Chapter_8_One_Singula

I miss P-town.

I miss morning coffee, sitting in a rocking chair overlooking Commercial Street. A bike ride through the dunes. Brunch and bloodies at Café Heaven. A sweaty dance party at Crown Anchor. Post-barhopping slices of pizza at Spiritus.

I feel bad for Wyatt’s brother but I just wasn’t expecting to spend our babymoon in a hospital.

Okay, across the street from a hospital. But still.

It’s especially disheartening to see how different Wyatt’s relationship with his family is compared to mine. There’s little chemistry between Wyatt and his brother. It’s the complete opposite of how I interact with my sisters. Seeing Wyatt and his mom communicate always makes me long for the open and honest conversations I have with my parents.

It’s nice though that we’ll spend quality time with Wyatt’s nieces. Even if babysitting them does, in fact, feel like some kind of cosmic test to see if we have what it takes to become fathers. And one I’m afraid I’ll fail.

Later, with Wyatt’s nieces, Evelyn and Melody, in the back seat of Virginia Woolf, we arrive at Awakenings. I’m shocked to discover it’s just your average brick-and-mortar, two-story building.

Except, with an annual tuition of almost sixty thousand dollars and regularly voted as suburban Boston’s number one private school, it’s not average at all.

“What on earth are these people paying for?” I quietly ask Wyatt.

“The cafeteria food better be dipped in actual gold,” he says.

We both stifle laughs.

“Wasn’t Awakenings the name of a nineties movie?” Wyatt asks the girls, as I pull Virginia Woolf into the circular drive. Our cute little car is an orange sore thumb among the dozens of identical black SUVs filling up the school’s parking lot. I love that we stand out. It’s complete anarchy.

“Yes!” Melody, the gregarious, popular theater geek says. “Starring Robert De Niro and Robin Williams. It’s a classic.” Leave it to the nine-year-old to school the thirty-somethings. “Mom and Dad won’t let us watch it because it has, quote, unquote, adult themes. Tyler Shaewitz told me about it.”

“Our school’s called ‘Awakenings’ because they want to awaken your wallet so you pay them like the capitalist pigs they are,” says Evelyn, the dark, brainiac, morose one, staring out the window.

“Why’s this car so smelly?” Melody asks.

“It’s old,” Wyatt says. “Like us.”

“Ew. Is it used?”

“Technically. Yes. We bought it from my coworker,” I say.

“Why would you want someone else’s stinky car?”

I realize that for a child of such privilege, this is not even in the realm of her imagination. “It’s not stinky,” I say.

“Biz...” Wyatt cautions me, not wanting to argue with the kids.

“But it is. Why didn’t you just buy your own car?” Melody asks.

“Because we found this car at an affordable price,” Wyatt explains.

“Plus, it’s cool and vintage,” I add.

“Oh, so you’re like thrifters,” Evelyn wisely says.

“Like thrift shoppers? Sure.” Now I’m speaking her language.

“Okay, you two thespians!” Wyatt says to the girls. He’s clearly trying to keep the mood light and upbeat. I get it. “It’s showtime!”

After we park and enter, Wyatt tells me he’s never been inside his nieces’ school.

“With all the birthday cards and our once-a-year holiday visits here, it feels like we’re a close family but we’re really not,” he tells me as we shuffle down the hallway.

I feel bad Wyatt’s family isn’t as tight-knit as mine. This is all just a blunt reminder for him that they’ve drifted apart even further over the years.

“When your baby comes, will they be our cousin?” Melody asks, wanting to get to the bottom of every passing thought in her head.

“Of course. Your dad and I are brothers,” Wyatt says.

“But Dad told me the baby won’t have a mom like us.”

Oh god, here we go.

“That’s true,” Wyatt says with some hesitation on whether or not he should elaborate.

“We used an egg donor,” I chime in.

“Eggs?” Now Evelyn perks up to this curious conversation.

“One lady is technically biologically linked to our child and another lady will give birth,” I try to explain, used to this line of questioning. Almost everyone not familiar with how surrogacy works has asked us this.

Before Melody can ask a follow-up question, Wyatt interrupts. “I don’t think we need to go into detail right before your show,” he says.

“Parker Leventhal can fit a can of Pringles in his mouth,” Evelyn informs us, happily derailing the conversation with random trivia about another boy they know, I guess.

We all stop and watch as the girls scream-squeal hello to some of their friends.

Seeing all these little ones interact makes my future-parent insecurity catch fire.

Will our kid think we’re dysfunctional?

What if our kid is bullied in school because they have gay dads?

Why are we bringing a child into this hellscape of a world?

“Oh, hi. You’re not Evelyn and Melody’s dad.” I turn to find a hard-core cute guy greeting me. “I’m Mr. Aronson, their theater director.”

He fits the mold of everything you’d want in a drama teacher for your child.

The perfect beard. His best sport coat. The teardrop-shaped eighties-inspired glasses.

Not to mention, his wireless headset. Like he’s Taylor Swift about to perform at Wembley Stadium.

Mr. Aronson swivels from me to Wyatt and says, “And you’re not Evelyn and Melody’s dad.” His mock confusion charms us both.

Just now, I realize it’s probably not a great idea to have two strange men show up inside a school in this day and age. But then I figure a domestic terrorist probably isn’t going to pose as someone’s guncle at a kids’ production of A Chorus Line.

“Their dad, my brother, had an accident. So we’re here instead. I’m Wyatt and this is my partner, Biz,” Wyatt explains.

“Oh, right! It’s coming back to me now. Opening-night stress!” Mr. Aronson says with a laugh as he glances at me. “Megan said she had to stay at the hospital and you’d be coming instead. I’m so sorry about Alex. I hope he has a speedy recovery. It’s great to meet you both.”

The three of us shake hands. Mr. Aronson and I smile and size each other up. Wyatt’s eyes dart toward mine. I can tell he thinks we’re inadvertently flirting.

Which we’re not. At all. At least, I’m not.

Although, when Mr. Aronson shakes the hands of an impossibly young set of monied parents, anyone with a pulse can’t help but catch his sizable bicep popping through his tweed blazer.

Immediately, I regret how inappropriate this thought is to have backstage at a school play. And it certainly won’t help the strain in my relationship with Wyatt.

But now the guy is back and smiling at us.

“Where are you two from?” he asks, looking to bond with the (probably) only other gays in the building.

“We live in Brooklyn,” I offer. “Prospect Heights, to be exact.”

“Are you the one who chose A Chorus Line?” Wyatt asks, grinning and putting on the charm. It reminds me of when we first met, when Wyatt was genuinely interested in getting to know everything about me. I feel a pang of heartbreak this isn’t directed at me.

“My teacher’s assistant, Jocelyn, and I decided together. It was so ahead of its time,” Mr. Aronson says.

“Biz is an actor,” Wyatt says. He’s always ready to shamelessly promote me to anyone and I love that about him.

“I was getting an actorly vibe,” Mr. Aronson says, smiling.

“I am. Was,” I say. “When I was a teenager mostly. I was on a show.”

“What show?” he asks.

“Back in the Saddle,” I say. “It was on the Disney Channel.”

Mr. Aronson bursts with enthusiasm. “Oh my god, I used to love that show! You played Corey!” he beams.

“Good memory,” I say.

“My favorite episode was when your identical twin shows up on the ranch.”

“I had to shoot all those scenes twice. That was rough,” I say.

“That is so funny. I watched your show every day after school. Wow,” he says, squinting with curiosity. “What are you up to now?” The dreaded follow-up question.

“I write for a food magazine now so...”

Oh, god. I’m not a magazine writer anymore, I remind myself. The thought of both losing my actual job and disappointing this stranger that I’m no longer acting stings.

Thankfully the conversation veers away from my career and onto current Broadway musicals before Mr. Aronson wrangles the kids backstage.

Memories of my own school acting days flutter awake inside my soul as we enter the large auditorium in awe.

“These acoustics rival Radio City,” I say.

“I’m glad their hefty annual tuition is being put to good use,” Wyatt says quietly.

“There’s no bar, right?” I ask Wyatt, half joking, as we take our seats close to the stage.

We stare at the red velvet curtain on stage as the rest of the audience shuffles in.

“Ogling Drama Teacher much?” Wyatt says, finally letting his dam break. I could tell he’s stewing about some perceived sparks of chemistry between me and Mr. Aronson.

“Are you asking me or yourself that?” I wonder. Wyatt turns to me with a half smile, knowing I’m right. Even though Wyatt and I are monogamous, we both agree that admiring another handsome man here and there isn’t the worst thing.

We aren’t like our other friends Justin and Antonio, who have a well-documented open relationship with just about every eligible gay man in New York City. No judgments.

Nor are we like our married friends Grant and Noah, who are supposed to be monogamous with each other but secretly sleep with just about every eligible gay man in New York City. No judgments.

Hell, we aren’t even like the Zachs, who are fully monogamous—except they’re allowed hookups outside of the relationship with just a few rules: no kissing, no oral, no full-on sex and no repeat callers. Which basically means they’re only allowed... hand jobs?

But I don’t want to think about any of that. I want to stay present and just try to have a fun evening together.

“I’m excited for the show,” I say.

“Thanks for enduring my family with me,” Wyatt says.

“Of course. It’s always nice to hang with Beverly and the gang.”

“I feel bad we cut Provincetown short though.”

“Don’t be. It’s kind of fun we’re playing the role of Daddy Number One and Daddy Number Two to someone else’s kids. For one night only. Before our own sparkling debut.”

My secret stage fright is off the charts.

Seated in the plush seats, we catch the swirling activity around the theater. Moms and dads herd their little ones into their seats or onto their laps. Brothers and sisters hold bouquets of roses to give to their performing siblings after the show. The student ushers awkwardly hand out paper flyers cleverly made to look like Broadway Playbills.

Then I notice the confidence that these other, much younger parents have and it stuns me. I can only hope to reach that level of comfort when our kid is this age.

The theater’s warm glow dims to total darkness. The show begins as Wyatt and I uncontrollably reach for each other’s hand.