Excerpt

Rom-Com for Dummies
Tom Diggs © 2025
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

Gabe Hartman was a first-class liar. It made sense he would become head writer on a soap opera.

If Tomorrow Never Comes had been around for decades. It was created in the late fifties by the legendary Aurora Helms, one of the doyennes of soaps. She had the vision to recognize bored, postwar, suburban housewives who needed the fantasy of romance and drama to keep them going until their husbands returned home in the evening after work. Aurora had created a kingdom of daytime dramas for the networks. If Tomorrow Never Comes was not only the feather in the cap of her reign, but also her last remaining soap still on the air. The fans couldn’t imagine a world without their hour of escape to Harmony Hills. The poor municipality had survived fires, plagues, serial killers, cult suicides, and Russian invasions. As of late, the show’s plots had become more tame and socially conscious, thanks mostly to Gabe Hartman’s sensibilities as head writer. He had grounded the show in salt-of-the-earth storylines that appealed to its down-to-earth audience, mostly from rural areas and red states.

Aurora Helms was in her nineties now and popped into the Manhattan offices of If Tomorrow Never Comes once a year from her estate in Connecticut. The staff performed a dog-and-pony show for the reigning “Queen of Soapland.” She spent a quick morning dispensing worthless advice and questionable anecdotes about the “Golden Age of Harmony Hills.” She bragged about getting now-famous actors from the New York City theater community to act in the early years of If Tomorrow Never Comes. Actors who would go on to become the greatest actors of their generation were allegedly cast as extras and “day players.” No corroborating record of any of this existed, but Gabe had trained his staff to listen politely, chuckle adoringly at her jokes, eat cheese, and drink sherry with her. She loved sherry. She waxed about her dreams of owning a cable network that played nothing but reruns of her soaps; no one had the heart to tell her cable networks devoted to soaps rarely succeeded. At some point, Aurora would have closed-door meetings with both the suits and the executive producers. Eventually, she would get tired and be limo-ed back to Connecticut while the staff returned to business as if she had never been there. Did she even watch If Tomorrow Never Comes anymore? Did it matter? As long as the show stayed on the air, her coffers kept filling.

The staff always complained about Aurora’s visits, but Gabe would have none of it. He was extremely vocal about his gratitude. Because of Aurora, he had been gainfully employed and living comfortably as a writer in New York City for over a decade. What other writers could say that? This year, he won his first Daytime Emmy due to Aurora’s creation, and he amplified his gratitude in his Emmy acceptance speech.

Gabe was good at his job and had always been well respected at If Tomorrow Never Comes. He had the unique talent of all great head writers: he made the writing staff feel like they were equally involved in a collaborative process. Gabe, however, always had the final say. He also had the best ideas. Everyone was always impressed with what he came up with.

But Gabe had a dirty little secret. None of his ideas were original. He was a world-class liar and a world-class thief. Morality was of no use to Gabe when it came to getting the job done.

Gabe’s secret weapon was his hometown, Concord Valley, a small borough Upstate. The people there were nice enough, but nothing else was of interest for Gabe, especially having grown up there as a young gay boy on the verge of his sexual emergence. That said, Concord Valley was where Gabe got all his best ideas for If Tomorrow Never Comes. Or more accurately, stole all his best ideas.

Every great idea he got for his soap came from someone’s real life story in Concord Valley. The love triangle between the beautician, the plumber, and the nun…Gertie, Phil, and Concetta in Concord Valley. The child misdiagnosed with autism who simply needed an ocular aid…the Waverly child in Concord Valley. The bad girl who returned to town and ran the cafe…Mildred in Concord Valley. Concord Valley as a town was the perfect population to inspire Harmony Hills-sized storylines.

Even though his dear mother still lived there, Gabe seldom went to visit. Concord Valley was the kind of place gay boys leave and never look back. That was the lie Gabe told himself. He went home for Christmas and birthdays, and he called his mother almost daily when she unwittingly fed him his latest storyline updates. Deserted by Dad decades ago, Gabe considered his mother one of his closest friends. He was planning to check in with her that night as he might have a couple of new storylines that needed developing.

His deception had one more layer. Gabe was such a professional liar, he never told anyone in Concord Valley he worked at If Tomorrow Never Comes. For all they knew, he worked in Manhattan at some aimless job in a nebulous megacorporation. Visits home would be easier if they didn’t know. He wrote for If Tomorrow Never Comes under the pseudonym, George Sample. Since soap writers are basically invisible, there was little chance of anyone ever learning the truth. The daytime writing awards were never shown on the televised part of the Daytime Emmys. There might be a still photo of Gabe floating around on the interwebs, but the image would be labeled George Sample and not Gabe Hartman. A “Gabe Hartman, soap writer” online search would yield fruitless results. Gabe was confident he had safely set up an impenetrable secret life. As long as the networks were broadcasting soaps, Gabe was guaranteed a healthy career as a writer for soap operas.

One of Gabe’s jobs as head writer was to keep track of the weekly ratings. Erin, the show’s fabulous writer’s assistant and Gabe’s work spouse, was the first to retrieve the ratings and make copies for all of the upper-level management production team.

Gabe headed to Erin’s cubicle next to the copy machine in the supply room. Erin had been an intern from NYU during her undergrad years. Not only did the staff adore her, but Erin was also a super fan of the show. She was offered a full-time gig the moment her internship was over. Gabe couldn’t imagine the place without her.

The supply room was abuzz with the whirr of script pages being printed and the organized chaos of ZipExpress overnight delivery envelopes getting prepped for drop off. The staff writers mainly worked from home. They didn’t need to come into the Manhattan office every day. As the sole writer’s assistant, one of Erin’s jobs was to put the finishing touches on several overnight packages for the out-of-town writing staff.

Erin had also already organized and highlighted the ratings in a neat pile. Gabe admired her competence and efficiency, a rare find in anyone, especially someone so young.

“How do we look, Erin?” he asked.

“Not great,” said Erin. “Down another two hundredths of a point. You want a look?”

“I trust you. Not too precipitous.”

“Steady but sure. The fans want more shirtless dudes, Gabe.”

“Take a number.”

“You should read the fan mail.” Erin held up a pile of letters.

“Above my pay grade. Wait! These ratings were from the week the plot revolved around the men’s swimwear competition. Guess our dudes need to work out more.”

“You can’t expect good actors to be gym rats. I still say the cannibalism storyline could be a Sweeps Week winner.”

“You’re nuts. Short of hardcore porn, I’m not sure what would spike the ratings.”

“What about a simple romance?”

“Right…”

“Or better yet, hide a romantic comedy in what might have been a tawdry storyline. Who doesn’t love romance? Add a few jokes. The combo is incredibly sexy. Some daytime drama sleight of hand.”

He considered Erin’s rom-com idea charming, but quaint.

“Not sure how that would work…on the air or in life,” said Gabe. “We’ll see what the producers have to say. Speaking of, how are the Douglasses today?”

“Higher than the ratings.”

“Not saying much. Wish me luck. Thanks for these.” Gabe grabbed the pile of ratings. “You make the shitty parts of my job look easy.”

“I bet you say that to all the exploited underlings. Want me to join you with the Douglasses?” asked Erin.

“I’m wearing my big-boy pants. I can handle a couple of drunken producers.”

“I always admire your detachment.”

“That’s what they pay me for.”

Gabe glanced at the actual ratings numbers and tried not to blanch. They’d recently been sliding so low, this week’s two-hundredth percentile decline was inconsequential compared to the previous hemorrhaging. The consistent slide was not good for If Tomorrow Never Comes, let alone soaps in general.

Gabe understood soap operas were no longer a sustainable business. If Tomorrow Never Comes produced five hour-long television shows per week with full casts, sets, and costumes, not to mention writers and all the salaries below the line. Its producers had been clever and resourceful. Lots of repurposed sets and double casting with an occasional twin storyline. Gabe did his best to consider costs when he crafted his story arcs. The days of soap opera location shots in Paris were over. Daytime drama eventually wouldn’t be able to outrun destiny. Ultimately, the industry could only support a handful of high-end soaps, and the chances If Tomorrow Never Comes would be among them were pretty slim. The miracle was soaps had lasted this long. Unlike Gabe, the numbers never lied.

On his way to the Douglasses’ office, Gabe bumped into the soap’s favorite on-again-off-again-on-again couple, Suzy and Cameron. They had both started on the show over twenty years ago right out of Juilliard and were now considered soap legends, if one believed everything they read in the soap opera trade magazines. They had been married and divorced from each other (and others) so many times they put Elizabeth Taylor and the Gabor sisters to shame. As was the custom on If Tomorrow Never Comes, veteran actors were no longer referred to by their professional actor names, but by their Harmony Hills character’s names. Suzy’s real name was Heidi Arbuckle; Cameron’s childhood friends still referred to him as Lachlan Davenport, but there was already a Lachlan Davenport in SAG. At If Tomorrow Never Comes, they were called Suzy and Cameron.

“Got our latest script, Gabey Baby?” asked Suzy. Something in her tone always oozed sexuality. She was always on.

“It’s been a few months since our last divorce,” reminded Cameron. “And you never wrote us a breakup sex scene.”

“Don’t be crass, Cammy,” said Suzy. She gave him a playful slug to the shoulder. “Mmm, someone’s been working out.”

“Those new script pages? Let’s have a tiny peek,” said Cameron.

If Gabe hadn’t bumped into Cameron at a notorious after-hours gay bar a few years ago, Gabe would have never guessed he was gay. Gabe knew Cameron knew Gabe had a crush on him, but Gabe had impeccable boundaries at work. Cameron, on the other hand, would flirt with a broom if he thought his career would benefit.

“C’mon, dude.” Cameron hummed his words seductively. “Give us a preview.”

“You know that’s not how this works,” said Gabe, subtly shielding their declining numbers from them both. Actors, as a rule, were insecure. The slightest indication of trouble could undermine their fragile egos. They would take the ratings to heart as a report card of their work and be convinced they were about to get canned. Gabe and the producers went out of their way to keep the actors sheltered from reality. Being a world-class liar, Gabe made sure none of the actors had a clue their ship could gradually be sinking. “I promise you both fabulous storylines in our new story cycle.”

“How about a May-December romance for me?” asked Cameron.

“You’re a little long in the tooth to be May in that one,” said Suzy.

“And far too young to be December,” said Gabe.

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” said Cameron. “Almost everywhere.” Cameron tapped the tip of Gabe’s nose with his index finger, a condescending gesture Gabe found insufferable.

“I think you both need to be caught in a torrid love triangle with either an amnesia twist or with a neurodivergent third,” said Gabe.

“Can’t I play a neurodivergent amnesiac twin?” asked Suzy. “I’ve still got my classically trained chops.”

“And give me enough shirtless scenes to finally win an Emmy. Please?” asked Cameron. He had been nominated five times without ever taking home a statuette.

“Who needs an Emmy when you get most of the fan mail?” asked Suzy.

Gabe loved when actors spun into the butter, impaled on jealousy. They could be such children.

“Cameron,” said Gabe, “I was thinking you would be the perfect actor to shatter the glass ceiling with a bisexual polyamorous storyline. Think our audience is ready to see that side of you?”

Gabe’s joke made Suzy laugh from her gut. Her raised eyebrows screamed “typecasting.”

“Better run that by the suits,” said Cameron. Gabe slightly regretted putting Cameron in his place, but it was an appropriate comeuppance for the condescending nose flick.

“Speaking of,” said Suzy, “we don’t want to be late for our costume fitting… Come on, stud. He was kidding, Cam. Geez, you’re too sensitive.” Suzy grabbed Cameron’s arm for a hasty retreat.

Gabe tidied up the pile of ratings but got easily distracted by Cameron’s ass as he walked away, perfectly round and dimpled in all the right places. Cameron was undeniably a handsome man but would no doubt make a terrible boyfriend. Too needy. But that ass… Gabe was convinced Cameron had a secret boyfriend stashed away somewhere. He hoped so, for Cameron’s sake.

Other than an occasional fleeting Cameron fantasy, Gabe never came within a mile of mixing business with pleasure. He often fantasized about letting romance into his life and being swept off his feet. How nice, he wished, to have a handsome someone at home to bear witness to his life, yet give him all the space he needed; a wealthy someone who was fully self-sustaining, yet not afraid to offer Gabe boundless generosity; one who was sexy and would offer Gabe sensuous pleasures without limits, yet with full satisfaction in the bedroom.

Gabe’s mystery date fantasy always got superseded by his impending to-do work list. Romance tripped up his efficiency. As long as work consumed his attention, he had no time for a pesky boyfriend underfoot. Getting laid had never been a problem. Depending on the app, sex had become compartmentalized. Why ruin a functional circle of regular hookups with old-fashioned intimacy or the tawdry cliche of an office romance?

Gabe admired the economy of the hookup apps. Adjust the filter to whatever one is in the mood for and see who’s around. When his regulars were unavailable, he auditioned potential newbies for understudy and replacement casts. Gabe had no illusions. As long as everyone assumed the world was full of flakes and refugees from the island of broken toys, disappointments were at a minimum.

Gabe checked the app on his phone. No new messages. He checked to make sure the app’s sound was on. The ritual of sex was always initiated with a drrroot, that unique sound specific in pitch and length, a sound every gay man could identify. Pavlovian. A tap led to a quick chat followed by a few provocative pics and an even quicker discussion of intentions, sexual positions and peccadilloes, hosting options, boundaries, diseases, and vaccines. Whoever came up with the idea of a “dating” app for gay men was a genius. Now that HIV was undetectable on a bad day, everyone was acting like it was the seventies again. Gabe was glad he had been spared the world of sexually transmitted diseases. He basically played safe and rarely ventured outside his trusted circle of favorite regulars.

Once in a while, his instincts were off and he’d cross paths with a weirdo, but he trusted his gut enough to know when to cut and run. If 10,000 hours made someone an expert, he was a hookup expert a few times over. If Gabe had an hour-long break and the timing was right, he could use the app to take the edge off a day and be ready for his next work meeting with time to spare. Even though his prolific sex life was one of volume and optimization, he secretly hoped romance would someday find him again.

He had never been lucky in love. Once upon a time, there had been a boyfriend, charming Nicholas, early on when he moved to New York after college. At that age, long-term meant six months. They started out innocently enough, but when the boyfriend wanted an open relationship, Gabe cut his losses and got out. He didn’t want to end up like his mother.

Around the time of the Nicholas breakup, Gabe landed the gig at If Tomorrow Never Comes. Television gigs are a workaholic’s dream. Gabe had no time for the rituals of courtship, let alone a long-term relationship. No time for romance shenanigans when you’re creating five hours of video content a week, fifty-two weeks a year. Gabe barely had time to grieve the end of his relationship with Nicholas when he was thrown into the world of Harmony Hills. In the last decade, Gabe had survived a half dozen teams of executive producers.

The Douglasses were the current EPs, a husband-wife team. On a real show, they’d be called showrunners. They got praise for all the show’s successes and blame for all the show’s failures. They got paid fuck-you money, but the burnout rate was extremely high for executive producers on soaps. They rarely lasted more than two years before getting fired. The Douglasses were nearing the end of a two-year tenure. Due to the stress of the declining ratings, both Douglasses had developed a drinking problem. The drama behind the cameras sometimes outperformed the scripts they shot.

Gabe stood outside the fancy executive producer’s office, gathering his thoughts. All memories of Cameron’s ass and plans to hook up with a sexy, detached regular were filed away until after the uncomfortable conversation he was about to have. Gabe had spent his adult years knocking on this executive producer’s hard oak office door.

“Who izzz it?” Doris Douglass was already slurring her words.

“Gabe Hartman.” He listened for any sign of movement or tidying up. None.

“You might as well bring uzzz the bad news…” Thomas Douglass was even more sloshed. “Enter!”

The Douglasses’ office was less slick than the fancy offices of network executives. Executive producers were expected to stay late into the night; they needed an office that emphasized comfort. Thomas sat behind the mahogany desk with his legs propped up, no shoes, but his expensive socks were on display. Doris was stretched out on a plush loveseat, a former set piece, looking too exhausted for someone who arrived at work less than an hour ago.

Gabe was immediately overwhelmed by the heavy smell of liquor.

“We already know what you’re about to tell us.” Thomas stood up from the desk chair, attempting not to wobble.

“The ratings sucky suck, suck, suck…” said Doris.

“They’re not as bad as you think,” said Gabe. He neatened the pile from Erin in preparation for a softened landing.

“Who are we kidding! They’re almost on life support,” said Doris, clutching the side of the loveseat to support her sitting upright.

“We all hear the death knell in the trades.” Thomas made his way to the middle of the room. He was remarkably well-balanced considering all the half-full bottles of booze on the coffee table.

“They hired us to save the show,” said Doris, releasing a gassy burp.

“Classy,” said Thomas.

“Sorry,” said Doris.

“No worries,” said Gabe.

“We have another problem,” said Thomas.

“This involves you,” said Doris. “We both consider you the master troubleshooter.”

“The consummate professional. You have a rarability. Rare. Ability,” said Thomas.

“What Tom means is we admire you and consider you part of our team,” said Doris.

I hope so. I am part of the team. “What’s our latest problem?” asked Gabe.

Thomas leaned against the mahogany desk for support. “Bad news, good news. Bad news first: we have to scrap the whole school shooting story.”

“But we shot the whole story arc!” said Gabe. “It’s in the can and starts airing a week from Monday. And it’s great! Our best work in years!!!” Gabe had been inspired by the recent Concord Valley lockdown and school shooter threat.

“Preaching to the converted, kiddo,” said Thomas. “However, whoever wrote it, coincidentally wrote fifty percent of the exact same details as last week’s school shootings in both Texas and Florida.”

“Our audience—and the world—would consider that whole storyline in poor taste,” said Doris.

“Where’s the good news in this?” asked Gabe.

“Even though we have to rush a whole new story to take its place, like yesterday, we got word from casting they are scouting a major young talent specifically for this storyline.”

“Only he won’t be expensive.”

“But he will become famous,” said Thomas. “The actor we’re courting is that good.”

“And when they sign him, things are going to happen fast,” said Doris. “This is where you come in. We’re going to need you to come up with a new storyline for a brand new character ASAP.”

“We want something hip and fresh,” said Thomas.

“This could be exciting,” said Doris.

This could be a lot of work. Gabe hoped he appeared excited.

“You don’t have to do anything this minute,” said Thomas. “They haven’t signed him yet. But you need to start brainstorming.”

“You’re going to need to drop running, kiddo,” said Doris. “There will be zero turnaround on this.”

“I appreciate the heads-up,” said Gabe.

“Make him someone American women will want to have sex with,” said Doris. “Sex on the washer-dryer. On the spin cycle.”

“What the hell is that, Doris?” asked Thomas.

“The kind of guy you’d cheat on your husband for,” said Doris.

“Make him someone you, Gabe, you would want to fuck,” said Thomas. “You’re not offended I assume you’re queer?”

“Technically, I’m gay, but all good.”

“Nobody says queer anymore. That’s a microaggression, Tom. He could sue us,” said Doris.

“He’s not gonna sue us. Queer got reclaimed, Doris. Don’t be old-fashioned. And this is showbiz. We’re all artists having queer sex on washing machines!”

“If only,” said Gabe.

“Bottom line,” said Thomas. “Start thinking about a character and a storyline that will make Harmony Hills the most sought-after real estate on the daytime schedule. Crisis is opportunity and…something.”

“Crisis is opportunity and danger,” said Gabe.

“He’ll think of something, dear,” said Doris. “He always does.”

“You always come up with the best storylines,” said Thomas. “So simple, refreshing, and real. I don’t know how you do it.”

Gabe made a note to himself: Call Mother tonight and get the latest gossip from Concord Valley. And turn that into a rom-com.

“Bottom line: we trust you,” said Thomas. “I mean you did win the show’s one and only Emmy.” The alcohol couldn’t disguise a tinge of resentment. Gabe was glad he had made a fuss about the Douglasses in his acceptance speech.

“We don’t want to take any more of your time, kiddo,” said Doris. “You’ve got the next masterpiece to conjure.”

“The main takeaways,” said Thomas. “The new kid takes Harmony Hills by storm!”

“I have my marching orders,” Gabe said as he made his way to the door, walking backward. “Do you want these?” Gabe held up the pile of ratings. “It’s Wednesday.”

“Leave ’em on the credenza,” said Thomas.

Gabe double-checked the space. The office never had a credenza. He put them on the end table by the door.

“We’ll let you know when casting is official,” said Doris. “You—we’ll—have to work fast.”

“Faster than fast,” said Thomas. “If the ratings keep falling, this character might be the last new citizen who arrives in Harmony Hills. Stakes are through the roof right now.”

“I won’t let you down,” said Gabe as he closed the door behind him.

He could hear Doris on the other side of the door: “Should we have offered him a drink?”

Thomas replied, “Kids today can’t hold their liquor.”

Gabe’s eavesdropping was interrupted by a jarring ironic, old-fashioned dial phone ding-a-ling sound coming from his cell phone.

“How’s the drama in soapland?” asked a familiar female voice from his past.

“Same ole, same ole,” said Gabe, getting as far away from the Douglasses’ door as fast as he could. “I should have majored in alcohol counseling.” Gabe finally found a more private space to talk. “Hey, Jess, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Gabe hadn’t spoken to Jess in months, maybe over a year. Not since she had coerced him to her apartment in Astoria for a rainy afternoon of crafting.

“Congratulations are in order. You remember our vision boards?” asked Jess.

“I am permanently scarred.”

“I love it when you go faux-cynical on me.” She cleared her throat. “You are talking to the newest editorial assistant at NewLibrary Books.

“Congratulations!”

“I know, right? A major imprint. I am officially retired from the cater-waitron world. Even though you’ll pretend not to remember, I put the big five publishing company logos all over my vision board.”

“No recollection.”

“You’re blocking, Vito. How is my new position about you, you may ask? Well, in order to get the job, I convinced them my contacts were made up of Emmy-winning talent and writers ready to publish their memoirs and spill all the behind-the-scenes tea of a leading soap.”

“Hardly leading. And I signed an NDA.”

“Forget the soap. I’m sure you have more than a few other stories to tell.”

“Yeah, like the one I was assigned today. We’re getting some new hot talent—probably a second-tier clothing store underwear model, but still, a new character is coming to Harmony Hills. Hurray!”

“What’s a Harmony Hills?” asked Jessica.

“You wish you lived in Harmony Hills.”

“You’re not getting it, Gabe. This is your chance to escape Harmony Hills. Start pitching me brilliant ideas. I’m your ticket out of there. A rising tide, circles rise together, and all that.”

“Not so loud. And who says I want to leave?”

“You did. Once upon a time. Your vision board revealed as much. You know deep in your heart you want to be a legit writer with a Times bestseller. That was definitely on your vision board.”

“Stop with the vision board. Look, I’m at work. If we could talk about something else—”

“Duck into some place you can speak freely. There must be a broom closet nearby.”

“Gonna put you on hold for a second.”

They had known each other since the first week of freshman year of college when they both tried to get into the popular History of Semiotics seminar. In spite of their aggressive gumption, neither made it off the waitlist. The next year, when they no longer suffered from the freshman scheduling curse, they both got into the seminar but dropped it the second week when they agreed the professor was far too pretentious. But their aggressive gumption had bonded them forever.

Gabe popped his head into the supply room. “Hey, Erin, I’m going to go out for a while. If anyone needs me, I’m a text away.”

“How was the meeting?” asked Erin.

“They were pretty pickled before I got there. And they’re wanting me to write a fancy new storyline to replace the whole school shooting storyline.”

“Shit!” said Erin, aware of the work that would take.

“I’ll catch you up when I come back.”

“I’m telling you, a rom-com. Could be big,” said Erin.

“That’s what she said.”

Gabe headed out the door.

“Where were we?” said Gabe, returning to the Jess call out on the sidewalk.

“As long as I’ve known you,” said Jess, “I have seen you sell all your dreams short.”

“How can you say that? I won an Emmy!” Gabe was aware his voice was rising in volume and pitch. He didn’t want to come across as arrogant to eavesdroppers. He lowered his voice. “I am perfectly successful and happy here at my soap job.”

“Who do you think you are talking to? You have been threatening to quit since day one. You moved to New York to be a successful writer of fiction, essays, and memoirs.”

“I’m indirectly doing that on the soap. I make more money here than I ever would have as a freelancer. That world is incredibly hard to crack.”

“That’s what you’re not hearing. My new job gives you the entrée into publishing you always wanted.”

“I’m in the middle of too much right now to do a complete career pivot.”

“I’m only asking you to consider a pitch. I’ll even write the book proposal for you. It’s all done by AI now anyway. Will you at least think about it?”

The sound of drrroot from Gabe’s hookup app announced an incoming message.

“I have a call coming in.”

“Are you still on those sex apps?”

“Technically, it’s a dating app.”

“How many dinner dates have you been on? No protein diet jokes, please.”

“Dating apps are efficient. You should try it.”

“Meaningless sex is bad karma for those of us who want a sustained relationship.”

“How’s that involuntary sexual abstinence working out for you?”

Another drrroot sounded.

“That’s no doubt a dick pic,” said Jess. “Are you checking it?”

“No.”

Gabe lied and swiped once to get to the app, twice to see a respectable eight-inch, cut erect cock next to a comparable can of shaving cream from a profile that read “FunGuy.”

“Well?” asked Jess.

“Got to go.”

“That good, huh?”

“Yep.”

“You ever once consider letting one of your fuck buddies in a little?”

“Some of them find their way in with no problem.”

“You ever want to let them get to know you beyond the bedroom?”

“Sex with me has never been limited to the bedroom.”

“I’m being serious. You never once met a guy on your hookup app who was both hot and nice? You never consider, maybe, going out to dinner and a movie with him and getting to know him before you jump his bones?”

“That’s not what the app is for. Who has time for all that? The return on that investment would be marginally low.”

“It’s called friendship. You should try it sometime.”

“I’ve never been at a loss for friends.”

“But ever since I’ve known you, you’ve been willing to settle for second best on those apps.”

“I make choices based on expediency. And the fewest number of subway stops.”

“You gotta dream bigger, kiddo,” said Jessica. “I don’t want you to die alone. You don’t want to die alone.”

Another drrroot came from his phone.

“More pics?”

“He’ll think I’ve lost interest if I don’t respond.”

“Go!”

“Bye—and congratulations!”

“At least think about my offer?”

“I’ll think about it. Oops, going through a tunnel.”

“Asshole. I love you.”

“Same, same.”

Gabe hung up and swiped to FunGuy in the app. He searched for red flags in his profile. Gabe was not into dudes in open relationships. Could get complicated. Nothing disgusting like golden showers, scat, or unpleasant like fisting. On the surface, FunGuy presented as safe enough for a sexy, seductive chat at least. Gabe typed in his usual:

Gud2Go: Mmmmm. Nice. Horny?

FunGuy: Always

Gud2Go: wya

FunGuy: Pics?

Gabe sent his usual three pics: the obligatory headless torso with some ab definition, the butt shot, and the dick pic—all well above average, even for New York City.

FunGuy followed up by sending him twice as many pics. Effusive photo sharing was a red flag for Gabe. But the guy looked fine, if overly earnest. Mid-thirties, decent body, an obligatory headless torso, and lots of shots in the middle of prior sexcapades. Too many pics made for an unclear narrative.

Gud2Go: DDF?

FunGuy: Same. Nsa, first time safe, condoms okay?

Gud2Go: Y

Gabe prided himself in not wasting time with too much small talk or fully spelling out words. He wrote for a living; breaking the rules of grammar mechanics was his foreplay. Gabe didn’t fully commit until he was certain FunGuy wasn’t an ax murderer and he was serious about hooking up.

FunGuy: The app says you’re nearby.

Gud2Go: 258 feet, if you can believe the Chinese satellite. Host?

FunGuy: Yes. Give me a sec to clean…deep.

Gabe didn’t want to know all the sordid details. Spontaneous hookups usually ended up a blow-and-go anyway. Please don’t smell bad. FunGuy’s profile claimed he was a “side.” Why bother cleaning deep? Unless his profile needed an update…

FunGuy: I’ll send the address when I’m ready.

Gud2Go: K

Gabe didn’t expect a one-off experience to be satisfying. That’s what his regulars were for. He needed to get his rocks off to balance his chemicals. Casual sex was more about science than psychology. No matter how bad the sex or unpleasant the dude was, if Gabe needed to feel secure, all he had to do was reach out to his mother for loving emotional support. No one could be expected to meet all one’s needs.

Gabe headed to a nearby coffee shop where he planned to wait a few minutes to see if FunGuy would flake out or come through. Crossing the busy street, another call came in. He didn’t remember giving the phone number to FunGuy. He saw a number he didn’t recognize. The 845 area code, Upstate New York, could be Concord Valley, but he didn’t know the number.

“This is Gabe Hartman.”

“Gabe, hey—”

Gabe couldn’t place the voice…scratchy…maybe an older man. “Who is this?”

“Arthur—Arthur Quinn.”

It took a second for the name to register. “Arthur! The bookstore Arthur.”

“And cafe. The Quinn & Ink.”

“That Arthur? How are you?”

Arthur Quinn was one of his mother’s friends. Arthur had moved to Concord Valley long after Gabe had moved away. He opened a bookstore on Concord Valley’s town square, the only bookstore in town. His mother may have attended a book club at his store and played canasta or bridge with Arthur. She spoke about him frequently.

“Well, son… It’s your mother. She passed.”

“Is that good? What kind of test did she take? I didn’t know she was enrolled in a class.”

“No, son, she passed away. Today, probably this afternoon.”

The information hit Gabe hard. He stopped where he was on the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop.

“What do you mean she passed away? She was healthy…she was…she was…”

“As far as we could tell, she was expected at Minnie Norman’s for an early luncheon, and she must have crawled into her favorite chair for a nap.”

“The recliner? Her Chairvana?“

“Yes. Her happy place. She fell asleep, and she never woke up. When she didn’t show at Minnie’s, Minnie called me and asked if I could check on her. I found her in that chair with a smile on her face. She must have gone peacefully during a nap.”

“That’s BS! No one dies peacefully in their sleep. That’s a myth. She likely had a heart attack.” Gabe knew full well about the lie of “dying peacefully in your sleep” from his soap research.

“Maybe,” said Arthur. “The coroner took her to the morgue, and you being the next of kin, I thought I’d best catch you up. Your work must give you time off for bereavement. Best let personnel know before you head up here.”

“Human resources…” Gabe was having a hard time processing any feelings except numbness. He didn’t know what to say.

“Right. I’m sorry to be the one to pass this on,” said Arthur, “but Minnie thought it best you heard the sad news from one of her friends rather than someone at the county morgue.”

“I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“That’s all right. No one prepares you for the passing of a parent.”

“I appreciate you letting me know. Where did you say she is?”

“The county morgue.”

“She wanted to be cremated.”

“They’ll know where to send you for all that.”

The familiar drrroot announced FunGuy was ready.

“What was that?” asked Arthur.

“A message. I’m kind of in the middle of something right now.”

“You take your time. She’s not going anywhere. I didn’t mean that as a joke, but for logistics.”

“I understood.”

“So you’ll be making plans to come Upstate?”

“Yeah…this wasn’t on my calendar.”

“We’re never ready for death, kid.”

“I’ll look for you when I get to town.”

“Please stop into the bookstore and cafe. And if you need anything— Do you have anything you can write my number on?”

“If this is your number, my phone picked it up. It’s automatically put into my contacts.”

“That’s right. Thank goodness for modern times.”

As Gabe hung up, he swiped directly to the hookup app, more out of habit than intent. He wasn’t ready to accept the news of his mother’s death yet.