyone’s entitled to their own views on the world,” the relationship counselor gave him a soft smile that he didn’t return, “Perhaps it just wasn’t… fulfilling for you.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Oh… well, that’s alright again,” the relationship counselor said a second time, clearly unsure of what else to say, “Have you met my wife, Mary?”
His wife . Clevinger harkened back to Dunbar at the breakfast table, swearing up and down that this gaunt man was going to cheat on his wife, as though it was some kind of fated, inevitable marker. Like one morning he’d wake up in someone else’s bed, an unexpected afflatus. Clevinger looked at him intently, trying to see it. The relationship counselor, then, must be like Oedipus Rex, he concluded. Condemned to a fate that—regardless of how hard he may try to avoid it—was simply inevitable. His kind brown eyes seemed softly worried, anxious but not passionate like Clevinger’s usually were when he was upset. “You have a wife,” Clevinger told him confidently, as if he didn’t already know it.
“I do,” the relationship counselor agreed, “And she’s around here, somewhere.”
He went around, pointing out women who he thought were Mary. The first two guesses were wrong but the third was right, and it was particularly egregious because she’d been within ten feet of him, holding their youngest child on her lap and bouncing him up and down while he giggled. Of course someone who didn’t recognize his wife would cheat on her, Clevinger reasoned. He felt half out of his mind, the world blurry around him and the words to T.S. Eliot poems bounced around the corners of his brain like torn strips of paper, lacking the scotch tape to put them together again.
Clevinger would have been condemned to continue in this manner, until he made his way to Dunbar two hours into the cookout with a brilliant grin on his face. He slapped one hand down on Dunbar’s back, a little surprised that Dunbar didn’t flinch whatsoever as he made his way to Dunbar’s front. “John! Guess what! Johnny McWatt likes to jog, too. We’re going to do laps together tomorrow!”
He grabbed Dunbar by the arms, and Dunbar shoved him off. “Tim, what the hell? Have you been drinking?”
Clevinger seemed taken aback by this, eyebrows knit into an offended look of confusion. “No! I just had some of the fruit punch.”
“You idiot!” he muttered, before he noticed Milo Minderbinder glancing over. At that point, he lowered his voice, guiding Clevinger away from the grass, where children were running around and adults were deep in casual conversation with one another, “That’s spiked. John Yossarian brought it over, remember? Weren’t you there for that?”
“No,” Clevinger admitted, running a hand through his too-short, too-blond hair, “And everyone keeps asking me how we met and when we met and how long we’ve been together for and my favorite things about you and—” he interrupted himself with a hiccup, “John, I just—what am I supposed to do? I’m answering, but—”
“What the hell are you telling them?” Dunbar demanded.
“I don’t know. I’m doing my best to tell… a convincing story. Something they’ll like.”
Dunbar sighed. “Our stories have to line up. If you tell them one thing and I tell them another, at least one part of our situation is going to be incredibly obvious to them, and our cover will be blown! Do you want us to end up in a graveyard like every other—you know what I’m saying?”
Clevinger nodded miserably, looking down. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak again, Milo Minderbinder’s voice came confidently from behind him. “Tim! John! Come on, lovebirds, this is for you to meet everyone else in the neighborhood. It’s much better for business like that, you know, and what benefits you benefits the neighborhood,” Milo flashed them both an awkward smile, “I know you’re both probably quite engaged with one another, but there’s more to do. Tim, you’re an archivist, right? The HOA is looking for a recordkeeper—and I myself would be happy to have you aboard,” he pulled Clevinger aside, outside earshot of Dunbar, “Consider this, Tim: free groceries for you and John, in exchange for recordkeeping for my enterprise. Think about it. And John, have you had a chance to taste my crudite?”
“I had a few,” Dunbar lied, “What’s your secret for that sauce?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret, now would it?” Milo replied, and just as quickly as they had escaped, they were thrust back into the action of the BBQ, “Now, I’m sure you’ve seen both my children around here somewhere—they’re a little reluctant to participate, so if you see some bored-looking teenagers, those are mine. And the relationship counselor has those three little children running around. I’m not sure which one of you is more interested in aerospace work, but my wife Regina works out of town as an aerospace engineer. She’s kind of a big-shot and can’t talk about many of her projects, but she works with Goeing.”
“C—Tim’s scared of planes,” Dunbar put in quickly, “Even talking about them drives him to tears. Isn’t that right, Tim?”
Clevinger glared back, but one look from Dunbar shut him up. “That’s right,” he agreed submissively, “John won’t talk about them either for my sake. He’s… thoughtful like that.”
“Right, well,” Milo shrugged it off, itching absentmindedly at his moustache while he scanned the remainder of the guests, “Tim, back to recordkeeping. Why don’t I introduce you to Chuck Cathcart? He’s the HOA president, and he’d be your best bet at looking into everything. He’s been trying to recruit a recordkeeper for months, and you seem like the perfect man for the job.”
Clevinger glanced over at Dunbar with wide, desperate eyes, reaching for the glass of wine in Dunbar’s hands as though it would save him. His fingers never touched the sterile rim as Dunbar guided him away, in the direction of Milo and Mr. Cathcart. “You know,” Milo was saying, hand lingering on Clevinger’s wrist, a thick gold wedding band adorning Milo’s ring finger, “I believe very strongly in family values and all of that. It’s why M&M Market is so welcoming to everyone here, you know, and it’s perfect for upstanding citizens such as John and yourself. And occasionally I’ll ask for the help of you or others, but always keep in mind that what’s best for M&M Market is best for everyone in the neighborhood, because everyone has a share. Isn’t that right, Chuck?”
Mr. Cathcart looked down on almost everyone on Heller Boulevard. This was because he towered at a gorgeous self-proclaimed six foot six, and a humbling doctor-proclaimed six foot four. He had an ex-wife who lived in Canada, who was allegedly exceedingly beautiful and had an equally beautiful six figure salary to match. No one had ever seen her, even on Mr. Cathcart’s walls and mantles when Mr. Cathcart hosted his famous dinner parties that most people begrudgingly attended to eat excess amounts of shrimp and caviar. Mr. Cathcart insisted that it was his ex-wife who allowed him to devote all his time to political races he was perpetually losing, and not the familial wealth that came with a name like Cathcart or Nately . He liked to play golf, and no one liked to play with him. He had won tournaments that no one had ever heard of, and trophies no one had ever seen. He took to Clevinger like a duck to water, mostly because Clevinger was overwhelmingly flattered and delighted that someone valued his meticulous record-keeping skills. Best of all, he was in no position to say ‘no’.
“Tim,” Dunbar hissed, watching Clevinger’s light-brown eyes begin to glaze over, widened with rapture, pupils blown from the alcohol, “Tim, get over here.”
“One moment, please,” Clevinger paused Mr. Cathcart, stumbling over to Dunbar and bracing himself on his shoulder, “They’re offering me a job! I was just telling Chick—sorry, Chuck—about how we met.”
“Are you going to tell me how we met?” Dunbar hissed.
“I forgot,” Clevinger admitted, “There’s so much to think about and I got so excited by the job.”
“We can’t keep doing this. Who knows what you’re telling people? They’re going to think you’re a pathological liar if you’ve been telling everyone different things! That’s not what we want, we have to blend in!”
“Everything okay over there?” came Milo’s voice, and Dunbar froze until he realized Milo wasn’t talking to them at all.
Milo’s interests had redirected themselves to a pale, bleach-blond man by the edge of the party, who had a beer in one hand and an insidious scowl adorning his face. He hadn’t been in the welcome brigade to Clevinger and Dunbar’s house, and he seemed to look at Milo with several layers of jaded indifference. Light reflected off his ful vue glasses, nearly engulfing his soulless green eyes. “You know we can’t be seen together,” Milo insisted, his voice dropping to a tantalizing whisper, “Come on, Eugene. What if my wife notices?”
“That’s Mr. Wintergreen to you,” Wintergreen—and that was his name, after all—said, “If you really want to act all prim and proper at this fucking function, then you have to call me Mr.”
“Your nametag at your job says Eugene,” Milo pointed out, “It’s more suspicious if I call you your last name, and that would be very bad for business, wouldn’t it, Eugene?”
“Yours or mine?” Eugene raised an eyebrow, pushing towards Milo as though he was challenging him, “Why am I supposed to care about your marriage, again? It’s not my fault that you’re chea—”
“ Don’t ,” Milo begged, “It would be bad for business.”
“What, just saying the words?”
Milo raised an eyebrow.
“Cheating,” Wintergreen whispered, voice just loud enough for Dunbar to hear him, “Milo and Regina, sitting in a tree—”
“Shut up!” Milo hissed, then took a step back, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what that was about. Listen, the M&M Market is most successful when I’m the most successful, and if you cause me problems with my wife, then I will inherently be less successful and so will the M&M Market. And when I detriment, you detriment, because you have a share. So telling my wife about our—our—”
“Say it,” Wintergreen jeered, “Call it what it is.”
“You know I can’t,” Milo replied, “What it is is bad for business, Eugene, you know that.”
“I also know you didn’t complain last week when I let you—”
“Eugene, please,” Milo pleaded this time, “You shouldn’t even be here right now, and you definitely shouldn’t be talking to me, not like this. You’re not exactly one of the handsome Heller Boulevard men, are you?”
“You’re right; I’m more handsome,” Wintergreen corrected.
“It’s handsomer , not more handsome ,” Clevinger drunkenly whispered to Dunbar, “ Handsomer is the comparative form of the—”
“I can’t fucking take you anywhere,” Dunbar glared at him, pressing a finger to Clevinger’s damp lips to get him to silence himself, “Be quiet so we can listen.”
Clevinger submissively shut his mouth, looking at Dunbar with wide, pale brown eyes, which would have almost been pretty if Dunbar had paid any attention at all to them. Milo had turned from Wintergreen, an effulgent smile plastered across his face while Wintergreen sulked behind him, keeping his own shoulders tall but his face completely expressionless. His mere presence seemed to suck some of the life out of the barbeque, even as Milo donned his chef’s coat and turned his attention back towards the grill, glancing at Regina out of the corner of his eye. Dunbar slid his hand towards Clevinger’s, letting their fingers intertwine as if either of them knew how to do it. “I think it’s time for us to make our exit,” he said, “You’re too drunk for me to let you go around these people unsupervised.”
“That’s not my fault,” Clevinger argued, “You’re the one who made me go.”
“Tim, that isn’t even true,” Dunbar patted his shoulder, “Let’s go tell them we need to leave to go do couples things. We can thank Milo, I’ll say you’re tired and that I’m taking you to go to bed.”
“You’re not going to tell them you’re going to sleep with me, right?” Clevinger asked, his voice half-panicked.
“What? No. It’s fine, Tim. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
Dunbar’s hand found its way around Clevinger’s: a perfect practicality. He dragged Clevinger alongside him to Milo where they said their goodbyes, and Dunbar apologized profusely for anything Clevinger might have said that would’ve done either of them a disservice. “He’s on some new meds that go poorly with alcohol and they make him lie,” Dunbar told Milo bluntly, Clevinger watching with his eyebrows knit up in pique, “So please forgive any discrepancies with what he might’ve told anyone. He doesn’t really know what he’s saying.”
Milo offered another bright, false pretender smile, his teeth sharp in the soft glow cast by street lamps. Three years prior, the HOA had forced assimilation between eighteenth-century style lamps, one per property at least, giving the street a uniform appearance. No longer did gas light these lamps, but had they been there two-hundred years ago, few would’ve questioned it. Clevinger leaned against one while Dunbar squeezed his hand gently, watching Milo. “Well, I’m sure you newlyweds have some catching up to do, don’t you?” he asked, shaking each of their hands with an energetic grip, “Just make sure Tim gets in for work on Wednesday afternoon to help with the M&M Market. It was lovely to meet you both. Please remember, whatever helps out the Market will help both of you out—because everyone has a share.”
“That’s great,” Dunbar agreed flatly, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go have sex with my husband.”
“You’re not really going to have sex with me, are you?” Clevinger asked, his voice a slight panic as Dunbar dragged him across the street and unlocked the door to their home, “First of all, due to my inebriated state, one cannot really consider my agreement true consent. So regardless of if I wanted to or not, it would be morally wrong. But second of all, you know that most of my knowledge about it is based entirely in nonfiction readings which I’ve committed to heart for the purposes of—”
“I’m not going to fuck you,” Dunbar told him, pushing him inside, “Get in, go put some pajamas on, and go to bed.”
Clevinger looked almost hurt. “You’re not going to fuck me?”
“Tim, we’re not together . And you’re drunk and you yourself said it’s unethical or whatever to have sex when you’re drunk—which it is. But even if you were sober, I wouldn’t fuck you.”
“You don’t like me,” Clevinger murmured.
“Oh, no, I’m sure sex with you would be great. Imagine how slow you’d make my life seem with every sentence,” Dunbar sighed, and to the correctly trained pair of ears, it would’ve sounded almost happy, “Come on, Tim. Shower in the morning. Go to bed now. We can’t have the neighbors thinking you’re the kind of guy who gets hammered at his welcome block party.”
“I didn’t do that,” Clevinger insisted with a slight pout.
“You did,” Dunbar told him, reaching to help Clevinger unbutton his shirt, “And it’s okay.”
“We’d better be okay here,” Clevinger mumbled, “It’s so different. I don’t know how we’re supposed to—”
“To…?” Dunbar prompted.
“To live like this! It’s so… pointless! So wrong!”
His shirt fell away, leaving his chest bare in its wake. He fell back against the bed, into an almost-calm sitting position despite his wildly gesticulating hands. “It is pointless,” Dunbar agreed, “But maybe that’s the price of our lives. And it’s so deliciously slow, like this. You, with me, every day. In this stupid, mundane existence. If the only certainty we have is that we are going to die, doesn’t it make sense to make our lives as long as possible? And think about how long that block party seemed. I talked to Mr. Havermeyer for over thirty minutes and that was almost perfect because bankers like him are insufferable, but they’re not so terrible that you want to gouge their eyes out—or worse, your own eyes. There’s apparently a skeet shooting club; Chuck Cathcart owns the range but it’s basically fine for anyone to go there, according to Mr. Havermeyer. Think about how many slow, miserable afternoons we can spend—Tim? Tim?” Dunbar shook him slightly, Clevinger’s chest completely bare, his body slumped against the pillows on his side of the bed, “We’ll talk about this tomorrow. Goodnight, Tim.”
Clevinger mumbled something in response about Aristotle and his concept of temperance in virtue ethics, and the words were slow and muddy on his lips. Dunbar pulled the blanket around him, watching as he curled closer to Dunbar’s side of the bed like he was reaching for something. Half out of curiousity, Dunbar set his hand in Clevinger’s, watching as his expression evened out as he gripped back. Of course.
On Heller Boulevard, connection is the strongest ribbon between the residents. Whether it was Dunbar, feeling his false husband’s hand tighten around his fingers in an unconscious gesture of desperate neediness, or the frustration of Wintergreen, expecting more out of his business-partners-with-benefits than Milo was willing to give. Or perhaps even the relationship counselor, on the third floor of his house, leaving the room after kissing each of his three children goodnight and forgetting what their faces looked like as soon as the light was off. Yes, connection is an effortless tie on Heller Boulevard—but it’s one that has the capacity to bind and gag.