Ben Ryder - Englishmen 3 - Released Read online

  Chapter One

  Saturday, April 29, 2017 THE Manhattan streets assaulted my senses as I rode my mountain bike through their wide avenues. I was enthralled with a terrifying and exhilarating freedom that had been absent from my life for five years. The roads were a neverending obstacle course of yellow cabs swerving from lane to lane with no signal, and impatient black town cars that seemed to think they owned the tarmac. I wove in and out through the bustling traffic, fighting for space with the grungy, hipster-looking couriers, all of whom clearly believed they were on critical missions, carrying documents that might save the world.

  I coasted toward a green light and immediately was confronted with the hurdle of pedestrians still crossing the road, either chancing their luck or oblivious to the danger of oncoming traffic. Most of them stared down at their smartphones, reading the latest social network post, or turning up the volume to their headphones so they could further drown out the cacophony of noises in an already deafening world.

  Every block was a minibattle of wits. Both tourists and native New Yorkers tried to get to their destinations fastest, whether in vehicles, or on foot, bike, or skateboard. The late

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  spring breeze whipped through my hair as I rode past the giant high-rises and metallic skyscrapers. Buildings threw shadows onto the street and chilled my exposed legs. The cold kept me alert until breaks between buildings allowed spears of spring sunlight to pierce through with brief warmth. A thousand sounds of the city blasted my ears, and my eyes danced around the surroundings at the hundreds of lights and signs, all competing for attention and money.

  Of course, my focus should have been on the road, with its constant stream of hazards. But the electricity of being free in the world’s greatest city was too much not to soak in. I finally understood the sound bites I’d heard my whole life. It might sound cliché, but New York really does have a vibe, a soul, and a character all its own. It has its own movement, like the streets are alive, pulsing with a rapid heartbeat. A real feeling of life awoke in me that cleared my head and made me grateful to be there, to feel it, appreciate it, and be part of it.

  At the next red light, two muscular workmen stood talking to a man holding a clipboard and wearing a suit and hard hat. The workers had sleeves of brightly colored tattoos running from their wrists and disappearing into the sleeves of their T-shirts, which were stained and torn in places, glimpses of chiseled flesh peeking from beneath.

  I turned and was confronted with my own reflection in the tinted windows of the sedan stopped next to me. I twisted my arm and tried to project an image of a tattoo onto my bicep. But all I could imagine was a shapeless, colorful form. I’d always wanted a tattoo, but Richard regularly voiced his opinion that they made people look both rough and common. But now, knowing I no longer had to be concerned with Richard’s disapproval, I decided to look into

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  designs. As the light changed, I considered something with wings—perhaps an angel or a colorful bird of some kind? There was nothing stopping me now.

  I continued heading south, and I felt like my body had the fuel and energy to ride around all day. I wanted to explore every neighborhood and district in the city. But that would have to wait. There would be time for that later.

  I cut across two lanes of traffic and turned right, in the direction of my small apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.

  A sharp squeak of car breaks rent the air, and a deep, foreign voice shouted in my direction from a taxi. “Fucking asshole!” The driver punctuated his greeting with a middle finger punched from the open window of his cab. The lines etched on his angry forehead and the creases around his eyes told me he’d made this face a million times before.

  “Hey, fuck you!” I yelled back with just as much anger. I swung my head around almost immediately so he couldn’t see the grin I was trying to hide. I smiled to myself because, for the first time since I’d arrived in Manhattan, I felt like I could become a real New Yorker.

  I rode the rest of the way home without incident and then hoisted my bike on my shoulder as I entered my new building. I hadn’t met my neighbors, but from what I’d seen in passing, they all seemed to be professional types. I angled the frame as I tackled the three floors of stairs, careful not to mark the freshly painted halls with dirt from the wheels. I leaned the bike against the wall by my front door so just the rubber handlebar touched it, slipped off my sneaker to retrieve the key, and opened the door.

  The apartment was a small, one-bedroom walkup of a five-story converted brownstone. While it was a hell of a lot

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  smaller than my house back in London, it was still comfortable. The windows faced onto one of the more residential areas of 48th Street, and if I leaned my head out far enough, I could see traffic run down 9th Avenue. The walls of the apartment were still bare, but I’d grown accustomed to the rustic, exposed brickwork. The tiny living room was full of half-empty boxes, all of which still had shipping labels on them from the move from London two weeks before.

  Each box contained at least one memory or trinket of my old life—many of which I preferred not to have—but everything was packed in haste when I was offered the job in New York. The largest cardboard box sat in the corner and served as a trash receptacle for the mementos I was ready to discard. The first few days felt less like unpacking boxes than liberating my mind from the past five years. I sorted out what I wanted to remember and what I wanted to forget. With each box I opened, I quickly realized I’d prefer to forget it all.

  Despite the cool spring temperatures outside, I’d worked up a sweat on my bike ride. As I stood with my back facing the air-conditioning unit to cool down, I saw a T-shirt hanging over the edge of one of the opened boxes. The shirt was printed with a surfing motif with the words Bondi Boy in script across the chest. I took it in my hands and let the flimsy cotton run through my fingers. The silkiness of the material was a testament to the countless times I’d worn and washed it. Over the years, it had formed to the contours of my chest and clung to my back, showing off my body better than any other shirt I owned. But it also reminded me of a better time with Richard, when we were in our midtwenties and on our very first vacation together.

  6We’d met during a triathlon event on the south coast of

  England we’d both competed in, and had only been dating a couple of months before we planned the trip to Australia. It was there that our insatiable lust for one another turned into love. As each day passed, we found ourselves growing closer together. Two solid weeks with someone, 24/7, could be too much for some people. But for us it wasn’t nearly enough. The last three days we spent in Sydney were filled with dread as we approached the end of our escape together and the long flight home. By the time the plane touched down in London, we felt like we knew each other enough to make the next big step, and we decided to move in together. We both committed easily to giving up our single lives for one we could build together. It was quick by any standards, but we had a connection that was so strong and sound, we just knew we were meant to be together.

  The first year was domestic bliss. I knew Richard tended to take control of matters he felt he was best to deal with. I’d seen it a few times beforehand, but it always came across as gentlemanly, almost chivalrous. At the time, I thought it was nice to have someone look after me and take care of things, the little things that might otherwise cause me hassle. He handled the bills and paperwork for our first mortgage, and even arranged all of our social engagements. Everything was planned far in advance, and spontaneity of any kind was frowned upon. Richard was an ambitious junior banker in the city, and his job meant he often worked late or went away for retreats or training. His work schedule ruled
his life, so anything away from that had to be planned carefully so we could make the most of our time.

  While Richard took care of the formalities of our new life, I set about taking care of the house. The property was

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  previously owned by a pensioner who’d kept it in the same brown paisley décor since her husband died in the late ’70s. I spent every spare minute I had painting, tiling, sanding, plastering, repairing, and renovating, until the house we bought finally became our home. But every splinter, hammered finger, and late night was worth it.

  I loved and adored Richard, so I let him have control slowly, and without really realizing it. He seemed so happy and content organizing everything and keeping things in line that any assistance I offered just hindered his plans. Everything he had planned, if executed to his standard, seemed to bring him such joy. And since I loved him, I let it go. I easily convinced myself it was just his slightly OCD form of care.

  I noticed signs that things were starting to go wrong in our third year. If I voiced any opinions different from his, Richard deemed them null and void. I either was ignored or argued down to the point that I resigned from discussions to keep the peace. There was a shift in his attitude toward every aspect of our life together, and it held tight, as though slowly suffocating the life out of our relationship.

  For the last two years we were together, we were little more than companions. I was no more than a lodger, with a highly demanding innkeeper who expected me to account for where I’d been and who I’d seen each day. I started losing my own identity and felt as though I was nothing more than a physical extension of Richard.

  He also grew jealous and more controlling. A week didn’t pass that I wasn’t accused of having affairs with coworkers or even strangers. He even demanded we both go to the clinic together to get the new HIV vaccine that had been developed, as he felt he couldn’t trust me. Yet I remained completely

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  faithful and devoted to him throughout the relationship, so I couldn’t understand why he had such a low opinion of me. Little digs or insinuations turned into full-on screaming matches that dragged on for days. Each argument drained the life out of me.

  We continued to share a bed, but it was only used for sleep. Anytime I made intimate overtures, Richard started an argument, instantly killing any kindling passion. He grew physically cold, as though my touch—which he once found electrically arousing—now disgusted him. I felt like the most unattractive man in the world. The celibacy and complete lack of any comfort from being in a man’s arms took their toll. But I never wavered because, despite everything, I still loved him.

  I knew we were both unhappy, but I desperately wanted to believe his love for me was still there and we could work through our problems before it was too late. But Richard refused to talk about our relationship, making it impossible to sort things out.

  The time finally came when something had to be said or done. I approached it with a pang of guilt, as though I was being unkind by forcing him to confront our problems. I hoped that, whatever the issues were, they might yet be fixed and laid to rest. At the time, I wondered whether we were both scared of bringing it up, neither of us wanting to be the one who crushed the other by admitting how things were going so incredibly awry. There must have been some residue of love left or else we wouldn’t have been so worried about the harm we might cause the other. Right?

  Wrong.

  9Richard’s continuous accusations of infidelity and paranoia were little more than a smokescreen for the affair he’d been carrying on with a work colleague named Tim Lewis, who also had an unsuspecting partner at home.

  In hindsight, it was clear Richard orchestrated the arguments and accusations beforehand so he could lay the blame on me. He wanted me to leave so he could begin his life with Tim without being labeled a prick. He wanted to save face with our friends and family but still be able to tell them that our relationship simply hadn’t worked out, rather than be revealed for the cheating asshole he was. Richard had waged his campaign to push me away for two years, all while his secret affair was in full swing. I was angered most by the fact that, even though he was the one messing around, he was determined to lay half—if not more—of the blame for our relationship’s failure on me.

  Of course, Richard didn’t have the balls to reveal his affair. Tim’s partner was the one who knocked on my door. He’d discovered their betrayal of us both. After months of suspecting, he finally tore their house upside down one morning in search of evidence as soon as Tim left for work. He found receipts of hotel stays, unexplained charges on credit card statements, and a secret second cell phone. The phone’s address book held only one number, but its memory stored scores of graphic photographs of our partners in various states of undress and arousal. Some of the pictures were of themselves alone, others of them together.

  Tim’s partner, a man I had never met before, sat in my home looking as if he was about to explode. At first, he was angry with me, as though I’d somehow been involved or complicit in our partners’ affair. But he knew the truth when he saw my reaction. It was almost surreal as he transitioned

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  from shouting abuse to comforting me, with an arm around my shoulder as I wept. I was humiliated, but my eyes finally were opened to exactly how weak I’d become.

  Richard came home from work that night to find me in the bedroom packing his suitcases. When I told him what I’d learned, he was shocked that I knew. But he didn’t lie. He didn’t give a reason. He didn’t even attempt to explain. Instead, once it sank in that the game was up, he sat on the edge of the bed and sighed in relief, as if a weight had been taken off his shoulders, like he was grateful someone had done him a favor.

  His cowardice sickened me. I practically shoved him out the door, not caring where he went, though I knew it would be to Tim.

  The next day, we met in town to hand the house—the house that I loved and had worked so hard to make a home—over to an agent for sale.

  Just two weeks later, I was offered the job as Arts, Culture, and Entertainment writer at the New York Daily Ledger. I’d worked at the London Herald for six years and made many contacts over that time. Among them was Clive, the editor of The Ledger. We met on one of his brief visits to London and had stayed in touch. When he lost a writer to the New York Times, he contacted me and offered me the position without an interview, having read most of my work on our online edition.

  As I stood holding the silky T-shirt, I shook my head and wondered what I would have done if Clive’s offer had come just a month before my relationship finally imploded.

  11Would I have taken it and been considered the bad guy

  for leaving Richard? Or would I have refused it and spent my days dreaming of the opportunity I could have had, languishing in a relationship that was going nowhere but to hell. And what if I’d refused Clive’s offer and later found out about Richard’s affair? Could I have been angrier? I’m not sure I could hate Richard more than I did right then.

  In my new apartment, I wondered if there was, in fact, such a thing as fate and was momentarily convinced things really might happen for a reason. After all, Clive’s offer came just when I needed to get away from London, away from the overwrought sympathy from my family, and the embarrassment toward friends who, I could finally acknowledge, had tried their best to warn me about Richard.

  The T-shirt slipped through my fingers, and I smiled at the logo. But the memories of Richard’s lies far outweighed any happy thoughts of lying on an Australian beach.

  I tossed the shirt into the trash box, and proceeded to upend every box in the apartment as I threw away every single item that held even the slightest memory of Richard. I’d come to New York to start a new life. I was there to live and make up for the time I’d lost and wasted being with that man. One trash box turned into four. I dragged them outside my door, one by one, and carried them to a Dumpster behind the building.

  When I finished, all that was left was what identif
ied me as me: Dominic Holland. I spent the remainder of the day squaring away the apartment. When everything was put in its place, I finally sat down on my recently delivered sofa and took in my surroundings. Between the new environment and the objects

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  around me that reminded me of my younger, single days, I felt a surge of nervous excitement. The job, the move, and the apartment were the biggest steps I needed to reclaim my life. I was utterly terrified.

  And it felt great.

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  Chapter Two

  Monday, May 1, 2017 IT WAS the beginning of the third week at my new job. I started the day the same way as every day since I’d arrived, with an early ride north of Hell’s Kitchen and through Central Park. The darkness broke into a crisp morning, and I took in the sensation of late spring before the smog stole away the freshness of the scent. At 7:00 a.m., the city had already been awake for a couple of hours. The fleet of delivery trucks was already distributing food, drinks, papers, and store stocks for the day.

  I rode beside the runners, joggers, walkers, and other cyclists as we all snaked our way through the paths and roads that crisscrossed the park. Though I can’t carry a tune to save my life, I sang aloud with the music blaring through the headphones attached to the iPhone strapped to my bicep. I let my wheels coast around the Reservoir as I raised my eyes to the landscape. I soaked in the view, from the water, to the trees, to the buildings, and finally to the bright blue morning sky. Every morning I had moments when I struggled to get my head around the fact that I was living in such an incredible city.

  I veered away from the Reservoir and stood on the pedals to overcome the gradient of a small hill. I felt a