Kevin Corrigan and Me Page 11

  We passed over Interstate 95, and then reached an arching bridge that spanned the Banana River. The bridge connected mainland Florida to Merritt Island where the Kennedy Space Center was located. Off to the north, we saw NASA’s rocket assembly building, the one we had toured during our earlier visit, a massive and boxlike structure. Afternoon sunlight glittered in the river’s rippling surface while a phalanx of brown pelicans flew beside us in V-formation.

  “Have you given any more thought to college?” Lane asked me.

  “Not really,” I said. “Graduation’s still eighteen months away.”

  Lane looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “You know the SAT’s given in April, right?”

  I nodded. Already, kids at school were talking about the test and how tough it might be. But I hadn’t signed up to take it. You didn’t need an SAT score to attend our community college, so why bother?

  “My parents bought me an SAT prep book,” Lane said. “I have to spend at least three hours a week working on it, no exceptions. They’re determined I’ll go to Gainesville for school.”

  I rearranged my limbs while I looked over at Lane. “Is that what you want?”

  He puckered one side of his face while he rocked his head from side to side. “I don’t want to disappoint them, so I guess I want to go. It’s just that moving away from the coast, and going to school where I don’t know anyone, doesn’t seem too appealing. Know what I mean?”

  I nodded. “Have you been up there to see it?”

  “Yeah, my dad took me to a Gator football game back in September. It’s a big place—there are 25,000 students—and the dormitories look like prisons.”

  We came to another arching bridge, this one crossing the Indian River, a much broader expanse of water than the Banana River. At the bridge’s apex, we could see the blue Atlantic on the opposite side of the barrier island we approached. A few high-rise hotels lined the ocean’s shore.

  The time was around three thirty, and shadows had already grown long when we entered Cape Canaveral, a community of cinder-block duplexes, apartment buildings, strip centers, and trailer parks. Our one-story motel faced A-1-A. The motel’s crowded parking lot had weeds growing up through cracks in the asphalt, and two spindly palms were the only landscaping. Traffic on the highway roared when we exited the VW.

  In the office, an old guy with a face the color of boiled ham stared into the screen of a portable black-and-white TV. A cigarette dangled from his pudgy lower lip. After Lane said he’d reserved a room for one night, the guy checked his registry. Then his gaze flitted between me and Lane.

  “You know,” he told Lane, “that unit only has one bed.”

  Lane shrugged; he told the guy, “We’ll take it.”

  The room wasn’t much: a queen-size bed with a chenille coverlet, a Formica bureau, a nightstand with a battered table lamp, and a black-and-white TV on a rolling aluminum stand. The ceiling was water-stained and the plaster walls were cracked in here and there. The carpet was worn to the weft in places. The bathroom had a wall sink, a john, and a tiled shower stall with mildewed grout and a plastic curtain.

  The whole place smelled like the inside of a shoe.

  After we both undressed, we slipped into our wetsuits, then toted our boards across the highway. We were barefooted and the road surface felt cold. We entered Alan Shepard Park, a beachfront facility with picnic shelters, barbecue grills, outdoor showers, and restrooms. Because darkness was nearing, the place was pretty much deserted.

  On the beach, Lane and I stood at the Atlantic’s edge, staring eastward where a few guys bobbed on their boards about a hundred yards out. A wave appeared behind them, easily waist-height. One surfer turned the nose of his board; he paddled toward shore. The wave lifted him, and then he was on his feet with his arms extended and his knees bent.

  Lane looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “Shall we?” he said.

  The chilly water turned my hands and feet to ice as we paddled out. An oncoming wave rushed toward us, and we had to capsize our boards to allow the wave to wash over us. I lay submerged, face-up, with my arms wrapped around my board, just listening to the wave’s roar. After it passed, we righted ourselves, and recommenced paddling till we reached the other surfers. There were maybe six of us out there. Already, the sun had descended behind taller buildings to the west, and the sky in that direction was a greenish color.

  “We’ve got an hour at best,” Lane said. “Let’s make the most of it.”

  We did. Although the waves did not have the power of those we’d surfed during our last visit, they had remarkable longevity. Most rides we caught lasted all the way to the shallows. The air was still, and the only sound was the rumble of waves. As soon as one ride ended for me, I turned the nose of my board eastward, then paddled back out. My wetsuit kept me reasonably warm. I savored the ocean’s salty scent and the feel of wind sweeping my cheeks whenever I rode a wave toward shore.

  We kept at it until darkness fell and stars began to appear in the eastern horizon. By then my hands and feet were numb and my fingertips looked like prunes. When we returned to the motel, we took turns showering in the cramped bathroom stall. The warm water felt delicious when it pounded my head and achy shoulders. The scents of the motel’s soap and shampoo gave me a clean and refreshed feeling. After I got dressed in my jeans and flannel shirt, I brushed my hair into place before the bathroom’s steamy mirror.

  When I emerged from the bathroom, Lane watched a football game on our little TV. He was seated on the edge of our bed, and when I sat beside him, he asked me, “Are you as hungry as I am?”

  I nodded. All the surfing had burned up my lunch and now my stomach growled.

  “Let’s cruise the highway,” he said. “We’ll find someplace good.”

  Both sides of A-1-A were lined with businesses: motels, restaurants, real estate agencies, bait and tackle shops, and hair salons. Just behind those businesses, on narrow streets perpendicular to the highway, were single-family homes surrounded by twisted live oaks. Night had fallen, and oncoming cars had their headlights illuminated. The air rushing through the car was chilly, so I rolled up my passenger window, and so did Lane.

  “Imagine living over here,” he said. “You could surf every day.”

  I nodded. “It feels different from the west coast, doesn’t it? The air seems fresher and there’s always a breeze, plus there aren’t so many old folks. It’s not a retirement community.”

  We found a free-standing Italian restaurant with red-checkered tablecloths and candles stuck into the necks of straw-covered Chianti bottles. Our mustachioed waiter wore a black apron and a warm smile. We followed his recommendation; we ordered lasagna, and it was very good.

  By the time we’d returned to our motel, I was yawning. I’d been up since seven, and after all the yard work and surfing I’d done that day, I was tired. When I suggested we call it a night, Lane didn’t protest. We took turns brushing our teeth and using the toilet, then climbed under the covers. After Lane extinguished the nightstand lamp, we lay side by side, listening to traffic hum on A-1-A.

  “Why don’t we get up early tomorrow, right after sunrise?” Lane said. “If there are waves, we can surf a couple of hours and still get back here in time to check out. Sound good?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  I yawned deeply and closed my eyes.

  An hour later, when I woke up, I didn’t know where I was at first, but then I remembered I was in Cape Canaveral. I lay on my back. The motel room was dark, but a bathroom nightlight offered a bit of illumination, enough so I could see. I blinked a couple of times, then realized why I had wakened.

  Lane’s hand was inside my briefs.

  I stole a glance in his direction. He lay on his side, propped up on an elbow and facing me. I couldn’t help myself; right away I stiffened down below, and when I did Lane swung his gaze to me.

  “Hey,” he said. “Do you mind?”

  I swallowed hard. “It’s okay.”

  “You�
��re sure?”

  I nodded while my pulse pounded, then I stroked Lane’s forearm while his fingers explored the area between my legs.

  My thoughts raced as I tried to figure out what was happening. I had never once suspected Lane was gay, or that he felt attracted to me. But now I quickly put the pieces of the puzzle together. For the past three months, Lane had patiently and methodically worked his way into my life. As each week passed, the amount of time we spent together increased steadily, culminating in this road trip, and now, as our bodies came together and his lips traveled over my skin, it occurred to me that Lane had never once mentioned dating a girl. He’d never even talked about girls the way most guys our age did, and now I knew it wasn’t happenstance that Lane had reserved a room for us with only one bed.

  How should I respond?

  I let my body make that decision, and my body quickly let me know that Lane was exactly the type of guy I liked. He was beautiful in so many ways. His hair was soft, his skin smooth and warm. His body odor smelled like damp earth, a scent I found arousing. When his tongue dueled with mine and I felt his warm breath on my upper lip, my pulse raced and my heart chugged. What more could I ask for?

  When I told him what I wanted most to do, he readily agreed. He took me on my back, and then I felt him thrust inside me while the sunscreen we used as lube made smacking sounds. My orgasm came quickly; it shook me to my core while I shouted nonsense at the ceiling.

  After we cleaned ourselves up, we lay in darkness beneath the sheet and blanket while traffic noise filtered in from outside. Lane lay on his back, I on my side with my cheek resting on his sternum.

  I listened to his heart beat, then said, “Is this a one-time thing, or do you want something more from me?”

  He ran his fingers through my hair. “I want as much as you’ll give me.”

  Aye-yi-yi.

  “Things could get tricky,” I said, then I explained about Kevin—in detail.

  Lane toyed with my ear while he listened. Then he said, “It sounds like this guy uses you whenever he feels like it, and otherwise he ignores you. Don’t you think you deserve something better?”

  “I probably do,” I said, blinking.

  Chapter Sixteen

  When he wasn’t shifting gears, Lane held my hand on the drive back to Pinellas County. We didn’t talk much, not until I asked Lane when he’d first thought of touching me.

  “Take a guess,” he said.

  “The painting party?”

  A smile crossed his lips while he nodded. “I remember when you took your shirt off, and right away, I thought to myself, ‘I want this guy. Whatever it takes I’ll do.’ Then, do you remember when you invited me to surf at the sandbar that first time?”

  “Of course.”

  “We were in your bedroom, changing into our surfing trunks, and when you got naked, I wanted to jump your bones on the spot. Does that surprise you?”

  I shook my head while recalling the moment in my room he’d just mentioned, when I had let my gaze travel from Lane’s feet to his forehead. I’d tried to memorize every inch of him, especially the bulge of his genitals and the curve of his ass. But I never realized Lane was doing exactly the same thing when he gazed at me. And now that we knew the truth about each other, where did I want things to go?

  Back in Cape Canaveral, after our Sunday morning surf session, we had showered together in the motel room’s mildewed stall, then had sex again, albeit quickly. Afterward, when Lane lay beside me, he brought his lips to my ear.

  “I think I’m falling in love with you,” he said. “Is that okay?”

  A shiver ran through me. “Of course,” I said.

  But was it okay? And what exactly was love between two guys, anyway? What would Lane expect from me in the weeks and months ahead? And how easy would it be to hide our relationship from others, especially our families?

  As we rolled down I-4 in his VW, Lane was already making plans. “My folks are going on a church retreat, weekend after next. You can spend two nights at my house if you’d like. Sound good?”

  I nodded, but I thought about Kevin. He might ask to stay at my place on the same weekend Lane had just mentioned, and how would I explain to Kevin that I’d stay at Lane’s instead?

  Why were things getting so complicated?

  Hours after Lane dropped me off at home, and right after my sister and I had finished the dinner dishes, I strolled to the phone booth on Gulf Boulevard. Evening traffic whizzed by as I dropped coins into the slots. I dialed the Corrigans’ number, then chewed a hangnail while I waited for someone to answer. Finally, on the fifth ring, Kevin’s mom picked up.

  “He’s not here,” she said when I asked for Kevin. “He went for a drive.”

  I glanced at my wristwatch. The time was close to eight. “If he gets home before ten,” I said, “will you have him call me?”

  But of course Kevin didn’t. He didn’t call the following Thursday either, and I began to wonder whether he was punishing me for taking the trip to Cape Canaveral. On Friday morning, when I saw Lane in my first-period class, I suggested we visit a drive-in theater movie that night to watch Casino Royale, a spoof on the James Bond films that were so popular at the time.

  “We can take my car,” I said after Lane accepted my invitation. “It’s roomier than yours.”

  Lane waggled his eyebrows in response. “Extra room is always nice,” he said.

  But when I got home that afternoon, Kevin’s car sat in the driveway. Inside, I found him seated on the sofa, next to his overnight bag and cane. He wore his school uniform: khaki slacks, a pique polo shirt with the Bishop Keating crest stitched into it, and his penny loafers. He studied a Sports Illustrated issue he must’ve brought with him, and when he heard me enter, he set the magazine aside.

  In the kitchen, my sister emptied an ice tray. I listened to cubes clunk into a glass while I stared at Kevin and crinkled my forehead.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  He lifted his bag. “What does it look like?”

  I glanced toward the kitchen, then jerked a thumb toward our front door. “Let’s go outside where we can talk.”

  When Kevin followed me, I listened to his cane tap our front steps as he slowly descended them. After we leaned against the front fender of Kevin’s car, I crossed my arms at my chest.

  “You can’t stay here tonight,” I said. “I have plans.”

  “Cancel them,” Kevin said in a tone that let me know he expected me to do exactly that.

  “I can’t,” I said. “And you shouldn’t just show up here expecting to spend the weekend without calling ahead.”

  Kevin looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “I’m already here, and I’m sure your mom won’t mind if I stay over, so what’s the problem?”

  I hissed. “The problem is you can’t just take me for granted, as if I don’t have any kind of a life outside of you, because I do. And besides: I called you Sunday night, but you never called me back. And then you didn’t call me last night either like you promised you would.”

  Kevin slapped the sides of his thighs while he shook his head. “I don’t believe this. Are you really going to let a couple of missed phone calls keep us from spending the weekend together?”

  I kicked sand with my sneaker toe while my thoughts swirled. Kevin, of course, looked like a prince in his school uniform, and the thought I could have him to myself for two days and nights was tempting as hell. He stood close enough to me that I smelled his piney body odor, which, like always, made my pulse quicken. His scent was like liquor to me. I looked at the golden hairs glistening on the back of Kevin’s forearm while I rubbed my lips together.

  I knew Lane wouldn’t get upset if I canceled our date. We had already planned on spending the following weekend together at his house, and if I spent this weekend with Kevin, then Kevin wouldn’t be able to gripe when I stayed at Lane’s for two nights.

  I drew a breath, then let it out. “All right, you can stay, but I’ll nee
d to make a phone call.”

  Kevin reached for me and mussed my hair. My scalp prickled when he whispered in my ear.

  “You just wait till tonight; you’ll be glad you said yes.”

  Saturday afternoon, when I’d finished mowing three lawns, I grabbed a shower. Then I drove Kevin and myself southward to Pass-a-Grille Beach, the first barrier island community ever settled in Pinellas County. Kevin said that a gay bar existed there, and we were curious to see what kind of men might patronize the place. Of course, we couldn’t go inside the bar because we were minors, and even if we could’ve, we wouldn’t have. There was no way we’d risk being seen there. But we could park near the bar and watch the comings and goings; we could do at least that.

  Pass-a-Grille Way, the island’s only access road, was lined with Washingtonia palm trees twenty feet tall. They reminded me of those toothpicks I often saw at parties, the kind with crinkles of cellophane at one end. Homes we passed were a mixture of older cottages and contemporary cinder-block houses with tile roofs. Lawns were well-tended and a variety of flowering shrubs gave the place a tropical look.

  The day was sunny and breezy. We both wore sweaters, corduroy jeans, and sneakers. Cool wind rushed through the Dart’s open windows. A local radio played the song, “GTO,” by Ronny & the Daytonas, but I wasn’t paying attention to it. My thoughts dwelt on the night before, when Kevin and I were alone at my house. My sister was at a movie with friends and my mom was volunteering at the kids’ hospital. As soon as my sister left for the movie, Kevin grabbed my hand. He led me into my room, where he pushed me onto the bed. Then he peeled my clothes off while making slutty remarks about what lay in store for me.

  Once I was naked, Kevin told me to undress him, which I was more than happy to do. After I finished the task, Kevin climbed on top of me. Because he hadn’t showered since that morning, his body odor seemed stronger than normal, and his scent got me all excited. By the time we’d finished our session, I was short of breath and my sheets were damp. The two of us lay on our backs with our chests rising and falling while a breeze stirred the venetian blinds, and I told myself, That was unbelievable.