Auguries of Summer

For what felt like the hundredth time that day, I hurried down the apartment’s outdoor staircase, eager to be finished with this move.

On the sidewalk, I looked around for Jack. Where was he anyway?

Five minutes ago, Jack had gone back down to our rental truck for more boxes, but hadn’t returned since then. This “moving thing” definitely wasn’t his cup of tea and I had a feeling he was hiding out in the truck, hoping I’d give up on him.

I grabbed the Gatorade bottle I’d left on the first step, taking a moment to quench my thirst. It was July first—moving day in Montreal—and I was glad the heat wasn’t too bad this afternoon.

Gazing around at our new street, I knew Jack had been right: I wouldget used to living in the gay village where I could be myself a little more. I’d finally made it out of my crummy east end place and into the apartment of my dreams on this beautiful street lined with mature oak trees.

I had a feeling Jack and I would be happy here.

I walked around the U-Haul truck and peeked into the backspace.

I’d guessed right; Jack was indeed in the truck, lying on his vintage couch—or divan—as he preferred to call it, playing a game on his phone.

“Come on, Jack,” I said. “Don’t crap out on me now.”

Looking up from his phone, Jack smirked, and his cheek dimples deepened. “I’m gonna invite Sam and Rocco later,” he said in his soft-spoken voice, his blue eyes glimmering with humor. “For drinks.”

Sam and Rocco were friends of his. They’d promised to help with the move, but had canceled this morning. “Okay…” I frowned. “But I doubt they’ll come.”

“Oh, they will. Those two can’t resist free drinks and a new apartment to criticize. And when they do show up, I’ll lead them to the front window to show them our fabulous view of the Gothic church on the corner.”

I tipped my head, watching Jack’s pretty face for a clue as to what would come out of his mouth next. With Jack, you never knew. “Yeah,” I said, egging him on. “Okay.”

“And then I’ll shove them out of our open window à laKim Novak in Vertigo and hope they land on their precious Jeep.”

I tried not to laugh. “It’s not like they gave themselves food poisoning on purpose.”

Jack rolled his eyes and stared at his nails for a moment. He’d gotten one of those French manicures again. I couldn’t understand how a man could care for his nails so much, gay or not. He slipped the phone into his skinny jeans and cracked a smile. “Whatever. I’m black listing them.”

I was glad to see his spirits were up.

Because ever since Craig—Jack’s last worthless boyfriend—had dumped him, Jack had been downhearted. Craig had really put a dent in my best friend’s self-esteem, but now that we’d be living together, I’d make sure Jack went back to his bad-assself again.

I wiped my sweaty brow with the bottom of my white tee and leaned against the side of the door, giving Jack a quick wink. “Come on, there’s only ten boxes left and that couch you’re lying on. We’ll be done in fifteen minutes.”

Jack studied my face. “Leaning on the door like that, all sweaty and shit—you look like Marlon Brando. Well, in his good years. The ‘Stella!’years.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Isn’t he the fat guy in that mobster movie?” I climbed in and grabbed a box. It was more of Jack’s books. “And it’s your fault this move is taking so long,” I teased him, struggling with the box’s weight. “If you watched TV like the rest of us do, instead of reading a book a week, we’d have been done by now.”

“You know, Sebastien,” Jack said, “you and those bulging muscles of yours are really good at this. Maybe you should consider becoming a professional mover.”

“Yeah, right.” I put the box down and climbed out of the truck, then slid the box back into my arms and looked at Jack over it. “Well, are you gonna help me out here or what? Should I carry the couch up the stairs with you on it, Cleopatra?”

“Yes, why don’t you,” Jack said, giving me an exaggerated lascivious look. “While I feed myself grapes.”

* * * *

I paid the delivery guy and shut the door with my hip. As I carried the two pizza boxes back to the kitchen, I saw Jack—shirtless and wearing only pajama bottoms—stepping out of the washroom. A cloud of steam followed him into the hallway. “The fan doesn’t work in there,” Jack said. “You’re gonna have to fix that.” He grabbed the boxes out of my hands and turned away for the kitchen. “Thanks for the pizza. How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. It’s on me.” I stared at his perfect little ass moving under those loose-fitted cotton pajama pants. “And I’ll take a look at the fan later,” I called out to him. I poked my head in the bathroom door. It was a like a sauna in there. The walls and mirrors were covered with steam.