Chapter 33: Just Like MeHe wouldn’t let the topic of Rosemary Dublin go. Rather, Tacoma prepared eggs Benedict for us on the morning of the thirtieth-first, the last day of July—slices of fresh fruit, pulpy orange juice, sunny-side-up eggs, and buttered toast—and we shared breakfast on the library’s narrow balcony overlooking the pool. There, positioned across from me at a two-person, wrought-iron table, he brought up Rose Dublin again.
I usually abhorred a man eating without a shirt on, but it didn’t bother me regarding Tacoma because he was movie star-perfect. The pool boy sat shirtless and steamy-hot across from me. The July heat shined his n*****s, pecs, and shoulders. During any previous time in my life before the pool boy came along, I would have instructed any other man to go and p
