Persuasion

Sy never wanted to tell people where he was from. 

It’s not that he was ashamed of growing up in the Bahamas; quite the opposite. It’s just that he knew people would look him over—a handsome but unremarkable young man in his 20s—and think, Really? The Bahamas? Nobody ever knew anyone who grew up in the Bahamas, yet everybody had an idea of what that kind of person would be like: charming, warm, and above all, special. People understood the word “exotic” but had no real grasp of its meaning. It might as well ring synonymous with palm tree wallpaper or those little umbrellas in tiki drinks. It didn’t help that Sy had landed in Newport, exactly where someone who coached sailing would end up, but which seemed as far from the Bahamas as the moon. if you asked a local. 

It was almost closing time on a Friday night when Sy beat his friend Derek at a game of ping pong. Their usual routine was to go to Smuggler’s on Fridays and play until approached by a girl. Then, they would head back to the girl’s place and Derek would regale her with tales of the exciting yachting adventures he planned to undertake after graduating from university. He would tell her that he was eventually going to move to Paris, and the girl would fantasize about going with him. These were always local girls, and they knew better than to fall in love with boys with big plans, but they did anyway. When Sy went home with a girl, she would ask him where he was from, and he’d debate telling her the truth, only to settle on “Here.” 

That night, a girl walked up to the two men just as they were finishing a lackluster game. They couldn’t get the rhythm right, and the ball had spent more time on the floor than on either of their paddles. The girl asked if she could play the winner, which ended up being Derek. As Sy took his place off to the side, a man came up and sat next to him. 

“That’s my friend Andre,” the girl said, already displaying a better rhythm with Derek than Sy had. “Be nice to him. He’s not from here.” 

Sy looked at Andre and reminded himself to smile. The newcomer seemed to be in his early thirties, wearing spotless white sneakers, tight blue jeans, and a button-down shirt stitched with martini glasses. His hair had that fresh-cut look, and he had thick glasses that—when matched with his dark hair—made him look a little like Clark Kent. 

“Nice to meet you, Andre,” Sy stuck out his hand. “I’m Sy. Where are you from?” 

“Oh,” Andre grinned sheepishly, the way a poker player shows an ace. “I live in New York, but I’m actually from the Bahamas.” 

The bartender announced last call, and Derek sent the ball flying too hard, nearly hitting the girl in the face. Sy asked Andre if he liked pizza, to which Andre replied that he didn’t like pizza, he loved it. 

Across the street, they ordered two slices each and a Mountain Dew. There was a young boy sharing a slice of buffalo chicken with his grandfather. Sy wondered why the old man would take the kid out this late on a Saturday, but decided that even thinking that kind of thing made him feel like a jerk. Saturdays were for breaking rules. Andre managed to eat the greasy pizza without making much of a mess; Sy, however, went through a five-inch stack of napkins. He wasn’t sure why that made him feel self-conscious or why he was in his head all of a sudden. Why had he invited this guy to go get pizza with him? Did he want to talk about the Bahamas? His family had moved when he was only four, and they’d only been back two or three times since then. 

“I grew up in the Bahamas too,” he said abruptly, as if confessing it. “I’ve never met anyone else here who’s from there.” 

“I’ve met a few people in New York,” Andre said, “but not many. Once, I met a guy who grew up in Bali, and he kept insisting it was the same thing. I was like—no, not really.” 

“When did you move?” 

“When I was fourteen.” 

“Wow,” Sy said. “So you must actually—I don’t know. Sorry. We moved when I was a baby. Not a baby, but, yeah, I was young. I was four.” 

Why was he stumbling over his words? They were just talking. He wasn’t trying to pass a test on his own history. The grandfather and the kid left, but more people flowed in from the bar. The pizza place catered to the drunk crowd, and soon, it would have been impossible to hold a conversation there. 

“Where are you staying?” Sy asked Andre. 

“I’m at my friend’s place,” he replied. “The one playing against your friend? She texted me saying they were going back there, so I should probably make myself scarce.” 

“So, she’s not your girlfriend?” 

“No,” Andre said, “She’s not.” 

Sy never told anyone that his favorite view in town was from the all-night gas station right over the line in Middletown. It had a clear view of the water and the road separating it from Easton Beach, where the ocean was usually filled with red seaweed. You had to go up to Second Beach if you wanted a better summertime experience. Sy wasn’t sure where to take Andre; suggesting they go back to Sy’s place would surely give him the wrong idea. He just wasn’t sure what the right idea would be. Why had he asked this guy to spend so much time with him? 

“Do you always take guys to the gas station?” Andre asked, and Sy didn’t bother to explain that he never took anyone anywhere. What would be the point? Wasn’t he here now? 

Instead, he asked, “When do you leave?” 

“She’s driving me to the airport tomorrow at noon.” 

“Noon. Okay.” 

Sy never brought girls back to his place. It wasn’t just the risk of them knowing where he lived and getting too attached—standing outside his house, begging to be let in. He knew he wasn’t interesting enough to evoke that kind of response from someone, especially after a one-night stand. Sy never had girls over for the same reason he never had anyone over. He was worried the place would seem empty after they left. What if he liked the way it felt having someone on his couch watching a movie, or in his kitchen eating a meal? What if he liked waking up to someone in his bed? When you were at someone else’s place, you could always leave. You were in charge of when it would go back to being empty. 

“Sy?” 

Andre pulled his jacket a little tighter around him, studying Sy’s face for a moment. Neither one seemed to know what was meant to happen next. Andre clearly knew who Sy was, but Sy wasn’t sure he knew himself. He thought maybe Andre had sized him up correctly and still reached the wrong conclusion. 

“Hey,” Sy said, “do you want to go back to my place?” 

Andre laughed softly, then gave a short nod. A car drove by with its windows down, playing an old song about summer and how good it feels. There were no cars at the gas station, but the interior light was bright enough to highlight both their faces as the moon revealed the water beyond. 

Kevin B (they/them) is a writer and poet from New England. They have previously been published in Esoterica, Molecule, Havik, New Plains Review, and Q. They are the George Lila Award winner for Short Fiction and the Barely Seen Featured Poet of 2023.