By the time Ted opened his eyes, the thunderstorm had moved off into the distance. The rain, however, appeared to be taking its time leaving.
Water dripped from the balcony above his window in a lazy, irregular rhythm. Somewhere below, a car swept through a puddle, followed by an indignant shout. The street was wet enough to reflect the pale afternoon sky, and the air coming through the window was warm, heavy, and almost aggressively damp.
Ted loved this sort of weather.
Toronto summers could make a person feel as though they’d stepped into a tropical greenhouse without the benefit of tropical plants. Today was particularly impressive. His sheets had developed the texture of a damp dishcloth.
There was loving summer, and there was trying to sleep in it.
He reached for his phone.
1:32 p.m.
“Jesus.”
He had no idea what time he’d fallen asleep. He remembered walking home. He remembered taking off the hideous kitchen trousers he’d acquired on Thursday night. After that, his memories became mostly horizontal.
The trial shift. Sofia. The wine.
Thiago.
He smiled into his pillow.
What a fucking Thursday.
He’d gone to The Lantern hoping not to make a complete fool of himself. By the end of the night, he’d survived his first shift, been offered two more, assisted a wealthy stranger with a private wardrobe catastrophe, and spent considerably longer than planned getting to know a handsome Brazilian art conservator.
Not bad for a man who’d spent Tuesday morning wondering whether a university degree could be exchanged for groceries.
Ted rolled onto his back and stretched.
Then he remembered.
“My fucking trousers.”
He pressed a hand to his forehead.
What an idiot.
He looked toward the floor.
There they were: grey pinstripes, elastic waistband, an abundance of fabric arranged in a heap that somehow managed to look unflattering even without a person inside it.
His replacement trousers.
Chef’s trousers, apparently. The sort of garment designed for standing over industrial stoves and never, under any circumstances, being photographed from behind.
He’d given away his best black pants.
Not his second-best black pants. Not something he’d picked up at a discount store and forgotten he owned. His good trousers. His graduation trousers. The ones he’d bought on sale and then paid extra to have tailored until they fit properly.
They were somewhere in Toronto, enjoying the company of Vikram Sethi.
Ted stared at the ceiling.
He could have given Vikram the chef’s pants.
The thought arrived with such perfect clarity that he laughed out loud.
He imagined the man standing in The Lantern’s washroom in his immaculate beige jacket, looking down at grey pinstripes bunching around his ankles. The elastic waistband. The peculiar excess of material. The complete destruction of whatever he paid his tailor to achieve.
Oh, that would have been glorious.
Instead, Vikram had walked away in Ted’s best trousers, looking as though they’d been tailored for him.
And somewhere, probably at the bottom of a garbage bin, lay a pair of beige trousers worth more than Ted’s monthly rent.
Vikram could throw them away without a second thought.
Ted was still mourning his own.
He grinned again at the idea of Vikram in the chef’s trousers.
Then the grin softened.
No. Sofia would have been furious, and with good reason.
Vikram had been embarrassed enough without discovering an enormous stain on his trousers in front of his friends and somebody’s camera. Ted had seen an opportunity to help. He’d taken it. That was the whole thing.
Besides, the man had left a thousand-dollar tip for the staff pool afterward.
That counted for something.
Ted turned his head toward the heap on the floor.
“Still. My fucking pants. Jesus, God damn it.” He laughed aloud again.
With a sigh, he got out of bed and walked into the living room.
The apartment had survived his absence. The sofa still looked as though it had been assembled from an enormous cushion with delusions of furniture. The plants were maintaining their usual range of health outcomes. His gaming computer sat quietly beneath the television, a collection of components he’d put together gradually and would probably defend in court if anyone questioned his priorities.
On the kitchen counter sat a mug he’d forgotten to wash.
“Morning,” he told it.
Technically, it was afternoon.
His stomach didn’t care.
∞
The refrigerator offered very little improvement on Tuesday’s situation.
There was yogurt. There were eggs. The cucumber looked as though it were hanging on out of spite, but the soft, mouldy patch at one end suggested otherwise.
Ted tossed it into the garbage.
“Bon appétit, raccoons.”
He opened the freezer.
Two bagels in a plastic bag, lightly crusted with ice.
He held one up.
It had seen better days. It had probably seen better winters.
Still edible, though. The raccoons weren’t getting those.
Next to the bagels sat a shaker of Parmesan cheese, which he’d stored in the freezer after deciding that a dry dairy product deserved all the help it could get in this heat.
He opened the cupboard and reached automatically for a tin of sardines.
Those he already had plenty of.
Some from the Philippines. Some from Morocco. Ted had developed opinions about both, opinions he recognized most people had absolutely no desire to hear.
He toasted the less alarming of the bagels, opened the sardines, and arranged them across the two halves with the seriousness of a person plating a meal for television. He shook Parmesan over the top.
The cheese came out in an enthusiastic little avalanche.
He placed the cheese back in the freezer and purposefully left the freezer door wide open.
“Excellent,” he said, enjoying the only cool air he could get.
He then took a bite of his breakfast.
It was excellent.
The bagel was slightly dry around the edges, and the Parmesan wasn’t going to win any international culinary awards, but the sardines were good. Salty, rich, satisfying.
A sensible breakfast.
At nearly two in the afternoon.
He was twenty-five, a commerce graduate, and fresh off his first paid shift as a bartender.
Everything was going according to plan.
He ate standing in front of the open freezer door while the dripping outside continued. His phone sat beside his plate.
There were a few messages.
Marcus had sent a photograph of somebody else’s dog wearing sunglasses, accompanied by no explanation.
MARCUS: This is you when you finally get a job.
TED: I have a job.
MARCUS: A trial shift is not a pension plan, sweetheart.
TED: Neither is the career advice of a man sending me dogs in eyewear.
MARCUS: How was it?
Ted looked toward the bedroom and its abandoned kitchen trousers.
TED: I need to tell you in person. It’s a wardrobe emergency.
MARCUS: Are you naked?
TED: No.
MARCUS: Then how bad can it be?
Ted left that one unanswered.
There was also a message from Thiago.
THIAGO: Home in one piece?
It had arrived sometime after they parted.
Ted smiled.
TED: Barely. Still recovering from those ridiculous trousers.
A reply came a minute later.
THIAGO: You were wearing them surprisingly well.
TED: Liar.
THIAGO: Maybe a little. I had fun.
TED: So did I, handsome.
He set the phone down and finished his breakfast.
The kitchen was hot enough to make him consider eating every future meal directly in front of the open freezer.
A window air conditioner.
He’d been thinking about one since the previous summer. Every time he’d come close to ordering it, something more urgent had appeared: rent, groceries, tuition, another expense that considered itself entitled to his money.
He glanced toward his bedroom.
He needed trousers now, too.
Wonderful.
Ted closed the freezer, rinsed his plate, poured himself cold water, and picked up his phone again.
Northstar Airways.
He’d applied Tuesday night. Three days ago, more or less. Thursday he’d checked his phone for a response, which was frankly ridiculous. No airline was going to evaluate his entire future between breakfast and the dinner rush.
Still.
What if they’d written?
He opened his actual email inbox.
It was a mess.
There were promotional offers, receipts, newsletters he’d once thought sounded interesting, and an impressive quantity of correspondence from the university. He was subscribed to several mailing lists and had developed the sensible habit of ignoring almost all of them.
Northstar wasn’t there.
No invitation. No request to schedule an interview. Nothing beyond the automatic confirmation that they’d received his application.
“Take your time,” he told the screen. “I’m only considering restructuring my entire life around you.”
He scrolled farther down.
A subject line caught his eye.
Student Account Reconciliation — Refund Issued
Ted almost kept going.
Another university email.
Possibly a request to complete a survey about how supported he’d felt during his six years of education. The answer depended very much on whether they wanted a polite response.
Then he noticed the sender.
Student Accounts.
He opened it.
At first, the words didn’t settle into anything meaningful. He read them once, frowned, and read them again.
Following a final review of his student account, the university had identified accumulated overpayments and unapplied credits from previous terms.
A refund had been issued to his bank account on Thursday.
Amount: $5,439.34.
Ted stopped moving and pulled his phone closer to his face.
Five thousand.
Four hundred.
Thirty-nine dollars.
And thirty-four cents.
“Excuse me?”
He read the email again, looking for the part where it asked for his credit card number, his mother’s maiden name, or a small fee to release the funds.
Nothing.
The message said the payment had been initiated electronically and might take one to three business days to appear.
He stared at it.
Six years.
Six years of tuition, payments made at odd times, grants applied at even odder times, credits moved between terms, and an account he’d been delighted to stop thinking about once he graduated.
Apparently, the university had been sitting on his money.
A rather substantial quantity of his money.
He opened a separate browser tab and signed into the student portal directly. The website required a password he’d forgotten, a reset email, and a verification code that arrived after a delay long enough to suggest the server was consulting legal counsel.
Finally, his account appeared.
Credit balance cleared.
Refund issued.
$5,439.34.
Ted sat down on the sofa.
Then he opened the Toronto Dollar Bank app.
Nothing.
His balance was still deeply unimpressive. The cash he’d taken home from The Lantern’s pooled tips was folded in his wallet, helpful for immediate expenses but not enough to support a man with rent coming due.
He checked TDB again.
Still nothing.
The email said one to three business days.
It could be Monday. It could be Tuesday. It could appear on Friday afternoon and change the entire mood of his weekend.
He reread the university confirmation.
Real.
It seemed to be real.
He put the phone on the coffee table and looked across the apartment.
His rent was due in less than three weeks.
For the first time since graduation, that sentence wasn’t followed immediately by a feeling somewhere between nausea and a mild cardiac event.
He could set it aside.
Pay for groceries without doing mental arithmetic in front of the refrigerated section.
Fresh bagels no longer seemed like such a luxury.
Maybe he’d buy some proper black trousers before his next shift.
And, if the gods of banking were feeling generous, finally order that window air conditioner from Amazing.com.
He imagined the thing installed over the sill, blowing glorious cold air directly into his bedroom.
Then he remembered that he lived in an apartment building and probably ought to check whether the windows could accommodate one.
Even his fantasies were subject to building regulations.
Ted sighed.
“Fine. I’ll read the lease. Like an adult.”
He looked at the bank app one more time.
Nothing.
Five thousand dollars would give him some breathing room. But without a steady income, how long would it last?
His financial future had been patched, not repaired.
He stood, stretched, and glanced toward the window. The rain had stopped completely. The sun was beginning to find its way through the clouds, making the wet pavement sparkle.
It would be unbearably humid outside.
Perfect gym weather.
Or at least Ted’s version of it.
He had nowhere to be until next Friday.
He had some cash in his wallet.
He might have five thousand dollars on the way.
And he’d spent quite enough of the day in his apartment with the smell of sardines.
“Right,” he said.
Time to do something useful with himself.
∞
Outside, the city had the peculiar smell that came after a summer storm: wet concrete, hot pavement and an indeterminate suggestion that somebody was cooking onions two buildings away.
A food delivery man on an electric scooter flew through a shallow puddle at the corner and narrowly missed spraying Ted’s shoes. He had mittens on his handlebars and was dressed for cold weather.
Astonishing.
“Love you too,” Ted murmured.
Church Street was busy enough for a Friday afternoon. People were back on patios under umbrellas that had stopped being useful an hour earlier. A man walked a dog in a little raincoat, even though the dog was now considerably drier than the owner. Someone emerged from a café with an iced coffee so large it looked like an architectural feature.
Ted took his time.
There was something about knowing he didn’t have to rush to a shift that made walking feel different. Thursday he’d hurried along these same streets trying to appear employable. Today he was just a man going to the gym, with an improbable email in his inbox and no particular reason to be anywhere else.
He passed a shop window and caught his reflection.
Shorts. Trainers. T-shirt.
A perfectly acceptable ensemble.
None of it belonged to Vikram Sethi.
He grinned and kept walking.
By the time he reached Greatlife, the back of his shirt was sticking to him.
Inside, the air conditioning felt like a formal apology.
He scanned his membership and headed toward the locker room to claim a place for his gym bag.
The Greatlife sometimes surprised him with unexpected encounters. The clientele was commonly mixed, but there was a surplus of cruisy men. Ted had learned early in his sex life that spontaneity was considerably more enjoyable when he’d prepared for it. He learned the hard way that unplanned anal could lead to disaster.
Despite the possibility of action, his gym routine wasn’t particularly complicated. He liked lifting. He liked the feeling afterward. He also liked the people, although he’d discovered that admitting this to Marcus tended to produce an exhausting amount of commentary.
He set his water bottle beside a bench, put his phone away, and began warming up.
For a little while, there was nothing in his head except the weight, his breathing, and the distant percussion of somebody dropping a dumbbell for dramatic effect.
It was nice.
Then a familiar voice came from behind him.
“Careful. You might actually do that.”
Ted turned.
Alex stood beside the dumbbell rack, smiling at him.
He had the same dark beard and easy grin Ted remembered. The broad shoulders didn’t hurt, either.
“Alex Gym,” Ted said.
Alex raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing. It’s a title of great distinction.”
“Is that what I am now?”
“Would you prefer Alexander of Greatlife?”
“Does it come with a crown?”
Ted laughed.
“You never came over,” Alex said.
“I said I might.”
“You said it with confidence.”
“I’m a confident person.”
“I’ve noticed.”
They fell into conversation with the familiarity of two men who had already met and liked one another. Seeing Alex again brought back details of their first encounter. It had been at this very Greatlife location, although Ted still couldn’t remember exactly when.
“How have you been?” Ted asked.
“Working. Training. Apparently being stood up by a man who calls me stud.”
“Oh, that’s harsh. I didn’t stand you up.”
“You disappeared.”
“There’s a difference.”
“Explain it.”
“A very important administrative difference.”
Alex laughed. “What have you been up to?”
“Career development.”
“Really?”
“I’m practically a professional now.”
“At what?”
“Alcohol.”
“Ah.”
“It’s a respectable trade.”
Ted gave him a brief account of his trial at The Lantern. Alex listened with the easy interest of somebody who wasn’t simply waiting for his own turn to speak.
“And did they keep you?” he asked.
“Two shifts next week.”
“That’s great.”
“Thank you.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I’m currently without my best trousers.”
Alex regarded him for a moment.
“Okay. Start over.”
Ted smiled. “Long story. Wealthy guy, unfortunate stain, heroic intervention. I didn’t come out ahead in the clothing department.”
“And here I thought your life was glamorous.”
“It’s a constant struggle.”
They caught up between sets. Alex had recently changed teams at work, the kind of reorganization that involved fourteen emails and a meeting that should have been a message. He asked about Ted’s university degree, then laughed when Ted admitted how little use he’d put it to so far.
Ted liked that Alex wasn’t impressed or disappointed by any of it. Alex had his own life going on, and Ted could drop back into it without feeling that he had to deliver a performance.
At one point Alex checked a message on his phone. Ted finished his last set and glanced at the clock.
He’d been at Greatlife long enough to qualify the visit as exercise rather than an elaborate social engagement.
“I’m finishing up,” he told Alex.
“Me too, actually.”
Ted studied him for a moment.
There was a familiar possibility hanging between them, neither spoken nor particularly mysterious.
“I’m going to rinse off,” Ted said.
Alex smiled.
“Good plan. You’re a mess.”
“Charming.”
“You like honesty.”
“Yeah, well, you like ’em dirty.”
Ted leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough to make the invitation private.
“Come find me in the steam room after you rinse off, stud.”
Alex considered him for a second, then smiled.
“Don’t disappear on me again.”
“No promises.”
They headed toward the change rooms separately.
Ted wandered into one of the shower cubicles and let the water wash away the afternoon’s workout. He had not bothered showering before his first memorable meeting with Alex; they’d gone straight from the weights to the sauna. Ted still couldn’t remember exactly when that had been.
Today he took his time. The contrast between the overheated streets outside and the clean tile and running water was rather wonderful.
By the time Ted finished showering, the afternoon crowd had thinned. Somewhere beyond the change room, a weight clanked against its rack, but otherwise Greatlife was unusually quiet. The after-work rush was still a few hours away.
At the far end of the wet area, condensation streaked the frosted glass door of the steam room.
Ted pushed the door open and stepped into the thick, wet heat. He was still pink from the shower, skin tight and clean, the last of the workout sweat rinsed away. Still pumped up from the weights, Ted’s cock was already half-hard against his thigh just from the anticipation. He settled on the upper bench, legs spread, and waited for Alex.
Alex came in a minute later, towel slung low on his hips. Broad-shouldered and thick-chested, still carrying the flush of the gym, his dark hair was damp.
“Still here,” he said.
Ted smiled.
“Told you I was reliable.”
“That’s not the word I’d use.”
“Rude.”
Alex locked eyes with Ted, and the towel dropped without ceremony. His cock swung heavy and already thickening—long, fat, the kind of horse-cock that made Ted’s mouth water every time he saw it. Ted remembered he could barely get the head beyond his tonsils when it was fully swollen. Alex brought Ted close and kissed him hard, open-mouthed, tasting the clean heat of the steam while his hands mapped Ted’s wet skin. Reaching around Ted’s back, his fingers slid down the cleft of Ted’s ass, pressing, testing. Ted sat on the bench and lifted his hips and Alex’s thick fingers found him already slick from the shower and eager. His fingers curled, stretched, and teased Ted’s soft hole with the perfect prelude to an amazing fuck. The wet sound of Alex tapping his middle finger against Ted’s pucker echoed in the small tiled room. Ted moaned and adjusted his legs, lifting them into the air. He held his own feet by the big toes and raised his pucker, presenting it for Alex’s mouth. Alex rolled his lips around the outside before pressing his tongue deep into Ted’s welcoming hole.
Alex rimmed Ted, introducing his thick fingers as his tongue circled Ted’s boy-pussy, preparing him for the next, bigger challenge. He pulled his hand free and made Ted sniff his fingers after they came out of his now-sloppy hole. Then Alex spit into his palm, slicked the fat head of his cock, lined up, and pushed in. The stretch was immediate and brutal—Alex was hung like a fucking horse and he knew it. Ted’s mouth fell open on a broken sound as the thick shaft forced his pucker to stretch, inch after heavy inch, until Alex’s hips were flush and the full length was buried deep in Ted’s guts. Steam swirled around them. Ted let his legs go and wrapped them around Alex for support, clutching at his shoulders, pulling himself closer to keep that giant tool deep inside him.
Alex started to move. Slow, deep strokes at first, dragging that fat cock almost all the way out before slamming back in balls-deep. Every thrust punched a wet, slutty sound out of Ted. The tile bench was slippery. Water dripped from the ceiling. Ted’s cock slapped against his own stomach, leaking steadily, untouched.
Alex fucked him harder for a while, then suddenly pulled out. Alex helped Ted to his feet, then turned him around to face the bench. Ted braced his hands against the wet tile. His fingertips were now supporting his body weight as he perched there waiting for Alex to line up and sink his meat back into Ted’s needy little hole. The new angle let Alex’s heavy shaft drive even deeper with one smooth, heavy thrust. The pace turned filthy—long, powerful drives that made Ted’s whole body jolt forward. When Alex bottomed out especially deep, Ted’s voice cracked into a sharp, high scream of pure pleasure. A strained whimper escaped Ted. It hurt, but in the way he wanted. He held steady, choosing every second of it. Instantly Alex’s big hand clamped over Ted’s mouth from behind, muffling the sound against his palm. The warm, hard metal of a tungsten wedding band pressed into Ted’s cheek, right against the wet skin. The ring was hot from the steam, a solid circle of heat and pressure. Ted felt it. He knew what it was and he didn’t pull away. He just moaned harder into the palm covering his mouth and pushed his ass back to take every last inch.
Alex’s rhythm stuttered. He drove in another time, as deep as he could go—balls deep—then pulled almost all the way out. One breathtaking pump followed another, Ted’s insides feeling as though they were being rearranged, until Alex rammed in one last time and came hard. Thick, heavy pulses of cum flooded Ted’s guts—huge wads pumping out of those fat balls, flooding him, overflowing around the base of Alex’s pulsing shaft and dripping down onto the bench. Ted felt every spurt, hot and thick, filling him until his belly felt heavy. Alex kept grinding through it, milking every last drop into Ted’s hole.
Ted was right on the edge. Alex pulled out slow, the fat cock dragging free with a wet sound, a thick rope of cum following it. He shoved Ted sideways so he was facing the tiled wall, then reached around and stroked Ted’s cock hard and fast.
“I want you back inside me,” Ted demanded, out of breath but already on the verge of extreme pleasure.
Alex moved behind him and jammed all nine inches back inside—still semi-hard and thick enough to make Ted cum with a broken shout, painting the steam-room wall in long, messy streaks. White ropes clung and slid down the wet tile.
Alex didn’t give him a second to recover. He grabbed the back of Ted’s neck and pushed his face toward the mess.
“Clean it up,” he said, voice low and rough. “All of it. Use your mouth.”
Ted didn’t hesitate. He leaned in and licked the warm, salty cum off the wall, tongue dragging through every streak, swallowing what he could, cleaning the tile the way Alex wanted. For a split second, he thought about the wall and where he was.
I don’t care.
Behind him Alex watched, still half-hard, cum still leaking slowly from Ted’s fucked-open hole. When the wall was mostly clean, Ted turned back and opened his mouth to get approval of a good job.
“Good boy,” Alex whispered.
He then dug his fingers behind Ted’s balls and back to his fluttering sphincter.
“Push it out,” he ordered.
Ted pushed, and Alex’s cum gooped out in thick globs. Alex scooped it up and fed it to him. Ted licked and swallowed every drop Alex could muster.
They stayed like that in the thick heat, holding each other’s sweaty, steamy bodies until they caught their breath, the quiet of the empty gym holding around them.
Alex chuckled. “Good thing it’s quiet here today.”
Ted let out a happy sigh. “Yeah, although I’m never opposed to more company. I don’t mind putting on a show once in a while.”
They gathered their towels and headed into neighbouring shower stalls to rinse off.
The second shower was worth it.
Ted was still smiling when he reached his locker. Despite always being prepared, he’d come to Greatlife expecting an ordinary workout, which was evidently a mistake he should stop making.
Alex stood a few lockers away, pulling on his shirt.
Alex’s black tungsten wedding band caught the fluorescent light. Ted remembered its warm edge against his cheek and smiled.
“So, married, eh? Nice. I assume you guys are open?”
Alex followed his gaze to the ring.
“We are.”
There was no hesitation, no defensive tone. It sounded as ordinary as telling someone where he worked.
Ted’s smile widened.
“Play together?”
“Once in a while,” Alex said. “But we usually prefer our own company on the side.”
“Fair enough.”
“Actually, he’d like you.”
Ted glanced up.
“Would he?”
“You’re definitely his type.”
“Oh, really? Well, I’m certainly not opposed to a little DP.”
Alex burst out laughing.
“Jesus, Ted. We haven’t even introduced you two yet.”
“Keeping my options open. And my butthole.”
That made Alex laugh harder.
Ted grinned.
“Although, if your husband’s as big as you are, there might be some competition for space.”
Alex shook his head, laughing. “Jesus, you’re already planning logistics?”
“I’m a good sport.”
Ted was rather pleased with himself.
He wasn’t interested in someone else’s marriage as a complication. Quite the opposite. The idea of two people caring for each other, building a life together, and still being free to enjoy other people seemed very appealing.
Maybe there were more men who felt that way than he’d realized.
Alex finished getting dressed.
“You actually just missed him,” he said.
“Your husband?”
“Yeah. He was here earlier. I’d have introduced you.”
“Tragic.”
“I know. We drove here together and he took the car home, so I’m on transit.”
Ted shook his head.
“Abandoned. By your own husband.”
“It’s a tough life.”
“Thoughts and prayers, darling.”
Alex laughed again.
They headed toward the front together. The gym’s cold air felt especially good after the changing rooms, and Ted stopped at the water fountain to refill his bottle.
At the doors, Alex glanced toward the street.
“You still have my number,” he said.
“I do. Saved under a very respectable name.”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“Then don’t.”
Alex smiled and touched his arm briefly.
“Good seeing you again.”
“You too, sexy.”
They separated at the corner.
Ted called back, “See you around, Alex.”
Alex waved without turning all the way around.
Ted watched him disappear into the humid afternoon.
A husband.
A happy one.
Well.
That was interesting.
∞
The air outside Greatlife felt warmer than when Ted had gone in.
He walked a few blocks before taking his phone out of his pocket.
A notification sat on the screen.
TORONTO DOLLAR BANK
Deposit received: $5,439.34
Ted stopped on the sidewalk.
He opened the app.
Not pending. Not promised. Deposited.
Money.
His money.
A woman behind him said, “Excuse me,” because he’d stopped directly in front of a shop entrance.
“Sorry!”
He moved aside and looked at the screen again.
Still there.
A few days earlier, he’d woken up with eleven dollars and twenty-seven cents in that account. Now there was enough to cover rent without having to negotiate with the universe.
Ted considered calling Marcus.
He could hear the conversation already.
“I’m rich.”
“You’re not rich.”
“I’m temporarily rich.”
“Pay your rent.”
“Stop attacking me.”
Marcus would be right, which was deeply irritating.
Ted opened the notes app and made a list.
RENT — DO NOT TOUCH.
GROCERIES.
KEEP SOME MONEY.
AIR CONDITIONER? CHECK BUILDING RULES.
TROUSERS. AGAIN.
He stared at the last item.
“Vikram, you expensive bastard.”
A passerby gave him an odd look.
Ted tucked the phone away.
He knew better than to spend the same money six times simply because he was relieved to have it. Five thousand dollars could disappear in Toronto with embarrassing speed. A few bills, a grocery run, a purchase or two, and suddenly you’d be wondering why the bank app looked so judgmental again.
He wasn’t going to do that.
At least not today.
Ted headed home for his five-year-old reusable bags. They were frayed at the seams but had earned their keep.
Then he set off for the grocery store.
For the first time in weeks, he chose things because he wanted to eat them rather than because the price per serving justified their existence.
Coffee, tomatoes, yogurt, a whole bag of onions, cilantro, lemons, and a cucumber to replace the one he’d sacrificed to the raccoons. They’d had quite enough of his generosity for one day. Lemons had a way of making even a mediocre meal feel considered.
His cupboards might have been nearly empty, but his spice collection was surprisingly respectable. Chicken and cans of chickpeas seemed like a good place to start.
If the spice is right, the food is tight.
Ted grinned at his own terrible slogan. He was keeping that one.
He stopped by the cheese.
Actual Parmesan, in a wedge.
He picked it up.
Considered the price.
Then imagined the half-frozen shaker waiting at home.
“Let’s not lose our minds,” he murmured, and put it back.
At the register, he paid without checking his bank balance first.
It was a small thing.
He almost didn’t notice how much it mattered until he was outside again with two bags cutting into his fingers.
He smiled all the way home.
Back at the apartment, Ted put the groceries away with a ceremony usually reserved for unpacking expensive gifts.
The refrigerator looked transformed.
There was food in it now.
Actual food.
He tucked the replacement cucumber into the crisper. This one was not getting a farewell speech.
Then he opened Amazing.com.
Window air conditioners.
There were more choices than any reasonable person needed. Cooling capacities, decibel ratings, energy efficiency, drainage systems. One review consisted entirely of a man complaining that the machine did not cool an apartment with all the windows open.
Ted felt for the machine.
He saved two options, then found the building’s rules on his laptop.
The document was full of sentences that sounded as though they had been written by someone who’d once been attacked by a falling appliance.
There was a paragraph about window installations.
Approval required.
Naturally.
Ted drafted an email asking about permissible units and installation requirements, reread it twice to make sure he hadn’t accidentally written “Please permit me to live,” and sent it.
An adult.
Look at him.
He also checked his account one last time, not because he doubted the refund any longer but because he rather enjoyed looking at it.
His rent was the first obligation. He marked that amount as unavailable in his budget notes, then divided what remained among groceries, a small emergency cushion, and purchases that could wait.
The expensive trousers were certainly going to have to wait until he’d inspected a few sales.
He picked up the grey-pinstriped kitchen trousers from his bedroom floor and held them at arm’s length.
They were not going back into circulation in that condition. The knees were grimy from the alley pavement. Ted brushed at the dirt, made it worse, and added the trousers to the laundry. He’d return them to The Lantern when he worked next week.
For a moment he wondered what Vikram had done with his good trousers.
Perhaps he’d sent them to be cleaned.
Perhaps he’d folded them beautifully in a wardrobe larger than Ted’s entire bedroom.
Perhaps he’d forgotten all about them.
Ted frowned.
He would very much like them back.
His phone buzzed.
DANISH: Hey, handsome. Did you survive Thursday?
TED: Define survive.
DANISH: You’re texting me, so I’ll count that as a yes.
TED: Barely. There was a wine incident. A trouser situation. Several plot twists.
DANISH: Now I definitely need the story.
TED: It’s quite the production.
DANISH: I’m free for a bit tomorrow afternoon, before work. Want to tell me in person?
Ted smiled.
Saturday.
He had nowhere else to be.
TED: Absolutely. I’ll even wear my own clothes.
DANISH: That’s an alarming promise.
TED: Meet on Church? Coffee or a bite?
DANISH: Sounds good. I’ll text you when I’m done with my errands.
TED: Perfect, handsome.
DANISH: Don’t get into more trouble before then.
Ted thought about his afternoon at Greatlife.
TED: No guarantees, cutie.
He put the phone down and laughed.
An actual grocery shop. Money in the bank. Two shifts coming up next week. A possible airline career, provided the airline eventually remembered he’d applied.
And a Saturday afternoon with a man he was looking forward to seeing again.
He lay back on his enormous sofa and let the fan turn above him.
Not a bad Friday.
Not bad at all.
∞
Saturday was no kinder to Toronto.
The sun had returned in full, and the humidity had settled over downtown as though it had signed a long-term lease.
Ted, however, was in an excellent mood.
He woke at a more respectable hour, made coffee, and admired his full refrigerator for the better part of a minute.
He hadn’t become rich overnight. He knew that.
But the rent money was accounted for. His groceries were there. And his phone had stopped feeling like a device designed solely to deliver bad financial news.
Northstar still hadn’t written.
He checked, of course.
He was only human.
A message from Danish arrived while he was getting dressed.
DANISH: Finished my errands. Church and Carlton in twenty?
TED: Behold. A man with a schedule.
DANISH: You should try it.
TED: I’m experimenting with punctuality this week.
DANISH: Very brave.
Ted chose shorts and a clean shirt. Then he stood in front of the mirror, looking at his reflection.
He hadn’t thought this much about what to wear to see someone since Tuesday.
That was a little ridiculous.
Danish had seen him on Tuesday evening looking considerably less put together than this.
Still.
Ted adjusted his shirt.
“Still employable,” he told the mirror, then laughed.
∞
Danish was waiting outside a café near Carlton, looking entirely unbothered by the heat.
He wore a soft blue shirt with the sleeves rolled back and had a satchel slung across one shoulder. His hair looked freshly combed, although the weather had already begun negotiating with it.
When he spotted Ted, he smiled.
“Look at you. Fully dressed.”
“It’s been a journey.”
Danish leaned in for a quick hug that lingered just long enough to make Ted pleased he’d come.
“Good to see you,” Danish said.
“You too.”
They ordered iced coffees and found a small table away from the worst of the sun.
Danish had a private event at the hotel that evening and needed to be back before it started. He described a wedding party whose seating arrangements had been altered so many times that the staff had begun referring to the latest version by number.
“Version seven?” Ted asked.
“Eight. The bride’s aunt changed tables again.”
“What’s wrong with her original table?”
“Nothing. She just doesn’t like the people at it.”
“Relatable.”
“She’s related to half of them.”
“Even more relatable.”
Danish laughed.
“You know, sometimes I think I’d rather have my own little restaurant than deal with these weddings forever.”
“Oh? Future restaurant owner?”
“Maybe someday.”
“What kind?”
Danish considered the question.
“Something small. Good food. Good drinks. Somewhere people actually enjoy spending time.”
Ted smiled.
“So, not a wedding venue.”
“Definitely not a wedding venue.”
Danish laughed again.
“Anyway, enough about my glamorous career. Tell me about Thursday.”
Ted took a sip of coffee.
“Where would you like to begin?”
“With whatever required you to promise you’d explain it in person.”
“That doesn’t narrow things down.”
“All right. Start with the bar.”
Ted told him about Noah, Sofia, and the extraordinary number of ways a person could mishandle a cash register. He described the wineglass tipping, the dreadful second in which the whole table seemed to watch it fall, and Vikram’s chilly response.
Danish winced.
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.”
“And Sofia?”
“Didn’t murder me. Which I took as a promising sign.”
“Then what happened?”
“Well. Later I noticed Vikram had crap on his pants. At least that’s what it looked like to me.”
Danish’s face was becoming progressively more entertaining.
“Hang on, he had shit?” Danish inquired.
“That’s what it looked like, but like… mixed with cum, maybe. Tell me you haven’t farted after a good breeding and couldn’t hold in the fresh babies.”
Danish threw his head back and laughed.
“Ah, ok, ok, been there before, of course. You gave him your best trousers?”
“Worse. My graduation trousers.”
Danish stared at him.
“What did you wear?”
Ted pulled up a mirror selfie he’d taken in the staff washroom, the hideous kitchen trousers on full display.
Danish looked.
He made a sound that began as a cough and ended as a full laugh.
“Oh, Ted.”
“Thank you for your compassion.”
“I’m sorry. I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
Danish covered his mouth with one hand, still laughing. A cascading inhale somehow didn’t interrupt the laughter.
It was so damn likable. Ted wanted more of it.
“You actually went back to work in those?”
“I was a fashion pioneer.”
“Those trousers are a crime.”
“And I was the victim.”
Danish finally managed to compose himself.
“That’s honestly a lovely thing you did, though.”
Ted looked down at his drink.
“Well. He needed help.”
Danish smiled at him for a moment, then shook his head.
“Only you.”
“Don’t encourage me. I’ve already considered starting a trouser charity.”
“Did he at least thank you?” Danish asked.
Ted sat up straighter.
“He left a thousand-dollar tip. Ten hundred-dollar bills.”
Danish stared at him. “Seriously?”
“For the staff pool, obviously.”
“That’s still incredible.”
“Right? The whole crew did well that night.”
“You must have made an impression.”
“I made several. One involved red wine.”
Danish smiled.
“And after your shift?”
Ted looked at him over the rim of his glass.
“After my shift?”
“Your text said eventful. You don’t strike me as the sort of man who went straight home after an exciting night.”
Ted grinned.
“There’s a Brazilian art conservator named Thiago.”
“Oh?”
“He gave me his number at the bar.”
“Handsome?”
“Very.”
Danish tilted his head, waiting.
“We met for tea after I finished,” Ted said. “Walked around a little. Had a lovely time.”
“How lovely?”
Ted let himself smile.
“Very lovely.”
Danish’s expression didn’t close. If anything, he leaned forward a fraction, his attention suddenly more focused.
“You really don’t waste time, do you?”
“Time is precious.”
Danish laughed, then shook his head.
“No, I’m serious. It’s kind of refreshing.”
“What is?”
“You don’t act like you have to pretend nothing ever happens with anyone else.”
Ted shrugged.
“Why would I? I’m single. So are you, as far as I know.”
“I am.”
“And we’re still getting to know each other.”
“We are.”
“Besides,” Ted added, “you asked.”
“I did.”
Danish smiled into his coffee.
Ted watched him for a moment. There was something rather nice about this conversation. No embarrassed retreat. No sudden suggestion that he ought to apologize for having a life before Tuesday afternoon.
He’d meant what he’d told Danish in Trinity Bellwoods. He liked people. He liked the possibility of being close to someone. He simply didn’t understand why the presence of one interesting man ought to make every other man disappear.
“Actually,” Ted said, “yesterday was pretty good too.”
Danish looked up again.
“Go on.”
“I ran into someone at the gym. Alex. We knew each other already.”
“Already?”
Ted gave him a meaningful look.
Danish laughed.
“Right. I understand.”
“We caught up. He’s a great guy.”
“And?”
“And, as it turns out, he’s married.”
Danish raised his eyebrows.
“Really?”
“Happily married. He told me they’re in an open relationship.”
“Good for them.”
“That’s what I said! Well, more or less.”
Ted told him about noticing Alex’s wedding band, their conversation afterward, and the husband he’d narrowly missed meeting. He didn’t offer a minute-by-minute account of the afternoon. Danish hadn’t requested one, and Ted had no desire to turn either man’s private life into a formal report.
But he wasn’t hiding it, either.
“Apparently I’m the husband’s type,” he added.
Danish laughed.
“Of course you are.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s a suspicious nothing.”
“I just get the feeling you make friends everywhere you go.”
“I’m community-minded.”
“Clearly.”
Danish paused, turning his coffee cup slowly on the table.
“So they make that work? Being married and seeing other people?”
“Apparently.”
“Interesting.”
“Yeah,” Ted said. “I think so.”
For a moment Danish didn’t answer. He watched Ted with a small smile.
As Danish set down his coffee, the backs of his fingers brushed Ted’s.
Neither man moved away.
“What?” Ted asked.
“Nothing.”
“That is your second suspicious nothing in five minutes.”
“I like hearing you talk about it,” Danish admitted.
“The marriage?”
“The whole thing. You seem happy.”
“I am.”
“I can tell.”
Their eyes held for a moment longer than the conversation required.
Ted felt himself smile.
“Well,” he said, “if you’d like more stories, my rates are very reasonable.”
Danish laughed.
“I’m sure they are.”
They left the café a little later and wandered east along Carlton toward the trees of Allan Gardens. The sidewalks were busy, the afternoon light harsh between the buildings. Near the park, the shade offered just enough relief to encourage them to slow down.
Danish adjusted the strap of his satchel.
“You know, I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you.”
Ted smiled. “I should hope so.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Danish glanced at him.
“I’d like to get to know you better, Ted. Not just the fun we’ve had. I mean properly.”
Danish gave a small side-to-side tilt of his chin on the last word, the gentle lilt of his Punjabi accent making it sound particularly earnest.
Ted studied him for a moment.
“Danish, are you asking me on a proper date?”
He copied the little movement of Danish’s chin, borrowing the lilt as best he could.
Danish blinked, then burst out laughing.
“Are you doing an impression of me?”
“A very flattering one, I thought.”
“Needs work.”
“Well, perhaps you could give me some private lessons.”
Danish shook his head, still smiling.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet you’re asking me out.”
“Apparently I am.”
Ted surprised himself with how easily the answer came.
“Actually, I’d really like that.”
They reached the edge of the park and stopped beneath a tree. The shade dappled Danish’s face, and he looked at Ted for a moment with the same unhurried interest he’d shown in Trinity Bellwoods on Tuesday.
“I’m glad Marcus introduced us,” Danish said.
“Me too.”
“Even if he was trying to feed you someone else’s beer.”
“That’s how I know he cares.”
Danish laughed and stepped closer.
Ted kissed him.
It was brief and easy, without the urgency of Tuesday evening or the feeling that anything needed to be decided immediately.
When they separated, Danish was still smiling.
“I should go,” he said. “I’ve got a wedding reception to survive.”
“Version eight?”
“Probably eleven by now.”
“Thoughts and prayers.”
“Thank you. I’ll need them.”
“Text me when you’re free again?”
“I will.”
Danish started to turn away, then looked back.
“And Ted?”
“Yeah?”
“Try not to give anybody your clothes this weekend.”
Ted sighed.
“People are so demanding.”
Danish laughed and headed off toward work.
Ted watched him go, then turned toward home.
The afternoon stretched ahead of him, bright and humid and full of people going about their own business.
He still had no answer from Northstar. Two shifts at The Lantern were an opportunity, not a career. And somewhere in Toronto, a man with considerably more money than he needed was probably wearing Ted’s favourite trousers.
None of that had changed.
But the university money was real. His rent was no longer hanging over him like a threat. He’d had a good Friday, followed by an even better Saturday afternoon, and he’d met someone he genuinely wanted to see again.
He liked Danish’s company. That was enough to know for now.
Ted passed a shop window and caught himself smiling.
Four days ago, his life had seemed to consist mostly of problems that would need dealing with eventually.
Now there were possibilities.
A bar. An airline. A few men who made him laugh.
And, with a little luck and permission from the building, a window air conditioner.
The city steamed gently around him.
Ted took the long way home.