We can't go on together with suspicious minds

“Fuck.” I leaned against the outside of Michael’s store and sucked in cold, wet, winter Pittsburgh air for a minute. I'd just been in inside, dropping off a present for the baby from Cynthia, and I heard him--on the phone with that Brett guy in L.A.

“Justin would be a great asset to that team. We’ve been so busy; I became a dad a few days ago…” He was prattling on about Jenny to anyone and everyone he talked to. He was the proudest father I’d ever seen.

I had to interrupt him to give him Cynthia’s gift and then to get out of there.

“Michael. Here. This is for Jenny. It’s from Cynthia.” I practically poked him in the face.

“Hang on, Brett. Hang on.” He covered the phone with his hand. “Brian, Justin didn’t even tell me about his job offer. He’s going? Right?” He whispered this to me.

“Of course, of course.” I brushed him off quickly, waving my hand. “I’ve got to run. I’ll see you later, Mikey,” and I walked out the door where I could breathe.

I’m such an idiot. Justin never said a thing—out loud. He talked about the trip, about the movie, about the ideas he had, about the men he’d met and all the while, I hadn’t really let myself listen. I hadn’t really let myself even think about what he was doing out there while I was killing myself on the Liberty Ride. Now I understood why he hadn’t answered me when I asked him to move back in, why he’s happy but reserved, why the last few times we’ve fucked he’s insatiable as usual but pretty quiet afterwards. Justin’s never quiet. Fuck. I'm so stupid.

I got in the car and started to drive home, taking the long way so that I could think—only I couldn’t. I was angry—at him for not telling me, at me for not asking, for changing my own rules, for making a fool of myself. I looked through the windshield and realized that the streets in front of me were starting to get blurry, but not from the rain. The traffic lights were changing and I needed to obey them—but the signals from the street, the sounds from the radio were not loud enough to compete with the rush in my head. I turned the radio off and stopped at a light. I needed this ride to take a while. A car horn blew and I looked up. I wasn’t at a light. I was at a stop sign—waiting for it to turn green. I crossed the intersection and looked down--my cell was ringing—the tone it makes when I have a message. I flipped it open and saw that I'd missed two calls from Justin. I called him back.

“Hey. Sorry. I didn’t hear it ring.”

“Where are you?” His voice was upbeat.

“At the office. Just leaving.”

“No, you’re not. I just talked to Cynthia. You left the office an hour ago.” He isn’t even angry, just lets me know that he knows the way things are.

“Okay, okay. I went by the store to give Michael something. But I’m on my way.”

“Good because dinner’s almost ready. Lindsay was here with Gus. She found a place to live. She wants to show it to you—to us.”

“I’m almost home.”

“I’ll be waiting. Bye.”

Home. I didn’t think I'd ever want to be driving home after work looking forward to the fact that the guy I fucked last night was making dinner for us in my loft, that he’d just entertained my son and no doubt hung his latest creation on the refrigerator—I don’t want to think about it at all. I don’t want to think about the fact that Justin has better options than being with me. Sometimes there’s more than one way to be a top.

I open the door to my loft and smell chicken of some sort, but I don’t see him. I look at what he’s made for dinner—some casserole thing, but mine's separate because he knows I won’t eat all of that fattening stuff. His attention to detail—it’s what makes him such a good artist.

I put my briefcase down, take off my coat, and he emerges from the bedroom, pulling on a long sleeve gray shirt. It’s mine.

“Hey,” he says, “I was cold. And it smells like you.” He smiles as he pulls his hands inside the sleeves—he knows I hate it when he does that—stretching out my sleeves—but he redeems himself by curling his arms inward and laying against my chest. I run my fingers through his hair and close my eyes for a minute, breathing in his scent.

I lift his chin and kiss him, softly at first, holding his face while I look in his eyes—and for a minute I can forget the past hour and it's just me and him standing in my loft kissing like we’ve done a million times before.

“Oh shit, Brian, the chicken.” He breaks free to stop dinner from burning and saves it, serves it and we eat. We talk about work, about Lindsay and Gus, but not about Hollywood and not about living together. I wait for him to bring it up; he never does.

When dinner is done, I help him wash the dishes and tease him about being a “good wife” who services her husband after dinner and he laughs and says he already made dessert. I watch him eat a piece of this suicidal pecan chocolate pie thing he made and shake my head. He ought to go to Hollywood; he’s pure entertainment.

He’s kind of restless tonight, but he finally settles down in front of the television on the sofa, watching one of those makeover shows—where they come in and take over your house when you’re not home or something. He loves the concept of transformation. I hate these shows, but I'm mesmerized just watching him—just the pure excitement on his face, the way he puts his fingers on his lips when they do the reveal is adorable. Tonight, though, he's distracted by me watching him or maybe it’s a repeat. I can’t tell.

“Brian, quit staring at me.”

“Why?”

“It’s unnerving and it makes me hard.”

“Is that a complaint?”

“Yes.” He's flirting.

“All complaints have to be filled out in triplicate and notarized.” I turn off the television.

“Don’t turn that off. It’s almost time for the reveal.”

“You’ve seen it. She hates it. She cries. She even says, ‘what the fuck were you thinking?’ and they bleep it.” I’m nudging him with my feet.

“See, you do like these shows.” He lies back on top of me and makes some idiotic crack about letting some cable-designer come into the loft and re-do it for fun.

“Let’s see, I’ll take ‘things that will never happen for $1000.’” I run my hands under his shirt, his chest's warm.

“Debbie could go on that weight loss one. You know, that one called I Lost It." He’s just being silly now.

“Is that what that’s about? I thought it was a documentary about mental patients. I was actually gonna watch that one.” I kiss his neck. He smells so good.

“Shut up, Brian.” He flips over, finally, and is kissing me now. Slower, then faster. Looking at me in between each one. Running his fingers through my hair.

“Did you shave this morning?” He asks me. I did. Why is he asking?

“You look tired, that’s all.” He’s off of me with those words and pulling me to the bedroom with one arm. Both of us know that we’re not going to Babylon tonight. It’s nine o'clock, and we’re in for the night, a long night.