The Present



“What?!”



“I said wouldn’t you just rather lie here and . . .”



“No, no, no. I know what you said, you said ‘cuddle.’”



“So?”



“So, I’ve never ever once even heard you use that word, much less actually want to do it . . .”



“Okay, can we just turn the lights off . . .”



“No! No. Brian Kinney fucks, sucks, rims, rams, but never cuddles.”



“Okay, so I used a word that offends your sensibilities. Forgive me. I apologize. I will never do it again.”



Wow. Wow. That was it. Justin had fucking had it. Brian was officially an asshole – as in a card-carrying, bona fide asshole. He was obviously hell bent on having a fight. It was the night before their rehearsal dinner, and here Brian was initiating the fucking granddaddy of all arguments.



What was his problem? Hadn’t Justin made it clear that they didn’t have to cuddle – that they could fuck each other through the mattress? Why the sarcastic tone? The obnoxious ‘offend your sensibilities’ bullshit? Offend his sensibilities?? The only thing that was offending Justin’s sensibilities was Brian’s extreme and uncharacteristic passive-aggression. What the fuck? What had he done to deserve being treated like that?



It was the coming wedding. It had to be. What other explanation was there? Brian didn’t want to get married. He was regretting having proposed. He was getting proverbial cold feet.



Asshole!



This had all been his idea! Justin hadn’t held a gun to his head. Hell, he’d turned down Brian’s first proposal! Was it the wedding itself? Was it the (expensive) elaborate place settings? Was it the (expensive) suits? Was it the (outrageously expensive) flowers?



No, of course not. It was none of those things. In fact, like everything, the whole extravagant show was Brian’s idea. God forbid that they elope. God forbid they have a small gathering of close family and friends in a low-key setting. Nope. The wedding had to take place at Falling Water. The utensils had to be real silver and the plates fine china. The bespoke suits had to be the height of fashion. The rings had to be 100 percent pure platinum. The guest list had to include every client Brian ever had. Yes, Justin had gotten swept up in the planning. How couldn’t he? Brian’s budget was of fairytale proportions . . . and, yes, okay, he’d gotten caught-up in it all. It was so romantic, so glamorous, and so . . . . wrong. At least as wrong as the mansion and the decision to sell the loft. Brian – the real Brian, if he proposed at all, would’ve wanted a huge, loud, colorful party at a club. He’d want dancing and fucking and drinking and drugs. He’d want their first dance to be to a song by Gloria Gaynor, not Bach’s cello suite, number one.



Where had that Brian gone? And, more importantly, how could Justin get him back? Because he didn’t like the one he currently had. Not at all. Hopefully, he’d kept the receipt.



Maybe Deb had been right. Maybe they really shouldn’t get married . . . .



___________________________________________________________________________



Earlier That Day



It was around noon, which meant that Deb’s little house was dark. Being just one-story, the sun only made it through the windows in the morning and evening. After having grown-up in a suburban MacMansion, the midday gloom used to drive Justin nuts, but he’d gotten used to it. The rainbow knick-knacks seem to capture what scarce light there is, making their tackiness seem incandescent. Justin was strolling around and looking at everything as though he was about to leave on some far away journey from which he might not return . . . which was weird, because, of course, he wasn’t going anywhere . . .



“Sunshine? I want – no, I need to talk to you about Brian.”



Justin turned away from the black velvet matador tapestry that he’d been admiring abstractly as though it was a Monet masterpiece. His mind was preoccupied, to say the least.



“Brian? What about him?”



Deb had just given J.R. a bottle and now was burping her with a dish towel over her shoulder to absorb the inevitable goop.



“He was here this morning doing just what you’re doing – looking for my approval. You need to know that I didn’t give it to him . . . and I’m not going to give it to you either.”



Justin’s eyebrows shot up. It wasn’t just her harsh words that surprised him, it was the knowledge that Brian had been there too.



“So, you think we’re wrong to get married?” he said.



“I think you two were wrong to even think about the whole bat-shit idea in the first place,” she replied.



Justin turned back to the stupid tapestry. To say this wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have was the understatement of the year.



“It’s a little late now, don’t you think?”



“Until you say ‘I do,’ you can always say ‘I won’t.’”



Justin swallowed. He could feel her looking at him so he turned around again.



“But I don’t want to say ‘I won’t.’ I want to marry Brian. I really do.”



“Who are you trying to convince? Me? Or yourself?”



Justin swallowed again. How could she always hit so close to home – so close to the heart?



“Listen, sweetie,” she said. “Tell me and tell me the truth – do you recognize Brian anymore?”



“What do you mean ‘do I recognize him’?” he snapped. “Of course, I do.”



“I don’t mean how he looks; I mean how he’s acting. Do you know who this man is you’re about to marry? Because I sure as hell don’t.”



Justin glanced at the door. Could he just walk out?



“I know you know what I’m talking about,” she continued. “You can’t hide. You’re an open book to me, Sunshine . . . even if you aren’t to him.”



J.R. filled the awkward silence with a gurgle for which Deb congratulated her as though she’d just won the gold in the Baby Olympics. At any other time, he would’ve laughed. But not now. Not today. In a mere twenty-four hours, he and Brian will be exchanging rings and vows . . .



“He’s . . . Deb, he’s been through a lot. I think the bombing really affected him.”



He watched as Deb carefully situated J.R. in her car seat and gave her a plastic ring to chew on. God, she’s teething already, he thought and then realized it’d been a year. A whole year since she was born – much of it he’d spent estranged from the man he was about to marry.



“I agree,” Deb said. “As did losing you.”



Justin took a deep breath. If they were going to have this conversation, they were going to fucking do it right. Why not?



“It’s true that he’s not the same person I used to know,” he said.



“He’s not the same person any of us used to know.”



Justin took another deep breath.



“And, God, Deb . . . I feel so fucking guilty. He’s doing this all for me – the wedding, the house, selling the loft. Everything.”



Deb went to the kitchen and put water in the kettle. The sound made Justin realize just how quiet things had been. Where was the street noise? It was like the whole world was on pause, breath held and waiting for something – something catastrophic.



“Which is why you can’t marry him,” she said, putting the kettle on the burner and lighting the gas. “Weddings, country houses, all that shit? That’s not Brian. It never has been. It never will be, and if that’s what you want, then you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.”



“So, you don’t think he’s really changed?” Justin said, already knowing what her answer will be.



“Hell, no . . . well, at least I hope not. I never thought I’d be saying this in a million years, but I’ll be glad when Brian Kinney goes back to fucking and sucking and partying all night long.”



“Interesting.”



She sighed, sounding almost guilty.



Good.



“I know. I’ve been lecturing him for years, haven’t I? How many times have I told that man to grow up and keep his dick in his pants?”



“And now he is, but you don’t like it.”



“He’s not Brian. He looks like Brian and sounds like Brian, but he isn’t Brian. And he isn’t happy, Sunshine. I’m sorry to have to say that so bluntly.”



Justin sat down on the couch and put his head in his hands. Was he glad he was finally having this conversation?



“I know,” he said.



“So what are you going to do about it?”



“I don’t know. Christ, Deb! You should see everything he’s done for me – everything I’ve wanted . . . Hell, everything he even thinks I’ve wanted, he’s given to me. He says he’ll do anything. He even says he’ll be anything to make me happy.”



“And if that’s true – if he wants to be whatever and whoever you want him to be, then who do you want him to be?”



She put tea bags into their mugs and poured hot water over them.



“I want him to be Brian – that’s who I want him to be.”



She walked over to the couch to give him his tea and then sat down beside him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.



“You realize that means no house, no fairytale unicorns . . .”



“A horse, Deb,” he said wearily. “He’s not going to buy me a unicorn.”



“He would if you said you wanted one. He’d find a way.”



He placed his mug on the floor and put his head in his hands again.



“I know,” he mumbled around his fingers. “I know he would.”



“But he shouldn’t have to, sweetie. You should be able to love him for who he is, and if you can’t do that . . . if you can’t do that, then let him go.”



He lifted his head abruptly and looked at her with wide – and yes, terrified – eyes.



“But I don’t want to let him go!”



She squeezed his shoulder.



“Do you have a choice?” she asked gently. “What do you think’s going to happen a year from now? You’re shrugging. Okay then, I’ll tell you. A year from now, Brian is either going to be fucking and sucking behind your back or he’s going to break your heart and do it right under your nose.”



“And if he doesn’t do either?”



“Then he’s going to resent you. It’s as plain as day, Sunshine. Don’t you see it?”



“I don’t see it. I see a changed man who wants something more . . .”



“. . . I’m not saying he doesn’t love you. He loves you more than his own life, but at the end of the day, Brian will be Brian – and if he isn’t, he’ll be a bitter old queen.”



“Can’t he be Brian with a few alterations here and there?”



“That’s not the kind of question you should be asking just days before you tie the knot. Jesus fucking Christ! Don’t you boys talk to each other?”



Justin just looked at her. He didn’t need to answer the question because the answer was obvious. No, they don’t. Had they ever?



“Look, sweetie, Brian is not a man – he’s a boy. He’s Peter Pan. He’ll always be Peter Pan. He doesn’t want to grow up. He wants to live in his Never Never Land. He wants to be free to be a fucking jerk if he wants to be.”



“You don’t have a very high opinion of him, do you?”



“I have a realistic opinion. I’ve known him for a long time, Sunshine. A hell of a lot longer than you have.”



“And you don’t think he’s changed.”



“In his heart of hearts? No, I don’t think he’s changed, and if he tries to . . . ? Like I said, he’s not gonna be happy. Do you really want that?”



Justin felt his eyes fill with tears.



“I want him to do what will make him happy,” he said around a crack in his voice. “I just don’t know what the fuck that is, and I’m sorry Deb, I don’t think it’s fucking and sucking. I’m not saying that’s not important to him, but he’s more than his dick. He’s . . .”



“He’s an asshole, and I mean that in the most loving way. A loveable Brian is not the real Brian.”



“Jesus, Deb.”



“But it’s true. And you know it. That’s why you left him. Because he wouldn’t change the way you needed him to. He wouldn’t give you what you needed to be happy – he wasn’t willing to give you what you needed to be happy. Hell, he wouldn’t even say ‘I love you’! Remember that? Remember when you told me the two of you wanted different things in life?”



He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, hoping beyond hope that she wouldn’t notice how upset he was, because if everything was fine, he wouldn’t be crying, and if he knew that, so would she.



“But things are different now,” he said in a little voice.



“Are they?” she replied. “Why? How?”



“He says he’ll do anything to make me happy . . . shit.”



This time he didn’t even bother to hide his tears. She'd gotten him to talk in circles until he was right back where he’d started.



“Exactly.”



“Shit.”



“Baby, sweetie. Don’t cry.”



“How the hell can I not cry when you’re basically telling me that my marriage would be a sham if I went through with it?”



She wrapped her arm around his shoulder and after just a moment of resistance, he let her enfold him in her arms.



“Let him go, Sunshine,” she whispered. “Let him be who he was – and not who he is. Let him be a heartbreaking son-of-a-bitch who only thinks of himself. It’s who he is. And if you can’t love him for who he is, then you sure as hell shouldn’t marry him.”



“So, he hasn’t changed,” he sniffled.



“Not permanently. And if the only reason you’re marrying him is because he’s changed? Well . . . well, I don’t know what to say except good luck because you’ll need it.”



Justin cried as though his heart was broken . . . because it was.



“I . . . I can’t do it. I can’t break up with him. I don’t know what it would do to him.”



“That’s not a reason to stay,” she said. “Sunshine, Brian will be okay. He’s a cockroach – a gorgeous cockroach, but a cockroach nonetheless. When all of us get blown-up in the Apocalypse, he’ll still be here. He’s a survivor. Or at least he was until the fucking bombing.”



He couldn’t respond. His voice just wasn’t there any longer.



“Justin, Sunshine . . . there’s only one question you need to answer. Do you love Brian the way he was or do you love him the way he is?”



“What if I don’t love either . . . what if all I want is a middle-of-the-road Brian?” he sobbed. “A Brian who’s both changed and not changed.”



She released him and stood up so suddenly that he almost fell over.



“Jesus Christ, what a mess.”



He had to go. He had to get out of there. This conversation – he couldn’t bear it any longer.



“I . . . I . . . Deb, I’ve gotta go. I really can’t . . . Fuck! I have vows to write . . .”



She followed him to the door and stood against it, barring his way.



“And what are they going to be,” she said angrily. “They sure as hell aren’t going to be ‘I take you as you are to have and to hold till death do us fucking part.’”



He reached for the doorknob, and thankfully, she stepped aside. She’d said all she was going to say. The ball was in his court now.



“So, I take it you won’t be there tomorrow night,” he said.



She cupped his face in both her hands and kissed him on the forehead.



“No, sweetie,” she said, her voice resigned, but kind. “I’ll be there tomorrow night. If you two are going to do this – if you’re going to go through with it, I’ll be there. And so will everyone else. We’ll be your support because God knows, you’ll need it.”