“What happened to cults being founded on honesty?”
Randy and Gerry stepped closer to us.
“Keep your voice down,” said Dyson.
“Transparency? Capital T-R-A—”
Dyson blew his whistle, twirled his finger. Physical Training commenced.
“Aren’t you coming?” said Randy, jogging in place.
“Not today,” I replied.
Randy raced off to join the double-file worm jogging around the edge of the clearing. Dyson ran backwards, clapping overhead in an enormous circle, pushing the men to run faster. The men ran faster, enamored of Dyson. This is, perhaps, what he wanted all along. The men mindlessly trailing him in circles as I watched from a distance. I worried, briefly, that I had done something wrong—but I flicked that thought away. I hadn’t done anything wrong. This was just Dyson, the Dyson I wished didn’t exist: the Dyson who cared more about fleeting and superficial attention than he did about our friendship. This is the Dyson who moved to L.A. The Dyson who ignored me for months knowing I needed him. A Dyson I couldn’t help but resent.
twenty-four
I PACED ALONG the shore of the pond hoping for a call from Cassandra. Instead, Roger called me again. The idea of leaving The Atmosphere—with its hopeless men and Dyson’s secrets, his new mysterious phase—seemed more appealing than ever.
But I couldn’t stomach abandoning Peter. I had sacrificed Leon for him—and assured myself this was because I needed someone to fuck. I didn’t want to love Peter. I didn’t want to love any man or give part of myself to someone again, because I knew how deeply all men wished to hurt me. I was using Peter. Just as I used Leon to continue using Peter. This was okay because I had been used in the past—not only by Blake. There were too many men to name.
Peter was one of those good men that men were always telling me about. “What was it like to be famous?” he loved asking me after sex, and I loved slipping back to those days when I used to wait for the future as if it were a ship that would carry me to a Caribbean island.
Sometimes, as I hiked to the cabin after our rendezvous, I fantasized about setting the barn ablaze and running away with him. He would likely work hard for me and never complain. He wouldn’t bother me. He would love me, simply, agreeably. With him, I could do what I wished, live as quietly or extravagantly as his work allowed. I got the sense from Peter that he would have embraced this life had I asked. But I never asked, because I didn’t want a life with Peter. I only wanted clandestine hours with him. I merely wanted physical pleasure I couldn’t get anywhere else. Most men believe they want this from women, too. They don’t. They want ownership, control, the ability to leave whenever they like. Peter was no different. However, his desire manifested how it only could in sensitive men: as a self-pitying, hangdog pout.
We met in The Crucible at our usual time the night after Leon’s arrest. The night Dyson’s Reconciliation began. It was an unreasonably hot and humid night, even for June, one of those slick, drippy evenings that makes you regret having skin—but Peter shivered bashfully when I unzipped his jacket. “I can’t do it,” he said.
“Is it about Leon?” I asked. “Because Leon is fine. I spoke to Art Flemings this afternoon.” I hadn’t. “And Art said they’re letting him go, not pressing charges. But he can’t return to The Atmosphere. It’s a technical issue. Something with zoning.”
“That’s good,” he said.
“All’s gonna be fine.” I kissed him hard, slid a hand beneath his waistband.
Peter unhanded me from his crotch. “I wasn’t prepared for the lecture tonight.”
“Reconciliation,” I said, scoffing.
“I’m not up for doing much right now. Nothing like this.”
“Tell me what Dyson did to you.”
“I’m not allowed.”
I reminded him that we had something more precious than rules. “Intimacy means sharing things with your partner,” I said.
“Do you even think of me as a partner?” he asked. “Or just someone to fuck?”
Of course I think of you as a partner, I nearly spit. But his question was an attack; it exposed and quieted me. He was not one of those good men. He was no better than Blake. These men with their naïve vision of authenticity, their absurd demand for labels. “What a cruel question!” I shouted. “I refuse to answer something so hurtful.”
I trekked back to the cabin, embarrassed and angry, forearming sweat from my eyes, muttering all the things I should have told him. Inside, Dyson purged jaggedly in the bathroom. “Just quit!” I shouted. But I regretted it immediately. When he slipped into bed I apologized.
“No, you’re right,” he said, his tone as dull as a cushion.
“I didn’t say I was wrong,” I said. I imagined a scenario in which I could reach for him, then a scenario in which he would turn toward me, kiss me—a world where I could work through the shame I felt over Peter by fucking Dyson—and I hovered my hand over his waist.
He said, “That isn’t us.”
The next day, the men wouldn’t look at me. They muttered inaudibly during PIEs. Even Randy responded to my questions with sheepish deference. Together, we had been editing a movie—footage of the surrounding foliage put to Muzak, a source of joy and accomplishment for the men—but they were “too tired” to work on it today. I got the sense they were ashamed of themselves. They shifted uncomfortably when I stood close, like teenagers attracted to their teacher—but if that were an issue, wouldn’t it have revealed itself weeks ago?
Peter couldn’t go for a walk after PIEs. He needed to focus on the garden. I apologized for shouting at him, but he said that wasn’t the problem. He forgave me. He knew I was under a lot of pressure. “Just a quick walk,” I said. “To the forest and back.”
He refused. He needed time to himself.
