Second City

LaVieEnRose

I scrolled down the page and hovered my mouse over the buy button. “Okay, you're absolutely sure?” I said.

Brian was standing by the foot of the bed, rearranging his socks or whatever the fuck he does. He gave me a look in the mirror.

“No, I mean like, a hundred percent, completely, eighty million percent sure.”

Before you purchase those entirely refundable tickets, you mean? he said. You don't buy non-refundables when you have a chronic illness. Rookie mistake.

“The tickets are a metaphor for the whole planning experience,” I said. “Plane, hotel, finding the passports, it's all setting the ball in motion.”

The passports are in the filing cabinet in my office, Brian said. And I don't know if you were aware, but you don't actually need a passport to go to Chicago. Brand new law, I think.

“Well, that's good, since I think Evan's is about to expire.” I chewed on my lip. “He and I really could do this alone, you know? If you can't...”

He turned around and leaned against the dresser, giving me an amused look. Do you not want me there?

I groaned and flopped down on the bed, narrowly missing my laptop. And my dog. “Of course I want you there, it's just...it's a lot of work to take off! I used to have to beg you to take a three-day weekend and now you're volunteering to take two weeks off. I feel bad.”

But you're not concerned about Evan taking two weeks off.

“I don't generally worry for Evan's job security, no.”

Oh, so you worry about mine? My position at Kinnetik seem particularly tenuous to you? The sign he used for tenuous was just fragile--there's a lot of that in ASL, which is better than any spoken language when it comes to describing visuals but rather depressingly lacking at distinguishing between concepts with almost, but not exactly, identical meanings—but I knew the word Brian meant in English. I can always do that with Brian. Sometimes he'll sign something and have me write down in English what he's saying because it freaks him out how I always get exactly the words he was thinking. I can't do that with anyone else. Obviously not with Evan, since it’s not like he thinks in coherent English sentences that way. He’s all vibes.

“Yours is just very important, I said. It's what keeps me in pretty things.

Brian smiled with his eyes and said, Well, maybe not after this.

He was exaggerating a little—I'm never going to be able to compete with the amount of money Brian brings in, it's fine—but...honestly not all that much. This wasn’t even so much an art show as a, like, extended celebration of me, as completely bizarre as that is to say. This gallery owner in Chicago had to come to New York for my last show and I guess really liked, me, because now he’d created a whole exhibit, a retrospective, press tour…it was a big fucking deal.

I’m not missing this, Brian said simply, and I pulled my legs up and watched him.

**

Evan was so psyched for the trip, it was funny. The last time we all went away together was St. Lucia, but that was before we got Martha and before he got his new kidney, so the two of us both had a lot more independence now that we did then. We spent most of our time in St. Lucia sleeping in beach chairs while Brian sampled every whiskey at the swim-up bar.

I was excited too, obviously, just a little tempered by my usual worries about accessibility and worst case scenarios and generally the anticipated stress of interacting with journalists and critics and, well, people. The first event was this welcome dinner the gallery was hosting for me, so the itinerary the event coordinator sent me had us flying in the morning of. Oh, amateurs. We scheduled a flight midday the day before, obviously. Jumping off a plane and going straight to dinner? Yeah, that’s healthy shit.

Flying with Martha was surprisingly easy, between her service dog vest which made her status pretty obvious and her size which made her too tiny for anyone to really care about anyway. I’d been so worried about it beforehand and had called the airline like seven times to make sure they knew I was coming with her and that it was okay and that no one on the flight was deathly allergic to dogs. Besides you, Brian groused, but Brian is a drama queen. Although I guess I’m not really one to talk, given the aforementioned seven phone calls.

Brian tried to talk me into a wheelchair at the airport but the terminal wasn’t too far and I was feeling okay and I didn’t know if that would worry Martha, so I just walked. Evan had his earbuds in and his denim jacket on and looked like some hot indie rock star walking with one hand in his pocket and the other pulling his suitcase along. Brian wasn’t wearing a suit but he was dressed well, always is to fly, and I leaned my head against his shoulder at the gate while he counted out drugs for me.

This trip was kind of a big deal for the three of us as a unit, too, because we’d sat down and had the big discussion and decided we were sick of being in some sort of polyamorous version of a closet. Evan was all worried about how it was going to affect my career, and honestly I was a little nervous about that too, but the thought of spending this week introducing Evan like he was some kind of third party, a friend or a cousin or God forbid an assistant…I couldn’t do it. If the hospital could deal with the Justin has two boyfriends set-up, so could some arthouse freaks.

There was one other issue with the three of us traveling together, though. I’m really concerned about how I’m going to get enough sex this week, I said to Brian, while Evan was in the bathroom. We share a room most of the time at home, but it’s a big house; it’s never hard for me to sneak away with one of them. Now we were all going to be trapped in the same hotel room for a week, and ever since Evan started feeling better he and I had been….active, and Brian and I weren’t exactly in any sort of dry spell either. Brian and Evan don’t have sex with each other, so it’s not like threesomes were on the table, and I don’t think any of us would be comfortable with like, two of us having sex while the other one is just….around, watching. No judgment to people with that arrangement, it just ain’t us, babe. I intentionally don’t do a lot of digging into the nature of Evan and Brian’s relationship, and I’m not exactly eager to go around nudging them to their limits. What they have is beautiful and delicate and I am the luckiest fucker in the world, so…let’s not go breaking anything.

But Brian just shrugged and said, I figured we’d just be taking turns fucking you in the shower. We got the accessible room and all that. Bars in the shower. Great for being disabled and getting the brains fucked out of you.

Oh. I paused. Now I’m worried you guys are gonna wear me out.

The burdens you bear, Brian said dryly, and he turned a page in his magazine.

When Brian and I fly we usually do first class so it’s just two across, but since there were three of us we figured, fuck it, we’ll slum it for two and a half hours. It’s not like we mind being squished together. Evan took the window so he could daydream to his heart’s content, Brain had the aisle so there was room for his mile-long legs, and I was content in the middle, Martha dozing on my feet. I tested both their shoulders against my cheek and decided Evan’s cardigan was softer than Brian’s jacket, so he got the dubious honor of being my pillow for the first hour of the flight. I was drugged to all hell, so I fell asleep quickly, but I had these awful dreams about seizures and teeth and blood and I felt my body jerk when I woke up.

I saw Brian first, absorbed in his book, but I turned to Evan when he slipped his fingers into mine. I looked up at him and he brushed my hair off my forehead. You okay? he said.

I took a slow breath. I think so.

Bad dream?

Yeah. I blinked a few times, trying to focus. God, I’m stoned.

He took one of his earbuds and handed it to me, and I gave him a dubious look but put it in.

Anything? he asked me.

I shook my head. Maybe a bit of vibration on the bass beat, but I wasn’t positive I wasn’t imagining it.

The sound was obviously up high already, but he turned it up the rest of the way. Now?

No.

He chuckled. You are so Deaf.

Thanks.

Evan put the earbud back in and I settled down on his shoulder again, but I couldn’t fall back asleep, even though I was so tired. I reached out to Brian, and he lifted his hand to his mouth and gave my fingers a quick kiss without really looking at me. He was reading–it’s funny, actually, what he was reading. It was a friend of Lindsay’s who published her first book a handful of years ago, and Lindsay had given like everybody she’d ever met a copy as a gift, and Brian rolled his eyes about it at first but was bored one night and read it and now he’s like totally obsessed with her. He follows her on Twitter and subscribes to her newsletter and loses his shit when a new book comes out. It’s cute. He’s always trying to get me to read them but they’re so depressing!

You want a snack? he asked me.

My stomach flipped at the thought. I shook my head.

Want to fuck in the bathroom?

We literally know someone who died that way. I yawned.

He finally gave me more than just a glance to see my signing. Oh, hey there, asthma.

Oh yeah?

Yeah, I can hear that wheeze over the engine.

That means nothing to me.

He reached down into his carry on and pulled out an inhaler and some menthol cough drops. I have the portable neb if you want it.

I know. I’m okay.

Surprised you’re not puking your guts out.

It’s still definitely on the table. I shook the inhaler and took two hits from it, and Brian ran his palm in slow circles over my back.

How’s Martha? he asked me.

She’s good. Sleeping. I think she likes flying more than I do.

Low bar to clear. We’re almost there, he said. Anything I can do?

I wrinkled my nose at him.

Sorry, he said. He held up his book. The sick character just died.

Ah, yeah, that’ll do it.

Sure will. He patted his shoulder. Rest here for now.

**

Getting from the airplane into the hotel is without a doubt the hardest part of traveling for me. I have a hard time moving after I’ve been sitting still for a long time, and the drugs have never fully worn off so I’m always really out-of-it. See, this is why we don’t fly in day-of! Brian kept his hand on the back of my head as we went down the fucking endless hallways that were making me really wish I’d requested that wheelchair back in New York. It’s hard to get one on arrival if you didn’t have it for departure. Airport things. Martha kept looking up at me while we walked.

I will get you a wheelchair, Brain said, pseudo-patient, for the third time.

I’m okay, I said, but I let Evan slip his arm around my waist and half-drag me to the cab stand.

The gallery was putting us up in a nice hotel, but I’m inevitably allergic to….everywhere, it’s just a matter of degree. This place didn’t seem too bad. I was sneezing as soon as we got to the room, but I didn’t break out in hives or anything so, you know, small favors.

Brian glanced at me while he was taking off his jacket. Must be fucking exhausting, he signed, small, to Evan.

I know.

“I’m sitting right here,” I said.

Christ, blow your nose.

I was just in a bad mood at that point, I think. Traveling fucking sucks, and I was so tired, and I felt like shit, and…this was supposed to be my big week of being a successful artist, not yet-another-week of being the invalid boyfriend. I don’t know. I don’t get angry about it all very often, but I was…well, maybe not angry, at least annoyed. People were spending all this money and making all these accommodations and I was still a disaster. It’s just hard not to hate yourself sometimes.

Brian can always see when I’m starting to spiral, and he came over to me and nudged me towards the bed. Naptime.

You guys too.

They took their shoes off and Brian got me out of my clothes–making the decent point that if I stayed in the clothes I wore on the plane too long, I probably would break out in hives–and into some sweats, and I curled up in the middle of the bed with both of them around me and Martha on my feet. You want a bedtime story? Brain teased me.

I nuzzled the pillow. Yeah.

He sighed heavily and said, Once upon a time there was this brilliant artist… and I smiled and then closed my eyes, so he was off the hook. Sometimes I have nightmares when I sleep in weird places, but not that time.

**

We spent the evening just relaxing.I could tell Evan was kind of antsy to get out and explore, but Brian had been to Chicago several times before and promised him the nightlife was nothing to write home about. He’d already agreed to take Evan out for some touristy stuff, Navy Pier and all that, over the next couple days while I was busy with interviews and straightening paintings or whatever else they made me do.

After a good night’s sleep I felt a lot more human and was kind of embarrassed about what a downer I’d been the day before. Like, this was a huge fucking deal, people were taking so much time out of their lives for me, and I was going to pout about how I didn’t like the plane ride?

So I put a smile on my face in the morning and swapped sex partners in the shower, which ended up going pretty smoothly, and Brian high-fived Evan on his way out of the bathroom like he was tagging him into a relay, and that made me laugh. After I was all clean and sated I got on my laptop and found us a brunch place within walking distance of the hotel. It was kind of cold and dreary outside but, well, it’s Chicago.

Evan seemed jittery while we were eating, and I trapped his foot between mine under the table. He smiled at me, looking adorable and a little guilty.

Oh my God, what, I said.

I want to go see the gallery today, he said.

I laughed. Tomorrow. It was a whole thing: welcome dinner tonight, then tomorrow morning the big reveal of the exhibit.

Yes but see the thing is…I want to see it today.

They have the whole tour planned for us tomorrow!

Just a preview, Evan said. I have to see what pieces they chose!

It’s one more day!

I simply cannot, he said. I cannot wait another day. We have to sneak in.

I looked to Brian for help.

Brian wiped his mouth on his napkin and said, No. Not today. But I will take you to the Mexican Art History Museum, how’s that?

Oh, I suppose it’s something.

Brian tapped my knuckles with the tines of his fork. You want to come?

It’s always such a fucking complicated question, whether I want to go somewhere. I have to take into account what I’ve already done and what I still need to do and try to gauge how much I can afford to do in one day, and on top of that purely intellectual exercise is the fact that I am so fucking goddamn tired all of the time. So of course things sound interesting and exciting and I want to do them, but it’s all always so…abstract, because it’s so far overshadowed by the rushing oh my God I’m so tired that just smothers everything like a duvet. All I’d done so far today was take a shower and have some sex and walk two blocks and eat breakfast, and I still felt completely spent, and I still had to get through the whole event tonight.

But what the fuck was I going to do, waste the whole trip here just so I could sleep? Because it’s not like I wake up and I’m not tired anymore. I usually feel more exhausted when I wake up than I did before .It does nothing. It’s literally just a waste of time.

Of course, yeah, I said, and Evan smiled at me.

**

The Mexican history museum was gorgeous, and inspiring, and enormous, and after about twenty minutes of wandering I was pretty sure I was going to die. I kept looking at Martha wondering why she wasn’t alerting because holy shit did I feel terrible, but no seizure ever came. I just carried on feeling like trash.

Evan was kind of hypnotized by the art, taking a lot of pictures with his tablet and sketching something every so often, but Brian was not-so-subtly watching me. Eventually he interrupted Evan standing mesmerized at a portrait and said, We need to find somewhere with a bench.

Sure, Evan said, already back to looking at the painting.

Right, but…now, though.

Right. Sorry.

You want to stay here?

No, no, we can go. Evan came over to me and slipped his arm around my waist. You can’t get Martha to bring you a chair? he asked me, scanning me the way he does, the way they both do.

No, she’s lazy.

He tugged me a little. Come on. Let’s sit.

We tried a few different rooms before we found a small gallery with a bench, but it was backless which is like…the bane of my damn existence. Still, it was better than nothing, so I sat down, and Brian took a spot next to me and put his arm around my waist to give me some support. He knows. Evan was immediately transfixed by a few pieces in here, so I watched him move around slowly while I caught my breath.

Doing okay? Brian asked me, small.

I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m so worn out.

You have got to start being easier on yourself around travel, he said. It’s always really hard for you. This isn’t new.

I shrugged a little. I’m frustrated today.

He nodded. It used to really bother Brian that I’d have days when I just…can’t, when I sink into the self-loathing or, okay, a little bit of self-pity. Brian, thank God, loves disability theory. Latched onto it immediately, which was a fucking miracle. But that meant it took him a little while to accept the fact that I’d have days when I wasn’t gung-ho disability-positive, when it just was a little too annoying or a little too inconvenient or a little too much for me to believe everything that I wish I could always believe. He lets me have that space now.

In pain? he asked.

Just my head a little.

You want to go?

Yeah. You can stay here, though.

He glanced at Evan. You sure?

Yeah.

I can walk you back at least.

I’m just gonna get in a cab. Stay with him.

He tilted his head to the side and looked at me, but he nodded, and I got up and went over to Evan and told him I was going. I had basically the same conversation with him and eventually convinced him I didn’t need him to babysit me either, and I left them there.

A few cabs drove right past me when the drivers saw Martha–it’s illegal to turn someone down because of a service dog, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen–but finally one picked me up. I showed him the address I’d typed in on my phone and let myself go a little limp in the backseat, reaching out every so often to scratch Martha’s head. The elevator up to the hotel made me nauseous, and I took my shoes off and crawled straight into bed.

I missed Emily, suddenly. I thought about her apartment, all cluttered and mismatched with stuff she stole from her parents, and I wanted to be there so badly, just lying on her couch with Jane playing on the rug in front of me, watching some subtitled sitcom while Emily and Gwen made out in the kitchen. I don’t know why that was specifically where I wanted to be, but once it fell into my head I missed it so much.

This was so dumb. We’d been gone one night.

I wrapped my arms around the pillow and squeezed my eyes shut.

**

I felt a little better by the time Evan woke me up. He crawled up on the bed beside me and lay his head down on my pillow.

“Hi,” I said.

Brian says time to get ready.

My allergies were acting up again, so I took another shower and some more pills and then started to get ready for dinner. When Evan or I travel by ourselves we just live out of my suitcases, but Brian, I’m sure surprising no one, is the type to unpack and carefully hang everything as soon as he checks in, and he does our bags too because it drives him so crazy. The ensemble we’d picked out for tonight was hung up and ready to go. Emerald green shirt, gray wool pants. Brian said a suit would be too stuffy, and he’s the one who pays attention to what people wear at these art events, so I trust him.

Brain watched me get dressed while Evan shaved in the bathroom. Get excited, Brian said.

I know, I’m trying. I looked at him. Are you ready?

He straightened his tie–of course he was wearing one. I don’t look like arm candy?

You do. I just mean with… I said, with a head jerk towards the bathroom.

Ah. I’ll take care of it. Hi, I’m Brian, and this is the man who sleeps with my husband.

I rolled my eyes.

They’ll think it’s very cosmopolitan, probably, Brian said. A little New York flair for their dreary midwestern lives.

It’s not the sex people usually have trouble with, I said.

Tell that to the lifetime of badgering I’ve received for not keeping it in my pants.

Okay, well, it’s not 2003, so I’m ignoring that, I said, and he glared at me. All right, if you’re so bold, how about, hi, I’m Brian, and this is the man in a loving and committed relationship with my husband.

Just….so many terrible words in there.

“Mmhmm.”

I liked the ‘Brian’ part.

I knew you would. I put my hand against the wall and stayed there for a moment to catch my breath. Brian leaned over and kissed my cheek. I said You know how they keep writing reviews that go on about how I’m disabled and then they’re like oh yeah, there was some art there? I don’t want them to blather on about my unique polyamorous lifestyle either. I’m so sick of existing. Can I just be a recluse and the paintings appear in the world and no one knows where they came from?

You would get sick of that in six months and you know it, he said. You’d climb the walls and bemoan that you weren’t getting enough attention. You’re not as fame-averse as you’d like to believe, you know.

Yeah, maybe. I sighed. I’m not fame-averse. This just… I gestured up and down myself. Isn’t the person I want to be famous.

He looked a little sad, but then he shrugged one shoulder and said, Tough shit. That’s what you got.

Yeah.

Plenty of nice healthy people don’t have shit worth being famous for. No one’s writing any kind of article about them. He ran his hands up and down my arm. Kind of a Facts of Life thing. Take the good and the bad, et cetera.

I could just be healthy and rich like you, I said.

No one’s going to remember me, he said easily.

He says that kind of thing sometimes, and it always makes me sad for him, which I guess is sort of the point, in a way. Showing me that there are still things I have for him to be jealous of. They’ll remember you too, I said. After all, you’re one of Justin Taylor’s many lovers.

He snickered and grabbed my waist. A fixture of his unique polyamorous lifestyle.

And he’s disabled!

We’d planned out our hotel so it would be close to the gallery, and the restaurant was right around the corner from there, so we just walked. The street was gray and–predictably–windy, and it was colder than it was at home in New York. There weren’t as many people on the streets as I’m used to, and it made everything seem kind of sad, I don’t know. Even out in Queens, New York is so alive, and this seemed kind of frozen.

There was a woman waiting outside the restaurant, and she obviously recognized me and started signing. Mr. Taylor! she said, which is a little awkward in ASL; we don’t really use honorifics. I’m Adriana, your interpreter. It’s so nice to meet you.

I showed her my sign name, then introduced Brian and Evan. Brian’s my husband, I said. Evan is my boyfriend. Might as well give it a trial run.

She blinked. I’m sorry–

Brain and Evan signed husband and boyfriend, respectively.

She smiled uncertainly. Very artsy, I suppose! What did I tell ya. Shall we go in?

We entered the restaurant and Adriana led us to a private room in the back. As soon as we walked in, there was this flurry of movement, people standing up, talking at me, coming over to kiss my cheek. I watched Adriana as each one introduced themselves to me. The gallery owner, the publicist, the show coordinator. Journalists. People telling me they’d been a fan of me for years.

I took a deep breath and smiled.

**

It was more of a cocktail party than a dinner, really. A lot of mingling and moving around from table to table, though after a while I kind of planted myself and let people flow to and away from me because I figured I was the guest of honor and I got to do this, and honestly after an hour I was beyond exhausted. It’s not that I don’t like these events–Brian was right, I definitely have a Tinkerbell side that dies if I don’t get applause–it’s just that they’re so much to juggle. Dealing with the interpreter and people overlapping and talking over each other and grabbing my hand to get my attention, and side conversations and laughter and just a billion other things that I miss when I’m in a group setting with people who don’t sign. At least the Brian and Evan situation didn’t seem to be a thing, because honestly…no one was paying much attention to Brian and Evan. They were tucked away at other tables, having whatever conversations they were having with whoever drifted away from my table, but for the most part? People were focused on me. And just me.

I honestly hadn’t realized what a big deal this was.

Brian came over to my table while Adriana was on a break and I was checking something on my phone because….what else was I supposed to do while my interpreter was on a break. He glanced behind his shoulder and said, Do you like her?

Adriana? She’s fine. Why?

He sipped his drink. Is she your interpreter this whole trip?

I think so. Is something wrong?

He shrugged a little. If you like her it’s fine. You feel like you’re getting everything?

I’m doing okay.

She just doesn’t sound like you. That always bothers Brian, when interpreters don’t voice my signing the way Brian knows that I would do it if I were speaking. Interpreting isn’t an exact science; there’s a million ways to say a sentence and get the same gist across. Brain doesn’t like it when their way isn’t the exact same as mine. It doesn’t bother me as much, I guess because how would I know? But it is always kind of weird when I’m in situations where I have an interpreter and Brian’s speaking out loud and the interpreter signs for him and I’m like…no, that’s not right. That’s not Brian. Like I said. I always know what Brian means.

As long as she’s not making me sound like an idiot, I said.

No, you’re good. He tapped my empty glass. What are you drinking?

Nothing, club soda.

Want another?

I can get it. I wanted to stretch my legs, anyway; I’d been sitting there for ages now. It was one of those high chairs, and Brian put his hand under my elbow on my way off of it, just the casual things that he does. As I took Martha’s leash and headed over to the bar, I saw him start to strike up a conversation with one of the publicity people sitting at my table, and he was doing…I don’t know if anyone but me would recognize it, but it was his advertising smile, the one he uses on clients when he needs to be his most charming. And I don’t know, I just loved that he was pulling it out for me. That I was important enough for him to sell.

I was waiting in a short line at the bar when I felt Martha’s paws on my leg, and she nudged me behind my knee. I looked at her, and she sat and looked at me expectantly, her ears kind of askew. She worries, you can see it in her expression.

“Shit,” I said. “Okay.” First priority: get the fuck out of this room. I slipped out of line and down the first hallway I found, just hoping against hope this was the way to the bathroom. At least it was out of view, wherever it was. My vision started getting kind of weird halfway down the hall, and I had to stop and balance myself against the wall. But finally, men’s room. Thank God.

Mercifully, it was empty. I thought about going into one of the stalls just in case someone came in, but I didn’t want to risk hitting my head on the fucking toilet, so I just held onto the sink and lowered myself slowly to the floor. I felt very awful very quickly, pressure building from my feet to my head like a wave, and then everything got dark and empty and terrifying, the way it does. I felt my leg shaking against the floor, and I was vaguely aware of Martha pacing in anxious circles next to me, but mostly I just tried to breathe and waited for it to be over.

Maybe about a minute later I felt the air move and I knew someone had opened the bathroom door, but I still couldn’t see much so I couldn’t really do anything about it. After a few seconds, though, I felt a hand on my cheek, and I breathed out when I recognized his rings and the feel of his fingers. Evan.

Things started to come back, slowly. My leg stilled, and the metallic taste left my mouth, and finally I could see him, crouched in front of me, patient. He wiped sweat off my forehead and squeezed my shoulder.

“Did…” I stopped and breathed. “Did anyone out there notice?” It is very, very convenient after seizures that Evan can read lips.

Everything’s fine. Brian’s out there charming them. I’m going to text him now and tell him you’re okay.

“Okay.” I swallowed. “Okay, I need to get up.”

Take your time. When you’re ready I’ll get an uber.

I shook my head–oof, bad idea. “I have to go back to the party.”

Baby. No you don’t.

“I’m not just going to ghost my own party. Help me up?”

He did, slowly. Martha was still weaving her way around my feet. I rinsed my face off in the sink and made a definite effort not to look at myself in the mirror. But I did see how Evan was watching me, how sad he looked.

I touched his arm. I’m okay.

I know you’re okay. Let me take you back to the hotel.

I took a deep breath and tried very, very hard not to let those words sink in. Not to picture darkness, and a bed, and a room without strangers. I couldn’t think about that right now. I couldn’t.

Soon, I said. Just let me wrap things up here.

But God, it was another two hours, easily. Every time I thought it was winding down, someone new would show up to introduce themselves to me or, fuck, to pull me aside with Adriana to tell me how much one of my pieces meant to them, and it was so incredibly sweet and exactly what every artist fucking dreams of and all I wanted in the world was for it to be over. I smiled and shook hands and tried my best to remember what the right things were to say and then to say them. Evan and Brian mostly stuck together by my side, and when they did step away from me I could see them having these conversations with small, quick hands: when is this going to be over, I want to get him out of here, he doesn’t look good, when is this going to be over.

Finally it was. We stood outside saying our last goodbyes to everyone, and by the time Adriana left I had an iron grip on Brian’s elbow to stay standing. “I can’t walk home,” I said, the second we were alone.

Evan got a car already, it’s on its way.

I nodded and leaned into him, my face in his chest, and I felt him sigh before he put his arms around me.

I started fading fast when we were in the car. I was so nauseous and dizzy and I felt like time wasn’t passing at the right speed, I don’t know. They half-dragged me out of the car and up to the hotel room, and I sat on the side of the bed and slowly undressed while they had some worried kind of argument about what meds to give me that I was way too tired to participate in. Halfway through unbuttoning my shirt I just got so, so tired and kind of gave up, and Brian crouched down in front of me and did the rest without taking his eyes off what Evan was saying.

They eventually came to some sort of agreement and gave me a handful of pills and I said I wanted oxygen and Evan nodded and set it up. I wanted to sleep between them and just feel kind of…protected, but the logistics of the oxygen mean I really need to be on the edge. Which ended up being a good thing when I woke up in the middle of the night and stumbled to the bathroom to puke my brains out. God, what an awful fucking night.

Martha was anxious, and I tapped her paw to get her attention. Go get Brian, I said, and she trotted out of the bathroom. I don’t know what method she picked to terrorize Brian into waking up, but a minute later she came back with him right behind.

He squinted in the light and rubbed the stubble on his face. Justin. You okay? and just that, I don’t know, almost pushed me over the edge. Something about Brian’s calm way of expressing concern still makes me want to burst into tears, even after all these years.

I shook my head. “No, not right now.” I’m honest at night too. And it’s easier to do it in English, when I can’t hear myself, and that part of me that constantly chants shut up shut up shut up shut up can almost pretend I’m not complaining.

Yeah. Really hurting, huh? Man. What a shitty night. He bent down and helped me up and God, his hands were so gentle. Breathing’s sounded better, too.

“I don’t even care about that.” I shivered. “I’m trying not to start screaming. I don’t know.” Another wave of nausea hit me and I closed my eyes, and when I opened them Brian was messing with his phone. He must have brought it in with him when Martha woke him up to triage, in case he needed to call for help. He thinks of everything. “What are you doing?”

Checking if you can have more gabapentin or if it’ll kill you.

“I’m okay with either outcome.’

Ha ha, he fingerspelled flatly. Okay, we can do a little more. Take two. He caught me as my feet slipped on the floor. Easy, tiger.

“Oh God. Fuck.”

No. No screaming. We have neighbors.

“You don’t give a shit about the neighbors.”

True, but I don’t need them calling the fucking police on me. And it’ll fuck up your lungs anyway. You want a bath? You’re shivering.

“I don’t know, I can’t…” I shook my head. I hit a wall where I just can’t decide things anymore.

Okay, let’s just go back to bed, all right? I want to get you warm.

I rinsed my mouth out and sipped some water and took the pills, but I started to freak out a little–okay, a little more--when Brian got me back into bed. “No no no no no,” I said when he tried to get one of my legs from the floor up onto the bed. “Don’t move it don’t move it–”

I know. I know. But he tried to move my leg again, and I could tell by the feeling in my throat that I made some kind of noise. He cupped the back of my head and looked at me. Okay. That’s okay. We’ll stop.

I started crying then because…Jesus, I couldn’t even get back into bed? And everything just hurt so much and Brian was so worried and I was scared I was going to wake up Evan and I just wanted to be back at home so badly, with our bed that’s low enough to the ground that I can get into it, and our sheets that don’t make my skin itch, and a tomorrow that wasn’t full of events and obligations and hearing people and forcing myself to smile.

Brian just held my wrists carefully in his hands and waited it out, and eventually I felt the meds and maybe just the exhaustion start to kick in, and everything got kind of soft and swimmy. Brian asked if I was ready to try moving again, and when I nodded he helped me again, so carefully, lifting my legs up and putting them on the bed. It still hurt, and I tensed completely up, but it wasn’t unbearable this time.

He got himself behind me and arranged me on his chest, and I breathed in the smell of him and tried to calm myself down. I was so aware that we only had a few hours left before we had to get up and go to the gallery preview, and it just seemed…impossible, having to deal with this and then be a functioning human on only a couple hours of sleep, if I even got that much. If we did.

“Ow, ow, ow,” I whispered, and Brian ran his hand gently over my head. He covered me with the comforter and wrapped his arms all the way around me.

I know, he signed on me. I know. I’m sorry.

Soon everything went blissfully dark.

**

Brain side-eyed me when I threw up again after we were all awake. This is not just pain, he said. You must have eaten something.

I held onto the door frame and leaned my head against the wall. No, it’s definitely pain.

God knows what was in those tapas you were scarfing down–

“I gave them my food allergies ahead of time.”

Doesn’t mean they listened. Take a Benadryl. Humor me.

“Yeah, okay.”

I don’t know if he was right that it was allergy-related or it just helped to get a little stoned on antihistamines, but I was feeling better by the time we needed to leave for the gallery. Evan and Brian were both a little subdued and obviously watching me, but they were so excited to see the exhibit. Especially Evan. And of course I was too, even if I was having a hard time really…radiating that.

We went around the corner for bagels–bad idea, did not help with how much I missed New York–and then met Adriana outside the gallery. When we went inside, the woman at the front desk jumped up and shook my hand and chatted at me the whole time as she led us to the space, telling me how much she loved my pieces and how amazing it was to meet me in person. Brian, of course, jumped right on that and started telling her half-lies about how in-demand I was. Evan was kind of spacing out already, taking in the aesthetics of the place, and I just loved them both so much.

Finally we met up with some of the gallery owners we’d met last night, they hugged us like old friends, moved a curtain to the side, and…wow.

Of course this was far from my first show, but I’d had precious few that were just mine, and not me as part of a series of artists.

This was…this was me. On every wall. New pieces, ancient pieces, pieces I hadn’t seen in years that they’d convinced buyers to loan out. Drawings, oil paintings, watercolors. There were plaques everywhere talking about me and my process and my technique and my story and yeah, some of it was cringey disability-porn or look at the queer who got bashed in the head-porn, but some of it wasn’t. Some of it was just….me, where I went to school and how my goals developed and what my vision was for a particular collection.

Evan gave me a tight squeeze around my shoulders, and then we all kind of split off and toured it on our own, just taking everything in. I met Brian in front of one of the self-portraits. What a half-assed job they did, huh? he said, and I laughed and he stuck his tongue in his cheek.

So that was pretty great.

**

Miraculously, I kept feeling better as the day went on. The opening was that night and I didn’t want to push my luck, so I went back to the hotel to rest for a few hours while Brian and Evan went out and did some kind of walking tour of Chicago’s gay district, I don’t know. I hear the word ‘walking’ and I’m already opting out. I didn’t end up napping, but I stretched out and watched TV and FaceTimed Jane and just…decompressed. Got ready for the night.

Brian and Evan came back with presents–Trans Rights t-shirts and gay icon coffee mugs and sex toys–and we showered and got ready kind of leisurely. Evan had turned some music on and Brian and him were talking about it, which obviously could not have interested me less, but I didn’t mind. It’s nice seeing them bond. Brian had gotten Evan these really high-tech hearing aids recently so now Evan could hook them up to bluetooth and hear music a lot better than he could before, so they were talking about that and how different things sounded. I was happy for him. I don’t actually miss music as much as I thought I would, honestly. It was one of the things I used to get really upset about back when I was losing my hearing, but nowadays, I don’t know. Maybe I just don’t remember it well enough for it to bother me. But Evan loves it, always has, and it’s exciting for him that he can hear it decently for the first time since he was a baby.

Brian frowned a little when he saw what I was wearing, then shook his head and told me to get out of my shirt and pulled a sweater over my head instead. This isn’t the outfit we planned, I said.

I didn’t realize the gallery would be a fucking icebox. Practically had icicles hanging from my nipples there this morning. He put my coat over my shoulders. Where are your gloves?

The gallery had offered to send a limo to bring us to the opening, but that felt ridiculous for two blocks, so we walked. It was raining a little, and I didn’t want Martha smelling like wet dog all night, so I picked her up and tucked her into my jacket and carried her to the gallery like that.

We should be high for this, Evan said. They like taking E before they go to my shows. It’s a good time for them, obviously, and they get added amusement out of me being scared to death they’re going to embarass me.

I don’t exactly have a Chicago supplier, Brian said. Sunshine, give me that dog before you give yourself another damn sneezing fit, he said, and I chuckled to myself as I don’t want a dog Kinney bundled a toy poodle under his arm, carefully adjusting her paws to make sure she was comfortable.

We were arriving to the opening fashionably late, of course, so there were already people milling around and drinking and looking at the pieces. I met up with Adriana and got a flute of champagne mostly just to make signing a little harder–I didn’t want to babble, and having to navigate the glass would make me more thoughtful–and off we went to talk to the press.

I’d been a little overly-cynical yesterday with Brian,but the truth is, you really never know what you’re going to get when it comes to press interviews. Some of them have read up on you and seen the stock questions you’re always asked and they come prepared with insightful, new topics, and others…googled you on the way over and want to know how your deafness connects to your art and don’t take a minute to consider that you’ve been asked that at every event for the past ten years.It’s just such a crapshoot.

But tonight was mostly good! There were some boring questions, obviously, especially at the beginning of the interviews, and after I mentioned having a boyfriend–did I kind of force it in? Sure, maybe, but we had an agenda here–there were a few follow-up questions on that, but most of the interviews were actually really interesting. They focused a lot on specific pieces, asking me about the influences and the thought processes and the techniques, and that was fun since a lot of the pieces were old as hell, so I had to think back and try to remember, which was hard but a good time. Brian was talking to a couple journalists as well, with Evan by his side. Evan wasn’t saying much; his hearing aids aren’t much use in environments like this, with a lot of people talking, and I knew he was worried about misunderstanding something, or being misunderstood. Still, I saw Brian pull him in a few times, just little sim-commed Isn’t that right, Evan?s and stuff like that. Just making sure the reporters couldn’t pretend he wasn’t there.

More and more people kept coming, and before long the gallery was packed, which was amazing, obviously but…it was a lot of people, and they kept nudging past me and brushing against me while I was trying to focus. I was talking to a reporter who was asking me about a bunch of different works and I kept getting the dates tangled up and confused and I couldn’t remember what order I’d finished anything in, and then he wanted to talk about some of the digital art pieces they’d collected that were some of the first decent things I’d finished after I was bashed, so we were veering kind of close to talking about that, and…I could feel my throat starting to get a little tight. I sipped the champagne but it didn’t really help, and I felt Martha bump her nose against my ankle. Not a true alert, just a nudge. She knows when I need to be grounded, and when maybe I need a suggestion to get the fuck out of there.

I cut the interview short and told Adriana I was going to take a break. I wanted to just find a spot that wasn’t surrounded by people but Jesus, it was packed in here, and I could feel myself starting to sweat and breathe kind of heavy. Why did Brian tell me it was going to be cold in here? I was boiling alive.

And then his hand was on my elbow, and everything, blissfully, slowed down a little. It’s hard for me to make eye contact when I’m anxious, but I forced myself into it, and he watched me steadily.

What did they say to you? he said.

Nothing, I’m fine.

Bullshit you’re fine. Which one–

“Brian, no one did anything wrong.” I breathed out slowly. I’m going to take a walk around the block, get some air.

He licked his lips. Yeah, okay. By yourself?

Yeah, I just need a minute. Tell Evan I’m okay.

Yeah.

I shouldered my way out of the gallery as unobtrusively as I could and got out to the sidewalk and took a deep breath with my eyes closed. Martha was starting to do a little pee dance anyway, so I took her over to the gutter and gave her a minute while I looked out at a city that was still too frozen and quiet. I wondered how far the river was from here, if it made sense to try to walk to it. My bad leg felt kind of iffy, so probably not. I’d just circle the block once, calm down, and get back in there.

Except after I’d finished my lap and gotten back around to the front of the gallery, I just could not convince myself to go back in there, to smile and laugh and talk to more hearing people about dates I couldn’t remember and times in my life I didn’t want to relive, to get packed in like a sardine with everyone staring at me so I couldn’t even use my inhaler or let my hand twitch in peace. So I did another circle around the block, and then another, and when I got back from the fourth, Brain was outside the gallery doors, signing at his phone.

He glanced up at me, said, Justin’s back, laughed at something the person said, then said goodbye and hung up.

Derek? I guessed.

Wanted to see how everything was going. I guess he likes you.

Wonders never cease. I took my inhaler out and shook it, and Brian watched me with his head a little tilted.

He was quiet while I used it and breathed out and stuck it back in my pocket and shuffled my feet and otherwise stalled going back inside.

I don’t even know where my head is right now, I said. I thought I was panicking but I’m not even, I just…

He just waited.

I think I’m grieving? I said. God, that sounds stupid. What the fuck is wrong with me.

Grieving, he fingerspelled. Clarifying.

Yeah.

Just from seeing the old pieces, or…

“No, not that, I just…” I gestured towards the gallery. “This is what I dreamed of. This was the fucking….ideal. And now I’m out here trying to get away from it and it’s like I’m watching my fucking dream die right in front of me, and it’s my own fault. Nobody took it away from me. It’s right here and I can’t enjoy it. So then what the fuck is even the goal anymore?”

Why can’t you enjoy it? The crowd?

“I don’t know. That’s part of it. But just…it’s like I said before. They’re not even asking me questions about being sick and I still feel them avoiding the questions about me being sick and that’ almost worse? I don’t want to be this person. Not on like…I’m not talking about some cosmic scale or whatever. I’m fine with my life.”

He nodded.

“But when I’m being all…Artist Justin, when I’m in there selling myself like a product….this is not the product I want to be selling. It’s fucking…it’s private, the life I live now.”

It’s intimate.

“Yeah, it is.” I sighed. But this was the dream, and I’m wasting it. And I don’t know how to stop hating that the Justin of fifteen years ago wanted this so fucking badly and now I have it and I’m not enjoying it. He would be so ashamed of me.

He doesn’t exist.

I shrugged.

No, Brian insisted. This is important, because I have been here, where you are. I have based every fucking decision around what some hypothetical twenty-five-year-old Brian would have to say about my life, and you know where that got me? You know how long that pushed you away?

“I’m acutely aware of how long, yeah.”

Look, Brian said. I am not going to feed you some line of bullshit about how you’ve accomplished more than that teenage version of you could have ever dreamed of, and all the obstacles you’ve had to take into consideration that there’s no way he could have seen coming, because none of that really matters. Not when the naked truth is that he can’t judge you because he doesn’t exist. He’s gone. He’s not a hologram somewhere grading your performance. He’s gone. He changed into you, because that’s what he had to do to survive. All he gets to do is thank you for keeping him alive. That’s where his jurisdiction ends. Because, and I cannot stress this enough: he is not around anymore.

“I know. You’re right. I know.” I shook my head a little. “I think I need permission to let it go. Even if being that recluse and letting the paintings appear…you were right, that’s not my platonic ideal of what my career would be like, but it’s my second choice and second choice in your dream job isn’t that fucking bad, so I just need to feel like I can just...compromise. Like doing that isn’t being some massive disappointment to myself. To you.”

What do you think I want from you, Justin?

I shrugged. “To be happy.”

Okay, so…internalize that. I didn’t sign up for this because I wanted to be on page six.

“But maybe I did.” I groaned and titled my head back. “I don’t even know! I have no idea what I actually want and what I’ve just been like…parroting that I used to want.”

I have…no idea what that word was, I’m sorry.

Parroting, I fingerspelled. Is that even English?

Sure.

I just wish I knew what was me, I said. What’s who I actually am and what’s…what all of this fucking illness has shaped me into.

Why is artist you the real you and sick you is a facet? he said. If being sick gets to be just some bonus identity set on top of you, can’t we look at all of this– he gestured towards the gallery --the same way?

I thought about that.

Fame-chasing Justin doesn’t outrank every other kind of Justin in there, Brian said. That’s all I’m saying. He doesn’t have to win every time.

I don’t know if I know how to be an artist anymore without the champagne and the plane tickets and the ass-kissing, I said plainly. I think that’s been the goal for so long that I just…I don’t know how to just create things anymore.

Well, that sounds like a problem, Brian said.

“I don’t know. Maybe I need to sell some clay bowls at craft fairs. Bring my ego down a few notches.”

And…again, your mind goes straight to selling.

“Oh, God.”

This is not why I make money, you know? Brian said gently. I don’t do it for you to….keep up.

“This is not your fault.”

He shrugged. I’ve been forcefeeding you capitalism good since you were a teenager.

“And as we’ve established, I should be capable of outthinking a seventeen-year-old iteration of myself.”

He smiled a little and fingerspelled iteration.

It’s my dad, it’s society, it’s…you know, it’s being a man. I want to contribute.

Color, Brian insisted. You contribute color.

“Yeah, I know.”

Even if you don’t sell, he said. Just means more for me, right?

I got up on my toes and kissed him, which was nice, but when I lowered myself back down he was frowning. What? I said.

No, I didn’t….I didn’t realize how bad you were breathing until you got close.

“Oh.”

He pushed my hair back. Are you okay?

I nodded.

Yeah. He cupped his hand around my ribs to feel my lungs. You are really not sounding good. I’m sorry. I know this isn’t the point of this whole conversation, but you…do not sound good.

I’ll keep an eye on it, I promise.

Yeah…

Don’t be worried. I glanced behind him. Okay. Let’s go back in.

He watched me, chewing on his lip.

It will be fine, I said. Let’s go back in and get this done.

**

And it was fine, mostly, though I did start to feel really run down after about another hour. The crowd had thinned out some, so that was better, but I was really starting to feel myself breathing, and a couple people had asked if I was okay. Just like the night before at dinner, Evan and Brian were watching me and talking about me, and I felt bad for making them worry and embarrassed that strangers were noticing and also just generally like shit because I couldn’t breathe. At least when I’d been epileptic as fuck the other night I had the benefit of being kind of spacy and out-of-it. Small favors.

I did end up ducking out early, when breathing was just getting too painful. Fucking rich people and their fucking cologne. I nodded to Evan across the room, and he signaled to Brian, and immediately they started saying goodbyes for me while I slipped out and waited for them outside.

Okay, Brain said as they came out, and Evan put my coat around me. How are we doing?

Really locked up. I bent over with my hands on my knees and tried to let out a breath. Oh, wow.

Evan was getting a cab when I straightened back up, but Brian was watching me carefully. He said, Hospital…?

God no.

Wow, shocking answer.

I’m not going to some weird hospital with weird doctors where they’ll probably kill me with their weird medicine. Holy shit I can’t breathe.

Getting mixed messages here, Sunshine.

Do not make fun of me right now! I said, and he cracked a smile. I just need oxygen. Everything swam a little and God, my chest hurt. Yeah. Oxygen.

A cab pulled up, and Brian ushered me into it and then climbed into the front seat while Evan got in on my other side. Evan put his hand on my knee and looked at me sympathetically.

The show was beautiful, he said. I’m so proud of you.

You’re sweet. I tried a breath. Fuck.

We have a plan.

And they definitely did. Evan was out of the cab like a rocket as soon as it pulled up at the hotel, while Brian paid and helped me get out. We were alone in the elevator, and he hugged me into him, his hand rubbing roughly up and down my back like it would force the air into me, and you know what, it did help a little. By the time we got to the room, Evan had the nebulizer already set up, and I started on that while they helped me out of my clothes and into bed.

It was already late, but all of us stayed up for ages, just trying to stay on top of this. It never got to a point where they put their foot down about going to the hospital, but it never got….super far from that point, either. The neb and the oxygen helped enough to keep it from getting worse, but they didn’t really help it get better. Every time I finished a round on the nebulizer and was still wheezing up a storm they looked so worried and defeated. Eventually I convinced them that we all needed to sleep, and I promised that if it was still this bad in the morning we could skip the scheduled brunch with the gallery people and go to urgent care. Evan was exhausted as fuck from all of this, worrying and rushing around and trying to keep up with hearing people for hours, plus his meds wear him out. He fell asleep with his head resting on my hip, but Brian shook his head when I tried to get him to lie down. He was tense.

You need to sleep, I told him.

No, I need to hold a fucking vigil and make sure you don’t stop breathing. Try to make some deals with God about it. I may need to sacrifice some goats or something.

God, everything ached so much. Do you always stay awake when it’s bad? I’m sorry…

He shook his head. Only sometimes. I want to. Go to sleep. I’ll keep the nebs going.

I felt guilty as shit but God, wild horses couldn’t have kept me awake at that point. I woke up a little a few times during the night to Brian adjusting me, but finally I rolled over and he was next to me, asleep, and my lungs my felt a little lighter. I checked my watch–a little after five AM–and rested my cheek against his chest and went back to sleep.

When the alarm went off at nine, it was still hard to breathe, but not nearly as bad as it had been. Still, I set up the neb first thing so my lungs wouldn’t get any ideas. Brian and Evan got up, and they were both clearly dragging. Evan asked Brian what the schedule was for today, and Brian listed it for him–the brunch, then a newspaper interview, then the gallery had gotten us tickets to…something. I don’t know. Brian looked about as exhausted saying it as I felt watching it.

Evan said, Are we doing brunch or are we going to urgent care?

It’s up to him, Brian said, and they both looked at me.

I was breathing better at that point. I didn’t really need to go to urgent care. And I thought about the brunch, and the newspaper interview, and the tickets, and then tomorrow another day at the gallery, and the college class I was supposed to speak to, and the meetings with local artists they’d set up, and the consultation on the new gallery wing, and God, more interviews, and then another day, and another…

And I said, Can we just go home?

They stayed very still. To New York? Brian said eventually.

Yeah. Like…today. Can we just…fuck all of this, can we go home?

Thank God, they said in unison, and I dropped my head into my hands and laughed.