Thursday, October 9, 2003

Justin

“You did what? And you didn’t even talk to me about it?”

“Justin,” Brian sighs as he shoulders his leather suit bag and heads for the door, “Don’t start anything now, wait till I get home, can you do that?”

I follow him across the loft and say, “Yeah, I can wait, that’s what I’m famous for, waiting for you to talk to me. I understand your priorities, nobody knows better than me that work comes first.”

He stops and turns around, shakes his head. “Sometimes work does come first, that’s life. I’ve got a plane to catch, call me in the car if you want to continue this conversation.”

“What conversation? You just announce that you’ve bought the apartment and then it’s ‘good-bye, Justin,’ and I’m not supposed to have anything to say about it?”

Pulling open the door, Brian throws over his shoulder, “You can say anything you want, just wait till I’m in the car, then call me. Goodbye, Justin.”

I can’t say good-bye, instead, I watch him disappear down the stairs, he doesn’t even turn when he reaches the landing, just keeps on moving. I want to slam the door, a heavy metal door makes a satisfying sound when it’s slammed, but that will only prove to him that I’m a child having a tantrum and give him more excuse to treat me like one.

Instead, I close the door normally and head back to the bedroom to hang up my jacket and change my clothes. I’m pulling an extra shift tonight at Borders, Brian could have dropped me off on the way to the airport but he gave me no time to tell him that, he was moving too fast. As he usually does. He went ahead and bought the apartment on the second floor, I only heard yesterday that it was up for sale and now he casually announces, as he heads out the door for the airport, that he’s bought the place.

The phone rings and I’m tempted to ignore it, but again I realize that that would be childish so I pick it up. “Yeah?”

“So talk.”

“No time, Brian, I’m on my way to work.”

“It’s Thursday,” he tells me as if I can’t keep track of the days of the week, “You don’t work tonight.”

“Jake’s on vacation, I’m taking his shift.”

“You should have told me, I could have dropped you off.”

When I don’t answer, Brian says, “I told you to keep the Accord. You need a fucking car.”

Brian had wanted to renew the lease on the car he’d let me use after our accident but I refused. I can’t be an equal partner financially in our relationship right now but I also can’t keep letting him take care of everything for me. “I’ll take the bus,” I tell him.

“I hate you taking the fucking bus. You’re always meeting weirdos.”

“No, I’m not.”

I hear his exasperated sigh. I let him hear my exasperated sigh, then there’s silence for a moment. I’m cradling the phone on my shoulder as I pull on my khakis and button them up.

Brian breaks the silence at last. “So tell me why you care that I bought the apartment.”

“I don’t care,” I tell him, “I mean, I do care, but I don’t care.”

“Ah, now I see.”

“Brian, I mean, I care that you didn’t talk to me about it, that’s all.”

“So what’s to talk about? It’s an investment. I didn’t consult you about dumping my Transamerica stock, did I? Should I have asked you about that too?”

“I didn’t say fucking ask me, I said fucking discuss it with me. That’s all.”

“Justin.”

I wait, digging through my underwear drawer trying to find two socks that match.

“Justin, I’ll discuss it with you when I get home. Okay? Can you just say okay and tell me to have a good trip?”

“What’s to discuss, you already bought the fucking apartment. Have a good trip Brian. ‘Bye.”

I click off before I say something else pointless and stupid. Like ‘I love you, you fucking asshole, but sometimes I want to push you down the stairs.’



Brian

Fucked up again Kinney, didn’t you?

We’ve been doing this committed-relationship-thing for a year now and I still don’t know the rules. I don’t understand why Justin expected me to talk to him about buying the apartment. He knows, or anyway I think he knows, that I want to own my building someday, so naturally, when an apartment comes on the market, I’m going to snap it up. Why would I wait to discuss it with him? It’s my money after all.

Maybe that’s it. Justin is very touchy about money, he wouldn’t let me continue the lease on the car, he won’t let me upgrade his computer though he’s mentioned some expensive new software he needs for school. But if he won’t let me spend money on him, why should he care that I spend money on real estate? I need to talk to Lindsay again. Christ, I hate consulting her about Justin, but she knows how to do relationships and I just fucking don’t.

Then I remember that Lindsay’s not speaking to me, so now I’m doubly fucked. I suppose Justin wants me to discuss THAT with him too. Well, I know he does, he tried several times to make me talk to him about it. It’s none of his business.

Lindsay's got this bug up her ass about having another baby, she wants Gus to have a brother or sister, and she wants me to donate sperm again. And Mel agrees. Well, Mel agrees in principle, though I'll bet she and Linds had some knock-down, drag-outs about the source of that sperm, just like last time. Linds wants Gus' sibling to have the same genes, to make them 'real' siblings. And I won't agree.

And I also won't agree that I should have to talk about it, with Lindsay or anybody else. I don't have to explain my reasons; I refuse to get into some emotional tug-of-war about this issue. Lindsay rhapsodizes about the joys of brothers and sisters, never mind she can't stand her own sister, never mind my sister ought to be arrested for being an idiot. I think Gus should be an only child but I'll be damned if I'll discuss it. If the munchers want another kid they can fucking well look elsewhere.

Gritting my teeth, I shut down that part of my brain that's dealing - or not dealing - with Lindsay, with Justin, and focus instead on the presentation I'll be making to Shasta Automotive in Cleveland tomorrow. Turning into the parking lot at the airport, it occurs to me suddenly that Justin could have dropped me off here and then he could have used the jeep while I'm gone. Christ, no wonder he gets so mad at me, I really don't think about his needs sometimes. Another mark in the asshole column for me. I wonder if Justin's keeping score?



Wednesday, October 15, 2003

Michael

Brian's supposed to come by the store tonight - and he damn well better come alone - because I need to ask his opinion about buying that old comic shop on the south side of town. Of course, I've talked to Ben but he isn't always as honest with me as. . . well, as Brian. Brian never tells you anything less than the truth, even if he loves you. Especially if he loves you. So I know I'll get an honest reaction from him. He damn well better come alone and leave that brat at home.

Justin and I are getting along okay - just okay. I guess we'll never be good friends, not after the way he fucked Brian over. I still can't forgive him, I don't care that Brian forgave him, I never will. We work together because we have to on the comic and that's been going well, we’re starting to show a small profit, and distribution outside the state has increased the past few months. Outside of the comic, we're nice to each other's faces but I'll bet he complains about me to Brian behind my back.

At least he doesn't go to Babylon very much anymore. Not that I do either but when I do, I know the chances are good that he won't be there too. Brian never told me what their agreement is about Babylon but I assume he told Justin to stay away so he can fuck around without getting hassled by his boyfriend. Apparently, Justin doesn't give a shit about Brian fucking around - which just goes to show that he doesn't know how to hang onto a man. They're always breaking up, I wonder how long till they do it again?

I'm not supposed to know about it, but Justin walked out on Brian again three months ago. Went home to his mom's but it only lasted a couple days. Lindsay knew and she told Mel who told Ted who told me, all of us swearing each other to secrecy. Secrecy in this family is impossible. Since I wasn't supposed to know, I couldn't ask Brian about it. I waited for him to tell me but he never did.

It's hard to believe Brian lets himself get pulled into emotional shit, he hates that kind of stuff, so why does he tolerate it with Justin? I mean, the kid can't be that great a fuck, can he? Brian can have anybody he wants, yet he’s let this teenager keep hanging onto him, for years now. Well, I guess Justin's not a teenager anymore, though he still looks like one and acts like one. In fact, he'll be twenty-one next month and I suppose Ben and I will have to go to his birthday party. Lindsay threw him a party last year and she's planning another for this year. Guess she doesn't trust Brian to take care of it.

The bell on the door pings and when I look up, ready with a smile for Brian, instead who walks in but the brat. "Hey," I say halfheartedly, thinking maybe Brian's right behind him but he's not.

"Hey, Michael." Justin comes over to the counter and drops his backpack onto the floor, then kneels down and rummages through it.

"Your new sketches aren't due till Friday," I remind him.

"They're done now," he says, standing up and plopping a folder down on the countertop. "You always say to bring them by when they're finished, so I did."

"You could have called first."

Justin looks at me, narrowing his eyes; probably he's guessing I'm pissed that he's here right now. "Okay," he says coolly, scooping the drawings back into the folder.

"As long as you're here, let me see them," I say grudgingly, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. "But next time, call first."

Justin looks at me again and I think he's going to turn around and walk out, then he just sighs and pulls out the drawings again. He pushes them across the counter to me and I start to sift through them, they're good. I don't know why but I'm always surprised that Justin's drawings are so good. Then the bell pings again and when I look up, sure enough, it's Brian framed in the doorway.

"Hey," he says, moving forward and reaching out to grab Justin by the neck, pull him close for a kiss. "Didn't expect to see you here."

Me either, damn Justin all to hell.

"Hey, Mikey," Brian smiles, keeping an arm around Justin and leaning his other arm down on the counter. "Why'd you want to see me?"

"I'll tell you later," I murmur, glancing back down at the drawings and keeping my eyes there.

There's a pause, then I hear Justin say, "Well, I'll be going, I just came by to drop those off."

"Hey," Brian interrupts him, "Why don't the three of us grab some dinner, you're closing in a minute, aren't you Michael?"

"You guys go ahead," Justin says quickly, "I've got to run by home first before I go to work." When I look up I see that he's pulled away from Brian's encircling arm and he picks up his backpack, slings it over his shoulder. "See you later," he says, to either or both of us.

"Wait," Brian calls, and when Justin turns from the door, Brian tosses his keys through the air and Justin catches them. "Take the jeep, why don't you. Mikey will drive me home - won't you Mikey?"

"Sure. Sure, glad to."

Justin's all smiles. "Thanks," he exclaims and he runs - he actually runs - over and throws himself into Brian's arms and they kiss. You'd think Brian had given him a diamond or an emerald or something, what a drama queen he's turning out to be. Then finally Justin turns away and he's out the door and gone at last.

"So," Brian turns to look at me and I can't read his face, he seems almost annoyed but that makes no sense. "Shall we go to dinner, or do you need to talk to me in complete privacy, here in the store?"

There's a slight undertone of sarcasm in Brian's voice but I ignore it. "Let's go eat," I say, logging off the computer and shutting down the cash register. Brian glances through Justin's sketches while I carry the cash drawer back to the safe.

"The new story's about that See The Light group, huh?" Brian asks.

"As if you haven't read the whole thing already," I reply, slightly miffed because no matter what Justin says, I'm positive he shares all our Rage secrets with Brian.

"Justin never shows his Rage sketches to me," Brian contradicts, "He says you have a rule about it."

I don't comment, I know Brian doesn't tell lies but still I'm sure Justin must share some of our Rage stuff, I mean come on, they live together. "Where shall we eat?" I change the subject, and when Brian shrugs, I suggest the new Vietnamese restaurant that just opened a couple blocks away.

"Justin loves Vietnamese," Brian says as we go out and I lock the door, "Maybe I'll get some take-out, in case he's hungry when he gets home from work."

My conscience twinges slightly. "He should have come with us."

"Yeah, right." Brian frowns slightly, but when I open my mouth to protest, Brian says, "Let's go, I'm starving, then you can tell me what you want my advice about. You did say you want my advice, right?"

"Yeah. Yes." We decide to walk to the restaurant, and I turn up my collar against the chill wind blowing down the street. I hate autumn, but only slightly less than I hate winter.



Brian

I'm annoyed at Michael for shutting Justin out but I make myself drop it, it's not my business to force friendship on those two, at least they're working together, they don't need to be buddies. I've tried to find out from Justin how things are really going between the two of them but all he'll ever say is 'fine.' Well, it's not my job to interfere so I'm staying out of it. Still, it bugs me when I see first-hand the obvious animosity Michael feels toward Justin.

Justin's in my life now, forever. Probably forever. And Michael will always be a constant in my life, like Deb, like Lindsay. So it annoys me that Michael can't seem to get past what happened with Justin and the fiddler. The few times I've brought it up, Mikey and I just end up mad at each other; better to leave it alone. It'll work out or it won't work out. Nothing I do can change that.

The food's good at the restaurant and while we eat we talk about family stuff - mostly Michael brings me up to date about Vic, who's been in the hospital twice this fall. We look at each other and see the worry, see the knowledge in each other's eyes that Vic's been going downhill for the past year. But I remind Mikey that Vic's a tough old bird and he's pulled through quite a few bouts of pneumonia, he'll be fine by spring. Anyway, that's what we tell ourselves and try to believe it. I tell Michael about Clare's new husband, an accountant nearly as boring as Ted. She got remarried in the summer and Justin leaned on me to go to the ceremony. The only reason I agreed was that Clare personally invited Justin. They've become sort-of friends, Justin helped Clare's oldest boy with his school work, tutored him in algebra. I said he should charge a thousand dollars an hour for that God-awful brat but Justin only laughed and said, “He’s not so bad.” If Justin met Attila the Hun, I’m sure he’d describe old Attila as “not so bad, once you get to know him.”

Finally, Michael gets down to business, and it's business advice he's after. He's thinking of buying another old comic shop. He's built up a bit of capital and Ben has some savings he's willing to ante up. Michael hasn't shared the news with anyone else, and I suggest he should talk to Ted, Ted's more of a brass-tacks businessman than I am. But it turns out it's my opinion Michael really wants. Or my approval. So I give it to him - I do think it's a good move, and I offer to help out if he needs cash for upfront expenses. Naturally, Michael refuses.

What is it about men who keep refusing financial assistance from me - first Justin, now Michael. Somehow they don't understand that giving money makes me feel good. I've struggled hard to get where I'm at, and that's all that the money means to me - success. When they don't let me share it, I feel like my success means nothing to them.

Fucking hell, there I go analyzing myself again! I've done more fucking self-analysis the past year or two than I’d done in my entire life before. Since Justin forced his way into my life, forced his way inside my head, inside my damn heart. For a long time, I didn't even think I had a heart. And the truth is, in most cases, it's much better to be heartless. But it's not always better. Not always.

"Brian?"

I bring myself back to the table, glance at Michael and smile, reach across and lay a hand on his arm and squeeze. "I say go for it. Remember, 'life not worth living if you not take risk.'"

"Risks are easy for you," Michael counters and I almost laugh.

Michael knows me so well and yet there's so much that he doesn't know. All the years we grew up together Mikey thought I was brave. Strong and courageous. It's easy to be brave when you have nothing to lose and nobody can hurt you. It's harder when someone's got hold of you and won't fucking let go, even when you keep pushing them away. That's when it's suddenly hard to take risks.

"Drive me home now, okay?" I raise my eyebrows at him and he nods. "But let me order some take-out first."

"Going to Babylon tonight?"

"No." I was planning to but I've changed my mind. Instead, I think I'll hang around the loft till Justin comes home from work. If he's not too tired maybe we can watch a DVD. Sometimes I like sitting on the sofa with him while he stretches out and lays his head in my lap, I love to caress his hair while we watch a movie. Or just sit looking at the tv with the sound turned off. Sometimes that’s even more relaxing than getting sucked off by two or three anonymous mouths. Hard to believe, but true.




Justin

I’m surprised to find Brian in the loft when I get home about ten-thirty, Michael must have let him in since I have his keys. I was sure he’d go to Babylon. He’s on the computer and when I come in he rolls his chair backward and glances inquiringly at me. “Working late?”

“No,” I reply as I pull off my jacket, “I went for coffee with Bobby, I didn’t think you’d be home.”

“Who’s Bobby?”

“She’s the children’s department manager.”

“Ah. Hungry?” When I say kind-of, Brian stands up and leads the way to the kitchen. “I brought you some take-out, we went to that new Vietnamese place. You should have come along.”

“Thanks.” Throwing my jacket toward a barstool I slip an arm around Brian’s waist as he opens the fridge. “I just ate a blueberry muffin but probably I could eat something else.”

He stops to lean down and kiss my mouth briefly. “Probably you could eat half a cow.”

I laugh but shake my head. “Haven’t you noticed – my appetite’s smaller now that I’m older.”

“Right,” he agrees as he pulls a take-out carton from the fridge, “Now you can only eat a third of a cow.” Brian kisses the top of my head. “Go change into your jammies while I nuke some of these noodles for you.”

“They are not pajamas, they are sweats.”

“Right,” he says again and I leave him to it and go change clothes. When I come back he’s dumping a carton of steaming noodles onto a plate. “Grab a fork, let’s watch tv while you eat.” I get a fork and follow Brian into the living room, then slide down to sit on the floor to eat off the plate he sets on the coffee table. Brian sits behind me on the sofa, holding me prisoner between his knees. He grabs the remote and turns on the news channel, then mutes the sound. It took me a long time to get used to watching tv without the sound but now I like it too.

After a few minutes, Brian says, “Justin?” I tilt my head back and look at him upside-down. “Justin, if I talk to you about Lindsay, do you promise not to argue with me? Promise not to try and change my mind?”

I swallow the last bite of noodles and push the plate away, then get up and plop down on the sofa. “I don’t know,” I answer honestly.

“If I tell you my reasons, will you just accept them and not – “

“Brian, will you let me tell you my own reasons too, or do I only get to listen to yours?”

He makes a face and shakes his head. “I knew it.”

“Discussing things means two people talking, not one person talking and the other just listening.”

“I don’t want to discuss it,” he points out.

“Then don’t.” I stand up, grab the plate and take it to the kitchen. I rinse it, put it in the dishwasher, and then just wait for a minute by the sink.

“Come back here.”

I go back into the living room and stand by the sofa.

“Sit.” So I sit.

“Okay,” Brian says, “Tell me your reasons first. Then I’ll tell you mine and THEN you won’t argue with me.”

“What about rebuttal? In debate, both sides get a chance to offer rebuttal.”

“Justin, say what you want to say. And I’ll listen.”

“Okay.” I think for a minute, then say, “Lindsay and Melanie are good parents. They’ll love a second child as much as Gus. And it’s good for kids to have siblings, it teaches them sharing and so on. And I really get what Lindsay says, about both children having the same gene pool, probably it will make them love each other more.” I hesitate, watching Brian’s face. He’s listening but I can’t tell if I’m getting through.

“Finished?”

When I nod, Brian stands up abruptly and begins to pace. He’s not good at being still. Then he stops near me and says, “My reasons for saying no are more complicated. And maybe some of them are selfish or even silly. But they’re my reasons, it’s my sperm, the child would be mine as much as Gus is mine.”

He waits, looking hard at me and I nod again.

“Not all siblings are good for each other,” he says. “Or to each other. I think Gus will be a lot happier as an only child. Spoiled maybe, but so what. I can’t stop Lindsay from finding another donor, but it’s not going to be me. She says me or nobody, and I say no.”

After a moment, even though I know Brian will get mad, I can’t keep from asking, “Was Clare mean to you, is that why, Brian?”

And he does get mad, he throws his arms in the air and groans, then turns abruptly away and pulls back the drapes, stares out the window at the darkness. He’s not going to answer me.

I can’t think of anything else to say. Brian never talks to me about his family, except once when he mentioned that his dad used to hit him. And I know he doesn’t like his mom very much. He used to pretend that he didn’t give a shit about them, but I’ve seen first-hand that his mom can still hurt him, after all, this time. Finally, I stand up and walk over to the window, move around Brian till I’m standing in front of him, slip my arms around him and lay my head on his chest.

“Okay,” I whisper, “I won’t argue anymore.”

Then Brian hugs me to him and I feel his tense body relax slightly. “Let’s go to bed, I’m tired.”

So we go to bed and Brian pulls me insistently into his arms. But we don’t make love, instead, he holds onto me so tight I can hardly breathe. We lay like that for a long time, I can tell Brian’s still thinking but I know he won’t talk to me about it anymore, so finally I fall asleep.

In the morning I'm awakened by kisses on my neck. Brian and I have slept like spoons all night, his arms are still around me, pulling me tight against him as his warm breath tickles my ear and his soft lips move from my hair down past my cheek and down my neck, over my shoulder. I turn and slide my arms around his neck and our mouths meet and our bodies move of their own accord to fit together like pieces of a puzzle.

Our morning love-making is so comfortable, almost cozy, or anyway, it starts out like that, unhurried, easy, each of us not quite awake but our bodies knowing exactly what to do. Lots of slow kissing, lots of gentle pressure - our bodies rubbing together, gradually kindling warmth into heat. In a few minutes I'm almost crying out with my need for him but he won't be rushed, he pulls his mouth away from mine and slips down on the bed, throwing off the duvet, his mouth leaving moist hot kisses down my chest, pausing to flick each nipple before he moves further down, stopping briefly to fuck my belly button with his tongue.

By the time his mouth reaches my cock and he licks the tip, my hands on his head start pulling his hair and I'm gasping, "Brian, fuck me, Brian, fuck me."

He lifts his head then and smiles. "Okay," he laughs softly, then he rises to his knees, picking up my legs and settling them on his shoulders, the fingers of one hand gently poking inside, getting me ready, the other hand reaching out, ready for the condom that I grab from the bowl and push toward him.

"Hurry-hurry-hurry," I insist, making Brian laugh again, then he's pushing inside me, and leaning forward to retrace the path his mouth had just taken down my body but moving upwards now, planting burning-hot kisses all over my skin. But I grab his head again and pull his face toward me. "Come here," I insist, I want his hot wet kisses on my lips, I need to suck his tongue into my mouth, my legs lock tight around his back as his hips move in rhythm, fucking me harder and harder and harder.

Suddenly the alarm clock goes off and I jump slightly, but Brian picks it up, pushes a button and places it back on the table, all without breaking rhythm. "I turned on the snooze alarm," he tells me breathlessly, before leaning back down to touch my mouth with his own, and he adds between kisses, "You've got eight" (kiss) "minutes." (kiss) "Can you last" (kiss) "that long?" (kiss)

"Yes," I assure him urgently, but just a few moments later I'm correcting myself. "No. . ."



Monday, October 20, 2003

Brian

Jesse’s been on vacation and I’m not sure he’ll have time to drop by my office on his shift tonight. Seeing each other is kind of hit-and-miss and I realize that I like it that way. I don’t want my friendship with Jesse to become a routine, I’d hate for him to feel obliged to drop by to see me at any given time.

“Knock-knock.” I look up and he’s here, I smile and wave him in and pull out the JB and paper cups, bring them around the desk so I can sit next to him and share a drop. Naturally, I ask him about his vacation first, he went to visit his son in Colorado; but within minutes Jesse’s figured out that I need to talk about something. I don’t know how he always figures it out but he does.

“So Brian,” he asks, leaning back in the chair and crossing one beige-uniformed leg over the other, “How’s your young man?”

This is how Jesse always refers to Justin, my ‘young man,’ which for some reason I think is kind of sweet.

“He’s fine, he likes his new job at Borders, I’m sure he’ll be running the place in a few months.”

He probably will too, I know they think very highly of him there already. I was all in favor of him changing jobs – it’s physically less demanding than waiting tables at the diner, and the bookstore is close to campus so there’s not so much commute time involved. It’s less money to start because of course there’s no tips, but there’s room for promotion and I convinced him it was worth taking the cut.

I’m also glad he won’t have guys hitting on him every two minutes like at the diner, but of course, I didn’t mention that to Justin. Naturally, I wasn’t jealous or anything like that, but Justin isn’t very good at judging men, he can’t even tell when someone’s hitting on him half the time.

“So,” Jesse reaches over to tap ashes from his cigarette into the ashtray on the corner of my desk, “If Justin’s doing fine, what is it that’s worrying you?”

I don’t even try to deny it, I’m no longer surprised when Jesse cuts to the chase.

“You know my son, he’s four now – “

“He’s okay?”

“Oh yeah, yes, he’s fine.”

“I met him at the barbecue party at Debbie’s this summer, he was full of piss and vinegar, bet he’s quite a handful for his moms.”

“No shit,” I agree, and I admit to myself that I couldn’t live with a toddler, especially not one with Gus’ energy. When he visits us it’s Justin who gets right down on the floor and communicates with Gus at his own level. Justin never loses patience, but about two hours with Gus is enough to send me around the bend.

“The thing is,” I tell Jesse, “They want to have another child – Gus’ mommies, and they – well, Lindsay mostly – they want me to donate sperm again.”

“Donate?”

Jesse looks confused so I explain, “That’s how they did it before – I jerked off in a cup and they used a turkey baster to squirt it inside her.”

“Oh,” he shakes his head. “What’s wrong with the old-fashioned way? Couldn’t you. . .”

“I could,” I tell him with a laugh, “But if I did, Melanie would kill me.”

“Oh, I see,” Jesse nods. I’m not sure he gets it but that’s enough explanation for anyone. Or at any rate, it’s as much as I’m giving.

“And you. . .” Jesse hesitates for a moment, studying my face, then he says, “You don’t want to.”

He stops there and waits. Finally - somebody who doesn’t demand an explanation, somebody who isn’t pushing me into some kind of defensive mode, somebody who’s not insisting on answers!

So of course, I go ahead and answer him. “No,” I say, and still he waits.

Finally, I shake my head, stand up and pace to the end of the room and back again, perch on the edge of the desk facing Jesse. “I want Gus to be an only child.”

Jesse nods. “There’s a lot to be said for being an only child,” he agrees.

Then I realize that I’m waiting for him. We’ve got this down to a science almost. I don’t ask his advice and he doesn’t give it to me. Then I argue with him.

“There’s bad stuff too,” I point out. He raises his eyebrows quizzically so I go on. “He’ll be spoiled rotten – he is already. He won’t learn to share his toys.”

“The spoiling doesn’t matter – up to a point. Lindsay and Melanie seem like very sensible women, they’ll probably make sure he knows his limits. And sharing’s a hard thing to learn – most kids don’t learn that till much later anyway when they’re school age.”

After a moment or two of silence, Jesse continues, “Besides, children are expensive. Lindsay told me you contribute financially, that can be an expensive proposition for eighteen, twenty years.”

“I don’t care about money.” I stare at Jesse, feeling strangely deflated. He leans forward and taps his cigarette on the ashtray, then takes another puff and exhales.

“Okay,” he says quietly, leaning back in the chair, “What’s the real reason?”

I pull a cigarette from the pack on my desk and light it, buying time. Leaning back, I exhale a cloud of smoke that hangs over my head like a question mark.

“Gus might – Gus and his sister or brother might – hate each other. Might hurt each other.”

“Why would they do that?”

Lowering my head I stare at Jesse. “It happens.”

“In some families,” he admits. “Families where there’s not enough love to go around.” When I don’t respond, Jesse says, “Maybe that happened in your family.”

Something twists inside my gut and I hear myself admitting, “We were cruel to each other. My sister and I both. I hurt her as much as she hurt me.” Jesse nods understandingly, and so I tell him, “Our house was a training school for inflicting pain, we were all masters of it.”

“That’s rough,” Jesse murmurs, “And you’re right. It happens.”

I sigh then, a huge sigh of relief; he understands. Maybe he even agrees with me.

But Jesse’s not finished speaking. “Brian,” he asks, “Do you think that’s likely to happen in this family? Would Lindsay and Melanie hurt each other, would they let children hurt each other?”

I think about the munchers, almost ten years together and still mushily romantic. I think about the way they’re raising Gus, how happy he seems to be, how content, a silly little smile always on that chubby face that strangely enough looks like a blurry baby version of my own face. Gus may be spoiled rotten, but he’ll never wonder if he’s loved.

“No,” I say at last, “No. But is that enough? It’s still a gamble, isn’t it? It’s still possible Gus might suffer somewhere along the way, having another child in the family, having to fight for attention?”

“Nothing’s ever certain, Brian. Things change, people change.” Jesse stands up, stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray and drains his paper cup of JB. He puts his hand on my shoulder – it’s taken so long for me to accept his affectionate touch without flinching.

“Well,” Jesse says seriously, squeezing my shoulder with his work-hardened hand. “It’s up to you to decide on the odds and make your own decision. And I’m a hundred percent sure that whatever you decide will be the right thing. You’re a good man.”

Jesse moves away and heads for the door then turns to wave over his shoulder with one hand and shove the paper cup in his pocket with the other. I sit there on the edge of my desk for a few minutes, wondering why Jesse likes me so much. And wondering what Jesse sees in me to make him think that I’m a good man. Still, I have a lot of respect for Jesse’s opinions - so who knows, maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m not a complete and utter asshole.




Tuesday, October 21, 2003

Lindsay

Brian calls me from his car to tell me he’s coming over, he knows I don’t have any classes on Tuesdays and he says he gambled that I’d be home. I’m surprised that he can just leave his office but he reminds me that he’s a partner and can make his own schedule. When I say, “Lucky you,” Brian snorts, the sound loud in my ear.

“Yeah, lucky me, I’m putting in twelve and fourteen hour days most of the time, a couple hours off in the afternoon is no big deal.”

He also remembers that Melanie’s at a conference in Atlanta but he double-checks to be sure, he says he wants to see me alone, which is naturally intriguing; but Brian’s being very serious and won’t joke around. He hangs up abruptly, and I just have time to make a pot of strong coffee before he arrives, and I hand him a cup, remembering that he likes extra sugar.

Right away he gives me the news – he’s decided to donate sperm after all! I’m over the moon with happiness, but when I come back to earth I ask Brian, “What made you change your mind?”

He answers quickly, “Oh, various things. Partly Justin. But if you tell him that, I’ll deny it.”

“What did he say?”

Brian drains his coffee cup and answers slowly, “It wasn’t anything he said. I just realized what a good brother he is to Molly. Maybe Gus will be a good big brother, too.”

I just nod but I don’t speak, I don’t want to break the spell. Brian talks about personal things only when he wants to, and I know better than to interrupt him.

After a moment he goes on, “And I realized – I just was thinking about it yesterday, and I realized that you’re good parents, you and Melanie. You won’t damage Gus, and you won’t let a brother or sister damage Gus.”

Then Brian takes a look at my face and the shutters go back up. “So,” he says briskly, “I’ll get tested this week, how long do you want to wait after that?”

“Brian.” I’m finding it difficult to speak now; I know I have to, Mel made me promise. “Brian, we want to ask for another condition.”

“Yeah, I figured,” he nods, “And I’ll sign the papers any time you want. We won’t go through that biological parent sign-off shit again.” He stands up and I reach for his hand, pull him back down beside me on the sofa.

“Brian, there’s another condition we’ve been talking about. I don’t know if you’ll agree.”

“What?” His face is noncommittal, but I feel the tension in his body as I keep holding onto his hand.

Taking a deep breath I begin. “I know you’re careful – for your own sake, and even more so now for Justin’s sake.”

“Yeah. So?”

“We, umm, we just wondered if you’d agree, well, if you’d agree to be monogamous with Justin, for three months after the test. Just to be extra sure.”

“Fuck!” Brian leaps off the sofa and walks away from me. “Fuck that! I’m always careful. Fuck if I’m going to give up sex for three months.”

“Not give up sex, Bri – just limit sex to only Justin. He’ll need to be tested too of course, but – “

“He’s fine. He’s practically monogamous already. Fuck.”

“Brian – “

“Fuck no. Just fucking no. I won’t do it.”

“Bri, would it kill you to give up anonymous sex for a couple months?”

“Yes.” He’s glaring at me. “Yes, it would fucking kill me. I won’t do it.”

“Brian – “

“No.”

“Brian – “

And then he’s gone. Storming out of the house, slamming the door behind him. And there goes my hope for another baby, a brother or sister for Gus. All because Brian can’t give up tricking for a couple months. I’m despondent, and I allow myself to cry for a while. Finally, I pull myself together, wash my face and go upstairs to see if Gus has woken up from his nap. I’ll survive, but I’m terribly disappointed.

A couple hours later Justin comes by to show me some sketches he’s working on for a project in his advanced graphics techniques class, he wants my input about the color scheme he’s chosen. I love discussing art with Justin and I love how he respects my suggestions. Sometimes being an art teacher begins to feel like rote, you forget your own artistic aspirations, and it’s wonderful to share in someone else’s life, especially someone as talented as Justin.

I consider telling Justin about Brian’s visit but I decide against it; privacy to Brian is sacrosanct and I won’t break his trust.

Justin helps me give Gus his bath and carries him into the kitchen while I start to prepare dinner, we’re discussing our favorite recipes for meatloaf. When the phone rings I have both hands in a bowl of hamburger, so I gesture to the phone with my chin. “Put it on speakerphone, will you please?” I ask, and Justin puts Gus on the floor and hits the speaker button on the wall phone.

“Hello?”

“Okay, I’ll do it.”

It’s Brian! “Oh Brian, that’s wonderful, I – “

“BUT!” his shout is made louder by the open speaker, “But! You have to promise.”

“Promise what? What do I have to promise?”

“If you ever tell ANYBODY, anybody at all, that I’m being monogamous for three God-damn months, the deal is OFF.”

“Sure, Brian, sure, I promise. We won’t tell anybody – “

“Not even Justin. You hear me? You especially cannot tell Justin.”

I glance quickly at Justin and see him slap a hand over his mouth. Then he’s bent nearly double, trying not to laugh out loud. Suppressing my own laughter, I point silently at the door and urge Justin to go quickly into the living room. I rub my messy fingers on a towel and grab the telephone, push the speaker button off.

“Brian, Melanie and I won’t tell a soul. I promise.”

“If you do, the deal’s off. I mean it.”

“Okay Brian, okay. Thank you so much. Now your son will have a brother or sister to play with. You might even like having another child yourself – stranger things have happened.”

“Me being monogamous is about the strangest thing to happen in this lifetime. It might even interfere with the space-time continuum. So keep your fucking mouth shut. Promise?”

“Yes,” I agree, glancing up to see Justin standing in the kitchen doorway, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Yes, I promise.”

Monday, November 3, 2003

Brian

Renovation of the second-floor apartment begins this morning, the construction workers start early, I’m sure the other building tenants will be pissed at me for the noise and the mess – noise and mess that will go on for months. I don’t understand why these things take so long – or anyway, I do understand because it took months to have my loft renovated. I stopped by almost daily for awhile, till the architect, Patrick, and also the construction supervisor ordered me off, they claimed that I antagonized the workmen. Insisting that things be done right is not antagonistic, I could see all kinds of fuck-ups and I was merely pointing them out until I was ordered to stay away. I’m using those same people to renovate the apartment I just bought. In spite of my annoyance with them – our mutual annoyance with each other – they did a fantastic job on my loft and I know exactly what I want done with the apartment.

I was hoping that Justin would have left for school before Patrick showed up here this morning, just my luck it’s a school holiday, I swear there’s strange holidays every fucking month, today it’s Armadillo Day or Kumquat Day or something equally ridiculous. Justin said he was sleeping in but at the last minute he joined me in the shower, which delayed me getting ready, which prevented me from intercepting Patrick downstairs before he made his way up to the loft and banged on the door.

“I’ll get it,” I call, shrugging on my suit jacket and hurrying down the bedroom steps toward the door.

Justin’s in the kitchen cooking eggs – how anybody can fry eggs at eight in the morning is a mystery to me – and he looks up from the stove, surprised.

“Who’d come by so early?” he wonders, but I don’t answer, just pull open the door. I have to invite Patrick in, there’s no escaping now, damn it.

“Morning, Brian.” Patrick’s wearing a retro tweed suit, he looks as delicious as I remember him, all tawny gold hair and perfect white teeth. Of course, he’s gay but it’s never gotten me a discount.

“Morning,” I greet him with a handshake, reluctantly turning him to face the kitchen. “Patrick, this is Justin.”

Always well-mannered, Justin wipes his fingers on a towel and steps forward to extend his hand and when they shake, Justin throws a questioning look at me, so I’m forced to explain.

“Patrick’s the architect who designed my – the loft. He’s going to be working on the second-floor apartment.”

“Oh really?” Justin nods, smiling at Patrick with his mouth but giving me a look with his eyes that tells me I am so fucked. Something else I didn’t discuss with him.

“Do you have a minute to walk through before you leave for work?” Patrick’s asking me and I say sure, be right there, and usher him out the door. I pause, then head for my desk and load up my pockets with my wallet and cell phone, grab my briefcase and throw my topcoat over my arm.

Justin’s wordlessly returned to his frying pan and the frost around him is a foot deep. I’m waiting for an outburst but somehow the deep freeze is worse. I casually wander into the kitchen, setting down my briefcase and reaching in the fridge for a bottle of orange juice. Twisting off the lid and taking a gulp, I say offhandedly, “The apartment needs to be fixed up before I can rent it out. You should’ve seen what a mess it was.”

“Should I?” Justin flips the eggs over, I glance down at the pan and they’re ruined, brown and crinkled on the edges but he doesn’t seem to notice though he keeps staring at them. “Why should I have seen it? It’s your place. None of my business.”

“Justin – “

“Better hurry, you’ll be late for work.” He flips the eggs over again, they’re starting to burn. I want to point that out to him but I decide not to. Taking another gulp of juice, I screw the lid back on and return the jar to the fridge. They I grab my briefcase and head for the door.

“See you tonight,” I call out to him but he’s not looking at me and not answering. As I go out the door and close it behind me, I repeat to myself, “I am so fucked.”



Justin

I try to tell myself I don’t care. Brian bought the place as income property, it’s his money, it has nothing to do with me. Another part of his life that has nothing to do with me. Obviously, it never occurred to him that I might be interested, that I’d like to see the apartment, that maybe I even could have offered ideas for renovating the place, I’m a fucking artist after all.

But I do care, I want to share Brian’s life. I thought that’s what we were doing, sharing our lives, but Brian doesn’t understand that everything he does is important to me. He hardly ever talks about work and he doesn’t seem terribly interested in my classes, he listens when I tell him things but he doesn’t ask a lot of questions. Lindsay says to give him time, he’s just learning to do relationships, like Gus is learning to share his toys at preschool. In a way, I know she’s right but sometimes I get fucking tired of waiting for Brian to get a clue.

He got a clue this morning, I gave him a look that should’ve shrunk up his balls like raisinettes. I just dare him to call me at work tonight and suggest dropping by on my dinner break. I just dare him to do that.



Brian

Around four I decide to call Justin at Borders. I’m not sure of my reception after our non-argument this morning, but when he answers his cell, I ask him what time he’s taking his dinner break, tell him I’d like to drop by and see him for a few minutes.

The brat groans and says, “No, Brian, not again – I want to actually eat dinner on my dinner break, I’m starving.”

I’ve been fucking the shit out of Justin morning, noon and night, so I don’t need to ask what he means.

“I’ll bring you a sandwich. Meet me in the parking lot.”

There’s a pause and a huge sigh, sending me a message I refuse to decipher. Neither of us speaks for a long moment, then Justin says, “Six-thirty. And two sandwiches, okay? And some Cheetos. The crunchy ones. They’re dangerously cheesy.”

“You’re dangerously demanding.”

“And you’re dangerously horny.” With a long-suffering sigh, Justin adds, “Bye,” and clicks off.

In spite of myself, I discover that I’m smiling. For some reason we’ve picked up this tagline for the snacks Justin likes – ‘they’re dangerously cheesy’ – and we’ve been running it into the ground ever since. The other night we were at the munchers’ for dinner, the rest of us lounging around the table waiting for Justin to clean his plate (for the second or third time), and I was holding Gus on my lap. I whispered something in his ear.

With the unerring ability of four-year-olds to repeat anything embarrassing that they hear, Gus turned to his mommies and shouted, “I am dane-jussy cute!” Everyone laughed, but it was Justin’s dangerously blue eyes that sent me a secret message across the table. When someone can get you to act like an idiot without even trying, they know they’ve scored a point.

Sometimes I think we’re keeping score and sometimes I’m not so sure.

When I drive up to the main entrance of Borders I see that Justin’s already outside, smoking beneath the entryway canopy, when he spots the jeep he tosses the cigarette and dashes through the misty rain to throw himself into the seat beside me. We say hey, then he’s silent while I drive two blocks over and three blocks down to a deserted parking lot behind an abandoned strip mall. Our usual place.

I glance around the empty lot, then lean across the seat to pull Justin into my arms for a kiss. In a way, I’m testing the waters and it seems like I’m off the hook, he’s not acting mad. So of course, being my own worst enemy, I bring up the subject of the apartment.

“Were the construction guys noisy today?”

“Yeah. What kind of sandwiches did you bring me?” and he turns to reach into the backseat where I’ve tossed the brown-bagged food.

“Justin, wait.”

Pulling back his arm and settling in his seat, he turns sideways to look at me. When I don’t speak for a moment, he says, “I only get a half-hour break.”

Everybody tells me I’m not tactful and why the fuck should people have to be tactful anyway? Besides, I’m not good at tact, I’m better at honesty. “Justin,” I say earnestly, wishing I could see his face better in the darkness of the jeep, “Without getting all drama-queeny, can you please tell me why you give a flying fuck about that apartment?”

“I don’t.”

“Obviously you do.”

He’s silent for a moment, then he takes a deep breath. “Brian – you just don’t get it. We’re supposed to be sharing our lives. But everything you do is ‘yours’ and it doesn’t even occur to you to discuss things with me.”

“Like the apartment.”

“Like the apartment, like your job, like your family.”

What the fuck? “My family?”

“Brian – I know your sister called you yesterday, and you agreed to go see your mom. I heard you on the phone. But you didn’t say a word to me about it, not a word.”

“You’ve met my mother, do you imagine I’d take you along to visit her?” Christ, he’s met my mother all right.

“No, Brian. I just want you to talk to me about it.”

All I can do is shake my head. “I don’t do that touchy-feely, bare-your-soul, lesbionic crap, and you know it.”

“But I want you to. I need you to do that. I’m asking you to do that.”

I swing my head away and stare out the windshield. Impasse.

Or maybe not. I don’t understand, I mean I really don’t understand, why Justin wants me to talk to him about all this shit. But he says he NEEDS me to do it. Lindsay says I have to try harder this time to do some of the stuff that Justin needs. Maybe even stuff I don’t want to do.

With a heavy sigh of resignation, I turn back to look at Justin. I still can’t see him very well, and maybe that’s a good thing after all. Easier. “My mom asked Clare to call me. She wants to see me. I don’t know why and I don’t really care, but I agreed to go see her next week. That’s all.”

“Okay,” Justin says.

I wait for the third-degree but when it doesn’t come, I continue. “I’m going to Cleveland on Thursday, my Big-T Tires client wants a presentation for his executive board, he likes the proposed campaign but his board doesn’t, I have to try and win them over.”

When I pause again, Justin asks, “Are you worried about it? Your campaign idea?”

“No. Not exactly. But I worked my ass off on it, the guy approved it, and now he looks to be reneging. It’s a big account and Vance has been on my ass about it for the past two weeks. So I’m not exactly worried about it, just pissed off.”

“Is Vance on your ass all the time? Is that why you’re working so many extra hours at home lately?”

“Yeah,” I agree – silently adding to myself, ‘that, and Lindsay’s no-fucking-around-for-three-months bullshit.’

Justin’s quiet for a moment, then he says, “Seems like you have to keep proving yourself over and over to that asshole. Cynthia says you bring in almost half the income for the entire agency.”

It pisses me off that Justin and Cynthia have some kind of relationship, friendship almost, I hate that they talk about me behind my back.

“Brian, she doesn’t tell me any specifics,” Justin reads my mind, “We just talk about how hard you work and what a giant prick Gardner Vance is.”

“’Giant prick’ is the wrong term for Vance – I’ve seen him at the urinal.”

With a laugh, Justin leans over the seat to slide his arms around my neck and pull down my head for a brief kiss.

“That’s two out of three,” I murmur, “Can we forget about the apartment for now?”

“Okay,” Justin breathes, as his lips press against mine. “Let me blow you so I can get back to work.”

“What about your dinner? “

“I’ll take it in the backroom and eat it on bathroom breaks.”

“You’re dangerously clever.”

“You’re dangerously hard,” he murmurs, his hand busy unzipping my pants and slipping inside to grab my cock. Then I relax and lean back against the door, eager for his warm mouth to suck me off while I twist my fingers gently in his hair.



Tuesday, November 4

Brian

I must have been out of my mind, agreeing to the munchers’ condition – three months of monogamy before I give Lindsay a load of my sperm for another baby. Sometimes I honestly think I cannot do it, and sometimes I wonder if that's a terrible admission to make, even to myself. Why is it so damned difficult? Mind over matter, that's all it is.

But no, no it's not. I see no value in monogamy, none at all - it's ridiculous. Men are hardwired by nature to fuck as much as possible, it's a natural thing, an evolutionary adaptation. It was the female of the species who masterminded the whole damned socialization shit that trapped men into such an unnatural and probably even dangerous exercise in futility. No man's faithful by choice.

And I hate that damned word 'faithful.' What the hell does being faithful have to do with fucking anyway? If you sort of more or less commit to somebody, to maybe wanting to be with that person forever, or any way for as far ahead as you can imagine, what does that have to do with keeping your dick in your pants?

It's only been a couple weeks and I've lost track of all the ass I've passed up, and that's just during the day. If I were going to Babylon most nights as I normally do, the number of missed fucks would be well into double digits.

When I was twenty-four I worked out this theory about guys like me, guys who need to fuck several times a day: We have more testosterone than normal men, we build up these huge reserves of jism that have to be jettisoned constantly or we’ll probably explode. I was fucking this doctor at the time of formulating my theory; an orthopedist in a luxurious apartment with a view of the river, his wife was in Europe so he was free to screw around. Anyway, I told him about my theory – and the prick just laughed. He insisted it had no basis in medical fact. That pissed me off so much I only let him come once before grabbing my clothes and striding out of his million-dollar penthouse. I still believe I’m right.


Justin

“Brian, you haven’t been taking Viagra again, have you?”

“I don’t need Viagra, I need you to get your ass over here NOW.” He’s naked, sitting on the ledge of the bed glowering at me. We just had a shower, we fucked in the shower, he wants to fuck again but I want to get dressed and go to dinner.

“I don’t want take-out again tonight,” I complain, “And the cupboard’s bare, there’s nothing here to eat. Can we please go to Luigi’s?”

“Okay.” Finally, Brian gives in, stands up and rummages through the chest for a tee shirt. When he pulls one out and throws it on the bed, he says, “But come with me to Babylon afterward.”

Brian hasn’t been to Babylon all this week. He’s stayed in every night, working long hours on the computer. “I’ll go if you want,” I agree, “But I thought you liked going there alone.”

“Depends on my mood,” he says carelessly, pulling up his jeans and buttoning them.

“But I’ll just hold you back, won’ t I? If I’m there, you won’t be dragging a dozen guys into the back room.”

Brian emerges from the tee shirt he's pulling over his head and gives me a look. “Did it ever occur to you that sometimes maybe I just feel like dancing? Fucking’s not the only reason I like going to Babylon.”

Of course, I know why he wants me to go with him, I’m his excuse for not fucking around. And maybe I’m kind of enjoying myself at his expense, and. . . okay, I’m definitely enjoying myself.

“Are you going to wear that shirt?” He’s just noticed that I’ve pulled on my white shirt with the logo 'Breakfast included.'

"Well duh. That's why I put it on."

"Take it off," he tells me. "If I'm not tricking tonight then neither are you. So you don't need to advertise."

"I'm not advertising, I like this shirt."

"So do all the guys that hit on you when you're wearing it." Brian moves around the bed and grabs my hips, pulls me close. "Take it off." And he grabs the hem of the shirt and pulls it over my head. I don't struggle - sometimes Brian's bossiness is annoying and sometimes it's merely funny.

Brian throws the shirt on the floor and grabs my hips again, pulling me tight against him. He leans down and blows in my ear, making me squirm and giggle. "You know I hate that, it's NOT a turn-on. Brian, stop it." Now he's licking my ear, moving his head and running his tongue down the side of my neck.

"Let me go – I don't want to fuck again, I want to go to dinner."

"In a minute," Brian murmurs, running his tongue down my shoulder and swirling it around my right nipple, slipping a hand inside the back of my khakis, inside the waistband of my underwear, caressing my ass.

Pushing my arms against his chest, I insist, "Dinner first, okay? I'm hungry."

"Then eat my cock." He's got both hands inside my pants now, squeezing my ass, and he's biting my nipple, doing what he calls nip-und-zuck. His hips are grinding against me, his hard erection rubbing against my own.

As he moves his mouth to my other nipple, I ask him, a little breathlessly, "Are you planning to fuck me against my will?"

He laughs then, a guttural laugh low in the back of his throat, and he pushes his cock harder against mine. "Pretend I’m forcing you if you want," he almost growls. "We haven't done that in a while."

"You ARE forcing me."

Brian stops and pulls back to look on me, but he's not letting me go. He smiles into my eyes and says, "Kiss me for three minutes - and I'll bet a hundred dollars you change your mind."

"You're on," I tell him, trying not laugh. And knowing damned well that about three seconds of Briankisses will do the trick.



Wednesday, November 5

Brian

“Come to the baths with me tonight.” I’m standing behind his chair at the new desk in the corner, my hands on his shoulders, leaning down to peer at the drawing he’s working on. We’ve both been staring at our computers for hours, finally, I had to stand up, move around. I’m feeling claustrophobic, I need to get out of the loft.

“The baths?” Justin turns around, his surprise evident. “Why do you want to go there?”

“Guess.”

He just keeps staring at me, a look on his face I can’t read. Finally, he says, “You know I don’t want to go tricking with you, we’ve talked about it before.”

“Who said tricking?” I stand back and fold my arms over my chest. “If I were going to be tricking, would I ask you to go with me?” Does he imagine I’ve forgotten our agreement, he made it clear before we got back together that he doesn’t want to share with me. It’s funny that I’d thought he was enjoying it, well he said at first he did. I don’t know why he stopped liking it?

Justin’s shaking his head. “Then why do you want to go?”

Christ, I’m sorry I brought it up. “Forget it,” I say, turning away and going back to my computer. I can feel him staring at me across the room as I log back on but I won’t look at him. I’m aware that he’s getting up and coming over to my desk but I keep my eyes on the screen. “It was just a thought, forget it,” I say again without looking at him.

“Brian – would you promise to only be with me?”

Then I do look up at him, and I feel myself getting angry. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?

“Well no, you didn’t say, but – “

I fling myself backward in my chair and glare at Justin. “Do you imagine I’ve forgotten your – our agreement? We’ve been together a fucking year now.”

Justin nods. “Actually it was a year a few months ago,” he informs me. “But I’m not surprised you didn’t remember our anniversary.”

Christ, he’s not going there, is he? “Queers don’t have anniversaries.” I turn back to the computer, hoping I’ll escape a speech or whatever Justin decides he’s going to torment me with this time.

“Well, we did have an anniversary but I celebrated it alone.”

Christ. Rolling my chair backward again, I tell him tersely, “You know that emotional blackmail shit doesn’t work on me.”

“Brian, it’s okay. I know it’s no big deal to you.” Justin’s face is blank, I don’t see anger or resentment or any other fucking emotion there. He’s learned that from me and he’s getting God-damned good at it.

I should be glad. But instead, I reach out and grab his arms, pull him toward me, pull him between my knees and lock my legs together, trapping him. There’s all kinds of things I want to say – harsh things mostly – but instead, I pull him down roughly till we’re nose to nose. “You could have told me.”

“Right,” Justin agrees, “And you would have said ‘queers don’t have anniversaries.’”

“Yeah. Probably.” How can I deny it? “But you said you celebrated. What did you do?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

“Tell me.”

“Nothing major,” he shrugs, “No big deal. I just made chicken alfredo and watched Yellow Submarine.” When I look confused, he adds, “You were in Philadelphia on business.”

I have a sick feeling in my stomach, what’s that about? I don’t do regrets, I’ve never done regrets and I’m not about to start, especially not for missing some arbitrary date on the calendar, it’s not like we had a commitment ceremony or anything, we just decided to live together again, how am I supposed to remember the exact date that happened?

I don’t know what Justin sees in my eyes, but he tells me gently, “Brian, it’s no big deal, I’m okay with it. Don’t feel bad.”

“I don’t feel bad.” Which is almost true. I shouldn’t feel bad. There’s no reason for me to feel bad, Justin knows I don’t do those ritual kinds of things. “But you could have told me anyway. Besides, I like your chicken alfredo. You could have waited for me to get home before you made it.”

“I’ll make it this weekend if you want,” he offers, leaning his forehead against mine. Something else he learned from me. “And I’ll go to the baths with you tonight, as long as we. . . you know.”

“We’ll definitely ‘you know,’” I promise.

So we go to the baths and wander around the halls for a while, me with one arm tight around Justin, one arm ready to push away anybody who gets too close. We peer in some of the group rooms, we watch some action on the sling, we hang around the orgy room for a while, and then we get a private room and lock the door.

“Brian,” Justin whispers as I pull off his towel, “Do you want me to pretend to be somebody else?”

“Yes,” I whisper back, “Pretend you’re Zack O’Toole.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” Justin giggles, “I’ll lose my hard-on and never get it back.”

“Oh yeah?” I taunt him, “Wanna bet?”



Thursday, November 6

Brian

I come slowly out the back door of the dingy club, into an alley that smells of rotten cabbage and stale urine, hoping like hell that nobody I know will see me. Not because I’ve broken my promise of monogamy, I haven’t – jerking off is the ultimate in safe sex. What concerns me is that someone will see me and spread the word that Liberty Avenue’s greatest living fuck is reduced to handjobs in a dark backroom circle jerk. This was a really bad idea, thank God or somebody that I decided to try it out in Cleveland and not home in Pittsburgh. Hurrying around the building to the main street, I catch a cab back to my hotel and give Justin a call, hoping he’s not asleep yet.

“Mmmph?” he says. He was asleep.

“Sorry,” I tell him, cradling the phone to my ear as I step out of my jeans and throw them over the desk chair. “It’s late, go back to sleep.”

“Brian,” he says, and I can hear him yawning hugely, “I’m awake now, everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just – “

There’s a long silence, then Justin says, “You just miss me? Or something?”

“Or something,” I agree.

“I miss you too,” he says, and I hear him yawn again.

“Go to sleep. I’ll be home tomorrow.”

“Did you go out? I mean, I’m sure you did. Did you have a good time?”

“I’m in Cleveland, Justin, of course, I didn’t have a good time.”

There’s another long pause, then Justin asks, “Are you naked?”

“Getting undressed. And this is not an obscene phone call.”

Justin laughs softly. “Let’s pretend it is. Talk dirty to me.”



Friday, November 7

Justin

“Why haven’t you asked me why we’re fucking so much?”

Brian and I are sprawled naked on top of the duvet, catching our breath after a quick but very intense pre-dinner fuck. A quiche is in the oven, the timer should go off in a few minutes. Brian came in the door ten minutes ago, grabbed me from the kitchen and dragged me up the bedroom steps. “Now,” he said urgently, pausing only a moment to look into my eyes and ask, “Okay?”

“Okay,” I’d gasped, already breathless, then he kissed me and I stopped breathing and succumbed to Brian’s desire, helping to pull off our clothes, falling onto the bed with him, the touch of his fingers on my bare skin burning, burning.

Now I turn over so I can look at him, he turns too and we lay side by side, he raises himself up on his elbow, rests his head on his hand. With his other hand, Brian reaches out and gently pinches my hip. “Why haven’t you asked me?” he says again.

“We always fuck a lot.” It’s true.

He’s waiting for the real answer.

“Brian, we always fuck a lot,” I repeat. “I know it’s more lately, but do you think I’m going to complain? I love having sex with you.”

He’s looking into my eyes now, that intense searching look that’s impossible to resist. I can’t tell him, I remind myself; if he finds out that I know about the monogamy agreement he made with Lindsay, the deal’s off. He told Lindsay that if I knew about it, he would not donate his sperm like she asked him to.

Keeping his hand on my hip, Brian’s eyes are boring into my skull. “It occurred to me today,” he begins, speaking deceptively softly, then he corrects himself, “No, actually I’ve wondered for a long time. . .why you haven’t asked me.” When I just stare back at him wordlessly, hoping my face is blank, he continues, “Why you haven’t asked me, how come we’re fucking so much?”

I should have been prepared for this but I’m not. I should have known he’d begin to wonder why I haven’t questioned the fucking and sucking marathon keeping me dizzy the past few weeks. So I hedge again by reaching out to caress his chest, lowering my eyelashes so he can’t see inside and whispering, “You can’t resist me and I can’t resist you. We’re – we were destined for each other.”

“Uh-huh, Romeo. Or I guess you’re Juliet. Look at me.”

My eyes fly to his face and I’m relieved to see that he’s smiling slightly, the corners of his mouth are turned up.

“What?”

Without a blink Brian says, “She told you, didn’t she? Lindsay.”

“Told me what?”

“Justin, you’re a terrible liar. Don’t even try.”

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to handle this. I should have been prepared, I should have planned ahead what I would say. He’s right, I’m a terrible liar.

“Brian,” I say earnestly, “It’s not what you think!”

He nods. “Uh-huh. What do I think?”

I have to tell him. I have to. I don’t dare ever lie to Brian again. But I’m sick, sick to my stomach and I almost feel like crying. Except, of course, I don’t cry anymore, I’m almost twenty-one. But I’m ruining everything, ruining Lindsay and Mel’s chance to have another baby, all because I was too stupid to realize that Brian would figure things out.

“Justin,” Brian moves his hand to my face, brushes the hair out of my eyes. “Tell me.”

“Lindsay didn’t say anything, I swear it!” I feel the breath catch in my throat, it’s the truth, and yet. . .

Brian’s mouth hardens into a straight line, his face changes. He pulls away, sits up on the bed and stares down at me. “I can stand almost anything, Justin, except lying. I can’t stand lying.”

“I’m not lying!” I insist, sitting up too and reaching for Brian’s arm. He pulls away but I grab him again and hold on tight. “Brian, I swear I’m not lying. She didn’t tell me!”

“Then how do you know?” There goes that eyebrow, when he raises one eyebrow I always brace myself. “And you do know, don’t you? Don’t you?”

“Y-yes, but – “

“So, was it Melanie? Was it Melanie who told you?”

“No – “

“Then who?” He pulls away from my hand again and waits, I can see his face getting red, he’s getting mad and it panics me.

“I was there when you called. When you called Lindsay.”

“So she did tell you.”

“No, Brian! We were in the kitchen, she had the speaker phone on, I heard the whole thing. It was an accident, she didn’t tell me, don’t be mad at Lindsay!”

He’s thinking, probably thinking back to that phone call. He shakes his head. “Then why didn’t you just tell me you knew? What’s the big fucking deal, Justin? If you knew, why not just tell me?”

“B-because,” I say urgently, “You made Lindsay promise not to tell me. You said if I knew you were being monogamous, the deal was off.”

I anxiously watch Brian’s face and I’m relieved when I see the tight muscles letting go, the slow-motion relaxation of his features, his jaw loosening, his eyes softening. “You’re such a twat,” he says at last.

“Brian – you don’t care that I know? It’s still okay?”

He considers for a moment. “Who else heard my phone call?”

“Only Lindsay and me. And Gus. Gus won’t tell.”

“Ha,” he snorts, “Gus tells all my secrets. He’s dangerous.”

With a laugh, I add, “And he’s dangerously cute.”

Brian reaches for me then, just as the oven timer dings.

“Oops!” and I run for the kitchen. Grabbing potholders, I pull the quiche from the oven, it’s perfectly golden brown on top.

“Mmm, smells good.” Brian’s right behind me, he’s pulled on jeans and he’s carrying my sweatpants. “Get dressed before you spill something on your dick and put yourself out of commission.”

While I’m cutting the quiche, Brian asks, “Is your ass getting sore?”

“Yeah,” I agree, “As a matter of fact, it is. Guess we’ll just have to take turns from now on.”

“Guess again.”

Carrying the quiche to the table, I ask, “Brian – is it hard?”

“It’s always hard.”

“No, I mean, is it hard for you, being monogamous? Do you absolutely hate it?”

“Justin, yes. Yes, I absolutely hate it. Just one,” he says, as I put a slice of quiche on his plate. Then he goes on, “So don’t get any ideas, don’t think this is ever going to happen again, because it won’t. You agreed, remember?”

“I know. But I like it.” I put two slices on my plate and then sit down and pick up my fork, give Brian a smile across the table. “I like knowing I’m the only one you’re making love to.”

“Justin – you always are.”

“Huh?”

“The others,” he says, waving his fork at me, “I’m just fucking them. You’re the only one I ever make love to.”

“Brian.” I drop my fork and stare at him. “You said ‘make love!’”

When I jump up and hurry around the table, Brian grabs my arms and stops me from hugging him. “Don’t get sappy on me, I mean it. And I’m not reading that damn bracelet right now.”

“Just once,” I plead with him. “Just read it once.”

“I’ll read it later. In bed. So hurry the fuck up and finish eating dinner, okay?”

Tuesday, November 11, 2003

Brian

"Clare told me you gave your father money all the time." Mom folds her hands in her lap, folds them either in prayer or to keep from reaching across the end table to slap me, I don't know which. I've always annoyed the shit out of my mother. Sometimes without meaning to.

"Why would I give money to Pop? I hardly ever saw him." I shrug and pick up a hideous knick-knack from the coffee table, a china shepherdess in a blue dress with three fluffy white sheep gathered at her feet, staring up at her with sappy looks on their tiny faces.

"Well, did you or didn't you, Brian? Can you never answer a simple question?"

Why the fuck did he tell Clare? "I gave him a few bucks once in a while," I admit finally, still staring at the china shepherdess with rosy pink cheeks. "What do you care?" I glance up at her, waiting for it.

She purses her lips. "You know perfectly well that your father spent every penny he could get hold of on liquor. He never shared any of your money with me, maybe I had needs too, did you ever consider that? Did you Brian?"

"Guess not," I shrug again, replacing the china shepherdess on the table and picking up the companion shepherd boy instead. Much more attractive. Blond curls, a ruffled shirt, painted-on bright blue eyes, killer smile.

"I'm not counting the time you replaced the roof," she adds quickly. "This was your home too, you grew up here, I would assume that, as an adult, you care enough about your old home to help with expenses once in a while."

"I'm not counting that either," I assure her, rubbing a finger gently on the smooth china rump of the shepherd boy. I'm also not counting replacing the furnace or repaving the driveway. She's right, it was my home too. Even if it felt like a prison. Probably a lot of kids feel that way growing up.

"And now I find out that you've been paying school fees for Clare's boys. For the past two years, she says."

My head comes up at that and I regard her suspiciously, I wonder what brought on Clare's compulsive confessing. "Were you harassing Clare about something?"

"Why are you paying their school fees?"

"Were. Past tense. Her second husband's paying them now, you know what a deadbeat her first husband was."

There's a pause, and I ask again, "Were you harassing Clare about something? Why'd she suddenly decide to tell you all this?"

"I do not harass my children. Not that I ever see either of you very often." When I say nothing, just keep staring at her, she drops her eyes to her lap, and we both watch her twist her hands together for a moment. Finally, she looks up again, tosses her head and declares, "I just mentioned to Clare that you're supposedly this big successful businessman and yet you never do anything to help out your family."

Christ, mother guilts a bitch. Luckily it has no effect on me.

When I say nothing, she goes on defensively, "Most sons do things for their mothers, but you've never wanted to."

I glance at her folded hands which have begun twisting around each other again. She's definitely trying not to slap me. Not that she's slapped me for years, but she's wanted to, I've seen it on her face a million times.

Setting down the shepherd boy - carefully, very carefully, no point in throwing it across the room to smash against the wall - I stand up abruptly and stare down at her. "Mom, if you want something, just ask. That's all you have to do. That's all you've ever had to do."

She leans back her head to look up at me, narrowing her eyes. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, Brian? You'd like to make your mother beg you for something, so you can lord it over me."

Biting hard on the inside of my cheek, I look away from her. "I won't lord it over you. Just fucking tell me what it is you want."

"Watch your mouth, you will not speak like that in my home."

Shaking my head, I mutter, "Sorry." Then I just wait. I won't ask her again.

"Sit down, Brian, are you in such a hurry to get away from me?"

I'm always in a hurry to get away from her. "I've got to be somewhere," I tell her, as I sit down on the very edge of the sofa, my knees pushing against the coffee table. It's true, I've got to be somewhere - anywhere but here.

After a brief pause, Mom goes on, her voice softening, "Brian, I didn't mean for us to argue this way, I just wanted to have a nice visit. You've hardly touched your coffee, and you used to love my peanut butter cookies."

I reach for the cup and drain the lukewarm coffee in one long swallow. "You can send the cookies home with me." Justin would love my mom's cookies.

"For your - young friend?"

Swinging my head toward her, I wonder what's coming next.

"Clare said he's nice. He helped her with the boys' schoolwork, she said. Is he," she pauses, then forges ahead, "Is he your, whatever-you-call-it?"

"Yes." I nod my head, keeping my face blank. Justin's my whatever-you-call-it. I haven't settled on a euphemism yet.

"You saw him at Clare's wedding," I remind her. "Of course you didn't speak to him, but you saw him. You've seen him a couple times." She compresses her lips and I'm sure she's remembering the first time she saw Justin. Nearly-naked and sweaty with an unmistakable just-fucked look, the day Justin had dared me to try Viagra, the day she showed up with a chocolate cake and told me I was going to hell.

"Brian," she says, keeping her voice level, the voice of reason. Hardly ever has the Good Christian façade slipped all these years. "Brian, you know I don't approve of your life, I'm not going to pretend that I do. So why would I approve of some boy who's hanging around with you?"

"He doesn't need your approval. Neither do I." I stand up again. "And I've really got to go, so if you want something, tell me what it is."

"Sit down, I can't speak when you're towering over me."

One last time I perch on the edge of the sofa. But I've reached the outer limits of my endurance, in two minutes I'm leaving whether she's done speaking or not.

"All right," she says resignedly, "I thought you might be happy for me, finally your mother has a chance for a vacation, a real vacation, your father never took me anywhere."

"So who's taking you somewhere?"

And why should I care, Mom, why the fuck should I care?

"A group from the church is going to Rome. Reverend Tom is going to lead us, we might even get to see the Pope!"

"How exciting." I've heard that Rome's a gay European hot spot; I wonder if Reverend Tom's going to ditch his flock in St. Peter's Square, slip away among the crumbling ruins and get his dick sucked by some dark-eyed Italian boys.

"Yes," Mom agrees, then she takes a deep breath and sighs. "But I'm not sure I should spend the money, I have so little in savings for my old age."

Pop had insurance but not much, I don't suppose she's living high on the hog on his pension. "I'll pay for it," I say quickly, standing up again, "Just tell me how much."

"If you can't spare it, I'll understand," Mom says quickly, "I mean, I believe you're supporting that boy?" When I don't answer, she adds, "And Clare says you have other 'major expenses,' but she wouldn't tell me what."

Well, I owe Clare for that much anyway, she apparently hasn't told Mom about Gus. I don't want her to know. I don't want her ever to know. I can't believe I told Pop.

"It's no problem, just tell me the amount. I don't have my checkbook on me, I can send it to you tomorrow."

"Brian," she leans forward and whispers as if it's a secret. "It's three thousand dollars. I didn't know it would be so much - "

"That's fine." I grab my jacket from the back of the sofa and pull it on. I just want to get out of here. An hour locked up in this old house and I’m fucking claustrophobic, so I make my way quickly to the door, but Mom calls me back one more time.

“Wait – let me put these cookies in a bag for you. Or for your. . .” Her voice trails off and I turn away from the door.

“His name’s Justin.”

“Justin,” she repeats reluctantly, looking as if she just tasted a bug before she moves into the kitchen and opens a drawer. I follow slowly behind her, watch as she transfers cookies from the plate into a large plastic bag and zips it closed. I don’t want her fucking cookies, but I do want to give them to Justin. I’m not sure why.

“Thanks,” I say as she hands me the bag, but she doesn’t let go, instead she closes one of her narrow hands around my wrist.

”Brian,” she says, “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“No, you can’t.”

Of course, she ignores my words. “Brian, does that boy – Justin – does Justin’s family know about him?”

I don’t pretend to misunderstand. “Yes,” I answer, “he told them himself when he was seventeen. He’s got a lot more guts than I ever had.”

“And his mother – did she, did she accept him that way?”

“You don’t get a choice, you mothers,” I answer her, hearing the bitterness in my voice, the anger. “But yes, to answer your question. Yes, she accepts him, she loves him. She’s actually had us over for dinner once, believe it or not.” Christ, that was an ordeal I don’t want to repeat any time soon.

Mom’s surprised, and when she raises her eyebrows I suddenly see a reflection, like I’m looking in the mirror. So that’s where I got that supercilious expression.

“You mean – Justin’s mother knows about you two?” When I nod, she adds, “And she approves of her son living in your house?”

I pull my hand out of her grasp and say sharply, “It’s not up to her to approve or disapprove. Justin’s twenty-one, or almost. He’s a man, not a child, he makes his own decisions.”

“Twenty-one! He looks like a teenager.”

I can’t argue with that. “Now I’m going. Thanks for the cookies. I’ll send you a check tomorrow.”

“Brian – “

“No more questions,” I say harshly, turning away and moving through the living room toward the door.

“Brian,” her voice stops me just inside the door, but I’ve got my hand on the knob. Reluctantly I turn around and look at her, and realize that I’ve raised my eyebrows in just that same supercilious expression as Mom did in the kitchen.

“Brian,” she says quietly, “I’m sorry I didn’t speak to him, to Justin, at the wedding. It was rude and un-Christian of me.”

“I’m sure God forgives you,” I tell her; “but I can’t speak for Justin.” I pull open the door and she follows me out onto the porch. It’s cold and she pulls her green cardigan tight around her neck.

“Tell him – if he likes the cookies, tell him I’ll make him some more sometime.”

I look at my mother and we stand awkwardly staring at each other on the narrow front stoop. We’re both waiting, for what I don’t know. Then for some reason, I lean down and my lips brush her cheek. Immediately I’m sorry, and I straighten up quickly and hurry off down the steps as if the Hounds of Hades were on my heels. What a ridiculous gesture that was. It doesn’t mean anything.



Justin

"What's this?"

Brian's shoved a plastic bag into my hands. "You've never seen cookies before?"

"Where'd you - "

"They're from my mother." He turns quickly away, pulling off his jacket and moving up the stairs to the bedroom. Naturally, I follow him.

"For me, Brian? For me personally?"

He stops and turns to look at me then. "Don't get all excited, it's just a few fucking cookies."

"But," I persist, as Brian hangs his jacket in the closet, "But did she say, for me personally?"

Then Brian grabs onto me and pulls me into his arms, he hugs me so tight I can't move, I can't breathe, it's like a death grip. "Don't," he orders me.

"Don't what?" I manage to gasp, struggling to draw breath.

"Don't be so fucking - " Then suddenly he lets me go and heads off into the bathroom.

I follow him but I decide to let it drop. Instead, I ask, "Did you have a nice visit?"

He lifts the toilet seat and starts to take a piss. Turning to glance at me, his face as blank as he makes it when things get too personal, Brian says, "I don't want to - "

" - talk about it," I finish for him, turning away and heading back toward the kitchen, where I resume chopping celery. In a few minutes, he joins me there but I don't look up. "I'm making Chicken Diablo."

I feel Brian slip his arms around me from behind, he pushes his body close against me and presses his face into my neck. His skin's cool from being outside, I can smell his aftershave and a faint whiff of cigarettes. He says nothing for a moment, just hangs onto me as I go on cutting celery. Finally, he whispers, "It was okay."

"That’s nice," I say carefully, then add, "I like peanut butter cookies."

"Me too," he agrees. "Mom’s a good cook."

I remember the chocolate cake she brought the time she almost caught us fucking but I decide not to mention it. Brian hadn't eaten a bite, in fact, he'd wanted to throw it in the garbage but I talked him out of it. I ate some and took the rest to Mel and Lindsay.

"Justin," he murmurs a moment later, "What is it I'm supposed to tell you?"

I lay down the knife and turn around, turn right into his arms. He still hangs onto me but leans back so he can look at my face.

"Did you get upset, going over there? Did she say things to make you feel bad?"

Brian closes his eyes and groans.

"Tell me."

Releasing me abruptly and turning away, Brian pulls open the fridge and stares inside. "No, I did not get upset."

"Okay." I won't torture him anymore, I go back to cutting my celery, dump it into a bowl and start slicing a carrot. There's a long silence while Brian continues to stare into the refrigerator. Finally, I tell him, "Michael called, he wants you to come by the store tonight if you have time."

"Okay." Brian closes the fridge and wanders over to his desk, clicks on his computer.

"You can talk to Michael about it," I suggest, trying to keep the resentment out of my voice.

"About what?"

I feel him staring at me but I keep my eyes on the carrots. "Whatever it is you don't want to tell me."

"Justin - "

"It's okay." Then I do look at him and I make myself smile. "Really, it's okay. I know you'd rather tell Michael."

"There's nothing to tell!" Now he's getting angry. "There's nothing to fucking tell! I visited my fucking mother, okay? I drank a cup of coffee and listened to her whine about shit, then she gave me a bag of fucking cookies and I came home."

"All right. I'm sorry." The carrots are sliced, so I pick up an onion next. I do onions last because they burn my eyes.

Brian joins me at the counter again. "Here, let me do that. Wait in the living room till the smell goes away."

"Thanks," I sigh gratefully, handing him the knife. "Dice it up real small. Be careful, that knife is sharp."

I wander into the living room and glance through the tv guide to see if there's a good movie on tonight. I don’t have much homework but I don't feel like going out while Brian's with Michael.



Brian

The thing is, I really do want to talk to Michael about Mom. He knows her, he’s known her for almost twenty years, I don’t have to explain anything about my mother to Michael. Justin doesn’t know her. Justin’s transparently eager for Mom to like him. That’s not going to happen and I don’t want her fucking with his head. I’d rather she never spoke to him at all than to let her get her hands on him and make him feel like shit. As she could, as she probably would.

It’s one of those fucking relationship rules that you have to tell this stuff to your – to your whatever-you-call-it. It’s something I just can’t understand because I don’t want Justin to tell me all about his mother or his little sister or his damned asshole father, so why does he care about my family? But he does.

If I go see Michael, Justin will think I told him about Mom, even if I don’t. Christ, these things are so complicated. After I finish cutting the onion and put it in the bowl, I rinse the knife and wipe off the counter, and tell Justin it’s safe to come back. Then I stroll over to my desk and sit down, pick up the phone and call Michael. I don’t raise my voice, but I know Justin can hear me.

“Hey Mikey, how’s tricks?”

“Trix are for kids. Wait.” I hear him lay down the phone and say, “That’s eleven dollars and ninety-one cents. Do you have a penny?”

While I’m waiting I pull up Ted’s website and watch two construction workers fuck against a telephone pole on a deserted country road. The background scenery is incredibly fake, but who looks at the scenery when a couple of sweaty musclemen are going at it?

“Brian, I’m back. Can you come by the store later tonight? Ben’s at a seminar in Philadelphia, I thought we could hang out at Woody’s tonight after I close up. I haven’t let you beat me at pool for a few weeks now.”

“Sorry Mikey, I’m busy tonight.” I don’t have to fake the sincerity in my voice – I really am sorry to miss this chance to spend time alone with Michael, no Gentle Ben hovering in the background keeping his eyes peeled. And no Justin hanging back, trying to give me space but unable to keep his eyes off me - waiting for me to give something to Michael that I don’t give to him.

“You’re always busy. Can’t you put off whatever it is?”

“No.” I glance over at whatever-it-is and now he’s cutting up chicken. Justin likes to cook, he’s good at it too. Before he came to live with me I think I used the kitchen only half a dozen times, to boil an egg or nuke a carton of soup. Now it’s Justin’s domain and I think it makes him feel at home. He hasn’t asked me and I haven’t offered to make any changes in my – in the loft. I need it to be exactly the way it is, stark and clean. No homey touches. No china shepherdesses on the coffee table. I can’t compromise about it.

My compromise is Justin’s desk in the alcove beyond the kitchen, which is always piled high with books and sketchpads and clutter. I’m able to mentally block off that corner and not really see it. I compartmentalize the corner mess so that it doesn’t flow into the rest of my personal space. Like maybe I compartmentalize Justin, to keep him out of other parts of my life that I don’t want to share.

I tune back into Mikey and we talk about Vic, he’s home from the hospital and doing very well, and Michael asks if we’re coming to dinner Sunday at Deb’s. “Probably,” I tell him; I need to check with Justin but I’m not telling him that. Another relationship thing – you can’t make every decision on your own, you’re always having to check in with your – with the other person in your life. “I’ll let you know,” I promise, before we say goodbye and hang up.

There’s a pause and then Justin asks, “Will you have time for dinner before you go?”

“Go where?” I stand up and wander back into the kitchen, lean on the counter. Justin’s put a skillet on the stove and he’s pouring oil into it. “Hey, easy on the oil, it’s fattening.”

“Well I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but I heard you tell Michael you’re busy tonight, so I assumed you’re going out.” He dumps the bowl of chopped vegetables in the pan and then glances up at me. “Right?

“Wrong. I have things to do here at home tonight.”

He’s stirring the pan slowly with a wooden spoon, his forehead slightly furrowed in concentration. “Like what?”

“Like, I’m going to eat dinner. Then I’m going to fuck you. Then we’ll watch the news and eat peanut butter cookies. And after that, I’m going to fuck you again.”

Justin glances up at me and smiles. “Only twice?”

“Depends on how many cookies we eat. We might have to work off the calories.”

“Then let’s eat them all!” Justin laughs.

I join in his laughter but turn and walk away, shaking my head. If I have to be in a relationship, thank God that my – that he – can keep up with me in bed.

While I wait for Justin to finish fixing dinner, I wander aimlessly around the loft. I make a tour of the living room, enjoying the uncluttered simplicity of the room, the clean shapes of the white leather furniture from Milan, the flowing line of the drapes from floor to ceiling, the simple glass table covered with liquor bottles. I visit my desk, run my fingers through the grass sculpture that feels like running barefoot in the summertime, I like the neatness and order of my desk, my files, my row of reference books behind the desk.

Then I walk up the steps to the bedroom, enjoying the almost-underwater blue glow of the neons reflecting off the navy-blue duvet and the soft patina of the hardwood floor. I glance in the bathroom at the sparkling glass of the shower enclosure, reflected in the large mirror over the sink, the terra-cotta tiled walls giving the room a feeling of warmth even in winter.

Coming back down the steps I approach Justin’s corner. The desk itself is hardly visible, stacked high with computer and books and sketchpads and rolled-up drawings and who knows what all. The chair’s pulled out at an angle, and I find myself turning it around toward the desk at ninety degrees. Justin’s computer monitor is covered with stuck-on scribbled notes, and there’s a row of small Power Puff Girl dolls arrayed across the top of the monitor.

To one side and toward the back, almost against the wall, there’s a framed picture: Jennifer and Justin, taken when he was about twelve, he’s holding Molly on his lap. I hadn’t noticed this picture before, and I pick it up and peer closely at the smiling faces. This is Justin’s family – what’s left of it.

Turning toward the living room, I carry Justin’s picture with me, then I sit down on the sofa and push the stack of Architectural Digests to the left, and the modern rock sculpture so expensive and beautiful and meaningless to the right, and in the middle of the coffee table I set down Justin’s photograph.

“Dinner’s in the oven, it’ll be ready in half an hour.” Justin’s voice almost makes me jump as he comes up behind me, then he circles the sofa and stands next to me, looking down at the picture. “Why’d you bring that in here?” he asks.

Reaching for Justin’s hand, I pull him down beside me. “It was okay at my mom’s,” I tell him, swinging my head around to look at him. “She tried to make me feel guilty but it didn’t work. Or maybe it worked a little.”

Justin’s silent, probably afraid to say a word.

“She apologized for snubbing you at the wedding. And she did send the cookies especially for you.”

He smiles then, a wobbly smile. “Thanks.”

We’re silent for a minute or two, then I ask, “Where’s that sketch you drew of Lindsay and Gus when I was in the hospital?”

“I – I don’t know.” Justin glances over his shoulder at the disaster area that is his study corner. “It’s there somewhere.”

“Find it tomorrow,” I tell him, “I want to get it framed. I think it would look good hanging above the tv.”

After a moment I ask him, “What do you think?”

Friday, November 21, 2003

Justin

“Christ, I hate birthdays.”

“Relax, Brian – it’s not yours.” We’re driving to my party and Brian’s been grumpy ever since we started getting ready. Of course, it's not officially my birthday until tomorrow but the celebration's tonight at Lindsay and Mel's.

“I hate parties.”

“It’s not yours – it’s mine, remember? And I don’t hate parties.”

We stop at a red light and he slants his eyes at me. “All you really care about is the presents. And the food.”

“I’m going to have a ton of packages to open.” That’s what happened at my birthday party last year and I smile just thinking about it.

“Most presents suck,” Brian snorts. “They’re the wrong size or they’re hideous pieces of crap.”

“But you can exchange them.” Which is what I did last year. I got some awful shirts and some music CDs from the stone age. But I also got some super art supplies from Lindsay and Mel and some great gift certificates.

At last year's party, Brian didn’t give me a present and everybody hassled him about it. I didn’t care – Brian does so much for me all the time, a birthday present isn’t necessary. Besides, I’d rather have nothing than another hustler! But he waited a few days and then he gave me a credit card, prepaid for a thousand dollars. He said it wasn’t for my birthday – that he only did it so I’d buy some decent clothes. I protested that a thousand was too much but he scoffed at me, "Not if you shopped where I do." He made me promise not to tell anyone about the card.

I’m not expecting a present at this year’s party either and I called everybody and specifically told them not to hassle Brian, I don’t want my twenty-first birthday party ruined by people picking on him. At least he’s coming to the party willingly – sort of willingly. Last year he said he wasn’t going to come till somehow Lindsay guilted him into it. Even so, he’s grumpy.

“Why are you so grumpy?” I ask, even while reminding myself that a grumpy Brian is pretty normal.

“I’m not grumpy, I’m preoccupied. I’m thinking deep, profound thoughts.”

“What profound thoughts?”

He pauses, then says, "I'd like to take some time off this winter."

"You mean, like a vacation?"

"Yeah. Maybe go someplace warm, like Key West. Or New York, see a couple plays."

My breath catches in my throat but I try to hold down my excitement. He's keeping his eyes on the road and though I wait a moment, when he doesn't go on I dare to ask, "Would I get to go with you?"

He swivels his head then and growls, "Don't be stoobug, of course, you'd go with me."

I don't remind him that there's never an 'of course' with Brian, making assumptions about anything he says is dangerous. "I'd love to take a vacation."

"Maybe around Christmas. If you can leave your mommy." He gives me a little smile - making sure I know he's not being sarcastic.

"Mom’s thinking about spending Christmas with my aunt in Atlanta, she asked if I wanted to go too." Quickly I add, "I already told her no."

"Why'd you tell her no?"

That's a question that's dangerous to answer. "I don't like my uncle," I say quickly, which is not exactly the truth. 'Because I don't want to leave you,' is the truth.

Last Christmas Brian was very glum - I think Christmas depresses him, though of course, we didn't talk about it at the time. He refused to let me decorate the loft - he said he hates the mess a Christmas tree creates and the smell of pine makes him nauseous. I bought a couple large poinsettia plants for the coffee table, and while he glared at them so often the leaves should have shriveled up and fallen off, he didn't throw them out the window as he threatened to do at first. He refused to go with me to Mom's on Christmas day and he wouldn't join Lindsay and Mel either, though Lindsay begged him to come share the day with Gus. He spent the day alone in the loft and he insisted that's exactly what he wanted to do - 'Have some peace and quiet for a change,' was how he'd worded it, which naturally hurt my feelings. Maybe he wanted to.

The single thing Brian agreed to do last year was go to Deb's on Christmas eve, for dinner and a cup of eggnog, then before people started opening presents he was dragging me away back to the loft. Well, he didn't drag me, he told me to stay if I wanted, but instead I left with him and we went to bed early and made love for hours. Long before that I'd figured out that I shouldn't give Brian a present in the traditional sense, and he'd already warned me there'd be no present from him. So instead on Christmas morning I made him pancakes with blueberries, and he sat on the sofa with his arm around me for an hour watching a Power Puff Girls video, before I got ready and left for my mom's.

Everybody's used to Brian by now and last year Debbie had warned me how it would be. Michael warned me too, though he couldn't resist telling me to leave Brian alone and not rag on him. Brian didn't give anybody Christmas presents and he was very ungracious about the gifts he received at Deb's, saying 'thanks' gruffly while refusing to open them, shoving them all in a shopping bag and bringing them home. The bag sat in a corner of the living room for several days before Brian finally gave in to my nagging and opened them. Then he made rude remarks about each one.

Last year Brian and I were too new in our changed relationship for me to make waves but I was hoping this year to somehow get Brian to acknowledge Christmas and share it with the rest of our extended family. Maybe he sensed that I'd push for things to be different this year and that's why he wanted us to go away instead.

"Now you're thinking deep, profound thoughts," Brian's voice pulls me back to the present, and I'm tempted to go along with his joking.

But things are still changing with us, he's changing and I'm changing, and I'm not going to walk on eggshells around Brian anymore. Well, probably I am, just not so carefully. Not quite so carefully.

"I'd love to take a winter vacation," I tell him, "But Christmas is for family, we need to be with our family."

"Bullshit."

"Brian - Gus is old enough now to know that you're missing at Christmas."

There's a red light and Brian hits the brake harder than necessary, bouncing us in the seat. "I've had this lecture from Lindsay already, I don't need to hear it from you." He doesn't look at me, just stares out the windshield.

"But you're his father - "

"No guilt shit. All right?" He turns and raises those eyebrows at me. "Guilt shit has no effect on me."

I've learned that's not really true, but I don't contradict him.

"I want to be here for Christmas," I say instead. "And I want you to be with me. We can spend Christmas morning with Gus. And have dinner with my mom, if she doesn’t go to Atlanta."

Brian turns his eyes back to the window and keeps them there. Quietly he says, "Justin - no."

"Brian - yes."

"I don't buy into all this Christmas shit and family shit and presents and decorations, it's all part of - "

"A Commie plot?"

Brian says nothing, just exhales sharply through his nostrils. Like a bull.

"But the thing is," I tell him quietly, ignoring all the danger signs, "The thing is, Brian, I do buy into it. I love all that Christmas shit, and now that we're - we're partners - " I hold my breath for a moment to see if he's going to contradict me, then I go on, "Now we're partners, and we have to compromise for each other. So you have to give in a little, about Christmas. For me."

He's silent for a long time, then he says, "I don't want to compromise."

There's another long silence, then Brian says, "And I don't want to go to your mom's for dinner. Like, ever. But especially not for Christmas."

"Okay." He's got to know that hurts me, but he's also got to be honest, otherwise he wouldn't be Brian. We had dinner with Mom once, he picked at his food, talked in monosyllables, and afterward he dropped me at the loft and went off alone, to get wasted and fuck his brains out. Mom really gets to Brian, even when she's not trying to.

Then I suggest, "Could we invite her over to our place for Christmas dinner? Instead?"

"Maybe she'll go to Atlanta." He's grasping at straws.

"And if she doesn't?"

"You're harassing me. And we're almost at the munchers’, don't you want me to be in a happy-go-lucky mood when we get there?" Brian brakes at the stop sign on the corner where we turn onto their street, gives me a look that says 'kiss me,' so I lean across the seat and kiss him. A beeping horn breaks us apart and Brian turns to flip off the car behind us, then he laughs and says, "It's Debbie and Vic."

I wave out the back window, Brian turns the car and in a moment we're there.



Debbie

Sunshine's really excited about his party this year - thank God for Lindsay, Brian would let the day pass without a wink. Even so, he's bound to be a crabby shithead so I hope he sits in the corner and keeps his mouth shut like he did last time. Naturally, he didn't give Justin a present last year - Brian doesn’t believe in presents - and this year Justin called everyone, begging us not to say anything about it. We're used to Brian and his ways, and even though it's tempting to call him a selfish bastard, we all know that if ever we need anything Brian will be there with his wallet held open, no questions asked.

Brian's always been like that - even when he was a kid, he shared whatever he had with Michael. Brian was bigger, tougher and he looked years older than Michael when they were boys, so he managed to get jobs at McDonalds, the supermarket, the gas station - and he always shared his money with Michael, paying for movies and sodas and comic books. Even so, as generous as Brian can be, you'd think he would want to acknowledge Justin's twenty-first birthday. But I promised to keep my yap shut and I will.

We pull up behind the jeep at the intersection and see the boys kissing. Vic says, "Toot the horn," so I do, and we laugh when Brian turns around to give us the finger. Then we follow them around the corner to Mel and Lindsay's and park on the street. Justin jumps out of the jeep and runs over to hug us.

“Ooh, are those for me?” he laughs, pointing at the brightly wrapped packages in our arms.



Brian

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” It’s the first thing Justin asks me as we buckle ourselves into the jeep.

“Not for you. You got twenty presents and ate three pieces of cake.”

“Brian – were you bored?”

Of course, I was bored. Birthday parties are fucking boring. But Justin wasn’t bored, he was excited and laughing and hugging everybody. How did somebody so cheerful attach himself to me?

“It was okay.” I won’t lie, but I don’t have to smack him either.

“You liked playing with Gus on the swings.” That’s true. I nod silently, and he adds, “And you liked talking to Jesse, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” And no. Mostly I like talking to Jesse. Except sometimes he says things, or somehow I end up telling him things, that I’d rather not think about.

I’d been surprised when Jesse showed up at the party – I wouldn’t have invited him, simply because even after all this time it seems like an imposition to expect Jesse to want to spend time with my family. I don’t even want to spend time with my family. At least not when they’re in party mode.

When the party was in full swing – Justin had blown out the candles on his cake and was happily attacking a pile of brightly-wrapped gifts, everyone gathered around talking and laughing and forking wads of cake into their mouths – I managed to slip into the kitchen and out the door into the backyard. It was too hot and crowded and noisy in the house and besides, I needed a cigarette – there’s no smoking allowed around Gus. I moved a few steps away toward the fence where it was slightly warmer out of the wind, then turned up my collar against the cold, pulled out my pack and was just flicking the Zippo when Jesse came out the back door and asked, “Want company?”

“Sure." Then I explained, "I just needed a cigarette break,” annoyed with myself for feeling the need to explain.

”Hmm,” Jesse said, accepting a cigarette from my proffered pack. We lit up and smoked in companionable silence for a few moments, then Jesse said, “You didn’t want to watch Justin open his presents?”

“Not you too.” I bit my lip, wishing the comment back.

“That wasn’t criticism, Brian – you know that, don’t you?”

“But it’s something I get from all sides.”

“Sorry.” Jesse stretched his shoulders, then glanced down at his feet, he appeared to be staring at his shoes. I know him, though, he’d gone away some place inside his head, some place where he goes to figure things out. Sometimes that’s cool but maybe other times I don’t want him to figure things out.

I discovered that I was almost bracing myself against Jesse and that was ridiculous. “Justin doesn’t care,” I said quickly as if to ward him off. “He knows I’m not into ritual shit like birthday parties and he’s okay with it.”

“That’s good.” Jesse flicked the ash off his cigarette before taking a puff and adding, “Besides, all families have their own way of celebrating things, there's no one way that's right for everybody."

“Jesse.” I shook my head. “This is something I just really don’t want to talk about. I mean, I really don’t.”

“No reason we should talk about it.” Jesse continued to stare at his feet. “Did I tell you about my grandson Stevie’s new soccer coach? He’s – “

“Jesse.”

Jesse stopped and waited. He’s got the most fucking patience in the world.

Leaning back against the fence, I dropped my cigarette and ground it out under the heel of my boot, shoved my hands in my jacket pockets. Without looking at Jesse I told him, “It’s not because of my own family, it’s not like we didn’t do birthdays or holidays, because we did.”

When he said nothing, I glanced at him and laughed, “Of course they were usually nightmares, Pop getting drunk and busting things up.” That made me laugh harder, remembering some of those special occasions that in retrospect are really almost hilariously funny.

Like the Christmas when I was nine, I finally got the skateboard I’d been wanting forever. It was red and blue, Christ I’d been ecstatic, I remember thinking: ‘This is the best Christmas ever.’ But somehow the skateboard got pushed to one side, it rolled over near the sofa. Pop was taking a picture of me and Clare in front of the Christmas tree, and when he moved backward he tripped on the skateboard and fell down sideways, hitting his arm on the coffee table. There was dead silence, and I clearly remember ordering myself not to cry, no matter what happened.

So I was not really surprised when Pop picked up the skateboard and threw it at me. I flinched away and it ricocheted off my forehead and slammed into the tv, there was a crash of glass and a puff of smoke, for a moment it seemed the tv would catch fire but it didn’t. Eventually Pop took me to the ER when the bleeding wouldn’t stop, and a handsome young medic put three stitches in my eyebrow. Even at nine, I could appreciate the irony as Pop explained that I’d been hurt by a skateboard and the doctor recommended that my dad take the skateboard away from me. Of course, that’s exactly what happened.

I caught Jesse looking at me, I couldn’t read his look but I was afraid it was pity or something equally unacceptable. So I added quickly, “Just because I had a crappy childhood, I’m not taking it out on Justin or anybody else. Lots of people have crappy childhoods, that’s a stupid excuse to ruin things for other people. I wouldn’t do that.”

“Doesn’t seem like you’re ruining Justin’s birthday, Brian – he’s having a great time.”

“Yes,” I agreed enthusiastically, feeling somehow vindicated.

Then I shook my head. Fuck. “Well, it bothers him I guess,” I admitted slowly. When Jesse said nothing, I added, “But the thing is, even though I hate parties, I came here with him today anyway.”

Jesse nodded. “That’s good, Brian – I’m not surprised at all. Compromise is the only way to go."

“Yeah.”

Sighing heavily, it occurred to me that agreeing with Jesse meant I was going to have to eat Christmas dinner with Jennifer Taylor after all. I should never have gone outside for a cigarette.

"Brian - you missed the turn."

"Huh? Oh." I've passed Wabash without turning. At the next corner I hang a left, then a left again so we're headed back toward Tremont.

"Are you thinking profound thoughts again?" he teases me.

Mentally shaking off the conversation with Jesse and its repercussions, I ask Justin, "So, where shall we go on vacation?"

"Brian," he says seriously, reaching over to lay his hand on my thigh, "I want to be in Pittsburgh for Christmas. It's important to me."

"Yeah, you already told me. So where shall we go on vacation? Key West? New York? Disneyworld?"

"Brian - "

"We'll go in January. Don't you still have school break then?"

"Yeah," he confirms, "Winter term ends before Christmas and Spring doesn't start till mid-January, I need to check the calendar for the exact dates." He's quiet for a moment, then he squeezes my thigh. "Thanks," he says simply, then adds, "About Christmas I mean."

I haven't promised anything about Christmas but I decide to let sleeping dogs lie. Besides, we still have Thanksgiving to get through. Of course, we'll go to Deb's that day. Deb pulled me aside at the party and said she needed to talk to me about Thanksgiving dinner. She had a serious look on her face but we were interrupted by the arrival of Michael and then I forgot it until this moment. Oh well, if it's important she’ll tell me later.



Saturday, November 22, 2003

Justin

Brian made sure we left the party in time to be home in bed at twelve - he'd already said he wanted to be stroking me at the stroke of midnight when I turned twenty-one and that's exactly what happened. Later I insisted he let me fuck him too, as a birthday treat. "You think you're a man but you're only a boy," Brian scoffed, then we wrestled and struggled around on the bed until finally, he let me win. That doesn't happen very often and it was a great ending to my birthday celebration.

This morning I wanted to sleep in but Brian dragged me out of bed at eight o'clock. I couldn't even get my eyes open but I let him pull me into the shower and by the time he was done washing me, I was awake and feeling great. "I'm finally twenty-one!" I exulted. "But why are we up so early?"

"I told you I have to go into the office today, and I need you to come with me first to help pick something up."

"What?"

Brian turned off the shower and opened the door. "Here," he said, handing me a towel, "If you hurry I'll stop at McDonalds, you can get some of those McVomit things you like."

"Egg McMuffins."

"Whatever."

Once we're in the jeep and headed downtown, Brian with latte in hand and me scarfing down the second of three McMuffins, I try again to ask where we're going, I can't imagine what Brian needs my help to pick up - he always uses delivery services. Brian says manual labor is an honorable pursuit that he chooses not to pursue. But again he changes the subject, asking if I'm seeing Mom tonight.

"Brian, you know she's making me a birthday dinner - she invited you too, remember?"

"Oh yeah," he says, as if it's slipped his mind.

Mom had phoned last week to see if I'd be free tonight. Brian and I were getting dressed, he was sitting on the side of the bed putting on his shoes. Mom had said, "Of course you know that Brian's invited." I'd held out the phone toward Brian, saying, "Mom's making me birthday dinner next week, do you want to come too?"

In spite of my disappointment that Brian doesn't want to be around my mom, I have to smile when I remember his reaction to the invitation: A look of exaggerated horror came over his face. He was joking - but not really. When I merely frowned at him and shook my head, Brian pulled out an imaginary gun, shot himself in the center of his forehead, and fell over in slow motion onto the top of the bed. It was all I could do not to dissolve into giggles while I explained to Mom that Brian had another commitment and wouldn't be able to make it.

"Here we are." Brian pulls over and parks, we're on the street by the Honda dealership where he leased the car last year. He releases his seatbelt and opens the door. "Well, come on," he says when I haven't moved, "Come with me."

"Brian," I sit stock-still in my seat, "What are we doing here?" I'm beginning to have a pretty good idea and I'm not sure how I feel about it.

Brian circles the jeep and pulls open my door. His hand covers mine on the seatbelt, releasing the mechanism and pulling on my arm. "Come on," he says again, but gently.

“Brian – no.” I can hardly speak, something’s choking me.

"Don't make a scene and embarrass me," he tugs my arm, pulling me from the jeep and holding tight to my hand, making me look up at him. "Remember that today's your birthday, so I can officially spank you and you can't resist."

"No," I mumble, but I let him hold onto my hand and lead me toward the dealership office building.

"Mister Kinney - good morning!" A tall man with shiny moussed hair comes out the office door, all smiles. Brian shakes the proffered hand and says "Morning. Is it ready?"

"Of course, just as you requested, come right this way."

Shiny-Hair leads the way around the building and we follow him single file. He walks past a long row of cars and stops next to a blue one, spreading wide his arms like Vanna White. "Here she is, freshly detailed and ready to go!" He raises his hand and waggles a set of keys. Brian takes the keys and turns to give them to me. He smiles but the look in his eyes says, "Shut up or I'll beat the crap out of you."

"Th-thanks," I stammer, taking the keys and looking down at them.

"Drive it out on the street and park next to the jeep - I'll sign the papers and meet you there," Brian's voice is brisk and unemotional, he turns away and walks off with Shiny-Hair, leaving me standing there stunned and almost frozen with surprise.

The car is so beautiful - a Honda Cirrus. I get in and turn the key, buckle up and pull out of the row of cars, drive through the alley behind the dealership and turn onto the street. There's room to park right behind the jeep, and I sit there staring around the inside of the car, loving the new-car smell and feeling so comfortable in the leather seat. After a few minutes, I see Brian walking toward the car so I hurry to jump out and I don't care that we're in public, I throw myself into Brian's arms and squeeze as hard as I can.

"Oomph," he says, pulling gently away, he's not annoyed, there's a smile on his face and his eyes are crinkled up. "Like it?" he asks, as casually as if he's just given me a new sketchbook.

"Brian - it's too much! I can't, you really can't - " I'm nearly crying, which of course I wouldn't really do but even so I feel choked up, almost speechless.

“Hey, you know I don’t give presents. So don’t make me sorry that I made an exception for you.”

“Brian, it’s beautiful."

"It's the exact same color as your eyes," he tells me, a tiny smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

"Is that why you picked it? Oh Brian - that's so romantic!"

Making a disgusted face, Brian shakes his head. “Don’t be a twat. Here’s the keys – get in, stop crying, and drive yourself home.”

"I'm not crying. Thank you so much! I still can't believe it. It's beautiful, Brian. Thanks!"

"Yeah, yeah, okay, I've got to go, you've made me late getting to the office. What time are you going to your mom's?"

"Six - but I won't stay very long. Could we maybe go to Babylon tonight? I feel like dancing and drinking and acting crazy!"

"Sure," he agrees, then his phone starts beeping and he pulls it out of his jacket and flips it open, staring at the number. "Deb," he says, a frown creasing his brow. "Deb, is Vic okay?" Brian's voice is carefully casual but I can tell that he's worried. Vic seemed fine at my party last night, but -

Brian glances at me and nods, smiling slightly. "Good, that's good. So, what's up?"

There's a short silence as Brian listens to Deb, then suddenly he's frowning and shaking his head. "No. No, Deb - absolutely not."

I put a hand on his arm but he shakes it off, walks away two paces and back again as he listens to Deb. "Absolutely fucking not," he says again, "No, I will not fucking compromise. How can you even ask me that?"

"What?" I put my hand on Brian's arm again and whisper, "What? Brian, what's Deb asking you?"

Saturday, November 22, 2003


Justin

Brian’s on the phone with Deb, he's frowning and shaking his head. "No. No, Deb - absolutely not."

I put a hand on his arm but he shakes it off, walks away two paces and back again as he listens to Deb. "Absolutely fucking not," he says again, "No, I will not fucking compromise. How can you even ask me that?"

"What?" I put my hand on Brian's arm again and whisper, "What? Brian, what's Deb asking you?"

“Deb – listen, I have to go, I’m due at the office. Yes, I fucking know it’s Saturday, I don’t punch a fucking time clock.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head, I recognize that look of utter frustration and anger held in check. “Listen,” he says again, his voice calmer now, “Will you be home this afternoon? Okay, I’ll drop by, we can talk then. Don’t you DARE do anything until I get there. Understand?”

He listens, his frown deepening. “I don’t care what kind of fucking commitment you made, you didn’t ask me first. So that’s your fucking problem.”

There’s a brief pause, then Brian says, “Yes. Yes. No, absolutely not. Deb, if you do that, I’m moving to Timbuktu.” He glances at me and adds, “And I’m taking Sunshine with me, you’ll never see him again.”

I laugh, but uncertainly. Brian’s joking but he’s far from being in a joking mood.

Brian’s listening silently again, then he growls, “Don’t talk about this to anyone else. Not anyone.” He glances at me again, “Especially don’t talk to Justin. Because. That’s why. I’m serious.”

He waits again, then says, “Deb, I’m hanging up. I’ll see you later. Yes, I’m angry – what do you think? Never mind, don’t tell me. See you later.” And with that, he snaps the phone closed and shoves it in his pocket.

Brian grabs my wrist and turns it around to look at my watch. “Fuck, it’s almost ten o’clock, I’ve got to go.”

“Brian, you have to tell me – “

“No, I don’t fucking have to tell you anything. I’ll see you tonight.” He swings away and strides over to the jeep, pulls open the door and hoists himself inside. I’m right behind him, I reach out for him and he almost slams the door on my arm, he catches himself just in time.

“Jesus Christ!” He opens the door carefully and grabbing my arm, pulls me close. “Are you okay? Good, because now I'm going to break your arm on purpose." Brian releases me and puts the key in the ignition, he glances at me and then does a double-take. Looking more closely at my face, Brian turns off the engine, turns sideways on the seat and takes my hands in his.

“Justin, it’s just a problem, I’m going to take care of it. Don't look so - "

"How do I look?"

"Scared. Worried. I don't know. Just - don't. I'll take care of it, it's not a big deal."

"If it's not a big deal then why won't you tell me?" When he says nothing, I go on, "Brian, don't shut me out."

He shakes his head, turns to stare out the windshield a moment, then turns back to me. "Is this one of those relationship things?"

"Yes."

Brian takes a deep breath and exhales it in a big whoosh. "Okay. It's just - all it is, is just - Deb invited somebody to Thanksgiving dinner that I don't want to be there."

"Who?"

Ignoring my interruption, Brian says, "I'm going to take care of it so there's no reason for anybody else to get involved. It's - frankly Justin, it's my business. Not yours."

"Who?"

He stares at me, frowning. Finally, he says, "Justin, I promise to talk to you about this tonight, so let it go now. I was supposed to meet Cynthia at the office twenty minutes ago, we've got a Monday deadline for a presentation and we need to polish it up today.”

"Okay." I'm defeated by his sincerity. Maybe he'll talk to me later, maybe he won't, but at the moment he's promising, so all I can do is let him go. "Will you be home before I leave for my mom's?"

"Maybe. I don't know. But I'll wait for you there, I mean, I won't go to Babylon without you."

"Okay. Thank you for the beautiful car, Brian - it's almost the best present I ever got."

Brian laughs and pulls me closer, leans his forehead against mine. "Only 'almost?'"

"Yeah," I murmur as we give each other a few tiny mouth-bump kisses, "The bracelet is the very best. Read it to me?"

"Later. Now move so I can shut my door or I'll take off anyway and drag you down the street."

I move away from the jeep and watch Brian drive away, waving even though I know he won't wave back. Then I see his arm come out the window and he kind of flaps it in the breeze. I guess that's a wave.



Brian

If I killed Debbie, I don’t think anyone would blame me. Maybe Michael would blame me, but he’d understand. Christ, she’s been interfering in his fucking life for thirty years. And doing her best to fuck up my life for twenty.

Cynthia harasses me for keeping her waiting and tries to finagle it into permission to take Friday off. I'd intended to give her the day off anyway, I know she's wanting a long weekend with her new boyfriend and the day after Thanksgiving is dead in the office anyway. Of course I give her a hassle but eventually let her think she's getting a special favor and say bitterly, "Oh all right, take the day off - I can get along perfectly well without you anyway."

I should have known she wouldn't be fooled. "When were you going to tell me, on Monday?"

Raising my eyebrows I give her my patent scathing look but it doesn't work on her anymore, she just laughs. "Thanks, boss. Why don't you take Friday off, too? Enjoy the holidays this year - for a change."

"Somebody's got to keep the office going, while you're busy fucking your boyfriend's brains out. Besides, you know I hate holidays."

"This year should be better."

How the hell does she know that?

"Not necessarily. Now let's go over those faxes, did you make duplicates?"

"Of course." Cynthia turns her attention away from her boyfriend's dick and I shove all thoughts of strangling Debbie on the shelf while we deal with the new Poindexter presentation for Monday.



Debbie

"Brian, what else could I say?"

He's standing in my kitchen with arms crossed, glaring at me. Vic took one look at Brian's face and retreated upstairs, I don't blame him. Grimly Brian replies, "You could have said fuck off."

"No, I couldn't. Besides, this might turn out to be a good thing, maybe you and she could - "

"Christ - don't you get it? After all these years, you don't get it? You know what she's like. You know fucking well."

I do, of course, I do, but - "People change, Brian. She's alone now, she's getting old, she's lonely. She was almost crying when she - "

"My mother has never cried in her fucking life. You're just making excuses for yourself now, for inviting her. Do you imagine you're fucking Gandhi or something? Or Henry Kissinger? Or Mother Theresa? Or Dr. Phil?"

"Are you through?"

"No, I'm not fucking through. This is not going to happen, you're going to un-invite my mother or Justin and I will not be here. I mean it."

"Take off your jacket and sit down, Brian, stop beating me over the head. Sit down, have a cup of coffee."

"I don't want any fucking - "

"SIT DOWN, NOW!"

With a huff and a shake of his head, Brian pulls off his jacket and throws it toward the sofa. Then he pulls out a chair and sits down. He says nothing while I pour him a cup, and he takes it from my hand and slurps a gulp before making a terrible face. "Sugar, God damn it, where's the - thanks." He takes the sugar bowl from my hand and pours a stream into the cup, accepts a spoon and stirs it up. After another gulp, he says calmly, "Debbie, if you want my mother at your dinner, fine. But I'm not bringing Justin here."

"That's the second time you've said 'Justin.' I sit down across from Brian and ask, "Why don't you want your mom to meet him?"

Brian sprawls in the chair and looks at me over the rim of his cup. "She's met, Justin. Three times. Each time she's treated him like dog shit on the bottom of her shoe."

I'm surprised. Not surprised at Joan Kinney, surprised that Brian's willing to admit he gives a damn about Justin's feelings. "He's a big boy," I remind him, "Justin can hold his own with your mother."

"Yes, he can, but I can't sit around watching it happen. I'll rip her fucking head off."

I almost make the mistake of smiling, it's still so amazing to see how much Brian cares about that boy. "Well, maybe you could talk to her first. Go see your mother and tell her - "

"No."

"You're probably way overdue for a visit anyway, how long since you've seen her?"

"I'm not going over there. You made this mess, you can clean it up."

"How?" I ask, leaning forward, resting my elbows on the table. "I call her up and say, sorry, you're not invited after all?"

He just stares at me. Then, "Why the fuck did you invite her in the first place? You know I can't stand her, why'd you imagine I'd want her here on Thanksgiving?"

"I had a weak moment - so shoot me!" I throw up my hands and get up to retrieve the coffee pot, refill both our cups. "I told you - I ran into Joanie at the grocery store, we said hello, that should have been it, we've never been friends all these years."

I don't need to remind Brian that his parents had always disliked me, especially after I made a couple visits to their house when Brian was fourteen and read them the riot act. I don't think Brian ever knew about that, but after he'd had a couple sleepovers with Mikey, I'd seen bruises on that kid that could only have been made by his bully of a father. So I hiked myself over to their house and gave them hell - threatened to call the police if it happened again. Which of course it did, many times over the years, till Brian got big enough to stand up to his dad, luckily by the time he was sixteen he was as tall as Jack. I'd even gone through with my threats and called the police a couple times, called anybody I could think of, even the priest of their church, but nothing ever did any good. Nowadays folks can't get away with that shit, but fifteen-twenty years ago it was pretty common, especially in this neighborhood.

"And?"

"And, your sister came up to us, I guess she takes your mom grocery shopping?" Brian nods and I continue, "So Clare saw all the stuff in my basket - I get everything but the perishables ahead of time - and she asks about Thanksgiving, do we have a big family dinner etc. Then she says, usually Joanie eats dinner with them, but Clare and her new husband are going to visit his folks in Chicago, so Joanie would be all alone this year."

"So what?"

"Brian! It's hard to be alone on holidays."

"Sometimes it's worse not to be alone on holidays."

And I remember all the Thanksgivings and Christmases that Brian would sneak away from home as soon as possible, hanging around oh-so-casually in the back yard till one of us found him there, smoking and shivering. Then we'd invite him in and he always ate like a linebacker, for some reason he didn't like to eat at home. Even back then Brian was close-lipped about everything including his family, but it wasn't hard to figure out he was pretty fucking miserable at home.

"So Brian," I say briskly, "You want to punish your mom and make her be alone now, is that it?"

He laughs then. "You know that guilt shit doesn't work on me." Then he's serious. "Deb, this isn't about her. It's about - it's about our family. This family that you made for Mikey and let me be a part of. Our family is a good place to be. If she's here, she'll ruin it." When I shake my head and open my mouth to argue, he adds, "Deb, I know her better than you do."

We sit in silence for a few moments, then I give in with a sigh. "Okay kiddo, I'll call Joanie and tell her - something." What the hell am I going to tell Joan Kinney?

"Deb."

I glance at Brian and he's shaking his head. "Deb."

"Yes, sweetie?"

"Okay. Let her come."

"Are you sure?" Now I'm having second thoughts. "Because I'll - "

"No, I'm not sure." He gives me a rueful smile. "But I'll try not to kill her."

"Maybe it won't be so bad."

"Yeah it will." Brian pauses and says, “One thing: Don’t mention Gus. She doesn’t know about him.”

“You haven’t told her about her grandson?” For some reason, this shocks me.

“Luckily, Linds and Mel are having dinner with Mel’s family. Are Ted and Emmett coming?”

“They’re going to have dinner with Ted’s mom. It’s just me and Vic, Michael and Ben, you and Justin. And Jennifer. And now Joanie.”

Brian closes his eyes. “Holy shit.”

We sit in silence for a moment, then Brian pushes back his chair and stands up. He pulls out his wallet and hands me two hundred-dollar bills.

"Don't - "

"I always do, shut up. Besides, that's hardly enough to cover the groceries Justin will eat and you know it."

We laugh then and Brian permits a brief hug. "Thanks, you're always so generous."

"That's all the money you're getting, so save your breath." He turns quickly, grabs his jacket and shrugs it on. He glances at the kitchen clock and says, "Fuck, he's gone already."

"Who?"

"Justin's having birthday dinner at his mom's."

I don't have to ask why Brian didn't go with him, Jennifer has told me how uncomfortable it was when she's had Brian over for dinner. She still hasn't forgiven him for showing up at Justin's prom and Brian knows it. Jennifer's coming here for Thanksgiving too. Ye gods, what have I done? Two hostile mothers for poor Brian to deal with. I only hope we all survive the holiday.



Justin

Dinner with Mom and Molly was great, Mom’s a terrific cook, she made all my favorite foods and Boston cream pie for dessert. She gave me money to use toward the new computer software program I need, and a new pair of Addidas. And she sent a huge bag of leftovers home which turns out to be good because Brian hasn’t eaten dinner.

Brian’s lying down on the sofa, watching tv with the sound turned down so low you’d have to be a dog to hear it. I sit down on the coffee table and we say hey. “If you’re too tired for Babylon, that’s okay.”

“I’m not tired.”

He looks really zapped out to me. “Hungry?”

“A little. Did you have a good time?”

“Yeah, let me heat up some leftovers for you, it’s grilled salmon and that orzo and spinach pasta stuff you like.”

“Mmm,” he says, letting me take his hand to pull him up. He follows me to the kitchen, perches on a barstool and watches me fix him a plate. “Not so much orzo, it’s carbs, remember?”

I pretend to take a bit of orzo off the plate; no matter what he says, he’s looking so tired, his body needs some carbs for energy. I’m dying to talk to him but I want him to eat first. We sit at the counter and I have a piece of Boston cream pie while he has dinner. He eats a lot for him, a sure sign he was really hungry; normally he likes to leave stuff, he says he’s still in defiance of the clean-your-plate rule. When he’s done I hand him a bottle of beer while I rinse our dishes and put them in the dishwasher, then sit next to him again.

“Third-degree time.”

He takes a long drink, then shakes his head. “No need. Debbie ran into my mom at the grocery store and invited her for Thanksgiving. I didn’t want her to come at first but I sort of changed my mind. That’s all, end of story.”

“Your mom’s coming to Deb’s for dinner? Brian, that’s great!” I feel myself getting excited.

“No, it’s not great,” he denies it, setting down his bottle with a thump. “It’ll be a fucking Nightmare on Elm Street. You don’t know my mom.”

“But I’d like to. Maybe – “

“Don’t start that shit, Justin, okay? My mother is not going to like you. People don’t change, frowns don’t get turned upside down like fucking umbrellas. It’s time for you to grow up - maybe it’s time for you to stop pretending you’re a Power Puff Girl.”

His voice is bitter but I’m not insulted. Well, maybe I am, a little, but I ignore it. “Why’d you change your mind then?”

“I don’t know.” Brian drains the bottle then and stands up. “But let’s get ready for Babylon, you said you wanted to go crazy tonight, remember?”

"We could just stay home - "

"No, come on, I want to go too."

So we change our clothes and head off to Babylon, losing ourselves for a couple hours in an orgy of JB and bumps and nonstop dancing. I couldn't have asked for a better twenty-first birthday and I wouldn't want to be any place in the world besides lying in bed with Brian, his body collapsed over mine, the cool night air drying the love-making film of sweat on our naked skin.



Thursday, November 27

Brian

Before I open my eyes I can smell turkey baking. It's Thanksgiving. No, it's not turkey. I flare my nostrils to take in more scent but I still can't identify it, so I decide to open my eyes and sit up. I can see Justin in the kitchen, he's making something exotic to take to Deb's, what is it? Oh yeah, some kind of Indian bean dip, he read me the recipe though of course I didn't listen, and now I can't identify the ingredient that's annoying the hell out of my nose.

"What's that smell?" I demand, my voice still rough with sleep, and I throw off the duvet and stand up a bit unsteadily. I got amazingly drunk last night, I started drinking right after dinner. Justin was worried, I remember noticing that before I was very far gone. Lucky for him he didn’t push me when I was in that black mood. That black mood, I suddenly remember, because today is Thanksgiving and who knows who might be dead by the end of the day?

Why the fuck did I waver when I finally had Deb convinced to dis-invite my mom? I know why I wavered and it pisses me off. That's why I started drinking last night, I suddenly realized that I was pissed off and I knew exactly who did it to me. It was all Jesse's fault. Jesse made me back down, back away from hurting my mom. Oh, he wasn't with me, I haven't even talked to him for a few days, he knows nothing about it. But he was inside my head last Saturday when I was talking to Debbie, and he made me back down. Made me decide that it was wrong to want to hurt my mother, push her away with such finality. How'd he do that?

"I think you're smelling saffron, I've never used it before," Justin calls to me, "Don't you like it? It's really cool, it turns stuff bright yellow, want to come and see?"

"Fuck that, I'm going to turn the toilet bright yellow, want to come and see?"

"No water sports for me, I’m busy - you'll have to play by yourself." He laughs and though my head is pounding and I'm about as far from laughing as I am from dancing an Irish jig, for some reason, I'm not annoyed with him. I'm glad he's here in fact, glad he's in the kitchen, glad he was in bed with me last night, glad he'll be in bed with me again tonight. Christ, that’s a first – I actually feel thankful about something on Thanksgiving.

"Come take a shower. I need you to wash me, I can't stand up straight."

Justin tsks. "Give me ten minutes to finish this dip, okay? Then I'm all yours."

I wander into the bathroom, take a piss, then sit down on the toilet and leaf through the latest Out magazine, flipping to the back pages to check the fashion layouts. I think about Justin's comment that he's 'all mine.' Justin is being monogamous with me during this three-month period and it doesn't seem to bother him at all. I see him eyeballing other guys so I know he's still breathing, but it seems that Justin can be perfectly content having sex with just one man.

I'm frankly surprised that I've been able to keep the vow of monogamy, but for me, it's NOT easy. I had to stop counting the guys I didn’t fuck. I had to stop using the sauna at the gym, too much willing naked flesh taunting me even with my eyes closed. I steer clear of the backroom at Babylon and stay home many nights rather than struggle to resist the temptation of guys who want me, who want to be fucked by Brian Kinney.

I'm barely hanging on to my promise, but once the three months are over, I'm going to explode into a surfeit of sexual excess. In a way, I can hardly wait, in another way it worries me. It worries me how it will affect Justin, how it will affect our - God-damn-it - relationship. I told him I'd never be monogamous and he said he accepted that. But it's going to bother him when I go back to my normal tricking routine. Why should I care that it bothers him?

"You okay?" Justin's in the doorway. "You look kind of sick or something."

"Just hung over," I lie. And there it is - I'm lying. I never lie. But I don't want to talk about this monogamy thing right now, so a lie is easier. Being in a relationship is fucked, you compromise your principles and tell lies and try not to hurt the person you're with. I was right to steer clear of this mess all my life. It's too fucking complicated.

"Come with me," Justin murmurs, lowering his voice seductively, "I'll wash you all over - with my tongue."

My cock twinges in anticipation as I follow Justin into the shower.



Justin

Brian feels shaky to me, not just hung-over but really uptight. I couldn't believe how much he drank last night. I didn't dare challenge him - the mood he was in, he would only have gone slamming out of the loft. The shower calms him, the blowjob calms him even more, and by the time we dry off and start getting dressed he seems to be feeling better. I talk him into eating half a bran muffin with his morning coffee, he needs something in his stomach to counteract the leftover liquor dregs and the incoming acid of the coffee. He even agrees to take an aspirin.

"What time are we picking up your mom?"

"We're not." He finishes half the muffin and picks off a few crumbs from the other half. Before I can ask how she's getting to Deb's (I know she doesn't drive) he says, "I'm picking her up, you're driving your own car there."

I want to ask why we need both cars but I can guess maybe he doesn't want us both trapped in a moving vehicle with his mother. I'd never admit it to Brian, but I really am kind of intimidated by her, the few times we've been face to face, even though she never said a word, she looked at me with such hostility in her flashing eyes that I'd wanted to back up a few steps. I never did but I can't forget that I wanted to.

When Brian told me she was coming today I said 'Good' and I meant it, maybe somehow eventually she'll come to accept Brian and be nicer to him. He pretends not to give a shit about her but I've seen through him, he was really upset the day she found out he's gay though he shrugged it off and acted like he didn't care.

I go over to Deb’s a little early, it feels like Brian is pushing me out of the loft, I hope he’s not going to start drinking but I can’t very well refuse to leave. Deb and Vic give me hugs and I’m tied into an apron and put right to work. Michael and Ben arrive next, Ben hugs me but Michael doesn’t. Ben’s made some lemongrass dip, we taste each other’s concoctions and smack our lips. Vic pours everyone a glass of wine and then Mom arrives. More hugs and we’re all hanging around the kitchen, smelling turkey and talking about recipes and our absent friends. Debbie announces that no one is to mention Gus, everybody’s surprised (except me and Michael) to find out that Brian’s never told his mom about his son. Mom purses her lips in disapproval but I decide to keep out of it, it’s his business, not mine.

The front door opens and everyone immediately shuts up, then quickly everybody starts talking again to cover up that pause. Debbie surges forward with Vic on her heels.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Joanie, welcome to our home,” Deb says with a smile, “Welcome,” says Vic, offering to take her coat. You’d think she would look flustered or uncomfortable but immediately I see the amazing self-control she has, and glancing from Brian to his mom and back again, it’s almost uncanny how similar they are. Not in looks exactly, well a little, they have the same arching eyebrows and strong noses, but it’s more in the way they stand, almost rigidly at attention like soldiers.

“I brought a cake,” Mrs. Kinney says, holding out a plate to Debbie, “It’s Brian’s favorite, chocolate-chocolate chip.”

Brian and I exchange a look, we’re remembering the other cake she brought him. Deb says, “Oh you didn’t have to bring anything, but it looks delicious,” quickly taking the cake and handing it off to Vic, who hands it off to Michael to set down in the kitchen.

“Joanie, I think you know most of us,” Deb’s still smiling and playing hostess, “You know my brother Vic, my son Michael,” Michael waves at her, even though she’s only three feet away from him, “And this is Michael’s partner, Ben Bruckner, he’s a professor at Carnegie Mellon.” Ben nods and smiles. “And I think you’ve met Justin.” Those icy cold eyes glance at me, almost making me shiver, “Hello, Mrs. Kinney,” I say bravely (I hope), then her eyes slide off me and onto Mom, “And this is Jennifer Taylor, Justin’s mother.”

“How do you do?” Mrs. Kinney says formally, greeting everyone all together, then she’s shrugging off her coat and Brian hands it to Vic along with his own, everyone kind of shuffles into the living room to take up positions on the sofa and chairs. Ben and I bring our appetizer trays and set them on the coffee table. Mrs. Kinney sits down on the middle of the big sofa and Debbie and Mom sit on either side of her, protecting her flanks or preventing her quick exit, I wonder which it feels like to Mrs. Kinney? And do I have to keep thinking of her as Mrs. Kinney?

Brian sits in one of the easy chairs and hooks his foot around the leg of a stool, pulling it over next to him, he grabs my hand and guides me to sit down on it. Vic brings a glass of wine to Brian and to Mrs. Kinney, she half-empties her glass in one swallow. Then she glances around the room and says, “I’m surprised all you men aren’t watching the big game.”

“Queers don’t watch football,” Brian informs her blandly before taking a sip from his glass.

“Some do,” Ben interrupts seriously, “I’m in the football pool at work. And my roommate in college was on the varsity team, I went to all the games.”

”Well,” Brian drawls, “I don’t watch football and Justin doesn’t watch football and Michael doesn’t watch football and Vic doesn’t watch football, so I guess I should have said, four out of five queers don’t watch football.” I glance at Brian over my shoulder and realize that he must have had a few fortifying shots of JB before he picked up his mom.

“My late husband loved football,” Mrs. Kinney says almost defiantly, and Brian immediately adds, “See? He was not a homosexual. He liked football AND he liked bowling.”

“We had a bowling team,” Debbie exclaims, “We played against the cops and almost won.” She pauses then adds, “Ben’s a great bowler. So’s Brian.”

“Brian, you never told me,” Mrs. Kinney turns and gives him a lip-curling smile. “Your father would have been so proud.”

“Yeah,” Brian agrees, returning the same kind of smile, “I’m a chip off the old block. I can’t out-drink him yet, but I’m working on it.”

“Mrs. Kinney, try the bean dip,” Ben leans forward and lifts the platter toward her. “Justin made it, it’s excellent.”

“Justin’s a fabulous cook,” Brian adds. “So’s Ben. So’s Vic. Michael isn’t and I’m not, but I guess you could say, three out of five homosexuals are fabulous cooks.” There’s silence while he pauses, then he goes on, “My dad didn’t cook. Did your dad cook, Justin?”

“Brian – “ I don’t know how to make him stop.

“We could watch the Macy’s parade, it’s on now isn’t it?” That’s Mom, jumping into the breach. “Justin and I always watched the parade together when he was little, didn’t we, dear?”

“Yes.” Oh Mom, please don’t tell about the balloons.

“And he always loved the Sesame Street balloons the best, didn’t you? Bert and Ernie and Big Bird.”

“Justin’s too grown up for that now,” Brian leans forward, one arm around my shoulder. “Aren’t you?”

“Well of course – “ Mom starts to say, but Brian continues,

”Now he likes the Power Puff Girls instead. Which one’s your favorite, I forgot?”

Vic pipes up, “How’s that new car of yours, Justin? Put a thousand miles on it yet?”

“That was quite a birthday present,” Ben says, “It’s a beauty too.”

“I had a gold Miata for a while,” Michael mumbles to nobody in particular, “But I gave it back.”

“Well, I think that turkey’s ready to carve,” Deb announces loudly, standing up and heading for the kitchen. “Let’s get the food on the table.” There’s a sudden rush of bodies as everyone gets out of the living room, leaving Mrs. Kinney perched on the sofa, her hands clasped primly on her knees, and Brian sprawled in his chair, turning his empty wine glass over and over and over in his fingers.

Within minutes the table is loaded with dishes of potatoes and stuffing and vegetables and a big platter of turkey expertly carved by Vic, Debbie’s making gravy and Mom takes rolls from the oven. We all sit down so quickly it feels like musical chairs, then of course, everyone stands up again as Mrs. Kinney and Brian make their way to the table and we all rearrange ourselves. There’s a sudden hush as everybody remembers that we should say grace, “Who wants to say grace?” Debbie asks and nobody makes a peep. Then Ben bravely volunteers, he stands up and makes a speech about thankfulness and pilgrims and how Ben Franklin wanted the turkey instead of the eagle to be the symbol of our country, and somewhere in there he works in praise of the Dalai Lama, I stop listening and start praying for real, wishing this nightmare dinner would be over and done with.

I’m sitting between Mom and Brian and while Mom piles food on my plate as dishes go around the table, Brian’s whispering in my ear how many calories there are in gravy and stuffing and mashed potatoes. For almost the first time in my life, I have no appetite. Then it gets quiet as everybody digs in. I glance up and see Mrs. Kinney staring at me.

“Justin,” she says, and I feel myself jump slightly, “Clare tells me you go to art school.”

“Um, yes.” I nod at her.

“Is that like a vocational school, are you learning a trade?” There’s something in her voice that snaps Mom to attention.

“Justin turned down Dartmouth for the I.F.A.,” she says abruptly, “And the I.F.A. itself is very competitive, only the best students are accepted.”

“Oh, is that so?” Mrs. Kinney says, her voice managing to convey both disinterest and disbelief. “Brian had a scholarship to Penn State, he got excellent grades.”

“How do you know what grades I got?” Brian looks up from the pile of black olives he’s arranging in concentric circles in the middle of his otherwise empty plate.

“Brian, you always got good grades, the teachers told me many times that’s why you were constantly in trouble, school was too easy for you.”

“Brian was the smartest kid in our class,” Michael sputters.

Ignoring Michael, Brian says dryly, “You’re talking about high school, you know nothing about my years in college.”

“Well my dear,” Mrs. Kinney smiles, “I’m sure college was easy for you too, you never really had to work for anything in your life.”

There’s an abrupt silence around the table, I can feel Brian tensing, we’re squashed together so closely that I can feel his whole body tensing up, then suddenly he relaxes and leans back in his chair. “Yep, you guessed it,” he says agreeably, nodding his head three-four-five-six-seven times. “It was a piece of cake. A walk in the park.”

Michael bursts out, his face bright red, “Brian worked thirty hours a week while he was in college, and he - ”

Immediately Brian says calmly, “Mikey, shut up.”

“Do you work, Justin?” Mrs. Kinney’s addressing me again, raising her eyebrows, “Or no, I think Clare told me that Brian is supporting you.”

Before I can answer, Brian says lazily, “Life has been a piece of cake for Justin too, the last few years. Hasn’t it Justin?”

I look at him and he’s smiling, something in his eyes makes me smile right back at him.

“A walk in the park,” I agree, then he laughs and leans forward to kiss me.

“So,” Brian says, pulling away from me and glancing around the table, “Everything smells delicious. Please pass the turkey.”



Brian

By the time Deb serves coffee, everyone’s pretty relaxed – or as relaxed as this group is ever going to get; conversation has turned to safe subjects like politics and religion: Vic mentions the governor’s proposed budget cuts, Ben is touting Taoism, and Mom is talking about her church group’s planned trip to Rome.

Decisions are being made about dessert – who wants pumpkin pie, who wants pecan, and God help me, I’m about to forever destroy my mother’s illusion that I can’t resist her chocolate cake, when there’s a knock on the door. I hear it first, no one else notices, but there is such certainty of inevitability inside me that I’m not at all surprised nor am I unprepared when the door is pushed open and two women’s voices chime in unison, “Knock-knock!”

Even before I hear the ear-splitting screech of “Daaa-deee!” I’ve pushed back my chair, and I open my arms wide to catch the speeding four-year-old bullet who catapults himself straight toward me. He throws himself against my chest and his little arms go around my neck and he bubbles, ‘Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

“Gus! Gus! Gus!” I mock, but he’s too young to be offended.

Everybody – almost everybody – jumps up from the table to hug Linds and Mel, who explain that they decided to surprise us by popping in for dessert on their way home. I’m aware that Debbie’s introducing them to my mother. With an inward sigh, I stand up and move around the table till I’m standing next to her. “Mom,” I say, “This is my son Gus.”

“OUR son.” That’s Melanie of course.

Mom’s still seated at the table, her hands are twisting together in her lap. “Is this the last of your secrets, Brian?” Mom raises her eyebrows, “Or are there more?”

“I think this is it.”

I keep the sarcasm out of my voice for once and I’m aware of the struggle Mom is making in deciding how she’s going to handle this situation. Everyone’s fallen silent, everyone waits to see Mom’s reaction to the news that she has a four-year-old grandson, and to the news that her wicked son has once again fucked her over by keeping her in the dark.

In the end, she does not so much decide perhaps as she latches on to the first thing about her grandson that she can criticize, though of course, it won’t be her last. “Why on earth did you name him Gus?” she demands to know, while at the same time pulling Gus into her arms, which fold comfortably around him in a grandmother-hold.

“Justin named him,” I tell her. “They were born the same night.” I turn my head and catch Justin’s eye and without even wanting to, I feel my face relax into a smile.

“What?” asks Mom, but I don’t answer. That’s one secret she never needs to know.

Saturday, January 31, 2004


Justin

"I want to be with you, why is that so crazy? This is a big deal, Brian, I want to be part of it."

He shakes his head. "Jerking off is not a big deal, I can manage by myself. But if I need inspiration, I promise to think of you."

"I want to be part of it," I repeat.

"You just don't want me to have sex with anyone but you - not even sex with a cup."

Muttering, "Fuck you," I turn abruptly away and go down the steps to my desk, click on the computer. Dropping into my chair, I stare at the screen, feeling doubly pissed off - I'm mad that he won't take me with him and mad that he's already making joking references about the end of our monogamy.

I hear him come up behind me and I curse myself for being pleased that he's making the gesture. I straighten my shoulders and promise not to let him off the hook easily. With Brian the tiniest acquiescence toward normal human behavior is practically celebrated with popping champagne corks, he doesn't get held to the same standards as other people. Not by anybody, not even by me. But not this time.

"Justin." He waits a moment and when I ignore him, he puts a hand on my neck, gently massaging, his long lean fingers caressing the tendrils of hair curling over the collar of my shirt. Caress me and I melt, he's got me pegged. But not this time.

“Why do we have to do this touchy-feely stuff all the time? Just tell me why going with me to the munchers and watching me jerk off is some kind of milestone event?”

“Because you’re making a baby happen. I want to be there when that happens.”

“Nothing happens. I jerk off in a cup and they take it to Lindsay. They won’t let you into the bedroom. Even I don’t see that part.” He makes a face. “As if I’d want to.”

“Don’t be gross, I don’t want to see that part. Never mind, forget it.”

He goes on as if I haven’t spoken. “Besides, it might not even work the first time. Oh shit. It might not work the first time!” He drops his hand from my neck and stands still as if struck by lightning.

I turn and look at him over my shoulder. “How will they know if it works?”

“It takes a week or something to show up, on those home pregnancy tests, I don’t remember the exact time.” He shakes his head. “Fuck. They’ll expect me to be monogamous until they find out. Jesus Christ!”

“Yeah,” I say dryly, turning back to my computer. “What a hardship. You’d have to keep fucking Justin for a few more days.”

Brian hunkers down next to my chair. “Is that what this is really about?”

Yes. No. I don’t know. “No.”

“Then why are you – “ He takes a deep breath and says calmly, “You knew it was going to end, after three months. You said you were okay with it.”

“Like I had a choice.”

“What?”

He heard me. I’m not going to repeat it.

He waits a moment, then I hear one of his purposely loud, send-a-message sighs and he stands up and turns away, goes back up the steps to the bedroom. I hear him turn on the shower, usually we shower together but not this time.



Brian

I'd forgotten - I'd managed to forget - that one sperm donation might not be enough. As I stand beneath the needle-sharp shower spray basking in billowing clouds of steam, I'm remembering the strident sound of Melanie's voice last time, explaining how it might take weeks or even months, me with my cup and Mel with her turkey baster, sweating over the mechanics of procreation. I'd been aware that Mel was perhaps not-so-subtly discouraging my participation - and considering how unwilling I was to participate anyway, it would have been an easy out for me. But I've always been contrary even when it's not in my best interests. I think a big part of the reason I went along with Lindsay last time was simply to give one in the eye to Melanie. Michael insisted my ego was involved, that Lindsay's sucking up remarks about my good looks and intelligence somehow swayed me into helping to create a baby in my own image. Probably it was both. Well, I know it was both, and something else besides.

Flitting around in the back of my mind had been the awareness that this would surely be the only way I'd ever father a child. And even then - even then, before I discovered that 'family' would come to mean more to me than Michael and Debbie and Vic, even then I was aware of a secret yearning toward fatherhood.

Christ, I'd never tell that to a living soul, it's not only amazingly uncharacteristic of the real Brian Kinney, it's also somehow creepily unnatural. Wanting to father a child is not a natural thing for men, even straight men, I'm convinced of that fact. Procreation is biologically programmed into women, and the only reason that men buy into the concept is to ensure that they have a convenient receptacle for their eager sperm.

So why was there that tiny spark inside me that, even as honest as I am, I didn't want to recognize or acknowledge, that creating a child was something I secretly, almost, half-way, sort of wished for? Was it to prove to myself that even a Kinney could experience the ostensible love of parents for their children? Something I well knew was not automatically bestowed on people simply because the result of their fucking was a screaming infant nine months later. Or maybe it was to prove the opposite, that it was not genetically engineered into Kinneys to love their offspring? If that were the case, the not-love of my childhood might be less of a personal defeat. Might not, in fact, have anything to do with me at all.

I wish Justin had joined me in the shower - I don't like being alone with all these annoying psycho-babble thoughts. It's only because I'm on my way to the munchers' to jerk off on demand, that's put me into this self-analytical bullshit funk. I open the shower door to call out to Justin to join me, then I remember that I can't fuck him this morning, I'm supposed to wait so that when I shoot my load at the munchers', there'll be more of it saved up. More healthy little tadpoles anxious to do whatever it is that little tadpoles do when they're squirted into a vagina.

For lots of reasons, I hope the first time takes like it did with Gus. I'd been thrilled that it worked the first time before - mostly because I didn't have to repeat the not-very-much-fun task of squirting jism into the ladylike porcelain cup with painted-on yellow roses that Mel had shoved into my hands.

"Couldn't you give me a more macho-looking partner?" I'd bitched at her, laughing on the inside at the incredulous look on Melanie's face.

"You're not going to fuck the cup, asshole," she'd snapped at me, "You're just going to - "

"Oh no - you're not going to explain jerking off to me, are you?" I'd demanded, enjoying how easy it was to piss off Mel.

"Please - please don't, Brian?" Lindsay was wringing her hands, looking back and forth at us, tennis-match style. So I stopped fighting. Linds has almost always been able to have her way with me, figuratively speaking. Even literally a few times, though that was mostly due to curiosity on my part. I think Justin shared that curiosity and it factored into his agreeing to fuck his friend Daphne a few years ago.

Suddenly I wonder - does Justin have that same almost-unacknowledged yearning toward fatherhood? Will he someday want to make a baby with some woman, will he want to have a son like Gus? What amazes me, what literally takes my breath away, is the sudden realization that I don't want him to. I don't want Justin to have a child, then he might - he might -

Might what? Have a relationship that doesn't include me?

I crack open the shower door again and call out to him. "Justin! Come here." I wait, and in a moment he's hesitating in the bathroom doorway. "Come take a shower with me," I say.

"But we can't - "

"I know we can't fuck," I answer impatiently, "Just come in here with me. You can wash my back."

Justin hesitates a moment longer - I know he's still angry with me about the monogamy issue - but then he's pulling off his sweats and throwing them on the floor, and he slips in beside me.

"Too hot?"

"A little," he admits, leaning away from the spray till I adjust the temperature, his fair skin is so sensitive. More than his skin is sensitive of course - and while he's toughened up considerably the last few years, after all he's gone through - a lot of it caused by me - he's still got an essence of vulnerability, even innocence, which both attracts and repels me at the same time. It's deceptive, that vulnerability because Justin is as courageous and tough as any man I've ever known. More so than most men I've ever known. Yet he can pick up a stray kitten and dissolve into embarrassing baby-talk drivel or watch a predictably sappy cartoon like Shrek and cry at the happy ending.

So now I need to know, I really need to know how Justin feels about the baby issue. But I don't know how to broach it, and I mull it over in my mind while he washes me, kneading his fingers on the muscles of my back with practiced perfection. I lean against him slightly, tilting my head back so water from the shower slides down my forehead and neck. Eyes closed I murmur, "Tell me something."

"What?"

"Tell me why you want to be with me today."

His hands stop moving for a moment, then begin their soapy caresses again but more slowly. He's thinking, maybe he's deciding how to explain it to me without pissing me off, I know how his mind works. Most of the time.

"Don't laugh, okay?"

"Laugh?" That gets my attention, I turn around to face him and take his hands in mine. "Justin, when do I laugh at you?"

"Oh, I don't know," he answers, "Like, all the time?"

"Not all. Not this time." It's a promise, even without the word.

He believes me because he smiles then. "Okay. Partly it's because it's important to you, even though you make jokes about it. It's not just a lark, though you'd rather die than admit it."

"Oh yeah?"

"But it's also - " He drops his eyes and I let go one of his hands so I can grab his chin and tilt his face upward.

"You can tell me," I murmur gently. "Tell me."

"It's just that - I'll never do that. I'll never get to do that."

"Do what?"

"Make a baby." Even in the warmth of the shower, Justin's already pink skin turns pinker with an embarrassed blush. "So," he continues in a whisper, "So somehow being there with you would let me be part of it. Even just as a bystander."

I'm speechless then, speechless not only because my hunch was right, Justin does share that same feeling I'd recognized in myself four, almost five years ago. But mostly I'm speechless because he has the courage to admit it. Admit it to me, the world's harshest, most outspoken cynic.

"Oh, I know it's silly," he takes a quick breath, dropping his head again, he doesn't want to look at me. "And it's not that big a deal or anything, it's just kind of - "

"Okay."

"Huh?" That takes him by surprise, he raises his head again.

"Okay," I repeat, "You can go with me."

"Brian - you mean it? Brian!" Justin laughs out loud and throws his arms around my neck, then pulls back a few inches and we kiss.

He's not wearing the bracelet, he takes it off at night since the time a few weeks ago when he whacked himself in the mouth with it. He'd almost chipped a tooth and since then, he always takes it off at night and drops it into the bowl of condoms on the ledge near his pillow. But I almost wish he were wearing it. As we kiss in the warm closeness of the shower, I almost wish Justin were wearing the bracelet, because I have a very strong urge to read him the inscription.



Justin

Brian not only lets me go with him to Lindsay and Mel’s, he grabs my arm and pulls me toward the bathroom. And when Melanie can’t resist digging at him, when she asks sarcastically if he needs an assistant he simply says, “Yes, I do,” and closes the door behind us. Then we kiss and he puts my hand on his cock and whispers, “Jerk me off.”


Friday, February 20, 2004

Brian

I hang up the phone and stare at the wall across from my desk but I’m not seeing the pictures hanging there. Lindsay’s just called to tell me that she’s definitely pregnant, they did three different tests this afternoon and each one confirmed it. She was bubbling with excitement but I discover that I don’t really know how I feel. Relieved, that I don’t have to spend any more time in the munchers’ bathroom, with or without an assistant. But I realize that I’m having second thoughts - once again I’m worried about Gus having a brother or sister and wondering if I made the right decision.

Fuck that. Shaking my head, I push those thoughts aside. No regrets. Besides, I have other problems to deal with. I pick up the phone and then put it down again. Justin’s at school and he’ll go directly from there to work, he’s got an evening shift at Borders. I’d already made plans to meet Michael at Woody’s tonight and Justin knows about it, he won’t be surprised that I’m not at the loft when he gets home. But I’m sure he’ll hear the news about the baby from Lindsay today, and I’m equally sure he’s going to think I’m out fucking around tonight.

And Christ, I’m entitled to be out fucking around. Almost four months I’ve been waiting to cut loose, it’s all I can do not to jump up from my desk, grab my coat and race over to Liberty Avenue right this minute looking for tricks.

Or anyway, that’s what I should want to be doing. Tricking’s what I’ve always wanted. It’s a huge part of my life, it’s an enormous part of my identity, of who I am. Yet somehow it’s difficult to merge that identity with the current Brian Kinney – Brian Kinney the responsible ad agency partner. Brian Kinney the more-or-less acknowledged partner of Justin, Brian Kinney the father of a toddler, soon to be the father of a new baby. I’ve become not only more responsible at work, but I’m also now responsible for several people besides myself. I’m almost fucking respectable. Christ almighty, how did this happen to me?

Opening the bottom drawer of my desk, I push aside several thick folders and pull out a leather binder, unsnap the flap. Inside are two photos, Justin on the left, Gus on the right. Sitting alone in my office with the door closed, I feel myself flushing with something akin to embarrassment. Because I want to – I almost need to – keep these pictures here. Of course, no one knows. But I know and I’m embarrassed for myself. It’s such a hetero thing, keeping pictures of your family at the office. Well, it’s not like I look at them all the time or anything. But I know they are here, and I’ve had to admit to myself that I want them to be here. That is just so not like me.

I feel some unidentified emotion begin to build inside my head, inside my chest. When I look down at my hands folded on top of the photographs, I see my fingers twisting around each other, white-knuckled. Then I push back my chair and almost leap to my feet; I walk to the door, lean out and – careful to keep my face a mask of nothingness, I tell Cynthia to hold my calls. Then I close the door and lock it, and after checking my on-line calendar to be sure there are no more meetings today, I dislodge a few more folders in the drawer and pull out the Jim Beam.



Michael

It’s the first time in weeks I’ve had a chance to get together with Brian, for once Justin’s not hanging around his neck. We meet at Woody’s and sit at the bar, and immediately I realize that Brian’s already well away.

“Hard day?” I ask him as he throws back the first drink.

“Hmm,” he doesn’t answer, he’s waggling a finger at the bartender for another round.

“Mom told me the news, that Lindsay’s finally pregnant again, did they call you?”

“Hmm,” he says again, then turns toward me and puts a hand on my shoulder. “You don’t have children,” he says seriously, focusing on my face for a moment, he’s almost but not quite slurring his words. When I nod agreement he adds, “Smart man.”

I’m surprised. “Are you having regrets already?”

“No regrets.” It’s part of Brian’s credo but I’m not sure I believe it anymore. I’ll bet he’s got plenty of regrets about some of the people in his life.

“Too late for regrets anyway, what’s done is done,” I remind him, “You’ve become a statistic.”

“Huh?” He turns to look at me, his eyes are blurry, it’s been a while since I’ve seen him wasted AND drunk. I wonder if something’s wrong at home? He used to confide in me all the time but that’s something else that’s changed and not for the better.

“You’re a statistic now,” I repeat. “Mid-thirties, married with two children. All that’s missing is the white picket fence.”

“Fuck you.” Brian looks away, throws back his second drink.

So I change the subject, I tell him about the shop and Uncle Vic and the new book Ben’s working on, he’s listening but just barely. After I’ve brought him up to date, it’s our turn for one of the pool tables and we begin playing, though Brian seems distracted and blows his first shot.

“You’re off your game, Brian,” I tell him, and suddenly he throws back his head and laughs.

“I’m off my game,” he repeats, laughing hard. “I’m off my game.”

I laugh too at first, though I don’t know what’s funny, but Brian keeps laughing and laughing, leaning on the pool cue, almost doubled over. I put a hand on his arm and ask, “You okay?”

Brian stops laughing, runs a hand over his face and stands up straight.

“Hey,” somebody says; a guy has stopped by our table and is staring at Brian. I’m about to brush him off when I recognize him.

Then Brian looks up and sees him standing there. “Rick?” he mumbles. “Rick?”



Saturday, February 21, 2004

Brian

I want to believe I got so wasted last night that I didn’t know what I was doing. That’s what I want to believe. Maybe it’s even true. I’m sitting in the jeep, parked in the garage, it’s about six a.m. and the sun’s coming up. I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes, smoking a cigarette. Finally, I get out and slam the door, head toward the elevator.

Justin’s up, maybe he never went to bed last night; he’s pulling an armload of shirts from a drawer and he adds it to a pile of clothes and shoes in the middle of the bed, he doesn’t look up when I come in. I throw my jacket toward the sofa and go up the steps. He’s taken another armload of shirts from the drawer and I walk right over to him and pull the shirts from his arms, shove them back in the drawer.

“Justin, don’t.”

Still, he hasn’t looked at me, he steps around me and goes into the bathroom, jerks open a drawer and pulls out his toiletry bag, unzips it and starts shoving toothbrush and shaving gear into the bag. I stand in the doorway watching him in the mirror, trying to read his face, trying to gauge the intensity of his anger.

“Justin,” I hear the harshness in my voice but I can’t smooth it out as I continue, “Justin, you have to stop doing this.”

“What?” He freezes, his hands pause in the act of zipping the bag, he looks up and his eyes meet mine in the mirror. Somehow it’s easier to watch our images than to look at each other directly. “What?”

“You have to stop leaving me,” I explain, my voice still harsh. “Every time I fuck up, you walk out on me.”

He laughs then. Actually, laughs, though it’s not a happy sound, instead it’s a grinding noise like broken glass crunched under a big shoe. “I have to stop leaving you?” he echoes me, “I have to stop?”

Nodding, I answer reasonably. “Yeah.”

He tosses the bag into the sink and drags his eyes away from our mirror image, instead, he turns to look at me for real. “You don’t suppose you could maybe, like, stop fucking up? Instead?”

“That seems highly unlikely.”

“No shit.” He turns quickly then and pushes past me, I’m tempted to reach out, grab him as he goes past, but I don’t. I just turn and watch as he pulls open another drawer and adds its contents to the pile on the bed.

“Can we – “ I hesitate, then go on, “Can we maybe have a cup of coffee, I can’t think clearly without some caffeine.”

That gets his attention, he turns those bright blue demanding eyes on me. “You can’t think clearly?”

My head’s pounding and I really need to sit down. “Stop repeating everything I say, could you do that, please? I can deal with histrionics much better if we just take time out for a cup of coffee.”

Justin stands very still then and turns up the megawatts in his eyes. “You mean he didn’t make you breakfast this morning?”

“Breakfast? Since when do I have breakfast with tricks? You know I - ”

“But you weren’t with a trick.”

Shit.

“It wasn’t a trick, Brian. You think I’d be packing up just because you stayed out all night fucking around?”

“What do you – how do you – “

“Michael told me. I could say that he ENJOYED telling me, but you wouldn’t believe it so I won’t bother.”

Shit. I turn away then, move into the kitchen and get out the coffee maker. I’ve just opened the cupboard to see if I can find where Justin hid the coffee – he’s constantly rearranging the kitchen, I can never find anything – when I hear his footsteps coming down the steps and over to the counter, I turn to see that he’s hitched himself up onto a barstool.

“Far left cupboard, second shelf.”

Following his directions, I find the bag of coffee. “Maybe a hint about the location of the coffee grinder? Or you can just tell me when I’m getting warm.”

“Far left cupboard, second shelf.”

Oh, it’s right there, I didn’t see it. I dump some beans into the grinder and wait for him to start in on me. When he doesn’t, I glance at him over my shoulder and say, “It just happened. It wasn’t – I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“Now say, ‘Justin, it doesn’t mean anything.’”

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

We stare at each other, then he shakes his head. Turning, he jumps down off the stool and heads back to the bedroom. Long ago I gave up my rule about not following anybody, now I’m right behind him and I grab his arm, turn him around to face me before he reaches the steps.

“I’m not the only one who’s fucked up,” I remind him.

“Jesus Christ.” He’s dumbfounded.

“Justin – “

“You promised you were done punishing me for Ethan. You promised.”

He’s right of course, I did promise.

“I thought you were over it,” he adds, and he’s right again.

“I am.”

“So then why, any time you fuck up, do you have to remind me how I fucked up with Ethan? Does that make it okay? How many times do you get to fuck up before we’re even?”

“Justin – I know it’s not okay. But it’s not like I planned for this to happen, I didn’t go looking for him. He just – he just sort of magically appeared at the exact moment that I was – that I was – “

My voice trails off and Justin asks calmly, “The exact moment that you were – what?” When I don’t answer, just stand staring at him, he fills in the blank. “Horny? Bored? Lonely? All of the above?”

“None of the above.”

He stands waiting and all I can do is look at him. Then I ask, “Please make me some coffee?”

“Jesus!” Justin shouts, throwing out his arms. Then he jerks past me and into the kitchen, turns on the coffee grinder and throws a filter into the Krups. I wander back into his vicinity and lean against the counter watching him.

After he starts the coffee machine, he pulls a mug from the cupboard and bangs it down hard on the counter. Then he swings out of the kitchen and marches over to his desk, begins to sort through sketchbooks and stacks of papers. I stay put, staring at the coffee machine. In a few minutes he comes back, grabs the mug and fills it with coffee, then turns for the sugar bowl and plunks them both down on the counter in front of me.

“Thanks.” I can’t wait for the coffee to cool, I take a sip and burn my tongue.

Justin stands staring at me, his arms crossed over his chest. We stare at each other for a moment, then he asks, “Did you eat dinner last night?” When I shake my head no, he turns away again, pulls out the toaster and throws in two pieces of bread. He stares at the toaster the same way I stared at the coffee maker. When the bread pops up, Justin spreads them – thinly – with low-fat margarine, puts them on a plate and shoves it in front of me.

Staring at the toast, I feel something start to come apart inside my chest. My hand is shaking and I have to set down my cup, then I lean my head on my hand. I feel Justin come around the end of the counter and stand close to me; I can’t look at him anymore but I feel his warmth, I can almost smell the scent of his shampoo.

“Brian.”

I still can’t look at him.

“Brian.” Justin puts a hand on my arm and shakes me slightly. “Brian, I won’t leave you. Okay? But I need to go away for a while. I need to put some space between us.”

When I don’t answer, when I still don’t look at him, he asks quietly, “Do you understand?”

I nod, once, twice, still not moving. He turns away then and goes back to the bedroom. After a few minutes I’m able to resume drinking coffee and I even manage to eat half a piece of toast. I glance occasionally at the bedroom and I realize that Justin has put some of his clothes away, he’s only packing one bag. That’s what he did before, the time he walked out last year, he spent a couple days at his mom’s condo. He’d said then that he just couldn’t be around me for a while. And here we are again.

Soon Justin’s once again standing in front of me. He sets down his suitcase and backpack and says quietly, “Brian, I’ll call you in a couple days. Please eat, and don’t drink too much, and water my plants, would you?” Somehow he’s kept the Christmas poinsettias alive, they’re on the floor near his desk.

“You’d better – “ my voice is gruff, I have to clear my throat. “You’d better take them with you, if they know they’re alone here with me, they’ll commit plant suicide.”

“Okay,” he agrees, turning toward his desk and picking up the hideous flowers.

“I’ll carry your bags,” I offer, “Got your keys?” When he says yes, I pull open the door and lead the way out of the loft. We get into the elevator and I lean across him and push the button for the second floor.

“Why - ?”

“Wait.” The elevator starts its creaking descent and halts on two. There’s piles of tarps and stacks of paint cans, the decorators should finish up renovating the new apartment this week. Setting down Justin’s bag, I pull out my keys and select a shiny new silver one, using it to unlock one of the two doors in the narrow hallway.

“Why are there two doors?” Justin asks offhandedly; I know he has not been nosing around here, he was way too pissed at me for not including him in the renovation plans, he’s never once mentioned the apartment since I bought it without consulting him.

Pushing open the door, I walk in and look around. “It’s not finished,” I say, “But it’s habitable, I think.”

Slowly Justin follows behind me into the large room with white-painted walls. “It’s a bit Spartan,” I say, as he follows me on a mini-tour. There’s a small bathroom with a narrow shower stall, a tiny kitchenette with fridge and microwave, and the main room is hardwood floors, mini-blinds over the large windows, and minimally furnished with a small sofa-bed, a desk, and a chair. “It wasn’t really ready to show you yet, but. . .” My voice trails off and I stop in the middle of the room and stand looking at him. He doesn’t get it yet, but he’s quick, he’ll figure it out soon.

“So,” he’s glancing around, “You turned the big apartment into two smaller apartments, huh? You’ll get more income that way I guess.”

“The bigger apartment’s for rent but this one isn’t.”

“It’s not?” He’s surprised. “Then what are you – “ He turns to look at me and I see recognition dawning in his eyes. “Brian?”

“This is for you. Partly it’s so you can have some place of your own – I purposely didn’t have much done to it, so you can paint it purple or orange or do whatever you want. Make it your own.”

“Brian.” His eyes are wide and he glances around the room again. Then he turns to look at me again. “You said – partly?”

He’s quick all right. “And partly, it’s so you have some place to go – when you need to get away from me. Like last time. Like now.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” I nod. Suddenly I feel almost humble. “And I won’t have a key,” I tell him. “Unless you give me one.”

“Brian – I’m – I’m so amazed.”

“Well.” I turn back to the hall and bring in his bags, set them down by the desk. “There’s no food or anything, I didn’t know you’d need the place so soon.”

Suddenly we hear the elevator creaking down to the lobby, Justin goes over to shut the door and then comes to stand in front of me. “Brian,” he says, putting a hand on my arm, “Brian, can you please tell me why you, why last night you. . .”

Looking him in the eye I answer honestly, “Telling you will make you madder than not telling you.”

“Well, Jesus, Brian, you have to tell me now.”

Nodding, I perch on the edge of the sofa and look up at him. “Justin – I was feeling trapped.”

“Fuck,” he says, taking one step back. “Fuck.”

“Told you.” I knew he’d be mad. Who wouldn’t?

He thinks for a minute, then asks, “Why now? Because of the new baby?”

“Yeah, probably,” I agree. I hate these kinds of conversations, but I guess I owe him this time. “I’m not exactly single anymore, and – “

“'Not exactly single!' Fuck you, Brian, you’re in a committed relationship!”

“Yeah,” I agree, “That’s what I just said. And I’m partner at the agency, and I’m the father of two! Christ, I’m a – a Liberty Avenue has-been.”

Justin laughs then, a guffaw actually, a loud and very annoying guffaw.

“It’s not funny.”

“No,” he agrees, his laughter shutting off abruptly. “Not if you have to turn around and prove to yourself how hot you are by fucking an old boyfriend.”

“He’s not an old boyfriend.”

“Brian, he’s young and beautiful and he’s hot and he wants you. With a guy like Rick, you don’t have to feel like a has-been.”

I open my mouth to protest, but I realize that he’s right. That’s why I went off with Rick last night.

“Are you going to see him again?”

“What? No. Christ, no. It was just a mistake.”

Justin regards me cynically, crossing his arms on his chest. “Did you tell him it was a mistake?”

“I did actually. Yes, I did.” It’s the truth.

We’re quiet then, just staring at each other silently for a few minutes. “Well,” I say, at last, standing up and glancing around the room. “I’ll go home now. If you need anything, you can call me. Or, you know,” I smile slightly, “You can just drop by.”

“Thanks for this place, Brian.” Justin follows me to the door. “I still can’t take it in, that you planned this for me and everything. But I do need to stay here, for a while. I do need to.”

“Yeah, I know.” I don’t blame him, not at all. “Oh,” I say, pulling out my key ring and slipping off the new silver Yale key and handing it to him. “Here’s your key. See you later.”

“Later,” Justin echoes me, then stands in the open doorway watching me climb the stairs to the fourth floor.

Back in the loft, I throw away the rest of the cold toast and pour myself another cup of coffee, carry it into the living room and sit staring at the curtained windows. This place is always so quiet when Justin's away, it’s hard to remember that I used to like it that way. Somehow it feels slightly better knowing that at least he’s close by. But even so, I already miss him.

A few minutes later there’s a knock on the door, and before I can even stand up, the door’s pushed open a foot or so. “Hi,” Justin says, poking his head through the opening. “I’m starving – can I borrow some food?”

Friday, November 28, 2003


Justin

"So whoop-de-doo, and dickery-dock, and don't forget to hang up your sock, 'cause just exactly at twelve o'clock…."

Brian impatiently rattles his newspaper and raises his voice to interrupt, "Just exactly at twelve o'clock, my dickery-dock is gonna be so far up your ass you'll be singing soprano."

"Don’t be crabby, I'm happy, I'm in high spirits, can't you let me enjoy Christmas?"

"Justin." He looks up from the newspaper - he's sprawled on the sofa while I'm busy peeling apples in the kitchen, "It's still November. Are you going to spend the next three weeks singing Christmas carols?"

"Yeah. Probably. Want to borrow my earphones?"

Brian folds the paper and lays it on the coffee table, then pads barefoot across the polished floorboards into the kitchen. He slips his arms around me from behind and leans down to lick my neck. "I'm going to the office, what are you doing today?"

"Oh no," I put down the knife and turn around, turn into his arms. "Nobody works today, you said you gave Cynthia the day off."

"Believe it or not I can actually work without Cynthia being there. Most people will be gone, it's a good quiet time to get stuff done."

"It's a good time for us to do stuff too."

"Like what?" He leans back and gives me one of his suspicious looks.

"Well, as soon as I finish making this apple pie - "

"Apple pie? You're making PIE? It's the day after Thanksgiving, I'm practically waddling from overeating, we've got all that leftover shit Debbie sent home with us - pumpkin pie and pecan pie and a chunk of chocolate cake that would kill a horse if he ate it, and you're making apple pie?"

"I'm practicing for Christmas dinner."

Brian pulls away and turns to the fridge, opens the door and looks inside. "If you're going to be practice-cooking Christmas dinner for the next three weeks, I'm going to gain fifty pounds."

"Then you can wear the Santa suit without padding."

"Santa suit?" Brian jerks around to stare at me.

"Wouldn't it be fun for Gus to have Santa visit him? We could - "

"Don't even think about it.” He closes the fridge and grabs my shoulders, gives me a shake. “Don’t. Or I'll have to kill you."

"Well," I sigh, "I knew you wouldn’t go for that. But let's decide on our decorations, okay? Do you want a real tree or a fake tree?"

"No tree." He lets me go, leans back against the sink and crosses his arms. “Justin, no fucking tree.”

"Just a simple nice green tree with white lights. Very, very minimalistic and beautiful. And I'm going to hang little white lights around the window, and - "

"Fuck no."

"Do you want to see our Christmas cards?"

"Our what?"

"I've come up with three designs for our Christmas cards, you can tell me which one you like best."

"You're really pushing this Christmas shit, you know that? No Santa, no cards, and no fucking tree."

“Okay,” I agree, turning back to my apples and picking up the paring knife. “I’m willing to compromise. No Santa, no lights on the window. But yes for cards. And a very small tree. And a few poinsettias - you liked them last year."

Brian huffs, "I didn't throw them in the garbage, that doesn't mean I liked them."

"We’re compromising." I glance at him over my shoulder.

He stares at me balefully, shaking his head. "Why do I feel like I've been had?"

"Huh?"

"Why do I feel like I've been screwed? Why do I feel like I've been fucked over?"

"Brian, I'll just do cards and a few poinsettias for the loft. And just a very, very small tree. Nothing gaudy. I promise. I'll give up all the other stuff. Come on, I'm bending over backward for you."

"Bend over frontwards instead, because I'm going to fuck your manipulative little ass."

"Okay, I will, if you don't go to the office."

"I'm going to the office."

I let him see the disappointment in my face, and he sighs. "Just for a couple hours."

"Then come home for turkey sandwiches, and you can look at the designs for our cards."

"Jesus Christ." He turns away then and goes to the bedroom to change his clothes.



Brian

I've always hated Christmas. Since I left home, I've managed to avoid all the holiday bullshit. Most of it anyway. If I ever needed any fucking good cheer, I'd drop into Deb's for a brief visit. Last year it was easy enough to say no to Justin when he wanted to decorate the loft and do other celebratory kinds of crap, but it's not so easy this year. The loft is now officially Justin's home too, so how can I totally blow him off? Well, I can, of course, but it's not worth the whining and pouting.

All right, so Justin doesn't whine and pout. But he does his best to make me feel guilty, though I'm virtually immune to guilt.

I'd had this really brilliant idea that we'd go away on vacation during Christmas, then I wouldn't have to deal with everyone's expectations, with family commitments, with Christmas carols, with the whole gift-giving blackmail scheme. That backfired on me though when Justin insisted that I compromise with his own ideas for the holiday. It's been push-pull ever since I sort of agreed, and I realize that I'm dreading it.

Nobody knows better than an advertising man what a rip-off the holidays are. There's a feeding frenzy for profits and every last drop of sentimentality is squeezed out of people with ad campaigns specially designed to play on the so-called heartstrings. Everything builds to a crescendo of greed on Christmas eve, a night when I used to be dragged kicking and screaming to midnight mass.

That was long ago before Mom tried out a bunch of different churches till she found one she liked. She wasn't born Catholic so she said she wasn't required to die Catholic. Clare and I had to keep going to mass, Mom said she signed us over when she married Pop. Of course, I skipped out whenever I could, but the church has a good tracking system and someone always knows when you’re missing. Pop didn’t give a flying fuck about church, but if a nun called our house to report me, he was glad to have an excuse to teach me a lesson.

Just thinking about the holidays brings back a million fucking memories I’d sure as shit rather forget. I can’t wait to get to the office and bury myself in distracting paperwork.



Friday, December 19, 2003

Justin

“That’s a small tree? That’s a very small tree?”

“Yeah,” I answer, a bit defensively. “Well, it’s seven feet tall. But with this high ceiling, that’s pretty small really.”

“It smells like a forest in here.” Brian makes a face as he sets down his briefcase by the desk.

“Nice, isn’t it?

“I’m gonna wake up in the night and think I’ve gone camping. I’ll probably walk into the living room and piss on your tree.”

“Brian, have you ever gone camping in your life?”

“Yeah, once, it’s highly over-rated.” He’s lost interest in the tree, he heads up the steps to the bedroom, so I follow him.

“I need you to help put the lights on.”

He’s pulling off his jacket. “I didn’t even agree to the tree, I’m not going to put lights on the fucking thing.”

“Hey.” I grab his arm and he turns around to look at me. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t spoil it. Please?”

He stares at me for a moment, I can’t read his face. Then he sighs deeply, pulls away from my hand and hangs his jacket in the closet. “After dinner. Assuming there’s something here to eat?”

“Leftover quiche from last night, is that okay?”

“Sure,” he shrugs.

"I thought you liked my quiche."

"Justin," Brian gives me a look as he pulls loose his tie and unbuttons his shirt, "I'll help with the lights if you promise to stop acting like a housewife."

I stand still for a minute, keeping my face blank. We're staring at each other, then he pulls off his shirt and throws it on the floor.

That's a test. If I pick up the shirt, I'm a housewife. Fingers twitching, instead, I turn away and go down to the kitchen. And though I won't let him see my face, I can't help smiling when I hear his quiet laugh behind me. Brian's such an asshole sometimes.

So I heat up the quiche and in a few minutes he joins me in the kitchen, even helps make a salad, then we sit on the stools and eat at the counter.

“Tomorrow we have to go shopping for Christmas presents.”

“You know I don’t do presents.” Brian spears a cherry tomato and plops it in his mouth, then leans over to kiss me and shoves it into my mouth with his tongue. “There’s your cherry back.”

After I’ve chewed and swallowed, I insist, “This year’s different. The presents will be from both of us. That won’t fuck with your Scrooge image, you can blame it all on me.”

“I’ll give you my card, buy whatever you want.”

“Brian, I want you to come with me. Besides, you love shopping.”

“I love shopping for myself. Armani, Hugo Boss. Hey, that’s it – we’ll give everybody a leather jacket.”

“Maybe we can find a baby leather jacket for Gus!”

“And a baby motorcycle. He can scare the crap out of the other kids at preschool.”

I laugh but say, “I can’t see Debbie in a leather jacket. Or your mom.”

“My mom?”

“What do you think she’d like for Christmas?”

“If I gave my mother a Christmas present, the shock would kill her.” Brian turns his head and looks down his nose at me. “Do you want to be responsible for my mother’s death?”

“It could be from Gus.”

Brian lays down his fork and stares at his plate. “Don’t push so hard, Justin.”

“On our way to Deb’s on Christmas eve, we could stop by Clare’s – I know she invited you to come over, your mom will be there, and – “

“No.”

“Brian – “

“I am not going near those people on Christmas. And if you don’t want me to leave town, you’ll stop pushing.” He waits a moment, still not looking at me, then repeats, “Stop pushing.”

“I’ve stopped.”

He waits to see if I’m going to argue anymore, then he picks up his fork and takes a bite of quiche.

“I was going to send her one of our cards. Can I do that?”

He turns to look at me then and says quietly, “No.”

“Okay.”

We’re silent for a few minutes while we finish eating, then Brian says, “You can send her a card. But no presents and no visits.”

“Okay.”

After dinner Brian helps me put strings of lights on the tree – he turns out to be very good at it, I remember my dad cursing and fuming because the light strings always got tangled, but Brian’s very patient and efficient.

“I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re so good at this,” I tell him when the last string is attached, “You’re good at everything.”

Brian stops before plugging in the final socket and admits, “I had a lot of practice. I did it at home every year, Pop was always too plastered, he would’ve electrocuted himself.” He pauses and adds, “Not that that would’ve been a bad thing.”

I know he’s joking so I laugh. Or anyway, I’m pretty sure he’s joking. “Oh!” I exclaim, when at last he plugs in the lights, “Oh, it’s beautiful!” It is too, the tree’s in front of the window and I go to pull open the drapes.

“Oh, Christ,” Brian moans, “People will see it from the street. Everyone will know I’ve gone round the bend.”

“Probably they’ll just think you’ve moved.”

He laughs then, grabbing me and pulling me into his arms. After a loud smacking kiss he says, “Let’s go out now, I haven’t been to Woody’s all fucking week.”

“Later,” I say, “Let’s finish decorating the tree first.”

Brian tilts back his head and regards me suspiciously. “You said, minimalist. Lights are minimal, decorations are maximal.”

“Just a few,” I promise, “Very simple and beautiful. Let me get the boxes from the storeroom.”

“No.” He’s adamant, pulling away and heading for the bedroom. “That’s the end of my patience, I want to go get drunk and shoot some pool. You coming?”

“Sure.” I know when to give in graciously. “Besides, if Michael’s there I can tell him I won.”

Brian turns from the closet and asks, surprised, “Won what?”

Keeping my back to him while I pull on my jeans, I answer, “He lost a bet.”

“What bet?”

Reluctantly I answer, still without looking at him, “Michael bet a thousand dollars that you wouldn’t let me put up a Christmas tree.”

Brian comes around the end of the bed and pulls me around to face him. “Is that what this is about?” he asks, his voice harsh. “To prove something to Michael?”

“No! Christ, Brian, you know it’s not. Don’t you?” Now it’s my turn to be harsh. “Don’t you?”

He pauses, staring hard at me, then he sighs, his body relaxes. “Yeah. Okay. But why’d you make the bet?”

“He was being – umm.”

I stop right there, Brian doesn’t need to know how Michael treats me. We’d been at the shop going over proofs, and we started talking about Christmas eve at Deb’s. Michael had said Brian probably wouldn’t come, he said Brian never celebrated Christmas and nothing and nobody could ever change that. So I told him that it was going to be different this year, that we were going to do a lot of Christmasy things, and that’s when Michael laughed and said, “I’ll bet a thousand dollars Brian won’t let you have a tree in the loft.”

“He was being what?” Brian’s waiting.

“Oh, nothing.”

Brian’s silent for a couple moments while he stares at me. “I won’t get in the middle of you guys.”

“I know,” I nod at him, “I don’t need you to. Everything’s fine, I’ve told you a billion times.” Still, he hesitates, so I add, “Michael just said you’d never had a Christmas tree in the loft and you never would, and I said I’ll bet we do this year and he goes, ‘You’re on – a thousand bucks.’ So I said okay. That’s all.”

Brian lets go of my arms then, moves back toward the closet and hunkers down to search through his shoe rack, selects a pair of boots and sits down on the bed ledge to put them on. Over his shoulder he asks, “And if you lost the bet? Where were you going to get a thousand bucks?”

“Oh, it wasn’t a real bet. Just kind of a – just sort of a joke.”

It wasn’t really a joke of course, but I had no intention of holding Michael to it anyway. Naturally, he doesn’t discuss his finances with me, but I know he’s having a tough time making a go of it with the shop right now.

Brian lets the subject drop, we finish getting ready and head out the door. I want to leave the tree lights on so we can see them from the street but Brian refuses – there’s a lot of fires caused by Christmas lights he says, but he lets me run on ahead and waits behind so I have a minute to see what the tree looks like in the window. It’s beautiful, and when Brian joins me in the garage a few minutes later, I throw myself into his arms and give him a big hug. “Thanks,” I murmur, “I’m so happy!”



Brian

I told Justin I won’t get in the middle of him and Michael but I wonder how I’m going to avoid it much longer. Justin won’t tell me anything – I don’t want him to tell me anything – about his dealings with Michael. They’re business partners, not friends, their business has nothing to do with me, and if they don’t like each other, hey, that’s life. Justin’s a man, he can hold his own with Michael. And yet. And yet. . .

I push those thoughts aside and we head off to Woody’s, we see Michael at a table in the corner with Vic. Ben’s not there – probably home working on his new novel. Naturally, we join them, they’re waiting for a pool table, Vic kisses Justin and says, “Thanks for the Christmas card, Sunshine, we got it today, it’s gorgeous!”

Justin’s beaming, and much as I hate to be a part of sending Christmas cards, I’m proud of the card he made. It really is beautiful – and unsentimental - an ink and watercolor drawing of the three poinsettia plants he bought and arranged on the coffee table, with a simple calligraphy message ‘Happy Holidays from Brian and Justin.’

“We got it too,” Michael says. “Is it cheaper to make your own cards?”

It’s dead silent for a moment, then Justin answers, with the merest edge to his voice, “Yeah. I was saving money in case I had to pay up on our bet.”

“I won’t hold you to that,” Michael says with a laugh, “It was a foregone conclusion that Brian would never have a Christmas tree.”

Leaning back in the chair and stretching out my legs, I smile at Michael and tell him, “We put the lights on it tonight. And we put it in the window so everyone can see.”

Michael has such an expressive face, his eyes almost bug out as he exclaims, “Huh?”

“Our tree,” I explain, fixing my stare on him, “Our beautiful Christmas tree.”

“You’re not serious?”

I don’t answer, instead, I ask casually, “What’s this about a bet?”

Justin jumps up and pulls on my hand. “Come on Brian, let’s go get drinks.”

I throw a glance at Vic, who’s quick as always. “I’ll go with you,” he says to Justin, getting up and putting an arm around him, pulling him away from the table. Justin throws a worried look over his shoulder but allows Vic to lead him to the bar.

As soon as they’re out of earshot, I say quietly, “Michael, it’s time for you to back off Justin.”

“What the fuck?” He leans forward to stare at me. “What has he been telling you?”

“Nothing,” I shake my head, “He tells me nothing. He doesn’t need to – do you think I’m blind and deaf? You treat him like shit, and I’m asking you to stop.”

Michael’s shaking his head. “That’s bullshit.”

Ignoring the interruption I say earnestly, “Justin is my partner.” I’m surprised that I don’t trip over the word but my voice doesn’t falter. “He’ll be with me for a long time. Maybe – forever.” Christ, that word does make me falter, but I forge ahead, “So get used to him being in my life and stop treating him like a – “

“Like a what?” Michael’s face is contorted, “Like a lying, cheating, son of a bitch?”

I leap up and grab the collar of Michael’s shirt, dragging him urgently to his feet.

“If you ever say that again,” I hiss at him, shoving my face at him till we’re nose to nose, “I’m going to – “

Before I can finish my threat Vic and Justin are back at the table, both of them grabbing me and pulling me off Michael, who stumbles backward and almost falls over his chair.

I’m gasping for breath and so is Michael, we’re glaring at each other and panting. Vic pushes me down into my chair and grabs Michael’s arm.

“We’re going to go now,” Vic announces calmly, “You boys can finish your conversation when you’ve cooled down.” He pulls Michael’s jacket from the chair and shoves it at him. Red-faced, Michael throws one last angry glance at me and another at Justin, turns abruptly and stomps off toward the back door.

Justin puts a glass of JB into my hand, which I’m surprised to find is shaking. I toss back the drink in one swallow and wait for the warmth to spread through my body and calm me down.

“Brian, I’m sorry.”

“What?” I turn to look at Justin, who has dragged his chair close to mine. His face reflects how upset he is and he’s grasping his own glass of JB so tight I’m afraid the glass will shatter. “It’s okay,” I tell him, taking a couple deep breaths. “It’s okay,” I repeat, “Stop worrying. It’ll blow over, we never stay mad very long.” I don’t know if I’m comforting Justin, or myself.



Wednesday, December 24, 2003

Justin

I’d confided in Vic my worries about Christmas Eve but he assured me that everything would have blown over by tonight. I don’t know if Brian has talked to Michael since they almost got in to a fight at Woody’s but I don’t dare to ask him, and I don’t want to make things worse. Instead, I decide to act like everything’s normal.

Debbie greets us with open arms and loud kisses, Vic surges forward to take the packages from our arms and we hang our coats in the hall closet. When we walk into the living room, Michael and Ben stand up and there’s just the slightest pause before Michael moves forward, takes my hand and gives me a sincere smile as he says, “Merry Christmas, Justin.”

“Th- thanks,” I stammer, as he lets me go and I’m engulfed in Ben’s killer hug. I peer around Ben’s massive shoulder and see Michael move into Brian’s arms for a hug, and they kiss briefly.

“Hey-hey, none of that,” Ben jokes, “Not unless you want to watch me give Justin a serious lip-lock.”

Everybody laughs then and I know it’s going to be all right. Brian throws himself down in his favorite chair and pulls me onto his lap. “These lips are ALL MINE,” he says, before pulling my face close to his and proving it with a long and deep kiss that, despite everyone watching, leaves me shaky and breathless.

“Hey Vic,” Debbie stage-whispers, “Better hide that damned mistletoe or we’ll have an orgy in our living room!”

Vic chuckles. “You say that like it’s a BAD thing.”



Brian

I’d gone to see Michael at his shop a few nights ago, needing to clear the air. When I walked in he was with two customers so I picked up a Captain America and leafed through it until they left, then I approached the counter.

“Before you say anything,” Michael started right in, “I need to apologize for the things I said about Justin. That was wrong of me and I don’t know why I said it.”

We both know why he said it, we both know why he doesn’t like Justin, but there’s no need to discuss it.

“I wouldn’t really have hit you,” I told him, and we both knew that that isn’t true either. The open honesty that characterized our long friendship is not so open anymore.

“Brian, if you’d said stuff about Ben, I would have – “

“Let’s just forget it. Okay? Can we do that?”

“Sure,” Michael nodded, “Sure.”

There was an awkward pause, then the bell over the door tinkled as another customer came in.

“See you Christmas eve at Mom’s?”

“Yes, we’ll be there. Both of us.”

“Good,” Michael said seriously, then he gave me a real smile. “Good!”

The bell tinkled as the door opened again, and I gave Michael a wave and went out of the shop. I walked three blocks to the car park before I looked down and realized that I’d walked out still holding the Captain America comic book. It was too cold to go back so I stuffed the comic into a trash bin and resolved to slip a few bucks into the cash register next time I was at the shop.



Justin

We’ve loaded up our gifts and the tinned fruitcake that Brian had warned me Debbie would foist on us and buckled ourselves into the jeep.

“I want to make a stop on the way home,” Brian tells me, “But you have to promise something.”

“What?”

“Don’t – talk about it. At all.”

“Brian, I don’t know what you – “

“I’m just saying, you can wait in the car and keep your mouth shut, or I can drop you at home first. It’s your call.”

Mystified but picking up on the tension in Brian’s voice, I answer quietly, “I’ll wait in the car and keep my mouth shut.” I hope that’s a promise I can keep.

We drive along in silence for a while, in darkness the red and green traffic lights reflect on snow and patches of ice on the roadway, it seems almost unnaturally quiet. I want to put on some music but I’m afraid to intrude on the silence that has overtaken Brian. We drive for a while and I realize that we’ve reached the outskirts of town, I open my mouth to ask where we’re going and quickly snap it shut just in time.

Away from the city lights, the sky seems so dark, the stars multiplied a thousand times. Brian turns down a road with far-apart street lights. After a few minutes, he slows down and pulls off the side of the road, driving slowly through an arched metal gate on which a spotlight illuminates the words ‘St. Joseph’s Catholic Cemetery.’ The narrow road has been plowed recently but the falling snow is beginning to settle on the pavement, so Brian drives very slowly and carefully, taking a lot of twists and turns till finally he stops the jeep and puts it in park. He opens his door and murmurs, “Wait here,” then he reaches behind the seat and grabs a brown paper bag. Leaving the car running, the heater blasting me with its welcome warmth, Brian closes the door and I watch as he trudges through rounded snowbanks, walking in the path of the jeep’s headlights past headstones misshapen with mounded snow.

Then he stops and I see him take something from the paper bag, Brian’s about thirty feet away from me so it’s hard to see clearly but it looks like a liquor bottle. He opens it, takes a drink, and then pours the rest of the bottle into a mound of snow – presumably on a grave. Presumably on his dad’s grave, though I’ve never been to this cemetery, I don’t know where they buried his father, and I know he won’t allow me to ask. He drops the empty bottle and stands there a minute – maybe he’s talking to his dad – and then he squares his shoulders, turns around and walks briskly back to the jeep.

Brian stomps his boots to dislodge clinging snow before he hoists himself inside. Without looking at me he fastens his seatbelt and puts the car in gear, then rolls out onto the roadway and drives us carefully and slowly to the cemetery entrance. When we pull back out on the highway, I dare to slip my hand across the seat and put it on top of Brian’s hand on the gearshift. He doesn’t shake off my hand, and when we come to a red light, Brian leans over and kisses my mouth, his face still cold from the night air and the taste of whiskey on his tongue.

“Put some music on,” he suggests, “Anything but Christmas carols.”

Fumbling around in the glove compartment, I pick out a tape almost at random and put it in, it’s soft jazz, very soothing and lyrical.

After a few minutes, Brian asks, “What time are we supposed to be at the munchers’ tomorrow morning?”

“Eight.”

Brian groans so I remind him, “They won’t be able to make Gus wait any longer than that. You do want to be there when he sees all his presents, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Brian answers. “Yes.”

This time it’s Brian who reaches across the seat and takes my hand in his. At the next red light, he stops and leans over to give me another kiss. He squeezes my hand gently and murmurs, “Justin. . .”

“Hmm?”

“Justin - I’m glad you talked me into it. I want to be there for Gus. I want to be there for my son.”

The light's green now and Brian turns the corner, heading the jeep for home through the gently falling snow.

Saturday, February 21, 2004

Justin

Brian sat on the sofa staring at the window for a while as I fixed myself some breakfast, we didn't talk. After a few minutes he got up and went to change his clothes, I figured he'd be heading for the gym. I wondered what he'd say to Michael about last night. Probably nothing. In Brian's eyes, Saint Michael can do no wrong.

Well, that's not always been the case. I remember the time Brian punched Michael in the face, it was at Mel and Lindsay's anniversary last year, a week after the Rage party. Everybody had been shocked, especially Michael, but naturally he and Brian made up right away. Mostly I can understand and accept the special relationship those two have, I only get upset when Brian takes Michael's part against me. And Michael's never stopped being against me.

Oh, he tries. And he pretends to like me. Superficially we get along okay, but Michael's never forgiven me for walking out on Brian, and whenever he can dig at me, he does. Like last night. I knew they had plans to go out and I was okay with it. When I heard the news that Lindsay's officially pregnant, I knew damned well that Brian would start fucking around immediately and I was okay with that too. Well, not okay, but resigned. Resigned's the best I can do.

But when Brian hadn't come home by three o'clock I started getting worried. There was no telling whether he would have gotten totally wasted, and if he'd left Michael and gone off with a trick, who would drive him home? I began to picture all kinds of grisly accidents - once you've been in a major car crash it's not something you easily forget. By three-thirty I couldn't stand it anymore and called Michael. After several rings, Ben's voice answered groggily, which was a relief - I thought that meant Michael wasn't home either. But a second later, Michael came on the line.

"Brian's not home yet," I told him, not bothering to apologize for the late call, "Wasn't he with you tonight?"

"For a while," he answered, then asked, "Are you checking up on him?" I could hear the tone of voice he uses when he wants to dig at me.

Trying to keep my own voice noncommittal I said, "It's late and I worry about him driving if he's messed up." When Michael said nothing, I asked, "Was he messed up?"

"A little," Michael admitted. There was a long pause, then he added, "But you don't have to worry about him."

"Did he go home with you?" I pictured Brian passed out on the sofa at Michael and Ben's apartment. I hoped it was uncomfortably lumpy.

"No." Just 'no,' flat out, but leaving something carefully unsaid.

Fuck, just as I suspected. I wanted to hang up but I needed to ask, "Was Brian sober enough to drive?"

"No. Not really. But somebody else was driving."

"So Brian's with a trick, big surprise." Nonchalant. I had no desire to give Michael the satisfaction of knowing I was pissed off. "Thanks. Sorry to bother you."

"It wasn't a trick."

"Huh?"

"It wasn't a trick," he repeated. "It was that guy that Brian used to date, what's his name? Rick?"

Speechless, I struggled to say something, anything.

"You remember him? That gorgeous young blond guy?"

There was no way I could answer Michael, no way I could fake unconcern when I could hardly breathe. I pulled the phone away from my ear and just looked at it for a minute. Michael's voice was still mumbling something in the background but I couldn't hear it. Didn't want to hear it. Instead, I clicked the phone off and laid it down carefully on the table.

I have to stop remembering last night, my anger at Brian and Michael is giving me a headache. Shaking my head now to clear it, I put bread in the toaster and retrieve jam from the fridge.


Brian

"I knew it!" Michael exclaims, "I knew he tells you things behind my back. And he's a fucking liar!"

"Liar?" I'm confused. And I want to defend Justin - he doesn't talk about Michael at all, but Michael will never believe that no matter how many times I tell him. Now I repeat, "Justin's a liar? You didn't tell him about Rick?"

"Of course I did! But he's lying when he says I called him, HE called ME. Checking up on you!"

"What time did he call?"

"How the fuck do I know?" Michael grabs another stack of Spiderman comics from the box at his feet and shoves them in a bin beneath the front windows, then glares at me again. "Three-thirty, four o'clock, I don't remember."

"Well," I say reasonably, "I suppose he was worried. But did he ask you who I was with, or did you volunteer that information?" I can't keep a tinge of bitterness out of my voice, Michael hears it and narrows his eyes.

"Don't third-degree me, Brian, I'm not going to be the fall guy just because you can't keep your dick in your pants whenever some blond kid comes on to you."

Annoyed, I can't resist saying, "Michael, I wouldn't care if you told him about Rick to spite me, but that's not why you did it. You wanted to upset Justin. Didn't you?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Michael picks up the empty box and takes it with him behind the counter. Without looking at me, he growls, "I only told him because he was worried that you were driving around wasted, so I told him you weren't driving." When I say nothing, Michael glances at my face, reading skepticism there no doubt, so he adds, "Next time, ask me to cover for you, if you want me to lie."

Ignoring the bullshit, keeping my voice calm and reasonable, I start to say, "But - " then stop abruptly, shake my head and turn to go.

"But what?"

I push away my annoyance, go behind the counter and drape my arm around Michael's shoulders. "Mikey, I'm asking you - again - to back off Justin."

He squirms away, shakes off my arm. "I've got to concentrate on the cash register now," he mutters, "Before I can open up. And I'm not going to discuss this anymore."

That's enough for me too, I'm sick of being put in the middle. Staring at the floor, I take a deep breath and say quietly, "Michael - don't make me choose."

"What?"

He heard me. Without looking at him, I turn and march to the door, yank it open; I pull too hard, the bell over the door goes CLANK-CLANK-CLANK! and the sound repeats over and over in my head as I stride off down the street ignoring Michael, who has followed me to the open door and calls after me, "What? What? What?"



Sunday, February 22, 2004

Debbie

I should have known it was too good to be true, everybody being available for a family Sunday dinner, usually, some folks have other plans so it’s seldom we get a full house nowadays. Everybody shows up all right, but it doesn’t take long to figure out that half of them are feuding with the other half and things are pretty tense. Michael and Ben arrive first, Ben’s helping me in the kitchen when Brian shows up – alone. He walks in, walks right past Michael sitting on the couch, and comes into the kitchen, gives me a kiss, something he usually doesn’t do without a gun to his head – then he pulls out a chair and sits down at the table. I glance into the living room, expecting Michael to join us, but suddenly he jumps up off the sofa and marches loudly up the stairs.

“What’s that all about?” I ask Brian, not really expecting an answer. He just shrugs. “And where’s Sunshine, didn’t he come with you?”

“I don’t know if he’s coming or not.”

“You don’t know? Why don’t you know?”

“Haven’t talked to him today,” he shrugs again as if that’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Why haven’t you talked to him?”

“Hey Brian, want a beer?” Vic interrupts, putting a hand on my shoulder and squeezing just a little too hard.

Then the door opens and Justin comes in carrying a bottle of wine, he’s so thoughtful, never empty handed, he gives me a hug and when he pulls away I see his eyes slide over my shoulder.

“Hey,” Brian says and Justin mumbles “Hey” before moving quickly into the kitchen and offering to help Ben, who’s creating some kind of exotic salad dressing.

So, there’s something going on there, too.

Then the girls and Ted and Emmett arrive at the same time and I lose track of the boys in the greetings and congratulations and Gus screeching for his daddy. Mel puts him down and he runs straight into Brian’s outstretched arms. I bet Brian’s relieved that at least somebody likes him today.

We’re busy dishing up the food and everybody’s taking places at the table when Michael comes back downstairs and pulls out a chair. Eventually, the chatter dies down as plates are heaped full - well, a glance at Brian shows his plate's empty except for a tiny mound of salad which he moves around and around with a fork. He catches me looking at him and stabs a piece of lettuce and shoves it in his mouth.

"Since when don't you eat my chicken marsala?"

Brian chews and swallows, then says, "Too fattening, I'm on a diet."

"Bullshit," I throw at him, "You're thinner than you've been in years. If you're really dieting, it's time to stop."

Melanie laughs then, loud and long, everyone turns to look at her. "Brian's been 'dieting' all right - if you call doing without something, dieting."

"Mel," chimes in Lindsay, "Don't."

"Don't what?" I ask, my head swiveling around to peer at everyone at the table - everyone's as curious as I am. Well, except Brian, who's frowning, and Justin, who's staring at his plate.

"Mel," Lindsay repeats, "We promised."

Brian's still frowning at Melanie, then he leans back in his chair. "Women have no honor," he snorts, crossing his arms on his chest.

If he's trying to goad Melanie, it works. "Big fucking deal, it was the least you could do for Lindsay and Gus, were you expecting some medal of honor?"

"What are you talking about?" I demand, I can't stand secrets.

Lindsay murmurs, "Some things are private."

"Not in this family," Ted pipes up.

Nodding agreement, I add, "And not with half of you mad at the other half. Let's clear the air, then we can all relax and enjoy this dinner I spent all fucking day cooking."

There's silence for a minute, then Melanie tosses her head and flicks hair out of her eyes. “We asked Brian to be monogamous for three months, for obvious safety reasons. Like I said, big fucking deal.”

“Brian monogamous?” Emmett bursts out, ‘For three months?” and “No fucking way,” Michael exclaims, and Ted sputters, “I don’t believe it – that’s impossible!”

Brian’s glaring at Mel and she’s laughing in his face when suddenly Justin leaps up so fast his chair tips over and falls to the floor behind him with a loud crash, everyone goes silent as Justin turns away and we watch as he hurries through the living room, grabs his jacket from the closet and he’s out the door, slamming it behind him.

Brian's look at Mel ought to drop her dead in her tracks, at least she’s no longer laughing, then he follows behind Justin, grabbing his own jacket as he goes out the door.

“Oh, Mel, how could you?” Lindsay sighs.

“What?” Melanie doesn’t get it, obviously neither do Michael, Ted, and Emmett, who are still babbling on and on, marveling at the miracle of a monogamous Brian like it’s a loaves and fishes kind of thing. Glancing at Ben I see that he gets it, and Vic puts a hand on my arm, maybe to stop me from giving Melanie a tongue-lashing. Well, tough, she deserves it, and nobody ever accused me of going easy on folks who act stupid.

“Shame on you,” I tell her to her face; hell, that’s mild for me. They all stop talking to stare at me.

“Since when do you take Brian’s side?” Mel demands, she’s mad.

“I’m not taking Brian’s side, I’m thinking of Justin,” I snap back at her. “Don’t you see how you’re all making him feel – like as if Justin can never be enough for Brian?”

“Well – he can’t,” she snaps back, “I don’t see what – “

“Rubbing Sunshine’s nose in it, and – “

“Oh come on, Ma,” Michael joins the ruckus, “If Justin’s not used to it by now, he better get used to it, Brian’ll never change.”

“He’s changed a fucking lot,” Vic says mildly.

“Not that much,” Michael insists. “The minute he heard that Lindsay’s pregnant, it was back to business as usual.”

Aha. “So that’s why Brian and Justin are hardly speaking.” Then I think for a minute. “Well, that’s one mystery solved. But how come Brian’s mad at you?”

“Who says he’s mad at me?” Michael asks, but he’s looking away. “Can we get back to eating dinner now? Everything’s cold.”

“Stick it in the microwave,” I growl at him.

And I don’t mean his dinner plate.



Brian

“Justin, wait.” He’s got a head start and he’s opening his car door before I catch up with him. He hasn’t heard me, when I grab his arm he jumps and stares at me open-mouthed.

“Justin, I – “

He turns around then and stands like a statue; waiting.

“Justin, I – “

He’s still waiting.

Fuck. “Justin, I’m – sorry.” Christ, I almost choke on it.

“What?”

No, I won’t say it again. “You heard me,” I insist and wait, dropping my hand from his arm, shoving my hands in my pockets.

Finally, he shrugs his shoulders. "And so what? You're sorry, and so what?"

We just stare at each other, and I realize I'm getting angry. "I never go after people," I remind him, "And I just did. I never apologize, and I just did. That ought to count for something."

After a moment he nods. "I'm honored." I hear the bitterness, and actually, I don't blame him.

"And for what it's worth, I reamed Michael out for the way he handled things."

Justin raises his eyebrows. "You told him he should have covered for you?"

"You know that's not what I fucking mean. And we both know why he told you about. . ." A shiver reminds me that it's fucking cold, I pull on my jacket. "And he's not going to do it again."

Shaking his head, Justin contradicts me. "It will happen again, Brian, it's been happening since the first night we met. He'll never stop hating me and you know it."

"I told him - " I stop right there; I never talk about Michael and Justin to the other. But maybe this time I have to. Looking Justin squarely in the eye, I repeat, "I told him - not to make me choose."

He's surprised. "Really?" I just keep looking at him, and I see a tiny smile begin to turn up the corners of his mouth. "You really said that to him?" he asks again, and I nod.

"Really."

The tiny smile becomes a grin, then Justin moves in close and slides his arms around my waist under my jacket. My arms go around him with a tight grip, I don't want him to get away. And I don't want him to ask me but I know he will, so I beat him to the punch.

"You, you little shit," and I push my face against his, our lips slide together, his breath is warm and tastes like garlic bread. After our kiss, I tell him, "I'm hungry now. Shall we go back in and get it over with?"

"Get what over with - dinner, or the inquisition?"

"At Deb's is there a difference?"



Debbie

To everyone's surprise, Brian and Justin come back into the house, hang up their jackets in the silence that's fallen over everyone and return to their places at the table, both acting as if nothing happened.

"You boys make up?" I demand.

Brian gives me his raised eyebrows snotty look and says, "Please pass the chicken."

"Answer the question first."

Brian tries to outstare me but it's a game he's never been able to win. Then he glances around the table at all the other faces also waiting. He frowns and sighs, but turns to Justin and slips an arm around his shoulders. Justin leans into him and they kiss.

"There's your answer, sis," Vic chuckles, everybody relaxes and goes back to eating. There's a lot more I want to find out, but I know when to keep my mouth shut.



Justin

Brian gets home first and parks on the street, he almost always saves the garage space for me. He’s waiting by the elevator and I join him in silence, we get in and I reach over to push the button.

“Don’t stop at two,” Brian says, “Come back home with me.”

My hand hesitates over the buttons and he reaches around me, pushes four, the elevator starts creaking upward.

“I want to sleep in my place tonight,” I tell him, marveling that I have a place of my own.

“Okay,” he murmurs, pulling me into his arms and leaning his forehead against mine, “But let’s fuck first.”

“I don’t want to fuck.” We’re pressed tight together, staring eyeball to eyeball.

“Really?” Brian almost-laughs, rubbing his hard cock against mine. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah,” I answer a bit breathlessly, “I don’t have to fuck every time my dick gets hard.”

That stops him. He pulls his face away, frowning. “You’re still mad.” It’s rhetorical so I don’t have to answer.

The thing is, I am still mad. I understand Brian, I understand why he did it, and I’m more impressed than I have any intention of telling him, that he apologized. But I’m not convinced that it won’t happen again tomorrow. Or next week. Or next month.

“I told you I won’t see him again.” He unlocks the door and I follow him into the loft.

“I’m not mad about Rick,” I say to his back, then I correct myself, “I mean, of course, I’m mad about Rick. But he’s not the problem.”

Brian turns around to face me, we’re standing by his desk making no move to take off our jackets. “Justin,” he says, studying my face, “I don’t do these kinds of conversations. You know that. So,” he takes a deep breath, “Just tell me what the problem is, and I’ll fix it.”

“The problem is. . .” Am I really going to tell him? Because what’s the point, he can’t fix this problem.

“What?” Brian’s patience, never very great to begin with, is running out. “Just fucking tell me, can you do that? Instead of – “

“The problem is, you feel trapped. Have you any idea how fucking insulting that is?”

He opens his mouth to say something, I don’t know what, but I cut him off.

“Do you have any idea how it feels to know that you think of me as just another responsibility hanging around your neck, dragging you down?”

“That’s bullshit!” Brian’s face is flushed, “I never said that.”

“You don’t need to. And as long as you feel trapped, you’ll do whatever it takes to make yourself feel free.”

He’s really angry, Brian seldom shows his feelings so openly. “Do not fucking psychoanalyze me,” he says, his quiet voice belied by his red face, his flashing eyes. “Don’t think you can pigeon-hole me, put me in a box, do not think you can fucking PREDICT me!” He’s almost shouting now.

That’s enough for me; I turn away and go right back out the door and down the steps. I wanted to get my new sketchbook and a bottle of water, but I can’t be in the loft another minute.

As I’m digging out my key I hear the loft door slam shut two floors above me, and the echo fills the hallway as I hurry into the new apartment and struggle not to slam my own door in return. I’ve just changed my clothes and have settled on the sofa with a paperback novel when I hear Brian coming down the stairs – of course, I know his tread and he’s moving pretty fast. Setting down the book, I walk over to the door, ready to pull it open.

But Brian’s footsteps don’t stop on the landing; instead, he continues down, and I hurry to my window to peer out at the street just as Brian emerges from the foyer and pulls out his keys to unlock the jeep. He’s going out dancing. And tricking. No matter what he says, Brian’s predictable. So why am I surprised? And why does it still hurt so much?

Plopping down on the sofa, I pick up my book and try to concentrate. A few minutes later I’ve tossed down the book and picked up a sketchpad. A few minutes after that, I’m climbing the stairs to the loft. I want to watch tv, and it’s a safe bet Brian won’t be home for hours. Or maybe not till morning. There’s a movie on Showtime I’ve been wanting to see, and I just get snuggled down on the sofa with a Coke and a bag of Cheetos when suddenly the door of the loft is pushed open and I whip my head around to stare over my shoulder.

It’s Brian, and for a moment I think maybe he's brought a trick home, but no, he’s alone. And he’s carrying something – it looks like. . . no, it can’t be. . .



Brian

Justin’s sprawled out on the sofa watching tv, a bag of Cheetos in his hand. “Now who’s predictable?” I drawl casually as I walk into the living room.

I wait while he stands up and walks close to me. “I thought you went out,” he says, “I heard you leave, so I – “

“I did go out.”

“What’s that?” he tilts his head, nodding at the ridiculously romantic bouquet of dark pink roses I’m clutching in my hand, feeling like an Edwardian suitor come a-calling.

Shaking my head at my own folly, I stare at the flowers, feeling nothing short of amazed. "I don't know."

"Brian," he murmurs, smiling slightly as he comes closer, "Why'd you bring me flowers?"

"I don't know," I say again, then I feel my mouth turn up in an answering smile. "Okay," I answer grudgingly, "Because I want you to stop being mad. Because I want you to sleep here tonight. Because I want to fu- " With an effort, I stop myself and lower my voice. "Because I want to make love to you. Because. . ."

"Brian." He's smiling into my eyes.

"When are you going to stop me?" I demand, clearing my throat. "If I have to go on any longer, I'll puke."

Justin takes the flowers from my hand, I've been gripping them so hard the stems are wilted. "Thank you," he says, holding the bouquet to his face to sniff the sweet fragrance.

"So," I clear my throat again and pull off my jacket. "This romance shit - is it working?"

Wednesday, March 10, 2004

Justin

I drew a picture of my roses before they faded, I wanted Brian to take a photo of me holding them but he balked at that and said if I told anybody he bought me flowers he'd deny it. So I made a sketch for myself, to remember. To maybe look at on those days when I want to strangle Brian, or drown him in the shower, or push him down the stairs. Things have been good the past couple weeks, but it's always an uphill battle with Brian. Just when we get to the top, something topples us over and we go rolling back down to the bottom of the hill. Sometimes I ask myself why I don't give up the struggle but I know the answer. I love Brian. And in spite of everything, I know that he loves me too.

Brian's gone back to tricking, but sometimes I think he does it just to maintain his reputation, his image. I should challenge him with that but I won't. He doesn't pick up guys in front of me or bring them home, though of course, I see his eyes wandering all the time. That's okay, my eyes wander too and I've had a few guys on the side, but we're both careful not to flaunt it. I just want him to know that I'm not playing stay-at-home wife. That kind of backfired on me, though, last week.

We'd had dinner at Deb's on a Wednesday night, taking separate cars because I'd had to work late in the studio finishing up a project and he was staying late at the office, something he does too damn much - since he's partner he puts in about twice the hours he did before. He makes a lot more money now but he earns every penny. After dinner when we went out to our cars, Brian stopped next to my open door and casually mentioned that he'd see me at home.

"See you later," he said carelessly, "There's something I need to do."

I was surprised that he'd go off tricking on a weeknight, something he rarely does since he's often working on agency projects at home. Usually, he'll announce on a Friday or Saturday that he's going to Babylon and when he doesn't encourage me to go with him, I know what's up (his dick, twitching in his pants). I was annoyed that he was going to start tricking on weeknights but I bit back a sarcastic rejoinder and just said, "Okay. See you later." When I got in and fastened my seatbelt, put the key in the ignition, I realized that I was grinding my teeth.

Being caught up on my school assignments and not being in a mood to drive home and spend the rest of the evening cleaning the kitchen or watching tv alone, I thought 'fuck it' and drove to Liberty Avenue, parking behind Woody's. Luckily none of the gang were there, I had a drink at the bar and then saw a guy I know slightly from school playing pool with two others. Greg's a year ahead of me, his field is sculpture, I've talked to him a couple times at school art shows.

Wandering over to the pool table, I said hi and was invited to join the game. The other guys, Reg and Simon, are regulars at Woody's and I was aware that they were giving me questioning looks, they know I'm Brian's lover, but I don't have to explain myself to anybody, and I'm sure they see Brian tricking when I'm not with him. We played for a while - I'm pretty good if I do say so; I learned from a master.

Reg and Simon left and it was just the two of us, having one last game. I hadn't decided if I'd go off with Greg or not - he'd made it clear he was interested, giving me looks and a few casual pats on my shoulder after I'd gotten off a good shot or two. He's a bit taller than me, with long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and thick eyebrows like caterpillars curling above dark green eyes. I was attracted to him - anybody would be, he's beautiful in a rugged sort of way.

We finished the game and I knew I'd have to decide soon what I wanted to do. I took our cues and racked them, and then when I turned around and glanced over at the bar, there was Brian, staring back at me. Despite my determination to be casual about our semi-open relationship, I did jump a little inwardly, but outwardly I just smiled and gave him a wave across the room. Then I stood there and waited to see what he'd do.

Greg was acting guiltier than me, I heard him gasp when he looked to see at whom I was waving, and he leaned toward me and whispered urgently, "Do you want me to take off?" When I shook my head no he took a step backward and leaned his hips on the pool table, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Then Brian was standing right next to me.

"Hey," he said, unsmiling.

"Hey," I answered. "Brian, this is Greg, he goes to my school."

Greg straightened up and murmured, "How's it going?"

Barely nodding at him, Brian turned to me and said, "I thought you were going home."

"I thought you were going to Babylon. Or the baths."

"No," he said. "I told you I had something to do."

Shrugging, zipping up my jacket, I raised my eyebrows at him. "I can add two plus two. And I didn't feel like sitting home alone."

"Good at math, aren't you?" he said evenly, then glanced at Greg and asked, "How about two plus one?"

I looked at Greg uncertainly, I'm not crazy about three-ways, for some reason, I don't like sharing Brian with other guys.

Greg blinked, looking back and forth at Brian and me, then he shook his head. "Not my thing," he said hastily, grabbing his jacket from a nearby chair. "But thanks for the game, Jus, see you around."

I said nothing as I watched him pull on his jacket and head for the back door. We stood in silence for a moment, then Brian said, "Sorry I spoiled your fun, 'Jus.' "

"You didn't, 'Bri,' " I answered briskly. "Are you heading home now, or do you still have something to do?"

Brian frowned. "My mom asked me to come by and check the pilot light on her water heater. I don't have to explain every little thing I do. I'm not always fucking around, you know."

"Oh." I was surprised. "Of course you don’t have to explain things, but I don't have to sit around waiting for you either - wondering if you're out tricking or just changing a light bulb for your mother." I turned away and headed for the back door. Brian was right behind me, he put a hand on my arm and stopped me just outside the door.

"Wait." We stood in the alley in silence, then he sighed heavily. "This is veering into lesbian territory, Justin. You said you were okay with me fucking around. Sort of discreetly."

"I am okay with it." Which is pretty much true, I know it means nothing to Brian. Yet being okay with it and liking it are worlds apart. "But if you're going to fuck around, then so am I. Anytime I feel like it, not just when you go to Babylon alone. Okay?"

We stared at each other in the dim light of street lamps. Brian sighed again. "Okay. Except. . ."

A couple guys came out the back door and we moved away, across the alley, to stand next to my car. "Except what?"

Brian shook his head. "You don’t do it right."

"Huh?"

"You do it with guys you know, guys you like. That leads to - complications."

"Brian," I said softly, "I promised no more violin music. Remember? I promised."

He stared at me for a moment, his forehead wrinkled, then his face relaxed and he said, "Yeah. I remember."

Then I thought of something. "Brian, if you were just fixing something at your mom's, how come you turned up at Woody's?"

"I saw your car."

"You took a shortcut on the way home to drive down this alley?"

Brian huffed. "Fuck you. I went home and you weren't there. I thought maybe you went to the diner. Sometimes you park here when you're working there. I was hungry so I thought I'd drop by."

That wasn't exactly true, I don't park at Woody's unless I'm going there after work; but what totally amazed me was, that Brian had come looking for me. I opened my mouth to laugh, to say something snarky, then quickly I snapped my mouth shut. Some things are better left unexpressed. "Okay," was all I said, then I pulled out my keys and unlocked the car door. "I'm going home now."

"Me too. Probably." Brian turned away and walked off down the alley. I knew the 'probably' was for form's sake, and pride would ensure that Brian would speed all the way home, to beat me there. He loves showing off his racy sports car that's older than me.



Monday, April 12, 2004

Brian

Phone calls in the middle of the night are never good news. The first thing I do when I hear the phone ringing is to flip over in bed and reach for Justin. He’s there beside me, I can breathe again. I sit up and throw back the duvet, reach for the phone just as he’s coming awake.

“Brian, it’s Mel – “

My heart stops again. “Gus?”

“Gus is fine, so is Lindsay, but we’re at the hospital and she asked me to call you.”

Justin sits up next to me and grabs my arm.

”He’s okay,” I whisper and hear Justin exhale a loud sigh.

“What?” I say, clearing my throat and asking again, “What?”

Mel’s voice is cool; sometimes being a lawyer is a good thing, she sounds perfectly calm. “A false alarm, more or less.”

“False alarm?” I don’t understand, Linds is only four months pregnant.

“Lindsay had a little bleeding, the doctors aren’t real concerned but they’re running all kinds of tests anyway, we’ve been here an hour, and – “

“I’ll be right there,” I cut her off, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

“There’s no need, there’s nothing you can do.”

“Is Gus with you?” When she says yes, I tell her, “I can take him off your hands, if you want.”

“Well, that would be a help, actually. He was sleeping for awhile but he’s awake now, he’s keeping everybody awake in this part of the hospital.”

I can believe that easily enough and besides, I can hear him in the background. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” I click off the phone and throw it on the bed. Justin’s already up and pulling on his jeans. Part of me is pleased that he didn’t even ask, just assumed he’d come along to help, but another part of me, the contrary part, is vaguely irritated that he assumed I needed him. I decide it’s in my best interests to keep the contrary part silent, and I fill him in on the little I know while we finish dressing and hurry out the door and down the stairs to the garage.

“Let’s take my car,” he suggests, and when I make an annoyed tsk-ing sound, he reminds me, “In case we need to bring Gus home, his car seat doesn’t fit in your ‘vette.”

“Oh yeah.” So we take his car but I insist on driving; I drive fast but not too fast, all I need is to smash Justin up in another accident, Jennifer hasn’t forgiven me for the first one. I know she’s got a secret notebook stashed away someplace where she writes down all the terrible things I‘ve done to her son.

We hear Gus even before the electric doors burp open and let us into the hallway near the emergency room – a place I know all too well. It’s three in the morning, Gus must be exhausted, maybe he’s scared, and he’s screaming his head off. When we’re twenty feet away he sees us – Mel’s got him slung over her shoulder – and his screams change tenor – now he hollers “Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-deeeeeeeeeeeeee!” and Melanie turns around and see us too.

“Thank God,” she exclaims, handing him off. Gus throws his arms around my neck and hangs on tight.

“Be quiet, sonnyboy,” I tell him sternly, and amazingly he quiets down, his screams changing to loud gasping sobs as he hiccups himself into a state approaching calm. I don’t know why I have this effect on Gus, normally it annoys the shit out of Mel but for once she’s glad enough of it. Justin’s got a comforting hand on Melanie’s arm and I notice that he’s hanging on to one of Gus’ feet with his other hand. Somehow that moves me, that simple gesture of love; Justin loves Gus and it’s mutual.

Mel’s rubbing her hands hard over her face, she looks frazzled. “What’s happening?” I demand, as stern with Mel as I am with Gus and to similar effect.

“She’s okay, the baby’s okay, some kind of fluke thing, I guess it’s not uncommon. She had a little bleeding, nothing much, but it scared us so we rushed over here and they’ve been doing tests and things – I couldn’t be in there with her because of Gus.”

“You should have called me sooner,” I say mildly, “But I’m here now, so go to Linds, if they’ll let you.”

“They’ll let me all right,” she answers with a determined nod, turning around and heading to the nurse’s station. Over her shoulder, she gestures to a chair loaded down with jackets and Gus’ visiting bag.

I sit down in the next chair and pry Gus’ arms loose from their stranglehold, settle him on my lap. “You’re okay now,” I tell him.

“Probably he’s hungry,” Justin suggests, kneeling at my feet and brushing the baby’s hair off his forehead.

“Food is your answer to all of life’s problems.”

Justin smiles but tells me seriously, “He’s a toddler, toddlers eat a lot.”

“I know,” I answer, just as seriously, making him laugh. He digs around in the baby’s bag and comes up with a package of graham crackers. Gus reaches eagerly for a cracker and shoves it in his mouth.

“See? Told you.” He rummages in the bag again but comes up empty-handed this time. “I’ll go see if I can find some juice for him, the cafeteria’s closed but there’s lots of machines down the hall.”

I know. We both know this hospital inside and out. Justin comes back with a container of apple juice and a plastic cup. Gus has eaten three crackers but he’s almost too sleepy to deal with the juice. After one swallow, his eyes close and he gives in to sleep, collapsed in my arms and leaning against my chest, his hard little shoes digging uncomfortably into my thighs.

Justin takes the chair next to mine and I notice that his eyes are heavy too; sure enough, he leans back in the chair resting his head on the wall behind us and he’s out like a light, still clutching the cup half-full of juice. With my free hand, I manage to remove the cup before he drops it, and I drink it down in one swallow, just to be rid of it. I watch as Justin’s head slides down the side of the wall an inch at a time, till it’s resting on my shoulder. I allow myself one brief caress of my cheek against his hair, it’s soft against my face.

By the time Melanie returns three-quarters of an hour later, my arm’s completely numb and my back’s beginning to ache from the weight of what feels like a hundred pound four-year-old. Mothers have to be pretty strong to lift and carry little buggers like Gus around all day.

“She’s fine now,” Mel answers my unspoken query with a whisper, “But they’re going to keep her overnight. I’ll take Gus home and come back in the morning.”

“I can – we can take Gus home, if you want to stay with Linds tonight. Or what’s left of the night.”

Justin and Gus wake up at the same time, Gus starts fussing but stops immediately when I tell him to hush. I see the wry expression on Mel’s face and I smile to myself, pleased that I have this effect on my son.

I wonder if I’ll have the same effect on the new baby? Another son, we already know he’s a boy. I’ve joked about calling him Brian Junior and I know that Linds is considering it. I’m not sure how I feel about that, but I know it pisses Mel off, which is a plus. Will I feel about the new baby like I do about Gus? Like I did from the first moment I held Gus in my arms when he was just a few hours old? I didn’t want to father another child, or any way I couldn’t have cared less one way or the other. Now I’m starting to look forward to the new baby. Not that I’ll ever tell anybody of course.

“Thanks, Brian, but it’s okay – Linds is already asleep, and I’ll come back in a few hours, it’s almost morning now.”

“I’ll carry him to the car for you.” Nodding, Mel leans down to gather up all the baby stuff, Justin helps me put Gus’ jacket on, and he slings the baby’s bag over his shoulder as we accompany Melanie outside into the chill air of near-dawn.

“She wanted to see you,” Melanie graciously admits as we get Gus settled in his car seat, “But she was so exhausted from worrying and from all their damn tests that – “

“It’s okay, I’ll come by tomorrow afternoon, I mean this afternoon. Call if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Brian.” Melanie almost gives me a smile before she closes the car door and drives away.

Justin slips an arm around my waist and I put my arm around his shoulders as we cross the dark and silent parking lot. “Sleepy?” I ask him.

“Mmm-hmm,” he agrees, yawning to prove it. “But I’m kind of hungry too, it’s been a long time since dinner.”

“You can have some crackers and juice when we get home.”

Justin laughs and half-heartedly punches me in the side. “Shut up.” After a moment he adds, “That sounds good actually. Can we stop at the all-night supermarket?”



Monday, May 3, 2004

Justin

"For the last time, Justin, I'm going to LA, so shut the fuck up about it."

Brian's voice is cold, his face hard with no trace of emotion. But he won't look at me. He keeps moving away, he won't let me look inside. He continues packing his small carry-on bag, the leather suit bag's already zipped shut and thrown across the bed.

"But Brian," I keep my voice as unemotional as possible, "This is not something you can just walk away from, you need to be here. For - especially for - "

"No."

And for yourself, Brian, for yourself. And for me too. "And for me too," I add, partly to get a reaction from him. I could have predicted his response.

"This has nothing to do with you." He raises his eyebrows and glances in my direction, being careful to avoid my eyes.

Of course, it hurts that Brian's repudiating my part in this or any other episode of his life but I've had to accept those jabs for what they are, attempts to deflect me from getting too close. I'm closer to him than anybody in his life except Michael, and even Michael hasn't been able to make Brian see reason right now. Maybe we’re too close to him, Michael and I.

Slamming shut his underwear drawer, he pulls open the drawer above and grabs the wad of cash he keeps there. Peeling off several hundreds, he returns the rest and slams that drawer shut too as he pockets the bills. "Use the stash cash for whatever's needed, use the ATM too, you don't have to ask me first."

"Brian." I try another tack. "Can you finish your business and come home tomorrow night?"

"The arrangements are made. I'll be back Wednesday." He turns to survey the closet, checking to be sure he hasn't forgotten anything.

"I can call the airline, change your reservation - "

"Stop. Justin - stop it." He turns toward me then and lets me see his face. It's granite hard and cold.

It reminds me of the masks we made in art club when I was still in high school. We'd taken turns laying our heads on the workbench while strips of gauze were draped over our faces and quick-drying plaster hastily applied. Once the plaster set and the mask was lifted off, we each had a smooth replica of our face to paint. I remember that it creeped me out. It was lifeless, still, unbreathing: a moment frozen in time; a death mask.

That's how Brian's face looks now: Cold and hard. Emotionless. Unfeeling. Only Brian's mask doesn't creep me out, instead it twists my gut, because I know that he is not cold, not hard. And not unfeeling, though he wants to appear that way.

With a sigh, I accept the inevitable. "At least let me drive you to the airport."

"I'm leaving from the office, that's why I'm taking this stuff with me." Brian picks up the suit bag, throws it over his arm and grabs the smaller bag. As he swings by me he adds, "You know this already."

As he passes me I put a hand on his arm but he pulls away roughly. "Fuck off, Justin," he growls, and I feel myself beginning to get angry. Which of course is exactly what he wants, what he's counting on. If he can alienate me enough, if he can get me mad enough, he thinks I'll walk away and leave him alone.

Taking a deep breath and hanging onto my temper, I follow him to the door. Quietly I ask, "Will you call me tonight when you get to LA?"

"It'll be too late." He drops the bag and pulls open the door.

"Call me anyway. Please?"

"Goodbye, Justin." And he's gone, down the stairs, while I stand in the open doorway watching him leave, frustrated and sad and just plain pissed off. Won't he ever let me in?



Brian

I've got to get the Hanover presentation ready so that when I leave this afternoon, Cynthia will only need to finalize the finance charts and fax them to my hotel in LA for my meeting with the company execs tomorrow morning. I skip lunch and by three o'clock I've nearly got it all wrapped up, I'm striding around the office with my tie loosened and my sleeves rolled up while Cynthia straightens the piles of papers stacked on my desk and the chairs and the floor.

Then there's a knock on my door that makes me close my eyes and growl "Fuck," though I really want to scream it right out loud, there's no time for fucking interruptions. "Get rid of them," I order Cynthia, who's already headed for the door.

I keep my back turned resolutely and pretend not to hear Cynthia's gentle but determined voice saying, "I'm sorry, Mister Kinney can't see anyone right now, he's working on a deadline." So it's not Vance, and it's not (as I halfway expected) Justin; I can relax and concentrate on putting the stacks of paper in order while Cynthia deals with the intruder.

Then I hear a murmured response, "I'm sorry, I'll come back another time."

Turning my head abruptly to stare over my shoulder, I catch sight of Jesse moving away from the door, I hesitate as I watch him walking off, then I close my eyes and tell myself no-no-no even while I'm hurrying to the door to intercept him.

"Jesse," I call, he doesn't hear me so I raise my voice, "Jesse - it's okay. Come back." Of course, Jesse's just about the last person on earth I want to see right now, so why the fuck am I calling him back?

He stops then and turns around. "Brian," he says, coming toward me as I move back into my office and gesture him inside. "You're busy, I'll come back later."

"No, I'm leaving for LA in a half hour, come in now." Then I turn to Cynthia. "Take the papers to your desk and get them in order, can you? Then make a file copy."

"Of course." If Cynthia's surprised that I'm allowing this interruption she doesn't show it, just moves beside me as we gather up the stacks of papers and carry them out to her desk. Closing the door behind her and locking it, I turn to regard Jesse, who's standing in the middle of my office.

Striding to my desk I open the bottom drawer and pull out the JB. "Brian - no thanks," Jesse says quietly, "I didn't come here for a drink."

Maybe Jesse doesn't want a drink, but I unscrew the lid and lift the bottle to my lips, not wasting time on a cup. I need it even if Jesse does not. Swallowing a big gulp, I sit down behind my desk and gesture him toward a chair. "Who told you?" I keep my voice conversational. Before he can answer, I ask, "Justin?"

Jesse sits down and crosses his legs. "Yes."

Staring at the bottle of JB, ordering myself to screw the lid back on and put the bottle away, I say mildly, "He should mind his own business."

"You're not his business?"

"No."

My voice is harsh, and when I glance at Jesse I see him shaking his head. "No?"

Fuck me. "What did he tell you?"

Jesse uncrosses his legs, leans forward and stares at me earnestly. "He said that Lindsay lost the baby two days ago."

"Yes. And?"

Jesse regards me for a moment, then says gently, "And that you won't talk about it."

"So?"

He doesn't answer, just sits there looking at me. The silence between us stretches out almost unbearably, finally, I have to look away. "Jesse," I say, at last, determinedly putting the JB back in my desk and closing the drawer, "Not everything needs to be talked about."

Quietly Jesse contradicts me. "Losing a child needs to be talked about."

Now I really can't look at him. Can't answer. Swallowing hard, taking a couple deep breaths through my mouth, I just shake my head but for a minute I can't speak. After a few moments, I clear my throat. "He wasn't really a child yet. Linds was just - she was just five months pregnant. And I didn't want him anyway."

"Why is that, Brian?"

Finally, I can look at Jesse. I lean back in my chair and relax, then force a laugh. It sounds almost normal. "I'm nobody's idea of a father. So who needs a second kid?"

"Lindsay did. And obviously, you agreed."

"She nagged me into it. For some reason, Lindsay always suckers me into doing stuff I don’t want to do."

Leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs again, Jesse asks, "Will she talk you into having another?"

I feel my throat close then and I can't answer. I desperately want to pull out the JB again but pride keeps my hands clasped tight on the desktop. I'm not a fucking alcoholic.

"Brian?"

Shaking my head, I murmur, "There were – complications. She can't have any more now."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

The sympathy in Jesse's voice twists my gut. All I can do is shrug carelessly. What I told him is true, I didn't really want another child, so it's no big deal to me. Of course, it is to Lindsay but I can't think about that right now. Silence spreads out between us, I really have nothing else to say about it. About anything in fact. I need to get my mind back on work, and I tell myself to stand up, to tell Jesse he has to leave now. He'd do that, he'd understand. But instead, I keep sitting here staring at my fingers twisting together on top of the desk.

Finally, Jesse breaks the silence. "Justin said the funeral is tomorrow."

"Funeral!" I hear my voice almost shouting, and I glare at Jesse, adding more quietly, "You don't have a fucking funeral for a fucking baby that was never fucking alive. It's fucking ridiculous."

"Some people do. It's comforting for some people, Brian."

"Hunh," I snort, giving in finally and pulling the drawer open roughly, grabbing the JB and taking another gulp. That calms me, or anyway, the action of drinking calms me even before the liquor hits my stomach. "I'm not going."

"Funerals are rough. Especially funerals for a child."

"Why does everybody keep calling him a child?" My voice is strident, I sound too angry. Speaking more calmly I add, "He never even took a breath. You can't be a child if you've never even taken a breath." Why does this logic escape everyone but me?

When Jesse says nothing, I add, "Besides, I have business in LA, I'm leaving this afternoon. I won't be home till Wednesday."

"Brian, I wasn't leaning on you to go to the funeral - did it sound like I was? I suppose Lindsay will have her family there to support her, I can see that it's not something you want to do."

Determinedly putting the liquor bottle away again, feeling calmer now, I tell Jesse, "It's not exactly a real funeral anyway. Mel said it's just a private ceremony of some kind. Just Lindsay and Mel, and - and she wanted me to be there. Lindsay. I. . . Jesse, I can't." There, I've admitted it. I can't do it.

Nodding, Jesse says seriously, "Probably she'll understand. You say you've been friends for many years, she'll understand that it's too hard for you."

"Yes, she'll understand," I agree. "Probably. Besides, it's ridiculous, a funeral for a non-baby. For a little boy who never even breathed once. Who was born," I gulped, "dead."

I'm not aware that Jesse has stood up; when I feel his hand on my shoulder, I jump slightly.

Without looking at him, I say gruffly, "I've got a plane to catch, I know you'll understand that I can't talk anymore."

"Of course," Jesse agrees, squeezing my shoulder slightly before turning away from the desk and heading for the door. I force myself to lift my head and look at him as he says goodbye. "Safe journey, Brian. I'll see you soon, okay?"

I nod and lift my hand in a wave, before turning to the computer and bringing up my e-mail. I stare at the screen for a while, not really seeing it, and a few minutes later Cynthia comes through the door and plops down a portfolio on my desk with the Hanover presentation. "Here you go," she says brightly, "You're all set. I'll fax the finance charts to your hotel as soon as they're ready."

"Okay."

"Brian, you wanted to leave by three-thirty. It's three-forty-five now."

"Fuck, I'll be late." Quickly I stand up and set my briefcase on the desk, Cynthia loads it up while I roll down my sleeves and pull on my jacket, then I grab my suit bag and head out the door for the garage.



Tuesday, May 4, 2004

Justin

Lindsay called to ask me to come to the funeral home in Brian’s place. I felt so bad that he wouldn’t be there – couldn’t be there. I dreaded hearing Melanie spout off about the absent father, there was no way I could defend Brian and yet I knew that I would try, if she started in about him not being there. I know that Linds understands – or anyway, she accepts Brian the way he is. But I also know she really needed him to be there. It’s the least I can do – for them and for Brian too – to be his stand-in.

I remember how upset Brian was three weeks ago when we got the call in the middle of the night that Lindsay was in the hospital. We were all afraid she was losing the baby then, but that was just a false alarm. Or anyway that’s what the doctors said. So when Melanie called Saturday night just as we were going out the door for Babylon, we expected it would be the same routine, but when we reached the hospital we discovered that this time, Lindsay really had lost the baby.

Brian’s face had gone blank in that moment when he got the news – had gone blank and had stayed that way ever since. He’d turned around and walked out of the emergency room, and when I went looking for him a minute later, I saw him burning rubber as he peeled the ‘vette out of the hospital parking lot. I didn’t see him again until Sunday afternoon, and since then he has refused absolutely to talk about it.

Driving slowly to the funeral home, stuck in stop-and-go commute traffic, I give myself strict orders not to cry. It will be only Mel and Linds and me, and since I’m a man I have to be strong for them. A receptionist at a desk in the lobby directs me down a hallway to a small room, Mel and Lindsay are already there, they stand up and pull me into their arms and despite my best intentions, I start to cry, we all hold onto each other very tight and cry together. Mel’s the first to pull away, and we sit down together on a bench, me in the middle.

In a few minutes, the door opens and a woman comes in, it’s the minister who performed the commitment ceremony for Mel and Lindsay a few years ago. I’m introduced again, I’d forgotten her name, it’s Reverend Mitchelson but she asks me to call her Sarah. Lindsay tells her that I’m standing in place of the baby’s father, who couldn’t be here. I hear Melanie whisper, “who wouldn’t be here” and brace myself, but she doesn’t go on.

Sarah explains that we’ve come together to acknowledge the loss of Lindsay and Melanie’s son. It’s not a funeral but a validation of the existence, however brief of a beloved child. She talks for a few minutes about life and how precious it is and how children are sent to regenerate life on earth and how every life matters even if that life only briefly touches other people with love. She asks us to hold hands and pray and I sit there biting my lips trying not to cry anymore, trying to pray even though I’m not really sure I believe in God, and it’s so quiet in that little room with just the four of us, I can hardly breathe from the scent of burning candles and from a large bouquet of roses on a table in the corner.

Just when I think I can’t stand it anymore, the overpowering scents and the sadness that makes my chest ache, there’s a tap on the door and then it’s pushed open. We all look up and I gasp with surprise as Brian moves into the room and closes the door behind him.

“Can we help you?” Sarah asks.

”I’m – the father,” he says, moving into the room. Lindsay and I stand up and he puts his arms around us. Even Melanie comes close and puts a hand on Brian’s arm, and I look at Sarah and see that she is gently smiling.


```````

The ordeal is finally over and Brian and I drive home in our separate cars. He asks me to call and have dinner delivered, he’s too tired to go out, he takes a shower while I unpack his bags and dinner arrives as he’s coming out of the bathroom.

While we’re eating Brian talks about LA and I tell him that on his next business trip to California, he has to take me with him.

“I have to?” He pauses before forking a last bite of chicken alfredo into his mouth.

“Yes,” I quickly agree, before he can swallow the chicken and argue with me. “We should go back to San Francisco to celebrate our anniversary in June.”

Brian swallows and gives me his raised eyebrows look. “Anniversary? Of what? The time I got seasick on the boat to Alcatraz?”

“You know perfectly well anniversary-of-what. When you gave me this bracelet,” I flash my wrist in the air so that light reflects off the etched gold.

“Oh that,” he says, nonchalantly wiping his mouth with the napkin.

“Maybe, if we went back to our beach near the Golden Gate, maybe this time you could actually say the words instead of reading them. Do you think?”

“Justin - you’re pushing again.”

Yes, I’m pushing again, I’m always pushing. But I won’t apologize, and I won’t stop either.

Brian wants me to push, though he’d never admit it in so many words. I remember when he gave me permission after I broke up with Ethan, right before Brian and I got back together again. “Stand up for yourself,” he’d told me, almost shouting. “Have some balls.”

I understand Brian – as well as one man can understand another, maybe better than he understands himself. So I’ll go on pushing. Just like Sisyphus, who was condemned by the gods on Olympus to forever push a heavy stone up an impossibly steep hill. Every time Sisyphus reached the top, down would roll the stone again. And each time he would get behind that rock again and push, push it toward the summit.

“Come on, rock, let’s go to bed,” I urge Brian now.

Surprisingly he laughs, throws an arm around my shoulders and leans his forehead against mine. “Been reading Camus, huh?” he murmurs. “Show off.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just lightly kisses my lips and stands up, carries his plate into the kitchen and dumps it unceremoniously in the sink.

“Well, come on then,” he urges, moving across the polished floorboards and glancing at me over his shoulder. “Come push this rock uphill to the bedroom.”

Stopping at the foot of the steps, Brian gives me a wicked grin. With a throaty laugh he adds, “Come on and I’ll show you what it feels like - to be caught between a rock and a hard place.”