Brian attending the start of my session with Dr. Bitonti was basically Dr. B lecturing Brian on how to fucking babysit me. He went on and on about how important it was for me to take my medications and to not stop taking them without consulting a doctor - even if, especially if, I’m feeling better. Blah blah blah. He also mentioned the recommendation that I seek psychotherapy when I’m discharged, and Brian asked if there was anyone Dr. Bitonti recommended. Brian has an obsession with the best - and I knew he was going to find the Armani of therapists. Or as close to it as one could find in Pittsburgh. Dr. Bitonti also talked about how not wanting to do things is a symptom of depression, and Brian should encourage me to engage in my regular activities even if I complain about not feeling like it.

I nearly cracked up, but tried to maintain a serious we’re meeting with a psychiatrist face. If Brian has an obsession with the best, then he’s also fanatical about letting others, letting me, do what I want. Except, you know, if he’s decided I’m better off without him. So imagining him trying to convince me to do anything other than what I truly want was hard to imagine. I also had keep my church giggles in because...what were my usual activities? Tricking? I could see it now: “C’mon Justin, the doctor said you had to get back to doing things you enjoy...you’ve got to go to the back room and get a blow job. It’s part of your treatment plan!”

Brian, demonstrating some level of self-awareness about his reluctance to dictate someone else’s life that I had not previously seen, asked about how was he supposed to know whether not wanting to do something was a symptom of the depression or just, you know, not wanting to do something?

“Because, I want to...uh, support, Justin’s treatment but I’m not his fu---freaking mother. I’m not going to boss him around.”

“Good question, Brian. I like to encourage my patients - and those supporting them - to try a 10 minute rule. Give an activity 10 minutes and if, after 10 minutes, you’re not feeling any better than you were before you started, then feel free to stop. And that’s the measure I encourage you both to use. Does doing this…” he consulted his notes “...going dancing at the club, feel better than being at home and doing not much of anything? Rather than measuring it by if it’s fun or not fun.”

Brian nodded, more serious than I could recall seeing in a long time.

After that, Brian was excused from the session, and I got to ask if I could please be discharged early. Dr. Bitonti made me stay the final day and, honestly, it was fine. I learned some shit they called “distress tolerance” and how to focus less on my thoughts and more on other stuff. I spent more time with Tori and talked about my art. She encouraged me to at least rent studio space when I was discharged so that when “inspiration hit” (her words, not mine) there would be one less “barrier” to painting. Brian visited whenever there were visiting hours and tried to find inventive places around the unit to sneak blow jobs. And when the day came to be discharged, I answered “no” to all the questions about thoughts of killing myself or others. I signed my discharge plan, indicating I understood it was my responsibility to find a therapist and a psychiatrist as soon as possible. I was sure that Brian had already printed lists of the very best of each within an hour drive.

Daphne picked me up since Brian had some work emergency. It was Sunday, but I guess Leo Brown doesn’t take time off from his empire, so no one else should either. Before you go all boohoohoo, Brian left Justin at the hospital...again, let me tell you it was a fucking relief. I had been so scared - especially after the fucking session with Dr. Bitonti - that Brian was going to be all over my ass (get your minds out of the gutter, filthy animals) and micromanaging my every move. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know I just fucking said that Brian is fanatical about giving people the freedom to live their lives as they see fit, but he’s also a fucking micromanager. It’s one reason that even though I’m on the payroll, I only consult for Kinnetik and I didn’t take the job he offered me when I got back from LA. I’ve seen how he treats his art department, no fucking way. It was only one of the reasons - the severe depression and not being able to even consider getting out of bed for a regular job may have been the other reason I turned it down. So it was a fucking relief that when Brian showed up for 7 AM visiting hours, with my daily infusion of coffee that doesn’t have the consistency of motor oil, he said just really casually, “So Brown’s getting antsy about this whole Boyd situation and needs some hand-holding. I’m going to trapped in the office all day on a video conference. You want to take a cab when you’re discharged or should I call Daphne?”

Getting discharged from the hospital takes forfuckingever, but while I was waiting around for the correct paperwork and for my prescriptions to be filled, Tori stopped by to say good-bye and gave me her number. Apparently, she couldn’t take my number and “initiate contact” because of some privacy laws or some such shit. But she encouraged me to call and said we could grab coffee and I could meet her partner whom I would “just love.” I never know when someone tells me I’m going to love their partner if it’s because they genuinely think we’d get along or if it’s just because they love their partner and just think their partner’s someone everyone would love. Whatever. When I did meet her partner, Ana, I did love her - she’s a drummer in a local band and is sleeved and drinks like Brian and curses like...well Brian. Maybe I just like Brian.

Daphne patiently waited around while I finally got discharged and then announced she had to have ice-cream from this one place that’s right around the hospital or she would just collapse. We sat on the hood of her car while I ate my strawberry cone and she ate her mint chocolate. (She swears this is why she loves this place - she hates chunks of shit in her ice cream but likes the flavors of chocolate and mint together, and this is the only place in that doesn’t have mint chocolate chip but just mint chocolate). We talked as we swapped bites of each other’s ice cream. She wanted to know if I would try to return to PIFA. She thought it would be good for me to have some more structure to my days and something to force me back into creating again. She was also in the thick of med school applications and a little fixated on school.

“Daph, that’s not exactly how creativity works. It’s not a like a science lab where the experiment is the experiment no matter how you’re feeling.”

“But haven’t you had times before when you haven’t felt inspired but had to do an assignment or something for school? Couldn’t that just, like, get the ball rolling or something?” What the fuck, had she heard Dr. B’s 10 minute rule too?

“God, I don’t know. PIFA had all these requirements, studying the classic styles and all, you know? I just don’t think that stuff excites me. I get that any program is going to have core requirements but…”

“But?”

“I was thinking...I’ve always wanted to be an animator. And when I was working on Rage, doing storyboards for the movies or now just on the comic...that’s the closest I’ve come to anything like that and…”

“It’s when you’ve been happiest.”

“Yeah…”

“Does PIFA have an animation program?”

“They have courses, but not a specialization, not like what I would need to be competitive.”

“Could you find someplace then?” I thought back to my coworker, Quinn, on Rage and their suggestion of attending Cal Arts. Like I would fucking move across the country. Like the geography was the biggest barrier anyway.

“Sure, and pay for it with my tips from the diner...where I can hardly get to anymore because I’m so fucking depressed.”

“Wouldn’t Brian pay for it?”

“I’m not asking him for anything else. The deal was he would pay for PIFA - and I can’t manage to keep my ass enrolled at PIFA - and now I just don’t have an interest in returning.”

“But for you, Brian would…”

“Daph, it’s not going to happen. Please can we just leave it?”

“Of course.” She leaned over and gave me a sticky wet kiss on my cheek.

“Ew! Gross!” But we were both giggling.

“It’s fucking freezing, let me get you back to the loft before my tits freeze off.”

Daphne offered to come up with me and hang out before Brian got home but after three days of never really being alone, I was kind of craving some time by myself and without all the noises of the hospital. I basically dumped to contents of my duffle bag into the hamper - all my clothes smelled like that antiseptic hospital odor. I took a shower for much the same reason. It’s not like I could actually smell my hair - although I was wearing it longer than it had been in sometime - but I was convinced that if I could, it would smell like hospital. I relished the water pressure and being able to turn the water hot-hot. I finally got to shave.  I turned on Brian’s stereo, just wanting something in the background and not really paying attention to which albums he had in it.

I wandered around a bit and decided to make dinner for me and Brian. I was shocked when I opened the refrigerator to see it full of groceries - meats, vegetables, fruit, bread. Then I remembered Dr. Bitonti telling us that regaining weight and eating sufficiently was important for my recovery. Apparently, limiting sleep, caloric intake, or both is a recipe for depression and anxiety and I had been doing both. Imagining Brian going to the supermarket after that session and going grocery shopping for all this food made my stomach squeeze and my cheeks flush. I pulled out a container of pasta fagioli. Debbie had made my favorite and actually listened to Brian and sent it to the office rather than hand deliver it to the loft. I also pulled out lettuce and vegetables for salad, along with the balsamic vinegar and olive oil for dressing. I laid everything out on the counter and then just froze, staring at it all. I felt paralyzed. What. The. Fuck.

Fucking head of romaine lettuce.

Mother fucking Jersey tomatoes.

Bell fucking pepper.

Carrots.

Even some goddamn radishes.

And I just stood there.

I don’t know how long I was standing there...seconds? Minutes? Hours? When I heard the door slide open and Briansauntered in, looking devastating in his suit. Of course he wears a suit when going into the office on a weekend. This guy. He glanced over at me and breezed by.

“Making dinner? Give me a second to change.” Like I had a choice in the goddamn matter.

If Brian looks devastating in a suit, he looks fucking delectable in a white tank top undershirt and jeans that have been broken in to fit his body perfectly. He made his way from the bedroom to the kitchen, pausing to pick up the stereo remote and forward to the next CD.

He stepped into the kitchen beside me and and pulled out a knife and just like that started cutting up the pepper, and the carrots, and the tomato, and the radish. He tore up the lettuce because he’s fucking civilized. I stared for a moment and and grabbed the pasta fagioli and set about heating it up. When he was done chopping everything for the salad and threw everything in a big bowl, he washed the knife, dried it, and put it back into the knife block.

We have a dishwasher.

I measured out the olive oil and balsamic 3:1 the way Vic taught me. (You want Italian American food, heavy on the sauce, cheese, and love, Debbie’s your woman. You want correct ratios to balance acidic and fat, Vic was a goddamn treasure trove of information.)

As I was grinding some salt and pepper into the dressing, Brian scoped the second shelf of the bar cart. “Malbec or a Pinot, Sunshine?...Eh, let’s go for the Pinot. The Malbec might overpower salad and pasta fazool.” He pronounced it the way Debbie does. 

He opened it and decanted it while the soup continued to heat. I grabbed the parmigiano reggiano and started grating it. The CD clicked over to the next song and Brian came to get the wine glasses in the cupboard behind me. I suddenly felt his arms snake around my waist, and he pressed his body up against my back. The song in the background floated over me.

And Brian, I swear to fucking god, hummed quietly and fucking swayed in time to the music as he held me in his arms.

And I'm not sure if I'm singing for the love of it or for the love of you

But I've flown a long way honey hear my confession then I'll go

I'd rather be the one who loves than to be loved and never even know*

There’s a lot of our relationship that is not for public consumption, just like any relationship - yours, your parents’, your friends’, our friends’. And sure we’re a bit ass backward and what is public (sex, with each other, with others, with each other and others) is usually the stuff for other couples that happens behind closed doors and rarely spoken of. And thank god too because the last thing I need is the image of Michael and Ben, or Ted and The One of the week, or Emmett and The One of the hour, or even Mel and Linds, now that they’re in couple’s counseling to reconcile, burned into my brain. Maybe that’s unfair, maybe that’s because I’ve been socialized into a a very narrow standard of what’s hot and desirable when it comes to sexual imagery. But nevermind. The point is that the stuff that’s usually proudly on display for other couples - the loving touches, the laughter at each other’s jokes, the friendly debate, and the goddamn dancing that’s not an immediate prelude to sex - that’s what’s most private for us. And when I say “most private,” I mean that no one else better bear witness to it, and I better not goddamn mention anything that might imply that I caught Brian showing he cares about me in some way that doesn’t involve supporting me financially or letting me come before I’m in tears begging for release. Because god forbid, if Brian Kinney was caught with a fucking heart, I would be on the receiving end of a cutting, sarcastic comment or some deliberate cruelty. Or he would disappear to the Baths for a few hours. All to reinforce that I mean absolutely nothing and if I dare to read anything into whatever caring he leaked out, I was dead wrong. Which is not to say these moments were rare - not at all - they just demanded a certain non-reaction that I had learned over the years and was now second nature.

And thank fuck these rare moments occurred in private, because the fucking parade everyone would throw because wow we finally found that Brian Kinney has a heart and it’s right there in his chest like everyone else’s would just be too much. And, look, I’m not going to lie and say that having something that was just between me and him, and that something being this human caring side of his, didn’t make me feel all special and chosen.

So when Brian slow danced with me, to a love song, in the middle of the kitchen, while making dinner together, it was best to handle him by dancing (if swaying slightly, somewhat in time with the music counts as dancing) for as long as he wanted and never fucking mention again. And, god, enjoy the fuck out of it.

And the music and the slightly off-beat swaying was really fucking nothing compared with Brian just walking up and chopping those vegetables without saying a goddamn word because he just fucking knew. But it was the dancing (okay, we’ll just call it dancing) that everyone else would lose their shit over.

After we ate dinner and drank some wine and we were feeling warm and silly, Brian suggested we go to Woody’s for a few (more) drinks. “C’mon, the guys will be there. I need to show them some proof of life.”

“Can’t you like take a photo of me holding today’s paper or something?”

“Ten minutes, Sunshine.”

Goddamnit. “Okay, okay. Ten minutes, that’s it. Seriously, I am exhausted. I haven’t slept super soundly recently - I don’t know about you something about bed checks every hour interrupts my sleep.”

“Yeah well, I didn’t sleep so great either,” he muttered under his breath as he walked to the bedroom to change. I wasn’t entirely sure if he meant he couldn’t sleep because he’s used to me being there, he missed me, or he was worried.

I followed him and noticed that when he changed after work, he must have pulled out the weekly pill organizer we got when he had cancer and was taking all sorts of vitamins and antiemetics. It’s tossed casually on my side of the bed, like I had already been using it and left it on the bed rather than putting it away. I grabbed it without saying anything and set it next to the bag of bottles from the pharmacy.  Brian’s was not even watching me.

Everyone was already there when we arrived at the bar.

“Baby!” Emmett enveloped me in a hug. “I’d heard you been sick, how are you?”

Well, Debbie knew I had been sick, so of course he heard.

“Sick?” Ben asked, looking understandably cautious.

“Not contagious!” Not a lie. “Got the all clear from my doctor!” Also, not a lie.

“Glad you’re feeling better Justin.” Ben smiled at me warmly, reassured.

“Yeah Justin, good to see you up and about,” Ted added. I knew he was worried because of the time Brian took off. Brian never takes time off. And I swear he almost reached out to shake my hand - his version of one of Emmett’s hugs.

“So Justin, I’ve been thinking,” Michael said, bypassing any greeting and bouncing off his bar stool over to me. To be honest, I preferred that to all the attention on my well-being. We immediately got into a conversation about the next issue of Rage. We’re doing an arc right now that’s pretty clearly based on the war in Iraq and DADT, but our fans don’t care about nuance and they were loving it.

Ten minutes came and went, and I didn’t even notice. Emmett was waxing poetic about Drew, while Ted provided sarcastic running commentary. Ben listened to me and Michael and provided suggestions to make the story just slightly more intellectual and grounded in literary theory. Brian bounced back and forth between the two conversations, teasing Emmett and teasing Ted for teasing Emmett, and encouraging me and Michael to make Rage’s powers even more over-the-top and ridiculous. He wanted Rage to force the villain of this arc to suck Rage’s cock and of course his cock is so big and so long that it would rupture the villain’s esophagus.

At some point, he wandered off for a bit and everyone gave me sideways glances, all-sympathetic. It’s all I could do to stop myself from saying something. With this group, it’s best to just let it pass and not call further attention to it. I wanted to step outside for a smoke. I wanted to say, “My 10 minutes are up,” and leave. I wanted to order a round of shots, but all for me. The problem was that everyone would assume I was reacting to Brian rather than their reactions to Brian. They think this is how they love me. I trick just as much as Brian. Well, okay, maybe not just as much - he’s probably set and broken his own world record. Do they make sad eyes at him when I go off with some guy to the restroom or the back room? And if not, what does that say about their opinion of me? Of him?

When Brian returned and pinched my side and stole a sip from Michael’s drink, I wanted to ask if we could leave. But then both Brian and everyone else would think it has something to do with Brian, when in fact I’m truly exhausted from the hospital and from managing everyone’s disappointment in our relationship. Then thank the lord on high, I see Tori walk in with a woman who had to be Ana. I excused myself and walked over to say hi and meet Ana. I heard Emmett stage whisper, “Justin has other friends?”

I could hear the eye roll in Brian’s voice when he said, “Yeah, and that little blonde one? She’s got bigger balls than the four of you combined.” Brian might deny it until he’s blue in the face but he loves anyone who will stand up to him if it means protecting someone he cares about, exhibit: Daphne.

He walked over to us and said hi to Tori and joined me in introducing ourselves to Ana. Apparently Sunday nights are their kid’s evening with his biological father, who is weirdly Tori’s brother. Ana knocked back a whiskey, shrugged, and admitted, “Yeah it was fucking weird, but we wanted the little shit to be genetically related to both of us. Plus, he’s queer too, so we figured it increased the chances of avoiding raising some breeder. I mean, she’s a girl - what the fuck are we going to do if she’s straight?”

Oh my god. She was a female Brian. Speaking of, the male Brian said, “Send her to her uncle to learn about cock? ...Or father? How the fuck are you going to manage that?”

Tori piped up, “Oh it’s definitely Uncle Matty, no questions there”

“Yeah Tori and Matty are two peas in a motherfucking pod. They talked this shit to death  and made us all process our feelings about every fucking possible scenario….and, well, Matty is a lawyer so then he turned all those feelings into some legalese and we were all signed and squared away before they even pumped me full of his sperm.”

I winced at the thought of the actual insemination, and I jabbed Brian in the ribs. You would think Mel would have done something nice and official like that before Gus was born instead of relying on Brian to remained disinterested and uninvolved. We shared a little bit of what had happened with Gus and then JR. Before long, we were all laughing and I had forgotten my frustrations of a few minutes ago.

Finally, Brian turned to me and asked “Ready to go, Sunshine?”

“Oh my fucking god, “Sunshine,” Ana giggled.

“It’s perfect for him, isn’t it?” Tori asked.

“Sure, it just sounds like a lot of fucking pressure.” I saw Brian glance at me and quickly look back to Tori and Ana. “Anyway, Sunshine, you two head home. Mama’s gotta see how much whisky she can drink before she’s slurring the words to Goodnight Moon.”

Tori rolled her eyes and gave both of us hugs and Ana did too, a fucking tight hug like she had known us for years already. I had a moment when I realized that as much as the guys were our friends and as much as Daphne and Brian were co-presidents of the mutual admiration society, Tori and Ana might be the first friends we had made that we met together. Of course I would never fucking mention that to Brian. We caught the attention of the guys and waved and headed out.

As we walked into the loft, Brian started stripping off his clothes and called behind him, “Hey S...Justin, come take a shower.”

“I’m so tired…”

Brian turned around and started walking backwards, he rolled his lips into his mouth, and slowly blinked. “Ten minutes, Justin.” Goddamn.

Dr. Bitonti and this 10 minute thing. I should have known Brian would have far too much fun with it. Then I imagined making Brian hold off on coming for 10 minutes while I blew him and thought it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

The alarm went off far too early the next morning, but Brian had to get back to his regular work schedule and I was finally returning to the diner. I wasn’t scheduled to start until after the breakfast rush - which was for the best, since I was hoping to avoid more forced socialization with the guys. They each had their own quirks that irritated me from time to time but for some reason right then I struggled to tolerate them at all. Well, not for some reason, because I was irritable. Because I was depressed.

Brian showered - I swear that man showers more than anyone I know. We had just showered the night before and believe me, we were thorough, and I made sure to help him get all the hard to reach places. I wasn’t going to shower. No sense in getting clean (cleaner?) just to have the smell of fried foods oozing from my pores in a few hours. I sat crosslegged on the bed and popped open the fourteen compartments in the plastic pill organizer. I opened the tops of the orange prescription bottles, and in each AM compartment, I dropped a prescription strength multi-vitamin, and in each PM compartment, a Lexapro. Since I only had to take the Ativan when I needed it, they all remained in their original bottle. Brian walked in toweling off his hair as I snapped the last lid shut. I lay back down on the bed and watched him carefully select his shirt and tie to go with his suit and get dressed. I have always loved watching him tie his tie with his long elegant fingers. Those fingers that could make me beg in pleasure. Those fingers that could massage the knots in my shoulders from holding a pencil or trays of food all day. Those fingers that could dig into that one spot in my ribs and make me giggle like a kid. Those fingers that attached to hands and arms that would hold me and soothe me when I woke panicked and sweaty from another nightmare.

Finished dressing, Brian leaned over the bed and kissed me goodbye. I whined and pouted and he gave a put-upon sigh and sat down next to me, reaching his hand under the duvet. We kissed while he brought me off and laughed when I let out a happy sigh at the end and tucked the duvet tightly around me.

I rested a little while longer after I heard the door slide closed and eventually got up and threw on some clothes with none of the care Brian had demonstrated just a short time ago and headed to the diner. I was immediately pulled into Debbie’s chest while she squealed, “Sunshine!!! We’ve missed that bubble butt of yours around here!”

I smiled indulgently while Debbie made me turn around to make sure “that Brian has been feeding you and you’ve not lost any of that bubble.”

I thanked her for sending the soups and lasagne and casseroles and assured her Brian had fed me and walked me regularly. I also wondered whether if our sexes were reversed, whether anyone would bat an eyelash if I brought her up on sexual harassment claims. We all indulge Debbie, but talking about a subordinate’s butt in the workplace...I think I saw that in a video Craig had to show his employees for their mandatory sexual harassment training.

I looked around the diner and sawBen was still there, sipping his herbal tea and flipping through the newspaper. He raised his eyes to meet mine and tilted his head before looking down to read the paper again. I rushed around, pulling off my jacket and putting on my apron, grabbing the decaf in one hand and the regular in another and walked around to the tables offering refills. After I returned the carafes and wiped the counters and removed the dirtied dishes and flatware from the tables, Ben looked up and asked, “It seems quiet this morning, Justin, care to join me for a few minutes?”

I shrugged and sat across from him in the booth. “I’m glad to see you seem to be feeling better. You know...when I was first diagnosed…”

“Ben...I told you I’m not...I would never put you at any type of risk. Is that what you think of me?”

“Justin! No, god no.” He seems surprised. “What I was saying is that when I was first diagnosed, I struggled for a time...with depression.”

Oh.

“And what I’ve been seeing in you lately - or even in not seeing you lately - made me think that you might also be experiencing depression.”

“Well...yeah...I’ve been kinda depressed,” I stammered. “But I’ve gotten...I’ve been getting help.”

“You know the diagnosis, finding out I had HIV was a huge loss. What I had imagined for my future was suddenly different. Whom I imagined my future with changed. I went to therapy, I got help. I started meditating. It helped to me accept, to really accept, that although this might not be the life I would have chosen, there wasn’t really any choice to be made. There’s no other alternative. It’s life with HIV or nothing.”

I nodded, not really sure what to say.

“The look on your face last night, Justin. It just reminded me of how I felt and realizing that although this might not be the future I would choose, it’s the only future I’ve got. And I can understand, you love Brian. You may feel like the only future you can imagine is with him. Especially compared with Ethan, he must feel like the great love of your life. It’s hard to compete with Brian. You may feel that in order to have a relationship, it’s a relationship with Brian or nothing.”

“Are you...are you equating HIV with my relationship with Brian?”

“I saw the look on your face...when he went to that bathroom with that trick.”

“Ben...that look. You know what? Nevermind. Let’s say, let’s pretend I wanted monogamy. And I know...everyone knows...Brian is not going to be monogamous, any more than he’s going to be straight. I get to make that choice everyday. This is not a chronic illness. You don’t - and I’m sorry for that - get to choose not to have HIV. If I wanted monogamy, it might be hard and devastating, but I could choose to have that even though it would mean not being with Brian. And also, Ben? Even if I did want monogamy, even if I was terribly unhappy with this part of our relationship, but chose to stay anyway, that unhappiness and misery, they are not likely to kill me.”

“If it’s what’s making you depressed. Justin, depression is an illness that kills. Now…”

“I’m very well aware of that. That’s why I’m getting treatment.”

“And further, Justin? The stability, the validation, and the support you get with monogamy can be very important both in recovery and in maintaining your improved mood and avoiding relapse.”

“I’m really glad that it has worked for you. That it’s worked for you and Michael. But the most important thing here? The thing you didn’t actually ask me about? I don’t want monogamy. I’m not just putting up with this to be with Brian,. I don’t want monogamy with anyone else either. Brian’s tricking isn’t making depressed. It didn’t make me upset last night. What upset me was your - was everyone’s - reaction. ‘Oh poor Sunshine, look what he has to put up with. Look at how disrespectful Brian is and Justin just puts up with it.’”

“Monogamy doesn’t have to be like what it was like with Ethan. There’s not always cheating. It’s just that the safety...”

“This has nothing to do with Ethan or Brian. My time with Ethan was enjoyable and I learned a lot. Even if he hadn’t cheated, I still knew the relationship had an expiration date. I tried monogamy and I learned it isn’t for me.”

“I just want what’s best for you.”

“You know what would be best for me? You know what would be the fucking healthiest thing anyone could do? What Brian already does, by the way. Is to take what I say and do about anything, but especially my relationship, seriously. You just see our outsides. And now that you know I’ve been suffering from depression, you think you know something about our insides. About my insides. You don’t. And you don’t even ask, you assume. I’m sorry, Ben, that’s not how to show you care about someone. That’s not the type of care I need.” I got up from the booth and retrieved the coffee carafes and returned to providing refills. No one in the history of Liberty Diner has ever had their coffee topped off without having to ask they way they did that day.

And what I wanted to say, but didn’t, obviously, was, “Look how well monogamy turned out for you.” But I didn’t because it wasn’t monogamy that infected Ben. It was Paul, and Paul’s dead, and if I didn’t want others making the complex shit in my life into simple cause and effect, I probably shouldn’t do it to them either. And I felt badly for snapping at Ben. Not that I didn’t have a valid point. But he cared, I know he did. But it was the depression. It was the unsolicited advice, it was the easy simplification, and it was the everyfuckingone thinking they knew me just because I’m younger than them, just because I was a kid when we all met.

I passed by Ben’s booth on my way to return the coffee carafes. “Justin?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m...this is your life. I’m not going to....it’s up to you whom you tell. I think everyone will be supportive, but I understand wanting to have some power over something that you may feel powerless against.” Then I felt even more relieved I didn’t snap at him further.

“Thanks, Ben.” But I sighed because no fucking way was I going to get away with having any type of secret much longer. If Ben noticed something, then Ted, who knew I must have been really sick and who was all insightful from his stint in rehab and his 12-step meetings, was going to guess. And Emmett notices if someone’s flame flickers just a tiny bit. And Michael, well, Michael would notice something was bothering Brian and deduce it from there. Just thank fuck Mel and Linds were still too wrapped up in their own therapy to notice much of anything else. I wondered briefly if they got the same sort of unsolicited judgmental advice about their relationship that I did...and maybe Brian did too or maybe everyone’s too intimidated by him so it all landed on me. I was frankly surprised that no one had noticed anything earlier. But this fucked up family is weird and will comment on things that are absolutely none of their business but let other things like Ted’s crystal problem go on for ages because that’s somehow respecting his privacy.

I turned around and said, “Debbie?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“I was thinking it’s been awhile since I’ve had your baked ziti. When’s the next family dinner?”

“Oh my god, Sunshine, are you okay? Is Brian...is the cancer…?”

“Deb, Deb everything’s fine. It’s just...it’s been awhile, and I’ve not been feeling well and now that I’m kinda feeling better…”

“Of course, Sunshine. All you have to do is say the word, you know that.” She turned to Ben and pointed a long painted fingernail at him. “You! You come over tomorrow night and bring that son of mine and my grandson. Y’hear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t you fucking call me ma’am.” She smiled sweetly at me and turned and went up to the window because an order was up.

“For what it’s worth, Justin - and I know you’ve probably had your fill of my opinion today - I think telling us and letting us know how we can support you is the tough  but right thing to do,” Ben gave me his most encouraging smile.

Well, here goes nothing.

Oh shit, what was I going to tell Brian? He was going to hate this.