Saturday, January 31, 2004


Justin

"I want to be with you, why is that so crazy? This is a big deal, Brian, I want to be part of it."

He shakes his head. "Jerking off is not a big deal, I can manage by myself. But if I need inspiration, I promise to think of you."

"I want to be part of it," I repeat.

"You just don't want me to have sex with anyone but you - not even sex with a cup."

Muttering, "Fuck you," I turn abruptly away and go down the steps to my desk, click on the computer. Dropping into my chair, I stare at the screen, feeling doubly pissed off - I'm mad that he won't take me with him and mad that he's already making joking references about the end of our monogamy.

I hear him come up behind me and I curse myself for being pleased that he's making the gesture. I straighten my shoulders and promise not to let him off the hook easily. With Brian the tiniest acquiescence toward normal human behavior is practically celebrated with popping champagne corks, he doesn't get held to the same standards as other people. Not by anybody, not even by me. But not this time.

"Justin." He waits a moment and when I ignore him, he puts a hand on my neck, gently massaging, his long lean fingers caressing the tendrils of hair curling over the collar of my shirt. Caress me and I melt, he's got me pegged. But not this time.

“Why do we have to do this touchy-feely stuff all the time? Just tell me why going with me to the munchers and watching me jerk off is some kind of milestone event?”

“Because you’re making a baby happen. I want to be there when that happens.”

“Nothing happens. I jerk off in a cup and they take it to Lindsay. They won’t let you into the bedroom. Even I don’t see that part.” He makes a face. “As if I’d want to.”

“Don’t be gross, I don’t want to see that part. Never mind, forget it.”

He goes on as if I haven’t spoken. “Besides, it might not even work the first time. Oh shit. It might not work the first time!” He drops his hand from my neck and stands still as if struck by lightning.

I turn and look at him over my shoulder. “How will they know if it works?”

“It takes a week or something to show up, on those home pregnancy tests, I don’t remember the exact time.” He shakes his head. “Fuck. They’ll expect me to be monogamous until they find out. Jesus Christ!”

“Yeah,” I say dryly, turning back to my computer. “What a hardship. You’d have to keep fucking Justin for a few more days.”

Brian hunkers down next to my chair. “Is that what this is really about?”

Yes. No. I don’t know. “No.”

“Then why are you – “ He takes a deep breath and says calmly, “You knew it was going to end, after three months. You said you were okay with it.”

“Like I had a choice.”

“What?”

He heard me. I’m not going to repeat it.

He waits a moment, then I hear one of his purposely loud, send-a-message sighs and he stands up and turns away, goes back up the steps to the bedroom. I hear him turn on the shower, usually we shower together but not this time.



Brian

I'd forgotten - I'd managed to forget - that one sperm donation might not be enough. As I stand beneath the needle-sharp shower spray basking in billowing clouds of steam, I'm remembering the strident sound of Melanie's voice last time, explaining how it might take weeks or even months, me with my cup and Mel with her turkey baster, sweating over the mechanics of procreation. I'd been aware that Mel was perhaps not-so-subtly discouraging my participation - and considering how unwilling I was to participate anyway, it would have been an easy out for me. But I've always been contrary even when it's not in my best interests. I think a big part of the reason I went along with Lindsay last time was simply to give one in the eye to Melanie. Michael insisted my ego was involved, that Lindsay's sucking up remarks about my good looks and intelligence somehow swayed me into helping to create a baby in my own image. Probably it was both. Well, I know it was both, and something else besides.

Flitting around in the back of my mind had been the awareness that this would surely be the only way I'd ever father a child. And even then - even then, before I discovered that 'family' would come to mean more to me than Michael and Debbie and Vic, even then I was aware of a secret yearning toward fatherhood.

Christ, I'd never tell that to a living soul, it's not only amazingly uncharacteristic of the real Brian Kinney, it's also somehow creepily unnatural. Wanting to father a child is not a natural thing for men, even straight men, I'm convinced of that fact. Procreation is biologically programmed into women, and the only reason that men buy into the concept is to ensure that they have a convenient receptacle for their eager sperm.

So why was there that tiny spark inside me that, even as honest as I am, I didn't want to recognize or acknowledge, that creating a child was something I secretly, almost, half-way, sort of wished for? Was it to prove to myself that even a Kinney could experience the ostensible love of parents for their children? Something I well knew was not automatically bestowed on people simply because the result of their fucking was a screaming infant nine months later. Or maybe it was to prove the opposite, that it was not genetically engineered into Kinneys to love their offspring? If that were the case, the not-love of my childhood might be less of a personal defeat. Might not, in fact, have anything to do with me at all.

I wish Justin had joined me in the shower - I don't like being alone with all these annoying psycho-babble thoughts. It's only because I'm on my way to the munchers' to jerk off on demand, that's put me into this self-analytical bullshit funk. I open the shower door to call out to Justin to join me, then I remember that I can't fuck him this morning, I'm supposed to wait so that when I shoot my load at the munchers', there'll be more of it saved up. More healthy little tadpoles anxious to do whatever it is that little tadpoles do when they're squirted into a vagina.

For lots of reasons, I hope the first time takes like it did with Gus. I'd been thrilled that it worked the first time before - mostly because I didn't have to repeat the not-very-much-fun task of squirting jism into the ladylike porcelain cup with painted-on yellow roses that Mel had shoved into my hands.

"Couldn't you give me a more macho-looking partner?" I'd bitched at her, laughing on the inside at the incredulous look on Melanie's face.

"You're not going to fuck the cup, asshole," she'd snapped at me, "You're just going to - "

"Oh no - you're not going to explain jerking off to me, are you?" I'd demanded, enjoying how easy it was to piss off Mel.

"Please - please don't, Brian?" Lindsay was wringing her hands, looking back and forth at us, tennis-match style. So I stopped fighting. Linds has almost always been able to have her way with me, figuratively speaking. Even literally a few times, though that was mostly due to curiosity on my part. I think Justin shared that curiosity and it factored into his agreeing to fuck his friend Daphne a few years ago.

Suddenly I wonder - does Justin have that same almost-unacknowledged yearning toward fatherhood? Will he someday want to make a baby with some woman, will he want to have a son like Gus? What amazes me, what literally takes my breath away, is the sudden realization that I don't want him to. I don't want Justin to have a child, then he might - he might -

Might what? Have a relationship that doesn't include me?

I crack open the shower door again and call out to him. "Justin! Come here." I wait, and in a moment he's hesitating in the bathroom doorway. "Come take a shower with me," I say.

"But we can't - "

"I know we can't fuck," I answer impatiently, "Just come in here with me. You can wash my back."

Justin hesitates a moment longer - I know he's still angry with me about the monogamy issue - but then he's pulling off his sweats and throwing them on the floor, and he slips in beside me.

"Too hot?"

"A little," he admits, leaning away from the spray till I adjust the temperature, his fair skin is so sensitive. More than his skin is sensitive of course - and while he's toughened up considerably the last few years, after all he's gone through - a lot of it caused by me - he's still got an essence of vulnerability, even innocence, which both attracts and repels me at the same time. It's deceptive, that vulnerability because Justin is as courageous and tough as any man I've ever known. More so than most men I've ever known. Yet he can pick up a stray kitten and dissolve into embarrassing baby-talk drivel or watch a predictably sappy cartoon like Shrek and cry at the happy ending.

So now I need to know, I really need to know how Justin feels about the baby issue. But I don't know how to broach it, and I mull it over in my mind while he washes me, kneading his fingers on the muscles of my back with practiced perfection. I lean against him slightly, tilting my head back so water from the shower slides down my forehead and neck. Eyes closed I murmur, "Tell me something."

"What?"

"Tell me why you want to be with me today."

His hands stop moving for a moment, then begin their soapy caresses again but more slowly. He's thinking, maybe he's deciding how to explain it to me without pissing me off, I know how his mind works. Most of the time.

"Don't laugh, okay?"

"Laugh?" That gets my attention, I turn around to face him and take his hands in mine. "Justin, when do I laugh at you?"

"Oh, I don't know," he answers, "Like, all the time?"

"Not all. Not this time." It's a promise, even without the word.

He believes me because he smiles then. "Okay. Partly it's because it's important to you, even though you make jokes about it. It's not just a lark, though you'd rather die than admit it."

"Oh yeah?"

"But it's also - " He drops his eyes and I let go one of his hands so I can grab his chin and tilt his face upward.

"You can tell me," I murmur gently. "Tell me."

"It's just that - I'll never do that. I'll never get to do that."

"Do what?"

"Make a baby." Even in the warmth of the shower, Justin's already pink skin turns pinker with an embarrassed blush. "So," he continues in a whisper, "So somehow being there with you would let me be part of it. Even just as a bystander."

I'm speechless then, speechless not only because my hunch was right, Justin does share that same feeling I'd recognized in myself four, almost five years ago. But mostly I'm speechless because he has the courage to admit it. Admit it to me, the world's harshest, most outspoken cynic.

"Oh, I know it's silly," he takes a quick breath, dropping his head again, he doesn't want to look at me. "And it's not that big a deal or anything, it's just kind of - "

"Okay."

"Huh?" That takes him by surprise, he raises his head again.

"Okay," I repeat, "You can go with me."

"Brian - you mean it? Brian!" Justin laughs out loud and throws his arms around my neck, then pulls back a few inches and we kiss.

He's not wearing the bracelet, he takes it off at night since the time a few weeks ago when he whacked himself in the mouth with it. He'd almost chipped a tooth and since then, he always takes it off at night and drops it into the bowl of condoms on the ledge near his pillow. But I almost wish he were wearing it. As we kiss in the warm closeness of the shower, I almost wish Justin were wearing the bracelet, because I have a very strong urge to read him the inscription.



Justin

Brian not only lets me go with him to Lindsay and Mel’s, he grabs my arm and pulls me toward the bathroom. And when Melanie can’t resist digging at him, when she asks sarcastically if he needs an assistant he simply says, “Yes, I do,” and closes the door behind us. Then we kiss and he puts my hand on his cock and whispers, “Jerk me off.”


Friday, February 20, 2004

Brian

I hang up the phone and stare at the wall across from my desk but I’m not seeing the pictures hanging there. Lindsay’s just called to tell me that she’s definitely pregnant, they did three different tests this afternoon and each one confirmed it. She was bubbling with excitement but I discover that I don’t really know how I feel. Relieved, that I don’t have to spend any more time in the munchers’ bathroom, with or without an assistant. But I realize that I’m having second thoughts - once again I’m worried about Gus having a brother or sister and wondering if I made the right decision.

Fuck that. Shaking my head, I push those thoughts aside. No regrets. Besides, I have other problems to deal with. I pick up the phone and then put it down again. Justin’s at school and he’ll go directly from there to work, he’s got an evening shift at Borders. I’d already made plans to meet Michael at Woody’s tonight and Justin knows about it, he won’t be surprised that I’m not at the loft when he gets home. But I’m sure he’ll hear the news about the baby from Lindsay today, and I’m equally sure he’s going to think I’m out fucking around tonight.

And Christ, I’m entitled to be out fucking around. Almost four months I’ve been waiting to cut loose, it’s all I can do not to jump up from my desk, grab my coat and race over to Liberty Avenue right this minute looking for tricks.

Or anyway, that’s what I should want to be doing. Tricking’s what I’ve always wanted. It’s a huge part of my life, it’s an enormous part of my identity, of who I am. Yet somehow it’s difficult to merge that identity with the current Brian Kinney – Brian Kinney the responsible ad agency partner. Brian Kinney the more-or-less acknowledged partner of Justin, Brian Kinney the father of a toddler, soon to be the father of a new baby. I’ve become not only more responsible at work, but I’m also now responsible for several people besides myself. I’m almost fucking respectable. Christ almighty, how did this happen to me?

Opening the bottom drawer of my desk, I push aside several thick folders and pull out a leather binder, unsnap the flap. Inside are two photos, Justin on the left, Gus on the right. Sitting alone in my office with the door closed, I feel myself flushing with something akin to embarrassment. Because I want to – I almost need to – keep these pictures here. Of course, no one knows. But I know and I’m embarrassed for myself. It’s such a hetero thing, keeping pictures of your family at the office. Well, it’s not like I look at them all the time or anything. But I know they are here, and I’ve had to admit to myself that I want them to be here. That is just so not like me.

I feel some unidentified emotion begin to build inside my head, inside my chest. When I look down at my hands folded on top of the photographs, I see my fingers twisting around each other, white-knuckled. Then I push back my chair and almost leap to my feet; I walk to the door, lean out and – careful to keep my face a mask of nothingness, I tell Cynthia to hold my calls. Then I close the door and lock it, and after checking my on-line calendar to be sure there are no more meetings today, I dislodge a few more folders in the drawer and pull out the Jim Beam.



Michael

It’s the first time in weeks I’ve had a chance to get together with Brian, for once Justin’s not hanging around his neck. We meet at Woody’s and sit at the bar, and immediately I realize that Brian’s already well away.

“Hard day?” I ask him as he throws back the first drink.

“Hmm,” he doesn’t answer, he’s waggling a finger at the bartender for another round.

“Mom told me the news, that Lindsay’s finally pregnant again, did they call you?”

“Hmm,” he says again, then turns toward me and puts a hand on my shoulder. “You don’t have children,” he says seriously, focusing on my face for a moment, he’s almost but not quite slurring his words. When I nod agreement he adds, “Smart man.”

I’m surprised. “Are you having regrets already?”

“No regrets.” It’s part of Brian’s credo but I’m not sure I believe it anymore. I’ll bet he’s got plenty of regrets about some of the people in his life.

“Too late for regrets anyway, what’s done is done,” I remind him, “You’ve become a statistic.”

“Huh?” He turns to look at me, his eyes are blurry, it’s been a while since I’ve seen him wasted AND drunk. I wonder if something’s wrong at home? He used to confide in me all the time but that’s something else that’s changed and not for the better.

“You’re a statistic now,” I repeat. “Mid-thirties, married with two children. All that’s missing is the white picket fence.”

“Fuck you.” Brian looks away, throws back his second drink.

So I change the subject, I tell him about the shop and Uncle Vic and the new book Ben’s working on, he’s listening but just barely. After I’ve brought him up to date, it’s our turn for one of the pool tables and we begin playing, though Brian seems distracted and blows his first shot.

“You’re off your game, Brian,” I tell him, and suddenly he throws back his head and laughs.

“I’m off my game,” he repeats, laughing hard. “I’m off my game.”

I laugh too at first, though I don’t know what’s funny, but Brian keeps laughing and laughing, leaning on the pool cue, almost doubled over. I put a hand on his arm and ask, “You okay?”

Brian stops laughing, runs a hand over his face and stands up straight.

“Hey,” somebody says; a guy has stopped by our table and is staring at Brian. I’m about to brush him off when I recognize him.

Then Brian looks up and sees him standing there. “Rick?” he mumbles. “Rick?”



Saturday, February 21, 2004

Brian

I want to believe I got so wasted last night that I didn’t know what I was doing. That’s what I want to believe. Maybe it’s even true. I’m sitting in the jeep, parked in the garage, it’s about six a.m. and the sun’s coming up. I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes, smoking a cigarette. Finally, I get out and slam the door, head toward the elevator.

Justin’s up, maybe he never went to bed last night; he’s pulling an armload of shirts from a drawer and he adds it to a pile of clothes and shoes in the middle of the bed, he doesn’t look up when I come in. I throw my jacket toward the sofa and go up the steps. He’s taken another armload of shirts from the drawer and I walk right over to him and pull the shirts from his arms, shove them back in the drawer.

“Justin, don’t.”

Still, he hasn’t looked at me, he steps around me and goes into the bathroom, jerks open a drawer and pulls out his toiletry bag, unzips it and starts shoving toothbrush and shaving gear into the bag. I stand in the doorway watching him in the mirror, trying to read his face, trying to gauge the intensity of his anger.

“Justin,” I hear the harshness in my voice but I can’t smooth it out as I continue, “Justin, you have to stop doing this.”

“What?” He freezes, his hands pause in the act of zipping the bag, he looks up and his eyes meet mine in the mirror. Somehow it’s easier to watch our images than to look at each other directly. “What?”

“You have to stop leaving me,” I explain, my voice still harsh. “Every time I fuck up, you walk out on me.”

He laughs then. Actually, laughs, though it’s not a happy sound, instead it’s a grinding noise like broken glass crunched under a big shoe. “I have to stop leaving you?” he echoes me, “I have to stop?”

Nodding, I answer reasonably. “Yeah.”

He tosses the bag into the sink and drags his eyes away from our mirror image, instead, he turns to look at me for real. “You don’t suppose you could maybe, like, stop fucking up? Instead?”

“That seems highly unlikely.”

“No shit.” He turns quickly then and pushes past me, I’m tempted to reach out, grab him as he goes past, but I don’t. I just turn and watch as he pulls open another drawer and adds its contents to the pile on the bed.

“Can we – “ I hesitate, then go on, “Can we maybe have a cup of coffee, I can’t think clearly without some caffeine.”

That gets his attention, he turns those bright blue demanding eyes on me. “You can’t think clearly?”

My head’s pounding and I really need to sit down. “Stop repeating everything I say, could you do that, please? I can deal with histrionics much better if we just take time out for a cup of coffee.”

Justin stands very still then and turns up the megawatts in his eyes. “You mean he didn’t make you breakfast this morning?”

“Breakfast? Since when do I have breakfast with tricks? You know I - ”

“But you weren’t with a trick.”

Shit.

“It wasn’t a trick, Brian. You think I’d be packing up just because you stayed out all night fucking around?”

“What do you – how do you – “

“Michael told me. I could say that he ENJOYED telling me, but you wouldn’t believe it so I won’t bother.”

Shit. I turn away then, move into the kitchen and get out the coffee maker. I’ve just opened the cupboard to see if I can find where Justin hid the coffee – he’s constantly rearranging the kitchen, I can never find anything – when I hear his footsteps coming down the steps and over to the counter, I turn to see that he’s hitched himself up onto a barstool.

“Far left cupboard, second shelf.”

Following his directions, I find the bag of coffee. “Maybe a hint about the location of the coffee grinder? Or you can just tell me when I’m getting warm.”

“Far left cupboard, second shelf.”

Oh, it’s right there, I didn’t see it. I dump some beans into the grinder and wait for him to start in on me. When he doesn’t, I glance at him over my shoulder and say, “It just happened. It wasn’t – I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“Now say, ‘Justin, it doesn’t mean anything.’”

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

We stare at each other, then he shakes his head. Turning, he jumps down off the stool and heads back to the bedroom. Long ago I gave up my rule about not following anybody, now I’m right behind him and I grab his arm, turn him around to face me before he reaches the steps.

“I’m not the only one who’s fucked up,” I remind him.

“Jesus Christ.” He’s dumbfounded.

“Justin – “

“You promised you were done punishing me for Ethan. You promised.”

He’s right of course, I did promise.

“I thought you were over it,” he adds, and he’s right again.

“I am.”

“So then why, any time you fuck up, do you have to remind me how I fucked up with Ethan? Does that make it okay? How many times do you get to fuck up before we’re even?”

“Justin – I know it’s not okay. But it’s not like I planned for this to happen, I didn’t go looking for him. He just – he just sort of magically appeared at the exact moment that I was – that I was – “

My voice trails off and Justin asks calmly, “The exact moment that you were – what?” When I don’t answer, just stand staring at him, he fills in the blank. “Horny? Bored? Lonely? All of the above?”

“None of the above.”

He stands waiting and all I can do is look at him. Then I ask, “Please make me some coffee?”

“Jesus!” Justin shouts, throwing out his arms. Then he jerks past me and into the kitchen, turns on the coffee grinder and throws a filter into the Krups. I wander back into his vicinity and lean against the counter watching him.

After he starts the coffee machine, he pulls a mug from the cupboard and bangs it down hard on the counter. Then he swings out of the kitchen and marches over to his desk, begins to sort through sketchbooks and stacks of papers. I stay put, staring at the coffee machine. In a few minutes he comes back, grabs the mug and fills it with coffee, then turns for the sugar bowl and plunks them both down on the counter in front of me.

“Thanks.” I can’t wait for the coffee to cool, I take a sip and burn my tongue.

Justin stands staring at me, his arms crossed over his chest. We stare at each other for a moment, then he asks, “Did you eat dinner last night?” When I shake my head no, he turns away again, pulls out the toaster and throws in two pieces of bread. He stares at the toaster the same way I stared at the coffee maker. When the bread pops up, Justin spreads them – thinly – with low-fat margarine, puts them on a plate and shoves it in front of me.

Staring at the toast, I feel something start to come apart inside my chest. My hand is shaking and I have to set down my cup, then I lean my head on my hand. I feel Justin come around the end of the counter and stand close to me; I can’t look at him anymore but I feel his warmth, I can almost smell the scent of his shampoo.

“Brian.”

I still can’t look at him.

“Brian.” Justin puts a hand on my arm and shakes me slightly. “Brian, I won’t leave you. Okay? But I need to go away for a while. I need to put some space between us.”

When I don’t answer, when I still don’t look at him, he asks quietly, “Do you understand?”

I nod, once, twice, still not moving. He turns away then and goes back to the bedroom. After a few minutes I’m able to resume drinking coffee and I even manage to eat half a piece of toast. I glance occasionally at the bedroom and I realize that Justin has put some of his clothes away, he’s only packing one bag. That’s what he did before, the time he walked out last year, he spent a couple days at his mom’s condo. He’d said then that he just couldn’t be around me for a while. And here we are again.

Soon Justin’s once again standing in front of me. He sets down his suitcase and backpack and says quietly, “Brian, I’ll call you in a couple days. Please eat, and don’t drink too much, and water my plants, would you?” Somehow he’s kept the Christmas poinsettias alive, they’re on the floor near his desk.

“You’d better – “ my voice is gruff, I have to clear my throat. “You’d better take them with you, if they know they’re alone here with me, they’ll commit plant suicide.”

“Okay,” he agrees, turning toward his desk and picking up the hideous flowers.

“I’ll carry your bags,” I offer, “Got your keys?” When he says yes, I pull open the door and lead the way out of the loft. We get into the elevator and I lean across him and push the button for the second floor.

“Why - ?”

“Wait.” The elevator starts its creaking descent and halts on two. There’s piles of tarps and stacks of paint cans, the decorators should finish up renovating the new apartment this week. Setting down Justin’s bag, I pull out my keys and select a shiny new silver one, using it to unlock one of the two doors in the narrow hallway.

“Why are there two doors?” Justin asks offhandedly; I know he has not been nosing around here, he was way too pissed at me for not including him in the renovation plans, he’s never once mentioned the apartment since I bought it without consulting him.

Pushing open the door, I walk in and look around. “It’s not finished,” I say, “But it’s habitable, I think.”

Slowly Justin follows behind me into the large room with white-painted walls. “It’s a bit Spartan,” I say, as he follows me on a mini-tour. There’s a small bathroom with a narrow shower stall, a tiny kitchenette with fridge and microwave, and the main room is hardwood floors, mini-blinds over the large windows, and minimally furnished with a small sofa-bed, a desk, and a chair. “It wasn’t really ready to show you yet, but. . .” My voice trails off and I stop in the middle of the room and stand looking at him. He doesn’t get it yet, but he’s quick, he’ll figure it out soon.

“So,” he’s glancing around, “You turned the big apartment into two smaller apartments, huh? You’ll get more income that way I guess.”

“The bigger apartment’s for rent but this one isn’t.”

“It’s not?” He’s surprised. “Then what are you – “ He turns to look at me and I see recognition dawning in his eyes. “Brian?”

“This is for you. Partly it’s so you can have some place of your own – I purposely didn’t have much done to it, so you can paint it purple or orange or do whatever you want. Make it your own.”

“Brian.” His eyes are wide and he glances around the room again. Then he turns to look at me again. “You said – partly?”

He’s quick all right. “And partly, it’s so you have some place to go – when you need to get away from me. Like last time. Like now.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” I nod. Suddenly I feel almost humble. “And I won’t have a key,” I tell him. “Unless you give me one.”

“Brian – I’m – I’m so amazed.”

“Well.” I turn back to the hall and bring in his bags, set them down by the desk. “There’s no food or anything, I didn’t know you’d need the place so soon.”

Suddenly we hear the elevator creaking down to the lobby, Justin goes over to shut the door and then comes to stand in front of me. “Brian,” he says, putting a hand on my arm, “Brian, can you please tell me why you, why last night you. . .”

Looking him in the eye I answer honestly, “Telling you will make you madder than not telling you.”

“Well, Jesus, Brian, you have to tell me now.”

Nodding, I perch on the edge of the sofa and look up at him. “Justin – I was feeling trapped.”

“Fuck,” he says, taking one step back. “Fuck.”

“Told you.” I knew he’d be mad. Who wouldn’t?

He thinks for a minute, then asks, “Why now? Because of the new baby?”

“Yeah, probably,” I agree. I hate these kinds of conversations, but I guess I owe him this time. “I’m not exactly single anymore, and – “

“'Not exactly single!' Fuck you, Brian, you’re in a committed relationship!”

“Yeah,” I agree, “That’s what I just said. And I’m partner at the agency, and I’m the father of two! Christ, I’m a – a Liberty Avenue has-been.”

Justin laughs then, a guffaw actually, a loud and very annoying guffaw.

“It’s not funny.”

“No,” he agrees, his laughter shutting off abruptly. “Not if you have to turn around and prove to yourself how hot you are by fucking an old boyfriend.”

“He’s not an old boyfriend.”

“Brian, he’s young and beautiful and he’s hot and he wants you. With a guy like Rick, you don’t have to feel like a has-been.”

I open my mouth to protest, but I realize that he’s right. That’s why I went off with Rick last night.

“Are you going to see him again?”

“What? No. Christ, no. It was just a mistake.”

Justin regards me cynically, crossing his arms on his chest. “Did you tell him it was a mistake?”

“I did actually. Yes, I did.” It’s the truth.

We’re quiet then, just staring at each other silently for a few minutes. “Well,” I say, at last, standing up and glancing around the room. “I’ll go home now. If you need anything, you can call me. Or, you know,” I smile slightly, “You can just drop by.”

“Thanks for this place, Brian.” Justin follows me to the door. “I still can’t take it in, that you planned this for me and everything. But I do need to stay here, for a while. I do need to.”

“Yeah, I know.” I don’t blame him, not at all. “Oh,” I say, pulling out my key ring and slipping off the new silver Yale key and handing it to him. “Here’s your key. See you later.”

“Later,” Justin echoes me, then stands in the open doorway watching me climb the stairs to the fourth floor.

Back in the loft, I throw away the rest of the cold toast and pour myself another cup of coffee, carry it into the living room and sit staring at the curtained windows. This place is always so quiet when Justin's away, it’s hard to remember that I used to like it that way. Somehow it feels slightly better knowing that at least he’s close by. But even so, I already miss him.

A few minutes later there’s a knock on the door, and before I can even stand up, the door’s pushed open a foot or so. “Hi,” Justin says, poking his head through the opening. “I’m starving – can I borrow some food?”