Husband Hunters Read online

  He thought the bark of laughter that issued from him sounded bitter.

  He pulled the comforter off his bed and let it lay in a heap at its foot. He stripped out of his camouflage cargo shorts and black tank top and flung himself down on the sheets in just his boxer shorts. He realized, with disappointment, that he was even too tired to initiate his nightly wank before sleep. He made puppets of his two hands. One hand said to the other, in a deep voice with an inexplicable Mexican accent, “Sorry, honey, not tonight. I’ve got a headache.”

  A cool breeze blew in through his open window. Matt thought with his exhaustion, the three ales he had drunk (or was it four?), and the pleasant temperature, he should have drifted immediately off to sleep. Yet once he lay down, the thoughts rose up to torment him.

  He realized the alcohol he had consumed was an attempt to find oblivion. Now, here in the darkness, he could admit it to himself—all weekend, he had been eaten up with jealousy. And the alcohol, instead of obliterating the heartache, had only unleashed it.

  While Matt spent Saturday and Sunday alone, not doing much, Cody was off with another man, perhaps his future husband, on the gorgeous island of Vancouver. He could see them, laughing as they walked hand in hand along the harbor’s edge, bathed in golden light, their gazes locked. Last night Matt hadn’t slept well either, because he had imagined Cody in the other guy’s arms.

  Matt had been to the Empress before. His parents had taken him there once when he was much younger, so he could visualize perfectly the ornate, old-fashioned bedroom. But there was nothing old-fashioned about the pornographic movies that ran through Matt’s mind, starring Cody and what would have to be a perfect man, someone who looked maybe like Ryan Gosling or Jake Gyllenhaal. Someone perfect. Someone unlike Matt. What ran through his head was insomnia- and nausea-inducing and strangely titillating.

  He finally drifted off to sleep around dawn on Sunday morning and then dreamed of Cody. The two of them were at Golden Gardens Park, and the day was sunny, perfect. Behind them were vistas of blue water and gray mountains. The greenery of the pines and other trees were a sharp contrast to the cooler tones.

  A long, long flight of stairs and pathways led up from the park’s beach to the Loyal Heights neighborhood, and this was where Matt found Cody and himself. Cody was running up those steps, laughing and looking back at Matt to come after him.

  Yet no matter how hard he tried, Matt could not catch up.

  He had awakened sweating, a cry for Cody to stop still fresh on his lips. The dream had left him uneasy all day.

  Maybe that was why he was having trouble falling asleep now—perhaps he feared the dream would repeat as soon as he sunk below consciousness. So what if it did? It doesn’t take a genius, Matt thought, turning over on his stomach, to understand what the dream represents.

  Would he ever catch up with Cody? Or would he disappear from view, leaving Matt alone and yearning, his name always on his lips?

  Next weekend, he told himself, next weekend you and Cody get back together. Officially. Husband Hunters style. If things go as planned, you may even become more than friends—a couple.

  He punched the pillow next to his head. “Yeah, right,” he mumbled. “Like that’ll happen.” Matt thought grimly that Cody was probably just getting home now from his weekend with his perfect man, worn out and in love.

  Matt didn’t stand a chance. He never had. He was always doomed to play the supporting role of best friend.

  Busy torturing himself, he gave a little start as the buzzer from his intercom sounded in the other room. “What the hell?” He rolled over to consult the clock on his nightstand. It was almost one o’clock. “Who shows up at this hour?”

  Wearily, he planted his feet on the floor, leaning over to grope around for his discarded T-shirt. He yanked it on as the buzzer sounded again. “I’m coming. I wasn’t asleep anyway.”

  He padded toward the front door. It was probably Claire Evans out there. His downstairs neighbor, a young woman fresh out of the University of Washington, was forever forgetting her keys on her drunken forays into Ballard’s very active singles’ nightlife, and he was sure tonight was no exception.

  She knew Matt was almost always home. Why bother with a key when her gay neighbor was always around to let her in?

  But when he took a quick glance down at the sidewalk from his living room window, he saw not a female figure standing under the lights from the front entrance, but a male.

  Cody.

  His heart did a little jump in his chest. His breath caught. “What? What are you doing here?” he wondered aloud. He looked again just to make certain his eyes hadn’t deceived him. But no, it was Cody, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, reaching for the intercom button again.

  Matt jumped as it sounded, even though he knew the buzz was coming.

  He wasn’t sure he wanted to let Cody come up. Oh, he did want to see him, desperately, but there were all sorts of good reasons not to. For one, he probably looked like shit—half drunk and wrung out. He hadn’t showered all weekend. He probably smelled. For another, the producers of the show didn’t want him to have much contact until the big reveal of their weekend together.

  In the end, though, Matt caved in to his most basic belief about the human animal: we do what we want to do. He didn’t push talk or listen, he simply pressed the button that would admit Cody and then leaned against his front door, arms folded across his chest, waiting for the sound of the footfalls of his best friend and most unrequited love to sound on the stairs.

  One, two, three brisk knocks at the door. And Matt was still uncertain if he should open it. He peered through the peephole. Cody was out there, looking as gorgeous as ever, maybe even a little charmingly sunburned from his weekend away—there was a ridge of red along his cheeks and nose that only served to make him look more handsome, more vital, more vigorous.

  Cody must have seen him looking, because the next thing Matt knew, Cody placed a finger over the hole, blocking his view. “C’mon, Matt. Open up!”

  Matt sighed and swung the door open. Cody stood outside, waiting.

  “Well, aren’t you gonna come in?”

  “I’m like a vampire. I need to be invited.” Cody swept by him, and Matt got a whiff of alcohol. Whiskey?

  Cody plopped down on the couch, legs spread apart and arms over the back of it.

  Matt sat down on a chair across from him. “Make yourself at home,” he said, failing to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. He always failed to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Maybe that’s why Cody didn’t go for him—Matt was amusing, caustic, funny, but not lovable?

  Cody picked up one of the empty bottles on the table. “Got any more of these?”

  “You know the only thing my fridge is reliably stocked with is Mac & Jack’s and frozen pizza. Help yourself. You know where the kitchen is.”

  Matt watched as Cody roused himself to go into the kitchen. He heard him open the refrigerator and then call out, “You want one?”

  “What? A husband? Only if it’s you, sweetheart.” Well, at least that’s what Matt imagined saying. Those were the words that sprung immediately to mind. What he said instead was, “Sure. Why not? I’m only two sheets to the wind.”

  Cody came back and handed him a cold bottle, then resumed his position on the couch.

  “Would you close your legs, please?” Matt begged. “It’s a little too inviting.”

  Cody chuckled and crossed his legs. “Better?”

  Matt took a long swallow and nodded, even though it was worse. Crossing his legs only caused Cody’s prodigious basket to rise. Matt forced himself to look up at his friend’s face. “So what brings you out?”

  “You mean what the hell am I doing here?”

  Matt noticed Cody’s words were a little slurred. He had definitely caught a whiff of eau de whiskey earlier. “No,” Matt said. “I mean are you drunk?”

  Cody drank some beer, belched, and said, “A little.”

  Matt s
et his own beer down. “And yes, I mean what the hell are you doing here?”

  “Can’t I come visit my little buddy?”

  “Cody, it’s past one A.M. I have to get up for work in the morning.” And little buddy? Really? What is this? Gilligan’s Island?

  “Why don’t you just take the summer off like I do?”

  “I can’t afford it.” Matt’s fatigue hit him again, like a weight on his shoulders. His head ached. His eyes burned. He didn’t want to play games. “So you just decided to drop by?”

  “No. I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to talk to my friend. Share my weekend; let my best buddy know how it went.” Cody frowned, and it sent a jolt directly to Matt’s heart when he realized the guy looked hurt, lost. “Even if he doesn’t care.”

  The last sentence Cody uttered was akin to drawing a veil of silence across the room. Matt didn’t know what to say, and he was sure Cody didn’t either. After a long while, Matt said softly, “Of course I care.”

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to say that. You don’t have to pretend. I can tell things have changed between us.”

  Cody was speaking more clearly now, and Matt could sense the words had been pent up for a while. He was not surprised.

  “You’ve been avoiding me since the spring. I don’t know why. We used to get together all the time. You used to be eager to see me. Now I feel like if I don’t at least make an attempt to reach out to you, I’ll never hear from you again.”

  “Oh, Cody, come on.”

  “No, it’s true. When was the last time you picked up the phone and asked me to do something? Hell, when was the last time you picked it up just to ask how I was? Or sent me a text? A message on Facebook?”

  Matt felt something hot and nausea-inducing slithering inside him. He supposed the best word for it would be shame. Was he taking this Husband Hunters strategy thing too far? How could alienating his best friend make him a more desirable love object? Matt shook his head. It was absurd. All of it. He should tell Cody the truth.

  But then he considered something else. To give himself time to think, he stood up and wandered over to his window and stared out at the lights from the locks across the way. Maybe what he was doing—rightfully pulling away—had nothing to do with a reality TV show and everything to do with Matt’s peace of mind, his self-esteem, his very own protection. Maybe, in order not to get his heart tramped on, he needed to harden it against the very person who made it the most vulnerable.

  It made sense to him. He turned around, eyed Cody, and couldn’t help the curious brew of rage, longing, and yes, love coursing through him. He both wanted to reach out to him with outstretched arms and to turn away.

  Cody looked up, his eyebrows furrowing together as he took Matt in. “What? Why are you just staring at me?”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t know what to say? Or you don’t know how to say it?” Cody asked.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Maybe I just need to hear it.” Cody stood then, on unsteady legs. He staggered one step backward, one forward, then was still. “You don’t seem to care for me anymore. I don’t know why. But here’s some help. Good-bye in Spanish is adios. The French say adieu. I think in German it’s auf wiedersehen; at least that’s what Heidi Klum says on Project Runway. In Italian, it’s arrivederci. Or you just do this.” Cody raised his hand and gave a small, sad wave.

  “I don’t want to say good-bye.”

  Cody shook his head. “You already did. Weeks ago.” He stared at Matt as though he were waiting. Minutes passed. The atmosphere in the little apartment was charged.

  At last Cody turned and reached for the doorknob. “Thanks for the beer.”

  “Cody…” Matt whined. “There’s something you need to know.”

  Cody stopped, his back to him.

  Matt wondered, Should I do it? Should I tell him the truth? Should I let him know what the Husband Hunters folks have dreamed up? Maybe if I fess up now, we can play along on the show. Maybe now he’ll come around. He obviously seems hurt enough by my distance. And this thought was like a nail in Matt’s heart, making him inwardly wince. Matt took a gulp of beer. Or should I just tell the guy I’m in love with him? Get it out there and on the table. Roll the dice. You know what they say: you gotta play to win. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. What do I have to lose, anyway?

  Cody turned around, eyeing Matt again. “Is there something you wanted to say?”

  And all that came out of Matt’s mouth was, “I can’t be your friend anymore.”

  Cody laughed. “Anymore? That’s rich.” He opened the door and stood for a moment, framed in the doorway.

  Matt said softly to Cody’s back, “I can’t be just a friend.”

  He wasn’t sure Cody had heard, because all he did in response to Matt’s last utterance was close the door.

  Matt rushed to the window and watched as Cody left the building, hoping against hope that he would turn around and come back. But instead he disappeared into the shadows.

  Chapter 12

  The producers waited two weeks to film the third and final segment of Cody’s husband hunting. For this one they would travel north, up to the woods, streams, and glorious snowcapped peaks of Mt. Baker National Forest. They had rented a place up there, and Cody and his prospective husband would spend a weekend doing manly, outdoorsy stuff, like hiking and building campfires at night.

  Martha Stewart had e-mailed Cody a few pictures of the cabin where they’d be staying. It was cute, like something out of a fairy tale. It had the look of a little Swiss chalet, white with brown scalloped trim, an A-frame, nestled into the trees. Around the back, one could see where a hot tub had been installed. Above it hung strings of lights. In the front was a parking area, and in the yard, a fire pit had been built, just waiting for the kiss of nighttime flames.

  It all looked very romantic.

  What viewers wouldn’t know was that the cabin was part of a gated community of similar cabins, a community that included a swimming pool, tennis court, and clubhouse with free Wi-Fi. Martha said that when they shot the episode, they wanted it to seem as though the guys were isolated, away from everyone. The woodland hikes, against majestically beautifully backdrops, were already scripted in.

  Now Cody found himself waiting on yet another Saturday morning to be picked up by the Husband Hunters crew. This time, though, absent was the feeling of anticipation. Now he just wanted it to be over with. Maybe he’d go ahead and pick Chappy Whalen, marry for companionship and having a ton of things in common. He certainly could do worse.

  Who needed a spark, anyway? Who needed that stuff romance novelists wrote about or the malarkey that love stories like Sleepless in Seattle, You’ve Got Mail, Love Actually, When Harry Met Sally, Say Anything, and My Best Friend’s Wedding fed you?

  The only gay love story movie he could think of was Brokeback Mountain. And look how that turned out!

  Cody had been up since five A.M. Ryder had awakened him from an uneasy slumber by repeatedly jumping off and on the bed, then whining at the closed bedroom door. Usually Cody would just tell the dog to go back to sleep if it was too early, but this was one day Ryder would not listen.

  Perhaps he was affected by his master’s own restlessness and mood, which was a potent cocktail consisting of resignation, dread, and disdain.

  The truth was Cody just wanted this whole reality TV show adventure to be in his past. No matter how great, sexy, charming the guy was at Mt. Baker, he still wouldn’t be the one. This whole process was too forced. Too orchestrated. This wasn’t how love should happen. Love should happen spontaneously, or at least be born from a deep feeling of knowing the other person and deciding maybe you couldn’t live without him. Perhaps other guys could buy into the concept—Martha was forever telling him how many happily married couples the show boasted—but he couldn’t.

  He wasn’t built that way.

  So he would get it over with. He knew that was a horri
ble way to look at things and very unfair to the man he would meet in a few hours. But he couldn’t help it.

  He also couldn’t help that he felt this all had something to do with Matt, whom he had not heard a single word from since that awful night when he’d shown up at his apartment drunk a couple of weeks ago.

  The day after that night, he’d fully expected the phone to ring and Matt to apologize, to say he didn’t mean what he’d said. How could they get their friendship back on track?

  But he didn’t. Nor did he call the next day or the next. And as each day passed, the distance between them seemed to grow, making it almost impossible for Cody to entertain any notion of taking the initiative and trying to make things right.

  “Come on, boy. Let’s go for a nice long walk.” Cody grabbed the leash from the bedroom floor where he had left it the night before. Ryder’s ears went up with excitement.

  It was just getting light outside as they exited the apartment building. The neighborhood was quiet, and Cody could see, far down Stone Way, a bit of Lake Union and a team of rowers in their shell gliding silently and smoothly across the water.

  He wanted to be like them, focused on something other than life or love. Just reacting to the simple calls of a coxswain: “Sit ready. Ready all, row. Spin it. Weigh enough.” Right now such mindless regimentation sounded like just the thing.

  He headed down the street, ruminating about the one person he didn’t want to think about, not anymore.

  Matt.

  * * * *

  Matt wasn’t sure he could do it. He had been up all night, nerves jangling, feeling almost like he had the beginnings of the flu. His skin was clammy. His heart raced. And his stomach rarely ceased its nauseating acrobatic routine.

  He wondered if he could call the Husband Hunters team and just say he was sick. It was true enough.

  But could he just walk away? He supposed contestants had fallen ill in the past. It probably cost the show a lot of money, but what could they do, other than reschedule?

  He got out of bed and padded barefoot to his tiny kitchen, switched the Keurig on, stared at its blue display until it told him it was ready to brew, and inserted his favorite K-cup—Starbucks Pike Place Roast. He knew he would need two cups at least, two cups plus a long, hot shower, to begin to feel anything even remotely close to human. He laughed when he first glanced down at the blue display and, for a moment, thought it read, “So not ready” instead of “not ready.”