Justin

“Brett swears it’ll be just a couple more weeks.”

“Whatever.”

“Brian, I told him three weeks max and then I’m leaving, no matter what.”

“You’re going to miss next term.”

“I’m not. Brian? I’m not. I told you I registered on-line, it’s all set. And I’ll be there when the term starts - if not before.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Can we change the subject now? Your nagging is getting really old.”

“Your excuses are getting old.” I can hear him take a drag from his cigarette and exhale, then he draws a quick breath and adds, “But do whatever you want, it’s your life. If you want to fuck it up, that’s your business.”

“I’m not going to fuck it up.” We’re back where we started, this conversation has come full circle. “Please,” I soften my voice, “Let’s not waste our one call arguing. I miss you.”

There’s a long pause, then Brian grudgingly admits, “Me too. And the one-call-a-day rule was your idea.”

That’s true. Partly it’s because of the time difference – Brian’s at work before I’m even up in the morning, and by the time I finish what’s usually a ten or twelve-hour day, Brian’s gone out for the evening. Even so, when I first came to LA, Brian and I were calling each other constantly. Not only couldn’t I concentrate on my job, but somehow it made me miss him even more, to hear his voice ten times a day without being able to see him, to touch him.

Brian is a great multi-tasker, he compartmentalizes everything, effortlessly closing one door and opening another. I’ve tried to emulate him but I can’t do it, my thoughts spill all over each other. I know that those times when we’ve had heated arguments on the phone, Brian can hang up and go calmly about his business while I am left emotionally wrecked, replaying and revising dialogue in my brain. “No regrets” is a great philosophy but it doesn’t seem to work for me.

Now I feel guilty. “I’m sorry, Brian,” I murmur, hurrying on before he can tell me that sorry’s bullshit. “Let’s talk more often.” I press my lips together tightly to keep from blurting out, “Talking to you on the phone is what I look forward to most each day.” That’s way too lesbianic for Brian.

Then I say it anyway, lowering my voice and almost whispering, “Talking to you is the best part of my day.”

I’m expecting an acerbic reply or at least a teasing taunt, but Brian surprises me by gently admitting, “Yeah, me too.” Then he quickly appends, “Well. . . you know.”

We’re silent for a moment, then we both sigh at the same time. Brian recovers first. “That’s only,” he brags, “Because I get you off better from three thousand miles away than any of your hunky Hollywood tricks can do in person.”

I won’t pander to his ego by admitting that he’s right. “Oh,” I change the subject, sitting up in bed, piling pillows behind me so I can lean back against the headboard. “How’d your meeting go with the new client?” I push away the crumpled bedspread and wrinkle my nose at the big wet spot on the sheet.

“They loved me, of course. A two-year contract with an option to renew for two more.”

“Brian, that’s fantastic!”

“Yeah,” he agrees, then adds, “Except. . . the client’s flying me to Chicago to meet with their in-house marketing staff next week. I have to cancel on you – again.”

“Oh, no.”

Brian’s visited me twice in California but he’s also had to cancel three times. Swallowing my disappointment, I try to be upbeat by adding staunchly, “Well, you know that I understand. And I’ll be home in two weeks – three, tops.”

“Tops nothing, bottom boy,” Brian scoffs. “Get all that ass-pumping out of your system in LA. You know where you’ll be once you get home, Mr. Taylor.”

“Hunh,” I snort, “That is negotiable, Mr. Kinney.”

Though he tries to stifle it, I can hear Brian yawn. It’s only midnight in LA but it’s three a.m. in Pittsburgh, and a weeknight. “I’m sleepy,” I say, faking a yawn of my own. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow night, okay?”

“Justin?”

“What?”

There’s a long pause, then Brian says, “I wish I didn’t have to go to Chicago, but I really do. This isn’t something that Ted or Cynthia can handle. I’d send them if I could.”

“I know.” I’m impressed that Brian feels the need to reassure me, he never used to explain himself or express any regret when business interfered with our plans.

“Christ,” Brian exclaims suddenly, “I just realized – if you come home in three weeks, that’ll be almost two months since we’ve fucked.”

“Lucky for you I didn’t suggest that we be monogamous while I’m gone.”

“As if.”

“Yeah.” I sigh again. As if. Then I shake off this sudden surge of melancholy and say cheerfully, “Goodnight, Brian, have sweet dreams.”

“Mmm,” he agrees sleepily, “Night.”

Flipping my phone closed and tossing it onto the night stand, I slide down beneath the sheets – being careful to avoid the wet spot – turn on my side and close my eyes. It’s easy to imagine Brian lying behind me, curled around my back, holding me tight in his arms as we sleep. Just two more weeks – or maybe three – and I’ll be back in Brian’s bed. Our bed. And I’m not leaving it ever again. Not willingly, anyway.


Brian


Three more fucking weeks. Or non-fucking weeks. Not that I'm playing the monogamy game of course; but I can't deny that it's just not the same without Justin in my bed.
Our bed. Christ, why can't I remember to call it "our bed?" I asked him to move in and he did - briefly, before he had to leave for this temporary job in LA. But since I invited him to live with me and since we've gone well beyond the point where I can deny that we're partners, then my bed has become our bed. And my loft is our loft. Our home.
Funny, although I've owned the loft for six years now, it never really felt like a home until Justin began to push his way in, always bringing more and more bits and pieces of his life along with him.
Almost from the beginning, Justin has claimed at least one drawer as his own. And there've always been piles of his dirty laundry on the bedroom floor, stacks of sketchbooks on the table, and his CDs have become almost inextricably mixed in with my own. Some of his unhealthy foods still live on in the cupboard and the freezer even though he's not been around for months. Well, there used to be stuff, I should have thrown it out. Instead, insomnia-driven munchies have more than once caused me to raid his supply of Ben & Jerry. And his Count Chocula. I must remember to replace them before he gets back. Or maybe I'll just say that Gus ate it.


Three Weeks Later

Brian

When the buzzer sounds I’m annoyed, she’s early and I’ve just stepped out of the shower. Though I’m pissed enough to be tempted to answer the door naked – it wouldn’t be the first time Mother Taylor has seen me naked – I take a deep calming breath before padding down the steps and across the floor. Without comment I hit the buzzer to let her in downstairs then return quickly to the bedroom to pull on jeans and my long-sleeved gray tee – Justin’s favorite shirt, he says he always wants to jump me when I’m wearing it. Of course, it goes without saying that he always wants to jump me anyway, but might as well give the lad a special treat today.

We’re driving to the airport together to claim our wayward child, Jennifer and I – her idea, not mine. I offered to swing by her condo but she suggested picking me up here, since she says she’s meeting a client downtown this afternoon. Maybe she’s trying to be considerate, figuring that once I get Justin home, neither of us will be anxious to leave the loft for at least a few hours. More like a week, as horny as I’m feeling. Carrying my shoes to the living room, I move forward to slide open the door – I can hear that the elevator has just stopped on my floor.

The metal door shrieks a loud protest as I pull it open, and I nearly shriek my own protest when I see who’s standing there. Not Mother Taylor – instead it’s Mother Kinney.

“Mom.”

Christ, I haven’t seen her for months, why’d she pick today to come torture me?

“Hello, Brian, may I come in?”

I’m frozen in place, unmoving, my shoulders and neck taut in spite of myself. And in spite of the fact that I really have no desire to see my mother, I pull back the door another few inches.

“I’ve got plans,” I mutter ungraciously, “I’m leaving in a minute. Can’t this – whatever it is – wait for another time?”

“Oh.” She stops just inside the doorway and I watch as she swings her head around, surveying the empty apartment. Satisfied that there’s no orgy of naked sweaty men in progress, she turns back to me and apologizes. “I’m sorry to barge in on you.” She does sound sorry but as always around my mother, I don’t let down my guard.

Normally I don’t let good manners stand in the way of getting rid of unwanted visitors, but I surprise myself by gesturing Mom toward the living room as I mutter, “Come in,” my voice thick with the suppressed desire to tell her to fuck off. I follow behind and wait as she sits down gingerly on the edge of a chair.

Mom hesitates, then says slowly, “Brian, this is really difficult for me, but – well, I’ve come to make peace with you. We left things on such a bad note the last time.”

If she considers me making an ass of myself in front of most of my staff at Kinnetik a “bad note,” she should see me when I’m fucked up on Special K.

I say nothing, just nod, and she asks, “Won’t you please sit down for a minute?”

Reluctantly I perch on the edge of the sofa facing her but halfway across the room, out of striking range. Who’s likely to do the striking, I’m not sure.

The silence between us goes on too long, finally, I shrug and say, “If you’ve come with more advice on how to save my soul, don’t bother. I sold my soul to the devil years ago.”

“Shush,” Mom hisses, sitting up straight and fixing that righteous stare on me. “That’s nothing to joke about.”

“So, IS this about saving my soul, or what?” I’m getting antsy, Jennifer will be here soon, I don’t want her to walk into the middle of this – whatever this is.

“No,” Mom denies, shaking her head but holding my eyes with that piercing gaze. “It’s about saving my own. My own soul.”

Snorting, I stand up again and pace away from her, demanding, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Brian, I’m sick. I – I might die.”

“We’re all going to die.” I keep my face noncommittal but I feel my shoulders slump. Not another dying-parent visit. I don’t want to ask but I ask anyway, “You have cancer too? We should get a family rate at the hospital.”

“Always a joke, Brian, don’t you ever take anything seriously?” When I don’t answer, just cross my arms over my chest, Mom shakes her head. “I don’t expect you to care,” she mutters bitterly, “You’ve never had time for your family, never cared about any of us, so why am I surprised that you don’t care now?”

“Why indeed?” I raise an eyebrow and look down my nose at her. But the famous Brian Kinney sneer has no effect on my mother, and with all the heart I used to think I didn’t have, I wish I really could be unfeeling. But some little asshole has chipped away too much of my protective ice shield.

Giving in, I move back to the sofa and sit down again. “Okay,” I resign myself. “Just tell me - what’s wrong with you? And do you need help or something? Money?”

“I’d never take your money,” Mom curls her lip disdainfully. “That’s not why I’m here.”

That may be true, but she’d be the first Kinney to turn it down, since Pop and Clare always had their hands out. “Then cut to the chase,” I’m growing impatient, glancing at the clock. Jennifer’s due any minute.

“Heartless,” Mom mutters under her breath, then she sits up straight in her chair and says, “All right, I’ll tell you. I have liver disease, pretty bad the doctors say. I may need a transplant.”

“Sorry,” I say now, “Mom, I’m sorry. Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

“No, I told you that. I’ve got insurance, and Medicare. But I – “ Her voice falters and unconsciously I lean forward as her next words are almost inaudible. “I – I know that I am being punished. I’ve brought this on myself.”

Well, yeah, Mom drinks like a fish, always has. So did Pop. Between the two of their gene pools, it’s no wonder I’m a heavy drinker. Less so since the cancer, but still. . .

“Mom,” I’m surprised to hear that my voice has grown almost gentle, “Mom, you are not being punished, it’s not unusual for people who drink a lot to have liver damage. You – “

“It’s not from that!” Mom exclaims angrily, her eyes flashing daggers at me. “Besides, I don’t drink a lot, just an occasional social drink, like everybody else.” Her eyes dare me to disagree but I’ve got my lips pressed tight together to keep from contradicting her.

“No, it’s not that,” she repeats, “It’s God’s will. God is punishing me. And because of me, he’s punishing you, too.”

Oh Christ, here we go again. “Don’t start that,” I warn her, getting to my feet and feeling heat rise up my neck to flare in my cheeks. “Don’t you dare come here and start preaching at me again. No more!”

“I’m not preaching!” Mom’s on her feet too, and she’s glaring right back at me. “I just need to tell you, to tell you about my sin, and the wages of sin is death! That’s why I’m going to probably die, and that’s why my only son is a sinner too. Jesus said – “

“No!” I hold out both hands to stop her. “No, you will not bring Jesus into my house. Get out! Get the fuck out of here!”

“Brian – “

“No!” I’m shouting now and waving my hands at her, shooing her toward the door. She backs up but she keeps talking, though I’m closing my ears to her ridiculous rant.

“I’m just trying to explain, Brian, that it’s not your fault! It’s my fault that you’re a homosexual! Because I sinned, and now – “

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!” I’m bellowing now, and I don’t know what Mom sees on my face but she stops spouting her bullshit suddenly and moves more quickly for the door. I’m on her heels as she moves out but she turns once more to face me.

“Brian, you have to listen,” she insists, but I cut her off.

“Get the fuck out, and don’t ever come back. Do you hear me? Don’t EVER come back here again!”

I grab onto the door and begin to pull it roughly closed when suddenly the elevator burps open and Jennifer Taylor steps out, right into the middle of what I hope to bloody Christ is the last fucking confrontation I’ll ever have with my mother. I take one look at Jennifer’s shocked face before letting go of the door and turning to move back inside. Hurrying to the liquor cart, I pour myself an inch of JB with hands that shake.

I hear the two women murmuring, there’s the sound of the elevator descending, then my metal door is pulled closed and I hear the clicking of Jennifer Taylor’s expensive high heels tapping across the hardwood floor. I swallow the last of the bourbon in my glass as I feel Jennifer move to stand near me.

“Want a drink?” I ask lightly, holding up the bottle as I turn to face Jennifer.

“No, thanks.” Her face is noncommittal but she adds, “And I hope you’re not going to have another, since you’re driving my car to the airport.”

I want to say, “Don’t fucking tell me what to do, you’re not my fucking mother,” but instead I just nod and screw the lid back on the bottle. What the hell, she’s right.

“You’re punctual,” I make myself smile as I carry my glass to rinse it in the sink. “Ready to go?”



Justin

Brian told me that Mom was coming with him to the airport but I forgot. I forgot that, I forgot everything in the world when I spied Brian waiting for me at baggage claim. Gasping, a huge old dopey smile splitting my face open, I sprinted forward and threw myself into his arms. Brian grabbed onto me with a laugh, and I was happy to see his face reflecting my own silly grin. We kissed – never minding the hordes of heteros surging all around us.

I was the first to pull away, something else that pleased me inordinately, and then I saw Mom hovering behind Brian's shoulder. I let him go then and grabbed onto her, hugging her tight and laughing. I was just so fucking happy to be home! Then I was talking a mile a minute while we waited for my luggage, and Brian and I stood as close together as possible without lube. Moments later the luggage carousel starting turning and spewing out luggage. When my big suitcase surged out, Brian grabbed it. I carried the smaller one, and Mom took my carry-on, then we moved out of the building and into the parking lot. I was surprised to see that Brian drove Mom’s Lexus to the airport but then I realized that there’s not room for three in the ‘vette.

Now we’re heading downtown. Brian insisted that Mom should sit in front, but I’m leaning forward on the edge of the backseat, with one arm wrapped around Brian’s neck and I keep pressing my face into the back of his head, smelling his hair, tickling his ear when I exhale.

“Justin, you’re distracting Brian,” Mom nags me, for the second or third time. “Sit back, please.”

“It’s okay,” Brian tells her, and then I notice that he sticks his tongue into his cheek as he adds with a shrug. “He’s done much more distracting things while I’m driving.”

Mom blushes! And I have to laugh, but a glance in the rearview mirror shows that I’m also blushing. I catch Brian’s eye in the mirror and he has the grace to laugh. “Sorry, Mother Taylor,” he apologizes demurely.

“You should be,” she answers severely, but she’s smiling too.

I see Brian do a double-take as he glances quickly at my reflection in the mirror again. “What happened to your hair?” he demands suddenly.

I thought he’d never notice – but, “What d’you mean?” I raise my eyebrows at him.

Mom turns sideways on the seat to look at me, then she exclaims, “Good Lord, I never noticed, till we got outside in the light. Your hair’s so blond, Justin. You didn’t – did you bleach it?”

Brian stops at a red light and twists around in the seat to regard me more closely. “You did, didn’t you?” he demands.

“It’s the sun. California sunshine. From lying on the beach.”

“Bullshit.” Brian leans sideways and peers closer. “You have fucking dark roots. Or,” he clarifies, “They look dark, compared to the rest. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“It’s cool.” Damn it, I hate that my voice sounds defensive. I really thought he’d like it. “Don’t you like it? It’s the in thing in Hollywood.”

“What is – looking like an albino monkey?”

“Bri-an!”

“It’s. . . it’s nice,” Mom tries lamely. “It’s just different. Actually,” she adds, her face relaxing into a frighteningly motherly smile, “It’s almost the same color as when you were a baby. Like corn silk.”

Ugh. I really, really don’t need my mother to start reminiscing about my childhood, so quickly I explain, “In California, blond hair with dark roots is majorly hot. And,” I add with a quick glance at Brian’s frowning profile as the light changes and he pulls out into traffic, “And it’s very popular in the clubs. I was very popular in the clubs.”

That’s as close as I want to come to broadcasting the special relationship rules that Brian and I share. Mom doesn’t need to know that we’re both still tricking. Probably because I’ve moved in with Brian, she thinks we’re a couple in the way that Michael and Ben are. Without the marriage part, of course.

I expect Brian to comment but luckily he says nothing, and now we’re almost home. Mom changes the subject, she says that Deb has invited us to a big family dinner Sunday night. Brian doesn’t answer so I say, “Oh, it’ll be great to catch up with everybody again, I’ve missed Pittsburgh so much!”

“Anyone who misses the Pitts must be fucking nuts,” Brian says dryly as he parallel parks the Lexus around the corner from the loft. “The peroxide fumes must’ve addled your tiny brain.”

We pile out of the car and Mom pulls me into her arms for another big hug. “Welcome home, Justin!” she exclaims happily.

“Aren’t you coming up for a while?” I inquire, crossing my fingers behind my back that she says no. I really, really need to get naked with Brian in the next five minutes or I’m going to explode. He busies himself opening the car’s trunk and pulling out my bags as Mom shakes her head no.

“I’ve got an appointment across town, I’m showing a property this afternoon.”

Thank God.

“See you tomorrow at Deb’s then!” And I hold the door for her as she gets into the driver’s seat.

“Brian, thanks for letting me tag along today,” she smiles up at him as he hands her the car keys.

“Of course, Mother Taylor,” Brian gives her his most sincere smile. “Anytime.”

Then we grab my suitcases and move quickly into the building, not waiting to wave Mom goodbye. “Hurry,” Brian growls in a deep throaty voice, the urgency of his command going straight to my dick.

We pile ourselves and my bags into the elevator, Brian pulls the door closed while I push the button, then we’re grabbing onto each other as we begin to creak slowly upwards, the rickety shaking of the elevator an aphrodisiac, a reminder of all the times we’ve been nearly naked before reaching the fourth floor. Today’s no exception.

He’s pulled off my shirt and thrown it on the floor, I’ve got my hands under his gray tee, shoving it upwards as I lick his chest and nibble on his right nipple. When the elevator halts, we pull away briefly, both of us gasping, he throws open the gate and we kick and shove my bags across the hall. Panting audibly, Brian fumbles the key into the lock, and the door is shoved back with a loud screech.

“Leave it, leave it,” Brian urges, grabbing my arm and pulling me away from the pile of luggage and into his arms.

It’s a three-legged race as we hump and bump our way to the bedroom, neither of us wanting to let go of the other. Somehow we manage to get most of our clothes off before we hit the bed, then we just sort of fall over sideways onto the duvet. I totally stop thinking for a while as we succumb to an orgy of kissing and touching and rubbing and sucking. My senses are filled, overwhelmed; warm Brianscent filling my nostrils, the feel of his smooth skin taut beneath my fingers, the taste of his hard cock hot on my tongue.

When Brian flips me over and I’m trapped between the quivering muscles of his strong thighs, I’m shaking with the desperate need to feel his cock plunged deep inside me, possessing me completely. Brian leans over me, pressing his chest against my back, his mouth kissing my neck and his face against my hair, his breath hot in my ear as he whispers, “Justin, Justin.”

My eyes are squeezed shut and I’m nearly shaking to death while I wait for him to grab a condom and roll it on, shivering in anticipation of the chilly lube that warms quickly on Brian’s probing fingers. My ass rises up of its own accord, as I reach my left hand back to grab Brian’s knee, urging breathlessly, “Now, Brian, now-now-now!”

Then suddenly he’s inside me and we both gasp out loud, freezing for a micro-second before Brian pushes further in, and even further. I exhale a shaky breath and then I gasp loudly again as Brian’s cock sinks up to the hilt deep inside my ass. In moments we’ve picked up momentum, our bodies melding together, Brian plunging his cock inside and my ass rising up to meet him, my right hand grasping and pulling my own cock in rhythm with his thrusts.

It’s not long till we’re ready to come, we’ve waited almost two months to physically reconnect and neither of us needs to prolong this first hungry fuck. I reach back to slap Brian’s thigh and after two or three more urgent thrusts, I feel Brian let go with a mighty grunt, and he collapses onto my back, slipping slightly sideways to keep from crushing me under his weight. He hangs on tight to my shoulders as my own orgasm rocks my body and I shudder with the enormity of sweet release.

Brian slides completely off me then, deftly pulling off the condom, knotting it and throwing it over his shoulder onto the floor. I slide into his arms and we lie still, chest pressed to chest, my head tucked underneath his chin. When we’ve caught our breath, Brian pulls back his head and his lips find mine for a gentle kiss. We open our eyes then and smile, and sigh, and hold each other even more tightly.

“I’m really here,” I murmur inanely, and Brian smiles.

“Finally.”

We lie pressed together a few more moments without speaking again, then I shiver slightly.

”Cold?” Brian asks.

“Yeah,” I admit. “I forgot the loft is so drafty.”

“The loft isn’t drafty,” Brian denies it. Then he pulls himself upright and glances across the room. Suddenly he laughs and raises his hand to point at the door.

We’ve left it wide open. Outside the open door, my luggage is in a jumbled pile in the hallway, and there’s a trail of clothing leading directly from the elevator to our bed. I join Brian in laughing, but I feel my face flush pink with embarrassment.

“Brian, what if somebody had come by!”

“Well,” he answers practically, “The downstairs door is locked.”

Yes, but. So many people have keys to the loft, someone’s always walking in on us.

Brian peels himself away from me and moves to the door, drags my luggage inside, pulls the door shut and locks it. He comes back to the bedroom and stands by the ledge looking down at me. “Want to take a break before round two?” he raises an eyebrow in inquiry.

“No.” My answer’s stark and makes him laugh.

“Okay, Peroxide Boy,” Brian drawls agreeably, crawling toward me across the rumpled duvet. “Here I come, ready or not.”

Justin

As I slide back the loft door, I’m in time to hear Brian growl into the phone, “How hard is it to comprehend that I don’t give a shit?” I move to stand behind him and put a hand on his shoulder, which makes him jump slightly. He twists his head around to glance up at me and I see that his forehead is furrowed and he’s frowning. “No,” he barks into the phone. “No fucking way.”

I raise my eyebrows at him in enquiry but he looks away from me and moves sideways in his chair so that my hand slips off his shoulder. He’s in a foul mood, it must be some problem at the office. It’s Friday and he left work early today, we’re going away for the weekend, but as long as there’s cell phones, the office comes to Brian. He’s promised to leave the phone behind when we head out today, so I shrug and move away, go up the steps into the bedroom and throw my jacket on the bed When I come back, Brian’s off the phone.

“Hey, something wrong?” I move toward him again and he reaches out to grab my hand and pull me close to his chair.

“Nope. Did you remember to tell them to replace the filter?”

“Sure. I had them check everything.” I’ve just come back from filling the ‘vette’s tank and getting an oil change. Brian says old cars go through a lot of oil and he’s meticulous about upkeep. We bump foreheads and kiss briefly, then I tell him, “You’re fanatical about your menopause-mobile.”

Tightening his hand on my wrist till it hurts, Brian threatens, “Call it that once more and you’ll be riding in the trunk with the luggage. Are you all packed?”

“Brian, I was all packed three days ago,” I laugh, but I’m not really joking. I’m so excited that we’re taking a trip together, it’s all I’ve been thinking about for a week. “Are you?”

“Huh? Am I what?”

I laugh again and poke a finger into Brian’s chest. “Is your mind wandering, Alzheimers-man? Are you packed, too?”

“One more age joke and the trip’s off.” Brian releases my wrist and stands up. “I’m packed except for toiletries, I’ll do that now and then we can start loading up the car.” He moves toward the bedroom and I head for the kitchen, picking up the cooler I’ve sort-of hidden in the pantry cupboard, adding a six-pack of Diet Coke and a couple ice packs from the freezer, then zipping it closed and dropping it over by the door.

Joining Brian in the bedroom, I add two sketchpads and my pencil pouch to my backpack. Pulling on my jacket, I sling the backpack over my shoulder and grab my duffel bag full of clothes. Brian follows suit and we head for the door. Predictably he stops when he sees the cooler and turns to give me a look. “What’s that?”

“Just a few snacks. For the car.” I’m nonchalant.

“You don’t need snacks, we’re only going a hundred and fifty miles. There’s plenty of places to eat along the way. And besides,” he adds what he considers the clincher, “There’s no eating in the car.”

“Eating in the car is half the fun of road trips,” I insist, grabbing the cooler while Brian slides open the door.

“The first fucking crumb on my vintage upholstery and I’m tossing you and your snacks out – and that is not a joke.” Brian gives me the evil eye to emphasize his point.

“Yes, sir.” I know enough to back off when I’ve won. I wait in the elevator while Brian pulls the door closed, then he stops for a moment, and pushes the door open again.

“Forget something?”

Brian doesn’t answer so I step forward to watch as he re-enters the loft. He moves toward his desk, grabs his cell phone and shoves it into his pocket.

“You said no phones,” I remind him. “You said - ”

“I know what I said,” Brian sets the alarm and pulls the door closed again. “I just changed my mind.”

As we move into the elevator and descend to the basement, we don’t speak. I’m not exactly mad, just disappointed; Brian promised he’d forget all about business for once, just for the weekend. Finally, he breaks the silence. “It’s not for work. It’s in case of emergencies.”

“Oh.” I sigh and nod agreement. “Like if something happened to Gus and Lindsay needed to reach you?”

“Something like that.”



Brian

My mind’s occupied with maneuvering the car through rush-hour traffic out of the city, and with giving half an ear to Justin’s prattle about the Arts Festival at University Park. There’s no room in my brain for any thoughts about that fucking annoying phone call from Clare, I am determined to just forget about it and concentrate on having a good time with Justin this weekend. It’s the first time we’ve traveled anywhere together and he’s over the moon with excitement, never mind our destination’s just a couple hours away from the Pitts.

Fucking Clare. Thinking she can guilt me into giving a shit.

I realize that I’m grinding my teeth and a glance at the speedometer shows that I’m heavy-footing it; we’re doing eighty. I also realize that Justin has stopped chattering. We’re on the interstate and the traffic’s lighter now, so I glance over at him and see that he’s staring back at me.

“What?”

“Brian, is something wrong?”

“No,” I deny it, “Why?”

Tapping the turn signal, I move the ‘vette smoothly out of the fast lane and into the middle, slowing down to sixty. We’ve already come twenty miles and I think of Justin’s cooler full of snacks wedged behind his seat, provisions for a journey of days instead of a mere two hours’ drive east to State College. He’s going to be disappointed if there’s no time on our brief journey to make inroads into his supply of pretzels and gummi bears.

“You just seem kind of preoccupied, is all. Thinking about work?”

With a sigh, I force my shoulders to relax and I nod. Easing up still more on the accelerator, I slow to fifty - I’ll try to make the drive last a bit longer. “But we just passed out of worry-range,” I tell him, “So I won’t think about it anymore.” I slip my hand over the seat and caress Justin’s thigh. “Tell me again what Daphne said about the festival?”

“It’s an annual week-long event, at Penn State’s University Park campus. Daphne went last year with her boyfriend – remember, she was dating that creepy photography major? He had some pictures in an exhibit so he took her there, to State College.”

“State College is a ridiculous name for a city,” I point out. “But Daphne’s boyfriend was kind of hot.” I’d only met him once but he was a looker; a bit older than Daphne and unrelentingly straight. “Why’d she break up with him?”

“He wasn’t nearly as hot as he thought he was. What an ego! Daph said she got tired of dating long distance – her med school’s in Hershey, remember - like about a hundred miles from his school in State College. Now she’s dating a fellow med student, a third-year guy who’s going to specialize in pediatrics.”

I’m already bored with this conversation about Daphne’s boyfriends so I prompt Justin again to tell me about the festival. Predictably, he’s downloaded information from the internet and he pulls out several folded sheets from his backpack and begins to read them to me. I haven’t really paid attention to his ramblings about the festival but Justin’s enthusiastic so I force myself to listen to him now. He’s planned for us to see the Palmer art museum on campus and to do a studio tour of the resident artists in the area. Since I’ve succumbed to partnership with an artist, I’d better cultivate my own interest in the subject.

It’s not that hard to do actually, since I’d taken a few art classes myself when I was in school – mostly to fulfill humanities requirements, but enough to learn appreciation for the creative process. That’s one reason I was able to empathize with Justin when he thought he’d lost the ability to draw. That, and of course the fact that I was the proximate cause of Justin’s injury.

“Don’t go there,” I remind myself – that guilt is in the past. Not guilt, exactly, I don’t do guilt.

Yeah, right. And I also don’t feel guilty that I refused my mother’s request – transmitted by Clare on the phone this afternoon – to visit Mom in the hospital. She might die. My mother might be dying. It’s not like I care, why should I care? And I don’t – I won’t – feel guilty about it.

“Brian.”

“Yeah, good idea,” I say casually, pretending that I’m still following Justin’s conversation.

“Brian, I just asked you to stop at a gas station so I can take a piss.”

“Yeah,” I glance at him sideways, “I said, good idea.”

Justin gives me a look that lets me know I’m busted, but he doesn’t pursue it. “We just passed a sign that says gas-food-lodging, next exit.”

“Okay.”

We’re silent for a minute and I know that Justin’s annoyed with me. To distract him I suggest, “We can take a short break if you want; you can eat some of your stash. It’s been about forty-five minutes since we left home, you must be starving.”

“Shut up.”

But I made him smile. Then he shrugs. “I’m not starving, but I am thirsty. I’ll have a Coke.”

I raise my arm and rest it on the back of his seat, ruffle the hair on the nape of his neck. “Good thing you planned ahead, they probably don’t sell Coke in the fifty McDonalds we’ve passed so far.”

“Shut up.”

Justin grins up at me from under his lashes and I feel an involuntary lump in my throat. Christ, he’s beautiful. “Better yet,” I suggest, “Let’s find a roadside rest stop, we can grab a quick fuck in the men’s room.”

“Brian, is it true that guys hang out in rest stops looking for some action?”

“Sure,” I shrug. “Especially in the olden days, when everybody was in the closet. Nowadays it’s probably mostly straight guys who do it, guys who’re afraid to go near a gay bar.” I chuckle then, remembering something. “I even checked it out myself once,” I tell him, “When I was - ” I almost said, “When I was young.” I’m still young. “When I was a kid. Younger than you, actually.”

“Really? It sounds so – so sleazy.”

“Yeah. It was great.”

“Maybe some other time,” Justin suggests, “I’d rather get settled in our hotel and have a shower before we go out to dinner.”

“And we can check out the gay scene in town afterward. If any.” I’m not optimistic that we’re going to find much night-time distraction in State College PA. Justin confirms my suspicions.

“I checked online, there’s only one gay bar listed,” he tells me, flipping through his stack of papers. “Chumley’s, on College Avenue.”

If it’s near the university, it’ll be full of college kids. Not that I don’t like college kids, I remind myself, glancing at Justin’s blond head bent over the papers in his lap. But the time might be coming when they don’t like me.

Probably not for a long time yet, though, I tell myself, moving my eyes to the rearview mirror to reaffirm the perfection of my reflection. The alliteration makes me smile. Yeah, it’ll be a long time, I’m not old and gray yet.

Not old and gray like. . . .

I am not going to think about her. I’m just not.



Justin

Brian’s distracted again, there’s definitely something going on that he’s not telling me about. He said he’s thinking about work, but I have to wonder if that’s true. Maybe he’s had an argument with Michael, maybe Deb is hassling him, maybe Lindsay’s after him to do something for Gus. No matter what it is, he’s not sharing it, and that’s what bothers me. Oh, I know that - as Brian is always reminding me - we’re not joined at the hip. We don’t have to tell each other everything. Mostly I’m okay with that, but ever since the cancer scare, I can’t help worrying when Brian closes up like this.

However, I do know that pushing him to spill will only make him close up tighter, so I try to shrug off his inattentiveness and concentrate on having a good time this weekend.

Brian takes the next exit and finds a gas station with a bathroom. He doesn’t join me, which is fine – I don’t enjoy quickie fucks in dirty public restrooms as much as Brian does. When I get back in the car, I’m surprised when Brian drives down a side road and stops at a crossroads, pulling off onto the verge, putting the car in park and turning off the ignition.

“Have your Coke,” he suggests. “I think I’ll take a walk – stretch my legs.”

“Where are you going?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not ditching you by the side of the road like a litter of unwanted puppies. I’m just going to have a stroll, and a cigarette. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

“Okay.” I twist around in the seat to reach my cooler and pull out a can of soda, and I also watch Brian as he gets out of the car, lights up a cigarette and moves off down the road. He stays in sight and I can’t help staring after him, watching him walk slowly away, smoking and thinking hard about something. What?

When I left for Los Angeles for what turned out to be a seven-month stay, Brian and I agreed that we would both fuck around. It goes without saying of course that Brian would do that anyway, but I was determined to continue being Brian’s equal in the sexual freedom stakes, to keep our partnership on an even keel. And I did fool around a little bit in LA but not as much as I could have. For one thing, the gay guys I met at work formed a tight-knit group. They’d all slept with each other at one time or another, and getting involved with any of them felt almost incestuous. I met a few guys at parties, I went to a few bars and dance clubs and hooked up, but the truth is, I missed Brian, and fucking around without him was really not much more satisfying to me than jerking off alone in my bed.

I knew it would be different for Brian, that he would revert to his tomcatty ways, fucking anything that moved. Well, that’s not entirely true, because I also knew that Brian threw himself wholeheartedly into running Kinnetik and he didn’t have the same time and energy to devote to getting his cock sucked as often as he used to.

Yet it had occurred to me to wonder sometimes – especially if I were feeling lonely and vulnerable – that Brian might meet somebody else while I was gone, somebody who might lure him into having a real relationship. I tried to reassure myself – Brian Kinney doesn’t do relationships – but the fact is, he does. Only with me, so far. But since I wasn’t there, would he be tempted to hook up with somebody else?

If that had happened, surely I would have heard about it from somebody? Michael in particular, who positively enjoys delivering bad news to me, and he hadn’t even hinted at any such thing while I was gone, or since I got back a few weeks ago. Emmett has no malice but he absolutely cannot keep gossip to himself. Ted works closely with Brian and while he might try to protect “the boss,” the fact is that Ted also has loose lips. So, since I haven’t heard a peep of rumor about other guys in Brian’s life, the odds are definitely against anything like that happening.

Then why do I feel so uneasy? Why do I feel like Brian is hiding something from me? If something important were going on with Kinnetik, or with Gus, or with anybody else in our circle of family and friends, Brian could talk to me about it. He might choose not to, since he still considers emotional conversations lesbianic. But I know Brian so well, and in my gut, I just can’t help feeling that something is wrong. Since he won’t tell me, I can’t ignore the niggling little suspicion in my brain that there’s another guy involved.

By the time Brian returns to the car a few minutes later, I’ve finished my Diet Coke, I’ve eaten one and half packages of gummi bears, and I’ve almost convinced myself that Brian is leaving me for another man. He gets into the car and takes one look at what I’m sure is my totally blank face and asks, baldly, “What?”

“Nothing,” I assure him quickly. “I just missed you.”

Brian tsks, but he also smiles and leans over to smack a quick kiss on my lips. “Mmm, dee-licious,” he proclaims, pushing his tongue into my mouth and tasting gummi bears. “Did you save me any?”

“I’m saving it ALL for you,” I answer provocatively, sliding a hand down to caress my cock that always begins to harden whenever Brian kisses me. He laughs against my lips and we kiss again, then regretfully we pull apart and sigh.

“Shall we go back to the gas station men’s room?” Brian raises an eyebrow.

“No, let’s wait for the hotel.”

“Spoilsport,” he shakes his head, fastens his seatbelt and starts the engine.



Brian

Our hotel, the Nittany Lion Inn, is nice enough, not five-star but comfortable and centrally located near the college campus. It’s a white Colonial building with a large reception area and welcoming staff, our room is bright and the king-size bed has four posters, which for some reason immediately provides me with a mental image of naked Justin tied to the headboard. As soon as the bellboy leaves, I turn to Justin and say, “Too bad I forgot the handcuffs.”

Justin laughs and smacks my arm and his cheeks turn pink. How a young man as sexually adventurous and experienced as he is can still blush is both amazing and actually kind of charming. Then he suggests, “Hey, we could use a couple of your ties.”

“No fucking way, not my Hermes silks, they’re two hundred bucks apiece.”

“Why’d you bring ties, anyway?” Justin wants to know. “This is a casual weekend.”

“I told you,” I throw over my shoulder as I remove my black suit and Justin’s gray one from the suit bag and hang them in the closet, “We’re going to dress for dinner at least once. Didn’t you ever attend formal events with studio heads when you were in LA?”

“Nobody’s ever formal in LA.” Justin’s haphazardly shoving underwear into a chest near the bed. “Hey, you going to join me in the shower?”

“Go ahead, I’ll be there in a minute, I want to finish hanging up clothes.” I unpack a couple shirts and put them on hangers, but as soon as the bathroom door is shut, I pull out my cell phone. I left it on mute and now I check for messages. There aren’t any, so I breathe a sigh of something – relief? – and toss the phone on the bed, pull off my clothes, and move into the bathroom.



Justin

Brian passed on breakfast this morning and opted instead to visit the hotel’s mini gym; he left as soon as the room-service breakfast cart arrived. Wearing sweats and grabbing a hotel towel, Brian slipped out the door with a grunted, “Later.” I’d been in the act of pouring a cup of coffee from a white ceramic carafe, but I looked up in time to see Brian grab his cell phone from the nightstand before he left.

Why does he need his phone if he’s just going to work out? It’s Saturday, Kinnetik is closed today, so who is he going to call?

Brian seems vaguely distracted, he’s not one hundred percent with me lately. Well, for the past couple days anyway, maybe longer and I just didn’t notice before? Of course, I could ask him what’s going on, but something about the way he’s been acting makes me bite back my questions. Brian doesn’t lie, but he’s perfectly capable of telling me to mind my own fucking business. We’ve come a long way in our relationship in the past year, and sometimes it feels like we’re functioning as equals, but then something like this will happen to remind me that Brian’s still holding back, still maintaining a distance between us. Maybe he always will and I’ll just have to accept that about him. We’ve been through so much together and we’ve both changed a lot, but maybe there are limits to change, at least for him.

I’m in the shower when Brian returns half an hour later. He’s deliciously sweaty from his workout, and he joins me, stepping into the tub and immediately pulling me around to face him, to kiss him. Then he slips to his knees on the smooth porcelain and gently and slowly sucks me off. When we’ve dried off and start getting ready, Brian pours himself a cup of lukewarm coffee, drains it in one long swallow, and sets down the cup with a loud thump.

“Justin.”

I’ve just pulled a shirt over my head and when my face emerges, I see that Brian is frowning.

“Justin,” he says again, “Remind me, what’s the schedule for today?”

Pulling down the shirt and smoothing it, I sit on the edge of the bed and pick up a shoe. “The museum this morning, then the street fair, and the artists studio tour late this afternoon.” I wait a second, studying his face. “Why?”

Brian sighs; he’s still frowning. “There’s something I have to take care of,” he tells me, keeping his eyes on my face. “I’ll be gone a few hours.”

“Gone?”

“You can decide when – this morning or this afternoon.”

“Brian, what do you have to take care of?”

“There’s just something I have to do, it doesn’t concern you.” He throws back his head and looks down his nose at me. Typical Brian defense mechanism.

Determined to remain calm and act maturely, I remind him, “You promised me the whole weekend. At least tell me what’s going on, why you have to leave. Are you going back to Pittsburgh?”

He hesitates, then says, “Yes. But I’ll come right back, we’ll definitely stay all weekend. All you have to do is decide if you’d rather have me with you in the morning or in the afternoon.”

We stare at each other silently for a moment. Finally, I say, “At least tell me why, I have a right to know why, Brian, I’m your partner. Is it Kinnetik, a client problem? Or – something else?”

I don’t really expect him to answer so I’m surprised when he does. “Something else,” he says flatly. “As I said, it has nothing to do with you. And I’d rather go this morning, get it over with. Can you do the art museum by yourself?”

“Of course,” my voice is icy, despite my intentions I’m getting mad. I look away from Brian, pick up my other shoe and slip it on, then I sit back, leaning on my hands and watching him get dressed.

Brian shoves his wallet into his pocket and grabs his keys, then moves toward the door, where he turns and says, “I’ll be back here by one-thirty, two at the latest. We can have a late lunch, then do that studio tour thing.” When I say nothing, he raises his eyebrows. “All right?”

If I open my mouth I’m afraid I’ll say something childish, like, “Maybe I’ll be here, maybe I won’t.” So I keep my mouth closed and just nod.

Brian pulls open the door, then he closes it again. In three strides he’s moved across the carpet to stand next to the bed. Bending down, he gives me a quick kiss on the mouth, then he moves his lips to my ear and whispers almost silently, “Sorry.” Maybe I imagine it, since Brian never apologizes. But I don’t imagine the slight smile he gives me before planting another brief kiss on my mouth, then he turns away and moves out the door without a backward glance.

The kiss and the smile, and the breathy “sorry” that tickled my ear, almost resign me to being deserted by my lover before our weekend getaway has even started. I’m still annoyed but not really angry. Well, I’m angry that he won’t tell me why he’s going back to Pittsburgh, but that’s not out of character for Brian.

Yet I’m also left wondering, all over again, if maybe Brian is involved with another guy?



Brian

“I’m here.”

I’m pissed that something – a sense of duty or some equally ridiculous reason – has coerced me into returning to Pittsburgh this morning at my mother’s urgent request. Yet now that I’m standing at the foot of her bed, I hear my voice soften in spite of myself. “I’m here,” I repeat, “So say what you have to say to me.”

The last thing I want to feel toward my mother is pity. It’s so much easier to blindly hate her and everything that she stands for, than to stare at her now as she lies prone in the hospital bed, illness blurring the harsh features of her face like melting wax. My hands in the pockets of my leather jacket are clenched, and I feel a muscle in my jaw working as I struggle with conflicting feelings tightening my chest – anger, resentment, and other emotions that I can’t – that I won’t – acknowledge.

“It was good of you to come,” Mom says formally. “Please sit down, won’t you?”

Unbending, I merely shake my head, knowing that I’m being churlish when I answer, “No thanks, I’d rather stand.”

“It’s hard for me to speak loudly, Brian, I need you to come over here, sit close to me. Please.”

With a sigh I acquiesce, moving around the side of the bed and pulling up a hard wooden chair. I wish I could light a cigarette, to have something to do with my hands. Instead, I glance down and discover that, like so often when talking to my mother, my fingers are playing with each other, twisting together in my lap. By force of will I order them to be still, then I look back at my mother again, and wait for her to begin.

She doesn’t speak immediately, so I decide to ask about her illness. “Clare told me that you need a liver transplant?”

Mom nods. “Yes, but my doctor says I’m not a good candidate for that. It’s risky and the operation is done only as a last resort.”

“Will you get better without it?” I’m blunt but I need to know if Mom’s going to pop off anytime soon.

I think of all the teenage years when I wished I was an orphan, but the reality of that happening soon is, in spite of everything, daunting. Of course, Clare and I are way past the age when the term “orphan” has any meaning, but I’m not sure what else to call becoming parentless.

Why should I even give a fuck? I don’t know. I really don’t know.

“They say I’ll probably survive this time.”

“Good.”

What else is there to say? Clare told me as much, that Mom was expected to recover from this bout of severe jaundice, but that she’ll continue to deteriorate, without a new liver. When Clare first told me that Mom needs a liver transplant, I wondered if my mother expected me to give her mine. Of course, I’d probably have to die first, but I don’t suppose she’d consider that an impediment.

I sit back in the chair and wait. I can’t imagine what compelled my mother to want to see me, Clare’s always been the one dealing with Mom’s affairs. She’s denied needing any financial help from me, so what else can it be? I’m growing impatient, so to get the ball rolling I offer again, “If you need money - ”

Mom purses her lips and shakes her head. “That’s all you can think about, isn’t it, Brian? If there’s a problem, throw money at it. Well, this isn’t something to be fixed with a handful of cash.” She pauses, and when I say nothing, just keep my eyes fixed on her face, she elaborates, “This is much more important than that. This concerns my immortal soul.”

Not that again. I start to stand up, my mouth twisting with scorn, but I stop when Mom says, “Wait, Brian. There’s something that you need to know. Something I have to tell you, and it has nothing to do with God or with religion. It’s about me, but it’s also about your father.”

“Pop’s dead,” I remind her. I’m about ten seconds from leaping up and bolting from the room, I knew it was a fucking waste of time to come here today. What the fuck has Pop got to do with anything?

“No, he’s not,” Mom contradicts me, “Your father is not dead. At least, I don't think so."

The old woman has finally gone right around the bend. “What?” I snort. “Jack suddenly climbed out of the box we buried in the fucking cemetery two years ago?”

Mom shakes her head. She doesn’t take her eyes off my face as she murmurs, “Jack was not. . .”

When her voice trails off, I lean forward in my chair and demand, “Jack was not what?”

”Brian,” Mom lowers her voice still further, until I can barely hear her. “Brian,” she quietly whispers, “Jack Kinney was not your father.”

Brian

”Brian,” Mom lowers her voice until I can barely hear her. “Brian,” she quietly whispers, “Jack Kinney was not your father.”

My first reaction is a laugh. A loud, guffawing laugh that jumps right out of my mouth before I can stop it. It’s not amusement, it’s not even irony – it’s simply disbelief.

Mom gasps an indrawn breath and her eyes widen, her mouth’s working silently as I shake my head and ask inanely, “What?” as if I haven’t heard correctly.

“Jack was not your father,” she repeats, still whispering.

“What do you mean? I don’t understand.” But I’m beginning to.

“Brian,” Mom raises her voice slightly, “I made a mistake. Do you understand now? I sinned – with another man. And I was punished by God.”

I’m silenced then, sitting motionless as a statue, just staring at her. The first thing I can think to ask is, “Why?”

“Why?”

“Never mind.” I shake my head, embarrassed by the ridiculous question. Do I really need to ask why somebody fucks somebody else? Even straight people get itches and they scratch them. It means nothing. Or anyway, it should mean nothing – unless people are careless and the result is a disease – or a baby.

I ask the first thing that comes into my mind. “Why didn’t you use a condom?”

No doubt it’s a stupid question but Mom answers immediately, “The Church is against birth control.”

I refrain from pointing out that the Church is against adultery, too.

Mom doesn’t like the look on my face, she’s getting angry. “Stop staring at me that way,” she hisses, “From what I hear you’re a terrible sinner yourself. Who are you to judge me?”

“I’m not judging you,” I contradict, “I’m just trying to understand.”

But she must still think I’m judging her because immediately she raises her voice and says, “It was your father’s fault, he was the biggest sinner of them all. He was always cheating on me, you must know that’s true.”

I nod but I’m barely listening, thoughts are chasing themselves around inside my skull. “I know he liked the ladies,” I say.

Pop even bragged to me, when I was older, about his prowess with “the ladies.” And of course, I knew that Mom was aware of Pop’s cheating.

She’s continuing her rant: “Jack always left me alone, he never took me anywhere, never spent any time with me.”

This is a song that I’ve heard my mother sing plenty of times, but for some reason, it never occurred to me that she was really upset about Pop’s absence from home. If anything, I’d have thought she was glad that he left her alone, since they fought like fucking tigers whenever they were together.

“I was lonely,” she says, and for the first time, I feel a pinch of what might be considered empathy for my mother. A sudden image flashes in my brain, the reflection of my eyes looking into the mirror, the morning after Justin left me for the fiddler. Quickly I shake my head to dislodge that image and to dislodge any trace of sympathy for my mother. I realize that I’m starting to get angry.

“Why,” I ask then, leaning forward in my chair and fixing my eyes on Mom’s face, “Why the fuck are you telling me this now?”

And I realize that I’d rather not have known, I’d rather my mother had taken her secret to the grave. I don’t want to know that Jack was not my father.

Jack was not my father. The full import of this statement is only beginning to jell inside my brain.

“How can you be sure,” it occurs to me to ask, “That - ”

“Jack and I weren’t – we didn’t - ”

When Mom’s voice trails off, I interpret, “You weren’t fucking?”

“We weren’t having marital relations,” Mom almost hisses at me. “Or, not very often. Not then.”

Suddenly I leap to my feet and demand, “Did he know? Did he fucking know?”

Mom doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Not – exactly,” she murmurs, pulling her eyes from my face and looking away.

“Not exactly?”

“He suspected,” she turns back to look at me again. “He suspected that you were not his son, but I never told him. He never knew for sure.”

Jesus Christ.

My hands have turned into fists and I want to hit something. I feel an almost unbearable urge to hit something. I turn from the bed and walk away, pace over to a window across the room, turn and come back again, stand looking down at her, my head almost exploding. I take a quick breath, another, to calm myself, and when I can speak again, I whisper, “Was that why he wanted you to have an abortion?”

“I don’t know,” Mom says, but I can tell that she’s lying. Of course, that must be why.

I sit down again, I almost drop down onto the chair and I rub both hands hard over my face. There’s so much to think about, so many puzzle pieces of my childhood, my relationship with my – with Jack, that have taken on new meaning. I need time to put it all together. I need to get away from here.

Raising my head and looking at my mother, I say, “I have to go now.”

“Brian, will you come back? I need to talk to you some more.”

“I don’t know.” It’s the truth. I don’t want to talk to her. Not now, maybe not ever again, I don’t know. All I know is, I have to get away from here, I need to be alone. Christ, I need a drink. Or two drinks, or three.

Standing up and straightening my jacket, I turn my back to my mother and walk away from her bed. “Brian,” she calls after me, “Please wait a minute.”

I stop in my tracks and keep my back to her until I can be sure that my face is blank. Turning around at the door, I glance at Mom and raise my eyebrows in query.

“Brian, please don’t tell anybody. Not Clare – not anybody. Please?” she asks plaintively, her voice sounding uncharacteristically weak and beseeching.

“Yes, okay,” I sigh, then add, “I mean, no, I won’t.”

“Call me later?”

I nod again, neither yes nor no, and then I’m hurrying out the door, down the long white corridor and bursting out the exit door to the hospital parking lot.



Justin

I’m annoyed when Brian doesn’t show up by two o’clock. I’m really pissed at three. At four I start calling his cell phone, being glad finally that he brought it along after all. Except, there’s no answer. I leave a message, at four-thirty I leave another, and by five o’clock, I can’t decide if I’m furious because he’s late or if I’m furious because he’s got me worried about him crashing the car.

If there were a car accident, how long till I got a phone call? If it were something minor, a fender-bender, surely Brian would call me himself. Why hasn’t he called?

I feel so fucking helpless. I don’t know where Brian went, I don’t have a car to go looking for him, I don’t even have my cell phone so I’m afraid to leave the room in case I miss his call. I know Brian will get angry if I start phoning our family and friends in Pittsburgh to check up on him, but by seven-thirty, I make up my mind to call Michael, I can’t wait any longer. I reach for the phone and then I jump about a foot in the air when suddenly it rings right under my hand.

Jerking and knocking the phone off the table, I bend down to grab the receiver and press it to my ear, exclaiming, “Brian, where the fuck are you?”

“It’s not Brian, it’s Michael.”

Oh God. Something’s happened. A horrible sense of dread washes over me, I rub a hand over my chest, I can hardly breathe, I can’t make a sound.

“Justin, you there?”

“What happened?” I manage to ask, my voice squeaky and gasping. “Did something happen to Brian?”

“Yes,” Michael says, “He’s - ”

“He’s dead!” I knew it. My legs go out from under me and I sit down, hard, on the carpet.

“No,” Michael reassures me quickly, “No, of course, he’s not dead! Well, he’s dead-drunk, but otherwise, he’s okay.”

“Drunk?”

Oh God, Brian’s not dead!

But he’s going to be, when I get my hands on him. Fucking asshole! “That fucking asshole!” I leap to my feet. “Let me talk to him!”

“He’s not here,” Michael explains. “He’s – well, he’s in jail.”

“Jail! Did he crash the car? Is he okay? Michael, damn it, don’t make me play Twenty Questions – just tell me what happened.”

“Then stop queening out on me and listen!” he snaps back.

I take a deep breath and blow it out. “Sorry. Michael, I’m sorry, you’re right. I’ve just been worried sick, he was due back here hours ago!” I take another breath and perch on the edge of the bed. “I’m calm now, so tell me, please, what the fuck is going on?”

“Actually, I don’t know much,” he admits. “Somebody called me a few minutes ago from the police station. He’s in Altoona – that’s about halfway between Pittsburgh and State College, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.” We passed through Altoona on the drive up here yesterday afternoon.

“Well, all I know is, Brian got pulled over for drunk driving. Apparently, he got belligerent and they dragged his ass to jail. He passed out and he only just came to a little while ago. The officer said Brian gave him my number, I don’t know why he didn’t call you.”

“I don’t have my cell with me, but why didn’t he call the hotel?”

Michael says he doesn’t know. “I’m on my way to Altoona now,” he tells me, “I’m going to post bail for Brian, but I think they’re going to keep him overnight, till he sobers up. I’ll call you from the police station, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks, Michael.” We hang up and I sit on the edge of the bed a few minutes longer, torn between relief that Brian is okay and anger that he’s fucked up our weekend. And I’m also pissed that Brian called Michael to help him. I’m his partner, why didn’t he call me?

Well, I don’t have a car to get to Altoona but I could have taken a cab or something. Meanwhile, as I wait for Michael to call me back, I might as well order some dinner from room service, I missed lunch waiting for Brian and I’m starving.

When Michael calls again two hours later, I’m much calmer. He confirms that they’re keeping Brian overnight, but Michael posted bail and the police will release Brian in the morning. Michael says Brian will pick up his car and drive here; he’ll meet me at the hotel sometime tomorrow morning.

Now that I don’t have to worry anymore, I’m free to get as mad as I want to. And I’m getting very, very angry. Not just because the weekend is ruined. But because Brian left me to go off on his own and do something that apparently got him so upset, he drank himself stupid. It takes a lot of alcohol to get Brian fall-down drunk. He wouldn’t tell me where he was going or why, and now I feel sure he won’t tell me why he got plastered.

I’m right of course. About nine thirty a.m. I’m curled up in an easy chair holding my sketchpad and doodling, with White Stripes blaring loud on my earphones when movement makes my head come up and I see that the door is being pushed open. Brian’s standing there looking almost sheepish for a moment, then he puts on his who-gives-a-fuck expression and says blandly, “Hey.”

I don’t return his greeting, just pull off my earphones and stare at him. I’m waiting.

Brian closes the door. “You should’ve locked this,” he gripes, “Any asshole could just walk right in.”

“One did.”

“You’re mad.” It’s rhetorical; Brian shrugs. “So, I stopped for a drink or two,” he’s nonchalant as he pulls off his jacket and throws it toward the bed. “Big deal.”

“How many drinks? Michael says you passed out.”

“Yeah, well, I hadn’t eaten anything all day.”

“Why not?”

“I was busy.” Brian turns away and begins to empty his pockets, laying wallet and keys and coins on the desk.

“Brian,” I can hear my voice taking on an edge; he hears it too and cocks his head to one side though he doesn’t turn to look at me. “I have to know something,” I insist. “Why did you call Michael instead of me?”

Carelessly he answers, still without looking at me, “I couldn’t remember the name of the hotel. I couldn’t call information, they only let me have one phone call. Besides, I needed someone who knows how to post bail.”

“You could’ve used your cell to call me later.”

Now he turns and gives me his oh-so-casual look again. “Yeah, well, I didn’t have it. Probably the cops stole it.”

“Probably you left it in the bar. Was it a gay bar, Brian? Did you stop to get your dick sucked?”

“End of story - no more third degree. I’m going to take a shower. Then can we go to breakfast? I’m hungry.” Without waiting for an answer, Brian strips off his shirt and drops it, toes off his shoes, yanks open the bathroom door and closes it abruptly behind him.



Brian

I close the bathroom door and look at myself in the mirror: Beard stubble and bleary eyes. I look like shit. Not very surprisingly, I feel like shit too. I'm still hung over, my head is pounding, I’m slightly nauseated. I’m in no shape to deal with Justin’s anger, no matter how justified. And I admit to myself that it is justified - I’ve fucked up his weekend.

But most of it was beyond my control - not that I'll admit that to him, and I don’t intend to make excuses. The fact is, I was caught off guard by my mother's revelation. I needed some time alone, a few drinks, so that I could come to terms with what she told me before rejoining Justin and carrying on as though nothing has happened. As though the fucking rug hasn't been pulled out from under me.

Still studying my reflection, I shake my head; no. Melodrama is not my style. Well, some people might dispute that statement, but fuck 'em. Instead, I can say that emotional turmoil is not my style. Most of my life I've successfully avoided personal entanglements and the complications they bring. Not always, obviously - the pissed-off blond in the next room is proof of that. But the sturm-und-drang and histrionics that were daily life in the Kinney home when I was growing up taught me to disengage and walk away from emotional bullshit.

When I left the hospital yesterday, it was my intention to disengage from the havoc my mother's newsflash created in my gut. The further I got away from Pittsburgh, the easier it should have been; I’ve never had a problem ignoring unpleasant information. Yet it wasn’t working this time, so I pulled off the highway and found a bar, threw back a few shots of JB and waited for comfortable numbness. But the more I drank, the more fragments of memory rose up in my throat like bile I couldn't swallow. Events of my childhood, conversations I'd had with Pop - I mean with Jack - over the years, played and replayed in my head.

Instead of strengthening my resolve to disengage, the drinks I kept throwing back had the opposite effect. Finally, I gave up, got back into the ‘vette and drove north. I barely remember being pulled over; even to myself, I have to admit that I was pretty far gone. I do remember getting out of the car and confronting the cop, but after that, everything’s a blur, till I woke up late in the afternoon and discovered that Michael had arrived to bail me out.

Once awake and unable to convince the police to release me until this morning, I’d spent a night in their fucking drunk tank surrounded by snoring deadbeats. Somehow I’d made it through the night without dwelling anymore on Mom’s announcement; I’d even been able to sleep a bit finally. This morning all I could think about was getting out of there and driving as fast as legally possible to get here, to be here with Justin.

I don’t like to think what that means, exactly. I don’t like to think it means that I need him, or anything like that.

All I want right now is to close the door on yesterday. Just walk away. Yes, I nod at my reflection in the mirror; just close the fucking door. With that resolve, I move to the shower and turn the knobs, adjust the temperature to boiling. Throwing off the rest of my clothes, I climb into the tub and stick my head under the steaming hot shower spray.



Justin

Waiting for Brian to get out of the shower, I work on my attitude. I can be righteously angry that he’s spoiled our weekend get-away, continue to tell him off, demand an explanation. Then he’ll refuse to explain or even to apologize, and we can spend the rest of the day being mad at each other.

Or, I can decide to ignore his behavior, consider it just another example of Brian’s bullshit, shrug it off and move on.

I don’t want to do either. Mostly because it seems like Brian and I are further away from having a real partnership than we were half a year ago when I left for LA. Brian fucking up is not the problem. He didn’t walk away from me in the middle of our weekend just to get drunk and fuck around, there was some reason he needed to do that. Why did he do that?

Why can’t he tell me? If there was a problem at Kinnetik, or with Lindsay or Gus or Debbie, or even with Michael, Brian would probably tell me. The only reason I can think of for not telling me what’s going on is that maybe there’s another man in the picture. Brian knows I’m okay with him refusing monogamy, as long as I’m only sharing Brian’s cock with a bunch of other guys. But what if he sort of fell into a relationship with some other guy while I was gone? He wouldn’t want to tell me, he wouldn’t want anyone else to know either – it would look like he was getting even with me, for Ethan. Brian’s not petty or cruel – well okay, sometimes he can be. But I know in my heart he wouldn’t want to hurt me like that.

But what if it happened accidentally and now that I’m home, Brian’s breaking it off? Maybe the other guy won’t go quietly. Or – oh God, I can’t bear to think about this possibility – what if it’s the other way around? What if it’s me that he wants to break off with?

By the time Brian gets out of the shower, I’ve almost convinced myself it’s all over. Maybe this weekend away from the Pitts is his way of letting me down easy. Maybe he’s planning to tell me today, maybe he got so drunk yesterday to prepare himself to give me the boot?

I look up when Brian opens the bathroom door and emerges, he glances at me and then does a double take. “What is it?” he asks, moving quickly across the carpet and putting a hand on my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I shake my head, wondering what’s showing on my face. I meet his eyes and shrug.

“Justin.” Brian leans down and presses his forehead to mine, we look cross-eyed at each other. “How about, you can be mad at me again when we get home tonight. But for now, maybe we can salvage what’s left of the weekend, okay? Let’s have a good time today.”

Swallowing my worry, I nod and try to smile. We kiss, then Brian stands up and pulls me into his arms. Rubbing his cock against mine, Brian groans quietly and pushes me gently backward toward the bed.

“No, wait,” I argue, gasping a bit. “Breakfast first, sex later.”

Brian snorts at that and pulls away. “Your priorities are fucked, as usual.” But he lets me go and drops his towel; he gets dressed quickly and we move together down the hall and into the hotel parking garage. When we’re in the car buckling up, I spy something shiny on the floor of the back seat, undo my seat belt and twist sideways, reaching into the back.

“Here’s your cell phone,” I announce, flashing it in Brian’s face. “The police stole it, you said!”

“They did,” he insists, straight-faced as he grabs the phone and pockets it. “They must have slipped it back in the car while I was in the clink.”

“Brian,” I venture gingerly, “What did you do to get arrested? Michael said you assaulted a police officer.”

“I don’t remember that part.”

”What was it like, being in jail?”

“Justin,” Brian sighs, “It sucked, okay? I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why not?”

“Where is that famous sticky-bun place you wanted to try?”

I give Brian directions then add, “Don’t change the subject. I want to hear about your prison experience.”

“Where is it written in your Partners How-To Book, that we have to share every intimate experience under the sun?”

“Chapter Twelve.”

Brian chuckles, but stops when I can’t resist adding, “Right after Chapter Eleven: Unexplained Absences.”

Frowning as he steers the ‘vette around a corner, Brian says tersely, “I explained.”

“No, you didn’t.” Oh, Justin, I counsel myself, please shut up.

Paying no attention to my own good advice, I hear myself asking, “Did you promise him you wouldn’t tell me?”

“Him?” Brian’s surprised. “Him, who – Michael? What’re you talking about?”

I’m biting my tongue, I didn’t mean to push Brian into a corner about this right now. “You know you can tell me anything, you know that, right? I’m not going to get mad or give you a hard time or anything, but - ”

Brian turns to stare at me and raises his eyebrows to emphasize, “But you are mad, and you’ve done nothing BUT give me a hard time today.”

“Being a shit is not going to help.”

He shrugs and turns away. “It used to.”



Brian

Justin’s got his mouth wrapped around a third sticky-bun, there’s icing on the tip of his nose and both hands are sticky where he holds the gooey confection up to his mouth. He glances up at me through loose strands of blond hair hanging around his face as he hunches over his plate on the table between us, and he catches me in an unguarded moment before I can remove what must be a silly, sappy look in my eyes.

Sometimes he looks so fucking adorable that I forget what a little shit he is.

Leaning against the back of the booth, I move my fork idly around the remains of sticky-bun on my own plate. “You’ll be in sugar shock in about five minutes,” I drawl, frowning to counteract any accidental impression of affection that escaped me.

Justin’s brow has been furrowed since I got to the hotel this morning, he’s reading too much into my disappearing act yesterday. Yes, it was shitty of me to fuck up this weekend and he’s entitled to be pissed off. But it feels deeper than mere annoyance or even anger; he seems to be fucking worried about it. So I’m glad when I see Justin relax now, and I decide that maybe it was okay for him to see a little tenderness, or whateverthefuck, in my eyes a moment ago.

Justin’s eyes crinkle up at the corners and he gives me a cheeky grin. There’s the Sunshine that’s been missing from the morning. And so I jettison the snide remark I was preparing about his undignified display of greedy gobbling, and instead I rise up on the bench and lean across the table, surprising him (and myself) with a smacking kiss on his icing-covered lips.

“Mmm, tastes better with you on it.”

Justin laughs at that, he tosses his head and I see him relax a bit more. He doesn’t even glance around to see what the hetero crowd at Ye Olde College Diner make of my PDA, and I’m reminded again how much I like the confident young man Justin has become. His months in LA working and living on his own matured him even more and increased his self-confidence. I’m glad of that.

At least I think I am. Justin is demonstrably less willing now to put up with bullshit from anyone, including me. It’s good that he’s become more self-reliant; if I have to be partners with a man, at least that man won’t always be leaning on me for moral support and all that touchy-feely bullshit. Just because in retrospect I might have slightly enjoyed having Justin lean on me sometimes, that doesn’t mean I want to spend my life with somebody emotionally needy.

Whoa. Mentally I put the brakes on the killer phrase “spend my life with somebody.” Who said anything about a lifetime? Partnerships come and go. Justin has come and gone away from me twice now. He could leave me again, or I could leave him. Although looking at him now as he returns his attention to the pastry he’s devouring, it’s hard to imagine me walking away from him. I tried to leave him only once, for the ill-fated job in New York. And while I’ve always told myself that I really would have left him in Pittsburgh, as time passes I can admit that even then, the thought had crossed my mind that there were plenty of good art schools in New York.

Justin’s easily settling into the new semester at the IFA, falling on his feet as he’s done a couple times before. It’s further proof of his intelligence, his talent, and his fucking charm, that he can waltz in and out the doors of the IFA with ease. But he’d damned well better stay put this time, otherwise he’ll be ninety before he graduates.

Later on the long drive home, I ask him, “How’s school?” sounding positively avuncular; but I really want to know.

We’ve been riding along in companionable silence – at least I think he’s finished being mad at me. We spent the afternoon cramming in as many highlights of the arts festival as possible and we had a fantastic dinner at Chez Marquise, though Justin accused me of wanting to dine there only to justify wearing the dressy suits I’d insisted we bring along. I’m not sure that boy’s palate is ever going to rise above his favorite pink-plate-special at the Liberty Diner.

Now it’s late – later than I’d planned for the drive back to Pittsburgh but I owed him as much time as possible in State College, and we couldn’t stay over another night since I have a Monday morning meeting at Kinnetik.

Justin stretches and yawns, he may have been dozing the past thirty miles. He turns sideways in the seat to answer me. “Great, actually. Did I tell you Dean Ryerson has okayed giving me six credits for my assistant-art-director experience in LA?” When I shake my head no, he adds, “So you see, I won’t be so far behind as you thought.”

“Hmm.”

“Brian,” Justin starts, then stops abruptly.

”What?”

“Brian – you’re not – you didn’t get – kind of mad at me, for leaving? Did you?”

“What kind of stupid question is that? Of course not.”

It’s like he didn’t hear my answer; he goes on, “Because, if you didn’t want me to go, you would’ve told me. Right?” I draw breath to answer but he doesn’t wait, he adds quickly, “I mean, you would’ve just been upfront and told me.”

“Justin – what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Nothing! I just, I don’t know. It just seems like maybe you’re holding it against me. Or something.”

Swerving the ‘vette off onto the shoulder of the road, I throw it into park and shut off the engine. “I encouraged you to take the Hollywood job,” I remind him. Then I add lightly, trying to push away the feeling that something ominous is happening between us, “The only thing I’ve ever held against you is my cock.”

He’s not distracted. “I just mean, you wouldn’t have done anything, I don’t know, weird or something, while I was gone. If you were mad. Which you weren’t.”

Unbuckling my seatbelt, I flip on the overhead light, then turn sideways in my seat and grab Justin’s shoulders, give him a gentle shake. “Justin,” I tell him, studying his face which is turning red as it does when he’s upset. “You’re not making sense. What do you imagine I did while you were gone??”

“Nothing. I don’t know.”

“Wait a minute.” Suddenly I’m wondering who’s been getting to him. “Did somebody tell you that I’ve been fucking around? That’s not weird, and you know it already.” When he just stares back at me, I add, “I tricked a lot, so what?”

Justin nods again and murmurs, “I know.”

Is he mad because I’ve been fucking around? “Justin,” I remind him, “That’s normal for me. I do that when you’re here, too.”

“I know,” he repeats, looking away.

So that’s it. He’s upset about me tricking. I thought this was settled a long time ago. “You said you were okay with it,” I remind him, staring at the side of his face, he’s still turned away from me.

“Yes,” he agrees with a heavy sigh. “Of course I’m okay with it.”

We just sit there for a moment, like a couple of statues.

“Justin.”

He turns back toward me again and he repeats, more forcefully, “Of course I’m okay with it, Brian. That’s just you being you.”

Obviously, he’s not okay with it, but we are not going there. “Then what,” I want to know, “Is this all about?”

“Nothing, nothing. I’m just tired, Brian. Let’s go home now, okay? I have an early class tomorrow.”

I look at him a moment longer, then I nod. Now is not the time to get into a long-winded discussion about tricking, or anything else for that matter. Facing front again and fastening my seatbelt, I start the car and pull back onto the highway. A few minutes later, I realize that my hand has crept across the seat, over the gearbox, and into his lap, searching for his hand. Our fingers intertwine and we squeeze, then we drive onward through the darkness toward home.

Brian

Justin wakes up as I take our exit off the highway and drive the ‘vette through quiet streets toward home. It’s late, there’s little traffic, he’s been sleeping the last half hour of our journey.

“Sorry I fell asleep,” Justin apologizes, before he groans a huge yawn, then stretches his shoulders a few times to unkink them. “I should’ve been talking, to keep you awake.”

Taking one hand off the wheel I reach over and rub his neck. “Your snoring kept me awake, so don’t worry about it.”

“I don’t snore!” He’s indignant. “I don’t!”

“Uh-huh.”

I’m teasing, he really doesn’t snore, but he does moan and groan and talk in his sleep. In the months after the bashing, when Justin was having bad dreams nearly every night, he’d sometimes say terrible things, agonizing things that ripped my heart out. “Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me!” he’d cried more than once. And a few times he’d screamed, “Help me, Brian – help me!”

Christ almighty, I do not need to remember that shit. It’s over and done with. So I remind myself that now, when Justin talks in his sleep, he says funny things, or babbles meaningless words or phrases. Sometimes he even talks dirty, and once I woke him up laughing out loud at something he’d mumbled while he slept in my arms.

I laugh now, just thinking about it. “Remember that time you were talking in your sleep, and you asked me to fuck you on the steps of your school, St. James?”

“No, I don’t remember that.”

Still smiling, I run my hand up the back of his neck, twist my fingers in his curls. I like his hair long like this. The buzz cut he had for a while was pretty hot, but I missed being able to run my fingers through the silky softness of his beautiful hair, I missed the smell of it and the taste of it when I’d grab a mouthful and pull hard while I was fucking him.

“Oh,” I groan, removing my hand and using it to rub my stiffening cock. I’ve made myself horny just thinking about Justin’s hair. Probably that should worry me. I mean, if just the thought of Justin’s hair gets me hard. . . “Let’s drive over to St. James right now, I’ll fuck you on the steps like you’ve always wanted.”

“I’m sure you made that up,” Justin insists. “Anyway it’s late and I’m tired, let’s go home and fuck in our own bed.”

“You are so vanilla,” I chide, pulling the ‘vette into the parking garage and into my stall. Justin doesn’t answer, merely yawns again, so we get out and unload our bags and wordlessly ride up the elevator and drag everything into the loft, pull the door shut and lock it. Justin drops to his knees beside his duffel bag and unzips it, but I grab his arms and urgently lift him to his feet.

“Leave it for tomorrow,” I insist, “I want to fuck you right this minute.” He laughs and wraps his arms around my neck, I grab his ass with both hands and lift him in the air, dropping him gently on the edge of the bed, then playfully I push him down on his back, unbutton his pants and roughly pull them down his legs and off his feet. His shoes come off with them and I throw the bundled clothes over my shoulder.

Meanwhile, Justin has divested himself of his shirt and he’s sprawled naked on his back, his pale skin contrasting starkly with the new dark brown silk bedspread. I kick off my shoes and peel off my own clothes, unable to take my eyes off him. Christ, he’s beautiful. Then I take a flying leap on top of the bed, landing carefully with a knee on either side of his hips, grabbing his hands and spread-eagling them above his head.

“I’m going to plow your smooth tight ass,” I growl.

“Mmm, plow me, baby,” Justin agrees, then we both laugh out loud and I collapse on top of him.

We roll around for a minute till our laughter changes to moans, and then our mouths connect and we devour each other with burning hot wet kisses. I roll onto my back and open my legs wide so that Justin lies between my thighs, our chests are pressed tight together, our cocks rub against each other in eager anticipation.

“Brian,” Justin gasps, and I know what he wants, of course, I know exactly what he wants, but “No,” I tell him, “Not tonight.”

I know I’ll have to give him a turn soon. Justin loves to top and he’s damned good at it too. Well of course he is, I taught him myself. “Soon,” I promise rashly, “But not tonight.”

“Okay,” Justin breathlessly acquiesces, and when I murmur, “Roll over,” he does, lifting his ass high in the air.

Justin’s excitement absolutely takes my breath away. Then thoughts dissolve into nothingness as sensation consumes my mind and my body, and I lose myself in the unbelievable pleasure of covering Justin’s naked body with my own, pushing him hard against the sheets, holding him tight in my arms, my cock deep inside him and my face pressed into his soft sweet-smelling hair.



Justin

As soon as I storm out of Professor Grant’s office, I grab my cell and punch in the number for Brian’s private line. I’m still inside the building and the phone refuses to connect, which is lucky really because, by the time I get outside and take a few deep breaths, I reconsider calling him. I remember that he told me his schedule was jam-packed today and that he’d promised to visit Michael after work. Ben’s teaching an evening class tonight and it’s been a couple weeks since Brian’s spent what he called – tongue in cheek – “quality time” with Michael.

Fumbling in my cargo pants for my pack of cigarettes, I light up and walk slowly across the lawn. I need to calm down before I go back inside to the studio to gather up my materials and my backpack. I’ve been fighting with Mr. Grant since the term began three weeks ago and I’m thinking seriously of dropping his class. But I need the units, and what I don’t need is another lecture from Brian about finishing school. And most of all, I need Grant’s recommendation to include with my application for the Techno/Vision job. The application deadline is in two weeks.

Grant is one of the few really inflexible teachers I’ve encountered at the IFA. Till now, everyone’s been willing to accommodate my need to use computer software for some elements of drawing and design. The flexibility of my hand continues to improve slowly but it still turns into The Claw when I overdo it, which happened a lot in California – though I never mentioned that to Brian of course. And I knew this Advanced Elements of Illustration class would be tough, all the upper division classes are demanding, but the quantity of required hand detail work is a killer. It’s hard on all the students, but with my fucking limitations, it’s almost impossible to keep up with the assignments.

Finally today I forced myself to speak to Mr. Grant in his office, I asked for special dispensation to use my computer on some of the assignments, and he flat-out told me no. “No exceptions,” he’d said brusquely, turning away from me to speak to the next student waiting to see him. I walked away fuming, but also feeling embarrassed and ashamed. People don’t realize how hard it is to admit that you’re not normal anymore, that you can’t do all the things other people take for granted.

After finishing my cigarette, I plod back into the building to collect my stuff. In a way I’m glad Brian won’t be home tonight, I don’t want to inflict my angry mood on him. Besides, I’d have to explain about the Techno/Vision job I’m going for, and I’m not ready to discuss that with him yet. I haven’t told anybody about it, except Daphne. So instead of going home, maybe I’ll kick back in my studio at school, I can call Daphne for a long bitch session, we haven’t talked for several days. We’ve been best friends so long that I know she’ll take my side about the fucking teacher, and we can commiserate about our courses. And our boyfriends.



Brian

I wasn’t going to tell him. Mom asked me not to tell anyone, but being around Michael, especially when I’m stoned and troubled, causes me to confide things in him as I’ve done, as we’ve done with each other, most of our lives. Michael’s just about the only person who loosens my lips. It’s easy to blame him for that but of course, it’s my own fault. Sometimes I’m sorry later, and I have a feeling this is going to be one of those times.

“What? Your mother said what?”

“Shh!” I hiss. We’re at the comic shop, he’s ready to close and there’s only one customer – a pimply teenager with his nose buried in the back-issues bin at the rear of the store. I’m leaning on the counter speaking softly. Michael is in the process of counting the till when I deliver my bombshell; he stops and stares at me over the little piles of money, he’s wide-eyed and his mouth is slack with surprise.

“Shh,” I repeat. “Do I really need to say it again?”

“I’m just – Brian, I just can’t believe it!”

“Hunh,” I nod, “How d’you think I feel?”

Then I stop speaking abruptly, the customer approaches the counter with a handful of comics. He engages Michael in conversation about the exploits of Plastic Man and I turn away, study a display of Spiderman toys, my brain weaving its own tangled web. As soon as I realize that I’m thinking in metaphors, I immediately stop and turn back to the counter, impatiently waiting for the fucking kid to pay his money and get out.

Michael follows the boy to the door and locks it, turns over the Closed sign. He walks back slowly and hikes his ass up on the stool behind the counter, all the time staring at me, shaking his head. “Brian,” he says at last, “I can’t believe it! Do you believe it?”

“Yeah,” I shrug. “I guess. Why should she lie about it? She’s ashamed, she says. She thinks it’s her ‘sin’ that made me homosexual. She thinks she’s going to burn in hell for it. And me along with her, of course.” I look away, try to laugh, but there’s a bad taste in my mouth.

Michael’s silent for a moment and when I look back at him, I can almost see the wheels turning as he works something out. “Wow,” he breathes at last, “You know what this means, don’t you?”

“Yeah. It means that Jack Kinney was not my dad.”

“It’s great!” Michael exclaims, spreading his arms wide, his eyes practically bugging out, “Brian! Jack always hated you and now you know why – it’s fucking great!”

“What?” I’m confused. “Why is that great?”

“Because!” he leans over the counter and enthusiastically punches a finger into my chest. “Because now you know it had nothing to do with you, he just hated you because you weren’t his kid. So now you can forget all about him.”

I take a step back from the counter, recoiling from the finger poking me, recoiling from the excitement in Michael’s eyes. He doesn’t get it.

“I forgot about Jack after he died,” I remind Michael. It’s almost the truth. Then I add quickly, “Not that I thought about him much when he was alive.” That’s almost the truth, too.

“You hated him, Brian. All your life, you hated his guts. Now you know he was nothing to you.”

Jack Kinney was nothing to me.

I feel sick. The multiple shots of JB I had at Woody’s after work, the joints I smoked in the car when I parked behind the shop and came to the decision to tell all to Michael, they’re now making my head spin, suddenly I feel dizzy and sick to my stomach. “I’ve got to go,” I say urgently, swerving away from the counter and heading for the door. The room whirls around my head and I feel Michael’s hand on my arm, steadying me.

“Brian, wait,” he insists, “Where are you going?”

“Home,” I mutter, shaking off his hand. “I need to go home.” I pull myself together, stand up straight and fix my eyes on Michael’s face. “I’m okay,” I tell him, “I’m just a li’l stoned. I’ll call you later, ‘kay?”

“We were going to spend the evening together. Why’d you have to get messed up so early?”

Far gone as I am, I can still read the disappointment on his face. “Another time,” I offer. “Tomorrow?”

“Can’t.” Michael sighs. “That’s okay, Brian.” When I turn away and lurch toward the door, he grabs my arm again. “God, I didn’t realize you were so out of it. Let me lock up and I’ll drive you home.”

I don’t want to, I really don’t want to, but the tiny part of me that’s still rational acknowledges that he’s right, I can’t drive like this. So I nod, and I lean against the door frame. “Hurry,” I mutter, then I close my eyes and wait.

In a minute or an hour, Michael’s back beside me, he hangs onto my arm as we go out the door and he locks it, then he guides me around the building into the alley where I’ve parked the ‘vette. He takes my keys and helps me into the passenger seat, and I think I’m going to pass out but I don’t, I just watch the scenery swirl past the side window till we swing into my garage and Michael parks in my stall.

I get out of the car unaided and stand up straight. “I’m better now,” I tell Michael, staring at his scrunched-up, worried face. “Don’t come up with me.”

Justin might be home.

“Brian - ”

“I’ll call you later,” I promise, giving him a sincere look, reaching for my keys. “Thanks for driving me.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? Because - ”

“I’m fine.” I turn away and add, “Thanks again.” I feel Michael’s eyes on my back as I walk as steadily as possible toward the elevator, but I don’t turn around.

The loft is dark, which is a relief. I don’t get messed up like this very often anymore, especially not so early in the evening, and I don’t feel like answering questions about it. Leaving the lights off, I head for the shower, glad that I have time to sober up before Justin gets home.

But instead of reviving me, the hot water has a soporific effect, and I sway on my feet, grabbing the door of the shower stall to keep from falling down. Twisting off the faucets, I dry myself haphazardly with a towel, then drop it and stumble to the bedroom, almost collapsing onto the bed.

I’ll sleep for an hour or two, then when Justin gets home we can order some take-out. That’s my last lucid thought as I drift away into la-la land.



Justin

It was great talking to Daphne for hours, we caught up on each other’s life and then turned our conversation to the really important stuff: Boyfriends. She’s going through a honeymoon period with her new guy Robert so she doesn’t have a lot to bitch about yet. And while she listened to my long list of complaints about Brian, as usual, she ended up taking his side and urging me to cut him a break. Sometimes I think Daphne’s half in love with Brian herself.

“You know that he loves you, right?” she asked at one point.

“Well yeah. But he’s still not sharing the important personal stuff that he’s feeling.”

“He’s gotten better, though, hasn’t he?”

I had to think about that for a minute. Taking a drag from my cigarette and trying unsuccessfully to blow a smoke ring, I coughed, cleared my throat and then admitted, “Yes. Once in a while. But maybe not the really important stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Like whatever happened this past weekend. Whatever made him go off on a bender and end up in jail. Daph,” I groused, “He called Michael to come rescue him, not me.”

“Well, you said you didn’t have a car, and do you even know how to post bail?”

“No,” I admitted, “But I could’ve figured it out. I just – Daphne, I just feel like he totally shut me out!”

“Don’t be such a drama princess,” Daphne scolded, with the brutality only best friends tolerate. Then she added more gently, “Brian came back to you afterward, you know. He didn’t go home with Michael, he came back to you.”

She’s right; Brian did come right back to me as soon as he could. That’s comforting, but it doesn’t totally mitigate the anxiety I felt when he was missing, and more importantly, it doesn’t explain why Brian couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell me what pushed him to go off alone and get plastered. I’d already explained all that to Daphne so I didn’t repeat myself, just changed the subject. We made plans to get together when she comes home for her mother’s birthday next month and then we said goodbye.

I don’t check the garage for Brian’s car so when I push back the door of the loft, I’m surprised to discover that he’s home already. In fact his snores greet me when I let myself into the loft. All the lights are off so I leave them off, I won’t disturb him. The loudness of the snores tips me off that Brian is probably wasted, that’s the only time he sleeps so noisily. Maybe Michael had to cancel and Brian ended up at Babylon. But it’s only nine-thirty.

I change into sweats, being quiet but not silent; I take a piss and flush the toilet. He’s still asleep. I’m not going to bed this early, so I move to my desk in the corner behind the dining table and sit down to work on an assignment due Thursday in Professor Patterson’s Image and Text Art class. At least Patterson allows me to complete some assignments on my computer, in fact he’s interested in the software I use and asked me to demonstrate it for the class sometime.

It’s kind of restful sitting in the dark, the only light coming from my computer monitor. About ten I scrounge in the fridge for a snack, we haven’t shopped for a while so the cupboard is bare. I settle for one of Brian’s yogurts – I’ve convinced him that the tasty fruity kind is just as healthy as the plain stuff, or at any rate he buys that kind now, and I eat it too sometimes. I settle down again and get really caught up in my drawing, so a bit later the rhythmic beeping of Brian’s cell phone doesn’t get my immediate attention. When my concentration is finally broken and I turn around in my chair to glance up at the bedroom, I see that Brian is awake, he’s flipped on the new light over the bed. Perched on the side of the bed, he’s got one hand clutching the phone to his ear and the other hand’s rubbing his face.

“Yes, I’m fine now,” his voice is groggy, he sounds annoyed, “Did you call to check up on me?” After a pause, he says, “No, he’s not home.”

Brian must not have seen me sitting here in the shadows. I start to stand up, then sit back down abruptly when I hear Brian say, “No, he doesn’t know. I haven’t told him. Don’t you dare tell him anything, understand?”

Oh, God. Who’s he talking to? Is this – the guy? The mystery guy that I’ve convinced myself Brian has fallen in love with?

I really have to stop eavesdropping, I have to move, I need to walk over to Brian and let him know that I’m here. But I’m paralyzed, I’m frozen in place, listening helplessly to his side of the conversation.

Then Brian growls, “Just shut up, will you, Michael?”

It’s Michael! I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. It’s not the mystery man after all. Maybe there is no mystery man, maybe I’ve been totally imagining that something’s going on with Brian since I came back from LA.

Now I’m released from paralysis, I stand up and take two steps toward the bedroom when I hear Brian say, “Mikey, I’m going back to the hospital tomorrow. I don’t know what will happen after that, but you can’t tell anybody about this, do you hear me? Not Justin, not anybody.”

A sound escapes me, a gasp or a whimper, and once again I’m frozen to the spot.

Brian hears me, I see his head whip around and he squints through the shadows where I’m standing stock-still in the near darkness, unable to catch my breath.

“Later,” Brian says into the phone, then he throws it on the bed and comes hurrying down the steps and across the floor to my side.

“Justin,” he demands, “What the fuck are you doing here in the dark?”

I still can’t speak but I stretch out my hands and reach for him, I need to touch him, I need to hold him. I’m so scared, I just need to hold onto him or I’m going to fall down.

“What?” Brian demands, closing the space between us. “What’s the matter?”

“You said - ” I manage to gasp, “You said – don’t tell Justin about the hospital.”

He understands immediately, he grabs my hands and squeezes them tightly in his. Bending his head, looking directly into my eyes, he says loudly, “NO, Justin. No, it’s not me, I’m okay.”

“Brian!”

“No,” he repeats, speaking more softly, releasing my hands and grabbing my shoulders. “No, it’s not the cancer again. It’s not even about me. It’s – it’s somebody else, somebody else in the hospital.”

“Oh, God,” I mutter, throwing myself onto Brian’s chest, almost collapsing. His arms go around me then and hold on tight.

“Shh,” he murmurs, “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

In a minute my body begins to relax, I ease my stranglehold on Brian and take a step backward so that I can look up at his face.

“Who’s in the hospital, Brian? Why don’t you want me to know?”

“Nobody.” Then Brian grimaces and says, “My mother.”

“Why is that a secret? Why did you say, Don’t tell Justin?”

Brian shrugs.

“You told Michael, but you don’t want me to know?”

Still Brian doesn’t speak. “He’s your best friend,” I say it for him, keeping my voice level.

“You don’t understand,” he answers shortly. “Michael - ”

“Michael is your best friend. I’m only your partner.”

Brian frowns and turns his back, walks off toward the bathroom. I follow him there and stand in the doorway while he takes a piss.

“Brian.” Our eyes meet in the mirror and I tell him, “I do understand. I don’t like it, but I do understand.”

And I do, too, it’s the truth. After all, I told Daphne about the Techno/Vision job and I haven’t even mentioned it to Brian.

After flushing the toilet, Brian washes his hands; he’s still watching me in the mirror. “Let’s get something to eat,” he suggests. “You hungry?”

“Yeah.” I watch as Brian pulls on jeans and then I follow him into the kitchen.

Grabbing the take-out menus from the drawer and dropping them on the counter, Brian gives me a long look as I hitch myself up onto a stool and fold my hands on the formica top.

Sighing and shaking his head, Brian says, “Okay, Justin, I’ll tell you. It’s just – it’s kind of complicated.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“No, but I want to.” Brian smiles ruefully and adds, “Actually, I want to. Strange, isn’t it? I really want to tell you.”



Brian

I wait until I've ordered some food, luckily Justin enjoys Chinese as much as I do so that's always an easy choice. Then I hang up the phone and take the stool next to him, clear my throat and start telling him about my mother - about her visit to the loft, about her announcement when I saw her in the hospital on Saturday. Justin doesn't know much of my family history and I brace myself for a bunch of questions I have no intention of answering, but he doesn't interrupt, he just sits watching my face and listening to my words.

When I finish, I shrug my shoulders carelessly and spread my hands wide, adding, "So you see, it's not really a big deal or anything.” Then I repeat Michael’s words: “Jack Kinney was nothing to me."

"He was your dad."

"Weren't you listening?" I hear my tongue wrap around the edge of sarcasm and consciously bring my voice back to normal. "I just told you,” I repeat – patiently, for me. “He was not my father."

"Biology isn't the only thing that makes a dad," Justin contradicts, leaning forward and adding earnestly, "He was there all the years you were growing up. No matter what, Brian, in some ways he'll always be your dad."

I want to deny it. I want to say no, I want to say that Jack hated me - and it was mutual. But looking into Justin's eyes, I can't say it. Because I'm always honest, and it's not entirely true that I hated Jack Kinney. Not always.

Suddenly I realize that Justin gets it, he understands. I have to glance away from him, I can't keep looking into those beautiful blue eyes almost brimming over with empathy. "Don't get sentimental on me," I warn him, my voice sharp.

“No,” he agrees, his voice level and unemotional. “I won’t. Let’s be practical instead.”

“Practical?” I swing my head back again, surprised.

“Yeah. You told Michael on the phone that you’re going to see your mom again. Are you going to ask her about your real father? Do you want to know who he is?”

“What?” I ask, my voice thick with stupidity and shock. “Why the fuck would I want to do that?”

“Lots of reasons, Brian. Maybe you could find him, maybe you could meet him. Maybe he’d like to meet you.”

“No.” Fuck no. “That’s a stupid idea.”

Justin shrugs. “There’s other reasons. Like, genetics. There could be important medical history on his side that you should know about. Maybe there’s a family history of testicular cancer, for example. Stuff like that.”

“I’ve already had cancer,” I’m frowning, my lips tightly compressed. “So what difference does it make?

“What about Gus? Maybe it will be important to know things like that, for Gus.”

For a long silent moment we stare at each other. I want to repudiate Justin’s suggestion, but I can’t do it. Finally I have to look away from that intense blue gaze as I consider his words. And then I’m forced to admit that maybe he’s right. For the sake of my son, maybe Justin’s right.

Fuck me. Shaking my head, I look back at Justin now with a new measure of respect. But I shouldn’t be surprised, not really. He’s a smart little fucker.

Justin

Underneath my concern for Brian, who – no matter what he says – is upset about his mother’s revelation, I feel a wave of selfish relief. Selfish because I need to pay a hundred percent attention to Brian right now, there’s no room for this feeling of exultation since I’ve discovered there’s no mystery man stealing Brian away from me.

Well, there is a mystery man all right, but his identity is not exactly a secret. Or it won’t be, if I can convince Brian to find out who the man is.

“If I were you,” I tell him now, “I’d want to know who my real father is.”

“You’re not me.” Brian moves off the stool and begins to pace around the kitchen island. We’re still waiting for delivery of our order from the Silver Dragon. “And why should I want to know the cock that spewed out spunk that turned into me?”

“He’s not just a cock, he’s a person,” I answer reasonably. “And maybe he’d like to know about you?”

“Hunh,” Brian snorts. While he’s pacing his fingers are twisting around each other, a sure sign of his agitation. “If he didn’t give a shit for thirty years, he’s not likely to give a shit now.”

“Did he know about you? That you were born, I mean?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Brian stops in front of me; up close I can see the muscles of his jaw working, he’s grinding his teeth.

“What did she say, exactly? Your mother.”

“Nothing.” Brian shrugs and adds, “I didn’t ask her anything. I just turned around and got the fuck out of there. I didn’t care about him. I don’t care about him.”

“Bullshit.” I decide to be blunt. “You’d want to know about Gus. Right?”

He doesn’t answer right away, but I’ve got his attention. Then he looks into my eyes and answers tersely, “No.”

“No?”

“I don’t know,” Brian corrects himself. “Maybe I’d want to know. But – Gus is a little boy. Who’d want to know about a grown-up son? Especially - ” Brian stops abruptly.

“Especially,” I add for him, “A gay son?”

He shrugs again. The wall has gone up, but I’ve always been able to see through it. Almost always.

“Brian,” I suggest mildly, “We both know what it feels like, to have our dads reject us because we’re gay. But I’m sure that I’d still want to find out about my father.”

“Again, you’re not me.” Brian lowers his head and stares at the floor, then he huffs a big sigh. “But maybe you’re right – about the genetics angle, I mean.” His head comes up and he looks into my eyes. “You’re a smart little fucker sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” I reach out to pinch him but Brian backs away, a small grin turning up one corner of his mouth. He’s saved from answering by the buzzing at the door; our dinner has arrived. Tacitly we postpone discussing the subject more until after we eat.



Brian

After paying the delivery boy, I open the waxy white cartons of steaming hot food while Justin pulls plates from the cupboard. We perch on stools and eat in silence for a few minutes, both of us hungry and busy shoveling shrimp chow mein and kung pao chicken into our mouths.

I think about what Justin said, that he’d want to know who was his father, and I realize that I’m starting to feel the same way. Finding out who he is doesn’t mean that I’d have to approach him, I wouldn’t necessarily have to meet him – assuming he’s still alive. Pop – I mean Jack – was sixty-eight when he died. This other guy would have to be in his sixties too, I suppose. Or like Jack, he might also be dead.

Justin’s hunger must be slightly assuaged, his elbow action with the chopsticks slows down. Swallowing a big bite, he turns sideways on the stool to face me and says, “On the phone, you told Michael you were going back to the hospital tomorrow. Will you ask her then, do you think?” When I just shake my head, neither yes nor no, he asks, “Why were you going back, then? If you weren’t going to ask about your father?”

“She asked me to. She said she still needed to talk to me.”

“About this? Or something else?” Justin jumps off the stool and retrieves two beers from the fridge.

I wait to take a swig from my bottle before answering tersely, “She thinks she’s going to hell, for adultery. I guess she wants to relieve her conscience by dumping this on me now. And I guess – that I was going to let her.”

Justin’s eyes soften and he reaches across the counter to lay a hand on my arm and squeeze. “I know you don’t want to hear this,” he murmurs, “But you really are a good man, Brian. You have a good heart.”

“I fucking do not!” I exclaim, pulling away from his hand. I’m really pissed. “I don’t know why I’m doing it,” I growl at him, “But it doesn’t make me a fucking ‘good man,’ for Christ’s sake.”

Justin slaps a hand over his mouth to contain a giggle. “Only you would be insulted by a compliment,” he smirks at me.

It’s not a compliment; it’s a lie. I’m not a good man, never have been and never will be.

Still laughing at my frowning face, Justin quickly reassures me, “Don’t worry, Brian, I haven’t put you on a pedestal. I know you have feet of clay, and I’m glad you do.”

“You’re going to feel my feet of clay shoved sideways up your ass if you don’t stop talking bullshit.” It’s not an empty threat either. I loathe sentimental crap. Now I’ve lost my appetite (okay, maybe I’m full) – I throw down the chopsticks and carry my beer bottle into the living room, pull back the drapes and stare out into the dark night.

Justin busies himself putting away the leftovers and rinsing the dishes. A good man would go help him, but luckily I don’t have to. Soon he joins me, slipping his arms around my waist from behind and pressing his body against my back. It feels good, he’s warm. Better than a heating pad, his warmth soothes my taut muscles and I feel myself relaxing back against him.

“Let’s go to bed now,” Justin suggests. “You can shove your foot – or something else – up my ass.”

“Best offer I’ve had all day.” I drain my beer and set the bottle on the floor, turn around and pull Justin into my arms. We move toward the bedroom and up the steps, hanging on tight to each other.

Much later, when Justin’s rhythmic breathing assures me that he’s deeply asleep, I untangle myself from the sheets and slip out of bed – an inch at a time, he’s got a knack for waking when I get up – and move silently into the living room. Opening the drapes a few inches, I sit on the sofa and light a cigarette, gazing at the streetlights shrouded by wisps of fog.

I realize that Justin has talked me into confronting Mom about my father. I tell myself that it’s because of Gus, and it is – but not entirely.

Ever since I learned that Jack was not my pop, and after Justin suggested that I find out who the guy is, curiosity about his identity has awakened in my brain. I’ve never been ashamed of my blue collar roots, most of my friends have the same background, but I’d always intended to rise higher on the economic scale than my parents. And I was obscurely glad that, if they were proud of me for anything, it was for that reason – that I’d finished school and made something of myself. None of our Kinney kin has done as well as I have.

Yet now I wonder if maybe my biological heritage influenced my career success after all. Maybe my real father is also a businessman. Maybe he’s president of some corporation by now; maybe he’s achieved enormous success and acclaim. I would be less than honest if I didn’t admit that I’d be pleased to know my father was someone of importance and high esteem.

“Brian?”

Justin’s radar has informed him that I’m out of bed. Oh well, solitary thinking is highly overrated. Crushing out my cigarette, I close the drapes again and move up the steps to the bedroom.

“Brian, I’m cold.”

“I can fix that,” I promise, slipping beneath the sheet and sliding across the bed to pull him into my arms.



Joan

Of course, he could have called first before coming back to the hospital, but Brian doesn’t have a considerate bone in his body.

The nurse has just taken away my breakfast tray and I'm still sitting upright in the bed when Brian is suddenly framed in the doorway. For the briefest moment, I see his father in him – the broad shoulders, unruly thick brown hair curling over his forehead. Then he moves toward me and I see bits of myself mirrored in my only son: the straight back, the proud stillness.

Pride goeth before a fall, the Bible says. I fell, and my proud son has fallen too. I've always blamed him for choosing his sinful path, but honesty forces me to admit that I too chose my own path. Even though it was Jack's fault that I was miserable enough in our marriage to seek comfort elsewhere, I know that God gives us free will - so I must take responsibility for my actions.

And now God has given me this illness, in punishment for my mistake. Just as God punished Brian by giving him cancer. But Brian survived, so I know that his cancer was only God's warning. It is my duty as his mother to convince my son to turn away from his sinful path, or his punishment will continue and he will die.

"Hello, Mom," he says now as he moves toward the bed. He seems tall as a tree, towering over me.

"Please sit down," I tell him and he pulls up a wooden chair and sprawls onto it. "Thank you for the flowers," I say politely, eyeing the bouquet he has clenched in his fist. I'm sure they're from the hospital gift shop, a generic selection of roses and daisies; probably a last-minute gesture. You'd think he'd remember that I don't like daisies.

Brian merely nods and tosses the bouquet onto the nightstand beside my bed. "You wanted to see me," he says. "I wanted to see you, too."

"I know you don't mean that. But I'm glad you came anyway."

"I did mean it," he contradicts. "But you go first. You said you have more to tell me."

"I do." I shift my shoulders, wincing slightly, and Brian stands up, moves closer. He puts his hands on my arms, his touch is surprisingly gentle yet strong as he helps me sit up straighter, he even grabs a pillow off the room's empty bed and fits it in behind me. "Thanks," I'm forced to tell him, and I wait as he returns to his seat.

Clearing my throat, folding my hands on the starchy white coverlet, I'm ready to deliver the speech I've prepared but before I can begin, Brian interrupts me. Fixing me with a harsh stare, he declares curtly, "Mom, you can say whatever you want. But you have to know that I won't sit here and listen to a lot of preaching, so make it short, okay?" His mouth snaps shut and he raises his eyebrows. "Got that?"

Taking a deep breath and keeping hold of my temper, I stare right back at him and insist, "It is my duty, as your mother and as a Christian, to tell you - "

"Yeah, yeah," Brian slouches back in the chair. "It's your duty to tell me that I'm a sinner and blah-blah-blah." He shakes his head and adds, "Mom, I've heard it all before. Whether you believe it or not, I didn't choose to be a homosexual, I was just lucky to be born this way."

No doubt reading the censure on my face, Brian snorts and adds, "But even if I did choose it, that's between me and God. If, of course, there is a God, and if he gives a damn, then I’ll answer to him - not to you or to any of your hypocritical priests."

I'm so angry that I'm choking on my words. "I - you - I - " Pain sears into my side and I close my eyes, gasping for air.

Immediately Brian's on his feet, he's leaning over me as I struggle to breathe. "Mom," he exclaims, "Mom, are you all right? Should I get a nurse?"

I manage to open my eyes and see his face close to mine; he looks worried, maybe he's scared that he's killed me. "You're a bad boy," I gasp breathlessly, "You're a very bad boy, you always have been."

"I know," he admits. "But, do you need a nurse?"

Shaking my head, I pull myself upright again. "No. I'm all right now. No thanks to your cruelty."

"It's not cruelty, it's honesty," Brian contradicts. Without asking, he pours a glass of water and holds it for me. I take a sip, another, and then I sigh and lean back against the pillows.

"It's my duty - " I try again, but again he forestalls me.

"Mom, you've done your duty - you've told me all that shit before. Now." Setting down the glass, Brian resumes his seat on the chair by the bed. "Now," he repeats, "Do you have anything to say to me that does not involve God or the wages of sin or some herald angels singing?"

All I can do for a moment is stare at his cold handsome face. "Sometimes I hate you," I admit, losing my last hope of saving Brian's soul. "You're evil, and you're damned."

"I know," he agrees, nodding. "Anything else? Of a non-parochial nature?"

Giving up, at last, I just shake my head. "You can leave now," I tell him. "I won't bother you again."

"But I'm going to bother you," Brian informs me, sitting forward in his chair and fixing that harsh stare on my face once again. "Tell me the name of my real father."

"What?"

"Who was he?" Brian lowers his head and I feel his eyes burning into me.

Hissing an indrawn breath, I shake my head. "Oh no," I deny him, "No, I won't tell you. That is none of your business."

"None of my business?" Brian rises from the chair to tower over me. "It is my business to know who my father is. You started this - and you're going to finish it. Tell me his name."

I can only stare back at him, wordless. I did not anticipate this. Brian has never cared for any of the family, not for me, not for Jack, not for Clare, not for any aunts or uncles or cousins. So naturally it never occurred to me that Brian would want to know about his real father. Finally, I have to ask, "Why? Why do you want to know?"

"Why do you think?"

"Oh God," I moan, "Oh no Brian, you're not going to - to try and find him. Are you? You can't. You can't do that!"

"Why not?" His face is closer to mine, he's almost scaring me. "Why not – is he a priest or something?"

"Of course not - don't be disgusting! He was just a man I used to know. He moved away, you'd never find him anyway."

"Then why not tell me his name? What was his name, Mom?"

"I'll tell you his first name," I compromise. "It was Gerald. He worked in the grocery store, in the produce section. He always saved the best tomatoes for me.”

“A produce man?” Brian’s incredulous. “My real father sold vegetables?”

“He was just a nice young man, he was easy to talk to. I was planning to leave your father at the time, he was very sympathetic. But I didn't, I decided not to leave Jack, and the man - Gerald – he moved away.” I wait, and when Brian just keeps staring back at me, I ask, “Isn't that enough? Just let it go now, Brian."

Brian shakes his head. “Just one more question, then I’ll leave you alone.” He waits a moment, then he drops his voice. Almost whispering, he asks, “Did he know about me, Mom? Did he know that you were pregnant?”

“No,” I shake my head. It’s the truth. “It didn’t matter anyway, but by the time I found out, he was gone.”

We just stare at each other for a moment, then taking a deep breath, I whisper, "Please, Brian, let it go now."

"Okay," he says, at last, clearing his throat. "Okay, Mom, I won't ask anything else." He turns and walks over to the window, stands looking out at the view for a few minutes.

I'm exhausted and almost asleep when Brian returns to stand beside the bed. "Mom," he says quietly, "I'm going now. Do you need anything?"

"No." I watch Brian turn away then and head for the door. "Wait," I call after him and he turns in the doorway. "Would you do me a favor - just one?"

"Maybe."

"Brian, would you please at least talk to the Lord? Talk to Jesus. Just talk to Him, as one man to another. Would you do that for me?"

He stares at me and I expect a denial, or a disdainful throwaway answer, but Brian surprises me. "Okay," he agrees. "I'll talk to Him for you. And I'll send Him your best regards."

Then he’s gone, he’s disappeared from the doorway. I don't know if he was joking or not, but I choose to believe that Brian will keep his word and talk to Jesus. I’ve done my duty; only the Lord can help him now.



Brian

My real father was a greengrocer. A vegetable man. He sold tomatoes. He gave his best tomatoes to my mother. Among other things.

I’m almost in a daze as I make my way out of the hospital and through the parking lot to the ‘vette. I can’t find my keys, I’m patting my pockets and trying to remember where the fuck I left the keys when a sharp rap on the ‘vette’s window brings my head up, and I’m staring into Justin’s face. I forgot he was waiting for me in the car.

Pulling open the door, I get in and automatically reach for the seat belt, but Justin knocks my hands off the belt and demands, “Well, Brian? What did you find out?”

I look at him then, and suddenly I drop my head into my hands and these great loud staccato hiccupping sounds are bursting out of my mouth like machine gun fire.

“Brian!” Justin grabs onto my hands and pulls them away from my head, I’ve scared him. “Brian, what is it – what’s wrong?”

I let him see my face then, see the tears streaming down my cheeks, as my shoulders shake with uncontrollable laughter. I laugh and laugh and laugh till I can’t catch my breath, till Justin has to pound me on the back.

It doesn’t last long, this fit of hysterics, and as soon as I can breathe normally, I reassure him. “I’m okay, everything okay. I just found out that. . . that my daddy was Mister Green Jeans.”

“Who?”

Of course, Justin’s too young to know about Mister Green Jeans. “He was a character on a tv show, Captain Kangaroo – before your time,” I explain, holding a hand to the stitch in my side. Laughter like that can fucking hurt.

Justin’s confused. “I don’t understand.”

Suddenly I’m no longer amused. “My father was just a guy working in a grocery store.” My voice has taken on an edge. “Just an ordinary guy who flirted with my mom, he fucked her and forgot her. Satisfied?” I realize that I’m angry, and apparently, I’m going to take it out on Justin.

“What was his name?”

“What difference does it make?” I growl. “I don’t want to find him. I don’t even want to think about this anymore.”

“Tell me, Brian.”

I look away from him then, stare out the car window at the open field next to the hospital parking lot. Dispassionately I tell Justin the story of my mom’s sad, sordid little extramarital fling with Gerald, The Tomato Man, and when I finish, he’s silent.

“So you see,” I conclude, “This was all a big waste of time. Let’s go home now – unless you want to stop at the PW Market and commune with the spirits of dead vegetables.”

“That’s the old-fashioned grocery on Third Street where Debbie shops sometimes?”

“Does she?” I ask absently, turning the key and gunning the engine. “Maybe Gerald fucked Debbie too. Mikey would like that – we’d be brothers.”

“Michael told me his father is a drag queen.”

“A joke. I was kidding. Let’s go home.”

Justin doesn’t put up an argument so I throw the car into gear and peel out of the parking lot.

“Get it?” I ask myself. “Tomatoes. Peel out.” But I have no desire to laugh at my own joke.



Justin

I’ve been hanging around so long in the narrow aisles of the old-fashioned grocery store, I’m liable to get arrested for loitering.

“Psst,” Kathy hisses at me, and I turn to see that she’s surreptitiously pointing at an old guy who’s just come in through the door. Kathy is the checkout girl – there’s four checkout stands but only one is open this early in the morning. I chatted her up yesterday and discovered that the owner of the store comes by early each morning to pick up cash to deposit in the bank. His name is Freedman.

Following on the guy’s heels, I approach him before he disappears into the store’s backroom. “Mr. Freedman?”

Turning around and looking me over, Mr. Freedman nods, asking, “Yes, what is it? Do I know you?”

“No,” I admit, “But I was hoping I could talk to you for a few minutes.”



Brian

I hear Justin running up the last of the stairs, he’s thumping his feet and loudly humming as he pulls back the loft door with a screech. Sitting at my computer with my back to the door, I say “Hey,” over my shoulder before adding quickly, “Leave me alone for about half an hour, I’m just finishing something up.”

“Okey-dokey,” Justin agrees cheerfully, turning for the kitchen and sliding his sneakers across the floor, squeaky-squeak-squeak. In spite of this break in my concentration, I have to smile to myself – he’s in a happy mood. If I play my cards right, I can probably talk him into a quickie before dinner. Then I return my focus to the monitor and review the design team’s draft for tomorrow’s Mighty Mints meeting.

Finished finally, I log off the computer and stretch my arms high over my head, unkinking the knots in my neck. “Unnnhhhhh,” I groan loudly, and as I hoped, Justin hears me and leaves his own computer to hurry over to my side. Sliding his hands around my neck, he smoothes the tight muscles of my shoulders, quickly relaxing me. Justin not only does laundry and sometimes cooks dinner, he’s not only the best fuck and giver-of-head in Pittsburgh (not that I’ll ever tell him so), but he’s also one fantastic master of massage.

“How was your day, dear?” I inquire sweetly, holding up my face for his kiss.

“Great!” he’s smiling broadly. “And I have a surprise for you!”

“Mmm, I see it,” I nod appreciatively at the hard-on beginning to tent the front of his jeans. “Take it out and show me.”

“Not that!” Justin smacks a quick loud kiss on my lips. “Something even better.”

“There is nothing better.”

Oops, that’s perilously close to some kind of admission. Fortunately, he misses the import of my words and merely laughs.

“Brian,” he exclaims excitedly, “Today I found out the identity of The Tomato Man!”

“What?” I’m stunned almost to silence. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“The Tomato Man!” he repeats.

My heart lurches as my stomach drops quickly to my feet like a skyscraper elevator with a broken cable. Moving my wheeled chair backward, I push Justin’s hands off my neck. “What have you done?” I ask, feeling suddenly panicky.

“It’s okay,” he quickly reassures me. “I went to that old grocery store, PW Market? I talked to Mr. Freedman, a man who’s been there since the Ice Ages, he remembers Gerald.”

“Justin – what did you tell him?”

“Nothing. Brian, I didn’t tell him about you, honestly! I told him my grandma has Alzheimers but that, when I visited her in the home yesterday, she started talking about the old days when she lived on Third Street, and all her old friends, and that she especially mentioned Gerald, the produce guy at PW Market. So I said, I was just checking out what she’d told me. To see if she was remembering real stuff or only, you know, imagining things.”

“Jesus.” I’m staring at him open-mouthed. “Where did that come from?”

“I’m an artist,” Justin shrugs. “I have a fertile imagination.”

No shit. “But,” I hold up a hand, “I distinctly told you, I don’t give a fuck about The Tomato Man. I don’t need to know more about him.”

“You do, though, that’s the thing,” Justin assures me excitedly. “Because he wasn’t just some random produce guy, he was a student at the university. He only worked at the market part-time.”

“Hold on, wait a minute,” I stop him now, rolling my chair forward again, grabbing his arm. “That can’t be right. My mom was thirty-three or thirty-four when she had me. If this Gerald was a college student, mom would have been way too old for him.”

Justin dares to laugh in my face. “Go figure,” he says crudely, “You and your mom both like to fuck young guys.”

I’m speechless, staring up at him. “I don’t believe it.”

“Well,” Justin shrugs, “The only Gerald who ever worked at PW was this Carnegie Mellon student. He finished up his term and transferred to some grad school in Boston. Mr. Freedman only saw him once after that, a few years later. Gerald came by to say hello.”

We’re both silent then, thinking. Finally, I shrug and say, “Well, I did say you were a smart little fucker, didn’t I? Very clever. Now, can we forget about The Tomato Man and instead think about ordering some dinner? Feel like Italian tonight?”

“But Brian,” Justin grabs my arm and shakes it, “Now you really can look for your father. There’ll be records at Carnegie Mellon, maybe we can find out where he went to grad school. And if he’s practicing in Boston, he shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

“Practicing?” I’m confused. “Practicing what? And how can we find him, we don’t even know his last name?”

“Of course we do,” Justin insists. “Mr. Freedman told me. His name’s Gerald Shaughnessy. And,” he adds eagerly, “He’s practicing medicine. Brian, your father is a doctor.”

Brian

“I did not ask you to do this.”

“I know you didn’t,” Justin acknowledges, holding out his hand toward me with a yellow sticky note stuck to the ends of his fingers. “But aren’t you glad that he was so easy to find?”

“Who said I wanted to find him?”

“You said - “

“I said I might. I said, sometime I might. Not now. Not right this minute.”

“Well,” he’s keeping it reasonable, too fucking reasonable, “I already did it. I found him. I googled for Dr. Gerald Shaughnessy in Boston and there he was. This is his address and phone number. Take the note, Brian.”

Justin left his own computer and has cornered me at my desk. Glaring up at him, I say, “You don’t know that this is the guy. It’s just a name, a common name. Even if this is the right one, you still don’t know if – if he’s - ”

“It’s not that common. Maybe this is the right guy, maybe it’s not. But how many Dr. Gerald Shaughnessy’s can there be? And anyway, there’s one way to find out.”

“Stop waving that thing in my face. And back off. Mind your own fucking business.”

“Brian - ”

“Back the fuck off,” I repeat, squinting my eyes, an angry scowl tugging down the corners of my mouth.

“Back off?” Justin’s voice goes up an octave. “I was just trying to help. You told me - ”

“I know what I told you. But you had no right to go behind my back like this.”

“Behind your back? Behind your fucking back?” Justin’s eyebrows have climbed up his forehead.

I draw a deep breath to give further vent to my anger when suddenly he gives up. Exhaling an explosive sigh and shaking his head, Justin lowers his voice and says soothingly, “Okay, Brian – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Who said you upset me? I am not fucking upset. I just said, mind your own business and back the fuck off.”

“Okay,” Justin nods. “It’s cool, I’m backing off.” And with that he drops the note on my desk. Ostentatiously I crumple it up and throw it in the wastebasket.

Justin turns and walks away. I watch him sit down at his computer and I feel the anger still building inside my head, my nerves are sizzling with fury. And I realize that I don’t want him to give up so easily; I want the argument to fucking escalate. I realize that I want to yell at him some more.

Which for some reason makes me feel amazingly stupid.



Justin

Brian is so fucking predictable. Well, I should have predicted his response this time but I was excited to have found Gerald Shaughnessy so easily. He’s panicking, that’s all; the best thing I can do right now is just back off, as he asked me to do. I return to my desk and focus on the computer monitor.

When the situation was hypothetical – before he had an actual identification of the man who is probably his real father – Brian was able to be rational about the benefits of contacting him. Brian loves Gus and would do anything for him, so the idea that Gus’ biological grandfather might have information that could be relevant to Gus’ health made him willing to consider finding the man. Yet now that actually meeting the guy has become totally feasible, Brian balks.

Which is putting it mildly.

He told me to back off and I decided not to argue. I know Brian, and I’ve had four years to develop a thick skin where he’s concerned. He wanted to piss me off. So instead of getting angry, I merely shrugged and dropped the note on his desk. When he crumpled it up and tossed it in his wastebasket, I kept my face impassive, turned around and walked away.

We sat in silence for a while then, for a few minutes, each of us pretending to work. Finally, Brian pushed back his chair and stomped up the steps to the bedroom; changed into tricking clothes, grabbed his wallet and keys and stomped out the door, all without a single word to me. No doubt he’s on his way to Babylon to get his dick sucked a few dozen times. So predictable.

When I’m sure that he’s gone, I move over to his desk and sift through the trash. Of course, the note is missing, as I was sure it would be. I know that Brian has taken the note with the doctor’s phone number, and so now I’ll just have to wait and see what happens. The absolute worst thing I can do is pressure him about it.

Anyway, I have problems of my own to worry about. Deadline for the Techno/Vision internship application is approaching and I still haven’t asked Professor Grant to give me a recommendation. The man’s an asshole but he’s highly respected in the field and I know that a word from him will carry more weight than a dozen recommendations from my other teachers. I’ve managed, barely, to keep up with his class requirements, earning As on everything I’ve turned in – at the cost of letting some assignments in my other classes slide. But I can’t keep up that pace all term, so it’s even more vital to get a note from Grant now, while I’m doing well.

I’ve been wanting to talk to Brian about my predicament. He not only gives great practical advice, but I also want him to know ahead of time that I’m going for this job. After all, he did finally share with me about his mother, or bits of the story anyway – he’s never told me much of his family history and he’s got a barbed-wire fence around the rest. But the time has not been right to broach the subject of this job opportunity with Brian during the past week, we’ve both been killer busy, seeing each other only briefly at night, and it always seemed like fucking was more urgent than conversation.

Okay, so I’ll admit that I’m worried about his reaction. He's going to ask if I intend to use this internship as a springboard to a real job with Techno/Vision. And the thing is, that's the way Mr. Martin presented it to me. He emphasized that this is more of an entry-level job than a real internship, and that if the person they hire does a great job, they'll considering hiring him full-time.

I have no intention of taking yet another break from school for this or any other job, for lots of reasons. But I'm not sure that Brian will buy it – not without harassing me to death. He's been such a freak about the importance of finishing school, I just don't want to listen to any more of his nagging, he's worse than a dad about it. Not that I'd say that to him of course, then he really would freak out!

So I've put off telling Brian about this job, and after tonight's argument, I don't know when the time will be right to discuss Techno/Vision with him.



Brian

When did all the tricks in Babylon start to look the same?

It’s not easy to fuck new guys all the time in the small gay ghetto of the Pitts, not without crossing the line into loser territory. Of course, I know that the more drugs I ingest, the better-looking the tricks will become – but running my own business is so demanding that I can’t get totally wasted every night of the week like I used to do.

Tonight I’m sober, or nearly sober, and twice I’ve made my way around the dance floor and checked out every corner of the backroom maze without finding a single mouth that I want to stick my cock into. I could go back to the dance floor again but that would make me look desperate. Worse, it would make me feel desperate. Fuck it, guess I’ll go hang outside for a while, see if anything interesting turns up.

I make my way to the exit and move quickly down the steps and across the alley to where I’ve parked the ‘vette, lean against the door and pull out my smokes. Immediately a shadowy figure that was leaning on a brick wall crosses the street and stops in front of me. Young, buzzed brown hair, softly rounded chin and full red lips. My cock stirs inside my jeans; I haven’t had this one before.

“Hey,” he croons, narrowing his eyes – and then, before I can respond, his eyes widen in surprise. “Oh!” he exclaims. “You’re – aren’t you – Justin Taylor’s partner?”

“No,” I deny it. Then I clarify, “Justin Taylor is MY partner.”

“You’re Brian, right? I saw you at the IFA art show a couple weeks ago. Somebody pointed you out to me.”

“Is that so?” I exhale a cloud of smoke and just as I decide to tell him to fuck off, he asks, “You’re not – you’re not cruising, are you?”

“I’m smoking a cigarette; what does it look like I’m doing? And what’s it to you?”

“Oh, sorry!” he’s abashed. “Of course you’re not cruising, not when you’ve got the real JT for your boyfriend, haha. Is it true that he was King of Babylon a couple years ago?”

“I don’t remember.”

My annoyance has finally penetrated the brat’s thick skull. He backs away a step or two and says, “Well, I gotta go. Tell Justin that Bailey said hello!”

“Hmm.”

Bailey turns and ambles away, back across the street to lean against the wall again, waiting to suck off someone else. He’s probably seventeen or eighteen – too young to get into Babylon. Justin was around the same age when he was hanging around this alley. The night we met.

Christ, I am NOT getting nostalgic. Flicking away the cigarette, I unlock the door and get in, gun the engine and drive away with a grinding of gears. After turning the corner I slow down; no point taking out my irritation on my fabulous old car. A glance at the dashboard clock shows that I’ve been gone about an hour. That’s long enough. I’ll just go on home now; might as well make it an early night.

Justin’s still up, but he’s moved from his computer and is curled up on the sofa, munching chips and watching the eleven o’clock news. The face he turns toward me shows nothing, he’s learned from me how to be stoic. I’m not fooled, I know he’s still annoyed with me, but all he says is, “Hey. Lindsay called. She said Gus kissed a girl in his preschool today and made her cry.”

“Gus kissed a girl?” I pull off my jacket and stroll into the living room. “Christ, my kid is going to be straight.”

“Not necessarily. I remember kissing girls when I was a little kid.” He uncurls his feet and moves over a few inches, it’s an invitation to sit beside him.

Tossing my jacket toward a chair, I drop down next to Justin, raise my arm and settle it on the back of the sofa behind him. Immediately he leans against me and slides a hand into my lap, rubbing his fingers on the inside of my thigh. It’s affection not foreplay, and I feel my shoulders relax. He’s not going to revive our earlier conversation about Gerald Shaughnessy.

Since he’s letting the subject drop, and since he doesn’t appear to be angry that I slammed out of the loft tonight to go tricking, I’m almost tempted to tell him that I didn’t find anybody I wanted to fuck. That in the end, I decided I’d rather come home and fuck Justin instead.

What’s funny is that I feel myself wanting to say it. Wanting to tell Justin that just sitting here on the sofa with him, watching tv, touching each other, feels better than hanging out in the back room watching some hot new trick go down on me.

I don’t say it, of course. Just because I feel that way right now, doesn’t mean that five minutes from now I won’t change my mind. Besides, Debbie – in her own inimitable way – has always said, “leopards don’t change their stripes.” I’m not going to change my stripes either. Not now, not ever.

At least, I don’t think so.

Later, when we’re curled together in bed, pleasantly exhausted from a slow and easy fuck, again I wait for Justin to bring up the subject of Gerald Shaughnessy. Often he digs at me about things when I’m relaxed after a good fuck, I assume he imagines that he’s softened me up. But he doesn’t do it tonight, instead, I hear him exhale a long humming sigh as he slides into sleep. I close my eyes and prepare to follow him, but I have a feeling that it’s going to be one of those nights. One of those raging-insomnia nights.

I’ve been plagued – or blessed – with insomnia most of my life. Often I’ve done my best thinking when I’m pacing the floor at three in the morning, so it’s not always a curse. Unless there’s something I absolutely do not want to think about, and which I can keep at bay during the busy daylight hours but not in the silent darkness. Something like, say, the shadowy figure of a man who might be my real father.

Justin said biology’s not the only thing that makes a dad and I acknowledge the truth of it. Biologically I’m Gus’ father, but in the traditional sense, I don’t play a large part in his life. I’ve spent more time with him the past few months and I do want to be there whenever he needs me, yet for the routine day to day stuff, I’m not around. I wonder if someday he’ll blame me for that? Will he think I failed him as a father? When he hits the teen years, will he decide that he’s ashamed of me?

Alternatively, would some stranger, some man I’ve never met and who doesn’t even know of my existence, would that man be ashamed to learn that I’m his son? Would he turn his back to me as Pop did so often?

Even before he knew that I was gay, Pop didn’t have much use for me. He mostly ignored me when I was a kid – and made me wish he’d ignore me the rest of the time, especially when he’d been drinking. After I was grown, the only time I heard from Pop was when he needed money.

So why should I want to find some stranger, some man whose careless seed created me, only to experience rejection by yet another dad? Who needs that kind of bullshit? Not me.



Justin

“Professor Grant - ” I hesitate in the open doorway of his office.

Glancing at me over the top of his black-framed half-glasses and leaning back in his chair, which creaks ominously, the teacher almost barks, “Mr. Taylor, is this another request to use a computer for your assignments?”

“No,” I hastily assure him, moving a few inches inside the office, which is crammed floor to ceiling with stacks of books and papers, the top of his desk isn’t visible and there’s even a stack of books on the only other chair in the room. “No,” I repeat, “I’d like to ask you for a recommendation.”

“For what?” he demands sharply, “The Chadbourne Fellowship? That’s for seniors.”

“Not the Chadbourne,” I shake my head. “There’s a job – actually a paid internship – becoming available at Techno/Vision that I’d like to apply for. I know that you’re on their Advisory Council, so a recommendation from you would mean a lot.”

“A job at T/V? Doing what?”

I open my mouth to answer but he interrupts, waving his hand. “Move those books to the floor, sit down, why don’t you?” He sounds cranky, as if it’s my fault there’s no place to sit in his office.

Quickly I drop my backpack and shift the books to the floor, perch on the edge of the chair and take a deep breath. I wasn’t really sure he’d even listen to me, and now I have to fight not to get too excited, he still might say no. “It’s part-time,” I explain, “It’s called Assistant Technical Editor, but Mr. Martin – the Editor – told me it’ll mostly be research, it’s for the Canterbury Tales project T/V is producing for public television.”

“Research,” Grant harrumphs, “What does that mean exactly? Anybody can dig through old library vaults, or surf the internet for information. Why is T/V hiring an artist for something like that? And why would you be qualified?”

“Canterbury is an animated feature, and Martin wants somebody who can reproduce old illuminated manuscript bits by hand, or at least advise the creative artists who’re working on the project – for historical accuracy. And I worked on another animated feature, in Hollywood, this past spring, so I have some experience with that kind of project.”

“Oh yes,” Grant leans back again, crossing his legs and folding his hands on his knee. “I remember now, you’re the IFA’s golden boy, aren’t you? Going to be famous before you’re twenty-one, is that it?”

That makes me laugh. “I’d have to hurry, I’ll be twenty-one in a few months. And anyway,” I add, “I was such a nobody in LA. I was only hired because I helped create the comic that inspired the film.”

At least the money I made on Rage: The Movie is enough to cover tuition this year and next, so I have no regrets.

“As it turned out,” I sigh then, remembering my frustration, “Nothing I did made any real impact, somebody always overrode all my recommendations.”

Grant takes off his glasses and tosses them onto the desk. “Welcome to the real world. So, knowing that, why do you want this Techno/Vision job?”

“I want to get more experience in the field. And,” I admit, “The pay’s better than my other part-time job. Mr. Martin said they’re willing to work around the class schedule of whichever student gets the job, so it won’t interfere with school.”

“You can barely keep up with my class assignments as it is.”

It’s a statement, not a question, so I don’t answer, just look back at the professor and try not to let my face fall. I didn’t know he was aware how hard the past few weeks have been for me. Finally, I just shrug and say, “I’ll manage.”

“Hmm. Well.” Grant uncrosses his legs and sits forward in his chair. “I’ll think about the recommendation. Come back on Thursday and you’ll have my answer.”

That’s my cue to stand up. “Thank you, professor.” Grabbing the strap of my backpack, I turn for the door.

I feel pretty good as I move down the hall and out of the teachers’ office building. Maybe I’ll get his recommendation, maybe I won’t. But I can’t help feeling like it’s in the bag. I also feel confident that Techno/Vision will hire me. And now I’m glad that I didn’t tell Brian about it. I’d rather wait and surprise him. I know that if I get this job on my own merits, he’s going to be proud of me.



Brian

Justin has been pouting for a week now, ever since he searched the internet and found a doctor in Boston named Gerald Shaughnessy. He wanted me to call the man and find out if old Gerald had ever fucked a bored housewife in Pittsburgh in the 1970s. I smacked him down – more harshly than I’ve done for a long time. Told him to keep his nose out of it, told him to mind his own fucking business, and he’s been pouting ever since.

To be fair – though I don’t give a fuck about being fair of course – Justin does not exactly pout. Gus pouts. Lindsay pouts. Michael sure as fuck pouts, he’s better at it than Gus. No, what Justin does is somehow worse, because he’s mastered this façade of mature, sympathetic understanding. I don’t want sympathy, I sure as fuck don’t want understanding, and it pisses me off that someone a dozen years younger than me acts more maturely than I do myself sometimes. Christ almighty, that’s annoying.

And because Justin has dropped the subject as I told him to do, and because he hasn’t said another word about it or leaned on me to do something, contrarily I’ve had a hard time thinking about anything else. So when a potential client in Boston puts out feelers to Kinnetik and Ted volunteers to go see the guy, which has become standard practice for such queries, I surprise Ted by announcing that I’ll go to Boston myself to meet with the client.

Ted’s not as surprised as I am.

For most of the afternoon, I assure myself that taking on the Boston client has fuck-all to do with Gerald Shaughnessy. A coincidence, nothing more. Eventually, after I’ve dicked around with Cynthia, not letting her call the client to schedule an appointment as she offers to do, I’m forced to admit to myself the real reason I’m willing to travel to Boston. Opening my briefcase, I dig into the side pocket where I’ve surreptitiously stashed the sticky-note Justin gave me with Shaughnessy’s office phone number. I sit at my desk staring at the note for about five minutes, before picking up the phone and calling for an appointment.

As it happens, the doctor’s an oncologist, which means that (a) I’ve got a legitimate built-in excuse for seeing him – I can say that I’m seeking a second opinion about my surgery and follow-up treatment. However it also means that (b) the doctor’s very busy, his schedule is full and I’m told I’ll have to wait three weeks or more for an appointment. The receptionist puts me on hold and I almost hang up then – maybe I’m getting cold feet – but a moment later she comes back on line to tell me there’s been a cancellation and they can fit me in on Friday afternoon.

After hanging up and deciding that vomiting is not a rational reaction to making a doctor appointment, I pick up the phone again and get Cynthia on the intercom. “Call the Boston client,” I tell her. “I’ll see him Friday morning.” Then I stick the whole Daddy Dearest scenario into a “think about this later” compartment in my brain and move on.



Justin

Professor Grant has another student in his office so I move a few steps away from his open door and pull a paperback out of my bag, lean against the wall and pretend to read. I recognize the student, it’s Jim Cooley, he’s in Grant’s class too. I hold the book in front of my face, though I’m too nervous to focus attention on it, but I don’t want to look like I’m eavesdropping. Cooley leaves a few minutes later, thanking the teacher and giving me a nod as he shoulders his backpack and moves away down the hall.

Tapping on the professor’s doorframe, I greet him and he waves me into his office and points at the chair by his desk. I sit down and take a deep breath, anxious to hear what he’ll say about the recommendation for Techno/Vision.

“Mr. Taylor,” he begins without ceremony, “I’ve made a decision about T/V.”

“Yes?” I’m perched on the edge of the chair, I lean forward slightly and realize that I’m holding my breath.

“Yes,” he nods, lowering his head and looking at me over the top of his glasses. “Mr. Taylor, I’ve decided NOT to give you the recommendation. And – “

“What?” I shake my head, I can’t have heard him right. “You’ve decided what?”

“I am not going to recommend you, and - “

“Why?”

“I’ll tell you why,” he continues. “Mr. Taylor, you’re a very skilled artist, and I’m sure you could fulfill the internship at T/V with your eyes closed. But,” he concludes, shrugging his shoulders and leaning back in his chair, “But I think that that would be a very bad thing, all the way around.”

“What? Why?”

“That job’s beneath you. I’ve spoken to Ed Martin at T/V and I’ve concluded that the internship job there is too easy for you.”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupt him, “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” he raises his eyebrows and shrugs again, “That you’re capable of very much more than being a glorified student intern on an insignificant endeavor like the Canterbury Tales project.”

“Okay,” I stand up abruptly; I’m angry but I’m hanging onto my temper. “All right, Mr. Grant – so you won’t give me a recommendation. I’m sorry that I’ve wasted your time – but I can get the job without your help.” I bend down to grab the strap of my bag and when I straighten up, I see that the teacher is shaking his head.

“No,” he informs me, “You can’t. I told Ed Martin not to hire you.”

I can’t believe my ears. Who does this guy think he is? “You can’t do that,” I insist, “It’s not your decision.”

Grant shrugs his shoulders again. “I can, and I did; Martin’s decided to hire a classmate of yours.”

“Jim Cooley?” I hazard a guess.

“That doesn’t matter,” Grant informs me, leaning forward and waving at the empty chair. “Sit down again, I want to tell you - “

“No,” I feel myself losing control of my temper now. “I am NOT going to sit down. Who do you think you are, cheating me out of my job?”

For nearly a week now, I’ve been walking around thinking I had this job in the bag, and I didn’t realize how much I was counting on it – and counting on bragging about it to Brian.

“It was never ‘your’ job,” Grant reminds me tersely, “And if you’ll just sit down again, I will tell you - “

Shaking my head, I murmur, “Fuck you,” under my breath; I back up a step or two and glare at the self-righteous son of a bitch. Then more loudly I repeat, “Fuck you, and fuck your class, too – I’m dropping it tomorrow.”

I turn my back to the teacher and march out the open door, ignoring him as he calls after me, “Come back here, Mr. Taylor!”

I pick up speed and in a moment I’m out of earshot, turning a corner and pounding down the stairs to the ground floor. Flinging open the exit door, I burst outside, still cursing out loud. “Asshole!” I shout into the wind, “Motherfucking asshole piece of shit bastard!”

Adrenaline keeps me going as I move quickly across campus, out the driveway by the entrance gates, throw my bag on the ground and myself on the grass next to it. I’m steaming mad, and I want to keep venting my anger and shout out loud some more, I’m so pissed at the paternalistic, self-righteous fucking college professor who thinks he can control my life in this way.

But I’ve got to cool down. Brian’s picking me up here in a few minutes. Ten minutes, I realize, as I glance at my watch. Rubbing both hands hard over my face, I think again about the conversation with Professor Grant, and about the job he cost me, and about Brian’s reaction when I tell him. If I tell him.

Do I want to tell him? Maybe, maybe not. There’s nothing he can do about it, no advice he can give me to help me secure this internship job at T/V. All he can do now is help me calm down, maybe put the job in perspective. Yet I know, I’ve known all along, that Brian wouldn’t like me taking this job anyway, so do I really want to tell him about it now, after the fact? Do I really need to listen to him harass me about a job I didn’t even get?

Puffing out my cheeks and exhaling a big burst of hot air, I shake my head, as if I’m arguing with myself. No. No, I’m not going to tell him about it. One thing Brian’s taught me is that some things are better kept to yourself. Maybe this stupid fucking failure is one of them.



Brian

The morning meeting with the management team of the Boston Harbor Tea Company was a snap, they were ready to sign Kinnetik on the spot, and it’s good to know that my reputation – my business reputation – has reached the northeast. My other reputation may have reached here too – one of the team gave me the eye during the meeting and he was hot. I considered a quick fuck in the men’s room, then decided against it. I realized that my nerves were zinging enough already in anticipation of my appointment with Dr. Gerald Shaughnessy this afternoon.

Now, after filling out some medical history forms, I’ve been escorted to an exam room, where I sit on a tweedy cushioned chair and clasp my hands tight together in my lap. Fortunately, I’m fully dressed for what is supposed to be a first-time consultation with the doctor. I’m relieved that I won’t meet the man who could possibly be my real father wearing nothing but a paper gown with my ass hanging out the back. I realize that I’m swallowing convulsively and I bite the inside of my cheek hard to calm the ridiculous shaky feeling deep in my gut. When there’s a brief knock and the door is pushed open, I take a deep breath and make sure that my face reveals none of the anxiety that I’m feeling.

The man in the white coat who enters is about average height and a bit overweight. He nods at me and says, “Hello, Mr. Kinney,” and automatically I return his greeting, murmuring, “Hello,” but I’m staring at his thinning red hair and the sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of his nose. Suddenly I realize that he must be in his mid-thirties, too young to be my father.

Christ almighty, Justin fucked this up big time! Immediately I’m angry at him for sending me on this wild goose chase. The fact that Justin doesn’t know I’m here is irrelevant, I’m still blaming him for the embarrassment I’m feeling. Not only have I wasted my time coming to Boston, but now I’ve got to talk my way out of this appointment for an alleged “second opinion” of my cancer treatment.

Anger at Justin is warring inside me with some other unnamed emotion. It must be relief. Of course, that’s it – I’m relieved that I won’t have to tell some stranger he’s my long-lost daddy.

My shoulders sag slightly and I sigh. And then I’m forced to acknowledge that maybe it’s not relief that I’m feeling. Maybe it’s disappointment. Fuck me.

Making a conscious effort to straighten my shoulders, I sit up tall in the chair and look back at the red-haired stranger standing in front of me. The doctor glances down at the chart in his hand, and I take a deep breath. “Dr. Shaughnessy,” I say, preparing to talk my way out of this awkward situation, “I - “

The man lifts his head quickly. “I’m not the doctor,” he corrects me. “He’ll be with you shortly. I’m Philip, his MA.”

“What?”

“I’m the doctor’s medical assistant. Now, Mr. Kinney,” he gestures at the patient chart, “There’s a couple of questions you didn’t complete on your medical history form.”

I stare at him blankly.

“You’ve noted,” he goes on, “That your father is deceased, but you didn’t put the date or cause of death.”

“Cancer.” I clear my throat and repeat, “Pop had lung cancer.” While Philip jots down this information I have to think for a moment to remember the date he died and when I tell him, he writes it down on the form.

“I think that’s all,” Philip announces, pocketing his pen and giving me a perfunctory smile. Tucking the chart under his arm, he pulls open the door and promises, “The doctor will be with you shortly.”

I stare at his retreating back and continue to stare at the closed door for a moment. And now I realize that I’m getting anxious all over again. In fact, part of me wants to jump up and rush out the door, just get the fuck out of here, get away from this awkward situation. I really wish I hadn’t come. But the exact moment I make the decision to get to my feet and flee, the door is pushed open once again.

The man who enters the room is tall, with a shock of thick brown hair peppered with gray. He’s wearing tortoiseshell glasses. “Hello,” he says, “I’m Dr. Shaughnessy.” Glancing at the chart in his hand, he adds, “How do you do, Mr. Kinney?”

In spite of my mother’s disclosure, I’m shocked to immediately recognize a resemblance to myself in the man’s strong nose, round chin and arching eyebrows. His professional smile reveals full lips, and when he looks up from the paper, I see that his eyes are green. I’m almost breathless with recognition. Yet, if I weren’t looking for a resemblance, if I’d met the man before my mother’s revelation, probably my only thought would have been, “What a looker, for an older guy.”

“Hello,” I manage to croak.

The doctor extends his hand and we shake. He nods at the paper he’s holding. “This says you’re a new patient, but surely we’ve met before?” He tilts his head to one side as he studies me.

“No.”

Releasing my hand, he says, “Hmm.”

“Maybe you recognize my name. Kinney. I’m from Pittsburgh.” I keep my voice flat; I can’t stop staring at the man’s face.

“I grew up in Pittsburgh,” he acknowledges. “Maybe I know your family?” He hooks his foot around the leg of a wheeled stool, pulls it close and sits down.

“Maybe,” I agree. I have to stop staring at his face. Instead, I move my eyes to his hands: long slim fingers, one hand curled around the patient chart. When I raise my eyes to his face again, he’s staring back at me.

Then Shaughnessy gives his head a small shake and gets down to business. Looking at the chart again, he says, “So, Mr. Kinney, you’ve been treated for testicular cancer – at Johns Hopkins. You probably couldn’t get better treatment anywhere else. And you’ve noted here that your latest exam gave you a clean bill of health. Yet you want a second opinion?”

When he glances at me I just look back at him. “Are you,” he asks, “Having more problems? Were you not happy with your oncologist – Dr. Chaudry?”

“He’s the best,” I admit. “And I’m not having any problems now.”

“Then. . .” The doctor tilts his head to one side and quirks his right eyebrow.

I could be looking in the mirror, that gesture is my own. Swallowing to dislodge the lump in my throat, I ask, “Doctor, when you lived in Pittsburgh, did you know a woman named Joan Kinney?”

Taken aback, the doctor’s other eyebrow goes up. “Joan Kinney?” he repeats; his brow furrows, he’s thinking. “Why, yes, I think so.” He falls silent, he looks over my shoulder for a moment, then his brow clears and he looks back at me. “Yes. Yes, I did. Is she a relative of yours?”

“My mother.”

“Yes, I remember her now. How is she – is she well?”

“Not really. She’s having some medical problems.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

It’s my turn to speak but the lump has returned to my throat, silencing me. We just stare at each other for a moment, then the doctor asks, “Mr. Kinney – “

“Brian.”

“So, Brian, what can I do for you?”

Clearing my throat, I open my mouth to speak but no sound comes out. Abruptly getting to my feet, I stammer, “Dr. – Dr. Shaughnessy, I don’t think I need a second opinion after all. About the cancer. I’m fine, and I’m sorry that I’ve wasted your time.”

Coward, I’m already calling myself a fucking coward, but suddenly all I want to do is get out of this office, I need to turn around and walk away from this man, from this ridiculously overblown, melodramatic situation. I wish I’d never come here today.

“Mr. Kinney - “ the doctor stands up too and puts a hand on my arm, but I brush it off and move quickly to the door. Pulling it open, I’m brought to an abrupt halt when the doctor shoulders past me, shoots out his hand and roughly pushes the door closed. “Mr. Kinney – Brian. Wait a minute.”

“Sorry – I can’t. I’ve got a flight to catch.”

We’re standing close together, staring, face to face. After a moment’s hesitation, he says quietly, “Tell me.”

“Tell you what?” I shrug carelessly, keeping my hand on the doorknob.

“Brian. Tell me what your mother said. About me.”

I shrug again but it’s hard to resist that piercing gaze. “My mother said nothing about you. Or rather,” I correct myself and force a laugh, “She said that you saved your best tomatoes for her. At the market.”

“Did she tell you. . .” Shaughnessy pauses, then raises his chin and flares his nostrils. “Did she tell you that we had an affair? Joan Kinney and I?”

“That’s none of my business.” God, I hate emotional scenes, why the fuck did I get myself into this? I pull on the doorknob but the doctor moves slightly so that his shoulders are leaning against the door panels. I let go and take a step backward.

“She was unhappy,” he’s saying now, speaking slowly, his eyes soften as if he’s looking back in time. “She was a beautiful woman. And I was - “

“Young and horny?” I finish his sentence. “Look,” I say, “I really don’t want to hear this. I have - “

“A plane to catch.” Now it’s his turn to finish my sentence. “Brian,” he says, “Why don’t you tell me the truth – about why you came to see me.”

“All right.” I’m beginning to get angry, the son of a bitch won’t let me out of the room without a struggle. “Okay, I will,” I snarl. “Mom said that she had an affair with you, and that you got her pregnant.”

“What?”

I can’t repeat myself, I just shrug, and I feel my neck and face flushing red.

“That’s. . .”

“Ridiculous?” I shrug. “I agree.”

It is ridiculous. So my mother fucked some guy and got knocked up. So what?

The doctor goes on, “If she was pregnant, she didn’t tell me. And that was a lifetime ago. Twenty-five, thirty years ago.”

“Thirty-one.”

“Brian – are you saying. . . are you trying to say that – “

“That you’re my father?” I shrug again. “That’s my mother’s story. I have no idea if it’s true or not.”

Which is a lie, a lie; all I have to do is look at this man to know the truth.

I think he knows the truth too. He’s staring hard at my face and his brow is furrowed. I think he recognizes the physical similarities between us. How could he not?

“I’m – I’m stunned,” he says, at last, still shaking his head in disbelief even as I see him begin to believe it. “She never said a word to me. Joanie. Joan.”

“You left Pittsburgh before she knew that she was pregnant.”

“It was so long ago. And it was just a – “

“A meaningless fuck?”

Now it’s Shaughnessy’s turn to flush red. “I didn’t say that.”

“Hey,” I shrug carelessly, “I understand; I’ve had a few of those myself. I’m not here to condemn you.”

”Then why are you here?”

He doesn’t actually say that, but the question hangs in the air between us anyway.

Finally, I admit, “I don’t think I really believed her. My mother. Now – I’m not so sure.”

“Christ.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing to say,” I assure him. “I just wanted to satisfy my curiosity, and since I’ve done that, I’ll be going now.”

“Look,” he says, “I’m sorry if I’m not reacting appropriately. Whatever ‘appropriately’ might be, in this situation.” Moving a few inches away from the door, the doctor adds, “I’m just – frankly, I’m shocked, flabbergasted. I need some time to process this information, before I can. . . before I can do anything about it.”

His voice trails off and we stand awkwardly, staring at each other. Finally, I say, “You don’t need to do anything about it. I told you, I was just curious. That’s all.” I turn away and reach for the doorknob again when he stretches out his hand and touches my arm.

“Brian – wait.” Another awkward silence, then Shaughnessy says, “Can you – can we talk about this later? Maybe tomorrow? I’ve got a tight schedule today, and I’m committed to a fund-raising dinner tonight. Are you staying in town for a while?”

“No,” I shake my head. “I’m flying back to Pittsburgh tonight.”

“You came to Boston just to get a look at me?”

“No,” I deny it, though of course, that’s nearly the truth. “I had a client meeting this morning. I just thought while I was in town. . .”

“A client? You’re a businessman?” Now he’s taking in my Prada suit and his eyebrows go up; perhaps he appreciates good tailoring.

“Advertising.”

“You appear to be doing well?”

It’s a question and I recognize the pride I can’t keep from my voice when I answer, “Yes. I have my own agency; it’s doing well enough.”

“So you’re not - ”

“Looking for a handout?” I finish his sentence, tasting bitter bile rise suddenly in my throat. “No.” My voice is harsh and a flush quickly warms my cheeks once again.

Shaughnessy apologizes. “I didn’t mean it that way. Or,” he qualifies, “Maybe I did, but it was a knee-jerk reaction. I just need some time to process all this, it’s – to be honest, it’s really knocked me for a loop.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “If it’s true.” There’s a pause while we stare at each other, then I can’t resist growling, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to sue you for retroactive child support.”

There’s a knock on the door and it’s pushed open to reveal a slim blonde in a blue smock. “Excuse me, doctor, the lab is on line three.” He nods at her and she closes the door.

The doctor grimaces. “I have to take this call, and I’ve got a dozen patients scheduled this afternoon. Give me time to digest all this. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

As if I give a fuck if he calls me. “Whatever,” I say, pulling open the door. “Goodbye, Dr. Shaughnessy.”

“Shaughn. My friends call me Shaughn.”

I turn and walk out of the office, through the hall, and down four flights of stairs. Exiting the medical building, the automatic door closes behind me with a clunk, and I reach into my pocket for my cigarettes. I almost laugh when I realize that my hands are shaking so bad, I can’t light up. I lean back against the brick wall and close my eyes. I’m not an emotional man, never have been, so my reaction surprises me. Who would have thought that I’d react so strongly to meeting my real father?

Maybe Gerald Shaughnessy is my real father, maybe he’s not. Maybe he’ll call me, maybe he won’t. I remind myself to expect nothing.

Finally, I get my cigarette lit. I take a deep drag and exhale an explosive cloud of smoke that quickly dissipates in the cool breeze from the harbor a few blocks away. The jolt of nicotine and the fresh air help to clear my head. I tell myself that I don’t care if the doctor calls me or not. I know from experience that having low expectations is the safe thing to do. And expecting nothing has always been easy for me.

At least, it used to be easy – before Justin Taylor came into my life.

Brian

“Mmm,” Justin murmurs as we kiss, “I missed you.” He wraps his arms around my neck and pulls down my head for another kiss, then murmurs against my lips, “Did you miss me too?”

“It was a quick business trip, I was only gone one night.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, “But did you miss me?”

“Possibly.” I turn around then and move toward the bedroom, keeping one arm wrapped around Justin and dragging him along with me. I dump my raincoat and leather garment bag down on the bed, unzip the bag and pull out my suit. Justin reaches past me to grab my toiletries bag from the bottom and carries it into the bathroom while I hang up my suit and put my shoes on the shoe rack. He returns to grab my raincoat, shakes out the wrinkles and reaches for a hanger.

I change into jeans and I’m pulling a white tee over my head when Justin says, “Brian.”

“Hmm?” I smooth down the tee and turn around to see that Justin’s holding my airline ticket stub in his hand. It was in my coat pocket; I meant to throw that away when I got off the plane.

“You went to Boston?” he asks, surprised. “I thought you were going to Cleveland.”

“Plans changed a couple days ago, thought I told you. Do you want to go out for dinner or order in?”

“I had dinner at Deb’s last night, there’s a ton of leftover lasagna in the fridge.”

“Good, I’m hungry,” I announce, moving down the steps and into the kitchen with Justin on my heels.

“How was Boston?”

“Overcast, a little chilly.” I open the fridge and pull out a bottle of beer. I hold it up in the air without turning around and ask, “Want one?”

“Sure. Uh, Brian. Have you been to Boston before?”

“Yeah.” I hand him a bottle. “We can just eat the lasagna cold, right?”

“You are so lazy!” Justin exclaims, pushing past me to pull a Tupperware container from the fridge. He pops the lid and shoves it into the microwave. I congratulate myself for distracting him and take a seat at the counter, sipping my beer and watching Justin pull plates and silverware from the cupboard and set them on top of the counter.

“I was only ever in Boston once,” he says; he’s not distracted after all. He climbs on the other stool and takes a swig of beer. “I thought it was a cool city but there wasn’t time for sightseeing, Dad took me to look at colleges on the east coast. I was going to apply to Harvard but changed my mind.”

“Think you’d have got in?”

“Maybe,” he shrugs, “But Dad went to Dartmouth so of course, that’s the school he wanted for me.”

“You’d have wowed them at Dartmouth,” I tell him, wondering why I don’t feel jealous of the opportunities Justin so blithely dismisses.

Maybe because I know the price he paid for the privilege of his childhood years. People sometimes think Justin had it easy growing up, but it’s not true. I got a glimpse of his life that time I took him home and tried to fix things up, after he was disowned by his dad. Craig Taylor was just as belligerent and domineering as my own – as Jack was; only he was wrapped up in a more refined, upper-middle-class package.

Justin’s told me that he felt like he could never measure up to his dad’s high expectations. Being queer and an artist were the final straws that cost him his father. And there was plenty of evidence how easily Mother Taylor gave up on her son time after time, fobbing him off on me whenever things got tough. Just because I was okay with that, and just because Justin wanted to be fobbed off on me, doesn’t change the fact that he was hurt by it. Not that he’s ever complained about his mom, but I know.

“You really think I’d have done well at Dartmouth?” Justin beams now and his cheeks turn pink; he looks like a smirking cherub. He doesn’t need a lot of praise, but he always eats it up.

“Sure. You have above-average intelligence and you’re usually fairly competent.”

Justin grins. “Don’t overdo it, Brian, or I might get a swelled head.”

Sliding my hand over his thigh and into his lap, I fondle his khaki-covered cock, murmuring, “Let me see if it’s swelling.”

Justin snickers and swats away my hand just as the microwave buzzes. He jumps down and retrieves the Tupperware and a serving spoon, sets it down between us and peels off the lid, then spoons us each a scoop of Debbie’s homemade lasagna.



Justin

I’m curious about Brian’s business trip to Boston. He’s being casually offhand about it, which either means (a) that it was strictly business or (b) that it was more than business. Sometimes I can tell when Brian’s hiding something, but not always. He’s very good at covering his tracks. I decide to let it go for now, and “What are you doing tomorrow?” I ask, as we dig into our plates full of lasagna.

Brian swallows and shrugs. “The usual. Gym in the morning, Kinnetik for a few hours, Babylon tomorrow night.”

“You spend every weekend at work,” I point out.

“I’m the boss, it’s necessary. Running your own business always takes more time than being an employee. Besides,” he adds, raising a forkful of pasta to his mouth, “I enjoy it.”

“You’re a workaholic.”

“Yeah,” Brian agrees, “And an alcoholic and a sexoholic. ‘Holic’ is my middle name.”

“You’re not an alcoholic,” I deny it. “You hardly ever get drunk any more. It’s a sign of maturity.”

“Fuck that. It’s a sign that I need to keep a clear head. At least sometimes.” Brian takes another bite, then pushes his plate away, he’s only eaten half his lasagna. “We can get loaded tomorrow night,” he suggests, “And sleep in on Sunday.”

“Can’t,” I shake my head, “I’ve got an early shift at the diner Sunday morning.”

Brian frowns. “Quit that fucking job, why don’t you?”

Swallowing my last bite, I shake my head. “I can’t, I need it. At least until I find something else.”

Exasperated, he growls, “I’ve told you a million times you can work part-time at Kinnetik.” When I open my mouth to protest, Brian insists, “And it’s not fucking charity, if that’s what’s stopping you – I’d work your ass off.”

“I know, and I appreciate the offer, but no,” I‘m resolute. “I think it’s really important for our relationship, that we keep our personal lives separate from our careers.”

“Did Dr. Phil tell you that?” Brian’s annoyed, he doesn’t wait for an answer but gets up abruptly and carries his plate to the sink. “I’m going to take a shower,” he says as he walks past me. “Don’t run the water till I’m done.”

Which means that I am not invited to join him, which means that he’s really very pissed off. This is an old argument between us and I’m not going to budge. I honestly think it would be a mistake for me to have Brian as my boss. It’s hard enough maintaining the illusion of an equal partnership, especially when I’m not contributing anything substantial financially, without adding the pressures of work on top of things.

I’m at my computer when Brian finally comes out of the bathroom. I realize that my shoulders are tense, I’m waiting to see if he’s going to put on his tricking clothes. But he doesn’t, he just pulls on his black silk robe and pads barefoot down the steps and stops behind me. He puts his hands on my shoulders and I lean my head backward to look up at him. “Hey,” he says, and the sultriness of his voice lets me know what he wants. Then he bends his head and gives me an upside-down kiss. “Hey,” he says again, “Wanna fuck?”


Brian

All day Saturday I purposely don’t think about the promise Dr. Shaughnessy made to call me. Both my home and work numbers are on the papers I filled out in his office, so if he wants to contact me, he can. If he doesn’t want to, well that’s okay too.

I spend two hours at the gym, and though a couple lookers give me the eye in the sauna, I ignore them, preferring just to relax in the steam and think about work. Cynthia joins me at the office, which she doesn’t have to do on weekends, but she’s as much of a workaholic as I am.

Cynthia’s been loyal and she’s part of the reason Kinnetik has done so well. Of course, I’ve rewarded her financially, and I gave her diamond earrings last Christmas. But probably I should be doing more of the bullshit appreciative-boss routine. Or anyway that’s what Justin claims; in fact, the little asshole took it upon himself to send Cynthia flowers on her last birthday. He signed my name to the card but of course, she saw right through that. I was standing at her desk when the flowers were delivered, and unfortunately, I was ragging on her about it, suggesting that her boyfriend sent flowers to thank her for a terrific fuck the night before. When she opened the card and read it, she laughed right out loud. Then she handed me the card and I barely had time to read “Regards, Brian” when Cynthia noted dryly, “Be sure to tell Justin thank-you.”

We don’t waste time on niceties this afternoon, another thing I like about Cynthia; we immediately get to work on two projects on the front burner for next week, a prospective print campaign for a new client and a proposed new focus for Brown Athletics. I’m concentrating on a contact sheet of underwear model photos and I’m annoyed when my cell phone rings. A glance shows that Justin’s the caller, so I answer by impatiently barking, “You know I’m at work, why not call the office number?”

“Because, Brian, you’d let it put me into voicemail, and I wanted to talk to you in person.”

He’s right of course. “Well make it fast, I’m busy.”

“Okay,” he agrees, “I just wanted to see if you still plan to go to Babylon tonight? Because,” he adds quickly, “Judy called and she’s invited us to a party.”

“Who the fuck is Judy?” I drop the contact sheet and pick up another one, only giving half an ear to Justin.

Patiently he answers, “She’s the teaching assistant in my one of my classes, you met her at the art show last month, remember?”

“So, is this is one of your artsy-fartsy school chum get-togethers?”

Christ, I went to one of those parties before, the most boring evening imaginable, and cheap wine to boot.

“Yeah,” Justin answers shortly; he’s annoyed. There’s a pause, then he says, “I guess that means you don’t want to go. Which,” he sighs, “Is cool. I just wanted to invite you.”

“I’d rather go to Babylon,” I answer honestly. The fact that I’m at least a decade older than most of the people at those parties has nothing to do with it of course.

“Fine.” Justin pauses again, then asks, “So, will you be home for dinner, or what?”

I’m getting impatient, I need to concentrate on work, and besides, I hate being pinned down. “I don’t know when I’ll be home. Just do your own thing and don’t worry about me.”

“Okay.” I can hear the annoyance in Justin’s voice but I don’t have time to deal with it right now. “See you whenever,” he adds.

I stop concentrating on the contact sheet and think about our conversation. Probably I’m being an asshole. With a long-suffering sigh, I say, “Justin - “ But he’s hung up already. I consider calling him back, but what’s the point? I really don’t want to go to that party.



Justin

Of course, I’m not surprised that Brian said no, but I can’t help being disappointed. I’ve worked hard over the years to fit myself into Brian’s world, with his friends and his adopted family, and I wish he’d make an effort to do the same for me. Well, he’s fine with Mom, but he’s just not very interested in what goes on at my school.

Not that I’ve made a lot of friends among the other students myself. I’ve always been something of a loner, in high school and now in college. I remember telling Ethan once that I’m not antisocial, but I just don’t like people. That’s not exactly true but it’s close enough. Daphne’s been my best friend since childhood and of course, I’m sort-of friends with the people Brian hangs with. Still, sometimes I wonder if I’m missing something, not being part of a circle of college friends. That’s why I accepted Judy’s invitation to the party tonight.

I arrive at the party fashionably late and within a short time, and to my surprise, I discover that I’m enjoying myself. Judy’s a lesbian and most of the people she invited are gay, though she included some token heteros. I haven’t known very many gay people my own age and it’s fun to be with people who share my taste in music, and of course, we all share our interest in art. We talk about our classes and our teachers and our chosen career fields. I realize once again that I’m torn between pursuing fine arts or animation. I get into a fascinating discussion of print versus screen animation with a straight guy named Charlie, Sherry who’s a lesbian, and Bailey, who’s this cute first-year kid who told us he just came out to his family a few months ago.

The party breaks up about midnight, Judy has some family thing on Sunday; but Charlie, Sherry and Bailey and I are so intensely into our conversation that we bunch together on the sidewalk outside Judy’s apartment and continue our discussion for a while. Eventually, Bailey suggests adjourning to some all-night café, I’m game but the others beg off, they say goodnight and walk away. Bailey and I look at each other, we’re both feeling a bit let-down that our discussion is ending.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, “You and I can still go for coffee.”

“Could we maybe go to your place?” Bailey asks tentatively. “You said you’d show me your software program sometime.”

“Oh.” I glance at my watch and Bailey adds quickly, “If it’s not too late?”

It’s twelve-fifteen; Brian’s at Babylon, I remember he said that he wanted to get loaded tonight and sleep in tomorrow, so he probably won’t be home for a couple hours. “Sure,” I shrug, “Why not?”

It turns out that Bailey has his own car, it’s an old blue Toyota with a dented fender but at least he has transportation, which reminds me (as if I need a reminder) that I’m almost twenty-one and I’ve never owned a car, not even a piece of junk like Bailey’s. It’s a short trip to the loft; I make sure to peek into the garage to check that the ‘vette’s not there, then we take the elevator.

Tossing my jacket on the sofa, I lead the way into the kitchen and start the coffee maker while Bailey moves around the loft checking the place out. He’s impressed and does of lot of ooh-ing and ahh-ing, which makes me smile, remembering my own reaction to seeing the loft for the first time – I was probably his age back then. I grab hold of Brian’s desk chair and push it across the floor to my desk and tell Bailey to have a seat, then I fill two cups with coffee.

“Cream, sugar?” I ask and when he says yes, I fix both cups and carry them over to the desk, hand him one and sit down in my own chair. Then I boot up my computer and begin to give Bailey a demonstration of my software. I’m really happy with the new version I got two weeks ago. We’re checking out the features and looking at some of the work in my on-line portfolio; naturally Bailey’s most interested in all my nude sketches of Brian, who wouldn’t be?

“Amazing,” he exclaims, “Just beautiful.”

“Yeah, he is,” I agree a bit dryly – I’m beginning to wonder if asking to see my software was just a ploy by Bailey to get next to Brian. Maybe he was hoping Brian would be home tonight. Guys are always hot for him, and this wouldn’t be the first time somebody pretended to be friendly with me just so they could meet him.

“Brian’s out for the evening,” I emphasize; “He won’t be home for a long time.”

The face Bailey turns toward me is smiling, his eyes light up. “Oh good,” he breathes, then I watch as he lifts his hand from where it was resting on his thigh, and tentatively moves it over to rest on top of my thigh. Then Bailey leans toward me, closing his eyes.

Quickly I roll my chair backward a few inches. Oh shit. “What are you doing?” I ask, as if I truly don’t know.

“N-Nothing!” Bailey exclaims, snatching his hand back. “Only. . .” When I say nothing, just stare back at him, Bailey’s face is flushed. “I’m sorry.” He licks his lips, then adds, “I thought you meant. . . that you wanted me to. . . umm.”

“No!” I deny it. Then I shake my head and repeat more gently, “No, I’m sorry. I thought you knew that Brian and I are partners.”

“Well, of course, everybody knows that. But yesterday Kelly told me that you guys. . . umm, mess around.” Bailey’s still blushing, now both his hands are clutched together in his lap.

“Who’s Kelly?”

“This guy I met in Woody’s.”

“People talk too much,” I say mildly. “Let’s get back to the computer, okay?”

“Sure, sure, of course.” Bailey lifts his cup and drains it and then focuses his attention on the computer monitor. After a while, we both relax and our conversation gets back to normal.



Brian

Of all the boring people in Babylon, I get stuck talking to Ted, both of us leaning our elbows back against the bar while we watch the dance floor, while I reject one aspiring trick after another. Either I’ve had them before or they don’t measure up to my exacting requirements. At first, I think Ted’s staying close to me to pick up on my rejects – he’s used that strategy before; but he’s not doing it tonight.

Ted’s earned my grudging respect the past year or so. He earns his keep at Kinnetik and the self-confidence he’s developed there has improved more than his wardrobe, he’s almost (though wild horses couldn’t drag the admission from my lips) sexy. Or anyway, he’s less of a loser than he used to be, and he snags his fair share of tricks now without having to accept the dregs I’ve kicked aside.

Of course, he’s not above harassing me each time I shake my head “no” at some guy. Finally, after I turn away a slim redhead who, I have to admit, is pretty fucking hot, Ted drawls, “Why don’t you just admit that what you really want is waiting for you at home?”

“You don’t know what I want,” I cast a disdainful sideways glance at him. “Just because you’ll fuck anything that moves. . .”

“So did you, in the old days,” he smirks at me. “In the old ‘B.J.’ days.”

I won’t gratify him by asking what “B.J.” means. Besides, it’s obvious he means “Before Justin.” He’s wrong anyway, I’ve always had high standards. Okay, maybe sometimes if I ingested some bad dope, I might not have been as selective as usual. And there were a few times I accepted a second-rate blowjob in the alley if I were in a hurry to get home. But ninety-nine times out of a hundred, a trick had to be supremely fuckable before I’d shove my cock down his throat.

Ted’s silent for a moment, then he laughs. “Hey,” he guesses, “I’ll bet Justin’s NOT waiting for you at home tonight, or you’d have left an hour ago.” I give him a look and curl my lip disdainfully but when I say nothing, Ted laughs again. “Bingo. Where’s he at tonight?”

I’m not going to answer him. Then I do. I shrug and say carelessly, “Here’s at a party.”

“You weren’t invited? Or is it a party just for two?”

“Fuck you.” I keep my voice level, no way is Ted Schmidt getting under my skin. “I don’t do kiddie parties. And,” I add, “Justin’s not - “

I stop abruptly; why am I explaining anything to Ted?

“Justin’s not into anonymous tricking,” he finishes my sentence. “Some deal you’ve got going there. You get to fuck around and he stays monogamous.”

Now Ted’s crossed the line of interfering in my private life. Something everybody in our meddling extended family does all the damned time. “You’re just fucking jealous,” is all I can think of to say, though immediately I regret my embarrassingly childish words. How can some schmuck like Ted Schmidt make me lose my cool?

Ted says something else but I don’t hear his words, instead, I push away from the bar and move quickly through the crowd toward the exit, stopping to pick up my jacket and shrugging it on, descending the back stairs and heading down the alley to where I parked the ‘vette.

I cool down on the drive home. A glance at the dashboard clock shows that it’s quarter to one, and I feel vaguely cheered when I realize that Justin’s probably home from his party by now. He’s working tomorrow morning but I’m sure I can talk him into sharing a joint and having a long slow fuck before going to sleep tonight. After parking, I run up the stairs, pausing to swear under my breath when I discover that Justin left the door unlocked again. I push it open and stride into the loft, pulling off my jacket and throwing it onto the back of my desk chair.

With a blink, I realize that my chair’s missing, I’ve thrown my jacket onto the floor. Then I twist my head around when I hear Justin exclaim, “Brian! You’re home early.”

Turning and moving toward his desk in the alcove beyond the kitchen, I ask, “Why’d you move my – oh!”

Justin’s not alone. Some guy is with him, they’re on their feet now but the chairs they were sitting in are pulled close together at Justin’s desk. Very close together.

Abruptly I stop in my tracks. “Sorry to interrupt,” I say coolly. “I’ll go away and come back later.”

“You’re not interrupting!” Justin assures me earnestly, moving forward to slide his arms around my waist and going up on tiptoe to plant a brief kiss on my lips. Automatically my arms go around him but I can’t stop staring at the other man, the man Justin was sitting so close to, before I broke in on them. Then I realize that he’s not a man, he’s a boy. A very attractive boy. He looks vaguely familiar.

“Brian,” Justin says, “This is Bailey, he’s a student at the IFA. I was showing him my new software.”

My eyes move to Justin’s crotch to see if any hardware is visible. Justin knows what I’m doing, he makes a choking sound, maybe it’s a tiny laugh; he shakes my arm and says, “Bailey, this is my partner, Brian Kinney.”

“I – I know,” the kid stutters, “We’ve met before. At Babylon. I mean,” he corrects himself, “In the alley behind Babylon.”

“Oh!” Justin drops my arm.

“Oh, no!” Bailey adds, taking a step forward and staring urgently at Justin. “Not – it was not like that!” he exclaims. “I mean, I thought he was cruising me, but he wasn’t! Then I recognized him and he said he was your partner and so I knew he wouldn’t. . . ummm, you know.”

When Justin says nothing, Bailey hurries on, “That was before Kelly told me that you guys screw around. So then I didn’t know what to think. And when you let me come over tonight, that’s why I hit on you. Umm,” he pauses to take a breath in the heavy silence, and glancing from Justin’s frozen face to my own, he asks, “Why don’t I just shut up?”

“That’s a good idea,” I agree blandly.

When Justin still says nothing, Bailey grabs his jacket from the back of my chair and clears his throat. “Well, I’d better be going,” he announces. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Justin nods and follows Bailey to the door. “See you at school,” Bailey murmurs and Justin says, “See you,” then I hear him pull the door closed and he walks back to his desk where I’m still standing, unmoving.

“I didn’t know you fucked guys, that young,” Justin says mildly as he picks up coffee cups and carries them to the kitchen sink.

It’s really none of his business but I deny it anyway. “I don’t. I didn’t fuck him, he’s not my type.” When Justin says nothing, just turns on the water and rinses the cups, I move to stand beside him, pulling open the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water. Casually I add, “And I didn’t know you brought tricks home. I thought that was one of your rules, no tricks at the loft.”

“Bailey’s not a trick,” Justin insists, turning toward me and frowning. “I told you, I was showing him my software.”

“Mmm-hmm.” I unscrew the lid and take a long drink of water, then burp and add, “He said that he hit on you.” I screw the lid back on, then add quickly, “It’s not like I care, I’m just pointing out that you made the rule.”

Justin shakes his head. “You know,” he says, “This is so fucked up. You’re tricking all the damn time and I’m supposed to be okay with it, and then one guy hits on me – unsuccessfully, Brian! One little punk hits on me, and suddenly you’re all self-righteous.”

“I’m not self-righteous,” I deny it. “And you said you were okay with my tricking. You know it means nothing and you’ve said it a million times.”

“Well, I’m not okay with it. What do you think about that, Brian? I’m not fucking okay with it!”

It’s a standoff, we’re literally standing still and staring at each other, Justin’s face is red and it feels like mine is too, my neck and cheeks are hot. I don’t do emotional scenes like this, I just don’t. The urge to turn and walk away, walk out of the loft, is almost overpowering. Part of me wants to get the fuck out of here, part of me wants to grab Justin and fling him out the door. But the brat’s a fucking boomerang, no matter how many times I throw him away, he always comes back again.

Except. . . what if he doesn’t, this time? What if I throw him out, and this time he doesn’t come back?

Always I’ve been prepared for that possibility. I was always okay with that. Or so I told myself. Yet now, somehow, it’s not okay. Suddenly, the possibility that Justin might go out the door – either thrown by me or of his own volition – and not come back. . . is just too unbearable to think about. I have to turn away, I turn and walk into the living room, pull back the curtain and stare out into the darkness. And I realize that I’m – what? Not scared, nothing like that of course. I’m not, am I?

For several minutes I stand frozen, staring blindly out into the darkness. I’m waiting, and I’m aware that I’m waiting, to see what Justin is going to do. If he threatens to leave me now, what will I do? I don’t know. All I can do is wait, and I’m aware that I’m hardly breathing.

Then he’s behind me, I don’t hear his footsteps, but he’s behind me and I jump slightly when I feel his hand on my shoulder. “Brian,” he says softly, and I hear the defeat in his voice, “Brian, if I have to be okay with your tricking, then I’ll be okay. I don’t want to lose you. I love you, I love you with all my heart.”

“No,” I say, but my throat is choked up, no sound comes out. “No, God damn it!” I growl it out then, turning and taking hold of Justin’s shoulders and shaking him roughly.

“No?” he’s confused, his eyes are clouded, his forehead furrowed. “No, what?”

“Don’t you make any more fucking concessions, God damn it!” I curse, “Don’t do it!”

“Brian,” he’s shaking his head, “I don’t understand.”

Pulling Justin hard against my chest, I squeeze him tight until he goes, “Oof.” Bending my head until my lips brush his ear, I whisper, “I feel about you like you feel about me. Okay? I don’t want to lose you either. And I don’t want you to lose yourself.”

“Brian,” Justin murmurs against my chest, he can barely speak, he can probably hardly breathe. “What are you saying? That I can ask you to be monogamous?”

“No. I don’t know.” I pull back a few inches so I can look into his eyes. “Justin, I don’t think I can. But maybe I could try. Sort of. Or something. Within certain parameters.”

Justin smiles gently. “You’re back-pedaling now, aren’t you?”

“Possibly,” I admit. “But I’m sincere. Does that count for anything?”

“That counts for a lot,” he assures me, his smile widening. “And if you’re not careful, you might accidentally slip up and say ‘I love you,’ or something.”

“Hmm,” I keep my face noncommittal, then bend my head and brush a kiss on Justin’s forehead. “Now can we go to bed? I haven’t had a fuck since morning.”

“Were you just unlucky tonight,” Justin teases, “Or have you started practicing monogamy already?” He takes my hand and leads the way to the bedroom, but I dig in my heels and stop him, pull him around to face me.

“Justin,” I say seriously, fixing my eyes on his face. “I have to be honest. I really don’t know if I can. Be monoga- monoga- “

“I know that, Brian,” he assures me. “You can’t even say the word. But maybe you could start small. Show some restraint. Pretend you’re on a cock diet.”

Nodding, I agree. “As long as your cock’s on the menu 24/7, I’ll give it a shot.”

Then I let Justin pull me up the steps, we shed our clothes and he throws himself down on the bed and lies spread-eagled, his beautifully pale skin luminescent against the dark brown sheets. Justin’s smiling up at me, and my last lucid thought before I throw myself down on top of him is that Ted was right after all: This is what I was waiting for.

Justin

I was fifteen minutes late to work this morning and Debbie chewed me out. I could have explained that Brian wanted a shower fuck even though we'd overslept and I was already running late, but I don't think she'd consider that a valid excuse. Brian insisted that, if I expect him to cut back on the tricking, I'm going to have to put out more often.

He was joking, sort of. Since when have I ever turned him down? Not very often, that's for sure. And I decided not to comment on the way, overnight, Brian has downgraded "trying to be monogamous" to "cutting back on the tricking." Partly because there wasn't time to argue, partly because I knew he was rattling my chain, but also because I am not going to pressure him about it. Since being monogamous is an on-your-honor type of thing for any couple, I need to show Brian that I trust him. I trust him to do his best to honor his semi-commitment to partial monogamy.

In spite of everything, this is a huge deal for Brian, and what's more important is that he made the offer freely. I didn't beg, I didn’t threaten to leave him, I just finally had the guts to tell him I didn't like him fucking around, and he offered to try and change his wicked ways. I’m not sure that he can change, but I believe him when he says he will try.

He's folding laundry when I get home – his cleaning service does the sheets and towels but we do our own underwear and jeans. Usually, I end up doing laundry but sometimes he surprises me and takes care of it. Anybody seeing the great and powerful Brian Kinney folding socks would probably fall down dead from the shock. Naturally I don’t say that to him – otherwise, laundry could become my permanent assignment.

We eat a late lunch of sandwiches I brought from the diner and then we adjourn to our desks to work for a few hours, agreeing to stop at eight o'clock to watch a DVD I picked up on the way home. I get so involved in reworking a class assignment with my new software that it takes a while to register that the phone is ringing and Brian's not answering it. Twisting my head around, I see that the loft is empty but the door is open, Brian must have gone into the storeroom or down to the basement, so I jump up and hurry over to his desk to pick up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Brian?" an unfamiliar male voice asks.

"No, this is Justin."

"Is this the right number for Brian Kinney?"

"Yes," I confirm, "But he just stepped out. Can I take a message?"

"Yes,” the man agrees. "Would you tell him that Dr. Shaughnessy called?"

For a moment I’m struck dumb, then I ask, "Dr. Gerald Shaughnessy?" There's a long pause, then I repeat, "Dr. Gerald Shaughnessy of Boston?"

"Yes," he answers. "I'm sorry - who is this?"

"Justin," I repeat, then quickly I add, "Wait a minute, I'll go get Brian. Can you hold on?" Without listening for an answer, I drop the phone on the desk and rush out the open door. The storeroom door is closed, where the fuck is Brian? Then I hear the elevator coming up, so I wait impatiently, practically tingling with anxious anticipation.

Before Brian has finished pulling up the gate, I burst out, "Brian, you have a phone call!"

He's holding a thick manila folder, he must have retrieved some work papers from the car. He takes one look at my face and asks, "Did I win the lottery? Why are you so excited? "

"Brian - it's him!" I interrupt, hissing, "It's The Tomato Man! He's on the phone!"

I watch the shutters roll down over Brian's eyes until he looks utterly cool, completely unconcerned, but I see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows a couple times, so I know he's not as calm as he looks. Then he nods and I follow him as he turns and enters the loft. Clearing his throat as he drops the folder on his desk, Brian picks up the phone and says, "Hello?" He gives me a dismissive look, probably he expects me to leave, but I want to eavesdrop on this call.



Brian

“Hello?”

“Brian? It’s Shaughn. Dr. Shaughnessy.”

“Hello,” I repeat, turning my back to Justin and walking away, going up the steps to the bedroom and coming to a halt by the closet.

“Brian,” the doctor’s saying, “I’m sorry I couldn’t call before now.”

“No big deal,” I shrug, turning to focus my attention on the brick wall outside the air-shaft window. “You’re a doctor, doctors are busy.”

“No,” he contradicts. “It wasn’t that.”

At least the guy’s honest – he was in no hurry to call me, no surprise.

Then he goes on, “It wasn’t work, I had a family emergency, my wife’s mother was ill – we had to go out of town.”

“Oh.” I hear the loft door bang shut and I look quickly over my shoulder to see what Justin’s up to. He’s gone – he must have gone out. Maybe to give me privacy. Or maybe he’s mad that I didn’t tell him about the doctor.

“Brian,” Shaughnessy says, “We need to get together and talk.”

“We don’t need to,” I respond quickly. “I told you that I was just curious, and - “

“But I want to. I want to see you.”

“Why?” I pull open the top drawer of the chest and look at the neatly folded socks inside.

“I’m sorry this is all so awkward,” his voice is gentle; does he imagine I’m upset or something? I’m not, and I’m not sure that I want to see him again. “There’s no precedent for this situation for me,” he’s continuing; “I don’t know what to say to you.”

“Me either,” I finally admit. “I didn’t expect you to call.”

There’s a brief silence, then the doctor repeats, “We need to get together, talking on the phone is no good.”

“It’s hard for me to get away, I’m running a business, I don’t have much free time for travel.”

“I understand.”

We’re both busy, probably we should just forget the whole thing.

“Brian, I can come to Pittsburgh next weekend. We could do lunch, or dinner.”

He’ll come to Pittsburgh?

“Could you manage that?” he’s asking.

“I don’t know.” I shove the drawer closed, smashing my thumb. Silently mouthing, “ow-ow-ow,” I tuck the injured hand under my armpit. Then I offer, “Maybe.”

“Saturday?”

He’s pinning me down, I hate to be pinned down.

“I could take you to dinner,” he offers. “Is the Colony still a good restaurant?”

“Yeah. Yes, it is.”

“Brian, I forgot to ask if you’re married?”

“Why?” I feel myself bristling, he’s prying already.

“I was just going to say,” he explains, “That you could bring your wife to dinner Saturday, but that it might be best if we were alone this time. There are things we might want to talk about privately first.”

“Like what?” I perch on the ledge of the bed, kick off my shoes and stare at my toenails. I need to cut them tonight.

“Brian,” I hear impatience creeping into the doctor’s voice. “Are you being purposely difficult?”

That brings my head up, and I stare at the phone as if I’m seeing the man’s face. Surprised, I answer, “Possibly.”

“Is this especially for me, or is that a habit of yours?”

Hunh. “Some people might say it’s a habit.”

“Okay,” the doctor’s voice becomes brisk. “I’ll come to Pittsburgh this weekend. If you’re free, you can call me Saturday, I’ll book a room at the downtown Hilton, at Gateway Center. We’ll go to dinner. How’s that?”

“All right,” I reluctantly agree. “Probably.”

There’s a pause, then the doctor says, “Brian, I’m going to ask you to do something. If you don’t want to, I’ll understand.”

“What?”

“I’d like for you – for us – to do a paternity blood test.”

“What the fuck?” I stand up abruptly and kick my shoes out of the way as I stride across the floor and into the living room.

“It’s not that I doubt you,” the doctor’s saying –

“Yeah, right.” Fuck that, and fuck him.

“Brian, I saw you, we are very much alike. But I’m a doctor, and I live and breathe empirical evidence.”

“No.” I’m shaking my head, for some reason, my gut is twisting into a knot. “No, I won’t,” I repeat, “And fuck you.” Then I smack the off button, turn and lift my arm, I’m going to throw the phone against the wall. At the last moment, I change my mind. Dropping my head, I stare at the floor for a moment, then sigh and walk over to my desk, drop the phone onto its base and stand there with my hand on it.

Immediately I pick up the phone again and call Justin’s cell. He answers on the first ring. “Hey,” I say, “Where’d you go?”

“You wanted me to leave, didn’t you?”

“Where are you?”

“Downstairs. Can I come up now?”

“Duh.”

He doesn’t respond but in a few seconds, I hear his feet pounding up the stairs and he’s pulling open the door.

“Brian!” he exclaims, out of breath, “What – “

The ringing of the phone makes us both jump, we turn and stare at it. When I don’t make a move, Justin steps forward to grab it before I can stop him.

“Hello? Oh yeah, here he is!” he exclaims, turning and holding out the phone toward me.

I shake my head no, and wave my hands, miming that I’m not going to answer.

Justin bares his teeth and hisses silently, “Take it, take it!”

Surprisingly, I do. Lifting the receiver to my ear, I mutter, “What?”

“Brian, I’m sorry that you feel insulted - forget the paternity test. Just meet me on Saturday. Will you do that?”

I don’t answer for a moment, then finally I murmur, “I’ll try.”

“Fine,” he’s concise. Then he adds, “Good Christ, you are one hell of a difficult man.”

“So I’m told.”

Shaughnessy disconnects and I hand the phone to Justin, turn and cross the living room to the liquor cart. By the time he joins me, I’ve poured two inches of JB and downed half of it in one swallow.



Justin

“Want some?” Brian raises his eyebrows at me and gestures with his glass; he’s delaying the inevitable.

Inevitably I ask, “What’s going on?”

Before answering, Brian raises the glass and drinks another gulp of JB. He grimaces and reaches for the bottle but I step forward and take it from his hand. He doesn’t argue, instead, he sighs and sets the glass down on the table, crosses his arms on his chest. “That was Dr. Shaughnessy,” he says helpfully.

“So, you called him? When, Brian? You didn’t tell me.”

“There was nothing to tell. I went to see him, he said he’d call me, and he just did.”

“That’s ‘nothing?’ You went to see him and that’s nothing?”

“Justin,” he frowns, “I didn’t want to talk about it. I still don’t.”

“Well, that’s tough. You’re not going to shut me out, Brian. We’re not going to do that anymore, we’re just not. I’m your partner and we’re sharing our lives, at least all the important bits.”

“Is that Merriam-Webster’s definition of partnership?”

“No,” I ignore his sarcasm, “It’s mine. Let’s sit down and talk.” Setting down the liquor bottle, I grab hold of Brian’s arm and lead him to the sofa. Surprisingly, he comes along and sits down beside me. When he just stares at me and waits, I insist, “Tell me.”

Swinging his head away and looking toward the windows, Brian dispassionately describes his visit to the doctor’s office. I know he’s leaving out details but I don’t push. He says that he and Shaughnessy have some physical characteristics in common and that the doctor admitted having an affair with Brian’s mother. Since he was busy with patients, the doctor said he’d call Brian later and now he finally did.

When Brian stops talking and looks back at me again, I ask, “Are you going to Boston to see him again?”

“No.”

“No?”

“He’s coming to see me. He’s coming to the Pitts this weekend.”

“Wow,” I breathe, “That is so cool. He must want to get to know you.”

“You don’t know his motives. Why should he want to know me? And anyway,” Brian hurries on before I can speak, “Why should I want to know him? He’s a total stranger. And he’s married. I have nothing in common with some old hetero guy in Massachusetts. I - “

Twisting my body sideways, I climb onto Brian’s lap, wrap my arms around his neck and smack my lips against his in a quick loud kiss. “Stop it.” I kiss him again. “What day is he coming? Is he coming here, or - “

“He’s staying at a hotel. He wants to meet for dinner.” Then he sighs and his shoulders relax. “Probably I’ll go. If I have nothing else to do.”

“Brian - “

“Don’t harass me.”

“No,” I agree, “I won’t. But, could you, maybe, try to be open-minded at least? About Dr. Shaughnessy’s motives?”

“Hmm.”

When I move sideways to get off Brian’s lap, he grabs onto my hips and holds me still. “Do you want to fuck before or after we watch this DVD of yours?”

“Before AND after.”

I’ve made him smile.

“Good answer.”



Brian

I’m feeling more relaxed as we straighten the bed covers, I pull my jeans back on and Justin dons his sweats, then he goes to gather snacks while I put in the DVD he rented. I’m surprised to discover that it’s Mutiny on the Bounty, the version with Marlon Brando. Strangely enough, I’ve enjoyed introducing Justin to some of my favorite old films and I’m pleased that today he picked something he knew I’d like.

We take up our movie-watching positions, me on the sofa, Justin on the floor in front of me with his array of snacking options set out in bowls on the coffee table. I accept a bunch of green grapes and munch on them while the film starts. Eventually, Justin moves up to sit beside me with my arm around his shoulders, and later he stretches out on the sofa with his head in my lap while I caress his silky hair.

When the film’s over, he proclaims, “That was so good!” Pulling himself up and grabbing the remote to turn off the tv, he adds, “Marlon Brando was just amazing.”

“And hot.”

“Yeah, well, I guess. For an older guy.”

“He was in his thirties when he made this movie.”

“Yeah, that’s what I mean. But he looked good.”

Grabbing the remote from his hand, I pretend to bang him on the head with it. “I’ve got a draft proposal to read and then I’ll be ready for bed. Christ,” I sigh, “Home in bed by midnight – I’m really slipping.”

Justin looks at me sideways but refrains from commenting. Instead, he says, “I’ll be ready for bed when you are.”

“Hunh,” I snort, “Not fucking likely. You’ll be up for hours, just like every other night, doing homework for that teacher who won’t let you use your computer.”

“No,” Justin denies it, moving off the sofa and gathering up his snack bowls. “Not anymore.”

Following him to the kitchen, I lean against the counter watching him rinse his dishes. “So the asshole finally gave permission?”

“No,” he says airily, tossing his head but not looking at me as he adds, “I’m dropping that class tomorrow.”

“Dropping the class?” I stand up straight. “What the fuck?”

“It’s no big deal.” Now he does look at me. His head is bent over the sink and from under his lashes he steals a furtive glance at my face.

I know that faux-innocent-angel look. He thinks he’s onto me; well, I’m onto him too. “What?”

“What what?” Justin shuts off the water and turns sideways, leans casually against the sink.

“What the fuck are you doing, dropping that class?” I spell it out. “You said you need it to graduate.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, “I do. But I can take it next term. Or even next year.”

“Justin. Number one, the class is fucking paid for – IFA tuition is expensive. But more important than that,” I emphasize, “Is that you’ve put several weeks worth of fucking hard work into this class already. You can’t just throw that away.”

“It’ll be easier, next time,” he insists. “Maybe I’ll get a different teacher. Maybe my hand will be better. Or I’ll have a lighter class load.”

“You know,” I reach out and tap his arm, “The real problem is that your schedule right now is too heavy. You’re juggling a full-time class load and a demanding part-time job.”

“The Diner isn’t demanding!” Justin insists, “It’s easy. And I can make my own hours.”

“Bullshit. You come home exhausted, working on your feet for hours, then staying up half the night doing homework. Justin.” I frown and lower my head, fix my eyes on his face and insist, “You can quit the Diner for a few fucking months.”

“No, Brian - “

“It won’t stifle your fucking independence to be a kept boy for the rest of this term. It’s only a couple months, for Christ’s sake!” When he opens his mouth to argue, I lower my voice, keep it reasonable. “Kinnetik’s doing well, I’m making a ton of money, Justin – you know I can afford it. What the fuck is money for if it’s not put to good use?”

Justin steps forward and slides his arms around my waist and gives me a hard hug. “That’s so generous of you Brian,” he murmurs, but just as I start to relax, he pulls back and insists, “But I do really have to drop this class.”

“Wait.” Now I’m getting suspicious. “Why do you ‘have to’ drop the class? Is there something else you’re not telling me?”

Justin’s face reflects the truth of my shot in the dark, though he tries to deny it. “No.”

When I just stare at him and stand silent, waiting, finally Justin capitulates. “Well okay, there’s more to it, but it’s no big deal. I – I’m mad at the teacher, that’s all, and I don’t want to be in his class anymore.”

“Mad at the teacher?” I think for a moment and I can feel my shoulders tightening up. “What did he do? Did he make a pass at you or something?”

“Christ, Brian,” he’s annoyed, “Not everything is about sex, you know?”

“Then what?” When Justin just shakes his head, I growl at him, “Damn it, you stood right there not three hours ago and told me that we have to ‘share the important bits of our lives.’ So what the fuck are you doing now, holding out on me?”

“Oh.” Justin has the grace to look chagrined. “Maybe you’re right.”

“I’m always right.”

Taking a deep breath and blowing out a gusty sigh, Justin leans back against the sink and nods. “Okay, it’s like this. I asked Professor Grant to recommend me for a job – an internship – at Techno/Vision.”

“What job?”

Ignoring the interruption, Justin continues. “He said he’d think about it, but later he told me no. That would be okay. Not really okay, but you know, I could accept it! But then,” he glowers, “Grant told the editor at T/V not to hire me, and instead, he recommended another student for my job!”

I’m reserving judgment about the job – which I also knew nothing about, but for now, I tell him, “Well, that sucks. So, the teacher’s an asshole. But why is that reason enough to drop this class that you need for your degree? You’re only hurting yourself, not him.”

“I’m mad, Brian! You would be, too!”

“Yeah,” I agree, “But that’s life. You have to deal with shit like that in real life all the time. You just suck it up, make the best of it, and move on.”

Justin’s nodding. “Oh, I know you’re right. I know it! But the thing is, I really do have to drop the class now. I told Grant I was going to – and then I cursed him out.”

“Told him to fuck himself?”

“In so many words.” Then Justin grimaces. “In exactly those words.”

“Big deal. So, you go back to his office tomorrow and apologize.”

Justin swivels his eyes away and looks mutinous.

“Look,” I tell him, “It’s your call – do what you want. Just think about it. And,” I add, “Think about talking to me before you start looking for another job. I won’t try to stop you, but maybe I could offer advice. I’ve been working since before you were born, you know?”

“Brian,” Justin’s distracted, “You were working when you were twelve years old?” When I nod, he asks, “Doing what? Paper route?”

I shrug. “Paper route, mowing lawns, anything to earn a little money.”

“Wow,” he breathes, “You were a workaholic practically from birth!”

“I had incentive. It was either wear clothes from Sears that my mother picked out, or supplement my wardrobe with odd jobs.”

“A label queen at twelve! I had no idea.”

“Fuck you.”

“Okay!”

“Later. I’ve got a proposal to read. Meet you in the bedroom at midnight.” I give Justin a chaste kiss and move away, heading for my computer.



Justin

Brian was right of course, about the benefits of staying in Professor Grant’s class. I do need this course to graduate, and the kicker is that Grant is the only one who teaches it at the IFA. It galls me to apologize to the man who screwed me out of the Techno/Vision job, but if I want to stay in his class, I have no choice.

So in the morning bright and early, I knock on Grant’s door – he has an office hour at eight a.m. on Mondays.

He’s alone. “Mr. Taylor,” he greets me. “Come in.”

“I’ve come to apologize, Mr. Grant. For the rude way I acted on Friday.“

“Sit down.” He gestures at the chair and when I’m seated, he says, “I accept your apology. But perhaps if you’d been a bit less defensive (not to mention offensive),” and here he lowers his head and looks at me over the top of his glasses, “You might have waited long enough to hear what I had to say.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, though I feel myself getting defensive yet again; I hate lectures about my so-called behavior. Why should I care what he had to say anyway?

“Mr. Taylor,” he goes on, “When I said that you were overqualified for the T/V internship, I was serious. You have much more to offer an employer than simple research and drafting skills, which is what Ed Martin at T/V was offering.”

“Thanks, Mr. Grant,” I shrug, “But the thing is, I wanted that internship anyway. It pays more than my waiter job and it’s in my career field.”

“There are other jobs in your career field for which you’d be better suited,” Grant says somewhat pompously. “And which probably pay more than Techno/Vision.”

Ben once said that some professors live in their ivy-covered towers, out of touch with reality. Brian had agreed. “Yeah,” he’d added, “And other professors just have their heads up their asses.” I wonder which category Mr. Grant fits into?

“I check the student employment job boards all the time,” I explain to him patiently, “And the newspaper too, of course. It’s not that easy to find an art-related part-time job.”

“Some jobs don’t get advertised,” Grant says. “As in any field, sometimes it’s a question of being in the right place at the right time. And other times, it’s a question of whom you know.”

Like that’s news. “Yeah,” I agree laconically, scooting to the edge of the chair and starting to get up.

“Mr. Taylor,” something in Grant’s voice stops me. “Mr. Taylor,” he repeats, a slight smile turning up one corner of his mouth. “You are in the right place at the right time. And you know somebody.”

“Huh?”

“Are you familiar with the work of Alexander DuPont?”

“Of course.”

He’s only one of the most famous contemporary painters alive today. I really admire his work, it’s critically renowned and also accessible to the general public. Some of his paintings are in museums but others grace public buildings and even corporate offices. DuPont was on the cover of TIME magazine a couple years ago, in fact, I ripped out the article and saved it, partly because I love DuPont’s work, partly because he graduated from PIFA, and partly because he’s a gay icon, one of us who has made it big without selling out.

Professor Grant is smiling like the cat who swallowed the canary. “Wait,” I gasp, suddenly catching on. “You know him? You know Alexander DuPont?”

“Yes,” the teacher answers proudly, “He was a student of mine here at the IFA fifteen years ago. He’s coming to Pittsburgh to work on a special project and he’s been in touch with me.”

“Wow.” I slump back in the chair, surprised and pleased. “He’s coming to the Pitts? That is so cool!”

Maybe I’ll get to meet him! That would be amazing.

“Yes,” Grant agrees. “And what’s more, Alexander told me that he needs someone to assist him with his project, he’s looking for an art student who can work with him for a couple months. He needs someone with demonstrated artistic ability of his or her own. I don’t know all the details, but - “

“Oh my God.” I’m stunned almost speechless and I scoot forward on the chair, grasping my hands tight together in my lap. “Oh, Mr. Grant! Are you – are you going to recommend me?” I hear my voice go all squeaky but I’m too excited to care.

“I was considering it,” he says. “If you are interested?”

“Oh, yes. Oh God, yes!”

Alexander DuPont! Alexander fucking DuPont is coming to the Pitts, and I might get to work with him! I think I’m going to fucking pass out!

“All right.” Professor Grant becomes brisk, he turns away to fumble through several stacks of papers on his desk. “Ah!” he exclaims, pulling a notepad from under a pile of books. “Here we go.” Reading from his notes, Grant says, “Alexander will be arriving next weekend. I’ll give him a call and see if I can arrange an interview for you. Mind!” he faces me again and gives me that serious over-the-top-of-his-glasses look, “There’s no guarantee that you’ll get the job. But you’ll have my recommendation; the rest will be up to you.”

That’s my cue to stand up. “Thank you, thank you!” I can’t wipe the smile off my face. “Shall I give you my cell phone number, or - “

“Yes,” he agrees, pushing the notepad toward me. “Write down all your information and I’ll pass it on to Alexander. If he’s interested, he’ll give you call sometime this week or next.”

Quickly I write down my phone numbers and then grab the strap of my messenger bag and move toward the door. “Professor Grant,” I enthuse, “Whether I get the job or not, thank you so much for recommending me! I really appreciate it.”

“Mmm-hmm,” he nods. “One word of advice, Mr. Taylor: Remember that your first priority is to your education. Make sure you keep up with your classes, don’t get sucked into overextending yourself with other distractions.”

“Yes, of course,” I murmur. “Thanks again!” Then I’m out of his office and practically walking on air as I hurry down the hall and out of the building. I am going to meet Alexander DuPont!



Brian

“Who the fuck is Alexander DuPont?”

“Brian, you know! He’s that painter who was on the cover of TIME a while back. He’s really famous, and he’s gay, and he’s coming to Pittsburgh! Mr. Grant is going to recommend me to work as DuPont’s assistant while he’s here. It’s an amazing honor!”

“What will this assistant be doing? And does this amazing honor include a paid salary?”

“Yes!” Justin enthuses, then he stops jiggling up and down and blinks a couple times. “Well yeah, I think so. I’m pretty sure that’s what Grant meant. And the job is, to help the artist with a special project he’s working on.”

“What does this special project involve? What will he and you be doing exactly? And where? And for how long?”

Justin shakes his head. “Well, I don’t exactly know. Grant says that Alexander DuPont will call me soon, I gave him my phone numbers. I can ask questions then. But,” he adds staunchly, “I want to do it anyway. Even if it’s not a lot of money. Brian,” he exclaims for the ninety-seventh time, “It’s Alexander fucking DuPont!”

I have a feeling that very soon I am going to be sick of hearing that name.

Brian

I have not tried to be monogamous this week, it just kind of happened that way accidentally. Work has been intense, we’ve had three new clients to dazzle this week and I’ve stayed at Kinnetik till nine or ten every night, rolling home thinking only of a hot shower and a hot fuck with Justin before sleep. Now it’s Friday and I’m starting to feel insanely claustrophobic, I have to get out of the loft tonight, I need to drink and drug and dance and blow off some fucking steam before I explode. When we talked about this, I told Justin I probably couldn’t do it. It’s not like I promised him or anything.

As the afternoon progresses, I’m getting more and more bad-tempered, until finally Cynthia literally pushes me out of the office about eight-thirty, threatening to blow up Kinnetik if I don’t leave her and everybody else alone for a while. When the doors shut behind me, I choose to ignore what sounds suspiciously like cheers echoing in the background, and once I’m out the door and headed down the alley toward the ‘vette, I acknowledge that just possibly I might have been a tiny bit heavy-handed with the staff this afternoon.

Justin’s surprised to see me, he’s hunched over the illuminated table working on a sketch when I push back the door of the loft and shut it closed with a bang behind me. “You’re home!” he cries, jumping to his feet and launching himself toward me. With a huge effort of will I bite back a sarcastic rejoinder, like “You noticed,” or “No shit.” Instead, I open my arms and catch him as he flings himself forward. Being welcomed home so enthusiastically isn’t as much of a hardship as I used to think it might be, but tonight I’m juggling mixed emotions: the feeling of satisfaction of having this undeniably gorgeous man rubbing up against me, which is warring with the more-than-a-decade-long habit of hunger for action, for new blood, for the thrill of the fucking hunt.

I sound like a vampire. I feel like a vampire, I feel the bloodlust coursing through my veins demanding to be quenched. Justin senses it. Or anyway, he senses something, because he pulls away finally and studies my face, tilting his head to one side, before asking, “What is it, Brian?”

“Nothing,” I say at first, then I shake my head and look away from those damned blue eyes. “I feel like going out,” I keep it casual, off-hand, as I pull gently away from him and move across the loft toward the bedroom.

Justin follows in my wake, saying nothing but taking my suit jacket as I remove it and hanging it up for me. He’s waiting for my pants too but I say irritably, “I can do it,” reaching for a hanger as I kick off my shoes.

“Do you,” he shrugs, “Want company, or do you want to go alone?”

I want to go alone, God damn it. I want to smoke a few joints, drop a few tabs of E, I want to gather crowds of sweaty half-naked men around me in the middle of the dance floor. I want to feel them aching for the chance that I’ll drag them into the back room to worship my cock.

“You can come if you want.” I’m still not looking at him as I lay jeans and the new sleeveless midnight blue tee I bought last week on the ledge of the bed. I feel his indecision, I feel him trying to decide if I want him to go with me, or not.

“I need to finish this project I’m working on,” he says finally. “Maybe later. Do you want to eat first?”

I don’t, but probably I should line my stomach with something before I belt down the booze and pills. “A sandwich,” I mutter, “But I can fix it myself.”

Justin hovers for a moment before turning away. “Okay. I picked up some of that fresh sliced turkey you like from Strassers Deli on the way home.” Then he returns to the living room and resumes sketching.

In the shower, I acknowledge that I’m acting like an asshole, but that doesn’t change anything. With a towel around my hips, I pad across the floor to the kitchen, make myself half a sandwich and grab a beer, then carry everything back with me, munching while I shave, comb my hair, and put on what Justin always calls my tricking clothes. Pocketing my wallet and grabbing my keys, I pause by the door and look at Justin for a moment, till he raises his head and looks back at me.

“Have fun,” he says, and though my ear bends around his words seeking any whiff of censure, I don’t hear any.

“Later,” I nod without smiling, then I’m out the door and pounding down the stairs toward fresh air and freedom.

Babylon is everything I knew it would be. I’ve had three doubles, I’ve swallowed a couple tabs of the finest E, and I’ve been writhing alone in the center of the dance floor for what seems like hours, drinking in the beat of the music, the heat of the bodies around me, the smell of sweat and sex and urgent desire. Men have approached me as they always do, some too old, some too young, some not nearly gorgeous enough to earn a glance from me. I’m waiting for just the right one. A man who deserves me, a hotly sensuous man who is a match for my own ferocious hunger.

And then he’s here. Dancing slowly into my orbit, I feel him before I see him. I slit my eyes open and glance at him – so young, so beautiful and giving off a fuck-me vibe so intense I can feel my blood pressure rise along with my cock. “Justin.” I reach out and touch his shoulder and he smiles lazily up at me. I didn’t know it was Justin I was waiting for, but, “What took you so long?” I murmur.

Justin cocks his head in the direction of the back room. I nod agreement, he grabs my hand, then we turn as he moves across the floor with me close behind, admiring his really very fine ass. The dancing men move aside as we pass by them and I’m vaguely aware of their whispering voices – disappointed, jealous, thick with longing. Some follow along behind, there’s always a few who want to watch. And I like to be watched.

We stop in a dark corner and he moves his body close to mine, gives me that sultry smile again, and whispers, “Wanna fuck?”

“Of course.”

Justin laughs then, the breath catching in his throat. It’s an exciting sound and makes my cock pulse and grow harder. Then he reaches into my back pocket and pulls out a condom, and playfully he gives the foil packet a teasing bite as he glances at the shadowy crowd gathered around us.

“Open it with your teeth,” he whispers. “They love it when you do that.”

“So do you,” I smirk, and he laughs.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “You’re right.”

I grab the condom from him, rip it open, and snarl, “Turn around.” Then I fuck him against the wall, to the delight of our appreciative audience, and finally, when he comes with a loud shout, I grab onto his shoulders and hold him steady. When finally he’s still, when the watchers begin to move away, I lower my head and breathe into his ear, “Ready to go home?”

“Sure,” he agrees, “You coming?”

“Yeah,” I agree. “I’ve had enough.”



Justin

Following Brian to Babylon last night was a bit of a gamble, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure he wanted me to be there, he’d been so antsy and irritable when he got home from work. But I gave him a couple hours and then just showed up, moving slowly around outside the circle of men who were watching him and waiting for a chance at the great god Kinney. I stayed in the background, not wanting Brian to think that I was checking up on him, but after a while, I realized he was not interested in any of the guys clustering around. Finally, I moved forward. When he opened his eyes and saw me, he immediately smiled, dispelling my concern. I led him into the backroom, and afterward, he came home with me.

For breakfast, I cook myself some eggs and bacon. Brian drinks a glass of orange juice and accepts a single slice of well-done bacon, ostentatiously squeezing it inside a paper towel to remove any last vestige of God-forbid grease.

“Gym and Kinnetik today?”

Brian nods. “Yeah. And I won’t be home for dinner.”

“Oh!” I sit up straight on my stool. “Is this the day you’re seeing the Tomato Man?”

“Stop calling him that. And yes. Probably. If he shows up.”

I lay down my fork and lean an elbow on the counter, studying his face. "You said you only talked to him for a minute or two, in Boston. Does he seem like a nice man?"

Brian shakes his head at me. "Your entire world is divided into two groups: nice people and meanies."

"I just wondered - "

"Justin, I have no idea if he's 'nice' or not. I don't even know why he wants to see me. Probably he sells used cars on the side or something, and he's looking for new customers."

I pick up my fork and spear a mound of egg. "You always expect the worst of people."

“Hunh,” Brian snorts. “And you expect the best. Guess which of us is never disappointed?” Before I can say anything, he adds, “Give me a bite,” so I move the fork to his mouth.

While he’s busy chewing, I ask tentatively, “When you were a little kid, were you always disappointed?”

Brian just looks at me and I know he’s not going to answer. But after he swallows his purloined bite, he changes his mind and shrugs. “What do you want me to say? That Santa and the Easter Bunny always passed me by?”

I think about that for a moment, then I can’t help asking, “Well, did they?”

“Justin,” Brian stands up abruptly and carries his glass to the sink. Before turning on the faucet, he says over his shoulder, “I learned early on that it was safer to expect nothing, from anybody. That being a good boy never earned any special reward. And that if you want something, you damned well better get it for yourself.”

I sit unmoving on my stool, just looking at Brian. He loathes pity so I try to keep my face from showing the ache in my heart for the unhappy little boy that Brian must have been. Of course, he reads me anyway, and I’m not surprised when he moves from the sink to tower over me, frowning heavily. “Don’t,” he warns.

“So, umm,” I change the subject, “Where are you going to dinner?”

“Your favorite restaurant - the Colony. But don’t ask me to bring you a doggie bag.”

“Oh, the Colony! Let’s go there again soon. They have the world’s greatest chocolate cake.”

I watch Brian move up to the bedroom to grab his gym bag, and he stops beside me again on the way out. “Later,” he says, bending down to plant a quick buss on my lips. Then the buss turns into a kiss, and when my arms slide up around his neck, Brian drops the gym bag and pulls me hard against him. His lips are so warm and I love the feel of his bristly unshaved chin rubbing my cheek. “Mmm,” we both murmur when Brian pulls away. “Let me go, I’m late,” he says brusquely, ignoring the fact that the kiss was mostly his doing, but he flashes a tiny smile as he turns away and heads for the door.

Once I finish breakfast, I organize the class assignments I need to finish this weekend. I have an afternoon shift at the diner tomorrow but all day today is free so I can get a lot accomplished. My ringing cell phone interrupts me about noon. I don’t recognize the number and I’m tempted to ignore the caller but curiosity gets the best of me.

“Hello?”

“Justin Taylor? This is Alexander DuPont.”

“Uh?”

“Professor Grant gave me your number, and he said you might be interested in working with me while I’m in Pittsburgh.”

“Uh?”

“Is this Justin Taylor?”

“Uh, yes,” I assure him, gathering my composure and trying to remember how to speak coherently. “Yes, this is Justin, and yes, I’d love to work with you, I’m a great admirer of your painting.” I probably sound like an idiot.

“Thanks,” he says before going on, “If it’s not too short notice, I could meet with you today. Are you available this afternoon?”

“Absolutely. Yes. No problem.”

“I’ve got the use of a friend’s house while he’s in Tuscany on sabbatical. Do you have a pencil? You can write down the address. And the phone number.”

“Yes, go ahead.” I scribble down the information and he tells me to come by about three. Before hanging up, he asks me to bring along my portfolio, so he can see my work.

That sends me into absolute panic mode, though I stay cool while we’re on the phone, but the moment I hang up, I start freaking out. And I spend the next two hours laying out drawings and sketches and paintings and graphic artwork over every surface of the loft, trying to pick out my best stuff. But the more I look at it, the worse it all looks. An amateurish, poorly conceived, schlocky bunch of horrifyingly bad crap.

There’s nothing left to do now but throw myself out the window. But the loft’s on the fourth floor, probably not high enough to kill me, just break my legs and fracture my skull. And I really, really, really don’t want to be in a coma ever again.

Suddenly the door is pushed open and Brian walks in. “What the fuck?” he stops abruptly and eyes the mess of papers spread out all over the loft, it looks almost like the night that Michael and I started Rage.

“Brian!” I rush over to greet him, jumping gingerly over several piles of papers and skidding to a stop by the door. I grab his arm and shake it. “Alexander DuPont called! I’m going to see Alexander DuPont at three o’clock! And I’m supposed to bring my portfolio.” I stop to draw breath and when he doesn’t comment, I urgently explain, “Brian - I can’t possibly show any of this fucking garbage to Alexander DuPont!”

“Chill.” Just the way Brian harshly intones that word immediately calms me. Then he puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me tight against him. Face close to mine, he snarls, “Your stuff’s good, Justin, and you know it.”

“Really?” I start to smile, then suddenly I’m frowning again. “No, it’s not.”

Brian leans back to stare at me, wrinkling his forehead. “Wait a minute,” he says, “Where’s that overconfident little snot who recently hobnobbed with the rich and famous in Hollywood?”

“This is different!” I insist. “They were just movie stars and things. Alexander DuPont is only like, one of the greatest living artists in the whole fucking world.”

“Really?” He looks skeptical.

“Well,” I hedge, pulling free of Brian’s arm and shoving my hands in my pockets. “Well, someday he will be. And anyway,” I add, “Hollywood was all about Rage, about comic books and superhero movies. Pretend stuff. Not REAL art.”

“You’d better hope I don’t tell Mikey you said that.”

“Brian, you know what I mean! Our comic book is great, I’m proud of it, and there’s really a lot of amazing comic artists and animation artists. But that’s graphic art. Painting is fine art! There’s a difference.”

“Well, there’s the little snob I know and. . .” Brian coughs. “Look around. Look at your shit, Justin. Have you gotten less than an A on any ‘fine art’ you’ve ever done?”

“No. But it’s mostly just school stuff. I don’t have any, you know, knock-your-socks-off type of things.”

“This guy knows you’re still a student, that’s what he wants, right? And your teacher recommended you – you’re in like Flynn. So stop the drama princess routine, pick out a few of your favorite things and go with that.”

I take a deep breath and blow it out. Brian’s right. “I think I might have over-reacted,” I admit.

Brian barks a laugh. “You think?” Then he grabs my arm and twists it around to look at my watch. “You’d better hurry the fuck up, it’s two o’clock now. Want a ride? I can drive you.”

“That would be great, thanks.” I pull away from Brian and begin selecting a few drawings, one small watercolor, and at the last minute, I include some mock-ups for the first issue of Rage. Brian was right, I was being a snob about the comic. He’s in the kitchen getting a bottle of water when I call out, “I’m sorry, I won’t have time to put everything away.”

“Don’t worry,” he answers, “I won’t piss on it.”




Brian

I’d like to get a look at this world-famous artiste but I don’t get a chance. Justin told me the guy’s staying at a friend’s house and the friend must be a fucking millionaire, it’s a large property surrounded by tall shrubs and an electrified fence. I don’t actually see the house, I just drop off Justin at the gate at the end of a curving driveway. There’s a speaker-box where he announces himself, and I wait long enough to be sure he’s buzzed in through the gate. Justin turns to wave at me as I drive away, and I can see that he’s pale and nervous – his normal nonstop chatter was stilled on the way over here.

I want to say, “Call me if he gives you any shit.” I want to say, “Knock him dead.” I want to say, “Don’t suck his cock.” But I don’t say anything except, “Later.” He nods, clutches his portfolio and walks briskly up the driveway.

Despite his excitement about Alexander DuPont, Justin remembered to ask if I’d called Dr. Shaughnessy. I did; I called the hotel from my office phone this afternoon. Shaughnessy wasn’t there, but he’d left a message with the concierge, asking me to meet him in the bar at the Colony at seven o’clock tonight.

I don’t like what feels like a high-handed summons and I am briefly tempted to ignore the message. Shaughnessy’s already called me difficult, maybe this brusque order to meet him is his way of gaining the upper hand. But then I remember Justin’s admonition to give the man the benefit of the doubt, at least about his motives. And maybe about his method of communication.

By seven I’m ready to leave the loft. Justin hasn’t returned yet and I can’t decide whether to worry about that or not, he’s got his cell with him, he’ll call if he needs me.

I took my time getting ready and considered going grunge – not shaving, appearing in jeans and a tee shirt – as a way of showing that I attach no importance whatsoever to this meeting. But in the end, I couldn’t resist flaunting my persona of impeccable grooming and exquisite tailoring. Wearing my Armani armor, I arrive at the restaurant at seven-thirty-five. When I enter the bar, I see Dr. Shaughnessy at a small table in an alcove, he’s watching the door and as soon as I walk in, he stands up and moves toward me.

Shaughnessy smiles and reaches for my hand; it’s not easy to resist returning the smile but I manage, and my handshake is firm but perfunctory. I’m expecting a complaint because I’m late and I’ve prepared a sarcastic comeback, but he just squeezes my hand, moving us toward his table in the corner and asking, “Let’s have a drink, shall we?”

Sitting down across from the doctor, I have leisure to study his face as he signals a cocktail waitress to our table. He looks – amazing. He’s tan and obviously fit, he’s got all his hair (which relieves one of my worries), and he’s incredibly attractive. I realize that my ego is at work – how do you modestly compliment someone who looks very much like an older version of yourself? Of course, modesty’s never been a concern of mine, so what the fuck.

And I realize that he’s flirting with the waitress, obviously, he’s a ladies’ man. Like Pop. Jack. The girl – a petite blonde with breast implants and impossibly long eyelashes – flirts back at the doctor, her glance going from his face to mine, but she’s not getting any reaction from me. He orders a Seven-and-Seven and I order Stoli. I can drink twice as much vodka as bourbon and I want to keep a clear head. When the girl leaves our table, Shaughnessy turns back to me.

“Thanks for meeting me, Brian,” he says, then leans against the back of his chair. “I’ve had time to think about what you told me, and it’s – astonishing is the word that comes to mind. Imagine finding out, at my age, that I have a grown son! And seeing you again now, in the flesh, is all the more convincing.”

“There’s quite a strong resemblance,” I agree.

Shaughnessy laughs. “I wish I could think that I looked like you at that age – you’re thirty-two, right?” When I nod, he goes on, “But I was just finishing my residency at Mass General, struggling financially. I was thirty-three when I married my wife. Are you married, Brian?”

“No.”

“Don’t be in a rush,” he advises. “Marriage is theoretically for life, so be sure you’ve got it right before you commit.” I have nothing to say to that but it doesn’t matter as the waitress arrives with our drinks. I pull out my wallet but Shaughnessy waves it away. He hands the girl some money and once she’s gone, he says earnestly, “Tonight’s on me, Brian. The least I can do is buy dinner for my son.”

Then Shaughnessy shrugs and laughs. “My son! Christ, have you any idea how strange that sounds to me?”

“Do you,” I can’t help asking, “Have other sons?”

“No. We have a daughter, Carolyn, she’s fourteen.” He looks sad suddenly. “We had a son, but we lost him when he was a baby. Three years old.”

Suddenly there’s a lump in my throat, choking me. I’m thinking cancer, leukemia, some other horrible disease that attacks small children. I need to ask but I can’t ask, my heart’s squeezing inside my chest. Gus is three years old.

“I’m sorry,” is all I can say.

Shaughnessy nods. “Thanks. He was a beautiful child, and when he drowned, my wife nearly died of grief.”

He drowned! Oh, thank God!

For a moment I’m horrified, afraid I said that out loud! But I didn’t, Shaughnessy is going on: “Then a year later we had our daughter, and that helped a lot, of course.” He stops talking then and we each raise our glass and take a sip. After a moment’s hesitation, he goes on, “Brian, I meant to ask first, thing about your mother. Did she ever remarry?”

“Remarry?”

“Yes, she was in the middle of her divorce when I knew her. Brian,” Shaughnessy sets down his glass and leans both arms on the table. Staring into my eyes, he proclaims seriously, “Brian, I'm sorry if this sounds unspeakably rude, but my affair with Joan was brief and. . . to be blunt, Brian, I was a very young man, twenty or twenty-one, and I barely knew her. I'm embarrassed to say that it never even occurred to me to keep in touch when I moved to Boston. It was - at least on my part – it was a casual thing."

I haven't said anything, I don't know what my face shows (nothing, nothing, my face never shows my feelings), but Shaughnessy sits up straight and asks, "Are you angry at me, Brian? I suppose you must be, but I swear that I had no idea Joan might be pregnant."

"I'm not angry." I'm not sure that's the truth, but I can't put a name to the mixed-up emotions swirling around inside my head.

Again Shaughnessy asks, "Did Joan remarry?"

Clearing my throat, I reply, "She never divorced. She and my - she and her husband, Jack, were married till he died, a few years ago."

"Oh!" Shaughnessy's surprise seems genuine. "I was sure she told me. . . well, never mind. Perhaps I misunderstood. It was a long time ago."

"Yes."

"Brian." I see comprehension dawning on Shaughnessy's face. "Brian - did her husband - did he know?"

I shrug. "Mom said she never told him. But he might have guessed."

"Why do you say that?"

Once again I shrug. "He didn’t like me very much." I keep it offhand, raising my glass and forcing a smile. "No big deal."

Shaughnessy's studying me and I'm annoyed. He doesn't need to add two and two to get five. "It was no big deal," I repeat, with emphasis.

"Okay." We each take another drink and then the doctor's name is called, our table's ready. We stand up and follow the maitre d' into the restaurant and we're seated at a banquette near the windows.

We're handed menus and we study them for a moment, then Shaughnessy lays his down on the table. "You told me that your mother's not well?"

I'm glad to lay down my menu, I haven't been able to focus on it anyway. "She has liver disease," I confirm, keeping my voice level. "She apparently needs a transplant, but she's not a good candidate, because of age and - other factors." I feel no strong loyalty to my mother, but I won't discuss her heavy drinking with anyone.

"Who's her doctor? How is she being treated?"

"I have no idea." When Shaughnessy looks surprised, I sigh and explain, "Doctor - "

"Please call me Shaughn."

"Shaughn. I'm not close to my mother. At all. I see her a couple times a year, normally."

"Yet she told you - "

"Only because she's dying, or thinks she's dying. She feels guilty, I guess." I shrug again. "Maybe she wanted it off her conscience."

Shaughn nods. "That's a pretty common thing for people to do. Unload their conscience, when they think their life is about to end."

The waiter appears and we glance at our menus again; I order a steak, it's always good here. If I'm able to eat it; right now I feel vaguely nauseated. Shaughn also orders steak, and he orders a Pomerol Merlot for the table. "Good choice," I tell him grudgingly; obviously he knows about wine, probably a lot more than I do.

When the waiter's gone, Shaughn asks gently, "Brian, you say you're not close to your mother. Did she also 'not like you very much,' while you were growing up?"

I don't answer, I just look back at him, keeping my face blank.

"You had an unhappy childhood, then?"

"Who didn't? Like I said, no big deal. I'm happy now, that's all that matters."

"Good, good, I'm glad you're happy." Shaughnessy backs off, he unfolds his napkin and spreads it on his lap. "You said you own your own business? Tell me about it?"

So I do. At first, I'm brisk, keeping to the facts. Then I feel myself relaxing and talking more about Kinnetik, almost against my will, I'm unbending slightly. I'm fucking proud of Kinnetik and Shaughn seems genuinely interested. While we eat he asks about college and I tell him I had a scholarship all four years, and I graduated with honors. Christ, I’ve never mentioned that to anybody but Michael and Deb.

By the time we've finished eating, I realize that I've become positively fucking chatty, I must sound like Justin. Which reminds me that he hasn't called and I wonder if he got home okay? I pull out my cell phone and immediately Shaughn says, “I hope you don’t have to leave yet? I was hoping we could spend more time together."

"I just need to make a call," I answer quickly, then kick myself when I realize that I could've used this opening to get away from the man. I don't want to be pals with him; I've got enough fucking pals. I check the phone for messages (there are none), then excuse myself and move out into the lobby and out the front door so I can call Justin on his cell. He answers right away.

"Hey," he's chirpy, "Are you having a good time? Is he nice? Do you like him?"

"Later. Are you home yet? Did your meeting go okay?"

"Yes, I'm home, I'll tell you everything when you get here. Are you coming home now?"

"Soon. What time is it?"

"Almost eleven."

Eleven? Eleven fucking o'clock? That's impossible, where’d the time go? "See you soon." I ring off and return to the restaurant.

Shaughn welcomes me with a smile and again I have trouble not smiling back at the man, I don't know why. He asks, "Do you need to go now?" I nod. Then he smiles again and suggests, "Somebody waiting for you?"

I nod again. Of course, it's none of his business. I'm not going to talk about Justin. Then I realize that Shaughn doesn’t know I'm gay. That should have been the first thing I told him, I should have gotten it over with. Why didn't I tell him? I wouldn’t have wasted all this time with the doctor, if only I'd told him the truth about me at the start.

The waiter returns to see if we want dessert. We both shake our heads no, then suddenly I blurt out, "Bring me a piece of chocolate cake - to go."

"Certainly, sir," and the waiter's gone.

"Special request?" Shaughn guesses, and again I nod. Then I decide, what the fuck.

Leaning back in my chair, folding my arms over my chest, I raise an eyebrow and look down my nose at Dr. Gerald Shaughnessy. "It's for my lover," I say pointedly. And though normally I avoid hetero terms like the plague, I want to be perfectly clear, so I add, "It’s for my boyfriend."

Shaughnessy's shocked, his mouth drops open. "You're gay?"

I don't answer, merely flare my nostrils.

"Well, that's - that's a surprise," he says mildly. "I had no idea."

"We're not all hairdressers."

"I didn't mean anything," Shaughnessy insists. "Did I sound rude?"

"I'm used to it."

"No wonder you're so defensive then."

"What?" I don't understand.

"You were expecting me to be rude, right? That's why you announced it the way you did. For shock value?" When I don't answer, Shaughn smiles. "Sorry to disappoint you, but it's hard to shock a doctor. You caught me off guard, I wasn't expecting to hear that from you."

“Questioning your paternity again?” I make no attempt to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

“Actually,” Shaughn shrugs, “It’s probably more evidence of a connection. My Uncle Roy was gay.”

“Oh.”

“And my roommate in college was gay, too. I’m not homophobic, Brian, if that’s what you were expecting?”

“I - “

“I’m surprised, Brian. Not disapproving.”

Yeah well, talk is cheap. I don’t say that, but I let my face show that I’m unconvinced.

The waiter returns to hand me a styrofoam box and both Shaughn and I stand up and walk out of the restaurant. On the sidewalk we pause and Shaughn offers his hand. When I take it and shake, Shaughn holds on to my hand and squeezes. “I enjoyed tonight,” he says earnestly. “It was great getting to know a bit about you. Maybe you can make time to come visit us in Boston in a week or so? My wife is anxious to meet you.”

“Your wife knows about me?”

“Of course. We have no secrets, Brian. After your visit to my office, I told Barbara everything. What happened in Pittsburgh was long before I met her, she has no resentment about my past relationships. She told me to invite you to have dinner with us.”

I’m at a loss for words; I really don’t know what to say.

Shaughn squeezes my hand again and lets go. “Give me a call next week, we’ll set a date. Okay?” I just nod, neither yes nor no, and Shaughn heads toward the parking lot. Then he stops, turns around and adds, “And you’re welcome to bring your boyfriend, too. What’s his name?”

“Justin.”

“I’ll ask Barbara to make a chocolate cake, for Justin.” And with a wave of his hand, Shaughn walks off.

Turning the other direction, I also walk away, though for the moment I can’t remember where I parked the car.

Brian

Justin greets me at the door, he grabs onto my arm and shakes it. “How was it? Is he nice? Did you have a good time?”

“You’re wrinkling,” I admonish, pulling my arm free. I hand him the box of cake, shrug off my jacket and move across the loft toward the bedroom. Naturally, he follows, frisking around me like an excited puppy.

“You stayed a long time,” he points out, “So you must have enjoyed it?”

“I brought you chocolate cake.”

“Oh.” Justin notices the box he’s holding and pops it open to look inside. Raising it to his nose to sniff, he says, “Mmm, great! Thanks, Brian! But, did you have a good time? Do you like Dr. Shaughnessy?”

“He’s all right.” I turn away to hang up my jacket.

“You like him!” Justin guesses. “You never like anybody - that’s only your highest compliment.”

I slip off my pants and reach for a hanger. “It is?”

“Yeah.” Justin dips a finger into chocolate frosting and licks it. He watches in silence as I remove the rest of my clothes, containing his impatience until I’m down to my briefs and tee shirt. “Are you going to see him again?” he asks then, and I nod.

“Maybe. He invited us for dinner next week.”

“Brian, that’s great! See, he likes you! And. . .” Justin stops jiggling around and stands still. “Brian, you said. . . 'invited us.’ Us, as in – me too?”

“What other us is there?”

“Holy shit,” Justin murmurs. “Holy shit, Brian – you told him about me? You told him you’re gay, and he’s, like, okay with that?”

“So what?”

“Brian - “

Then I sigh. “He acts like it’s no big deal, but who knows what he really thinks? Anyway,” I add quickly, “It doesn’t matter if he’s ‘okay’ with it or not.”

Justin’s silent for a moment, then he asks, “Can we go? To dinner?”

“I don’t know.” I haven’t decided yet. “I’ll think about it. Meanwhile,” I take the cake box away from Justin and set it on the chest of drawers, pull him into my arms and give him a quick kiss. He slides his arms around my waist and slips his hands under my tee. “Meanwhile,” I repeat, “It’s your turn for show and tell. Tell me about your famous artiste.”

“Oh, I had a good time too! He’s really nice.”

“It’s nice that he’s nice,” I mock.

“I mean, he’s not all snooty or full of himself. And he liked my stuff.”

I’ll bet that he liked Justin’s stuff.



Justin

“I don’t know why I was so nervous about meeting Alexander DuPont,” I explain to Brian. “I mean, he’s famous and everything, but I met a lot of famous people in Hollywood. And I remember being surprised at how normal most of them were.”

“Normal?”

“Like, probably the most famous person I ever met was Robert DeNiro; he was at a reception Brett took me to. I remember being surprised that DeNiro’s kind of short, has terrible hair, and he just isn’t that impressive. I didn’t get to speak to him, except to say hello, so maybe he makes a better impression if he talks to you.”

“That’s possible.” Brian’s got his tongue in his cheek but I’m ignoring it.

“So anyway, after all my experience in Hollywood, you’d think meeting a famous artist wouldn’t be such a big deal. But somehow in my mind, I put Alexander DuPont up there on a pedestal, you know? Like Pablo Picasso or Modigliani or Vincent Van Gogh. And I’m sure that, if I met one of THEM,” I emphasize, “I’d fucking pass out!”

“Hardly a unique reaction,” Brian observes dryly. “They’re all dead. Meeting a ghost would surprise anyone.”

“You know what I mean!” I pull away from Brian and reach around him to grab the box of cake. “Let me eat this while I tell you about him, okay?”

He nods so I lead the way to the kitchen, grab a fork and then we sit down at the counter and I dig off a big chunk of cake and shove it in my mouth. “Mmm, they make the best cake there, even better than my mom’s. Or,” I add guardedly, “Your mom’s.”

“Is that so?”

Brian never touched the cake his mother brought him, that time she caught us fucking, but I ate most of it and it was really good. Chocolate with chocolate chips.

“The house where he’s staying is huge,” I tell him, “Almost as big as that Pickle Guy’s place, but more modern. There’s an enormous studio with skylights, and easels set up all over the place. Zander showed me - “

“Zander?”

“It’s his nickname. He told me to call him that, he says he hates formality. So anyway,” I lay down my fork and give total attention to Brian. “He gave me an overview of the project he’s working on. It’s being underwritten by the National Endowment for the Arts. And the Human Rights Commission is sponsoring it too. Twelve nationally recognized artists are creating posters supporting equal rights for the LGBT community. Zander says the HRC believes we need a national focus on the issue, instead of just reacting to the individual states’ efforts to ban gay marriage.”

“A poster campaign?” Brian smirks. “That should be right up your alley.”

I feel my cheeks getting hot. “I know you thought my agit-prop posters were stupid.”

“Hey,” he fixes his eyes on my face and says seriously, “I helped you put them up, didn’t I? And they were damned effective, they made a lot of people think. Why do you always assume that I’m making fun of you?”

“Well,” I shrug, “Sometimes you do.”

“Only when you wear a pink shirt and carry a concealed weapon.”

I draw breath for a retort when Brian forestalls me. “Now tell me,” he says, “Why does this guy need you – what is your role in all this?”

“Partly, he says, because he wants a young person’s perspective. He says he’s not as in touch with youth culture as he used to be.”

“And you are? You don’t even like hip-hop.”

Ignoring Brian, I go on, “And also because he needs someone who’s familiar with drawing and painting software programs. Professor Grant told him about the one I use, and Zander wants me to show him how it works. He also wants to catalog his master portfolio and he needs someone who’s familiar with sorting programs and knowledgeable enough about art to help with the cataloging.”

“Sounds like you’re the man.”

“Yeah.”

Zander had said exactly that, “You’re the man, Justin,” and then he’d given me a hug. I don’t need to tell Brian about the hug. It was just a friendly thing to do, but Brian might misunderstand.

“So,” Brian asks, “I forgot to ask the most important question: Is he hot?”

“Don’t make this about sex, okay? Working with Zander is totally a professional thing.”

“So – he IS hot, then?”

I don’t want to answer that but he’s bound to meet Zander at some point, so I might as well tell the truth. “Yeah.”

“Tall? Dark? Handsome? All of the above?”

“Yes, okay? What difference does it make?”

“Hmm.” Brian shrugs, he seems totally disinterested which naturally proves that he’s not happy with my answer. “And so,” he continues, “How long is this project going to take? How long will you be working with him?”

“He thinks he’ll be in Pittsburgh two or three months. Some of the stuff I’ll be doing, I can do alone, or on my computer. But he’d like me to be with him at the studio at least three hours a day, times to be mutually arranged. He said it’ll probably average twenty hours a week, altogether. Anyway, that’s how much he’s going to pay me for, and I won’t have to punch a time clock.”

“That’s too many hours. You’re at the diner, what, about twelve hours? And it exhausts you.”

“Twelve or fourteen,” I agree before adding, “But the diner is more physical. It’s not physical with Zander, I won’t get so tired. Plus I’ll be doing more meaningful stuff. And it’s a ton more money, fifteen dollars an hour! And it’s only for a couple months.” When he just looks at me, I add emphatically, “I can handle it, Brian.”

“I offered you more than that, to work at Kinnetik. And shorter hours. Or isn’t working at the agency ‘meaningful’ enough?”

“Brian,” I’m surprised, “Of course working at Kinnetik would be meaningful too! I just honestly didn’t think it was a good idea – for, you know, for you to be my boss and all. For our relationship. You know?”

“Whatever.”

I really am surprised, I honestly didn’t know that Brian was still upset about me turning down a job at Kinnetik. I’m afraid of the answer, but I have to ask the question anyway: “Brian, are you saying you don’t want me to take this job?”

“Of course not. It’s up to you to make your own decisions. And you already have, haven’t you? You told him yes.”

“Yes, but - ”

“No buts.”

“Brian, it didn’t occur to me that you’d object.”

“I don’t object. Justin – I don’t fucking object, okay?” Brian stops abruptly, shakes his head and fixes his eyes on my face. Then taking my hand and unconsciously massaging it, his voice softens, loses the exasperation. “Look,” he says gently, “You had your reasons for turning down the Kinnetik offer, and I’m through rubbing your nose in it. Okay?”

I just look back at him, maybe I don’t seem convinced because he adds, “This new job is a good opportunity for you, and the salary’s not bad. You’ll be doing something you enjoy and get paid for it.”

“But you’re not happy.”

“Stop that shit now, don’t get fucking lesbianic on me. It’s late, let’s go to bed.”

It’s not really late, just about midnight, but I don’t argue. “Okay,” I agree, getting up to dump my empty box in the garbage and follow Brian up the steps to the bedroom.

We undress silently, slip under the covers. And even though our brains are not getting along very well right now, our bodies don’t seem to notice – hands, arms, and legs just naturally snap together, like a pile of oversized Legos. And when we kiss, well, everything outside this bed just ceases to exist.



Brian

Justin’s over the moon, he’s practically giddy, that he’ll be working so closely with this “Zander“ DuPont. Zander, what a pretentious nickname.

On Sunday, while Justin was working one of his last shifts at the diner, I spent a little time googling Alexander DuPont. He was apparently some kind of child prodigy, dazzling the art world while he was still in high school. He aced his way through college and made a splash in Paris, having his first one-man show there when he was still in his early twenties.

Another prodigy for Justin to hang out with.

The guy’s thirty-five or so now and unlike most artists, he’s made a bundle. He has a house in the south of France – so what the fuck is he doing in Pittsburgh? I asked Justin that and he had an answer: It seems that The Artist Formerly Known as Alexander feels the need for “an American perspective” for this poster project.

Whatever.

And why am I feeling so negative about this guy? I really have no idea.



Justin

It’s my first day working with Zander and we spent a couple hours this morning discussing the computer program he wants to use to keep track of his master portfolio. He claims he’s tech-challenged and while I don’t say out loud that I agree with him, the truth is, he’s right. But he's interested in the drawing software I use and he asked to see samples of work that I've done on the computer.

"I'm surprised that Professor Grant allows it, he was always such a stickler for traditional media," Zander remarks, and when I hastily assure him that Grant is one of those teachers who WON'T allow it, he takes one look at what must be my woebegone face and laughs sympathetically, then grabs me for a quick impromptu hug.

He lets go right away and turns back to the computer, and I remind myself it means nothing. Zander is just one of those touchy-feely types, it’s reflected in his art which is sensual and sensitive yet dynamic at the same time. It’s no wonder he’s achieved such popular acclaim, the appeal of his paintings is universal.

We’re still sitting by the computer when my cell rings about eleven-thirty and I’m surprised to see that it’s Brian, he usually doesn’t call me in the middle of the day. “Hey,” I answer, “What’s up?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Brian replies, his voice has an edge that I don’t understand. Christ, I hope I didn’t forget to set the alarm or something, and I open my mouth to ask if he’s mad when his voice changes suddenly and becomes almost cheery. “I called to tell you that I’m just finishing up a meeting in your employer’s neighborhood, so I could pick you up – you said you’d be finished there about noon, right?”

“Oh,” I’m surprised. “Yeah, I guess so. Let me ask Zander.” Then I turn to the artist who’s raised his eyebrows in inquiry. “Will we be finished by noon?” I ask, then add, “If so, my partner can pick me up, but it’s okay if you need me to stay a little longer.”

“Of course, Justin, you can leave whenever you want to, we won’t stand on formality here.” I nod but before I can give Brian the news, Zander adds, “Tell him to buzz from the street, he can drive up to the door. And tell him to come on in, I’d like to meet him.”

I’m not sure that’s such a good idea but I smile anyway and pass on the invitation to Brian. I doubt that he’ll say yes but surprisingly, he does. “I’ll be there in half an hour,” Brian concludes before hanging up. Then Zander and I return to our discussion about software and I don’t have time to worry about the two of them meeting. Not that there’s any reason to worry.



Brian

I was going to wait a few days before making an appearance at Alexander DuPont’s little villa-away-from-villa but curiosity – and absolutely no other motive than that – prompted me to call Justin this morning and wangle an invitation to meet the famous artiste.

Rounding the curve of the driveway, I push down a vague feeling of disquiet as I glance up at the elegant façade of what passes for an upper-middle-class mansion in this part of the city. It’s not often anymore that I have to remind myself that I’m not intimidated by the trappings of wealth and power, and immediately I'm able to shrug off a very temporary feeling of being out of place. There's nowhere in the world that I am out of place, and nothing intimidates me. I slam the door of the 'vette and climb several stairs leading to the entrance, and the door opens as I approach.

It's not really a mansion, and it would have been downright amusing if I were greeted by the butler dressed in tails that my imagination had somehow conjured up. Instead, this must be the artist himself standing tall in the open doorway. He's smiling but I have only a moment to look him over before Justin comes around from behind and rushes to my side, grabbing my arm and giving it a hard squeeze. "Brian," he greets me, then turns to the other man and says, "Alexander DuPont, this is Brian Kinney. My partner."

DuPont sticks out his hand and gives me a big grin. "Happy to meet you," he says, "Come on in." We shake briefly then I follow him into the house, Justin still hanging on my arm.

I'm glad to get a look at the artist, and at the place where Justin will be working. The man's definitely in the category of hot, though he looks older than I expected - a little French anti-aging crème would have done wonders to prevent the wrinkles gathering around his eyes and mouth, and there is the slightest hint of sag in the skin under his chin. He obviously works out, he's got broad shoulders, his fawn trousers outline well-muscled thighs, and there's no suggestion of belly softness. His hair is thick and dark brown, and his face is chiseled - handsome in the Marlboro Man sense.

Immediately on shaking the man's hand, I feel a slight frisson of familiarity. In a sense I was expecting something like this - considering that he is not much older than me and that he grew up in Pittsburgh, it's not unlikely that we have met before. Perhaps in the baths, where I hung out in my late teens, when I couldn't easily get into the bars. On that thought, and as we enter what must be the living room, DuPont turns toward me again and asks, "Have we met before, Brian?"

"No."

I've decided that we're not going there, and I notice that DuPont's eyes crinkle up as he nods his head and almost-smiles. He's apparently having the same thoughts as I am, and he may also be acknowledging my desire to leave the past – if we share any past – behind.

"Would you like a drink?" he asks politely, gesturing toward a bar cart against one wall.

"I can't stay," I shake my head no, "I've got a conference call scheduled shortly; I just came to give Justin a ride to campus." I glance at Justin and he nods.

"I've got a two o'clock class today," he confirms.

"Ready to go?" I raise my eyebrows at him and he nods again.

"Yes, I'll just go get my stuff together, it'll take a couple minutes, okay?"

"Go ahead." As he scurries from the room, I accept DuPont's gesture to sit on the sofa and he sits in a nearby chair.

"He's a beautiful young man," DuPont comments, giving me that half-smile again. "I'm not surprised that he's been snapped up, though he seems rather young to be in a committed relationship."

"Does he?" I inquire - pleasantly, but giving it an edge.

The artist laughs softly. "Ah, Brian," he shakes his head, "Not to worry, your boy is safe with me."

"Who's worried?"

"You're practically waving a sign that says 'hands off,' you know?" he informs me languidly. "It's sweet, but not necessary. I've never been interested in the young ones."

"Is that so?"

"Maybe once, when I was younger myself. Am I right," he asks conversationally, "In thinking that you and I have met before? I have the craziest notion that I've had your cock in my mouth."

"Could be," I agree easily, "Every vaguely attractive fag in Pittsburgh could say the same."

DuPont laughs at that. "There's one way to jog my memory," he suggests. "I'll give you my private number." When I open my mouth to say no, DuPont quickly adds, "Or are you two playing the monogamy game? That hardly seems like it would be your style."

Monogamy isn't my style, and I don't know if I'm playing that game or not. "Actually," I match DuPont's languor and easy smile, "That's none of your business."

"Touché," he acknowledges, then we both get to our feet as Justin re-enters the room. His head swings from one to the other and his brow furrows as he studies our faces; perhaps he's worried that I've fucked up his new job.

"Good-bye for now," DuPont tells Justin, "See you tomorrow?" And when Justin says okay, I can see him relax – until the artist throws an arm around Justin's shoulders and gives him a quick hard hug. Justin glances worriedly at me, and I realize that DuPont is playing with us.

"Good-bye," I smile, refusing to rise to the bait, sticking out my hand to shake. DuPont clasps my hand with both of his, and squeezes.

“Don’t be a stranger,” he urges, and with tongue definitely in cheek, he adds, “I just love making new friends.”

Disengaging my hand, I slide my arm around Justin’s shoulders and lead him to the door. DuPont comes with us and stands on the porch, waving us away.

We’re silent in the car for a few moments, then Justin says off-handedly, “Do you like him?”

I’m not sure how to answer that, but then I shrug and remind him, “As you said the other day, I never like anybody.”

Justin laughs, but I can tell that he’s concerned. But as long as he treats Justin fairly and keeps his artistic hands off him, I don’t need to like this guy. Still, I don’t want Justin to worry about it, so I slide my hand across the back of the seat and squeeze his neck. When we pull up at a stop sign, I lean over and plant a big juicy kiss on him, and I’m rewarded when Justin relaxes in his seat and gives me that beaming sunshine smile.



Shaughn

When Brian hasn’t called by mid-week, I take the initiative and call his home number on Thursday night. After meeting him last weekend, I realize that I’m the one who’ll have to do the pursuing.

“Hello?”

“Hello, this is Shaughn. Who is this, please?”

“Hello,” the unfamiliar voice answers, “This is Justin.”

“Oh yes,” I acknowledge; “Brian’s boyfriend.”

“We-ell,” there’s some hesitation, “He doesn’t exactly like that word. We’re partners.”

“Oh, I see.” Partners indicates a different kind of relationship to me than boyfriends, but I reserve judgment. “Is Brian at home tonight?”

“He’s working late. Do you want his office number? Or, could I give him a message?”

“I don’t want to bother him at work. Could you just ask him to call me?” On impulse, I add, “I was hoping we could get together this weekend.”

“That would be great,” he’s enthusiastic. “I’m sure Brian would like that.”

I’m glad he’s sure; I’m not so very confident myself. After a moment I suggest, “He’s rather difficult to pin down. Your partner.”

“No shit! Oh, sorry!” Justin quickly corrects himself, “I mean, yes, yes he can be.”

“Have you,” I hope I’m not prying but I’ve started this so now I go on, “Have you known Brian long?”

“Yeah, a really long time. Three years. Umm,” Justin hesitates, then says in a rush, “Oh, I think he’s here now, can you hold on?” and before I can answer, I hear the phone landing rather heavily on a desk or table. There’s a loud metallic screeching sound, then some low-voiced conversation that I can’t hear, then in a moment Brian comes on the phone.

“Hello.”

“Brian? It’s Shaughn. Have I caught you at a bad time? Justin said you were working late.”

“Having a chat, were you?” he suggests, his voice sounding a bit annoyed, then he quickly adds, “No, it’s not a bad time. What can I do for you?”

Ignoring the brusqueness in Brian’s voice – something apparently necessary for anyone intending to spend time with the man – I say, “I was hoping we could confirm a date for you – and Justin – to come see us. Maybe this weekend?”

“That’s very soon,” he says quickly, then adds, “We might have plans.”

I can hear Justin’s hissing whisper in the background, “No, we don’t have plans!”

“Hold on for a moment,” Brian says evenly, then he must have placed his hand over the phone and I can hear only mumbled voices on the other end. It’s a full two minutes before Brian comes back on the phone.

“Possibly we could make it,” he tells me. “But it’s a long way to come just for dinner. I might have a client meeting in Boston next month, why don’t we wait for that.”

“We can, of course,” I agree, “But you’re not just invited for dinner, Brian. Why don’t you come for the whole weekend?” When my suggestion is met with dead silence, I go on, “We have a guest cottage on our property – it’s small, nothing fancy, but it’s comfortable.” When there is still no response, I add, “Brian, please come. Barbara is anxious to meet you, and I’d really like to have time to get to know you better.”

Finally, he speaks. “Why?”

I sigh and shake my head. “Brian.”

He sighs too. “Let me think about it,” he says at last. “I’ll get back to you.”

“Come on Brian – don’t let me down. Say you’ll come.”

“Okay.” He sounds reluctant, but then he relents. “Yes, okay. Probably.”

“Good! Goodbye, till then.”

“Bye.”

As I hang up the phone, I shake my head at Barbara, who’s standing at my elbow. “I have a feeling,” I tell her, “That getting to know this man is going to be very God-damned difficult.”

“Well,” she shrugs, “You always enjoy a challenge!”



Brian

As we drive through the busy streets of Boston late Saturday morning, Justin is simultaneously looking at a map, reading the directions e-mailed by Shaughnessy’s wife, and rubber-necking what few sights there are to see on the drive from the airport to the doctor’s neighborhood just outside the city. He’s excited and happy and smiling and I’m. . .not.

I have this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that I’m making a very big mistake, coming to spend the weekend with a couple of strangers, old straight people I don’t know from Adam. I hate straights and they mostly hate us, all of them. I know there’s exceptions – Debbie, Justin’s little friend Daphne – but there’s no evidence that Dr. Shaughnessy is going to be any different, blood connection or no. What have I gotten myself in for? What have I gotten Justin in for? I’ll kick the shit out of anybody who mistreats him, whether I’m related to them or not.

Finally, we find the doctor’s house. It’s large but not imposing, a two-story brick home on a slight rise, with a narrow front yard ringed by a wrought-iron fence. The gate’s open and I pull the rental car into the driveway; we park behind a silver Mercedes as a door on the side of the house opens and Shaughnessy comes down the steps. As we get out of the car my face is blank and feels wooden, but that’s okay, Justin’s smiling wide enough for both of us.

“Hello!” Shaughnessy greets us enthusiastically, coming around the front of the car and grabbing my hand to shake. “Welcome!” He quickly releases my hand and grabs hold of Justin’s.

“Justin Taylor, Gerald Shaughnessy,” I say rather unnecessarily.

“Hello, welcome,” the doctor repeats. “Barbara’s in the cottage, making sure you have everything you need. Why don’t you bring your cases, and follow me?” He turns and pushes open a large wooden side gate with iron hinges, and he holds it open while Justin and I collect our cases from the trunk.

I’d rather have done that later, I’d planned to leave our stuff in the car in case we wanted to get away quickly before we were committed to staying in the guest house. I'm already feeling vaguely trapped. As we’re ushered through the gate, I have this sinking sensation in my stomach when I realize that there’s no turning back now.

Justin’s having no such qualms. "Oh, it's beautiful!" he exclaims as we enter a large back yard, filled with flowering shrubs and plants and complete with a small kidney-shaped pool surrounded by a redwood deck.

"Thanks - gardening is my wife’s hobby, this is all her doing."

There's lawn chairs sprinkled here and there on the deck and a round umbrella-topped table. A paving stone pathway skirts the pool and leads a few yards to the guest house in one corner of the property. The door’s open and Shaughnessy calls, “Barbara, they’re here.”

A woman comes through the doorway, she’s tall and has dark blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, she’s holding something, a couple books, in her hand. When she sees me, she stops short and mutters, “Oh, my God,” drops the books to the ground and raises her hands to her face. “Oh, my God,” she says again.

“Quite a likeness, eh?” Shaughnessy asks genially as he bends to retrieve the dropped books.

Barbara glances from me to her husband and back again. “I’m sorry to stare,” she apologizes quickly, “You have no idea how much you look like Shaughn when he was young.” She moves a step closer and continues to peer at my face. “There’s differences too, of course – your cheekbones are higher, your chin’s a bit rounder than Shaughn’s, and. . .oh, I’m sorry to be so rude,” Barbara apologizes again, reaching out to take my hand and shake it. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Brian, Shaughn’s been so excited ever since he met you, he talks of little else.”

“Hello,” I manage to murmur, there’s a strange lump in my throat that won’t let me speak properly.

Justin jumps into the void, stepping forward to offer his hand. “I’m Justin Taylor,” he introduces himself.

“It’s lovely to meet you both,” Barbara says graciously. “Bring your things into the cottage, I was just straightening up a bit. Come in, come in,” she encourages us as we hang back by the door. Actually, I’m the one hanging back, Justin surges forward and immediately compliments the décor.

“Oh, how pretty it is!” he gushes.

Shaughnessy's description was accurate, the cottage is small, merely a bedroom and bath, made up very attractively in blue and white; comfortable but not ostentatious.

"Would you boys like to freshen up before lunch?" Barbara asks. "We'll eat in about an hour, out there on the patio. Is either of you a vegetarian?"

"No," Justin answers for us, “We eat everything. Well,” he corrects himself, “Brian has this thing about carbs, but he does eat meat.”

“We’ll leave you alone to get settled then,” Barbara says, moving to the door to join Shaughnessy where he’s been waiting.

“Thanks,” Justin gives them a big grin, then they turn and walk off down the path. He moves to stand beside me and pries my frozen fingers off the handle of my suitcase, it drops to the floor with a clunk. “Are you okay, Brian?” he whispers, staring hard at my still-blank face.

What’s the matter with me, I feel like I’ve been hovering in suspended animation for the past several minutes. Then I snap myself out of my weird trance and chuff a loud sigh. “Of course I’m okay,” I answer irritably, turning away from him and glancing around the room. I spy an open door of what must be the bathroom and move toward it. Justin follows me but I explain quickly, “Gotta take a piss.” Then I slip quickly into the bathroom and shut the door firmly, almost in Justin’s face.

“Brian?”

Through the door panels, I assure him, “I’ll be right out.” Then I glance at my pale face reflected in a mirror over the sink, and silently I ask myself, “What the fuck am I doing here?”

Justin

Brian got weird after we arrived at the Shaughnessys’ house and they took us to the guest cottage in their backyard. He went into the bathroom and he’s been in there for ten minutes, and now when he comes out, he blinks when he sees me standing right outside the door.

“Waiting for a turn?” he frowns, then waves at the door and says, “Knock yourself out.”

“Brian, are you - ?”

“Am I what?”

“I don’t know. Nervous, or something. You’re acting kind of freaky.”

“What do you mean, I’m acting freaky?” he demands with that condescending, lip-curling sneer he uses to intimidate. “Just because I closed the fucking bathroom door? Do you need to accompany me EVERY time I take a piss? Is this something else on your comprehensive list of things that partners do?”

“Never mind,” I shake my head and back away, waving my hands in the air to erase my suggestion that he’s acting weird. Which of course he is. Changing the subject, I ask, “Do you think we’re dressed okay for lunch?”

I’m trying to distract him and it works. Totally predictably, he says, “What’s wrong with what we’re wearing? Other than the fact that you’re almost twenty-one and you still look like your mommy dresses you?”

I laugh then and mutter lovingly, “Fuck you,” and move in on him, sliding my arms around his waist and grinding my cock against his thigh. “You like the way I look.”

“Correction: I like the way you look – naked.” He exhales a long sigh and visibly calms down. He returns the pressure of my cock but, lowering his head and tilting it to one side, he demands, “Do you really want to start this right now?”

“No,” I agree reluctantly, “Better not.” And I pull away from him, grab my suitcase and lift it up onto the bed. “I’m going to hang up my clothes.”

“That will delay a fast getaway.” But Brian grabs his own suitcase and settles it on the other side of the bed. In silence, we unpack our clothes and hang them in the closet.

When we leave the cottage, we see Barbara setting plates on the umbrella-topped table by the pool. I hurry forward and offer to help and she says thanks and hands me a tote filled with silverware, so I busy myself laying it out. The table’s set for five. Barbara must notice that I’m hesitating over the fifth plate.

“That’s for our daughter. She’s at practice but she’ll be joining us for lunch.”

“Oh,” I’m surprised. “I didn’t know you have kids.”

“Just one, Carolyn.” Barbara glances at Brian and adds, “I should warn you: She’s fourteen.”

“Warn me?” Brian asks. He’s standing back, hands in his pockets. “Meaning – you don’t want her to know that I’m gay?”

“No, meaning that she’s fourteen. She’s armed and dangerous.” When Brian looks confused, Barbara clarifies, “She’s armed with a bad attitude and an inflated sense of entitlement. In other words, she’s a normal bratty teenager. Have you had any experience dealing with teenagers?”

“Some,” Brian answers dryly, slanting his eyes at me. When I frown, he adds, “But not recently.”

Shaughn has come out of the house and he stands next to Brian. “Carolyn’s really an exceptional girl,” he rushes to her defense. “Intelligent, intuitive, and she’s an accomplished musician.”

”He’s right, of course,” Barbara agrees. “And I’m sure that we’re all going to get along famously, in another few years. Meanwhile, it’s a struggle. Forewarned is forearmed.”

Shaughn chuckles. “She is a bit of a handful right now. We don’t want to crush her spirit, so we’re trying to let her test her boundaries, within reason. To express her individuality. But sometimes,” he admits with a sigh, “It’s a trial!”

“Sit down, everyone,” Barbara invites us. “We can have a glass of wine while we wait for Carolyn.”

We all take a seat and Shaughn uncorks a bottle of white wine and pours some for each of us. He raises his glass and holds it out toward Brian. “Welcome to the family,” he says sincerely, then turns to point the glass at me too. Barbara raises her glass and echoes, “Welcome.”

“Thanks,” Brian mumbles. Only someone who knows him like I do could tell that Brian’s disconcerted. “Thank you.”

We each take a sip, and then suddenly the back door of the house is flung open, smacking against the brick wall with a loud bang. “Our daughter makes her entrance,” Barbara whispers, then she turns in her chair and calls out, “Carolyn, honey, come say hello to your brother Brian.”

I can see that Brian’s shocked, I think he’s surprised that he’s being introduced so casually as Carolyn’s brother. I have to admit that I’m surprised too; the Shaughnessys really seem to have accepted Brian into their family. Maybe that’s why he’s so uneasy – I don’t think Brian has a very high opinion of families.

The girl who approaches the table might be pretty but it’s hard to tell since her long brown hair is streaked with blue, her skin is impossibly white, her eyes outlined in heavy black shadow. She’s wearing a long black dress that drags on the ground behind her, and she stomps toward the table in clunky thick-soled Doc Martens. As she comes closer, she casts her eyes over Brian and narrows them. She even flares her nostrils. She's the picture of snooty teenage disapproval.

“So," she declares, "This is the ‘Protestant Son Returns’ guy, huh?” She looks down her nose at Brian. “He doesn’t look like Dad.”

“That’s ‘Prodigal Son,’ and look again,” Barbara urges. “Brian’s very much like a younger version of your father.”

“Hmmph. If you say so.”

I glance at Brian and I can see that he’s amused.

Ignoring him, Carolyn turns to Shaughn and asks, “How do you know that he’s really your son? Maybe he’s an imposter.”

Brian says genially, “Hello, Carolyn. How amazing it is to be related to a teenager.”

Carolyn just throws him a disdainful glance. There’s a brief silence and then Barbara asks, “Brian, what were you like at fourteen?”

“I was a smart-ass,” he answers immediately.

“See, Carolyn?” Barbara turns to her daughter and exclaims, “There’s more proof that you and Brian are related.”

Sniffing, Carolyn tosses her head and drops down into a chair. She glances across the table and sees me. “Who’s that?” she demands, “Another long-lost brother?”

“No,” Brian answers quickly, “He’s not your brother. But he is Protestant.”

“This is Justin,” Barbara says, adding easily, “He’s more like a brother-in-law.”

“Brother-in-law?” Carolyn sits upright in her chair suddenly.

A glance at Brian shows that he’s nearly as shocked as Carolyn. He sits immobile, looking like a wax museum version of himself.

“You guys are MARRIED?”

I jump in then, before Brian’s head explodes. “No, we’re not married.”

“Brian and Justin are partners,” Shaughn informs his daughter. “And if you’ve finished the inquisition, we’d like to eat lunch. Would you like some chicken salad?” He picks up the platter near him and holds it out to Carolyn.

“Da-ad,” she sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes. “You know that I’m a vegetarian.”

“You are?” Shaughn’s obviously surprised. “Since when?”

“Since Wednesday,” Barbara explains nonchalantly, then adds, “Carolyn, I made you some pea salad, it’s in the blue Tupperware bowl in the refrigerator. Go and get it, please, and bring a soda for yourself.”

“Why can’t I have wine like everybody else?”

“Carolyn,” Shaughn leans forward, “You know you’re not old enough to drink.”

“That boy’s drinking wine,” she gestures toward me. “He doesn’t look old enough either.”

“I’m twenty-one,” I speak up, “Or anyway, I will be in a few months.” Immediately I’m embarrassed about revealing my age. Brian never seems to mind that people know I’m a lot younger than him, but maybe he feels differently about these people. Yet when I glance at him, I see that he’s smiling slightly, so I guess he’s not angry.

No one else says anything and we all sit silently watching as Carolyn jumps up and marches off into the house.

“Brian,” Barbara asks when she’s gone, “Do you have other siblings? You don’t seem too thrown by our little drama princess.”

“I have a sister, but she’s older than I am.”

“Is she married? Does she have children?”

“She’s divorced. She has two sons, I don’t know their ages.”

“Ten and thirteen,” I answer without thinking. Brian and the others look at me and I shrug. “Debbie told me.”

"Debbie's your sister?" Barbara asks.

"No," Brian answers. "Clare is my sister."

The Shaughnessys nod and I feel them waiting. They're not pushing, but it's obvious that Brian is holding back. In a moment I think he realizes how close-mouthed he's being and, with a sigh, he explains, "Debbie's the mother of my best friend. She was like a mother to me, too, when I was a kid. And she took Justin under her wing, when he – had some problems."

They look at me now and I hesitate, I'm not sure how much Brian wants me to reveal. But he gives me a nod, so I explain, "Debbie let me stay with her when my dad kicked me out. I was seventeen."

"Oh, that's terrible," Barbara's instantly sympathetic. "About your dad, I mean. Debbie sounds wonderful."

"She is," I agree.

"And is that," Barbara asks, "How you met Brian?"

"Um, not exactly."

I'm saved from having to deal with that question by the return of Carolyn to the table. She flounces over and plops down in her chair again, then wordlessly peels the lid off the Tupperware and spoons a large glob of pea salad onto her plate.

“How was practice?” Shaughn asks.

“Okay,” Carolyn mumbles through a squishy green mouthful. She swallows and adds, “Josie Morten is soooooooo jealous that I got Boston Pops this year and she didn’t.”

Barbara explains, “Carolyn performed at a Boston Pops concert this spring, it was a great honor for a young musician.”

“It’s not an HONOR,” Carolyn contradicts, “It’s recognition of my TALENT.”

Ignoring the interruption, Barbara goes on, “And she’ll be performing at Tanglewood in a couple weeks. Brian, maybe you and Justin would like to be our guests at the concert? Do you like classical music?”

“Some,” Brian murmurs, and then without looking at me he adds, “Justin’s more of a classical music fan than I am.”

“Do you play an instrument?” Shaughn asks, and when I just shake my head, no, he adds, “Carolyn’s been playing the violin since she was seven. She’s really very good. What composers do you like?”

“Uh. . .”



Brian

I realize that I’ve put Justin on the spot, and I also recognize that it was done out of spite. I thought I’d put all that fiddler nonsense behind me but apparently, there’s still a shred of animosity banging around inside my head. I’m annoyed at myself, so I lean sideways and press my shoulder against Justin’s. “Tchaikovsky?” I suggest, softening my voice so he knows that I’ve stopped tormenting him. “Debussy?”

Justin’s saved from answering by a rude raspberry noise from Carolyn. “Yuck,” she proclaims loudly, “Nobody likes that boring old crap anymore.”

“Carolyn!” Shaughn says, “That kind of rudeness is over the top.”

I feel my shoulders stiffen and slowly I sit up straight in my chair. I can feel the façade of fake happy-family-itis begin to crumble; now we’re going to see a real battle of wills, maybe an explosion; now the shouting will begin.

But it doesn’t.

Instead, Carolyn merely blushes; she lays down her spoon and looks at me from under lowered lashes and murmurs, “I – I’m sorry, Brian, I didn’t mean it.”

I don’t know what to say so I just shrug.

“I’ve always liked Tchaikovsky myself,” Barbara notes. “What’s your favorite concerto, Justin?”

While Justin considers the question, I glance at the other end of the table. Shaughn has leaned forward and slipped his arm around Carolyn’s shoulders. He squeezes and gives her a little kiss on her cheek. She smiles up at him and then picks up her spoon and begins to eat again. Conversation resumes around the table and I realize that I’m surprised.

Maybe they’re for real after all.



Justin

Why does Carolyn Shaughnessy have to be a violinist? Couldn’t she play the piano or the flute or something? It feels to me like tiptoeing through a dangerous minefield, as conversation during lunch centers around classical music for a while; mostly I keep quiet, murmuring “yes” and “no” from time to time.

We eat chicken salad and delicious sliced beefsteak tomatoes that Barbara grows in her garden; there’s a pile of crusty mini-croissants in a basket lined with a blue check cloth. When everyone’s full (except me, but I don’t want to embarrass Brian by eating like a pig), Barbara brings out a big glass bowl filled with trifle, which she explains is sponge cake and pudding and fresh fruit all mixed together. It’s so good, I can’t help wishing for seconds, though I shake my head no when it’s offered. Luckily Brian whispers to me that he can’t finish his (I’m amazed he even accepted any, he always turns down dessert, and he only took one or two bites), and then he switches dishes with me so that I’ll clean his bowl for him. When eagerly I dig in my spoon, he leans close and murmurs, “Thanks.”

When we’ve finished eating, everyone gets up to help carry dishes into the house. Even Brian carries an armful of plates, then he excuses himself to go back outside for a cigarette and Shaughn accompanies him, though he says he quit smoking many years ago. Carolyn puts things in the fridge while I help rinse dishes and Barbara loads the dishwasher.

I halfway expect a third degree about Brian so I’m sort of prepared, but Barbara’s tactful and her questions don’t feel intrusive. Even so, I’m a little wary to talk about Brian since he doesn’t like sharing personal things with other people.

“How long have you and Brian been partners?” is the first question, and I answer honestly, “About a year.” I consider our official committed relationship began right after the Stockwell campaign, not when he asked me to move in with him.

“Shaughn told me he has his own advertising agency? What’s that like?”

“Yes, it’s called Kinnetik. K-i-n-n-e-t-i-k. I named it. It’s incredibly successful, Brian works his – ahh, butt off.”

“He’s ambitious, hmm?” Barbara straightens up and closes the dishwasher and hands me a towel to dry my hands. “Shaughn’s the same. Do you work at Kinnetik, Justin?”

“No, I’m in school, the Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Arts.” I fold the towel and loop it through a cupboard door handle. “And I work part time. I was waiting tables for a while, but I just got a job assisting Alexander DuPont with a special project he’s doing in Pittsburgh. He’s a famous artist,” I add, in case Barbara hasn’t heard of him. And maybe I’m bragging a little too, but it’s the truth after all.

“Alexander DuPont!” Barbara exclaims, “Of course I know his work. The Boston Modern Art Museum has two of his paintings.” Then she crosses her arms and leans back against the counter. “So, you’re studying to be an artist too, Justin?”

“He’s been an artist all his life.”

We turn to see that Brian has returned to the kitchen, with Shaughn right behind. Brian goes on, “Justin’s already a better artist than Alexander DuPont.”

That makes me laugh and I move close to Brian and fake-punch him. “I am not!”

“Don’t be modest,” he tells me seriously, then he turns to Barbara and adds, “Justin and a friend created an amazing comic book.”

“A comic?” That’s Carolyn, she’s perched on a stool by an island in the middle of the kitchen. “Like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?” She makes a face, it’s what I’m starting to recognize is her normal superior sneer. It doesn’t bother me, in fact, it’s kind of funny, she seems determined to prove that she’s really not interested in Brian and me.

“It’s about gay superheroes,” I explain. Carolyn shrugs but the others seem interested.

“That’s wonderful,” Shaughn enthuses, “I’d like to see your comic.”

“It’s good,” Brian continues. “So good in fact that a Hollywood studio bought the rights to it, and Justin spent six months this winter and spring in California working on the movie version.”

That gets Carolyn’s attention. “You were in Hollywood?” she gasps. When I nod, she leans forward eagerly, her aloofness forgotten, and she demands, “Did you see any movie stars? Did you see Ashton Kutcher or Jamie MacLean?”

“Yeah, I saw Jamie MacLean,” I agree, though I decide not to add that I saw him getting blown at one of Brett’s parties.

“He’s delicious,” she sighs dreamily.

“Yeah.” The guy sucking him off seemed to think so, too.

“Well,” Shaughn rubs his hands together. “What shall we do this afternoon?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, but goes on, “Can we take you boys on a driving tour of Boston? We thought you might like to see some of the famous sights. Or have you done the tourist thing before?”

“No, we haven’t,” Brian answers. Of course, he never does “the tourist thing,” but he’s keeping his face noncommittal. I’d really like to go but I don’t want to say so; this is Brian’s first visit to his new family after all; I don’t need to be entertained.

There’s a pause, then Brian says, “Justin loves sight-seeing,” and I think he’s going to suggest we go along without him, but quickly he adds, “So let’s do that.”

I can’t help smiling at him then, partly in relief because I’d rather be with Brian and partly because I know that he’s doing it to make me happy. Surprisingly, he smiles back at me, and then wonder of wonders, he slides his arm around my shoulders and gives me a one-armed hug. Away from Liberty Avenue, Brian doesn’t do PDA’s. The fact that he’s doing it in front of his new dad is just amazing.



Shaughn

While the boys are freshening up in the guest house and Barbara and I are doing the same in our bedroom, we have a few minutes alone to talk about how the visit is going. She says she thinks Brian is difficult to get to know, but actually, I was expecting him to be even more reserved than this, after the few hours we spent at dinner the other night, and considering the hard time he’s given me on the phone. We both admit that we’re surprised to discover a man of Brian’s age and sophistication in a serious relationship with a boy so much younger than himself.

“It’s obvious how much Brian admires him, though,” I say. “He’s very proud of Justin’s success.”

“And he adores him; his eyes are on Justin all the time,” Barbara agrees. That’s a female thing to notice, I wasn’t aware of it but I trust Barbara’s judgment. “They’ve been partners for a year,” she tells me, “So Justin can't have been more than nineteen when they met. It’s not a May-December relationship, but even so, that’s quite a difference - especially at that age.”

"Hmm," I agree, keeping to myself the observation that men are often sexually attracted to girls - or in this case, boys - much younger than themselves. And of course that cuts both ways - I haven't forgotten that Brian's mother was a dozen or so years older than myself, when we had our brief affair.

I'd told Brian the truth - it was an affair, not merely an assignation in the backseat of a car, during the several months I was involved with Joan Kinney. Not that a few hours spent in cheap motel rooms is so much grander. It’s also true that I believed Joan was getting a divorce. I like to think that, if I'd known she was not divorcing, I'd not have continued to sleep with her. But I'm not sure that that's true. She was a beautiful woman, quite sensual in fact. And she'd confided to me that her husband had never given her an orgasm. That had been heady stuff for me, as I recall.

“You’re lost in thought,” Barbara observes.

“Planning our route. Shall we visit the Boston Tea Party Ship and Museum? Or is that too cornball for Brian?”

“Justin would probably like that. And making him happy seems to be a priority for Brian.”



Brian

When we climb into bed in the cottage, Justin giggles as we roll together in the middle. The mattress is thick and soft, and the bed’s a double so it’s only about half the size we’re used to. The close proximity would make fucking inevitable – if there was ever any doubt that we’d be having sex tonight. I’m glad that we’re separate from the house, nobody will hear us fucking. Not that that would matter of course.

Justin’s in a happy mood, he enjoyed the afternoon tour of Boston. I didn’t have such a bad time myself, though driving around looking at tourist crap isn’t my idea of entertainment. Still, we couldn’t very well ask the Shaughnessys to drop us off in the local gay ghetto, and I’d resigned myself to spending a few boring hours in Straight World USA. Strangely enough, I didn’t feel all that bored, and I even kind of enjoyed watching Justin charm the pants off Shaughn and Barbara.

We had an excellent dinner at Hamersley’s Bistro though I’d practically come to blows with Shaughn when he was adamant about paying the check. Christ almighty, I hate people always picking up the tab, it’s fucking annoying, and I loathe that feeling of being indebted to anybody. But Shaughn had shut me up pretty quickly when he’d insisted, “Brian, you can take us to dinner when we visit you in Pittsburgh.” I’d sat stunned then, clutching my wallet, just staring at him. He took advantage of my inattention to wrestle the bill out of my nerveless hand.

Returning the wallet to my pocket, I realized that, all along, I’d assumed this long-lost-son rigmarole was a one-time deal. Shaughn wanted to see what his errant seed had sprouted into, and he’d invited my partner to come along in deference to some bullshit notion of good manners. The Shaughnessys like Justin, that’s real enough, but so what? It honestly never occurred to me that they’d want to take this any further. That they’d want to continue getting together after this weekend.

Now Justin’s asleep, his wonderfully warm round ass pushed back against me, my arms wrapped around his shoulders, his soft hair tickling my nose. And I lay awake in the darkness, fighting down a feeling of – of something. Not panic, why would I be feeling panicky?

But the prospect of Shaughn invading the boundaries of my well-organized world in Pittsburgh is daunting. There’s no place in my life for another father. Pop is dead, he’s buried in the ground. I’ve told no one about this new daddy bullshit. I only told Michael that Jack wasn’t my real father but nothing about Shaughn, and Justin promised to keep his mouth shut about our visit. My mother would probably have a seizure if she found out that I’m hob-knobbing with a fuckbuddy from her past.

Of course, for that reason alone, you’d think I’d welcome Shaughn with open arms. But since Mom’s been sick, I somehow don’t feel like spitting in her eye anymore. Maybe it’s an absurd kind of consideration – not something I’m famous for – but I have no burning desire to expose what Mom considers her gravest sin to the world at large. And there’s no way to explain a long-lost dad without revealing the truth. That would probably kill Mom faster than fucking liver failure.

I’ve never needed or wanted a dad before and I don’t need one now. So maybe I’ll just thank Shaughn and Barbara for this weekend visit, but explain that I don’t have time for more socializing. Probably inviting us here was ninety-nine percent curiosity on their part anyway, so it won’t be a big deal to just let it all end here and now.

Christ, why can’t I go to sleep? I cuddle closer to Justin, the warmth of his body soothing the taut muscles of my arms. I rub my cheek against his silky-soft hair and listen to the little sighs and quiet murmurs he makes in his sleep. All my life I’ve been a loner, thinking that Michael and Deb were the only family I’d ever need. Who could have known that someday I’d not only enjoy sharing my bed with another man, but that I’d find him almost as fucking necessary to my life as breathing?



Shaughn

Brian surprises me by being an early riser like myself. For some reason, I’d not expected him to make an appearance before breakfast. Especially since even a middle-aged, long-time-married heterosexual man like myself can feel the sexual tension between Brian and Justin. And I can easily imagine that sharing the pleasures of the bedroom would keep both men occupied until late morning on the weekend, without the interruption of an alarm clock.

I’m standing outside the kitchen door enjoying the chilly early-morning breeze as I do calf stretches in preparation for my morning run, when the cottage door opens and Brian emerges. He’s alone and he’s wearing sweats; he closes the door softly so I assume that Justin’s still asleep. Brian must see movement from the corner of his eye because his head comes up and he turns to peer across the deck and catches sight of me. We raise our hands in silent salute, then he moves around the pool and stops a few feet away.

“Hey,” he says quietly, “Good morning.” He takes in my attire – I’m also in sweats, and asks, “Going for a run?”

“Yes, want to come along?”

For a moment I think he’s going to decline, maybe he prefers solitary exercise; then he nods and begins his own stretching routine. In a few minutes, we’re ready to go, and I lead the way out the side gate, down the sidewalk, across the street and through a passage that leads to the park. There’s a cinder path around the perimeter, partly open, partly shaded with leafy trees and in several places giving views of the city beyond the river. I enjoy tennis and cycling, swimming and racquetball, but there’s no exercise I like more than simply jogging in the clean morning air.



Brian

I’d intended to have a solitary run this morning, time alone to clear away the vaguely emotional debris corroding my brain. I’ve been over-thinking the Shaughn situation, that’s all. It’s really just a simple thing – I met the man whose accidental sperm-donation created me, acknowledged that he’s a decent guy, and now it’s time to move on. We met, we got to know each other, now it’s over. Short song, one verse, no choruses.

We begin running slowly, still warming up, and then we pick up the pace. We don’t speak except when Shaughn points out a view of the river, and later he points to a squirrel who appears to be noisily arguing with a bird over some crumb of food. Other than that, we run along in silence. Gradually I quicken the pace and as we run on, we both begin to break a sweat. I kick it up another notch, my legs are really pumping now, and Shaughn’s easily keeping up.

Usually, I take it a little easy in the morning, enjoying the run more as a stretching exercise than a flat-out marathon. But I’m sweating profusely now and a glance at Shaughn shows that he’s sweating too. In a few minutes, I turn it up again and we tear up the trail. It’s a wicked pace and I’m starting to huff, my breathing’s getting ragged.

“Let’s crank it down a notch,” Shaughn suggests, but I shake my head.

“Stop – if –you – need – to.”

“I don’t need to,” he says, “But I think you do. I don’t want my son having a heart attack during our first jog together.”

Ignoring him, I continue to run, until gradually I can’t help but slow down, and finally I stop, almost doubling over, hands on my knees, gasping long ragged breaths.

Shaughn stops beside me and runs in place, which I should be doing too to prevent cramp but I’m too done in to move. Not surprisingly, almost immediately I get a cramp in my left calf and I drop to the ground, grabbing my leg. Shaughn kneels beside me and pushes my hands away, massaging the cramped muscle until it lets go.

Shaughn sits back on his haunches; he looks at me and something about the way I’m looking at him makes him ask, “What is it?”

“Why – aren’t – you – tired?” I demand. “You’re – almost – twice – my – age.”

“Not twice,” he disagrees sharply. “Have a heart, I’m only fifty-two!” When I say nothing, he adds, “And I’m not a smoker like you, cigarettes are a killer for anyone athletic. If you’ll take my advice, son, you’ll throw away your smokes.”

“I don’t need fatherly advice,” I growl, throwing back my head and glaring at him. “And I don’t need a fucking father, either!”

“Where is that coming from? I thought you were happy that we’re getting to know each other?”

“Not getting, got. Past tense.”

“What?” he’s confused.

“This weekend was a one-time deal, that’s all,” I tell him. I get to my feet and he does the same. Confronting him face to face, I jut out my chin and declare, “You were curious about me, I was curious about you. That’s all this was.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “Not for me, Brian. I’m thrilled to know that I have a grown-up son, and I’m proud that you’re such a success. In your career and in a relationship with someone you love.”

“You can’t be proud of me,” I insist, “You don’t know anything about me.”

“But I want to, Brian. Won’t you give us a chance to know each other better?”

“Why?”

And there it is, that same question I’ve asked him – asked myself – several times before.

“Is it so hard to understand,” Shaughn spreads his hands, “That I want to know my own son?” I just stare back at him, shaking my head, and he adds, “Brian, if you had a child of your own, maybe you’d understand.”

I have to glance away then. I had no intention of telling this man about Gus, but after a moment, I murmur, “I do. I do have a child, a son. He’s three – almost four years old.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Shaughn exclaims. “Oh, I’m so glad, Brian.”

Still not looking at him, I add, “I’m not much of a father.”

“Do you love him?” he asks, and I nod. “Does he know that you love him?”

“I don’t know.” I raise a hand to run through my hair. “It’s better he doesn’t get too attached to me.”

“Why is that?” Shaughn asks gently, then he suggests, “Afraid that you’ll let him down?”

I swivel my head around sharply and glare at him. “It’s what people do.”

Shaughn opens his mouth to speak again but roughly I interrupt. “So what are you,” I demand angrily, “Some kind of shrink? I don’t do this touchy-feely soul-searching bullshit.”

“Okay,” he nods, “Okay. But if I promise that I won’t let you down, will you let me be a part of your life?”

Christ almighty! “Give it up, Dr. Shaughnessy.”

“No,” he moves a step closer and stares into my eyes. “No, I won’t, Brian. So stop trying to run away from me, will you?”

I wasn’t running away, I was just fucking jogging. What bullshit. I’m not going to answer that; instead, I say, “I’m going back now. I need a cigarette. And fuck the quit-smoking lecture.”

Side by side we jog slowly back toward the house. “I assume your oncologist already advised quitting,” he says mildly, adding, “Obviously to no avail. But does Justin get on you about it, too?”

“He knows better.”

We’re walking slowly by the time we reach the park entrance, and Shaughn puts a hand on my arm to stop me. “Will you at least let us be friends, Brian?”

Taking a deep breath and letting it out in a gusty sigh, I answer quietly, “It’s not that simple.”

“Tell me.”

Against my better judgment, I begin to explain. “My mother. . . is a miserable, unhappy old woman. She’s very religious – and her Christian moral superiority is all she’s got. Not that I give a shit,” I add hastily, before continuing. “But if her dirty little secret gets out, that she committed adultery, it will probably kill her. Not that I give a shit about THAT either.”

I brace myself for more armchair-psychology bullshit but it’s not forthcoming. Shaughn thinks for a moment, then he suggests, “How about if we keep our relationship under wraps for the time being? You can come see me in Boston whenever you can get away, and we’ll just take things slowly from there?” When I don’t answer right away, he presses, “How about that, Brian?

“I - “ Glancing away from his face, I stare back toward the green expanse of park. “I’ll think about it,” I murmur finally, then turn and lead the way across the street and around to the back of the house.



Justin

Breakfast was fantastic, Barbara made pancakes with homemade strawberry syrup and she told me I’d tied Shaughn’s world record for pancake consumption. He laughed and complained “no fair” because he said his middle-aged metabolism wouldn’t let him compete any longer.

We sat around the umbrella table for a long time, talking about art and music and movies, it was really comfortable and relaxing. Brian talked too but he was a little pulled back inside himself, I could tell that something was up, but of course I said nothing, nagging gets you nowhere with him.

He’d been out for a run in the morning and he woke me up with kisses when he got back, dragging me into the shower with him. He held me really tight and didn’t want to talk, so I kept my mouth shut and just washed him all over with a bar of lavender soap. We smelled so sweet, I told him I was afraid to go outside because bees would probably try to drink our nectar. Then Brian said he was going to drink MY nectar and he proved it, throwing me down on my back on the bed and slowly sucking me off.

Carolyn had joined us for breakfast but she ate quickly and excused herself to go practice, and we could hear violin music coming from inside the house while we sat around outside. I wondered if that would bother Brian but he didn’t seem to notice, so probably I was worrying for nothing.

Barbara wouldn’t let us help clear up. “Leave it, leave it,” she insisted, so we just sat and talked a little longer, until finally now it’s time to leave for the airport.

Brian and I return to the cottage to pack up our shit, we bring the bags out and both Shaughn and Barbara accompany us through the gate to the car, Brian throws our bags into the trunk and slams it shut.

“Thanks,” Brian says shortly then, nodding at Barbara and his dad, so I elaborate by gushing, “We had a wonderful time, thank you both so much!”

Shaughn shakes my hand and Barbara gives me a nice hug. Brian steps forward and Barbara hugs him too. Then he holds out his hand to Shaughn, but Shaughn doesn’t take it. Instead, he grabs Brian’s arm and pulls him hard against his chest. Hugging tight, Shaughn murmurs, “Come back soon, son. Come back real soon.”

Brian doesn’t answer, he just kind of nods, but I can see his Adam’s apple moving up and down, he coughs to clear his throat and moves quickly around the front of the car and pulls the door open.

“Goodbye, goodbye!” everyone calls, though Brian’s still saying nothing. He starts the car and backs down the driveway and into the street. He pauses and we wave out the window at Shaughn and Barbara, then Brian’s burning rubber down the street.

At the corner, Brian stops at a stop sign. Sliding my hand over his on the gear shift, I squeeze his fingers. “I love you,” I say softly.

Brian swings his head around to look at me. He nods once and there’s a tiny smile turning up the corner of his mouth. “Do you know how I feel about you?” he asks.

“Yes. Yes, I do, Brian.”

“Good.” Then he puts the car into gear and we move smoothly down the street and take the highway to the airport.

Brian

When the phone rings in the middle of the night, it's always bad news. Nobody calls to chat at three-thirty-seven a.m., so when the phone rings and my eyes pop open, a glance at the clock as I jerk upright in bed reveals the time and causes me to curse out loud at the interruption of my sleep. But I know that I'm also cursing out of cold-blooded fear - although the press of the warm sleepy lump beside me relieves my mind of at least half that concern.

I curse again as I fumble my way across the bed, scrabbling over Justin as he’s starting to wake up. He moves awkwardly, climbing over the pillows to get out of my way. I grab the receiver and loudly bark, “What?” as Justin slips forward again to put a hand on my arm – perhaps he imagines that he is comforting me. Irritably I almost shake off the hand before I acknowledge that it feels pretty good there, after all, bolstering me for what has to be bad news on the other end of the line.

I'm expecting the caller to be Lindsay, reporting that Gus is sick. Naturally, there've been a few such calls in the years since Gus was born and it's always with heart in mouth that I dash madly off to the hospital. But I know that now there are other people in my world who could precipitate a late-night call, yet even so, I’m surprised when I hear the voice on the other end of the line.

"Brian?"

"What?” I repeat brusquely, and Justin's hand tightens convulsively on my arm so I glance at him, his eyes are wide with alarm. Shaking my head, no, I silently mouth, "My mother." He blows out a big sigh – then looks guilty for his obvious relief. Like me, no doubt he was expecting the caller to be Linds or Michael.

"Brian," Mom says again, "Can you come over here?"

"Where's 'here' - are you at the hospital?"

"Of course I'm not at the hospital," she snaps, "I'm at home." When I don't immediately say anything, she demands, "Brian, are you there?"

"Mom," I try for patience - not one of my virtues. "Are you okay? Do you need an ambulance?"

"If I needed an ambulance, I'd call one, wouldn't I? I just need you to come over here."

When still I hesitate (Mom's never called me like this before), she snaps, "I rang Clare and she's not answering the phone. If you don't want to help your mother, just say so."

"Mom," I sigh, "I can be there in fifteen minutes. Are you sure you're okay?"

"I said so, didn't I? Now hurry up." And she hangs up the phone.

Shaking my head, torn between annoyance and concern, I hang up and disengage my arm from Justin’s grip, move quickly off the bed and begin to pull on clothes.

He follows me but hangs back, twisting his hands together.

"Go back to bed," I tell him. "I'll call you later."

Not surprisingly, Justin wants to accompany me. "Can I come?" he asks humbly.

I really don’t want him to come with me, but the humility in his voice gets through to me, catches me off guard. He probably feels that I'm shutting him out of my life, as I've done before - as I've always done. Actually, I am amazed that I acknowledge what's happening with him. It's true that I may not care about other people's feelings most of the time, but that doesn't mean I'm unaware of them.

I suppose it must mean something that, in the midst of my anxiety to get on my way, I can be moved by the timbre of Justin's voice and recognize that he's longing to be included, to be my partner in every sense of the word. He wants to be part of everything that affects me and he’s not afraid to say so, even when he knows that I'm likely to snap his head off and tell him to mind his own fucking business.

Over the years, Justin has pushed his way so thoroughly into my life that it gets harder and harder to resist his inroads. I take a deep breath now and blow it out; a couple more minutes won't make a big difference at this point and I don't like seeing Justin look so – how does he look? Tentative. Almost needy.

“Justin,” I put an arm around his shoulders and pull him tight against my chest, his head tilts back and he’s looking up at me. “You - “ I’m going to tell him once again to stay home but looking into those eyes, I can’t do it. “You’d better hurry,” I say instead, then let him go and move into the bathroom to take a piss.

He doesn’t waste time on words, instead, he pulls open a drawer and drags out a shirt and the ubiquitous cargo pants. By the time I slip into boots, he’s fastened his sneakers and he’s pulling our jackets from the closet. We move swiftly through the loft to the door, grabbing keys and cell phones as we go, and he’s halfway down the stairs before I’ve got the alarm set and the door locked.



Justin

I’ve never been to Brian’s house before, his mother’s house. He parks in the driveway and wordlessly I follow him up the path to the front door, and I’m surprised when he chooses a key from his key ring and unlocks the door, I wouldn’t have expected him to have a key. He pushes open the door and we enter the living room, Brian snaps on a lamp next to a flowered sofa that’s covered with clear plastic. “Stay here,” he murmurs quietly and I perch on the edge of the sofa, causing the plastic to make a crinkling sound. He moves through another doorway and after a moment I hear his voice, though I can’t make out his words.

We didn’t speak much on the way here, Brian drove quickly through the almost-deserted late night streets, and when I asked what was up, he said only that his mother needed him for something but that apparently she was okay. I know – or at least I think I know – that Brian only visited his mom a couple times recently. The time he left me in State College to come back to the Pitts when she dropped the bombshell about his dad, and another time when he confronted her about the identity of his real father.

I glance around the dimly-lit living room and try to imagine Brian as a little boy, living here in this place. It’s immaculate, everything extremely neat and almost no personal touches that I can see. I don’t get a sense of Mrs. Kinney’s personality from this room. Mom has always had a flair for decorating, both our old home and her condo are a beautiful reflection of her taste. Debbie’s house too – while not exactly beautiful – reflects Debbie’s personality, with all her photos and chatchkes and memorabilia filling every space. Michael and Ben’s place is a Zen hodgepodge of comics and literature. This room just feels empty, almost lifeless. It’s also cold, unheated, and I shiver, shove my hands into my jacket pockets. I’d like to stand up, walk around the room, but already I feel like an intruder in the Kinney home, so instead I stay put and just wait for Brian.



Brian

“Mom?” I move through the kitchen and go down the back hallway.

Her bedroom door’s ajar and the dim glow of a lamp casts crazy angles of light onto the wall by her bed. I discover that the lamp is lying on the floor with it’s shade tilted sideways, explaining the weird lighting, and it’s then that I actually begin to worry. Mom sounded okay on the phone, but. . .

“Here,” Mom calls, and I hurry around the other side of the bed to find her lying on the floor with her knees pulled up to her chest.

“What the fuck happened?” I exclaim, as I hunker down beside her.

“Watch your mouth,” she mutters thickly, “And help me to get up.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be moved, you might have a broken bone or something - “

“I do not have a broken bone,” she snaps, “I just fell off the bed and I can’t get up.” When still I hesitate, she orders, “Don’t just stand there staring, help me up.”

Moving around behind Mom, I get my hands under her arms and haul her gently to her feet, she sways slightly and I maneuver her toward the bed. She sits down on the edge and clutches the edges of her robe tightly together over her chest.

“Mom, are you okay?”

She doesn’t look okay, her face is flushed and she’s trembling, but her head comes up and she sniffs loudly before looking me in the eye and insisting, “I am perfectly fine.”

“People who are perfectly fine don’t keel over.”

Ignoring me, Mom runs a hand over her hair, smoothing it down, and rearranges her robe around her knees. “Pick up the phone, will you? Fortunately, I was able to pull the cord and drag the phone down to the floor with me, so I could call for help.”

“Maybe you need one of those alert things that elderly people wear to - “

“I am NOT elderly. Just pick up the phone and bring me my slippers.”

Bending down to retrieve the telephone, I see under the edge of the bedspread the neck of a bottle. I drag it out, set the phone on the nightstand next to an empty highball glass, and hold out the half-full whiskey bottle where Mom can see it.

“Were you trying to retrieve this when you fell off the bed?”

Mom sits up straight and gives me a look. “Sometimes a little sip helps me to sleep, it’s medicinal, my doctor told me so.”

Yeah, right. I just nod, retrieve her slippers from the other side of the bed and drop them at her feet, she slips them on and stands up. “You can go now,” she says dismissively.

Reluctantly I offer, “Do you want some coffee or tea? I’ll make it for you.”

“Do you even know how to make a cup of tea?” Mom doesn’t wait for an answer but heads for the kitchen and I follow her, leaving the bottle on the nightstand.

Mom’s slightly unsteady on her feet but she makes it under her own power, flips on the overhead light and then sits in a chair at the table. I grab the kettle off the stove and fill it at the sink.

“Where do you keep the tea bags?”

When she directs me to a canister on the counter, I pull out a teabag and retrieve a mug from the cupboard. While waiting for the kettle to boil, I tell Mom, “I’ll be right back,” then I move down the hall to the living room where Justin’s still huddled on the sofa. I realize that it’s freezing in the house, the way Mom always keeps it, and Justin is shivering.

“Hey,” I greet him quietly, “Everything’s okay, we can go in a few minutes. Want to wait in the car? You can put the heat on.”

“I’m fine,” he lies in a whisper. It’s his call so I just nod and turn back toward the kitchen, then discover that Mom is standing framed in the doorway, arms crossed on her chest.

“Who is that?” she demands, the ice in her voice matching the temperature in the living room.

I realize that I’m slightly nonplussed but immediately I answer, “This is Justin.” Then I add, “You’ve met him before,” though I don’t suppose she’ll remember her close encounter with a nearly-naked and sweaty disheveled blond in my loft a couple years ago.

“You brought one of your boys into MY HOUSE?”

“I only have ONE boy,” I answer swiftly, “And I brought him along in case I needed help.”

Justin has risen to his feet. “Hello, Mrs. Kinney,” he says politely, almost making me laugh, the brat’s unfailing good manners are endearing even in this circumstance.

She ignores him (of course) and turns back toward the kitchen, throwing over her shoulder, “Tell him not to touch anything.”

I’m angry but I won’t let her see it. And when I look back at Justin, he’s grinning, so I relax a bit and lean down to whisper in his ear, “I’ll let you touch something later.” I’m glad he’s not offended by Mom’s bullshit. I am of course, but fuck it.

The kettle’s boiling and Mom’s at the stove but she’s still unsteady on her feet. “Sit down, I’ll do it,” I tell her and surprisingly she doesn’t put up a fight but returns to her chair and drops onto it. I can tell that the fall has shaken her up, maybe scared her, and even medicated with whiskey, she’s bound to have bruises tomorrow.

I bring the mug of hot water and the tea bag to the table, grabbing a spoon and the sugar bowl as well. I watch while Mom dunks the teabag into the cup and then I ask, “Do you need anything else?”

“Bring me the bottle,” she demands, giving me a defiant look. I hesitate for a moment, then shrug. Once I’m gone she’ll just go get it herself and maybe fall down again in the process, so I do as she asks and retrieve the whiskey from the bedroom. Then I unscrew the lid and pour a small amount into her cup and set the bottle on the countertop.

Smelling the whiskey makes me want to raise the bottle to my lips and chug a mouthful myself, which is probably a sign or a portent or some God-damned thing, but I refuse to acknowledge it. I am not an alcoholic. Not yet anyway.

Mom takes a sip of tea and then says offhandedly, “I suppose I have to say thank you, for coming over tonight.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” God forbid poor Mom would ever feel indebted to her despised sinful son for any reason. “If you’re sure you’re okay, we’ll go now.”

“Of course I’m okay. Good night.”

“Good night,” I repeat, then turn and leave the kitchen, collect my boy from the living room and lock the door behind us as we leave the house.

We don’t speak on the way home, we’re both tired, and thankfully Justin doesn’t pester me with a lot of questions about my mother. He’s shown many times that he respects my privacy and I appreciate it. He says only, “I’m glad I got to see the house where you grew up.” I don’t ask him why he’s glad; that’s veering into touchy-feely territory. Instead, I reach for his hand and twine our fingers together. We can still get a couple hours sleep before the alarm goes off at seven.

Once we’re home and back in bed, Justin's gone the moment his head hits the pillow, but I can’t sleep. Being in that house has churned up something in my gut. I turn my back to Justin and stretch out on my side, trying to force my muscles to relax. Usually, I’m able to push away unwanted thoughts, but I can’t shake off this melancholy that’s grabbed hold of me tonight.

Just about everybody’s got a hard-luck story, almost everyone had a rotten childhood, my experience was no worse than what millions of other kids go through. I loathe people who dwell on their misfortune, I have no time for self-pity, it’s all bullshit. So then why am I lying here in the darkness remembering another house, while in my mind’s eye I’m watching Shaughn put his arm around his daughter and kiss her cheek?



Justin

Brian’s worried that Alexander DuPont is hitting on me. Not that he would come right out and ask of course; that’s not his style. But he skirts around the edges of not asking and I can tell that he’s trying to sniff out any hint that I’m messing around with my new employer. What I could tell Brian is that I almost wish Zander were hitting on me – it would be easier to deal with than what the artist is doing.

“You’re amazingly talented,” Zander says, for the third or fourth time.

I’ve started to dread the days that Zander coerces me to show him some of my drawings and sketches. Today is no different.

“These are beautiful,” he tells me now as he scrutinizes two of my recent watercolors. He has pulled up a chair near the computer where I’m working on inventory and he’s holding one of my small paintings in each hand, moving his eyes back and forth from one to the other. “Your use of bold colors from a monochromatic palette is especially creative, and very effective,” he enthuses.

“Thanks,” I answer shortly, almost holding my breath as I wait for what I know by now is coming next.

“But,” he says softly, and I brace myself, “But I’m worried that the IFA is going to stifle your imagination, Justin. Adherence to traditional curriculum can have a real deadening effect on creativity. I should know,” he emphasizes, “It was even hard for me after I graduated from the IFA, to break away from its influence.”

“I just have a little over a year left,” I remind him, hearing the defensiveness in my voice. Brian has encouraged me to finish my degree, and I agree with him. I don’t want to be a quitter.

“And afterward?”

“An IFA degree can open a lot of doors for my career,” I insist, though I feel like I’m parroting the Institute’s recruitment brochure.

“Maybe,” Zander shrugs. “But there’s a glut of arts degree holders all over this country who don’t have nearly your talent and ability. Do you want to compete with them for a few plum jobs?”

“I - “

“Justin,” Zander leans forward and places his hand on my arm. “Are you limiting your future career because of your current romantic relationship?”

I feel my shoulders stiffen then and I frown, and I open my mouth to tell Zander that it’s none of his business, but he forestalls me.

“I know it’s none of my business,” he assures me hastily, removing his hand. “But believe me, it is imperative that a true artist be completely selfish and solitary, not letting anything or anybody interfere with the pursuit of artistic perfection.”

“Zander - “

“Please give some more thought to the Accademia,” he urges. “Please say that you’ll think about it.”

“Okay,” I agree then, only so he’ll stop hassling me about it.

“Good,” Zander says now, pushing back his chair and standing up. “I’m off to have lunch with the Nelsons. You’ll be here till two o’clock?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll return before that, and we can review the museum works list you’re compiling. See you then.”

“See you.” I keep my eyes focused on the computer monitor as I listen to his footsteps moving toward the door.

Zander has offered me a scholarship to a young artists residency program in Italy beginning next spring. It’s a year-long series of workshops based in Rome, and Zander is on the board of directors. He says that he hosts a couple workshops in his villa in Tuscany each summer for students in the program.

When he told me about the residency, I was literally breathless for a few moments. What artist doesn’t want to study in Europe? But regretfully I said no thanks. I want to finish my degree at the IFA, and besides, there’s no way I am leaving Brian for that length of time. In fact, after our painful separation, while I was in LA, I’m determined never to leave him alone again.

Zander pauses in the doorway. “Justin?”

I twist around in my chair to face him and raise my eyebrows in query.

“Just remember, my young friend,” he admonishes, “There are thousands of students your age who are almost as talented. If you do not devote one hundred and ten percent of your soul to art right now, you will never be more than a mediocre talent. And,” he waves his hand before delivering the clincher, “And you could end up sketching caricatures for tourists at Disneyland.”

Zander turns quickly then and goes out the door, and I return my gaze to the computer screen. But I’m not seeing lists and descriptions and locations of the collected works of Alexander DuPont. Instead, I’m seeing a crumbling marble ruin with a backdrop of tall Italian pines.



Brian

Two days after the late-night visit to my mom’s, I discover that there's a three-hour hole in my calendar at Kinnetik, no meetings, no conferences, no impending deadlines. A very rare occurrence. Telling Cynthia only that I’ll be back in time for the four o’clock meeting with the Sanders & Sons marketing director, I climb in the ‘vette and drive to my old neighborhood. Pulling into the driveway at Mom’s, I stride quickly to the front door and ring the bell.

In a couple minutes, the door is pulled open a couple inches and Mom peers out at me. "Brian," she exclaims, "What are you doing here?"

"We need to talk."

Mom pulls the door open wider and I move inside; we stand in the entry and she asks suspiciously, "Are you checking up on me?"

I’m not, but I ask, "Had any more misadventures in the bedroom?"

"Lots of people fall out of bed," she replies. "You've probably done it yourself."

"Not when I'm alone."

"Well, come in if you want," she gestures toward the living room. "Sit down."

I perch on the edge of the plastic-covered sofa, refraining from making a joke about the oversize plastic condoms on her chintz furniture.

Like most kids, I could never imagine my parents having sex. As I got older and discovered that Jack was a lady’s man, I still couldn't picture my mother doing the nasty. In fact, once when Jack and I were drunk together, he'd complained that Joanie was a frigid bitch, as if that explained his skirt-chasing habits. While I never wanted to hear about my parents' sex life (or lack of), I also never questioned the validity of Jack's claim. Mom was always cool, reserved; she'd never been affectionate with me. Or with Clare either. Occasionally when we were small, she might pat us on the head or pinch our cheeks.

It wasn't until I began to spend time at Mikey's house that I started receiving hugs. An involuntary sigh escapes my lips, as I remember the feel of Debbie's warm arms holding me close the first time. I was fourteen, and that hug had awakened something inside me, a kind of hunger that I never really acknowledged, not even to myself. And though Debbie's and Michael's hugs seemed to fill some kind of void in my life for many years, it wasn't until Justin came along that I mysteriously became addicted to physical caresses that have nothing at all to do with sex.

Discovering that my mother had a fling with the Tomato Man came as a real shock to me, caused me to re-evaluate Jack's claims that Joanie was frigid. Shaughn said that my mother had been beautiful and sensual. I can almost feel a twinge of empathy for my mother now, realizing that she had found something fulfilling in the arms of another man, something she didn't get from Jack.

Unless Mom had repeated that affair with other men after Shaughn (which I very much doubt), that little fling may have been her only happiness. Certainly, she's been unhappy and bitter as long as I've known her. The church apparently gives her some comfort now, and though I'm very nearly an atheist myself and scorn all that religious bullshit, I don't begrudge the comfort she derives from her prayers and candle-lighting. I don’t even care that she condemns me to hell for being gay.

Or anyway, I don’t care very much.

“If this is a real visit,” Mom says now, “I’ll make coffee.”

“No, thanks.”

She sits down in an armchair facing the sofa and I turn sideways to look at her. Silence stretches out between us until finally, I say, “I need to tell you something.”

“I suppose it’s too much to assume that you’re giving up your sinful ways,” she frowns. “I mean, if you’re still having relations with young boys, like the one you brought into my house.”

“Justin’s a man, not a boy. And we’re in a committed relationship, not that you’d care about that.” And why the fuck I’m explaining Justin to her, I really don’t know.

She just sniffs and throws back her head, the better to look down her nose at me. “So,” she says, “What is it then?”

Sitting up straight and squaring my shoulders, I look Mom in the eye and announce, “I’ve found Gerald Shaughnessy.”

“Dear God.” Mom’s pale face turns even more pale, her hands press together in her lap. “Dear God, no.”

I just nod and wait for it. Immediately she exclaims, “You promised me, Brian. You promised to keep my secret!”

“I know,” I agree, but make no excuses. “Nevertheless,” I continue, “I’ve found him.”

“How? How did you find him – did you hire a detective?”

I didn’t have to, not with Sherlock Taylor living in my loft.

“It doesn’t matter how I found him.”

“You haven’t – contacted him, have you? You’re not going to contact him, are you Brian?”

Mom’s very agitated, she’s wringing her hands and practically gritting her teeth as she leans forward staring at me, waiting for my answer. Surprisingly, I feel almost sorry for her. Or at any rate, I hear an unexpected gentleness in my voice when I answer, “Mom, I’ve already contacted Shaughn.”

“No!” she exclaims, then she drops her head into her hands and murmurs, “No-no-no.”

And then suddenly she’s crying, her shoulders are shaking with quiet sobbing that’s painful to hear. My mother never cries, I can’t remember ever seeing her cry. A knife twists my gut and I slide across the plastic-covered sofa to get closer. “Mom, I’m sorry that you’re upset,” I tell her. “But I’m not sorry that I found Shaughn. He’s – he’s a good man, Mom. And he spoke very highly of you.”

Her head jerks up then and she glares daggers at me through her wet lashes. “Spoke highly of me? Oh, don’t lie, Brian. You men are all alike, do you think I don’t know that? I know what you’re like! You and he – I can just imagine you and that man, laughing at me behind my back.”

“It wasn’t like that - “

“I trusted you, Brian – I trusted you to keep your mouth shut. What a fool I was, confiding my terrible sin to you.”

“Mom,” I insist, “It was not a terrible sin. You were unhappy and - “

“Shut up.” Her voice is cold, the tears have stopped. “Just shut up, Brian, you don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s a sin in the eyes of the church – whether you believe it or not. And you had no right – NO RIGHT – to do this to me.”

I move back away from her then. “I didn’t do anything to you.” My voice sounds nearly as cold as hers now. “And I did have a right to find my real father.”

“And who have you told? Who, Brian?” she demands, leaning forward and glaring at me. “Clare? That Debbie woman? All your friends?”

“I’ve told no one. Yet.”

We sit staring at each other wordlessly for a few moments, then Mom clears her throat. “I don’t suppose you have a handkerchief.”

“I’ll get you a Kleenex,” I offer, getting up and heading for the bathroom. I return with a box of tissues and hand it to her, then sit back down again and watch as she dries her eyes and blows her nose.

“Well,” she says when she has finished, “Now what happens, Brian? Are you going to tell the rest of the world about this?”

“Yes.”

I have not consciously made that decision until this very moment. Shaughn has called several times – he’s left three voicemail messages, and so far I have not called him back. I needed to tell Mom before doing anything else.

“You want to shame me, don’t you?” she demands now. “You want to humiliate me, don’t you, Brian?”

“No,” I answer quietly. “This is not about you. It’s about me. I want my real father to be part of my life now. Out in the open, not hidden away.”

“So, you’ve actually met Gerald Shaughnessy? You’ve talked to him?”

“Yes. He’s a doctor now, he’s married, he lives in Boston. I like him. And, strangely enough, he seems to like me too.”

Mom studies my face for a moment before she surprises me (why should I be surprised?) by asking coldly, “But do you think he will still like you, Brian, when he finds out that you’re a homosexual?”

I smile then, a real smile, and I don’t even feel anger at my mother in this moment. “He knows that I’m gay. We spent a weekend at Shaughn’s house in Boston, Justin and I.”

“You’re not serious?”

“Yes.”

“Well.” Mom clears her throat, sets the Kleenex box on the end table and stands up. “Well,” she repeats, “Then he must be as godless as you are. And there’s nothing left to say.” She turns on her heel and moves toward the front door. With her hand on the knob, she scowls darkly and declares, “Go ahead then, Brian. Tell the world. Make me a laughingstock.” And she pulls the door open.

I stand up and join her by the door. "Mom,” I make one last effort, “No one’s going to laugh at you. And it’s not like you murdered somebody. You had an affair – it happens. Big deal.”

She grimaces and pulls the door open a few more inches. “Go ahead and do whatever you want,” she says bitterly. “You always have. But,” she draws a deep breath and straightens her shoulders, “If you do that, Brian, then I wash my hands of you.”

All I can do is stare at Mom for a moment, then I shrug. “Like you did when you found out that I’m gay? Like you did when your beloved grandson accused me of molesting him?” She stands unmoving as a marble statue, unblinking, saying nothing. I push my face close to hers and repeat, “Like that, Mom?”

When still my mother says nothing, when she just stares at me, her eyes burning with anger and – and hatred, I make a decision.

“Okay,” I mutter, digging into my pocket. “Okay,” I repeat more loudly, as I pull out my keys and remove one from the ring. “Here,” I say, forcing my hand to be steady as I hold out Mom’s house key. Wordlessly she takes the key and clutches it tight in her fist.

Swallowing hard, I turn away then and I’m out the door and moving down the steps, striding quickly across the lawn. When I get into the car and back out of the driveway, peripherally I can see that Mom is standing on the porch by the open door. For a brief moment, I imagine that she’s going to raise her hand and wave goodbye. And then a harsh rough noise escapes the back of my throat, sounding almost but not quite like laughter.

Brian

It’s been a couple days since I told Mom about Shaughn and I keep meaning to call him, but work has been fucking hell and. . .well, work is the main reason. And also I’ve just had a lot on my mind. Lots of stuff, not least of which is the increased frequency of the calls Justin’s getting at home from Alexander DuPont almost every fucking night.

After the third call in as many evenings interrupts our viewing of some DVD the brat rented, I’m on the alert. First off, Justin glances at his cell when it beeps his silly disco music and he decides to take the call, when normally he’d let the machine take a message. Secondly, he gets up off the sofa and moves out into the hallway, after giving me a suspiciously sweet smile and whispering, “Be right back.”

Naturally, I’m annoyed, he coerced me into watching this stupid film and I’m pissed to find myself alone, staring at the plasma screen. I am not trying to eavesdrop on his fucking phone call, eavesdropping is not my style and besides, I can’t hear a fucking word.

When Justin comes back a few minutes later and drops down on the sofa next to me, it’s my intention to say nothing at all about the phone call. So I’m surprised to hear myself casually asking “Who was that?” as he reaches for the remote.

“Zander. You heard me say, ‘hello, Zander,’ didn’t you?” Before I can answer he adds, “That’s why you made that sauerkraut face, isn’t it?”

“Hmm.” I won’t deign to confirm his accusation, which is bullshit anyway because my face never shows my feelings. Still, I can’t help asking, “You had to go outside? You needed privacy?”

“No,” he’s annoyed. “I just couldn’t hear over the tv.”

“There’s this magic button on the remote that controls the volume. Want a demonstration?”

“Brian - “

“I’m just curious how you’ve become so fucking indispensable to this guy’s life. He’s some big-shot artist and you’re just the student intern.”

“Brian - “

“I had dozens of student interns when I worked at Vanguard. I never called any of them.”

“Brian, this is different. I’m not that kind of intern.”

“What kind of intern are you?”

“I just mean, I’ve been organizing his collected works and he hasn’t learned to use the software, so when he wants to locate something, he calls me.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to teach him the software?”

“Yes, and I’m trying, but he’s not very good at technology stuff.”

“He has no right to keep bothering you when you’re off-duty. You have to know how to deal with people like that, he’s taking advantage of you.”

“I’m handling things just fine, Brian.”

“What things, exactly? What’s there to ‘handle?’ His canvases? His paintbrushes? His cock?”

“Very funny.”

I wasn’t joking. I grab the remote from Justin’s hand and turn up the volume.

“Brian,” Justin turns up his own volume to compensate, almost shouting as he insists, “There’s no reason for you to be jealous.”

“Jealous?” I’m insulted. Standing up and snapping off the tv, I raise my eyebrows at Justin. “I’m not jealous, I don’t do jealous. If you want to fuck him, go ahead and fuck him.”

“I’m not fucking him.”

“Well, you can.”

“Well, I don’t want to. And the thing is, Brian, he’s not interested in me like that. He’s very respectful and polite, he’s never even made a pass at me.”

We stare at each other for a minute, maybe this is some kind of impasse. Then, “This conversation is boring,” I tell him, “And so is the movie you rented. I’m going to Woody’s. You can come if you want to, or you can stay home and wait for the phone to ring.”

Without waiting for a response, I go and grab my jacket from the bedroom closet and move toward the door. Justin hasn’t budged, and a surreptitious glance at his face reveals that he’s pouting mutinously. I pause at the door, mentally reviewing our conversation, and I have to admit that maybe, just possibly, I over-reacted.

Fuck that, I don’t have to admit anything. Pulling open the door, I move into the hallway and push it closed with a bit of unnecessary roughness.



Justin

It’s really annoying that Brian doesn’t trust me, I can take care of myself. Christ, I spent six months in LA on my own surrounded by millions of guys hitting on me, doesn’t Brian think I can handle one guy in Pittsburgh? Besides, I told him the truth - Zander has never put the moves on me, and except for the first couple days, he doesn’t even hug me anymore. I made it pretty clear with my body language that I didn’t like it and he stopped. If only he’d stop nagging me about Italy, my job would be just about perfect.

Now Brian’s gone storming out of the loft, headed for Woody’s. In the past, I would have immediately followed him, but I’m not going to do that anymore. In fact, if I just stay here, I know that Brian will come home a lot sooner.

I’m proved right when the door is pushed open less than an hour later. I’m on the computer and I don’t turn around, instead, I wait to see what Brian will do. He doesn’t keep me wondering long, he moves from the door to stand behind my chair, leans down and rubs his cheek against mine. “How about a shower?” he suggests, and happily I log off the computer and push back my chair. He keeps his arms around me as we head up the steps to the bedroom. It’s the Brian equivalent of an apology, and it’s good enough for me.



Brian

When Cynthia buzzes via intercom and announces that Alexander DuPont is in the lobby asking to see me, I feel my heart jerk in my chest. Mentally running through a short list of any possible reasons for the artist’s visit, I can’t come up with an answer. My impulse is to keep the guy cooling his heels for a while, but curiosity – that’s all it is – makes me tell Cynthia to show him in.

I stand up as he enters and he strides quickly forward to stretch out his hand across my desk. I don’t bother to waste a smile on the man but I shake his hand and indicate a chair for him to sit. He shakes his head no.

“Can I take you to lunch, Brian?” he suggests.

“Thanks,” I answer shortly, “But I don’t eat lunch, and I’ve got appointments all day.” I don’t, in fact, the calendar’s unusually light today, there’s only a budget meeting with Ted scheduled for late this afternoon.

“You’re the head honcho,” DuPont points out, “Can’t you clear your schedule for a couple hours? It’s important that we talk.”

Christ, there goes that lurching-heart sensation again, though I keep my face blandly blank and just stare back at him for a moment, considering. "Why don't we just talk here?"

"Oh, but I want your undivided attention," he smiles slightly.

“I’m – intrigued,” I say, though that’s not quite the right word for what I’m feeling. He stares back at me and I can’t read the expression on his face – he’s looking pretty bland himself. Moving around from behind my desk, I say, “Have a seat, I’ll go check with my assistant.” Then I push through the door and confront Cynthia; she’s on the phone but hangs up quickly and gives me her “yes, sir?” look.

“I’m going to lunch but I’ll be back in time for the budget meeting.”

“Okay,” she agrees, then leans over her desk and whispers, “Brian, isn’t that the famous artist?”

“What – you want his autograph?” I curl my lip, but she only grins.

"No, I just wondered if he's going to be a new client. Or - something?"

I won't gratify her curiosity, instead of answering I turn away and head back into my office. DuPont stands up and I nod. "Okay, let's go."

"Great! How's Charlie's?"

"Whatever. I don't eat lunch," I repeat.

"Then how about coming back to my place instead? We won't waste time in a restaurant and we'll have more privacy." When I hesitate, trying to remember Justin's schedule, DuPont reads my mind. "He's not working today, we'll be alone."

So this is about Justin, I figured as much. "Okay," I agree, then follow the artist out to the parking lot. He offers to drive but I refuse; I want my own car so I can leave whenever I feel like it.

It's a short drive to DuPont's borrowed house; I follow him through the electric gate and park behind him in the curved driveway. Then we go up the steps, through the entry, and into what appears to be the artist's study, a large airy room with tall windows, bookshelves lining two walls, a desk, and several armchairs. "Can I offer you a drink?" he asks, and I wonder if I'm going to need one but I shake my head no.

We sit down in front of his desk in leather armchairs, and it's with something approaching trepidation that I wait for him to start. Then I remember that hesitation's not my modus operandi so I take the initiative and ask coolly, "So, what's up? Besides your cock, whenever you're around young Mister Taylor?"

DuPont merely chuckles. "No, no, Brian, that's so heavy-handed," he chides me. "Besides, young Mister Taylor has no effect on my cock. Or," he shrugs, "Not very much. Too young and shy for my taste."

That relieves my mind of at least one concern: If he thinks Justin's shy, he hasn't been in bed with the lad. Justin's nearly as carnivorous as I am myself. But there's no need to disabuse the artist's mind of his erroneous conclusion, and I just raise my eyebrows in silent question. So what the fuck is DuPont after?

"No," he repeats, "I didn't ask you here to challenge you to a duel for the sweet boy's affections," he smiles almost mockingly. "No, the thing is, I've become more impressed than I can say with Justin's artistic ability. He has a tremendous future ahead of him, if he grasps every opportunity that presents itself."

I'm still in the dark but I merely say, "I agree."

"In fact," DuPont leans forward in his chair and continues earnestly, "I've been trying to convince Justin that his first responsibility right now MUST BE to himself, to the pursuit of artistic perfection. Everything else must take a back seat. Even," he sighs and leans back in his chair again and regards me from under hooded eyelids, "Even at the expense of every other consideration in his life right now."

"Am I to conclude," I ask crisply, "That it's your opinion Justin's relationship with me is a hindrance to his career?"

"Oh, it's more than my opinion," DuPont insists, leaning forward again. "It's a fact."

"The fact is," I'm annoyed and I stand up abruptly, "That Justin's personal life is none of your fucking business." I can't believe I let the artist drag me over here for this bullshit.

"You're right, of course," DuPont answers evenly, taking the wind from my sails. "But I was hoping we could talk unemotionally about what's at stake now for Justin. I was hoping you'd be able to put Justin first, ahead of your own desires, in this instance."

DuPont's lucky I don't simply punch him out; we look to be evenly matched physically and at the very least, I could knock him down a couple times. "What's at stake for Justin," I inform him coldly, "Is that he's going to finish his degree at the IFA, and after that he'll make his own career decisions."

I turn to march out of the room but before I reach the door, DuPont answers softly, "That might be too late."

Despite my anger, the artist has grabbed my attention and I turn around again. "Too late for what?"

"Please sit down, Brian, and I'll explain."

Reluctantly I return and sit down on the edge of the chair.

"First off," DuPont says, "Justin is already far more advanced than any of the instructors at the IFA. Continuing on with their program can only stifle Justin's own creativity.”

It's hard to argue with that statement, since Justin himself has often railed about what he considers the sometimes stifling atmosphere at the school, he's complained about several teachers who resist innovation and others who discourage the use of his computer.

When I say nothing, DuPont continues, "Justin is ready for greater challenges than he can get at the university, he's ready to study with other artists more advanced and innovative.”

"Like you?" I ask crudely.

"Not I," he contradicts. "But there’s no one in Pittsburgh, and very few teachers in this country as a whole, who can provide the kind of creative stimulation Justin needs at this stage of his development. However,” he hurries on before I can interrupt, though damned if I know what to say to that, “There is an excellent program in Rome that begins in the spring, specifically developed for young artists poised for greatness who are ready for the challenge. I’m on the board of directors of the Accademia but that’s the limit of my involvement - I’m not a teacher myself – so be assured that there’s no hidden motive at work here.”

When I just sit there unspeaking – I honestly am at a loss for words now – DuPont delivers the kicker: “I’ve offered to sponsor Justin for the Accademia’s program. It would be a scholarship, no strings attached.” When I draw breath to protest, he hurries on, “If it relieves your mind, I’ll tell you that I myself am committed to a project in San Francisco when I finish up in Pittsburgh. I won’t return to Europe for eight or nine months at least. So you see, there is no ulterior motive for me to move Justin out of your reach – I have no intention of pursuing him.”

“Your motives don’t concern me,” I tell him. That’s not entirely true, but he’s beginning to convince me that it’s not Justin’s ass he’s after. “And if Justin wants to study in Italy, I can damned well pay for that myself.”

“And Justin would allow you to do so?”

“I - “ I blink, remembering Justin’s stated determination to keep our personal lives separate from our careers from now on. He won’t even accept a job at Kinnetik, so there’s no way he’d let me pay for this school in Italy.

“And Justin would leave you for a year to pursue this opportunity?”

Fuck. “Probably,” I hedge. After all, he left me for LA. But he’s said more than once that he’s never going to leave me again. Of course, normally I put no stock in people’s promises. Promises are always bullshit. Almost always.

Then I remember that DuPont said he’s already made this offer to Justin. “When you told Justin about this program in Italy,” I ask, “What did he say? Exactly?”

“To be perfectly honest,” the artist lowers his voice almost sympathetically, “He was very excited by the idea of studying in Rome. And he said several times, when pressed, that he’s considering it. But,” he concludes, spreading his hands, “I’m pretty sure he’s just saying that, to get me off his back.” DuPont smiles slightly. “I’ve been pretty insistent, probably he’s tired of fobbing me off.”

When I just sit there staring into space for a moment, the artist interrupts my thoughts. “Am I right in thinking that Justin has not mentioned this to you?” I swing my gaze around to DuPont and I nod. “Then,” he says gently, “Isn’t it obvious that he’s not comfortable discussing it with you? For whatever reasons – which, as you point out, are none of my business.”

I stand up then and pace over to the window, glance out at the manicured lawn. Taking a deep breath and blowing it out slowly, I ask, “When do you need an answer? What kind of timeline are we looking at, for Justin to decide about the program?”

“Probably within a couple weeks at the most. As you can imagine, there’s a lot of competition for a place at the Accademia. Attendance is confirmed several months in advance.”

“Okay,” I say, still without turning around. “Okay.”

DuPont waits, then he asks, “What does ‘okay’ mean, Brian?”

“I don’t know.” I turn then and walk back toward the desk. “I don’t know,” I repeat, “But I’ll think about it and get back to you. Don’t tell Justin we’ve talked about this.”

“Right,” he agrees, standing up and escorting me to the door. “You have my number?” When I shake my head no, DuPont pulls a purple business card from his pocket and scribbles on the back. “That’s my private line. Call anytime you like.” He sticks out his hand and reluctantly I shake it, but I can’t return his smile.

“I’ll be in touch,” I murmur at the front door, then slowly I move down the steps and get into the ‘vette. It’s only two o’clock; I can drive around for a while before I need to return to the office for the meeting with Ted. Right this minute I’m not in the mood to discuss budgets.



Justin

I almost call Zander on the intercom by the front gate but I know he was planning to be out all day, he told me so. Instead, I just punch in the security code he gave me. I’m not scheduled to be here but I left a book at my workstation that I need for my four o’clock class, I’m just going to zip in and pick it up. The gate opens and I begin to walk up the driveway.

When I reach the bend of the road, I see Brian’s car parked behind Zander’s in front of the house. What is he doing here? I told him this morning that I wasn’t working today, so there’s no reason for Brian to be at the house.

No reason. . .except, maybe the obvious reason. Maybe Brian’s usual reason. Brian fucks everybody in Pittsburgh, why should he make an exception of my boss?

I stand there for two or three minutes, just staring at the ‘vette, trying to decide why I’m feeling upset. Is it because Brian is breaking his promise about monogamy? No. He didn’t promise monogamy exactly, he only promised to “cut back.”

Maybe this is why Brian has been trying to find out if I’m fucking Zander – maybe he wanted to be sure the coast was clear for himself? Normally Brian doesn’t mind sharing men, so that doesn’t really make sense.

My brain doesn’t come up with any other ideas. The simplest explanation is that Brian and Zander are just fucking. I shouldn’t really be surprised. No wonder Zander hasn’t been hitting on me, probably all along it was Brian he wanted. Most men do want Brian; no mystery there.

On that thought, I turn away and retrace my steps back down the driveway and out the gate, shutting it securely behind me. Just then I hear a car engine rev – it’s the ‘vette! Brian’s gunning the engine and quickly rounding the bend in the driveway. Feeling like James Bond (or more like Austin Powers), I slip quickly through the thick shrubbery near the fence and I’m well hidden in the bushes by the time the ‘vette reaches the bottom of the driveway, hesitates till the gate opens, then the car slides through, Brian guns the engine again and he’s gone.

I’m not sure what instinct made me jump into the bushes, that was pretty silly. After all, I have every right to be at Zander’s house, and if he and Brian are fucking around, well, so what? I don’t really care. Or I shouldn’t really care, should I? When Brian gets home tonight, I’ll just ask him about it.

Or maybe I’ll wait for him to tell me. I’m sure he’s going to tell me all about it.



Brian

Justin’s in a strange mood tonight, he’s very quiet, almost. . .withdrawn. Maybe I’m imagining it; he says he’s concentrating on a project that’s due the end of the week, and anyway, I’m in something of a strange mood myself. I’m not a man given to indecision, but despite several hours today spent thinking about the opportunity for Justin at that school in Rome, I haven’t been able to make a decision what to do about it.

Easiest would be to confront Justin about the subject, bring it out into the open. He’s always telling me that we need to communicate better with each other, and while I loathe “meaningful discussions,” I can see the benefit of laying our cards on the table. But before I can do that, I need to know what cards Justin is holding.

Does he want to go? I’d ask if I was sure I’d get an honest answer. But several times in the past Justin has lied when he thought he was doing it for my benefit. Like about my cancer. So isn’t it likely that he’d pretend disinterest in anything that would take him away from me? I can't let him sacrifice his career like that.

I wish there was someone to talk to. Someone I could trust to keep from blabbing everything to Justin. That leaves out Michael and Debbie. And Lindsay's away at a week-long conference in New York.

The phone rings, interrupting my deliberation. "Hello?"

"Hello," a hearty voice proclaims, "I can't believe I finally caught you."

It's Shaughn. "Hey," I tell him, "I've been meaning to call." And then it hits me. Maybe I can talk to him about this.

It's not really like me to seek advice from anyone, but I feel a vague sense of relief just hearing Shaughn’s voice. That's weird but I don't need to analyze it, I just sit up straight in my chair, feeling an eagerness to see this man and talk to him about Justin.

"I have to be in Pittsburgh tomorrow afternoon," Shaughn's saying, "A colleague has asked me to sit in on an urgent surgical consultation at Mercy Hospital, so I've arranged a morning flight from Boston. I know it's short notice, but could you maybe break free and have lunch with me?"

"That would be great," I agree, feeling the corners of my mouth turn up in a smile.

"Brian - I'm so glad," Shaughn says enthusiastically. "Where shall we eat?"

"When does your flight get in – I could pick you up at the airport."

Justin has left his desk and moves to stand behind me, a hand on my shoulder.

"Oh, don't bother," Shaughn says quickly, "It's damned early, all I could get at the last minute. I'll cool my heels at a day hotel near the airport, then meet you for lunch somewhere. You name the place."

"I'll come to your hotel," I parry. "We could eat there, have more time to talk."

"Brian," he sounds pleased, "What a great idea. How about I call you when my flight gets in, and let you know where I'm staying?"

"Okay, you do that."

"Oh," Shaughn adds before we hang up, "Maybe Justin could join us?"

"No, no," I say quickly, "Not this time."

“Hmm,” he replies. “Something’s up?”

“Possibly.”

“Ah, you’re not free to talk. That’s okay, we’ll deal with it tomorrow. Goodbye, for now, son. See you tomorrow.”

“Goodbye - “ I clamp my lips closed tight; I almost slipped and called him “Dad.” Where did that come from?



Justin

As Brian hangs up the phone, I circle my arms around his shoulders and give him a hug from behind. “You’re going to see Shaughn? I’m glad, Brian.”

“Yeah.” He turns in his chair and gives me a smacking kiss. “Me, too.” I’m happy to see him smiling. He’s been so quiet tonight, and when he didn’t tell me about his encounter with Zander today, I wondered if maybe he was feeling guilty about it. Brian says he “doesn’t do” guilt, but I know that’s not entirely true.

Well, I am not going to hassle him. For Brian, it was probably just another fuck; no big deal.

“Be sure to say hello to Shaughn for me,” I hug him again, before pulling free to return to my desk. Brian grabs my hands and pulls me back toward him again and I allow him to draw me between his legs and I slip my arms around his neck. Then he kisses me and I push my body hard against his chest.

“Is it bedtime yet?” he murmurs, but doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he stands up, keeping one arm around me as he logs off his computer, then he walks me over to my desk and waits while I also log off. Together we move up the steps and into the bedroom. It’s only nine-thirty or ten, but that doesn’t mean we’ll be sleeping anytime soon.



Brian

I’ve asked Cynthia to cancel my morning appointments and I spend time concentrating on some deadlined projects as I wait for Shaughn. It’s quarter past ten when he calls and I’m at his hotel just before eleven. When he opens the door of his room, I’m not surprised that Shaughn pulls me into a crushing bear hug. But I am surprised to discover that I’m not disliking it very much.

We settle into a couple of easy chairs and I do the polite “how’s the family” bit, but again I’m surprised when I realize that I’m actually interested in Shaughn’s answers. Barbara has had a promotion at her job – she supervises the office staff at a medical billing facility in Boston, and Caroline is busy preparing for her part at an upcoming performance at Tanglewood. Shaughn renews the invitation for us to join them for that and I promise to talk to Justin about it.

Then Shaughn offers me a drink from the mini-bar and asks if I want to order lunch.

“I don’t usually eat lunch,” I explain, “But I could probably manage a salad.”

He nods. “I often skip lunch too, except perhaps for an energy bar, but I missed breakfast this morning.” He finds the room service menu and we call in our order, then we each grab a tiny bottle from the fridge and pour the liquor into glasses and resume our seats.

“Now,” Shaughn relaxes back against the chair cushion, “Tell me what’s up with Justin. Something wrong?”

“Not – wrong.” I don’t really know how to begin. “There’s – history you don’t know about, so it’s hard to explain without going into a lot of boring detail.”

Shaughn tilts his head to one side and smiles slightly. “I’ve missed sharing your ‘history’ until now. I’ve missed too much of your life, son. It couldn’t possibly bore me to hear about it.”

I just stare back at him, moved but also wary. He must sense my caution because he adds, “Tell me only what you want.”

“Okay.” I’ll try to be brief. “Justin has an opportunity to study in Rome next spring. I think he wants to do it, but I’m pretty sure that he’s turning it down in order to stay in Pittsburgh.”

I don’t say, “to stay with me,” but immediately Shaughn asks, “He doesn’t want to leave you?” When I nod, Shaughn says, “Hmm. Separation can be really hard on a relationship.” He thinks for a minute, then asks, “You say you ‘think’ Justin wants to go. It sounds like maybe you boys haven’t discussed this?”

Tearing my eyes away from his face, I stand up abruptly and pace over to the window. Staring out at the view of airport runways, I watch as a Southwest Airlines plane takes off, rising slowly from the tarmac and gaining altitude as the powerful engines thrust the plane forward into the sky. Then I take a deep breath and turn around, put my hands in my pockets. “No.”

“Does this have something to do with the ‘history’ you don’t want to tell me about?”

Shrugging, I admit, “Communicating isn’t something we do very well.”

“And yet, there’s nothing more important to a relationship.”

My habitual sneer begins to curl my lip before I can stop it. Shaughn’s quick enough to catch it and surprisingly, he laughs. “Brian, can I ask if this is the first serious relationship you’ve had?”

Without answering, I explain, “I just loathe all those heterosexual catch-phrases. Justin and I are gay, we’re together because that’s what we both want right this minute.”

“Being afraid of commitment is pretty much a universal male thing, Brian. I don’t think gays have the corner on that.”

I just stare at him, biting back a rejoinder that I’m not afraid of anything.

“IS this your first serious relationship?”

Giving up the fight, I shrug and sit down again. “First, last, only.”

When Shaughn begins to say something else, I quickly interrupt. “But it’s also Justin’s first. And it’s not his last or only. He’s fucking twenty years old, for Christ’s sake.” I raise my glass and drain it in one swallow.

“He is young,” Shaughn agrees, “But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s incapable of making a commitment. Are you worried that he might leave you, Brian?”

“He already has. Twice.” Christ, I really did not intend to go there.

“Oh!” Shaughn’s surprised. He thinks for a moment, then says, “But each time he’s come back? And,” he raises his eyebrows as he searches my face, “Each time you’ve taken him back?” When I don’t answer, he says gently, “That must mean you love him very much, Brian.”

“No.” I lean forward, staring hard at Shaughn and shaking my head vehemently. “It only means that I’m fucked.” Jumping up again, I stride across the carpet to the mini-bar, pull it open and grab another tiny bottle of JB.

“Can I ask a personal question, Brian?”

I give him a look – like all this shit hasn’t been personal?

Without waiting for my answer, he plows on. “Did you forgive Justin each time each time he left you, or does he think that you’re still resentful?”

How the fuck can I answer a question like that?

“And you are, aren’t you, Brian?”

I don’t have to answer that, either.

“Because,” Shaughn continues, “If he thinks you’re still angry, maybe he’s afraid you won’t take him back a third time. Maybe he’s afraid that, if he goes to Rome, you won’t let him come home again.”

“That’s bullshit. Of course, he can come home.”

“How can he know that, Brian, if you two don’t communicate? By osmosis?”

“He could fucking ask me. He’s a man now, he needs to fucking act like it.”

“Tell him that.”

“I have!” Fucking hell, I told him over a year ago to stand up for himself.

I feel my shoulders droop, and I move back and almost fall into my chair. “There’s – maybe – more to it than what I told you,” I admit, throwing a glance at Shaughn’s face.

He nods, so I go on. “We have – an arrangement. We can both fuck around. He doesn’t, or not very much,” (as far as I know, I remind myself), “And recently I agreed to cut back. But he told me a few weeks ago that when he was in LA, he was afraid I’d hook up with somebody else while he was gone.” I shrug. “So maybe that’s influencing his decision about Italy too.”

Shaughn’s quiet for a moment, then he leans forward and says earnestly, “I’m no Dr. Phil, Brian, but it sure seems like this problem could be easily solved by the two of you sitting down and talking openly about it. Or,” he shrugs, “What if you came right out and told him that he’s your first, last and only love?”

“I don’t SAY things like that!” I reach up to quickly loosen my tie, suddenly it’s choking me.

“Why not?”

“It’s fucking romantic bullshit, that’s why! Christ almighty!”

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” I just stare at him, still clutching my tie and breathing rapidly. “How can it be bullshit if it’s true?”

“I don’t say things like that.”

“Then maybe it’s time to start. Being honest about your feelings is also ‘acting like a man,’ isn’t it, Brian?”

I’m saved from answering by a knock on the door; our room service lunch has arrived.



Justin

When I moved in with Brian after coming back from LA, I brought along two boxes of old sketchbooks that I’ve been carting around from place to place for years. Mom’s keeping most of my junk from childhood but sometimes I like to look back at drawings I did years ago, and this is one of those times.

We have an assignment in my advanced life class to do a before-and-after study of somebody we’ve known a long time – a comparison drawing of what the person looked like five years ago and today. I want to find a particular sketch I did of Daphne when were sophomores, so I’m glad my cache is handy, in Brian’s storeroom across the hall.

I don’t have my own key to that room but I know where Brian keeps it, in the top right-hand drawer of his desk. I plop down in his chair and pull open the drawer, but my eye is caught by the edge of a purple card sticking out from under Brian’s mouse pad. Lifting up the corner of the pad, I slide out the card and I’m surprised that it’s one of Zander’s. Then I realize that he must have given it to Brian yesterday, when I saw the ‘vette in the driveway. Flipping over the card, I see that Zander has scribbled his private phone number on the back.

Carefully I slide the card back under the mouse pad and sit there for a moment biting my lip. I thought them hooking up was a one-time thing, and I was okay with that, even though Brian didn’t tell me about it. But knowing that they’re going to get together again. . .scares me. Because Brian doesn’t do repeats. So if he’s going to see Zander again, that means something.

And it makes me wonder if this is why the artist is pushing me to study in Italy. What better way to get me out of the picture than to send me thousands of miles away from Pittsburgh?

I’m slumped in Brian’s chair, staring morosely at golden flecks of dust whirling lazily in a ray of sunshine slanting through the living room drapes. My mind has shut down for a few moments, and it takes a while for my brain to recognize the musical greeting of my cell phone, which I’ve left over on my own desk. I leap up and hurry across the room, grab the phone and see Brian’s number flashing.

“Hey,” I say, trying to remove the misery from my voice. “Hey, Brian,” I manage to sound more chipper.

“Hey, yourself. What are you up to?”

“Nothing!” I glance guiltily over my shoulder at his desk, then retrace my steps and make sure the purple card is pushed out of sight under the mouse pad.

“I’m coming home early,” he announces, “Do you have plans for tonight?”

“Just the usual. Dinner, homework. And of course,” I add, forcing a laugh, “A really fabulous fuck.”

“Okay,” he agrees, but he doesn’t echo my laugh. “Order some Thai for dinner, would you? Whatever you like. We can eat early, get it over with. Then we need to talk.”

“Talk?” I’m surprised, Brian never wants to talk.

Oh my God. “S-sounds serious?” I guess, grabbing hold of the edge of his desk with white knuckles.

“Yeah,” he confirms, “It is. See you in a bit.”

I try to say, “See you,” but suddenly my mouth has gone dry. It doesn’t matter anyway; Brian’s already hung up the phone.

Brian

When I push open the door and enter the loft, Justin’s on the sofa holding his sketch pad. He turns to regard me, the look on his face unreadable.

When did he stop being transparent, when did he start hiding his feelings from me? It didn’t happen overnight, but I can’t remember when I first began to notice. I don’t like to think that being with me has made Justin so guarded. But after hassling him for more than three years to grow the fuck up, why am I so chagrined to realize that the lad has indeed grown up?

“Hey,” he greets me without inflection.

“Hey,” I answer, recognizing the same cautious tone in my own voice. Fuck me.

Dropping my briefcase by my desk, I move to stand behind the sofa and lean over the back, wrapping an arm around Justin’s neck and gently tilting his head backward. Smacking his lips in an upside-down kiss, I murmur, “Mmm, dee-licious,” and let him see my smile. I can feel his shoulders relax slightly.

“I’m going to change,” I tell him, “Then we can eat.”

“Okay,” he agrees, “The food just arrived a minute ago, I’ll get it ready.” When I let him go, he sets down his sketchpad and moves into the kitchen while I head up the steps to the bedroom.



Justin

Brian sounded so serious on the phone but he’s acting normal now. He changes quickly into jeans and joins me at the counter; we eat from the take-out cartons and he brings me up to date with Shaughn’s family news.

“Barbara got a promotion at work, Caroline’s going to be performing at some concerts in Boston and also in the Berkshires; we have an open invitation whenever we can get away.”

“Cool,” I answer eagerly, dropping a sweet-and-sour meatball I’m trying to transfer to Brian’s plate. It plops onto the floor and rolls a few inches away.

“I’ve got it.” He leans down to retrieve the meatball and then tosses it overhand into the sink. “Two points,” he brags.

“Is a basket worth one point or two?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Brian shrugs. “So, how about Boston this weekend? Shaughn says Caroline’s performing with some junior orchestra at Symphony Hall on Saturday. We’d need to stay for one night at least. Can you get furlough from your job for a couple days?”

“I guess so.” I think for a moment, then nod. “Yeah. Zander’s pretty easy-going.”

Brian raises his eyebrows. “He doesn’t hassle you? About your work schedule, I mean. Or, you know, anything else?”

“Why should he hassle me?” I wonder aloud.

Changing the subject, Brian says, “We can stay with Shaughn and Barbara again.”

“Great! I like their house. And I like the soft bed in the guest cottage.”

Brian smirks. “You just like having me roll on top of you every ten minutes.”

“Just like home!” I agree with a grin, and Brian leans over to plant a quick kiss on my lips.

As we carry the cartons and our dishes to the sink, he says, “Let’s leave this mess for now. We need to talk.”

I was feeling relaxed while we ate, but suddenly my heart lurches in my chest, as once again I wonder what’s causing Brian to initiate some kind of serious discussion.



Brian

Though I tried to keep my tone light, I can see that my words have caused Justin to lose his easy smile, so I grab his hand and squeeze it slightly as I lead him into the living room and pull him down to sit beside me on the couch.

“Okay,” I begin. “Okay.” Then I stop as the words dry up in my throat. I spent a lot of time thinking about this today, about how I was going to approach the subject of DuPont’s scholarship offer to Justin, how I was going to let him know how I feel about it. But now that we’re sitting face to face, I feel the walls begin to go up around me.

Then I realize that Justin is looking – not scared, no, this man beside me is braver than fuck, but he is definitely looking worried. And that’s the impetus I need to force myself to go on.

“Okay,” I say again, squeezing his hand. “It’s like this. You’re always telling me that we don’t communicate enough. Well,” I shrug, “That I don’t communicate enough, but I think – I know – that sometimes you withhold information too. Right?”

Justin looks confused. “I withhold information?”

“We both do,” I agree. “Like, about Alexander DuPont.”

“Oh!” Justin’s face turns pale, he pulls his hand away. “Oh God. I knew it!”

“So,” I nod, “If you knew it would come out in the open, why didn’t you say something?”

“I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t be sure it was serious!” Justin raises a hand and brushes it over his face, I can see that he’s really upset.

“Relax,” I admonish him, leaning forward and giving his shoulder a squeeze. “It’s not the end of the world. We just need to talk about it.”

“Wh-what’s there to talk about? Whether you want me to go away? It’s your call, isn’t it?”

“Why the fuck is it MY call, Justin? This is for YOU to decide.”

“What’s there for me to decide? Just a few weeks ago we were talking about possible monogamy and now suddenly you want me to go away?”

We sit staring at each other, then I emphasize, “I’m not saying that I want you to go. But if you do, I’m just telling you – it doesn’t have to be permanent. If you want to come home again afterward, it’s your call.”

“Afterward!” Justin exclaims. “After you get tired of him?”

“Him?”

“Zander! Alexander DuPont. After you get tired of him, I can come home again?”

All I can do for a moment is stare at Justin, open-mouthed. Then I leap to my feet and bellow, “Justin, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Alexander DuPont!” he shouts back, jumping up to face me. “Your relationship with Alexander DuPont!”

“What relationship?” I’m dumbfounded.

“I know you’ve been seeing him,” Justin insists. “I’ve seen your car at his house when you were supposed to be at work, and you have his private number hidden on your desk.”

Then I laugh. I can’t help it, I start laughing. “I’m hav- having a fling with Alexander Fucking DuPont?” It’s so hilariously amusing that it takes a moment to realize that Justin’s not laughing. I cough up a final chuckle or two, then clear my throat.

“Justin, I am NOT having a fling with your illustrious boss – though I’m curious to know why you’ve been spying on me.”

Clearly, he’s not buying it. “Then,” he spreads his arms wide, “Why do you want me to go away?”

“I don’t want you to go away,” I enunciate clearly. “Or rather, I want you to know that you can come back home again, if you want to, if you do accept the scholarship and go to that school in Italy.”

“Oh!” Justin exclaims. “You mean, this is about Zander’s offer to send me to the Accademia?”

“What the fuck else? He told me about the school and - “

“You’re not seeing him? You’re not fucking him?”

“Are you out of your mind? Why would I be fucking him?”

“Duh?”

Oh. Well, okay, so the idea of me fucking some good-looking guy is not a great stretch. But I shrug it off and insist, “Well, I’m not interested. But he told me you turned him down cold – for the scholarship. Without,” I emphasize, “Even talking to me about it.”

Justin’s pissed. “Damn it, how dare Zander go behind my back like this.”

“Justin,” I can’t help sounding bitter now, “Why the fuck didn’t YOU tell me about it?”

“Because I don’t want to go!”

“Why not?”

Justin resumes his seat on the sofa and patiently explains, “Brian, I’m finally on track to finish my degree at the IFA. You know how many times I’ve had to start over! I’m not going to throw that away for some dopey non-accredited program in another country.”

“Dopey?” I repeat, sitting down next to him. “From what DuPont told me, it sounds tailor-made for you. Or should I say, Taylor-made?”

Ignoring my pathetic joke, Justin shakes his head and opens his mouth, but before he can speak I quickly add, “And you’ve complained ad nauseum about the IFA teachers and their resistance to innovation.”

“Yeah, but - “

“And he flat-out told me that staying in the IFA program could even stifle your own creativity.”

“That’s bullshit!” Justin sneers, demonstrating an excellent Kinneyesque lip curl. “I’m not some little kid who’s going to end up coloring inside the lines because a few lame professors lean on me. I’ve been developing my own style for years, I’m good at it, and I know exactly what I’m doing.”

We sit staring at each other in silence for a moment, then I bring up the clincher. “DuPont said that you were excited about the prospect of going to Italy.”

Justin nods. “What artist wouldn’t be excited about that? And I will go there some day. But I’m not leaving Pittsburgh now.”

“Is it,” I can’t help asking, “Because of me? Because you don’t want to leave me again?”

“Again? I only left you once, and that was a long time ago. That’s not supposed to count anymore, Brian! It was the biggest fucking mistake of my life, I told you that. I thought you were going to forgive and forget?”

Forgiving was easy. Forgetting, not so much. Besides, “You left twice.”

“You’re counting LA? That wasn’t leaving. That was temporary. I always knew I was coming back, it’s not my fault you didn’t believe me.”

I’ve run out of arguments and yet I’m not convinced that Justin’s telling the whole truth. He doesn’t exactly have a great track record for the truth, and I don’t just mean about the fucking fiddler.

“Brian,” Justin says at last, after we’ve sat in silence for a minute just staring at each other. “You’re pushing me so hard, I’m back to thinking it’s YOU who wants me to go.”

“No, I - “ Then I stop and bite my tongue. He almost tricked me into saying I want him to stay. “No,” I repeat then, “What I want is for you to do what’s best for YOU.”

“Leaving you is not best for me.”

“But why, Justin? The cancer’s gone, I’m fine now. Or are you worried that some other little asshole is going to trap me into a relationship the minute your back is turned?”

He doesn’t laugh, but he doesn’t get mad either. Solemnly he says, “It could happen.”

“No, it could not.”

“It could, though. Now that you know it’s not so terrible to let somebody get close to you.”

“No,” I deny it.

The truth is churning around inside my chest as I keep my eyes on Justin’s face. I feel the presence of Shaughn invisible behind me, leaning on me to tell Justin the really very scary truth. I open my mouth and take a deep breath, but no sound comes out. I take another breath and then I murmur as quietly as possible, “You’re the only one.”

“Huh?” Justin leans forward, he didn’t hear me.

Clearing my throat, I speak a little louder. “You’re the only one. You’re my first, last and only one.”

“Brian!” Justin sits up straight and his mouth drops open. “Brian.”

“So,” I say quickly, almost leaping from the sofa and pacing a few steps away. “So you see, it’s okay for you to go. If you want to. You can come back, if you want to, and nobody will be here. I mean,” I add quickly, “Nobody will take your place. Nobody ever could.”

Justin stands up and walks slowly toward me; he’s smiling. I fight down the panicky urge to turn and rush out the door, pound down the stairs, leap into the ‘vette and burn rubber as I speed away down the street. Instead, I stand still, bracing myself, staring at him unblinking.

Without a word Justin walks right into me, presses his body up against mine and slides his arms around my waist and squeezes. With his face pressed against my shirt, he whispers, “I love you too, Brian.”



Justin

Even though I’m sort of glad that Brian found out about the Accademia scholarship because it made him talk seriously to me about his feelings, still I can’t help but be pissed at Zander for going behind my back. I’ve also been wondering about his motivation – why was he being so insistent, did he want to get me out of the picture so he could make a play for Brian?

I’ve been thinking about what I’m going to say to him when I report for work this afternoon, but first I have class with Professor Grant, and he asks me to see him afterward. When the other students have filed out of the studio, Grant asks how I like working for Alexander DuPont, but he barely listens to my fairly noncommittal answer before lowering his voice and asking, “Justin, has he mentioned a program to you at the Accademia di Roma?”

“Yes," I'm surprised, "He did.” Then I realize that of course art professors might know about the school, and since Grant is friends with Zander, naturally he would be aware of the program.

"If you don't mind my saying so," Grant goes on, still keeping his voice low, "I'd like you to consider very seriously before committing yourself to attend."

"Actually, I have thought about it seriously, and - "

"Before you make a decision," Grant interrupts, "You should know that there are provisos that go along with your participation."

"Provisos?"

"Greg Lendor, one of my students last year, participated in the Accademia program this past spring. He came to see me when he got back to the States, and he was very upset."

"It's a scam?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Grant shakes his head. "But what Greg didn't realize going in, is that the Accademia owns any work completed during the program. What the students produce belongs to the school, they can use it in displays or even sell the students' work. So," he spreads his hands wide, "All I'm saying is, read the fine print before you sign on."

"You mean that's why Zander was strong-arming me? He says he's on the board of directors. Do they profit from the students' work?"

"Oh, I don't think it's as nefarious as that," the professor shrugs. "It's more a matter of prestige, maybe even a competition among the board members, who are all artists in their own right; a competition to bring in the best young emerging artists. Alexander must think very highly of you if he's 'strong-arming' you to attend."

"He offered me a scholarship," I admit.

"Ah," Grant nods. "Well, at least you can feel honored, Alexander must regard your talent very highly."

"I guess. But," I stand up and shoulder my bag. "I am not going. I'm staying at the IFA."

Grant smiles then. "I'm glad to hear it. You're doing very well, and having a degree from the IFA will always stand you in good stead."

We say goodbye and I'm on my way. I do feel honored in an absurd kind of way, but I'm also still annoyed that Zander went behind my back to Brian.

Zander’s in the studio glancing through a stack of photos when I enter the room, and he straightens up and greets me warmly: “Justin!” he smiles widely, turning from the table as I approach, and he reaches out to squeeze my arm.

“Hey.” I move away an inch or two and then drop my bag and move around the table to see what pictures he was sorting. “Oh, I haven’t seen these paintings before. Should I be cataloging them?”

“Look more closely - they’re not mine,” Zander shoves his hands in the pockets of his linen slacks and slouches attractively.

“Oh, right.” I pick up two of the photos and look at them more closely, the style is wildly different than anything I’ve seen the artist do.

“They’re works by some students at the Accademia, last year’s class. I thought you might be interested in seeing your competition.”

With a sigh, I shake my head and say flatly, “Zander, I told you I’m not going. I appreciate the offer and everything - “

“Oh, I know,” he interrupts, “I know. But I wanted you to see what you’re up against in competition in the art world. Be aware that the IFA cannot provide the intensive training the wunderkinds at the Accademia receive.”

Shuffling through the photographs of student paintings, I realize that I’m impressed but I also realize, with what Brian calls my artist ego, that my work is at least as good as what I’m seeing in the photos. Actually, I’m better than most of them. Dropping the stack of pictures on the desktop, I turn and give Zander a measured smile. “Nice. But I’m just as good, and by the time I finish my degree, I’ll be better than they are.”

“Perhaps,” he agrees. “But I meant, the art world is not as big as you might think, Justin. Students at the Accademia make influential contacts. Turning your back on this opportunity could have wide-reaching ramifications for your future career. But,” he shrugs, “It’s your decision.”

“Yes, it is my decision.”

I’m annoyed that Zander is trying to undermine my self-confidence and practically threatening me with failure if I don’t succumb. But all he’s really doing is strengthening my resolve not to be pushed around by someone with his own hidden agenda. Taking a deep breath, surprising myself with my own daring, I look Zander in the eye and say firmly, “Mr. DuPont, this conversation is over. Do not bring up the Accademia again.”

The artist is obviously taken aback, he blinks and stares back at me in silence for a moment. Crossing my arms on my chest, I stand up even straighter and demand, “So, am I fired? Do you want me to go now?”

Surprisingly, he barks a laugh. “Well Justin, aren’t you a tough little cookie!. No, no,” he shakes his head, “Of course you’re not fired. You’re the best student assistant I’ve ever had. Now,” he glances around the room, “Where are those slides of the Washington DC exhibit?”

He moves toward a cabinet against the far wall and I realize that I’m not going to lose my job after all. I’m glad; I enjoy it and the pay is good. And I can’t wait to tell Brian how I stood up to the world-famous artist; I’m sure he’ll be so proud of me.



Brian

“Of course you stood up to him. I never doubted it for a moment,” I tell Justin, no need to inflate his ego with unnecessary praise.

“He said I’m a tough little cookie.”

“C’mere, little cookie.” I roll back my chair, reach for his hand and pull him to stand between my legs. “Let me have a bite.”

Justin smiles and rests his hands on my shoulders, leans down and we touch lips briefly. “No dessert yet,” he insists when I try to pull him down onto my lap. “I skipped lunch and I’m starving – what are we doing for dinner?” When I shrug, he groans, “Not Thai again.”

“You choose then.” I push him gently away and roll my chair forward. “I need to finish reviewing this proposal, I’ll be done in an hour or so.”

“Okay.” He wanders away to change clothes, but as he’s about to go out again and collect some take-out from the trattoria down the street, the phone rings. It’s Shaughn.

“Oh, glad I caught you, son,” he says.

He’s calling to renew the invitation for Justin and I to join them in Boston this weekend. Justin’s already agreed so I accept for both of us and I hang up after saying I’ll e-mail him our flight information. Before Justin heads out the door, he offers to make airline reservations after we finish dinner. He hasn’t been gone five minutes when the doorbell rings.

Pressing the intercom button, I hassle him with: “That was fast. Forget your key again?”

“Brian, it’s Linds.” I can hear Gus chattering away in the background. “Can we come up?”

I press the buzzer and pull open the door, wait for the elevator to reach my floor and move into the hall to raise up the door for them. Immediately Gus grabs onto my leg, almost knocking me over, and Lindsay reaches up on tiptoe to give me a kiss.

“Justin went for take-out, I could call him on his cell, to pick up something for you and Gus?”

“No, we can’t stay,” Lindsay moves ahead of me into the loft and I grab Gus and hoist him in the air, partly to remove him from my leg so I can walk and partly just to hear his high-pitched giggle. He throws his little arms around my neck and plants a slobbery kiss on my cheek.

“I thought you were in New York all week, at some conference for the gallery?”

“I was supposed to be,” Lindsay agrees, “But I came back early.”

We three settle on the sofa and I wait for Linds to explain this unexpected visit; normally she calls first, and besides, it’s early evening, a bit late in the day for an impulsive we-were-in-the-neighborhood type visit.

Not bothering with small talk, Lindsay gets right to the point. “Mel and I are in a crunch situation,” she begins. “We’re flying to Florida for a few days and we can’t find a sitter for Gus. Could you take him?”

“Spur of the moment vacation?” I venture mockingly.

“No, of course not. Melanie’s aunt had an aneurysm last night and she’s probably going to die. She’s practically the only family member that Mel’s been close to, so naturally, she needs to be there. We’re taking the baby of course but it would be so much easier not to deal with Gus too, in the middle of this kind of crisis.”

When I hesitate, Lindsay goes on, “You keep saying you want to spend more time with your son.”

“Yeah. . .”

Gus has slithered down off my lap and is busily pushing magazines off the coffee table. With that task complete, he wanders over to the CD shelf and starts pulling off jewel cases. He likes to stack them up like building blocks. So much for Justin’s alphabetical arrangement.

“But – the longest I’ve had him is overnight,” I remind Lindsay. “When are you coming back?”

“No matter what, I’ll fly back Sunday night – the gallery is opening a big show soon and I really have to be back at work. Mel may stay down there longer, but I promise to be back on Sunday.”

Still, I hesitate. Of course, I’m not intimidated by the thought of caring for a small child for three days. Okay, so maybe I am. I glance over at Gus as his tower of CD cases topples over with a loud crash.

“Justin will help you,” Lindsay reminds me. “And I think Debbie and Carl are due back from their vacation on Saturday.” She leans forward to squeeze my arm and give me that melting smile. “You’ll be fine, Brian. Please?”

When Justin returns half an hour later, Lindsay and Gus are long gone. He’s brought spaghetti for himself and Caesar salad for me. We set out plates, sit at the counter and dig in. I wait till he slows down – he really must have been starving, he’s been shoveling wads of spaghetti into his mouth in record time – before telling him about Lindsay’s visit.

“Good new/bad news,” I explain. “Linds and Mel are flying down to Florida, Mel’s aunt is on her death bed. Linds asked me to take Gus for a couple days.”

“Oh!” Justin lays down his fork. “I assume the bad news is the sick auntie and the good news is that they’re letting you have Gus for the weekend?”

“The bad news is that this means we’ll have to cancel Shaughn and Barbara.”

“Why?”

“What’dye mean - “

“I mean,” he clarifies, “Why do we have to cancel? Couldn’t we just take Gus with us to Boston?”

“Christ, Justin,” I’m annoyed, “We can’t descend on them out of the blue with a hyperactive preschooler they’ve never met before.”

“I’ll bet they’d love it, Brian. After all, Gus is Shaughn’s grandson.”

Oh. I forgot. “But maybe he doesn’t care about that. Maybe they wouldn’t like to have a little devil-boy running around their nice house. Gus can destroy this place in about thirty minutes, imagine him loose in their big yard. And they have that pool, that could be dangerous, what if Gus fell in?”

“Quit making excuses, Brian. Just call and ask,” he challenges me. When I hesitate, he adds, “Unless maybe you need Linds and Mel to give permission first?”

With a sneer I remind him, “I’m Gus’ father, I don’t need anybody’s permission.”

“Well,” Justin shrugs, “There you go. Let’s call Shaughn!”

Brian

When Justin insisted that I should at least tell the Munchers we are taking Gus to Boston even though I had no intention of asking their permission, I didn’t argue with him. And I might even have done as he suggested, if Lindsay had been home when I swung by to pick up Gus. But she wasn’t home, it was Mel who pulled open the door when I knocked – and she immediately started hassling me for being late. I wasn’t late. I told Lindsay I’d be there between twelve and one, then a morning budget meeting had run a bit longer than planned – but it was still only twelve-fifty-five when I pulled up at the house.

Naturally I didn’t explain about the meeting to Butch-Mama, I make no excuses; besides, I wasn’t fucking late. Then she harassed me about Gus’ diet, warning me against feeding him fast food from McDonalds, as if I’d ever eat there myself much less feed that crap to my son. By then my back was up, and I declared that I’d feed Gus any damned thing I wanted to.

Which didn’t calm the bitch down but only raised the decibel level of her character assassination, as she waved her fucking finger in my face and added the clincher, “And no damned orgies at your place, Brian, not while Gus is staying there.”

“If I decide to have an orgy, I’ll make Gus wait in the hall,” I sneered, looking down my nose at her.

When she drew breath to snipe at me again, I suddenly remembered that Mel was probably upset about her dying aunt and maybe that added to her normal everyday bitch-mode where I’m concerned. So I raised a hand and waved it in the air to erase the animosity, and lowering my voice, I forced myself to smile and promised, “No orgies. Healthy food only. Reasonable bedtime.”

Mel continued to glare but she huffed an exasperated sigh and said shortly, “Good. Let’s load up Gus’ stuff – if you have room in that ridiculous little sports car.” I followed her upstairs and I didn’t complain as we carried large armloads of clothes and toys and assorted child-related crap downstairs. Mel was surprised when I stopped and pulled out a key to unlock the new four-door Lincoln Navigator parked at the curb. “It’s a rental,” I shrugged, deciding not to explain that I’d leased the unquestionably – and embarrassingly – family-esque car for those times when I’ll be transporting Gus. I’d been serious when I told Justin I want to spend more time with my son, and this will make it a lot easier.

We loaded all the kid paraphernalia into the car and set up the child booster seat in back. As Mel dumped a large bag of toys on the floor, I asked mildly, “Is that everything?”

Sourly Mel frowned, “Don’t forget Gus.”

Forbearance is not in my nature but I ignored the taunt and silently followed her back into the house and through the hall to the kitchen where Gus was sitting at the table.

“Hey, Gus,” I leaned over his shoulder and pretended to take a bite of the apple he was holding in one hand. Instead of pulling away, he held the apple toward me and urged, “Eat, Daddy!”

“No thanks, Sonnyboy. Have you finished your lunch?” I could see the remains of a sandwich and a half-full glass of milk.

“Finish your sandwich,” Mel ordered. “You have to start eating the crusts, all the good bread nutrition is in the crust.”

Christ, I remember that mother-argument from my own childhood. The recalcitrant look on Gus’ face told me his feelings about nutrition. So when Mel turned away toward the sink, I grabbed the crusts and stuffed them into my mouth. Gus giggled but I quickly held a finger to my lips in a shushing gesture and he immediately stopped laughing and was sipping his glass of milk by the time Mel turned around to look at us. She raised a suspicious eyebrow but said nothing, and when her back was turned again, I swiftly chewed and swallowed the bread.

Then Mel was hustling Gus into his jacket and she leaned down to hug and kiss him goodbye. “Mommy will see you Sunday and Mama will be home Monday or Tuesday,” she informed him. “Be a good boy for Daddy, won’t you?”

“Yes, Mama,” he agreed solemnly, then he reached for my hand and led the way down the hall to the front door. I thought there might be tears from Gus as we made our last farewell at the car, but he seemed content to be driving away with me, which naturally felt pretty damned good.



Justin

Brian arranged to take the afternoon off to stay with Gus and when I get home, I find them sitting on the floor in the living room watching cartoons. As I slide back the squeaky loft door, they turn to look at me. Gus leaps to his feet and runs pell-mell to meet me and when I hunker down he flings himself into my arms.

Gus likes being with us. Brian says it’s probably at least partly because he’s surrounded by women all the time. That sounds kind of sexist but it could actually be true. I mean, it’s great to have two mothers and all, but his preschool teacher and babysitters and his mothers’ friends are all women, so maybe Brian’s right and it’s a relief for Gus just to hear deep male voices for a change.

Brian has joined us at the door and as I stand up, he hugs me from behind, nuzzling his face in my neck and the back of my head. “Thank God, relief troops,” he whispers in my ear, making me smile. Actually, he’s very patient and affectionate with his son. I shouldn’t be surprised really; even though he fools most people with his façade of pretending to be an asshole, I’ve always been on to him.

“So,” I ask, “Is it okay with Mel and Linds that we’re taking Gus to Boston?”

Brian straightens up and heads for the kitchen. “Why wouldn’t it be?” he asks over his shoulder.

“You didn’t tell them, did you?”

“They left Gus in my care this weekend, they didn’t stipulate anything about not removing him from the state. So stop worrying.”

I’m not worried, I’d just like to avoid a lesbian confrontation scene somewhere down the line, but I decide to drop it for now.

“What’ll we do about dinner?” Our flight leaves at nine in the morning so we’d already decided to stay in tonight, make it an early evening.

“Soup and sandwiches.” Brian adds, “I picked up a container of chicken noodle, it’s Gus’ favorite.”

We make dinner, or rather Brian and Gus sit on the stools and watch me heat soup and make tuna sandwiches.

“Not too much mayo on mine,” Brian predictably orders.

When I set down the platter of sandwiches, Brian puts one on Gus’ plate, then grabs a knife and cuts the crusts off his bread.

“Why’d you do that?”

“Too healthy,” Brian makes a face and shivers. “Right, Gus?”

“Yes!” Gus agrees eagerly and adds, “You eat it, Daddy!”



Brian

Somehow we all get ready on time and we’re at the airport at the appointed hour. There’s one good thing about traveling with children – you’re loaded onto the plane first. I might have to fly more often with Gus. You also get excellent service from the stewardess. Of course, I always do anyway, but with Gus sitting next to me, I don’t have to bother being charming.

He’s beside himself with excitement; he was breathless as we three stood at the gate and watched through tall windows as our plane taxied forward. When asked, Gus admitted that he's never been on an "air-pane" before. Shouldn’t a father know that about his child?

Between us, Justin and I have our hands full corralling the little ball of restless energy in the airport, and I’m glad he settles down a bit once we fasten our seatbelts. Justin has the window seat and Gus is strapped into the seat between us for take-off. Once we’re airborne, Justin’s going to switch places so that Gus can look down at the ground.

The takeoff is a tad bumpy but Gus loves it, he looks up at me and giggles with delight as the plane shivers with the power of the jet engines. "Vroom vroom!" he cries delightedly and I return his smile. I'm relieved that he's a good flyer, and once the seatbelt sign is off and he switches places with Justin, Gus jabbers excitedly as he looks down on top of the clouds. Justin's leaning over him, they're sharing the view from the porthole window, and at one point I hear Gus ask, "Is this where Jesus lives?"

I would've been at a loss to answer that question, but Justin says easily, "No, heaven's much higher up, planes can't fly that far." Even though I'm wondering how Gus knows about Jesus, considering one mother doesn't go to church and the other's Jewish, still I'm impressed with Justin's response, and I can't resist reaching over to caress his hair. Justin looks over his shoulder and smiles so beatifically, I wonder if maybe heaven really is outside the window - Justin looks positively angelic. Luckily that's just a disguise.

Halfway to our destination, Gus turns away from the window and announces, "Gotta pee!"

"We'll be landing soon," I tell him, "Can you wait?"

"No - gotta go now!"

"Justin will take you," I decide high-handedly and Justin nods okay, but Gus will have none of it.

"No, Daddy, you do it," he insists, crawling over Justin's knees and grabbing hold of my arm with both hands. "Hurry," he adds, "Hurry, Daddy!"

Resigned to my fate, I release my seatbelt and stand up in the aisle. Gus slides out behind me and reaches for my hand, so I take it and turn to lead the way down the aisle toward the narrow bathroom in the bulkhead. The door opens as we approach and a tall man with wavy brown hair slightly graying at the temples emerges. He's out of my age range but he's a looker, and he blinks when he sees me, a slight smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

"Hurry, Daddy," Gus reminds me, and the man looks startled, then glances down and spies the little gremlin hanging onto my hand. The man's smile widens and he excuses himself, holding the door so that Gus and I can enter. There's barely room to turn around and lock the door.

It's noisy and there's light turbulence so both of us are unsteady on our feet. When I lift the lid of the toilet, suddenly Gus becomes frightened, I guess by the strangeness of the bathroom and the noise and movement of the plane. He wraps both arms around one of my legs, throwing me off balance, and I have to grab onto the sink to stay upright. Not that there's any room to fall down.

"It's okay," I assure him, "You're okay. Pull down your pants and pee."

He buries his face against my leg and mumbles something, I can't make out his exact words but it appears that he's afraid he'll fall into the toilet and be flushed away into the clouds beneath the plane.

"You're okay," I assure him again, "Daddy will hold onto you. Pull down your pants."

Another mumble into my leg lets me know that he is a big boy and his pants have a zipper.

"Yes, you are a big boy, Gus, so act like one. Let go of my leg, turn around and pee."

Finally, Gus lifts his face up to stare at me and I give him an encouraging smile. But still, he won't let go. "You pee too, Daddy," he insists.

"Okay," I agree, unzipping my pants, taking out my dick and aiming it toward the toilet. Gus has seen it, sometimes he showers with me or Justin, I believe children should be comfortable with nudity instead of making it shameful, and we've peed together many times. Having two mothers is all well and good, but a boy needs a man to teach him toilet etiquette.

Finally, I feel Gus's stranglehold loosen and he manages to unzip his own pants and turns to face the toilet, still leaning heavily against my legs, which makes it damned awkward for me to piss. I'm finished and Gus has just begun when a sudden jolt of turbulence gives the plane a hard shake. Gus cries, "Daddy!" and turns to grab onto my leg again.

"Gus, look out!" I exclaim, trying to step backward to avoid the piss splattering on my shoes, but he manages to sprinkle both my shoes and his own. For some reason, Gus thinks this is hilarious and he giggles delightedly.

Gritting my teeth, I manage to bite back a string of curses as I turn Gus around to finish his business, then I reach over and slam shut the toilet seat, pull up Gus' zipper and lift him up to sit on top of the toilet, and I turn to the sink. Pulling several paper towels from the dispenser, I step backward out of my shoes onto dry land. There's barely room to bend down and pick up my shoes one at a time and swipe at them with towels dampened in the miniature sink. I remove Gus' shoes and dry them too. We’re going to smell like a popular fire hydrant.

I realize Gus has gone quiet and a glance in the mirror shows that he’s looking apprehensive. "You okay?" I ask him as I shove the dirty towels in the waste bin and turn to put the shoes back on his feet.

"Daddy, you mad at me?" he asks, his eyes big and round and his chin unmistakably trembling.

"No," I assure him, "Of course not."

"I peed on our shoes," he feels obliged to point out.

"That's okay," I shrug, "Justin pees on his shoes all the time."

"He does?"

"Ready to go back?" When he agrees, I reach around him to flush the toilet, then push open the door and lead the way back up the aisle to our row. Justin was reading a magazine but he looks up and smiles as we approach.

In his wonderfully carrying voice, Gus announces to Justin (and to everyone within earshot), "I peed on our shoes!"

"Oh!" Justin's speechless for a moment, then as Gus clambers up on the seat, he comforts him. "That's okay, Gus, accidents happen."

"Yeah," Gus agrees, "Daddy says you do it all the time."

Quickly I open my mouth to defend myself but a glance at Justin's blushing face makes me snap my mouth closed again.

"You do realize," he informs me, as Gus climbs over him to peer out the window, "That there will be retribution for that?"

Lowering my voice, I wonder, “What could be worse than what I've just been through?"

"I'll think of something."

Justin smiles then and nudges his shoulder against mine. Then suddenly he makes a face. Wriggling his nose and pulling sharply away from me, he raises his eyebrows and demands, “Is that – “

“Yeah,” I confirm, “Eau de toilette.”



Justin

When Brian called his dad to ask about bringing Gus with us this weekend, Shaughn was very enthusiastic about the visit and about meeting his grandson. He offered to pick us up at the airport so we wouldn’t need to rent a car. Brian refused at first – he has this hang-up about being independent, but I pointed out that since we are staying with the Shaughnessys, there’s really no need to have our own car, and finally he agreed.

Our flight arrives on time at Logan and we join the throngs heading toward baggage claim, Brian's carrying Gus in his arms and I'm close beside them. We glance around to determine which carousel will dispense the luggage from our flight and discover that it's already turning. Brian sets Gus down and asks me to hang onto him, and we're concentrating on the bags spewing out of the machine so we're taken by surprise when suddenly we hear, "Brian, Justin, there you are!"

It's Shaughn of course and Barbara's with him. They greet us with enthusiastic hugs and I spare a moment to wonder how Brian is bearing up under all this affection pouring down on him. He claims to disdain "all that touchy-feely stuff," which is seriously funny considering how much he's always touching, patting and hugging everyone in our group. When I glance sideways at him I see that he's smiling, and after I collect my own share of Shaughnessy hugs, Brian reaches down for Gus, lifting him up in his arms once more.

"This is my son," he says proudly, "Your grandson, Gus."

Wisely the couple don't grab onto Gus, they just smile at him and say, "Hello, what a handsome young man you are!"

Suddenly shy, Gus says nothing, just sucks on a finger and stares with big round eyes. But when Shaughn extends his hand, Gus hesitates only a moment before accepting a handshake, though he pulls his fingers away quickly and throws both arms around Brian’s neck and holds on tight.

“Go to Justin for a minute,” Brian tells him, “While I get our bags.” Gus loosens his grip and allows me to hold him. We all make disjointed polite conversation about the weather and our flight till finally, our bags appear and the Shaughnessys lead the way to the exit and through the parking lot to their car. They’ve even installed a booster seat already so we can stow the one we brought from Pittsburgh in the car’s trunk, then we all get in, Brian and I in back with Gus, and we’re off.


Brian

Justin, Gus and I are wedged in the back seat as Shaughn drives home from the airport. It’s early afternoon and though Linds has told me Gus doesn’t take naps much anymore, I notice that his eyes are heavy. He jabbers about the scenery for a few minutes but I’m not surprised when he soon quiets down and a glance shows that he’s fallen asleep.

Justin’s in the middle, the booster seat on his left and me on his right. Everyone murmurs quietly so as not to disturb Gus. Another glance shows that his head has tilted to the side, resting on Justin’s left shoulder. Justin will probably have kiddie drool on his sleeve at the end of the journey. That’s okay; pee on the shoes trumps drool on the shoulder.

Normally while I head off to the gym on Saturday mornings, Justin sleeps in, playing catch-up on sleep time after a week of long hours at his IFA studio. With the quiet in the car and the desultory conversation, I can tell that Justin is fighting like crazy to keep his eyes open, but he’s losing the battle. Finally, I slip my arm across the back of the seat and lean in closer, whispering in his ear, “It’s okay, sleep for a few minutes.” He says nothing but in a moment I feel him giving in, he relaxes against me, resting his head on my shoulder. In about thirty seconds he’s gone.

A few minutes later, Barbara turns around in her seat and starts to say something to us, then she catches sight of my snoozing boys, each of them out like a light. She smiles at me and murmurs, “They’re sweet.”

I nod agreeably, letting myself relax a bit more. The back seat’s cramped for a man with long legs but even so, I’m enjoying the quiet ride. Having Justin slumped against my side feels amazingly comfortable, though it’s strange to realize that I’m riding in a car driven by my father while I’m holding onto my lover right behind him, with my son asleep a couple feet away.

Finally, I’m becoming convinced that Shaughn is for real, that his acceptance of me and of Justin is real. Naturally, I don’t give a fuck whether he’s okay with it or not, I’ve never given a damn whether anyone accepts me. But I have to admit that it feels kind of good anyway.



Justin

After we’re settled in the guest cottage – the Shaughnessys have squeezed a small child’s bed underneath one of the windows for Gus – we get ourselves and Gus cleaned up and move out to the patio for a late lunch by the pool. Like last time, everything’s very casual and it’s great to see Brian so relaxed.

“Carolyn’s at Symphony Hall already,” Barbara explains her absence. “There was a problem at rehearsal last night so they all had to go early today for an extra run-through.”

“What time’s the concert?” Brian asks as I eyeball the attractive array of food Barbara has set out on the table. There’s green salad and potato salad and a platter of sandwiches, and there’s steam rising from a large tureen of cream of tomato soup.

Shaughn answers, “Eight o’clock, but we’ll need to leave here by six or six-thirty, city traffic’s heavy that time of day and the parking lot fills up quickly.”

“Daddy!” Gus is seated on Brian’s right and he’s pulling impatiently on Brian’s sleeve. “Daddy, I’m cold!”

The day is sunny but a cool breeze has picked up and I’m aware that I’m also feeling a bit chilly. “I’ll get a sweater for you,” I offer, scooting back my chair and starting to get up.

“No,” Gus insists, “I can do it!” He hops down off his chair and heads for the cottage.

Brian gets up to go follow him but I grab his arm and say, “Brian, he’s a big boy, let him do it himself,” so he sits back down again but turns to watch Gus hurrying across the grass.

“He’s running too fast, he might fall down.”

“Brian, he’s fine, you’re overreacting,” I say mildly, then just to be funny I can’t resist digging at him, “You’re such an old worry-wart.”

Stung by my criticism, his mouth snaps shut but he doesn’t turn around, instead he keeps watching Gus run toward the cottage. Barbara and I exchange indulgent smiles across the table, then I glance over my shoulder to see that Gus has reached the cottage and is pushing open the door. Suddenly we see him trip over the threshold and hurtle headfirst into the cottage.

“Gus!” Brian exclaims.

We hear a scream of pain that catapults Brian out of his chair like an explosion. Still clutching his dinner napkin, he strides rapidly across the grass toward the cottage, the rest of us right on his heels.

We arrive in seconds to find Gus lying face-first on the floor, and when Brian throws himself down onto his knees beside the boy, Gus raises his head. A wound on his forehead is bleeding profusely, the blood running down his face, and he’s wailing.

“Move, Brian,” Shaughn orders calmly, “Let me see him.”

Brian looks dazed, almost panicky, he stares at us unseeing for a moment, and I feel my breath catch in my throat when it occurs to me that maybe Brian is remembering kneeling beside somebody else with a bloody head injury.

Then Brian blinks and shakes his head, he focuses his eyes on Shaughn’s face. In seconds he’s moved aside to make room on the floor for the doctor. “You’re okay, Gus, you’re okay,” he murmurs reassuringly, keeping a hand gripping Gus’ shoulder as Shaughn kneels down and takes Gus’ face in his hands.

While I stand in the doorway uselessly wringing my hands, Barbara has the foresight to rush into the bathroom and return with a clean washcloth which she gives to Shaughn. He holds it to the wound, applying pressure to stop the bleeding, and asks Barbara to check for other injuries. She’s beside him on the floor and carefully feels Gus’ arms and legs to see if anything’s broken.

“I think it’s only his head that’s hurt,” she concludes.

“Only!” Brian exclaims, raising his head to glare at me. “This is your fault!” he spits out and I’m shocked, I can only stare back at him and shake my head.

Barbara ignores him, she continues, “He must’ve hit his head on the edge of the chest when he flew through the door.”

In a few moments, Shaughn pulls back the washcloth and announces that the bleeding has slowed but hasn’t stopped. He inspects the wound and says, “I think it’s superficial, but he’s going to need a couple stitches.”

“Superficial!” Brian exclaims, “There’s so much blood.” I can tell that he’s forcing himself to be calm so he won’t upset Gus more than he already is.

“Head wounds always bleed profusely,” Shaughn assures him. “But it wouldn’t hurt to have a CAT-scan, just to be sure there’s no concussion. Here,” he stands up and lifts Gus in his arms, handing him off to Brian. “You carry him, and keep up the pressure on the wound. Mount Auburn Hospital is just a few minutes away, we’ll take him to emergency.”

“Mommy!” Gus wails, clutching onto Brian’s arm, tears mixing with the blood on his face. “Mommy! Mama!” he sobs. I move close to Brian and put a hand on Gus’ foot but Brian pulls away and walks out the door without a glance at me.

The four of us head for the car, but instead of putting Gus in the booster seat, Brian holds him on his lap in front, while Barbara and I pile in back, then Shaughn is backing out of the driveway and heading toward the hospital, which Barbara explains is only minutes away.

“Want Mommy!” Gus sobs, crying and hiccupping, “Want Mama!”

“They’re not here, Gus,” Brian says firmly.

“Mommy!”

“Shh, Gus, you’re okay. You’re with Daddy, I’ll take care of you.”

“Want Mommy! Want Mama!”

“They’re not here,” Brian repeats, “Remember, Gus, your mothers are in Florida. Daddy is here and you’re going to be okay, I promise.”

Gus is still crying but he’s calmer, at least until we get to the hospital. Shaughn is known here and he pulls strings to get us in immediately. He leads the way through the door to the examining room with Brian right behind him holding Gus, who has again begun to wail.

I start to follow but Barbara touches my elbow and says, “We’d better wait here, Justin, there’s not room in there for all of us right now.”

“I want to be with them!” I explain. “I want to be with Brian.”

“Let’s sit down,” she suggests gently, and with a big sigh, I turn and follow her to the row of chairs against one wall of the waiting room.

I’m silent for a moment, then I blurt out, “Brian blames me for this. He said it was my fault!”

“He was just scared,” she assures me soothingly. “People say things like that when they’re in a panic.”

I don’t reply but I can’t forget the look Brian gave me, can’t forget that he said, “This is your fault!” Maybe he’s right, maybe it is my fault because I insisted that Gus could go by himself to get a sweater. I’m feeling pretty fucking miserable while we sit on uncomfortable chairs in the waiting room.

It seems like forever but it’s really less than an hour until Shaughn comes through the door and holds it open for Brian, who’s carrying Gus in his arms.

Barbara and I jump up and move toward them. I’m studying Brian’s face to see if he’s still angry. He just looks tired, and Gus looks even more tired, there’s a bandage on his forehead and his head is resting on Brian’s shoulder, his face is red and looks swollen from crying; he’s quiet now though he shudders an occasional deep breath.

I’m almost afraid to ask so I’m glad when Barbara does it. “How is he? Any concussion?”

“The CAT-scan was clear,” Shaughn reports, “But the doctor wants Gus to take it easy, stay in bed most of this afternoon and evening. He’s got three stitches in his forehead and a large bruise, but otherwise, he’s okay.”

“I’m staying with Gus, of course,” Brian tells Barbara, “But you and Shaughn don’t need to miss the concert. And Justin can go with you.”

I still can’t speak, and Brian’s not looking at me. I want to be mad at him for blaming me but I’m feeling too guilty.

“Don’t be silly, Brian,” Barbara puts a hand on his arm and squeezes. “We’ll stay home with you, Carolyn will understand – she plays lots of these concert dates.”

“No,” he starts to say but Shaughn cuts him off.

“Let’s go home – we’ll decide about the concert later.” So we follow him out to the car, with me bringing up the rear. I feel like Brian doesn’t want me to get near him. We resume our places in the car – Brian in front again hanging onto Gus – for the short drive home. When we get out of the car, we all follow him to the cottage and watch as he settles Gus on the big bed and sits next to him.

“Gus, are you hungry?” Barbara moves close to the bed and kneels down till she’s at eye-level with him. “How about some nice warm soup?”

Gus turns his head away and murmurs, “Want Mommy. Want Mama.”

Brian sighs. “You know Mommy and Mama aren’t here, Gus. They’re far away. You’ll see Mama on Monday.”

“Mommy,” Gus repeats, “Mama.” And he begins to cry again, but quietly.

I move closer to the bed and whisper so that Gus can’t hear, “Brian, can we call them? Maybe if Gus talks to them on the phone - “

Brian raises his head and glares at me. “I’ve already lost one ball,” he whispers viciously, “Do you really want you-know-who to come here and cut off the other one?”

“I - “

“And if,” he adds, “You dare say you fucking TOLD ME to tell them I was bringing Gus to Boston, I’ll - “

I’m saved from hearing what Brian’s going to do to me when Shaughn interrupts to say roughly, “Brian, none of this is Justin’s fault. I think you know that perfectly well, so why don’t you stop making him feel bad about it?”

Both Brian and I are shocked into silence, and I wait for the outburst sure to follow. Nobody tells Brian Kinney what to do and gets away with it.

Brian stares at Shaughn for a moment, he opens and closes his mouth a couple times, then suddenly he drops his eyes and looks away. Blowing out a big sigh, Brian says quietly, “You’re right. It’s not Justin’s fault.” He glances up at me and smiles slightly. “Stop feeling bad,” he orders brusquely. “And just fucking go to the concert.”

Before I can say no, Shaughn interrupts again. “What about this phone call Justin suggested? Is that a possibility?”

Brian doesn’t answer immediately, he’s thinking. Then with another of his weary sighs, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cell. “Here,” he says to me. “Take the phone outside and call them. Get all the screaming over with before you bring it back.”

I take the phone from him and he tells me he programmed in their emergency number, so I move outside and Barbara comes out behind me. “I’m going to heat up some soup for Gus. What does he like?” I tell her chicken noodle and she moves around the patio and into the back door to the kitchen.

Alone in the cool afternoon breeze, I walk far away from the cottage and punch in the Florida number.

Justin

I’m relieved when Linds doesn’t answer her cell phone, it goes right into voicemail. So I take a deep breath and say, very casually, “Hi, it’s Justin. Hey, how’s it going? Umm, Brian asked me to call and tell you that, um, Gus and everybody are all, you know, fine and everything, but he’d like to talk to you anyway. So please call back right away, or when you get a chance.” I hesitate and add, “But soon. If you can.”

With an enormous sigh, I click off the phone. I didn’t realize how nervous I was about talking to Lindsay and Mel; but now Brian can deal with them when they call back. I’ve just flipped the phone closed and turned back toward the cottage when the phone rings in my hand; I’m so startled I almost drop it. Damn.

Flipping the phone open again, I hold it to my ear. As I say hello, I see that Shaughn has come out the door and nods at me.

“Hey,” I answer the phone, keeping my voice very ordinary.

“What’s wrong?” It’s Linds. Without waiting for my answer, she demands, “Tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I immediately deny, “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Tell me, God damn it!”

I can hear her voice go up an octave and it makes me feel slightly panicky. Forcing myself to stay calm, quickly I say, “Everything’s fine, only, we – we wanted you to know that we’re in Boston. We brought Gus with us to Boston.”

“What the hell are you doing in Boston? And how’d you get there? Did you fly?”

“Well, yeah.” Driving would take forever. “Of course we flew.” Then I add, “Gus loved it, Lindsay. He really enjoyed the plane - “

“How dare you take Gus so far away without asking first!”

Before I can answer, I hear Mel growl, “Give me that phone.” Then she’s yelling, “Brian Kinney, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“It’s Justin,” I correct her. “Brian’s in, um, the other room." Seeing me obviously flustered, Shaughn moves closer.

“Put Brian on the phone,” Mel insists. “Right now.”

“Okay,” I agree reluctantly, “Only I need to tell you first that Gus had a little accident, he fell down, he’s okay, he’s fine really, but - “

“Gus fell down?” Mel raises her voice and I can hear Lindsay shriek in the background.

“Wait, wait, he’s okay, honestly, only - “

They’re babbling at each other and not listening to me. “Mel, Lindsay, I promise you he is okay!” I try to get their attention.

“Put Brian on the phone, right this fucking second!” Mel screams so loud, I have to pull the phone away from my ear.

“Okay,” I agree, “Only let me explain first that - “

“Put him on the fucking phone, right fucking NOW!”

Suddenly Shaughn reaches out and takes the phone from my hand. “May I?” he whispers, then before I can answer, he holds the phone to his ear and says smoothly, “Hello, this is Dr. Gerald Shaughnessy. Your son is in my care, and I can assure you that he is doing just fine.”

There’s a pause, then Shaughn nods and says, “Yes, I’m a medical doctor. Gus fell and bumped his head this afternoon, he sustained a small cut on his forehead. Just to be safe, the hospital took x-rays and did a CAT-scan, and I can assure you that there was no serious injury.”

There’s another pause as Shaughn listens to the women. I can’t hear their conversation but I can’t help feeling very shaken up and worried about their reaction. Shaughn smiles at me, he puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “It’s okay,” he whispers, and I feel myself relaxing slightly.

“Yes,” Shaughn’s saying now, “It was advisable to put three tiny stitches on the cut, to be sure of proper healing, but there should be no scarring. And right now,” he adds, “Gus’ major problem is that he wants the comfort of hearing his mother’s voice. Voices,” he quickly corrects himself. After another pause, he adds, “Can you speak to him without making him more upset?”

Suddenly Shaughn chuckles, but silently. He winks at me and adds agreeably, “Yes, of course, you can speak any way you like to the father, but please be temperate when speaking to Gus. He’s naturally upset and could use some motherly comfort.” He nods at me and says, “Certainly, here’s Justin,” and hands me the phone.

“Hi again. I’ll take the phone to Gus now. Okay?”

“Yes,” Mel agrees, “But tell Brian he will talk to us right afterward or he’s dead meat. Got it?”

“Got it.” I move toward the cottage and Shaughn precedes me, holds open the door. Brian glances up from the edge of the bed where he’s sitting with Gus, who has stopped crying but is hiccupping and taking shuddering breaths.

“Gus,” I move toward the bed. “Gus, your Mama and Mommy are on the phone for you!”

Gus struggles to sit up, Brian keeps an arm around him and reaches for the phone. “Here’s Gus,” he murmurs gruffly into the phone before holding it to Gus’ ear. “Say hi, Sonnyboy.”

“Mommy!” Gus warbles, grabbing onto the phone with both hands, “Mama!” Then he starts crying again, but quietly. He listens to what I assume is soothing mother-love chatter. In a few moments, his tears stop but his bottom lip is quivering and Brian tightens his arm around Gus and kisses the top of his head.

“Yes,” Gus says into the phone, “I fell down, Mommy! I got a boo-boo! My head got lots of blood on it! It hurt really bad!” He listens to Lindsay and then he adds, “Daddy took me to a big hoppital and took pictures of my head in a box. And Daddy says I am a very brave big boy.”

Gus listens a moment more, then he sits up straighter and says eagerly, pain apparently forgotten, “Mama - Daddy took me on a air-pane! And Jussin. On top of clouds almost where Jesus lives. And I had to pee and Daddy took me to the baffroom!” He giggles then and adds, “I peed on our shoes, but Daddy din’t get mad. And I had two apple juices. And I can have ice cream pretty soon if I eat my dinner.”

He’s quiet for a minute, listening and nodding. “Yes, Mommy. I’ll be good. Bye-bye Mommy, Bye-bye Mama.”

Gus drops the phone on the bed and Brian grabs it and stands up. He ruffles Gus’ hair. “Lie down for a few minutes, Sonnyboy,” he says, “I’m going to talk to your mothers outside but I’ll be right back. Okay?” When Gus nods sleepily and lies down, Brian heads for the door.



Brian

Without looking at Justin or Shaughn, I move outside the cottage and brace myself for the onslaught. Holding the phone in a vise-grip, I say tersely, “Okay, we’re out of earshot. Go ahead and scream fucking hell.”

Mel’s got the phone and she doesn’t hesitate to comply. “You motherfucking son-of-a-bitch asshole! How dare you take Gus out of Pittsburgh without our permission!”

“I don’t need your permission, I’m his father,” I shoot right back at her.

“Bullshit you don’t need permission – you don’t have custody of Gus, you signed over your parental rights a long time ago, remember? You have no rights at all, you fucker!”

I knew I’d be sorry I signed those papers.

Well, actually I’m not sorry. Despite everything, Linds and Mel are good parents to Gus, he has a stable home life once again, since the munchers licked-and-made-up a few months ago.

When I don’t respond, there’s a pause. I glance at the cottage and see that Shaughn has come out the door and he hovers nearby. I should be annoyed that he’s eavesdropping and yet somehow I'm not. Feeling his presence here is. . .almost comforting, in a strange way.

Lindsay comes on the line again. In her gentle way, she also chides me. “Brian, you should have asked us first. Don’t you remember that I’m afraid of flying, that’s why I’ve never taken Gus on a plane before.”

“Gus is not afraid of flying. He loves it. And anyway, you’ve flown before – and you just flew to Florida.”

“Driving was not an option,” she points out. “This was an emergency. And anyway, that’s not the point. You had no right to remove Gus from Pittsburgh without asking us.”

“Okay,” I huff an exasperated sigh. “But he’s here now and he’s having a good time.”

Mel must be pressing her ear next to Lindsay’s, she rudely barks, “Yeah, he’s having such a good time, he’s got stitches in his head! You let him get hurt, you son of a bitch, what kind of father are you, huh?”

That remark stabs me in the chest. And I realize that I’m being defensive when I demand, “Are you telling me that Gus has never fallen down before?”

Lindsay must’ve wrestled the phone back from Mel. “Brian,” she gentles her voice again, “Just tell us how it happened.”

“He was running,” I answer tersely. “He tripped and fell and hit his head.” I can hear Linds make a sympathetic mommy oohing sound, then I sigh and add regretfully, “Probably I should have stopped him from running.”

“You can’t stop Gus from running,” she admits. “He’s four, he’s going to run.”

“But now he’s hurt,” Mel chimes in again. “And there’s no one there to take care of him.”

“I am taking care of him,” I growl.

“Brian, hold on a second." I think Lindsay has put her hand over the phone but I can still hear her. "Mel," she murmurs, "We should fly to Boston and pick up Gus."

"Don't be ridiculous." I'm getting louder, I can feel my face turning red with the effort not to shout. "I'm taking care of Gus now and I'll take him back to Pittsburgh tomorrow afternoon. Our flight leaves here at three."

"No," she contradicts me, "I told you, I don't want Gus on a plane. Listen to me, Brian. Mel or I, or both of us, will fly to Boston after the funeral tomorrow morning. We'll pick up Gus and bring him home on the train."

"For fuck sake!" I'm grinding my teeth, I'm reaching the end of my patience with this bullshit. "Flying is a hell of a lot safer than the fucking train, Linds. And you don't need to come here, either of you. We're flying back to Pittsburgh tomorrow afternoon and that's the end of it."

Peripherally I notice that Shaughn has moved to the other side of the yard and has pulled out his cell phone. Probably he got a page. I'm momentarily distracted and then Mel must have grabbed Lindsay's phone again. "Listen to me, you bastard," she shrieks, "Linds says no plane so it's no plane. If you drag Gus onto that plane tomorrow, I'll have you arrested for kidnapping."

"Kidnapping? Are you fucking insane?"

"Mel, please.”

“There you go, defending the bastard, as usual," Mel hisses. Then she takes a deep breath and blows it out. "Listen to me, Brian," she says more calmly, "Are you listening? Either you bring Gus home on the train tomorrow, or you'll never see him again. Understand?"

"Let me get this right," my voice matches Mel’s enforced calm. "You're going to deprive me of my son forever because I took him with me on a weekend trip to Boston and he got a bump on the head?"

"You bet your ass, motherfucker."

There's dead silence for a moment and I raise a hand that is shaking and rub it over my face. Suddenly Shaughn is beside me, he puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. Normally I would shrug it off, I don't need anybody's fucking comfort. But I'm not shrugging it off. I can't look at him, but I'm not pulling away either.

"Son," he whispers, "How about if I drive you home?"

"What?" I blink at him, uncomprehending.

"I've just cleared my schedule for Monday, so I've got plenty of time to drive you and Justin and Gus home."

"No." I shake my head.

"What?" Mel demands, and I tell her to hold on a minute, then turn back to Shaughn.

"I'd like to, I really would," Shaughn insists, and as I look at him, I can tell that he means it. "We can have a nice drive to Pittsburgh, it'll be good to spend more time together. I don't have to be back until Tuesday afternoon."

"I . . ."

Mel is tired of waiting. "Well, Brian?" she demands. "Are you going to do the train, or are we going to come there and have you arrested?"

Shaughn smiles at me then and squeezes my shoulder again. "Say yes."

Almost against my will I realize that I'm smiling back at him. "Okay," I tell him, then into the phone I say, "Okay, Mel, how about this: We'll drive home. Gus would be more comfortable in a car anyway than on a train."

"You're going to rent a car?" Mel asks.

"I'll make arrangements," I answer vaguely. When she doesn't respond right away, I go on, "Mel, I promise not to take Gus on the plane. We'll drive home. We’ll be there tomorrow night when Lindsay gets back."

"Wait, let me ask her." I hear Mel tell Lindsay, "Brian says he'll drive home instead. Rent a car. Is that all right with you?"

There’s a mumbled confab in the background and then Lindsay’s on the phone again. I’m getting seasick from them passing the fucking phone back and forth. “All right, Brian,” she agrees, “But that’s an awfully long trip. You’ll need to put a booster seat in the back, and stop often to let Gus walk around, it’s hard on him being confined.”

If they’d let us take the fucking plane, we’d be home in a couple hours, but I don’t waste my breath pointing that out. “Fine,” I’m abrupt, I’ve had it. “See you tomorrow night.” I’m ready to hang up but then I think to ask, “What time does your flight get in? Want me to pick you up?”

“No, thanks, Brian, I’d rather you stay with Gus. Besides, my car’s in long-term parking at the airport. My flight gets in about four, I‘ll be at your place by five.”

“We can go out for dinner when you get here. Or we can order take-out.”

“Let’s worry about that tomorrow. Promise to drive carefully? And make a lot of stops?”

“Yes, yes.” If we don’t hang up soon I’m going to throw my cell phone into the swimming pool. “Good-bye.”

“Bye. Thanks, Brian, for being reasonable.”

I hear Melanie begin to squeal in the background, she hates when Linds is nice to me, so I click off quickly and flip the phone closed, then turn to look at Shaughn.

“Do you know what you’re in for?” I ask him, “Driving six hundred miles with a four-year-old?”

“It’ll be fun,” Shaughn assures me heartily.

I roll my eyes and move across the grass toward the cottage. “You won’t think it’s such fun,” I throw over my shoulder, “When Gus pisses on your shoes.”



Justin

When Brian stomps into the cottage, I hold a finger to my lips and nod at Gus, who’s fallen asleep in the middle of the big bed. I’ve managed to pull the coverlet over him without waking him up, and when Brian sees Gus sleeping, he gestures for me to come outside. Brian and Shaughn and I move over by the pool and sit down at the umbrella table, where we’re joined by Barbara. She’s carrying a cup of soup for Gus but she says it’s more important for him to sleep, he can eat later.

Brian nods agreement, then he looks at Shaughn and asks, “Are you sure you want to do this? It’s a hell of an imposition.”

Shaughn just smiles and insists, “It’s no imposition – we’ll have a great time.” Then he explains to me and Barbara that he’s offered to drive us “boys” home to Pittsburgh.

“But we have plane tickets!” I object.

Brian grimaces. “If I take Gus on the plane, Mel’s threatened to have me arrested.”

“Arrested!” Barbara asks. “What for?”

“Kidnapping.” Brian grins lopsidedly but the muscle in his cheek is jumping.

When both Barbara and I exclaim “What?” Brian shakes his head.

“Never mind. Shaughn has offered to drive us home and I’ve accepted. We can leave first thing in the morning.”

“Better yet,” Shaughn leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, “We could make a start later this afternoon, drive a couple hundred miles and spend the night in a hotel. That would make the journey much easier on Gus.”

“Good idea,” Barbara agrees. “Gus isn’t the only one who’s going to get tired on such a long drive.”

“What about Caroline’s concert?” Brian raises his eyebrows. “Bad enough for us to miss it, but if her father’s not there - “

“I’ll call her,” Shaughn interrupts. “She’ll understand. Would you mind going alone, Barbara?”

“Of course not,” she answers immediately. “And don’t worry, Brian, Shaughn’s sometimes called away for patient problems, we’re accustomed to schedule-juggling in this family.” Then she changes the subject. “Let’s let Gus sleep for an hour or so, then we’ll have an early dinner so you can get on the road.”

Brian’s having second thoughts. “Gus has had a really long and exhausting day, he’s going to be awfully tired tonight.”

“Yes,” Barbara agrees, “But he can sleep in the car for a while, and have a good night’s sleep in a hotel tonight. I’ll bet by tomorrow morning, Gus will be back to normal.”

“Oh no,” Brian jokes and everybody laughs.


Brian

After a light dinner of soup and sandwiches, we’re packing up the car. With Dr. Shaughn’s blessing, I gave Gus some children’s Tylenol after he finished his soup. He says he feels okay but he probably has a residual headache from the bruise on his forehead and the Tylenol will help him sleep in the car. Gus is already yawning as I settle him into his booster seat; at his request, I’m going to sit in back with him. I’ve offered to trade off driving with Shaughn but he said we can take turns tomorrow morning.

As we thank Barbara and make our farewells, promising a longer visit soon, I notice that she and Shaughn exchange what can only be described as a married-couple look – a message shared between them without words. Christ, I wonder if that’s what Justin and I do sometimes? That’s a semi-scary thought.

I don’t have long to wonder about the meaning of that glance as Barbara hurries inside the house and comes back out carrying a long white envelope. She hands it to Shaughn, he shoves it inside the breast pocket of his jacket, then they share a smile and a kiss. Next, we’re hustled into the car, Shaughn takes the driver’s seat, and with a final wave at Barbara in the driveway, we’re off.

Shaughn maneuvers the Mercedes through thick traffic leading outside the city. As I suspected he would, Gus falls asleep before we’ve even pulled onto the highway heading west. His booster seat is close beside me, and when his head droops sideways onto my arm, I lower my face so that I can breathe in a whiff of his clean soft hair, as fine as corn silk against my cheek. Justin turns in his seat to glance back at us, we smile and I realize that we are exchanging one of those wordless married-couple looks.

Maybe it’s not so very scary, after all.



Justin

Barbara calls Shaughn on his cell to tell him that she’s made a reservation for us at some Courtyard by Marriot in Newburgh, New York, which is about 200 miles from Shaughn’s house. We’re there by eight-thirty and settled in our adjoining rooms by nine. Gus revives for a while as we check-in and he runs around exploring our suite.

We relax around a table in Shaughn’s room watching Gus enjoy a glass of milk and some Oreos when Brian amazes me by saying casually, “Shaughn, would you mind watching Gus for a few minutes while we go take a shower?”

Shaughn has his arm around the back of Gus’ chair and he looks up, obviously surprised, before quickly covering it up with an equally casual, “Why, sure. Of course. Go right ahead.”

I feel my cheeks turning red even though I know it’s dopey to feel embarrassed that Brian’s dad knows we’re going into the other room to fuck. A surreptitious glance at Brian confirms that he’s not the least bit embarrassed but he’s not smirking either.

“Gus,” Brian crouches next to his son and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be back in a few minutes and then we’ll all go to bed. Stay here with your Grandpa and eat your cookies. Remember that three Oreos is your limit, okay?”

Gus nods as he struggles to twist open the cookie; he likes to eat the white part first.

Brian stands and leads the way into our adjoining room. I glance back at Gus to see if he’s okay and he’s happily licking the creamy filling inside his cookie.

When Brian closes the door behind us, I protest mildly, “We could’ve waited till tomorrow night.”

Brian mutters, “Maybe you could, but I can’t,” as he grasps the hem of my tee shirt and pulls it off over my head in a single movement. “Mmm,” he murmurs then, pressing his lips to my neck as his hands fumble at the buttons of my jeans. “Let me twist off your clothes so I can taste your sweet creamy filling.”

I laugh at his silliness but it’s really just a catch of my breath as Brian backs me slowly through the bathroom door.



Brian

Shaughn lets me drive the last leg of our journey; I park on the street outside my building, we get out and carry our baggage into the elevator and up to the fourth floor. I’m pleased that Shaughn expresses admiration for my place. Naturally, Justin jumps right in to take over as official Loft Tour Guide. Gus and I busy ourselves in the kitchen, checking food reserves in the fridge. They’re minimal but a sniff at the milk carton confirms its viability and there are Oreos in the cupboard. The essentials of life are on hand for Gus; the rest of us can wait to eat dinner until Lindsay arrives.

Justin takes over again as official luggage-unpacker and laundry sorter. He’s a handy guy to have around sometimes. When I tell him so, he laughs and punches me, but he also stretches up on tiptoe to give me a quick smacking kiss. While he’s busy in the bedroom, I offer Shaughn a drink and we each pull a beer from the fridge, then Shaughn clinks his bottle against mine and heads for the living room and sits on the sofa.

“Barbara’s arranged a room for me tonight at the Pittsburgh Hilton,” he informs me. “I’ll head home tomorrow morning.”

“Stay for a while tomorrow, why don’t you?” I suggest, sitting in a chair across from him. “You said you’ve canceled your Monday appointments, why not spend Monday morning in Pittsburgh?”

“Hmm,” he considers, relaxing against the sofa cushion and stretching out an arm across the back. “You have to work, though, don’t you?”

“You could come see my office.” I keep my voice casual but I’m surprised at how strongly I want Shaughn to see Kinnetik. “And my assistant can probably shift my schedule around. I think there’s only one urgent meeting tomorrow, and it’s not till three.”

“That’s a great idea,” Justin adds his own encouragement, coming down the steps and perching his bubble butt on the side of my chair. My arm goes around his waist unselfconsciously; he fits so nicely inside the curve of my arm.

“Maybe I will then,” Shaughn agrees.

“Daddy!” Gus interrupts, deserting his pile of toy trucks in front of the window. “Come play with me!”

I let him take my hand and pull me out of the chair, then I sit cross-legged on the carpet and join in some kind of game where all the little cars have names and they take turns crashing into each other. From time to time I glance over at the sofa, glad to see that Justin is sitting next to Shaughn and they seem to be having an engrossing conversation.



Justin

Shaughn asks me about school and about my career plans, and when I tell him about Rage, he asks to see a copy. There’s one in the pile of magazines on the coffee table so I pull it out and hand it to him and he flips through. “It’s about a gay superhero,” I explain a bit unnecessarily; the drawings make that fact pretty obvious. Shaughn doesn’t seem fazed by the graphic sex scenes, and almost immediately he notices Rage’s resemblance to Brian.

“So, if Rage is Brian, are you JT?” he asks, glancing at me over the top edge of the comic.

“They’re just sort of based on us,” I clarify, “And Zephyr is based on Brian’s best friend Michael. Michael comes up with most of the stories, which are usually made-up but sometimes are about real things that happen in our lives.”

“For example?” he asks.

I look closely at him for a moment to be sure he’s really interested, then I explain, “The first issue was a story about Rage saving JT from bashers. That was sort of true.”

“Bashers?”

Taking a deep breath and blowing it out, I turn sideways on the sofa and quietly tell Shaughn about the bashing, how Brian came to my prom and when I got hit by the baseball bat, he saved my life by not letting Chris Hobbes finish me off. I can tell that Shaughn’s shocked, and I wonder if maybe Brian would rather his father not know about that.

“Are you all right?” Shaughn demands, leaning forward and touching my knee. “You made a full recovery?”

“Yeah,” I agree, then shrug and add, “Mostly.” When he raises his eyebrows in uncanny Brianesque query, I explain, “There’s still some motor skill deficiency but it’s minor now. Brian helped me recover and he even bought me a special computer for artists. I’m fine now. Mostly.”

“Besides the physical injury, it must have been terribly hard to get past the psychological trauma of being attacked?”

“Brian helped me with that too. But,” I glance over my shoulder at the two playing cars by the window, then whisper, “He doesn’t like to talk about it. So maybe don’t say anything to him?”

“I’ll be discreet,” Shaughn promises, then he smiles at me and adds, “Brian seems to be a very private person.”

“Yeah, he - “

The intercom buzzes, then buzzes again; that’s Lindsay’s signal. I jump up and run for the door, with Brian right behind me. He buzzes her in while I pull back the sliding door with its customary loud screech.

"Mommy!" Gus squeals, running toward us as Brian moves into the hall and lifts the elevator door for Lindsay. She drops to her knees and gathers Gus into a big hug, he throws his arms around her neck. As she stands up, lifting Gus in her arms, she tilts her head backward to study the small bandage on his forehead.

"I want to see it," she glances at Brian, "Can you take the bandage off?"

"It's perfectly fine," he insists, "But of course you can see it. Come in and sit down, why don't you?" Without waiting for an answer, he moves past her into the loft and we follow behind him.

"Oh, you have company!" Lindsay exclaims, as Shaughn rises to his feet and moves forward to greet her.

"Linds, this is - this is Dr. Gerald Shaughnessy," Brian makes the introduction. "You spoke to him on the phone."

"Hello," Lindsay shifts Gus' weight onto one arm so she can shake hands. "You were in Boston with Brian and Justin?"

"Hello," Shaughn echoes her. "I'm very pleased to meet Gus' mother, one of his mothers. And I live in Boston."

"Shaughn drove us home, since you refused to let us fly back to Pittsburgh," Brian explains.

"Oh!" Lindsay's surprised. "That was - nice of you. You're the doctor who treated Gus' injury?"

Shaughn shakes his head no but before he can answer, I urge, "Let's sit down," and we all arrange ourselves on the sofa and chairs.

Then Shaughn clarifies, "No, we took Gus to Mount Auburn emergency and since I'm known there, we got preferential treatment. As I told you on the phone, it's a very small cut but the attending physician decided to put in a couple stitches, to be sure it heals properly and won't leave a scar. Gus had a headache yesterday which we treated with children's Tylenol, but I don't believe he's experiencing any pain now."

Then Shaughn leans forward and taps Gus on the foot to get his attention. "Hey buddy," he says, "Does your boo-boo hurt today?"

"No," Gus answers, shaking his head emphatically, "It's all better now, Grandpa."

There's a stunned silence and then Lindsay echoes softly, "Grandpa?"

Brian clears his throat. "It's a long story, Linds, I'll explain some other time. But the short version is, I just discovered recently that Shaughn, Dr. Shaughnessy, is my real father. Justin and I already had plans to visit him and his wife in Boston this weekend, so we took Gus along with us."

"Good lord," Lindsay's in shock. "I - I'm flabbergasted. You never said a word! You mean Jack wasn’t - "

Brian shrugs it off. "We'll talk about it another time."

"Well," Lindsay concludes, as Gus grows restless on her lap, "Well, I'm happy to meet you, Dr. - "

"Please call me Shaughn," he insists with a smile. "Since we're related." Then he scoots forward and says to Gus, "Your mom wants to look at your boo-boo, so let's take that bandage off, shall we?"

"Ow?" Gus suggests, cowering back against Lindsay, but Shaughn shakes his head.

"No ow, buddy," he promises. "We'll just pull this bandage off and put a little Band-Aid on instead. Okay?"

"Okay," Gus agrees, sliding down off Lindsay's lap and moving willingly forward to lean on Shaughn's knees. Gently and slowly Shaughn peels off the small bandage, revealing the cut - which is already healing and looks like a mere scratch with three barely visible tiny black stitches in it.

"It looks good," Shaughn tells Gus. "Does it hurt at all?" When Gus shakes his head no, Shaughn glances at me. "Justin, would you bring me the small bag I brought upstairs? There's some Band-Aids and Neosporin ointment."

As I move toward Brian's desk where Shaughn left the bag, he explains to the others, "I planned to change the bandage later today anyway. It's healing very well, though you'll want to have your own doctor look at it in a day or two, the stitches should be ready to come out by then."

“You’re very good with Gus,” Lindsay says, “Are you a pediatrician?”

“Oncologist,” Shaughn explains.

“And you’re married?”

“Linds,” Brian complains, but Shaughn interrupts.

“That’s okay, son,” he says, “Lindsay’s just getting acquainted.”

“Who wants a drink?” Brian stands and moves toward the liquor cart.

“Not for me, thanks,” Lindsay says. “I just want to get Gus home and unpack.”

”We’re going out to dinner,” I chime in, “We wanted you and Gus to join us.”

Lindsay shakes her head as she stands up. “Thanks, but I’m exhausted from the flight, it’s been a difficult weekend.”

Brian comes over to put an arm around her shoulders. “Was it awful, in Florida?”

“Yes, of course, those kind of things always are. But Melanie’s holding up well and she’ll be coming home in a day or two.”

We all walk Lindsay to the door; Brian hoists Gus one more time for a good-bye kiss and I quickly gather up Gus’ toys and shove them into his little bag.

At the door, Linds turns toward Shaughn, smiles and holds out her hand. “It was wonderful to meet you,” she says sincerely and raising her eyebrows she asks, “Will we be seeing more of you in Pittsburgh?”

“Absolutely,” Shaughn agrees. “I want to make up for lost time with my son. And his kith and kin too,” he adds quickly, winking at me. “And I know that Barbara, my wife, would love to meet you. Maybe you can bring Gus for a visit sometime soon.”

We see them into the elevator and as it’s descending, the phone rings. I’m closer so I hurry inside to pick up and say hello. It’s Michael. “Hey,” he greets me, “I’m calling to see if you and Brian are free for dinner tonight?”

“Just a sec.” I hand the phone to Brian and tell him, “It’s Michael.”

Shaughn and I return to the sofa as Brian takes the call. “Hey, Mikey!”



Brian

“Hey, Brian! You guys busy tonight?”

“Why?”

“Emmett just got back from his pilgrimage to Mississippi so Ben and I invited him to dinner at our place tonight. Ted’s coming too. Can you and Justin join us?”

“Who else will be there?” I’m wary of Michael’s dinner parties.

“Nobody – just us guys. It’ll be like old times.”

“Hmm.”

I’m stalling for time. Do I want to spring Shaughn on my friends like this? Do I want to spring my friends on Shaughn right now? Or like, ever?

Yeah, I guess I do.

“Mikey, that’d be great,” I say, “But I want to bring along – a friend.”

“Instead of Justin?” His voice gets squeaky.

“Of course not.” I’m annoyed but I have to smile to myself when I realize that “of course not” is a fairly recent development.

I lose my smile quickly when Mikey tactlessly asks, “But you don’t have any other friends, do you?”

“Fuck you.”

“Who is he?”

“Just yes or no, Mikey.”

“Well okay, sure. I guess that’ll be okay. Above seven? See you then.”

“See you.”

When I join the guys in the living room and announce that we’re having dinner with Michael and Ben, Justin beams his sunshine smile at me.

“I’m glad,” he says.

That’s all. But I know what he means. He wants me to share Shaughn with the world. Until this weekend, I wasn’t too sure about doing that, but now it feels right.

After a quick detour to buy wine, I direct Shaughn to Michael’s place. We’re the last to arrive. Mikey opens the door and we move right into the living room where everyone’s lounging on sofas. They were chatting but when we walk in, the talking ceases. Everyone’s staring at Shaughn and looking at me, waiting for an introduction. Or an explanation. I give them both.

“This is Gerald Shaughnessy. From Boston.”

I hesitate for a moment, then I feel the tension unaccountably seeping out of my muscles and I’m completely relaxed as I slide my arm around Shaughn’s shoulders. Proudly I announce, “He’s my real father.”

In the sudden silence, I tighten my grip on Shaughn. And I realize that I’m grinning like an idiot. “Dad,” I tell him just as proudly, “These are my friends.”



Justin

Dinner was great - well the food was not fabulous or anything, it's hard to get excited about tofu burgers and kale-and-three-bean salad; but it’s fun sitting around the table hearing about Emmett's adventures in Hazelhurst, Mississippi. Brian brought four bottles of French wine which he whispered to me would help us wash down the health food. The wine also helps everyone relax and share a lot of laughs. After dinner, we migrate to the living room again.

Shaughn fits in really well. He doesn't say much but he laughs a lot and you can tell he's totally relaxed. He and Brian are sharing the small sofa and it's fun to watch them, they have lots of physical characteristics in common, the way they hold a wine glass, the way they grin lopsidedly sometimes; and Shaughn is almost as touchy-feely as Brian. Not that Brian would admit it of course, but he's always sort of unconsciously touching and poking and caressing people. Several times I've seen Shaughn reach over to pat Brian's shoulder or slap his leg when they're sharing a joke.

I've tried to keep out of the way, helping in the kitchen, refilling wine glasses and stuff, so I don't interfere with Brian's interaction with his dad. I thought he didn't notice but just now as I empty one of the wine bottles into his and Shaughn's glasses, Brian reaches up to grab my arm as I'm turning away. "C'mere," he murmurs, "Sit down for a minute." And he takes the bottle from my hand, sets it on the end table, and maneuvers me to sit on the floor at his feet. He keeps a hand on my shoulder, and from time to time he tickles the back of my neck with his long fingers. He always likes playing with my hair and he's said he's glad I'm letting it grow long.

After a few hours the evening's kind of winding down, Shaughn's grown a bit quiet and I realize about the same time as Brian, that probably Shaughn's tired after our long drive from Boston, and he's going to have to make that drive back home tomorrow. Brian taps my shoulder, I twist my head around and nod at him, it's like we can read each other's minds sometimes. Then I get to my feet as Brian says, "Shaughn - Dad - any time you're ready to go, just say the word."

Shaughn sighs. "I am a bit tired, I'm sorry to say. Another time I can stay longer, if I'm invited back again?"

Ben and Michael immediately say, "Of course, any time you're in Pittsburgh," and the others hastily agree. "We'll take you to Woody's," Emmett suggests, "Brian can beat you at pool - he beats all of us."

Everyone laughs and stands up to walk us to the door, where Shaughn suddenly stops and says, "Oh! I almost forgot." He reaches inside his jacket pocket and pulls out a long white envelope.

“I meant to give you this in Boston,” he tells Brian, “But under the circumstances, Barbara agreed that I should wait for a better time. This is for you, from both of us. For both of you,” Shaughn clarifies, looking at me as he hands the envelope to Brian.

“What is it?” Brian asks warily. He doesn’t like surprises.

“Open it and see, silly,” Emmett urges, clapping his hands. Em loves surprises.

With an uncertain glance at Shaughn, Brian runs a finger under the envelope flap and pulls out a sheaf of papers. There’s several folded sheets and what’s unmistakably an airline ticket envelope. He looks at his dad again and raises his eyebrows.

“We’re having a family vacation in Italy this summer – Barbara, Caroline, and I. That’s the itinerary. We want you and Justin to join us, as our guests. Two weeks in Florence, Rome, and Venice. The dates aren’t set in stone, there’s some flexibility, but we’ll need to firm up plans soon.”

“Oh my god.” That’s me.

Brian still says nothing. Then, “You can’t do this,” he says at last. “It’s – too much.”

“Not at all,” Shaughn waves a hand in the air to erase Brian’s doubt. “I want to make up for all the birthdays and holidays I’ve missed sharing with my son. And I want time to really get to know you.”

When Brian doesn’t respond, Shaughn glances at me again. “And Justin as well. Plus Justin can visit all those art museums he’s been talking about, do some painting. It’ll be great. Please say yes, Brian.”

Brian keeps his eyes on the papers in his hands but I can see that his forehead is furrowed and his Adam’s apple’s moving up and down. Finally, he murmurs, “I don’t know.”

Shaughn puts a hand on Brian’s shoulder and shakes him gently. “You won’t say no to your new old dad, now will you?”

Brian looks up then; his forehead relaxes and he returns Shaughn’s smile. “Thanks,” he says, swallowing hard before repeating, “Thanks, Dad. I think - “ he glances at me and I nod, “I think we’d like that. Very much.”

“Yay!” I exclaim, Emmett adds, “Yippee!” and everyone else claps and cheers. There’s hugs all around and then finally we’re out of the house and piling into the car. Shaughn’s going to drop us at home before heading off to his hotel, and we make plans to meet up for breakfast in the morning.

“Let’s take your dad to the Diner!” I suggest. To Shaughn, I explain, “The food isn’t great, but the waitress will make you feel welcome.”

“Will she ever,” Brian agrees, shaking his head. “Christ, will she ever!”



Brian

"Race you to the top!" Justin dares me as we enter the building and head for the stairs. "Unless," he throws over his shoulder with a naughty grin, "You need to conserve your strength?"

Without deigning to answer, I just nod for him to lead the way. In fact - not that I'd ever admit it - I actually was feeling a little weary after the past couple days; but watching that perfect ass moving quickly up the stairs ahead of me, I feel myself reviving. And when we reach the fourth-floor landing, I've got my key ready and I push back the door with a loud bang that reverberates in the echoing - and blessed - emptiness of the loft. I enjoy spending time with my son but at the end of the day, it's a relief to hand him back to the experts.

Justin moves past me and collects a couple bottles of water from the fridge and carries them up to the bedroom. I've kicked off my shoes and am unbuttoning my shirt when he comes around to my side of the bed and grabs hold of my jeans, bending his head to watch his fingers struggling to undo the buttons. I can smell his hair and briefly I bury my face in it, the softness tickling my nose. It's getting long and I love to twist my fingers in wispy strands of it, which I do now, pulling his head up and bringing his face close to mine.

Justin's mouth opens and we taste each others' lips, our tongues gently battling and probing, oh Christ, I love the taste of his mouth. He pulls away briefly to tug at my jeans and yank them down my legs and off my feet, then I grasp the hem of his tee shirt and pull it over his head. Together we get rid of his jeans and briefs (he still insists on wearing underwear, silly boy), and at last we're naked, our bodies pressing tight together as our lips find each other for more kissing.

We've fucked on every surface in the loft, from floor to sofa to dining room table, but – and I hope this doesn't mean I'm getting boring – I must admit that I like the bed best of all. I love to gently throw Justin backward across the bed and slowly crawl up his body starting at his toes, kissing each little pink digit before slowly dragging my tongue up the length of his calf muscle, circling around to plant a hot kiss on the inside of his knee. He's ticklish there and he giggles before gasping as my tongue moves further upward, drawing a moist line up the inside curve of his perfectly shaped firm thigh.

Justin grabs my ears, using them like handles to bring my face in contact with his engorged and quivering cock, but I shake my head, smile and pull away, letting my tongue continue its journey northwards, pausing to flick his bellybutton, slide over his abs, and pause again to lick and suck his tiny right nipple.

"Brian," he moans softly, grabbing my head again, but again I pull away and move my tongue over his collarbone, my teeth softly nip the side of his neck. Finally, my mouth locks onto his and it's a happy reunion as our tongues slide together and we kiss and kiss and kiss. In a few minutes Justin maneuvers our bodies so that he's on top of me, and with a wicked grin, he lowers his head and begins his own tongue exploration of my body, moving downward on an opposite trajectory, from my chin to my chest and points south.

As I ignored Justin's dick, he does the same disservice to my own, instead licking and sucking every other part of my body till we're both quivering with the need for our cocks to touch, and when he straddles my hips and our cocks finally rub together, the burn is instantaneous and almost unbearably hot.

Justin leans forward and I grasp his arms, our faces mash together as breathlessly our mouths connect again. Then it’s a maelstrom of flailing arms and legs, gasps and moans and sighs, sensual pleasure blotting out rational thought as we give ourselves up to the pure sensation of a rough and agonizingly unbearable and almost unbelievably perfect fuck.

At last, we shudder and shout out loud, collapse side by side on the bed with our shoulders rubbing together. In a moment Justin musters enough energy to turn over, he slides close and presses his body tight against mine. Burying his face in the curve between my shoulder and neck, Justin murmurs, “Mmm, I love you, Brian.”

Reaching up a hand to caress his beautiful hair, I twist my fingers in the sweat-dampened mass and contentedly sigh, “Yeah.”

Then Justin raises his head, our faces are so close we’re staring cross-eyed. “Yeah, what?” he asks.

His eyes are demanding – the little fucker is always demanding things of me. Always has, and no doubt always will. Finally, when he continues to stare, I shrug and answer, “Yeah, me too.”

“Better,” he nods, “But not good enough.” He sits up then and straddles my hips again. Pressing a hand on each arm, pinning me to the bed, he continues to stare. He’s waiting.

I feel my throat closing up, but I repeat, “I said, Yeah, me too.” He doesn’t blink, so carefully I clarify, “About the love thing.”

Justin’s staring at me and I know the time has come to say the words, even if it kills me.

But maybe it won’t kill me. I realize that I feel more secure lying here with Justin at this moment than I can ever remember feeling in my life. Maybe it has something to do with knowing that I have a father who cares about me. Maybe it’s partly because I’ve finally realized that I’m capable of being a good father to my own son. But mostly it’s due to this boy, this man who has committed himself to me, body and soul.

Justin wants to share his life with me and he trusts me to be here for him. For some strange reason, Justin has always had faith in me, even when I thought he was stupid to waste his time on a man incapable of love. He’s even convinced me that he’s going to stick around this time, maybe forever. And I want him with me forever. For the first time in my life, I actually believe in forever.

Clearing my throat, unable to stop the slow smile spreading across my face, I mutter, “Okay, you win, you candy-ass little twat. You’ve worn me down. I give up.”

Justin returns my smile. “And?”

It’s only a whisper, but I guess it counts anyway. “I love you. Okay? Are you satisfied?”

“Yeah,” Justin agrees, then he laughs out loud. “Oh yeah,” he repeats, before lowering his head and kissing my lips. It’s a good kiss but before it can get away from us, Justin pulls back and raises his head to stare into my eyes again.

“You do realize,” he informs me, “That you’re not off the hook? That you’re going to have to say it to me again and again. You do realize that, don’t you, Brian?”

“I can probably handle that,” I mock him, adding with a smirk, “As long as it’s not at an altar in a church or something.”

“No altar, no church,” Justin agrees, his eyes twinkling. “At least – not yet.”

Alarm bells jangle in my brain but before I can respond, Justin drops down once more onto my chest and he captures my lips with his amazingly delicious mouth. I know there’s something I need to say and for a moment I struggle against succumbing to the pressure of his body pressed so close to mine.

Then I give up and give in; we can talk about it later. Whatever it was. Meanwhile, I need to flip Justin over and crawl on top of him. I need to run my fingers down the velvety soft skin of his back and press my tongue against the dimples just above his magnificent ass. I need to cover his body with my own, hold him tight in my arms. And I know, I really know, that from here on out I am never letting go.