2. Jeremy

At what point did a job stop being new and interesting and start being old hat? Was it after you’d maintained the same career for over a decade? Or lived through a global pandemic and taken your very much in-person job online and then back in person? Or was it when you had to learn an entire new aspect of your job when budget cuts forced your workplace to merge with another?

Jeremy Rinci wasn’t sure when it had happened, but his work had become stale. Boring.

Old.

Not that old things were necessarily bad. Jeremy looked forward to every day he got older, considered each one a gift that he certainly knew he wasn’t guaranteed. He had studied art history in school, knew that some of the oldest paintings were handprints and smudges on rock walls that meant I am here.

But in this case, Jeremy’s job as the lead exhibit designer for the Vanberg Museum of Science and Technology (the university still hadn’t come up with a more interesting name, which meant that no wealthy family had tried to clean up their name by donating a lot of money) had become old and stale and boring. He couldn’t move, not with his entire financial life tied up in a house he had purchased at twenty-four and his emotional life tangled deeply with an eclectic cast of characters that were his best friends. But something had to change, and god knew he wasn’t going to take up running ultramarathons or skiing or whatever people did in Colorado when they were going a bit out of their mind.

One night, however, sitting on his couch with a glass of pinot noir and an especially melancholy selection of 1940s love ballads playing through his speakers, Jeremy tried to remember the last time he had really felt creatively inspired. Not just the figure drawing classes he took once a month, but the kind of work that gave him a reason to breathe. To create something that could be a lasting legacy and teach and inspire all at once.

Which had led him to booting up his computer and trying his hand at being an independent businessman again. Because what said “a little bit desperate” more than a creative trying to have a second business on the side in this present set of unprecedented times?

He had gotten into this world as an excuse to combine both of his family’s interests. His dad had been an engineer, and his mom had been an artist who illustrated children’s books. He had, while in graduate school, dreamed of taking his parents to his first exhibit opening, but that dream had been taken from him suddenly over the series of two months. And while he hadn’t ever been able to show them what he did, he still did it professionally, and occasionally, that spilled over into his personal life. For a while, it had become a go-to date, to take a man to a museum exhibit and explain the ways that a color complemented the artifacts or was chosen to evoke a certain era or emotion. The delicate manner that fossils were mounted so they looked like they were floating in midair. The choice to feature a solitary artifact versus an array of a collection. He knew a date was going well if the man’s eyes didn’t entirely glaze over when he began talking about font choice for labels. Or, at the very least, if he pretended to be interested.

So, dusting off his old consulting website and checking the email that had been unchecked since 2018 had been a step to reclaiming that interest. And if it had been because he hadn’t had a date in a while and was bored, well, no one needed to question that either. The website was quickly updated, and the inbox remained empty, but only for a few days. After an especially exhausting week at work, Jeremy had clicked open the website to see a message from an NDavis at the United States Forest Service.

Hello, Mr. Rinci—

I’m attaching an RFP that I’ve developed to utilize grant money to renovate and reinterpret the visitor center here in Klarkuft National Forest. From what I gather, the exhibit was last updated during the Kennedy administration and could use some love. I would be happy to set up a meeting with you at your convenience to discuss our plans for the center and our budget constraints.

Sincerely,

N. Davis

Educational Ranger

USFS

There was a picture of Smokey Bear at the bottom of the email. Maybe that was why Jeremy immediately opened the RFP— request for proposal, the fancy title of here’s what we want — or maybe it was because of the humor he swore emanated from this email. Whatever it was, Jeremy lightly danced his fingers across the keyboard and, within hours, had set up a meeting with this NDavis for the weekend.

Luckily, he had been able to squeeze in an eight-a.m. spin class with his best friend, Foster, before driving up to ease off some of the nerves. Though it was less relaxing than expected, considering that Foster was both sweating out rum next to him and pouting over the end of a relationship with another woman he’d claimed he was going to marry when he saw her at a bar.

So here Jeremy was, driving out to his least favorite place in the entire world— the outside— to revive his old pipe dream. He loved his work at the university, thought the exhibits were interesting and a good addition to his portfolio, and loved his coworkers. They understood that Jeremy was an indoor cat. There was one time, just over a year ago, when his museum had merged with another on campus and he had been forced to do a stupid high ropes course out at a camp here.

He had liked the zip line, but the mosquitoes really ruined the entire experience.

Driving his trusty Prius out to the mountains taxed its engine, but at least he had a car and could operate it today. He dutifully followed his GPS directions and daydreamed about public transit in major cities.

The BART.

The NY Subway.

Hell, even Philadelphia’s SEPTA system, which he had always joked should have been called the SEPTIC system. That joke had gotten him, if he remembered correctly, three excellent orgasms from two decent men and one boyfriend that he’d had to break up with when he made the middle-of-the night decision to move to Colorado.

Which had so much nature. An absurd amount of it. It also, apparently, had very little cell phone reception, as the map on his center panel went blank except for a crude outline of a road and the blue dot that Jeremy was now blindly following.

He took a sip of his Tension Tamer tea, set the thermos back in the center console, then steeled himself to head outside. He could do this. He could pretend to be outdoorsy for just a little bit if it meant getting a chance to actually put some decent color schemes in an exhibit and a nice sans serif font.

Jeremy turned down his music to help him navigate the final twists of the forest service roads, looking for what NDavis had described as “something you’ll know when you see.”

He followed that dot, praying that the technology gods were going to be on his side today (they had argued against his ability to save a mockup yesterday in SketchUp after he told his computer that it was being a “fucking asshole,” so he wasn’t taking chances). He followed the blue dot until it led him to a very sad cabin with a peeling sign that said Visitor Center. The paint was so peeled it actually looked more like Visitor Cunter, but he figured that wasn’t the best idea to open with.

Cringing as the undercarriage of his car scraped on a mound of gravel, Jeremy parked and gathered his sketchbook and iPad, a bit horrified that this crumbling building was going to be his return to exhibit design.

He sighed. Everyone had to start somewhere.

“Hello?” Jeremy called, eyeing a welcome sign that reminded him of the one time he visited a friend outside of some city in Ohio that started with a C. It was hand lettered, which was impressive, but half had been erased and there was a white splatter of something on one side. Bird shit, he assumed.

He hoped.

“Mr. Rinci?” came a voice from the other side of the door. A cough, then a suppressed sneeze.

“It’s just Jeremy,” Jeremy said, stepping gingerly onto the porch of the cabin and being reminded of Boo Radley’s house.

“Welcome to the visitor center, Just Jeremy,” replied the voice, accompanied by a warm, gravelly laugh. Jeremy’s shoulders dropped just an inch. The door opened, and Jeremy was greeted by NDavis, who was, by an objective measure, uncomfortably attractive.

Jeremy was no stranger to attractive men, had spent a lot of his twenties dancing at clubs and flipping through apps and then quietly dating in his thirties. Emphasis on quietly, because his three best friends in Colorado were all nuisances. Emmy was suspicious of everyone and loudly investigated all of their backgrounds and scraped the internet for any detail that meant it wasn’t up to her standards. Phoebe was subtler in her investigations but gave advice that was too honest and too accurate, and often, Jeremy wanted willful ignorance about the toxic men he dated.

The worst, however, was Foster, a straight man who believed in true love and happily ever after and probably fairies, which were the same level of fantasy.

Jeremy knew from experience that even if you did find true love, happily ever after wasn’t guaranteed.

Regardless, Jeremy liked dating and adored flirting but never expected it to go anywhere. And of course he knew the two standard rules— don’t fuck anyone you work with and don’t hit on straight men.

Which was definitely NDavis, because the man in front of him was devastatingly, ruggedly handsome and also painfully straight.

“Hi, Just Jeremy,” he said, reaching out a hand that Jeremy imagined was roughly the size of a bear’s paw. Were there Grizzlies in Colorado? He’d have to ask a biologist he knew.

“Hello, uh, Mr. Davis?” Jeremy said, swallowing a groan at the awkward introduction. Way to be professional, Rinci.

“Just Davis,” he said. Jeremy slipped his slender hand into Davis’s rough palm and had an unwelcome image of Davis swinging an axe and splitting a log in half. He was a head shorter than Jeremy, who was often the tallest in the room at six-five, but Davis was probably twice as wide. No, wide wasn’t the right word. Thick.

Like a fucking tree trunk or something else in nature.

Another image, this one of a children’s book that his mom had illustrated about Paul Bunyan.

Did Paul Bunyan have cropped dark blond hair that was the perfect level of disheveled? If Jeremy had clocked Davis at a bar in Denver, he’d assume that it was intentional, full of products and styling gel, but out here in the trees, where Davis had just pulled a beanie off his head and scrubbed a hand through his hair, it was natural. As was the beard that was just this side of too long, a bit unkempt, not a drop of beard oil in sight. Davis wore a dark green flannel with the forest service logo on the chest, buttoned up over a thermal shirt, and work pants that looked like they were actually worked in, the thick cotton worn thin and soft over time.

“Welcome to the visitor center,” Davis said, releasing Jeremy’s hand quickly and shrugging his shoulders. “It’s not much, but it’s what we’ve got here.”

“Government funding is no joke,” Jeremy laughed drily. “I work for the university’s museum down in the city, and it’s been an interesting couple of years.” Which was the understatement of the century, but Davis didn’t need to know that.

“Do you want to see the visitor center? I can give you a tour of what we have now and, uh, maybe even what I have planned?” Davis was saying, kicking at a rock in the dirt.

“Yes, of course,” Jeremy said, compartmentalizing the part of his brain that recognized Davis as an attractive man and activating the part of his brain that was an exhibit designer. He rifled through a portfolio in his head, remembering the career he had built. A beautiful reinterpretation of an inaccurate diorama. A retrospective of a queer photographer whose negatives had been found in a basement. A stunning spotlight on the university’s last remaining passenger pigeon specimen to make a statement about the Anthropocene era, whatever that was.

He definitely kept his eyes on the trees and the ornate gables of the visitor center instead of letting them drop below Davis’s worn leather belt. At least the design of the cabin seemed architecturally sound. The door creaked, and Jeremy was hit with the musty odor of damp wood, old glue, and another funk that he didn’t want to consider. He’d been in some sad museums and some weird archival rooms, but this one? Well, it was probably one of the saddest things he’d ever seen.

There was, as far as Jeremy could see, one large room full of multiple smaller exhibits (if you could call them that) and what looked like two doors that led to an assroom and a water los t, if the signs were to be believed. The exhibits were standard nature center— a collection of slightly off-looking stuffed animals with signs set in a typeface that had gone out of style with Members Only jackets, a few sun-faded posters that Jeremy would bet didn’t represent the most up-to-date science, and a crumbling model on a table of what Jeremy guessed was the traditional house of the local native peoples. Attempting to control his face, he took a tentative step forward to look at the taxidermy collection. The floor creaked.

“I know it’s not great,” Davis said, “but the building is structurally sound, and we’ve got a new grant to rehab this place, but I’d like to focus more on the content.”

“That’s a good sign,” Jeremy said, bending closer to look at a fox missing its front left foot. “The cabin is beautiful. I’d guess, what, 1905-1910?”

“1907,” Davis replied, sounding impressed.

“We could probably interpret the architecture, too, if you wanted, not just the, well—” Jeremy paused and realized that he hadn’t even asked what the overall goals of the visitor center were. Who were the visitors? Who did they want them to be?

He’d never tell Emmy. She’d kill him for only thinking about design instead of the people who used it. “I’m sorry. I started thinking. What did you have in mind?”

“I could show you some ideas I had.”

Jeremy looked up from where he was trying to decide whether one specimen was a squirrel or a small, furry alien creature to see Davis, whose cheeks had turned a slightly ruddy pink, standing by an open laptop with photos on it.

“I’d love that,” Jeremy said, bringing himself to his full height. “Is there a place we could sit down? I’m not exactly trusting whatever is on the floor,” he said, gesturing at a faint trail of his footprints in the dust on the floor.

“Yeah, this place gives off a real Hanta Hut vibe,” Davis said, opening the door to the outside.

“What?” Jeremy asked, assuming it was a nature-related joke he didn’t get.

“Hantavirus,” Davis explained, guiding him toward a portable trailer which, he assumed, held the ranger offices. A sign— with all of its letters!— confirmed that he was correct.

“Yeah, I was an art kid,” Jeremy said, defaulting to his usual jokes. “I can learn science for an exhibit, but I’m not, like, a scientist.”

“Hantavirus is a potentially deadly condition you can get by inhaling rodent droppings,” Davis said, far too calmly for Jeremy’s liking.