19. Seb

19

Seb

One Month Later

“How are our babies today?” I ask as I come into the room.

Dot, one of the fairy tern volunteers, looks up from where she’s bending over a large container.

“Our babies are hungry,” she replies.

“That’s not much of a surprise.”

I come up next to her and peer into the container, and I can’t keep the delight from my voice. “Oh, they’ve grown so big.”

Only a few days ago, the chicks were fluffy pompoms. Now, they look more like miniature birds. Their small beaks are more pronounced, like tiny forceps ready to snatch up fish.

There are four chicks, each set up in their own commercial paint tray, which just happens to have the right dimensions to make a miniature sandy beach for the chicks, where they can peruse the fish the volunteers put in the water in the deeper part of the tray.

I snap a picture of them with my phone and send it to Marcus.

These chicks don’t know they’ve got a Hollywood movie star following their progress, and I’m fairly sure the rest of the team wouldn’t believe it if I told them.

I barely believe it myself.

In fact, I often scroll through the stream of messages between Marcus and me over the last month just to reassure myself they’re not figments of my imagination. This is actually happening. Marcus and I are messaging almost every day, sharing snippets of our lives.

It started out with the casual hope you traveled safe kind of messages but quickly morphed into us talking about anything and everything.

I’m trying to restrain myself from being the person who always messages first, trying to make sure he’s not just keeping contact with me because he feels some weird type of obligation to his best friend’s little brother he shagged almost constantly over a five-day period.

Eleven times total if you’re measuring it by joint ejaculations. Thirteen if you count encounters where something sexual happened, but it never reached the point of both of us orgasming. Not that I kept track. Much .

Marcus doesn’t respond straight away, but it’s afternoon in America and he’s on the set of his new movie. While he’s probably filming some dramatic scene that will make millions swoon, I’m watching baby birds figure out which end of a fish to eat first. We’re clearly living equally glamorous lives.

I put down my phone and start my careful observation of the chicks, recording their feeding behavior.

At the end of my observation period, it’s time to weigh them.

“They’ve put on two hundred grams,” I share triumphantly with Dot, who gives me a high five.

Thanks to the wonderful work of the round-the-clock volunteer team and Auckland Zoo staff, these little guys are almost doubling their weight every few days.

It’s become an important part of my post-doc, looking at the impact the hand-rearing program will have on the population recovery of the fairy terns. Dot is a retired shopkeeper who fusses over the chicks and me with a grandmotherly concern.

And it’s definitely a grandmotherly look she gives me now as she watches me pack my gear.

“Forgive me if this is out of line, but I worry about you sometimes. You seem to spend all your time either here or at the beach at Mangawhai watching fairy terns. It’s not much of a life for a young man. How are you ever going to meet a nice girl?”

I hesitate for a second because this is one of the sucky things about being gay. The constant coming out to new people and the snap judgments you have to make about whether they’re closet homophobes. Dot has been nothing but kind to me, so I go with honesty.

“I actually date men.”

Dot’s eyes widen, and I wonder for a second if I’ve misjudged her before she breaks into a smile.

“Oh, I should introduce you to my husband’s nephew. He’s a very nice young man. And he’s got a steady job now, working at the local dump. Sure, he comes home smelling a bit ripe, but at least he’s not living in his parents’ basement anymore. Oh, and he’s only been arrested for public nudity twice, and both times were on a dare so that hardly counts…”

Great. It’s good to know my dating options have officially reached the arrested-for-public-nudity-but-employed level of desperate.

After I’ve managed to extract myself from Dot trying to set me up with her extended family members, I drive back to Auckland University, where an afternoon of reading scientific articles on conservation techniques for species with low genetic diversity awaits.

As I retreat to my small, dusty desk in the post-graduate study space, my phone beeps.

It’s Marcus, replying to my text. He’s sent a photo of a group of actresses dressed as 1920s flapper dresses, posing dramatically around an old-timey car.

A few cute chicks around here, but I definitely prefer your version.

I snap a picture of my desk.

Now back at the uni. There’s nothing cute at all around here.

I don’t believe that. You’re there, aren’t you?

My breathing picks up.

Shit. How do I respond to that?

But before I have a chance, another message pops up from him.

So, I have a question…

My heart starts to pound. Is he going to ask exactly what this is between us?

My fingers tremble as I tap out my reply.

Ask away. I wouldn’t want you to have unanswered questions.

What’s the logic behind kidnapping eggs of endangered species? Besides getting to spend time with cute chicks, I mean.

My shoulders relax.

Hand-rearing chicks is one of the best tools we have for saving endangered birds.

Why? Are you better at raising chicks than their parents?

Well, the survival rate is better at the beginning anyway. Fairy terns nest on the beach, and their nests are often destroyed by people, dogs, horses, cats, rats, or stoats. Basically, everything except possibly sharks, and that’s only because sharks haven’t evolved legs yet.

But isn’t it hard to reintroduce chicks raised in captivity back into the wild?

Yeah, that’s been one of the problems we’re trying to figure out. But the major benefit is if you remove eggs from the nest early in the season, the parents will lay again and raise the next clutch of chicks, so theoretically, you can get double the number of chicks as you would have otherwise.

I wasn’t very good at math at school, but even I understand why that equation works out in your favor.

When there are only eleven breeding pairs left in the whole world, every chick counts.

When Marcus doesn’t immediately reply, I find myself anxiously re-reading our message chain.

Shit. It’s always hard to know when I overstep the mark between informing and boring someone. My enthusiasm-to-social awareness ratio needs some serious calibration.

I was recently at a party, and I thought I was having an interesting conversation with a guy about the mating rituals of various seabirds.

But when I’d gone to the restroom, I’d come back to overhear him warning someone. “Stay away from the bird guy unless you want a lecture on the sex life of penguins.”

It’s that concern that has me sending the next message to Marcus.

Sorry. I hope I’m not boring you.

Of course you’re not boring me. It’s fascinating.

Got to go though. I’m needed on set. Time to channel my inner 1920s gangster vibes.

Break a leg

Or, you know, don’t actually break any legs. That’s more of a mob thing than a 1920s gangster thing, right?

Marcus sends me a laughing face emoji, and then the light next to his name disappears.

He’s gone.

But I don’t pick up the paper I’m supposed to be reading.

Instead, I engage in my favorite hobby of scrolling back through the message chain between Marcus and me, trying to read between the lines and work out exactly what this is between us.

Does he message me because he’s bored on set? Does he think of me as another friend to chat to?

Our messages have been friendly, bordering on flirty, but haven’t crossed the line to anything intimate.

He said on the beach in Fiji that we’d been in a relationship seven years ago.

Is this just finishing our relationship the way it should have finished? Or is this potentially the start of something new?

My stomach can’t help squirming at the idea.

But how can it be the start of something new when he lives in Los Angeles and I live in New Zealand? When he is a Hollywood star and I’m a postdoctoral student?

When I’m the brother of his best friend.

The awkward, agonizing conversation I had in Fiji with my father about Marcus slides into my head.

I’d waited until the evening that Dad disturbed us. When I’d seen him emerge from his villa and start walking toward the restaurant, I’d raced out of mine to catch up with him.

“Dad, can I talk to you for a minute?” My voice did that thing where it tried to hit every octave at once.

Dad kept his gaze straight ahead. “Sure thing.”

“About what happened this afternoon…”

“I think we can both agree that living through it once was enough. We don’t have to relive it,” Dad said.

I scratched my chin awkwardly. “Uh…yeah. Definitely.” I took a deep breath, but despite that, the next sentence still came out of me in a rush. “I just wanted to check you aren’t going to say anything to Saskia.”

My father stopped on the path to stare at me. I stopped too, cringing slightly. It was like I was nine again, and Dad just discovered I’d repurposed his golf clubs as impromptu poles for my homemade weather station.

“So, I’m taking it Saskia doesn’t know about this.”

“No…I mean, yes, she doesn’t know about it.”

“Marcus is Saskia’s best friend,” Dad said slowly. “That friendship is important to her.”

“I know that. But Saskia can’t satisfy one particular need of his, can she?” I’d felt my cheeks heating, probably doing my best impression of a tropical sunset, but I hadn’t backed down.

My father just stared at me until I dropped my eyes to the path.

“I won’t say anything to her,” he said finally. “She doesn’t deserve any drama right now.”

“Thank you.” Relief was woven into my words.

But my father hadn’t started walking again. Instead, he’d fixed me with a look.

“You’re a grown man now, Seb. I can’t tell you what to do, especially not in this area. But I can offer some fatherly advice.”

“You’re going to give me fatherly advice on gay sex?” Yes, I know I’m a bad person for trying to make my father uncomfortable, but after having his reassurance he wouldn’t tell Saskia, I was prepared to use whatever weapons were at my disposal to escape the conversation.

Especially when he looked at me with such a solemn expression.

But my father was clearly made of sturdier stuff than I gave him credit for because he continued on, “No, I’m not going to give you advice on sex. But I am going to give you some life advice.”

“What life advice?”

“There’s an old adage: if you play with fire, you will get burned.” He’d kept his eyes on me. “You should think about that.”

Now, scrolling through Marcus’s and my messages, my father’s words echo in my head.

Am I going to get burned by spending so much time messaging Marcus?

Potentially.

Even knowing the risk, I’m not sure I can resist.

Rent in Auckland is ridiculously expensive, and even though I’m getting paid as a postdoctoral student, academic funding only stretches so far. Scummy is probably too nice of a term to describe my flat.

After I’ve made myself a scrounged-together balanced meal of microwaved frozen pizza, accompanied by a side of wilted salad leaves I optimistically bought last week in an attempt to be healthy, I retreat to my room.

I’m just getting out my laptop to binge-watch my favorite documentary series, Microbe Hunters , which follows scientists tracking down rare and potentially world-ending bacteria, when my phone starts to buzz.

I pick up my phone, and my mouth immediately goes dry.

It’s a video call from Marcus Johnson.

Trying to calm my racing heart, I press Accept.

“Hey.” Shit. I’ve tried for casual, but somehow, I’ve ended up sounding like I’m auditioning for the role of a squeaky door in a horror movie.

“Hey, yourself.” Marcus looks like he’s stepped straight out of a fashion magazine. His dark hair is artfully tousled, and the soft lighting catches the angles of his face, highlighting his chiseled jawline and making him look impossibly handsome. His eyes are bright, and there’s a slight flush high on his cheeks.

“What time is it there?” I ask.

“Eleven. I’ve just got home from the opening of a nightclub.” His words seem slightly looser than normal, which, put together with his flushed cheeks, makes me realize he’s had a few drinks.

“I’m guessing it was quite a different experience from the sticky-floored glory of The Bog,” I say, naming one of the iconic pubs in Dunedin.

Marcus laughs softly. “Ah, The Bog. Where the beer is cheap, and the regrets are plentiful.”

“So, what’s up?” I ask, adjusting the angle slightly so I don’t reveal the mountain of laundry piled beside my bed.

“I just wanted to see your face,” he says.

My heart is in my throat. “Have you forgotten what it looks like?”

“I don’t think I could ever forget that,” he says softly.

Oh my god .

“It’s good to know I’ve embedded myself in your neural pathways like a particularly stubborn parasite,” I say. Because, apparently, comparing myself to a parasite is my idea of flirting.

He laughs, and it’s a free sound that makes my heart stutter. “I’m not going to even pretend I understand what you just said, but it sounds about right.”

“So, you’re in your house now?”

“Yep. Do you want the grand tour?”

“Sure.”

“First up, I have to show you the view.”

Marcus steps out on a balcony and turns the phone around to show me a sprawling network of lights that reminds me of synapses firing in a giant neural network.

“Wow, that’s incredible. My most exciting view is of the neighbor’s overgrown hedge.”

Marcus grins, and then the phone is moving, the camera swaying slightly as he walks, showing gleaming hardwood floors, sleek modern furniture, and artwork that probably costs more than my entire education.

“And this is the kitchen…” He turns the camera around so I can see appliances that look more complicated than some of the lab equipment we use for DNA sequencing and enough counter space to prepare a feast for a small army.

“Holy hell. I think that’s bigger than my entire flat. Do you actually do any cooking in there yourself?”

The camera angle catches part of Marcus’s face so I can see his upturned lips. “Does microwaving count as cooking?”

“In my world, absolutely,” I say.

“Then yes, I’m a master chef,” Marcus says.

He leaves the kitchen and pads down a long artwork-lined hallway, his footsteps muffled by what looks like an obscenely plush carpet.

Marcus enters a spacious bedroom dominated by a California king bed. He settles down on his bed, lounging back on some pillows.

And then we start to talk.

It’s not quite the same as lying beside each other in bed in Fiji, but it’s close. Our conversation meanders back and forth. I tell him about Dot and all the volunteers at the fairy tern recovery project. He tells me about the challenges of nailing a 1920s Chicago accent, the itchiness of period-accurate wool suits, and how he accidentally knocked over a prop Tommy gun and nearly gave the sound guy a heart attack.

I keep wondering if he called me because he wanted someone to mess around with, but he doesn’t attempt to take the conversation anywhere dirty, and I don’t mind.

It’s nice to just talk to him. I like talking to Marcus.

It’s only when I find my eyelids drooping that I glance at the time and realize it’s almost midnight.

“It must be late there. I mean early. Early today.”

Marcus looks at his watch. “Yeah, it’s nearly three a.m.”

Shit.

We’ve talked for so long. Does it mean anything?

I decide to take a punt.

“I can’t believe we talked for four hours and didn’t even have phone sex,” I say.

Marcus’s eyes widen slightly, then darken with lust.

“Next time,” he says.

“Next time,” I agree.

We stare at each other. Marcus gives a small smile, and I can’t help matching it.

“Well, I guess we both better get our beauty sleep,” he says.

“Only one of us is actually paid to be beautiful,” I point out, and he laughs softly.

“Night, Seb.”

“Night, Marcus.”

And with that, Marcus disappears off my screen.

I fall asleep with a giant smile.