Justin hasn’t seen – or even heard from – Brian in days when suddenly Brian shows up unannounced at his door. He’d been taking a nap, but he was more relieved by the intrusion than annoyed. Brian had been avoiding him. Hell, as far as Justin could tell, Brian had been avoiding everybody. No one had seen him except Ted, and when it came to Brian, Ted’s lips were sealed with rubber cement. Nothing short of torture could get him to divulge Brian’s whereabouts let alone his intentions.
“Get dressed,” Brian says when Justin answers his knock. “I want to show you something.”
Justin glares at him. No “hello, how are you,” just a command. How very Brianesque.
“I was sleeping,” he says.
“Well, now you’re awake.”
Jesus. Justin stomps over to the old steamer trunk where he keeps his clothes and pulls on a pair of jeans. As for a shirt . . . Crap. Everything’s at his mom’s to be washed except for a couple of dress shirts. Goddamn it. He glances at Brian and realizes he, too, is wearing a dress shirt – a pink dress shirt, jeans, and a blazer . . . on a weekend.
. . . oh boy. The afternoon is going to be weird. Brian has never worn pink in his God-given life.
They descend the stairs in silence, ignoring the smelly drunk asking for change. Justin expects Brian to say something shitty to the guy, but he doesn’t. He seems preoccupied. The Vette is parked at the curb; they get in, and Brian starts driving west on Interstate 376.
Sooooooooo, Justin wants to say. What’s up? Haven’t seen or heard from you since you asked me to marry you. You haven’t even answered my phone calls. Not that that’s weird or anything – not to mention rude. Speaking of which, thank you for showing up unannounced and ruining my nap. Want to tell me where we’re going? We seem to be headed for Buttfuckville, West Virginia. I hope you haven’t gone all Appalachian on me. By the way, I’ve been doing some thinking . . . I don’t want to go too far out on a limb or anything, and I think we should take it slowly, but I think we should talk about maybe getting back together. Not living together, I mean. To be honest, I’ve kind of enjoyed being on my own for a change. Plus, moving back in with you might be a little too much a little too soon. But I still love you, Brian, and now . . . well, now that you said you love me, I think things can be different than they were. I mean, the whole marriage thing was batshit crazy, but I can tell that you’re more serious about us than you have ever been. Maybe we could start over from the beginning. I know it won’t be easy after everything we’ve been through, but I think we can do it. Let’s talk more and fuck less . . . well, that’s not what I mean, exactly. We can still fuck as much as we ever have, but, dammit, Brian, we need to talk to each other once in awhile . . .”
Speaking of talking . . . or not . . .
. . . unexpectedly, Brian turns on the radio and takes the exit for Route 22, and that’s when Justin realizes . . . holy shit! They really are going to West Virginia. It’s . . . well, it’s alarming. Has Brian ever even been to West Virginia? He, Justin, has, but only for ski vacations and only for a week at a time at fancy resorts. Isn’t West Virginia kinda . . .
“When you said there was something you had to show me, I didn’t think it was in West Virginia,” he said.
“It’s less than a half an hour out of Pittsburgh,” Brian replied.
Okay. What is “less than a half an hour out of Pittsburgh”? What is Brian saying? That there aren’t going to be any scary hillbillies where they’re headed? Which, by the way, is where again?
They’re silent for the rest the trip, mostly - but not entirely - because the radio is too loud for conversation. Justin tries not to fidget even though he’s getting increasingly annoyed. Finally, they pull up in front of a giant, Tudor-style mansion. Justin’s stomach sinks. Shit. It’s a fancy restaurant. That explains the blazer. Is Brian going to get down on his knee in front of a room full of grey-haired, straight people, because if so, then . . .
. . . but there’s no one else there. There isn’t even a parking lot. So, it’s not a restaurant. It’s probably not even a B&B. Is it a client’s house Brian has borrowed for the weekend? If so, why hadn’t Brian told him to pack some clothes?
They get out of the car. It’s dripping wet and nasty outside, but even in the shitty weather, the house looks pretty grand, even a bit imposing. The client must be rich as hell.
“Wow.”
“Wait till you see the tennis court,” Brian says.
Tennis courts? Neither of them plays tennis, and even if they did, they wouldn’t be playing outside in February. But still . . . pretty fancy. As usual, Brian is going all out.
Justin tries to ignore his creeping sense of unease. Brian has removed them from their usual surroundings. With the exception of that ill-fated trip to Altoona to fuck in a freezing trailer, they’ve never been outside Pittsburgh together (something, by the way, that had always bothered him). Something’s up. There’s got to be a reason Brian is knocking him off balance. If Brian wanted to do something special for whatever reason, he could've rented a room at the Omni. But no. This is a road trip. A journey. Something new on top of too much newness.
“And the pool,” Brian continues. “And the stables.”
Man! Who does this place belong to? A Rockefeller? Where are the servants? Shouldn't a butler be standing at the door?
“Stables?” Justin says. “Who lives here?”
Brian takes a deep breath and then says in the same rough voice in which he’d told Justin that he loves him.
“We do.”
Okay. What?!
“What?"
“I bought it.”
WHAT?!
“You bought this house??”
Brian takes his collar because that’s what Brian does to the people he loves, which means Justin can’t punch him or even yell at him. But even if he could, he probably wouldn’t. He’s in too much shock . . .
. . . and not in a good way.
The boards creak under their feet as they walk into a room with a large hearth. The paneling is all some kind of dark wood, which makes things seem rather brooding and Wuthering Heights. Without saying anything, Brian kneels down, puts some crumbled newspapers under a stack of logs in the fireplace and lights them.
Since when did Brian know how to light a fire?
Justin feels oddly alarmed when he realizes that he doesn’t know.
What else doesn’t he know about Brian?
Apparently, pretty much everything.
When Brian stands, Justin can’t look at him. He’s too nervous – too freaked out. Instead, he walks the periphery of the room, dragging his fingers through the dust on the windowsills. A branch scratches against one of the panes. Clearly, nobody has lived in the house for a long time. The few pieces of furniture in the room are draped with white sheets. They look like ghosts in the gloom. Meanwhile, Brian starts talking. It's as though he’s a surreal chef laying out an elaborate banquet of what-the-fuckness. He’s bought this house. Why? Because Justin had supposedly said he dreamed of a country manor. He’s selling the loft. Why? Well, that’s a harder question to answer. Babylon, less so given the memory of the bomb, but why the loft? Say, for a second Justin did agree to rattle around in this turn-of-the-century monstrosity with Brian like two marbles in a coffee can, there’s no reason to sell their place in the city. What’ll they do if they want to go out to Woody’s and get plastered? There’s no way they’re driving back out here at two in the morning, and Justin sure as hell isn’t going to be the designated driver every damn time.
So why??
But why ask when he already knows the answer. He might not want to acknowledge the truth, but it’s the truth nonetheless. Brian is selling the loft because he wants to prove that he’s a Changed Man.
The only questions are how changed and changed in what way . . .
. . . and, most importantly, will Justin like that change – or will it break his heart?
Apparently, there is only one way to find out.
“Okay,” he says when Brian again asks him to marry him. “Let’s do it.”
And just like that, he’d jumped out of an airplane with a man he didn’t recognize and a parachute that might or might not open before they hit the ground.