When the Stars Come Out by Rob Byrnes Page B

Bar 51 had accused him of prostituting himself.
    He knew he could always go back to Jon’s apartment but, much
    as he liked his host, there was still the problem of “employer talk.”
    And now that he was into the fourth day of what could charitably
    be described as his worst vacation ever, Bart felt strongly that he had to take full advantage of the final forty-eight hours, especially since it was already Friday.
    And, well . . . maybe that guy—Mr. Fate; Mr. Stalker, whatever—
    would show up, and he could try to figure out this string of coincidences. True, he was leaving New York in two days and didn’t know
    when he’d be back, but it could be a harmless diversion. If there
    was something worth pursuing, he would only be a few hours away.
    W H E N T H E S T A R S C O M E O U T
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    Not perfect, but workable. It wasn’t as if there was a lot of competi-tion, living as he did in virtual isolation in the Hamptons.
    And if the guy really was a stalker, well . . . Bart could always get the car out of the garage and leave New York that night. And he’d be certain not to give out his cell phone number prematurely, just in case.
    When he walked through the front door of Bar 51, he saw that
    the bartender he knew as Jason—“Young Jason,” the regulars had
    informed him, as opposed to “Old Jason,” who was also young but
    not as painfully young as Young Jason—was on duty. Bart ordered a
    Corona and took a stool at the midpoint of the bar. He was one of
    only a handful of people in the entire room, including Young
    Jason.
    Although it was only 4:30 PM, he knew that he would have no
    more than three beers . . . even though he wouldn’t even be driving.
    Bart was proud of his responsible, methodical nature . . . proud
    that he was always in control.
    As the only child of strict midwestern parents, he was raised to
    be responsible. It was like that where he grew up: you could go one of two ways. The strict upbringing resulted either in responsible, no-nonsense children, or it resulted in wild, rebellious children.
    Bart was the former. He was babysitting while still almost a baby
    himself; a lifeguard at twelve who saved a life at thirteen; an exem-plary son by any standard.
    Any standard, that was, except that of his parents. They did not
    react well when their only child came out to them as gay. True, they didn’t throw him out of the house or disown him, as so many others of their mindset would have done. But they dealt with the topic of homosexuality by strictly avoiding the subject, erecting an invisible wall in their house, behind which they hid away his sexuality.
    In one sense, Bart was fine with the avoidance and neglect. He
    had no interest in discussing his sex life with them, anyway, and if it met their comfort level, it made everyone —including Bart—comfortable. Still, there were times—new love, heartbreak—when it
    would have been nice to share his life with his family.
    Fortunately, he had a surrogate family to fill the emotional void
    left by his biological one. Bart had never intended to leave Toledo, but a job led to a relocation, and suddenly he was in Suffolk County, 68
    R o b B y r n e s
    New York, on the eastern tip of Long Island, the heart of the Hamptons, meeting yet another friend of a friend of a friend, leading
    him to his dream job. Now he was tucked away in a comfortable, if
    slightly lonely, life in Southampton, tending to the personal needs of a couple who were far too uncomplicated to need a personal assistant. But their money could afford one, so they thought. Why not ? And Bart, as the beneficiary of the unneeded position, couldn’t disagree.
    Bart also quickly decided that he should enjoy it. A good salary,
    a huge house, a low-maintenance job, at least most of the time . . .
    they even let him borrow one of their cars on his occasional forays to Manhattan, which they called “Bart’s Sanity Tour” to further
    prove their good humor. What was not to love?
    It was