Chapter 2

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August 4

Umby’s a handsome man. Thirty-nine, with ginger hair; the only redheaded Latino on the planet, I decide. Physically fit. Green eyes. He’s half Puerto Rican and half Irish. Talk about a Heinz 57 variety type of man. Born and raised in Pittsburgh. He’s definitely over six-two and thin. There’s nobulk about him. No fat. Although he’s a good-looking man, he rarely shaves. There’s unmanageable reddish scruff around his chin and numerous spots on his cheeks. Think many freckles on his face. Think a sexy Ed Sheeran.

Today, following his session at Harold’s house, Umby crosses the street and sits down beside me on the top step in front of my Cape Cod.

He smiles at me. Something tells me that if he were single, we’d be a couple, liking me a little more than his husband knows. Umby takes in my one hundred sixty pounds and five-eleven frame, brown eyes, wavy and sandy brown hair, cleft in chin, one dimple on my right cheek, and tiny nose. I’m more of a scarecrow than a man, in my opinion. Thirty-eight years and nothing more than minimal layers of stuffing. There’s no lightning bolt scar on my forehead. I don’t have lasers streaming out of my eyes. My looks can be worse, of course.

He says, “Rough day. Harold doesn’t even know who I am.”

“I know who you are.” I quickly fetch us beers from inside. It’s almost one hundred degrees out, and he needs to cool down. After passing him the beer, I play, “What’s your name again?”

“Fucker. That’s not funny. The poor man is losing his mind. I give him less than a year before his brain becomes a serving of mashed potatoes.”

“Like everyone else on this planet, Harold isn’t going to live forever. It’s no surprise, really. I think everyone in the Keller family knows this.”

“I guess you’re right.”

I ask him how Craig, his husband, is doing.

“He’s fine. He needs to retire. All he ever does is work. The man rarely pays attention to me. We have enough money to go anywhere and do anything we want in the world, but he chooses to work. It gets old after a while.”

I ask him about the poodles.

“They bark too much. The backyard is loaded down with their shit. Craig refuses to clean it up. And I won’t do it, either. I guess I’ll have to hire a junior high kid to get the job done.”

He makes me laugh. I ask him if his ex-wife still bothers him for money on a daily basis.

“She does. Not that I can give her any.” He adds, “If she’s not asking for cash, I hear all about herhorny baseball player and his massive dick. It pisses me off.”

I want to chuckle, but don’t. Instead, I rub a palm along his spine and tell him, “Try to ignore her. You have a good life with Craig. And you’ll have a better life when Craig retires, or works less.”

“Thanks for letting me vent, buddy.”

“It’s why I like talking to you and…”

Jobe Rider, the summer cowboy who’s staying across the street during August, breaks our conversation. Silence follows, growing between us. The rancher pulls up in his burnt orange, four-door Ranger truck and parks in front of Harold’s Tudor. The Ford has dents all over its doors, severely rusted in many places. How Jobe manages to drive it from Stockton County, Oklahoma, to Pittsburgh, is beyond my thinking. The muscular man climbs out of the truck in a too-tight T-shirt the color of the sky and skinny jeans. He holds two plastic bags of groceries from a quick trip to the local market. Eggs, bread,milk, and other provisions are in the almost-transparent bags.

Both Umby and I watch him close the driver’s side door of his truck.

Jobe, as if he knows we’re watching him, turns to us, and calls out in his country drawl, “Gentleman, how’s it going?

The bulge in his denim-covered crouch attracts me: plump and long, porn-stuff. Probably just as big as Gage Marsden’s. I can’t stop looking at the thing.

“Great belt buckle,” Umby whispers beside me.

He’s right. The silver buckle is shaped like the state of Oklahoma: six inches long, three inches wide. It’s huge. A cowboy riding a bull is embossed on its metal surface.

“Hot thighs, too,” Umby continues to whisper. “Jesus, he’s a god.”

He’s right again. On both accounts. Jobe has muscular and meaty thighs, which whet my appetite. The cowboy is a god.

“You’re married,” I remind Umby.

He waves at the cowboy. “I would cheat on Craig in a fucking second if the summer cowboy seduced me,” he teases.